i'm running with the wolves | titus + lux

I walk alone. I have the company of my only remaining koala, Kenzie, but it isn’t the same. I shouldn’t be complaining because I only have myself to blame for this loneliness – but maybe if things were different, the people who are dead because I’m alive… maybe we could have been friends. I could have taught them a thing or two about murder back in Four, Adelaide could have walked me through how to survive drinking poison and Hero could have showed me his family.

Things could be so different. I don’t know whether going back in time would change anything that has happened, part of me doesn’t want to change anything that has happened. I just think that somewhere, out there, there is a world of alternates where we all managed to get along. Not tributes, just friends.

Admittedly, I’m not good at making friends. It’s a miracle I even got Hero and Jacob on my side, let alone Adelaide. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I don’t think I’d be here without them. I realise that I am strong and that because of the past, distant and close, people have reasons to fear me – they think I’ll cut their tongue out if they speak a word that offends me, or I’ll break their legs if they wrong me. Do not get me wrong, I will, but it only takes being in the wrong place at the wrong time to be the opposite. It only takes being in the wrong place at the wrong time to be on the receiving end of a deadly blow, rather than the one delivering it.

They’ve saved me from that. They’re the reason I was at the right place and the right time, and I am thankful. Probably shouldn’t be given the circumstances of their deaths and how I am still alive, but I am.

I exhale. Night sets in, stars shining like pins, moon stinging its way through the mist that rolls in from the sea. It feels especially quiet; normally you can hear the whispers of the trees and the crashing of waves against the shores but it is strangely silent. It feels unbreakable – when I sniff, I feel like every living thing turns to watch me. Oddly intimidating, really, because when the anthem sounds I realise that there are only three other tributes left.

The first face to show is that of Ree Fer. Good, I think, good because he didn’t have it in him to win anyway. Far too obsessed with sex and bodies, I suppose that is probably why he found it so difficult to break one. I guess that his death puts an end to his suffering, I guess he isn’t searching for something to satisfy that addiction of his anymore.

Next is Chester Meisenzahl. Good, I think, good because he was far too quiet to ever be accepted by the Capitol as a victor. It takes courage; you need to be able to take shit on the chin and be the Capitol’s plaything. It isn’t for everyone, I don’t think he would last a minute and would turn out going missing like the female victor from Eleven. Nobody knows if she is alive, but I have the satisfaction of knowing that Chester Meisenzahl is dead, so that counts for something.

Adelaide’s face graces the skies next. Good, I think, good because they will all be forced to remember. That is all she ever wanted, and sure, it is a little strange she called it her ‘third life’ but she was dying and I was the one killing her, therefore I was in no place to argue or answer back. I tried though, and she tried too. She won, really.

Walherich next. His surname lights up the night but I am pretty certain he is the only one who knew how to pronounce it. Oh well, I think. That secret will die with him. I think that it is good that he is dead – Eleven has had their fair share of victors in recent years and it is time the crown was passed on to somewhere else. A more deserving place.

There are no more faces after that. I long to see the face of Emberly Lowe in the sky but her presence is still alive within the arena. Sad, I think, sad that she is putting her family through the same shit they went through however many years ago. Legacies never work out, the Hunger Games prefers new blood, fresh blood because it is thicker and easier to master. It is sad how she is holding on so tightly, refusing to let go even when her dead relatives call so desperately from below. Her time is not now; if someone doesn’t make sure of that, I know that I will.

Leaves rustling above, Kenzie nesting beside me, the arena’s natural symphonies lull me to sleep.

x

The sun shines above, forcing my eyes to open. Part of me just wants to lie here and let everyone else figure out the madness, but I am thirsty for blood. And if it isn’t me that takes the life of someone else – who will? The only person I trust in this arena is myself.

Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I trek forwards, not looking back and hoping that whatever lies ahead does not take what is mine. It only takes a minute or two before I emerge from the undergrowth and find myself standing before Titus Seraphim – Adelaide’s friend who didn’t speak much but sure knew how to kill. I think in the alternate world, wherever it is, the two of us would definitely be friends. We have something in common.

He lashes out against me, my jaw cracking under the force of his baseball but. I frown, my right hand moving to my mouth. My left-hand twists, fingers tightening around the handle of the mace. It has been good to me so far, so good to me, and whilst I realise that all good things must come to an end, I hope that the end of my luck comes in two days. 

"You." I say, looking through squinted eyes. "You've been good you know, but all good things come to an end."

{ lux attacks titus; spiked blunt }

K84unxMXspiked blunt

{ 14131 -- MISS -- 0.0 }

accuracy reroll

spiked blunt

{ 14020 -- MISS -- 0.0 }

I swing at him, a miss, I spin and swing again but find the same fate.

"I’m not good," he says with passion, feeling the words that leave his lips. I tilt my head sideways, looking at him and thinking of how he so easily killed a few days ago – Adelaide’s friend who seemed to speak no words other than his name was capable of doing far more than the dirty, he was someone like me. Murder is for the best, I know it more than anyone but I feel like Titus understands this truth too; he has got blood on his hands, a lot of blood. Two killers, no hearts. Someone in the Capitol will write a twisted love story about this.

