That Relentless Blue // [Te Kore vs. Star Squad]

The anthem blares above their heads. On the deck of the yacht, Emberly peers up into the night sky. She wishes that she could keep herself from watching the anthem, but every time she says that she won't, she finds herself here again, beneath the starry night sky and watching blue holograms appear and fade into the blackness. She knows why she can't resist not watching — because she has begun to count down the number of people that have to die so she can return home.

Emberly already knows whose face she will see in the sky tonight, but she is shocked when the first face to appear after the anthem's opening is not Rhetoric's. It's Basil Isley's.

She had wondered who the second canon she heard belonged to.

What? she almost says aloud. She had not expected Basil to die so soon; she was a strong girl with outstanding wits, Emberly remembers. Stronger than me, she thinks. Smarter than me. She has now lived past Basil Isley, but she also survived longer than Gregor McGregor, a Career with a score of Eleven — death truly does not discriminate.

After Basil Isley's face fades away, Rhetoric's appears. The sight of her face, frozen in time in a hologram, shakes Emberly to the core, despite the fact that she was expecting to see her. The eyes in Rhetoric's photo seem to glare down at her, boring holes into Emberly's skull as if her gaze is acidic. I helped kill her — she remembers stabbing Rhetoric in the foot, her blood erupting into the air as she fell to her knees. She had wanted to kill her.

If Clementina had not, Emberly knows deep down that she would have done it.

("You're out of warnings, Rhetoric.")

Even if Rhetoric surrendered, would Emberly have really let her go? That is something she doesn't want to think about. Rhetoric had to die, she tells herself.

A voice from the back of her mind chimes in softly, "They all do."

And it's true. That fact should crush her, should flatten Emberly to the ground as if she is nothing. It used to. It used to haunt her, make her heart feel so cold as if it was shriveling up and dying like a winter flower. It's true, everyone must die if she is to live, but no matter how awful it is, Emberly is learning to accept it.

If she is to survive, if she is to come home to her sisters and her cousins, that is what she must do.

And she had promised McCarthy that she would never stop fighting, hadn't she?

Before Emberly goes to the living room that night to sleep, she carries Cupcake, the smallest of the koalas, to the hull of the ship. She takes her paw and guides it to the siding and marks four tallies with the koala's claw. Four tallies for four deaths — Gregor, McCarthy, Basil, Rhetoric. She does the math — nineteen more people have to die for Emberly Lowe to live.

Perhaps the price is too high, but someone has to pay it.




Blue endlessly stretches before them. Before the Arena, Emberly had never laid eyes upon an ocean. She had read about them, dreamed of them — oceans were part of a fantasy world that she could never touch. In District Ten, an ocean is as real as the unicorns that Kiara draws in her sketchbook.

Peace is fleeting in the Arena, but not nonexistent. For some time, the four of them sail smoothly through calm waters and bake in the sun. Emberly loves to lay out on a recliner and unbutton her shirt, leaving her stomach and bra exposed, just to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin. It is one of the only things that reminds her of home except for the Polaroid of her family that sits in her pocket.

By the time Emberly buttons her shirt back up, new freckles have appeared across her face and her hair is tinged with an even more vibrant copper-gold. She wishes that it could stay like this forever — peaceful and quiet, the only sound the waves crashing against the boat. No canons, no screams, no whimpers in pain.

Nothing lasts in the Arena, she and Ree had agreed around a dying campfire. Especially not things like peace.

And suddenly, Ree calls out, "Hero? How —"

Someone appears from the side of the boat, and Emberly jolts up from the recliner. It is a tall boy with long, sandy beach waves of hair and sea-blue eyes. He holds a weapon in his hand — every muscle in Emberly's body tenses as she realizes that another battle is about to begin on the ocean, of all places.

Suddenly, the peace has been sapped away by the presence of this boy, and the four of them find themselves in danger again.

"Nice boat you've got here," the boy says. Emberly doesn't need to study his face to realize who he is; Hero Marvray, one of the Careers from District Four. As he speaks, two others join him — Jacob Wickham from Five and Lux Pelotte from Four.

Hero Marvray hesitates no longer; with a skillful swiftness, he swings his blunt at Raquel's shin.

"Yeah, we killed people for it and don't think we won't do the same to defend it." Emberly's heart lurches — McCarthy. She didn't think that any of her friends had killed Gregor McGregor, but she knew that they had engaged in conflict with her friend. They killed him, just like they had killed Rhetoric. Would she and her friends take another life today, or would one of them fall like the rest?

She does not want to hope for the former, but she decides that the latter is far worse.

"Yeah, well, it's not yours. So get the fuck off," Tina growls, holding her gun up to fire from her place in her chair.

BANG!

