numbers; speakers [ day 5 ]

Five days in, and the number of living souls within this place have dropped to a third of their original number.

Such were the thoughts rattling within his skull as he slowly plodded after the combined unit of Wylla and Riven. Four's death - "Gabby," the pretty girl from Two had spoken - had meant that he had outlasted yet another Career, yet another person who had trained their entire life to enter this place.

He wasn't sure how many remained, but he was certain that the number wasn't very high.

And still, even almost twenty four hours later, he still hadn't figured out how he was still alive.

It wasn't from lack of trying to lose his life, though, that much was certain. The first day he had let his heart take complete reign of his head and had acquired several new bruises from Tamron Rhodes. The second day, he had been double teamed by a pair of Sevens and had only been saved by the impeccable aim of Eva Hope and her spear. Day three had seen him nearly lose his life twice to his own curiosity, but the efforts of the tiniest Eckhart girl and Helios Delacroix had pushed him onwards towards the next day. Day four, he'd been assaulted by a bad-tempered crustacean, and it was only through sheer dumb luck that his knives had pierced its shell and not his own eye.

And now day five, a day where if the Career boy from Two had been armed with anything but his fists, it might have been him bleeding out in the mansion interior and not Gabby from Four.

If such things as guardian angels existed, then he had no doubt that his was working overtime to ensure that he didn't die from his own incompetence.

The soft thump, thump, thump of mansion flooring turned into the familiar crunching of grass beneath booted feet, and his gaze broke through the clouds that fogged his mind and focused once again on the pair of girls who, against all odds, had joined him in the prestigious position of living for another day.

He chuckled quietly as a mental image of how they must look to the outside world flashed across his eyes. There they were, three of the greatest survivors to frequent this year's arena.

An apathetic artist. A twelve year old with a fiery spirit. And a quiet girl with too much heart and not enough leg.

What a group they made.

Wylla plopped to the ground in front of him, and a second later Riven followed suit. A moment later, he joined them on the ground.

He'd just pulled three crayons from his bag - one found next to the butterfly knife, the other two arriving in a sponsor gift a moment later - when Wylla spoke, her spoken inquiry of "Well, now what?" filling the air.

Riven responded a moment later with a simple answer of "I don't know," and gradually, he tuned her out as he took the first crayon - the teal blue taken from what could have only been Gabby herself - and pressed it against the skin of his left forearm. The rectangular shape was easy to trace on his skin, traveling from just above the wrist to just below the elbow and back. A quick coloring resulted in his entire forearm covered in the bluish color, and without a thought he tossed that crayon aside and grabbed the second, received this time from the sponsorship basket but otherwise identical to the crayon won through trial and combat. The process repeated itself on his right arm, teal lines traveling from just below the elbow to just above the wrist and back, and soon that arm is as filled with color as the first.

He'd just finished drawing out the contents of a medkit - complete with the box container, needles and thread, and bandages - when Riven's voice penetrated his consciousness, a single word - "Catch," preceding the small round ball that rolled over towards him. He watched it with an unwavering gaze until it came to rest just shy of hitting his thigh, before picking it up and examining it.

"Tell me about home, Lucas?" Riven's question caught him by surprise, and for a moment he was silent. "Help me forget I'm here for a bit."

After a moment of pondering, he let out a light chuckle. "Home isn't really all that special if I'm being completely honest, Riven," he responded.

He paused again, thinking. "If the skyscrapers in the Capitol were replaced with factories and shrunk down to a quarter of its size, then you'd get a pretty good idea of what Nine looks like. There isn't much in the way of nature or anything unless you look for it." Many a time, he had found himself wandering these endless streets, navigating between each industrial complex for something interesting to draw.

Some times, he had succeeded. More often than not, however, his adventures ended in failure.

"It's kind of ironic, really, because from what I've heard, before the Dark Days, Nine consisted mainly of hunters and foragers, and we were a lot more in touch with nature than we are now. There's a giant forest that surrounds pretty much the entire district, but we aren't allowed to cross it." He paused, weighing his next words carefully before speaking. "Does make for some nice drawings, though."

He intentionally left out the part where he had actually crossed over the fence one time, assisted by a boy who, much like him, had been thrust into a Capitol-made arena and had subsequently lost his life. The adventure with Rolf Parks had been unlike anything he had ever experienced, but even though the other boy was six feet under and he was mere hours away from achieving the same fate, there were still those back home that could be punished for a loose tongue.

And for someone who had as little regard for their own life as he did, he found that he was becoming increasingly aware of how other lives could be affected by his actions.

"What about you guys?" he asked, eager to shift the spotlight off of himself. "What's Ten like?" Then, turning towards Wylla, "Or Three?"