"Neither of us are." I realise that he talks about a different type of good. A good that isn’t about gore and glory, isn’t about death and destruction. He speaks of the good that exists in fairy tales, the good that you are taught about at school and that is drilled into your head by the peacekeepers, a good that is instilled in your fibres that makes you think anything else is bad. I came to a realisation that good can be a loose term, it can be the missing piece to the jigsaw puzzle. I have morphed it into doing what feels right, even though the consequences may make your hands tremble. Both Titus and I are good in my books because we have shown that we have what it takes: that we wait for no one and do not let death catch up with us.

He smiles. Stone cold and psychopathic – maybe that is what we have become but I have no complaints. I smile too, thinking back to being loved by the audience during my interview, replaying the memories of finding out that my score was an eleven, rewinding back to when Hero, Jacob and I found solace in the awkward silence and showed the world what we could do alone, and that we could be better together.

"Do you know, who killed Addy? She was good." I know exactly who killed Adelaide Throes. I was there, I watched it. "She was so fucking good." I have the souvenirs to prove it.

A weakened arm and a pile of supplies from her body, I stole her sword from her bag like it was nothing. It isn’t like she could whine about it anyway, I sent her to place where she wanted to be. Her third life wouldn’t need a longsword for you cannot fight a war of words with weapons. She lives on, for sure, now, because her face is one that I struggle to erase from my mind. The wide eyes and the pursed lips, the blonde hair and the cold hands which would make home feel an ocean away.

"Yes." I tell him, fingers gripping Throes’ sword. "I killed her. She wanted it." My words are blunt, hard to swallow.

"She’s in her third life, now." I nod my head, the fact that we are talking about her, remembering her acts as evidence. "All we have to do is remember. I trust you can do that for her."

I figure that if he can’t, the consequences will be brutal. I won’t pay him anything, not even dust if he cannot have the decency to give a girl what she wants. He’d become one of the forgotten in an instant, one of the people who tried and had their shot but missed the target by a mile. I don’t give apologies and I don’t take them either; one chance should be enough to show your worth.

Not all of us live under extraordinary circumstances like Adelaide.

He lifts his bat over his head, waiting for a second before bringing it down through the air. I step aside, dodging the attack easier than he dodged mine. Faces unreadable, the two of us have seen death try and fail and do not seem to be phased. We keep our composure, I do, at least, and regain my footing before staring up to him with the devil in my eyes.

I remember what is on the line – life. I think about how badly I want it; to prove a point to those who ever placed a doubt above my head, to prove that careers are worth rooting for and that those who have tried and found error did not have their head in the game. This is about becoming the real deal so that I can secure a steady, stable future that gives me the glory I crave, that gives my memory enough blood and guts to last a lifetime.

Rage hisses through my body like a poison – I did not come this far only to fail at one of the final hurdles. I am great, I am strong and though to outsiders they are just words which inflate an ego, these are words that provide me with a wrath that burns any last moralities, that cuts boundaries into itsy-bitsy little chunks for a small child to eat.

There is unrest in my chest and it won’t stop until there is another body at the foot of my throne.

"You don't have to be good or bad to remember. It's easy, so tell me you can, and if you survive, will, do it." Forceful tone because I am fiercely loyal – I told Adelaide that I wouldn’t let her be forgotten and it is a promise I will always keep. It isn’t a prom – not half a promise that has no binding contracts or small print – it is a full promise. Written in blood, written in her own damn blood and if I can’t guarantee that she lives on – who can?

I lift Adelaide’s sword; a permanent reminder of the damage she could do and did.

White knuckles, gritted teeth. I have no heart, only a one track mind.

Lashing out against him, I hope for an attack that hits harder than the moon when it plummets into the sea during sunset. Hopes are silenced and unanswered and I find myself back at square one, figuring out if there is an alternative way to put Titus Seraphim out of his misery - Ripred knows he needs it.

"I'm gonna remember her," he says, "I'm gonna remember her until I'm good and old I start to go senile and I develop cataracts."

That is nice, I think; nice that he is willing to dedicate so much time in his life to remembering. It isn't a full time job, if you have a voice you can use it to make other people remember. It lessen the responsibility on your shoulders and shifts it onto a million or so other people who have nothing better to do than watch people fight it out in an arena. Their lives are not in danger like tributes, victors, the average Joe in the districts - instilling a name and image in their mind will do far more than some people in this arena ever could or will.

My Grandma had cataracts before she died. Said that it went all cloudy and grey and she struggled to tell me apart from my sister. Isn't it funny how when you are separated from your seemingly normal life for so long, you draw similarities in the strangest of places? Perhaps it is out of desperate need to return to the loving arms of your own blood, to smell your bedroom again and stare into the eyes of the cuddly toy that kept you company when you were 10 years old - something you hate to admit. Perhaps it is just a coping mechanism that is a lot more sane than the ones I have developed. 

