you can call me monster {bbh vs hellbeasts}

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I begin walking before she's taken her last breath.

I didn't know the girl, certainly have no business watching her die or hearing her last words. Besides we're in an exposed spot, all of us just waiting to get attacked. We have to move. My knees are wobbly, my hands are shaking, and I have to move. It doesn't matter where, but I can't be here anymore. Too many tears, too much yelling, and I can't cry again. It's time to play the game now—my game.

It's then that the beep, beep, beep of a sponsorship parachute ricochets around the caves. It lands heavily at my feet and even in the dark I recognize the familiar shape of an axe. I twist it in my hand, grin as I shift the weight of the head from one hand to the other. The torches behind me catch in the blade and a thousand colors dance before my eyes. The grin I wear slowly falls from my face becoming something more somber, more serious.

The gem. It's opal. It's Opal goddamn Earnest.

A thousand memories rush to the forefront of my mind all at once. A sword splitting Renée's skull like a hot knife through butter. The soft glow of a gem holding one of my sister's last grins, blood at the edges of her lips. Two Lexigs, my sister, and endless names and faces I was forced to study and memorize because they were all 'disappointments to their families and District.' My father and my mother in the Justice Building with only one thing to say: ("Don't disappoint us.") A trifecta of victors each named after a gem who rule our district but haven't been able to bring home a kid in nearly 10 years.

Maybe instead of being a complete fucking asshole I should've been listening to her. She used to wear a big name, but I know she had never wore it with the sort of pride I wear mine. She even dropped the name 'Shore' as soon as she could, opting for something much more—earnest.

Fucks sake I'm an ass.

But I chuckle at myself anyway because Opal isn't here to threaten my manhood. And because a kid with the name Potato Earnest had to have dealt with the same terrible puns that the kid named Justice Fray does.

My smile slowly collapses as my allies shuffle past me. And I take to spinning my axe to distract myself from all the misery. I don't know how long we walk in complete silence like that, but when White-boy finally pipes up—"We should rest for the night."—I find the calluses on my palms wearing thin. I toss my axe into the ground, toss my bag ahead of me and don't even bother offering to take first watch. As soon as my head meets my bag, I'm out cold.

---

I sleep straight through the anthem and nearly bury my axe into Machdaddy's skull when he wakes me for my watch. I spend most of the time blinking heavily and sweating my balls off. The heat in this place is through the roof and I regret every day I skipped conditioning to get into some girl's pants. Clearly the very delicate skill of "pantie dropping" isn't going to do me any good surrounded by meatwands.

When my time is up, I kick Atlas awake. I don't bother saying anything witty. My arm hurts, my headaches, and I'm too tired to even start to make a smart comment. But when my head falls into my bag I don't sleep. I stare up into the endless darkness, listen to the steady breathing of my allies around me. I could kill them all right now without a single one of them flinching. It'd be as easy as snapping toothpicks, quick and simple. And cannons would fire and I'd be the proud owner of 3 kills.

Justice Fray, 3 kills, Day 2.

My family might actually be proud. They might actually be satisfied for once in their damn lives. If I just pick up my axe right now--

Someone rolls in their sleep, their breath breaking for a moment before evening out again with a heavy sigh. I roll over then, too. I'm tired. Too lazy to move. Their deaths can wait.

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This time I wake up with a growl. I had been dreaming about a pretty girl running kisses along my jawline, her tongue drawing a line across my cheek. She smelled like lavender and if I could only get a few more minutes of sleep I'm sure I could dream her sitting on my--

"Guys I don't know what time it is but I think you've had sufficient beauty sleep, you're looking especially wonderful, Justice."

I glance up at him with eyes squinted. Mr. Gloom and Doom snorts and it's the closest thing to entertained I've seen come out of him since we met. I run my hand through my hair, shaking it free of any dust. I rub my face into my shoulder to get rid of the sleepiness there.

"I know I'm charming and all but don't flirt with me before my morning piss, alright?"

I pick up my axe and we walk until we come up on a bridge, rickety and terrifyingly long. I can't tell how far the drop is and I'd rather not find out. And as much as I'd like to look like the brave. strong Career from District One, I ain't risking going first on that thing. For all I know the Gamemakers plan on collapsing it as soon as someone steps foot on the thing.

"Hell no."

But I've already decided: Hell yes! I shove him forward with a sly grin, chuckling as he stumbles and desperately grabs for the rope railings.

"You first, loser."

The bridge swung under our weight and squeaked as flames licked at the boards. If I said I was hot before, I know better now. Now. Now I am hot. The sweat is practically dripping off of me and at this point I'm sure I'll die of dehydration by the end of the day if I don't drink my water. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if the water in my pack has evaporated by now.

Ash floats down on us, dusting our skin in black parchment from-- nowhere? The flames seem to rise up and lash at us from nowhere. No fuel, no anything. Just white hot flames. I'm about to suggest a new course of action—getting the fuck outta here—but that's when trouble hits. And I didn't mean to be the last to leap into action, the one to hesitate. But it's like it was in the bloodbath and in those dreams where you're trying to run away but you're far too slow.

I kiss the head of my axe.

Smile for the camera.

Here's to not dying.

heaven if you sent us down
so we could build a playground
for the sinners to play as saints
you’d be so proud of what we’ve made

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When I was little I used to count the number of hits I could take before I cried to keep myself distracted from the pain. Backed into a corner, my hands and arms protecting my head, my knees pressed to my chest. One. Like a game I would count in my head and groan desperately in agony with each blow that landed. Two. But I wouldn't stop counting until I could feel tears running down my cheeks. Three. I was a soft kid; I preferred playing dress-up to playing swords, wearing satin gloves to wearing chest plates. Four. Of course my family helped me through it. They beat the weakness out of me with iron fists. Five.

Before yesterday I hadn't cried since I was ten years old. My parents didn't tolerate weakness and tears are what give away your greatest weaknesses. And I won't cry. Not in here and not again for the cameras to see. I've got a reputation to uphold. One more tear and the salt will corrode my family name, rust our integrity, lose the respect of an entire District—we'll turn to nothing but useless, forgettable dust beneath everyone's feet.

"Guys?"

I could count all the way to a hundred if I wanted without a single tear falling. Even as the beast shoots past both Machaon and I and leaps with jaws snapping at Stevie. Even as blood spatters into the ashes surrounding us and sizzles into the flames licking at our skin. Even as claws slowly press into his flesh, even as his body goes limp, even as I stare into the pools of dark blood already beginning to surround us—Six. Seven. Eight-hundred. Nine-thousand. Ten million. There are no tears because I'm fine. This is okay.


It's--

(BOOM!)   

--okay.

There's a ringing in my ears. I see Nine's lips moving, but I can't hear a single word. It's like the universe itself has blocked out all distractions for me, willing me to focus. Who cares about Stevie? Who cares about Atlas or Machaon? Who cares about Percy or Renée? Not me. Justice Fray doesn't care about anything but himself. Me, me, only me and my crown, my goddamn victory that sits at the end of this fucking Game.

I bury my axe into the fallen hound's skull. Over and over and over until its brain has painted my boots a darker shade of black. I heave air into my lungs, but the air is so thick that no matter how hard I try I can't seem to catch my breath. Ash sticks against my skin and I feel blood rising to the surface of my skin. Sweat burns in my eyes as I turn back around towards the feline circling us.

Who needs allies anyway? Who cares about anyone in this damn place?

I grit my teeth and bring my axe down with as much force as I can summon.

I sure don't.

heaven if you sent us down
so we could build a playground
for the sinners to play as saints
you’d be so proud of what we’ve made