Emberly would have flinched if she was not already accustomed to the sound. She doesn't look to see where the bullet hits Jacob Wickham, but she doesn't look away fast enough to avoid seeing a red splash of blood. Emberly waits for a tremble or a shiver or some sort of crushing feeling, some kind of ice in her veins — but nothing comes. Not even a grimace.

She doesn't hesitate another second to draw The Queen from her side. She's washed all of the blood from her sword, but Emberly knows that if she lives through the day, she'll be cleaning crimson from her blade again. It is always one of her least favorite parts of the day, watching all of the blood she's spilled lift from her sword in red clouds and slowly dissipate in the water.

But Emberly supposes that right now, having to clean blood off of her sword and her hands is the least of her worries.

"Well. Nice crib I guess," Lux Pelotte says, echoing Hero's remark.

Before Emberly can even blink, Lux swings her blunt and Emberly hears a loud CRACK that reverberates through the air like lightning in the sky. Raquel's bones split into pieces and blood oozes out from the wound, dripping in rivulets into the white flooring of the yacht.

If Emberly Lowe was still the same girl she was before she entered the Arena, she would have screamed at the sight. But now, she does not even tremble, despite the fear that begins to bite at her core with razor teeth.

"Nice crib, just a shame about the blood." Her words are weightless. They roll right off Lux's tongue as if they mean nothing, like bloodshed is nothing. (Lux Pelotte is a Career, after all. Emberly should not be surprised.)

"Y'know, last time you were dressed like that I had a much more fun time," remarks Ree, eyeing Lux's naked torso save for a bra made of coconuts covering her breasts. She was certainly a beautiful girl, with toned muscles and — parts that Ree seems to appreciate. Emberly almost raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't need to think too hard on what Ree just said to realize exactly what he means. They — he and Lux — oh.

She recalls blushing scarlet when she saw Clementina with nothing but a bra to cover herself, but she no longer has the time to focus on such things. Not when Raquel's life hangs on a such a frayed thread.

"Yes, you should leave," Emberly tells the three of them in agreement with Clementina.

It's only half of a warning — what she wishes she could give. But Emberly has seen from yesterday that mercy cannot always exist within the Arena.

("You're out of warnings, Rhetoric.")

"But I know you won't." And she feels that fire, the adrenaline, slowly begin to return. Fear follows suit, but the heat — her sheer will — is absolutely overpowering. Her hands burn on the hilt of The Queen and turn white as her grip tightens with every moment that passes.

She does not wait for the surrender that will not come.

The shot rings through the air so loud and fast I nearly confuse it for the sound of a cannon. My hand feels like it's vibrating, my knuckles have turned white around the handle of the gun. It's terrifying. So much so that when I pull the hammer back and point the gun again, I find myself hesitating. I stare down the barrel of my gun, hand shaking and stomach lurching and I wish I couldn't see the blood leaking from his body like that--

"Nice crib, just a shame about the blood."

I frantically point the gun in the direction of the voice, fear creeping into my senses and controlling my aim. She's close and she's already managed to get a nasty scream out of Raquel. I should be shooting. Why can't I shoot?

"Y'know, last time you were dressed like that I had a much more fun time."

I glance at Ree, completely understand the meaning. My worried mind drifts to Basil and in a moment of lapsed memory I forget I can't be worried for her anymore—she's already dead. Ree's spearhead is covered in blood, and I swing my aim back to Jacob, my mind telling me not to look at the hole in his skin so that I can find the strength to squeeze the trigger. Of course my eyes don't listen to my brain and all I can see is the gaping hole and blood all over the deck of the boat and my shaking, quaking hand outstretched in front of me--

"Seriously," I warn, forcing my voice not to crack when my eyes shift from Jacob to Hero. "Get back on your boat and sail the hell away."

But maybe I wasn't loud enough. Or maybe they don't care. Or maybe they see the way my hand is shaking and think I don't really have it in me to shoot again.

Whatever the case, they don't listen. And as Jacob takes steps towards me, weapon raised and poised to lash out at me, I really do try—"Stop!"—to scare them off without having to shoot. I'm paralyzed as his weapon becomes a silhouette above my head.

I'm all wide eyes and adrenaline as I roll off the chair where I'm propped. But even with all the extra adrenaline pumping through my system, I still go blind when my body crashes against the deck. I yelp in pain. The gash on my leg, the gash on my back, the bullet lodged in my chest, the shifting of my already broken collarbone as Jacob's motherfucking anchor clips my shoulder—everything screams for me to stop. I just need this to stop.

I pull the trigger at the shadow standing over me.

I feel like I've cheated; I can't even see the light leave Jacob's eyes. Only a coward would look away from a dying man.

fillering because i suck honestly

[flees with emberly]