"Good." A single, simple word because I am satisfied. Though his life hangs in the balance just as mine does, I have spread the message and achieved what I wanted to. Nothing is going to make dying something worth smiling about but if I do slip away, I'll do so with a little less weight dragging me down. It would become less of a drop and more of a float; a feather rather than a rock. Although, I don't plan on dying until I too am grey and old and senile and have cataracts also - chances are, life will get heavier and when I'm on my deathbed, my life will hang for a split second before plummeting to the ground like a grand piano.

I don't plan on dying in this arena. I never have and never will.

"I don't hate you for it, we're fighting because we have to." My mouth scrunches to the side. He is right, but we both know that there is the option to throw yourself into the forcefield or drown in the sea to prove your unbreakable pacifism. The idea that we have to fight is nothing more than an illusion that the Capitol has created, the games are laced with an aura of unwritten rules which nobody dares to bend or break. 

I, for one, am fighting because I have to but also because I want to. This girl is a career, after all, and there is nothing I love more than the taste of blood on my tongue, all metallic and chilled, and the feeling of death looming behind me because I have reaped the lives two innocent parents from another district have sown.

"We're fighting because this whole thing is bullshit."

"Debatable." I tell him. The concept of the Hunger Games is one that I find easy enough to comprehend. It is just part of life, now, something we all look forward to with bright eyes or scared ones. Call me a monster, but sometimes I think that these games are necessary. They remind us of what we have lost and what we have to gain, and they teach us a lesson about grace and greatness, providing us with childhood heroes who are not untouchable and instead are people just like us. It ignites the fire we all need to stay alive in this world, even if some are too burnt to believe it.

"These games are a necessary evil, we are necessary evils." Two pieces in a game that instil fear and hope and every emotion in between.

"You can't know about good if you haven't been bad." Titus and I have both been beyond bad; blood and gore on our hands, it only means that the light at the end of the tunnel will be brighter than everyone else's.

It is mine to claim, and I am not going to slow down or stop for anyone or anything. Titus retaliates against me, his weapon smashing against my knee until it cracks. I frown, lifting the longsword and locking my eyes onto the target.

The end of Adelaide's sword slices against the boy's thigh - it isn't good enough. I have been taught every intricate little detail about every weapon under the sun but this sword speaks in tongues that I cannot read; being a career has perks because you have prior knowledge and experience to bring to the table, but when it comes to the minute and moment, you realise that you cannot control everything. I have fucked with fate, told it that I am strong, well and truly, but it does not like when you take it prisoner and force it to do one thing when it so desperately wants to do another.

I don't let the small cut put me off what has to be done. Death waits for none and the two of us know all too well how to keep pushing forwards and make sure that it is left in our wake, pausing at a time like this would do more harm than good. The darkness would catch up, hands around my neck, tightening until olive skin turns blue and cold to the touch. On the ground, a lifeless corpse will be left for more than dead.

I think back to how it was when Jacob was killed. It all happened so quickly, but I can remember every inch of both crime scenes. The way his body fell into the open arms of the sea and how it snatched him up before Hero and I even had a chance to say goodbye. Then came the anger, the rage that swelled like a tsunami that dares to destroy every living thing that stands before it. It only took Hero to break her leg to trigger my inner serial killer - she came to the light, a new body to the surface even though one had just been lost to the depths of the unforgiving ocean.

The big bang, then retaliation, then a crack and revenge was settled. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. Clementina Ogden assured me that I have what it takes to go all the way, and here, now, her screams remind me of the same thing. How beauty became brutality and how I took nothing from no one. Blood on the ground, in the water and on my hands, the monster in me was inspired and very much alive. Her scream rings in my ear for a second time and I feel the same emotions all over, tingles down my neck and spine and I feel like havoc is my middle name.

It isn't, though. My middle name is actually Estelle but that is besides the point. I felt like I could take on the world and all of the edges that came with it. It was like every question I had became answered, every hour put into making a murderer had paid off and I had achieved a small victory that counted for nothing, but meant everything. I know that Clementina's life didn't matter then and I'm not entirely sure that it does now because she's been dead for days and the rigor mortis has probably set in but - it showed myself that I was a player and not just a piece.

"You can be the lesser of the two," booms Titus' voice amidst the chaos. My frown deepens. "Maybe this is where I bloom." His eyes gaze up to the ring of petals on his head, the tilted crown that is set to wilt and turn brown and smell like canned death. Meditation taught me all about impermanence and whilst I gave it up so I could embrace the darkness within, it did make me realise that attachment is the best way to hurt yourself. Part of me thinks that Titus is in love with the portion of glory that is already his and needs more to quench his thirst. 

If so, does that make us any different?

"A flower can't grow without nutrients, be a doll and feed the earth." He drops the weight of his backpack, steps forward and brings his weapon out with a hope of stopping himself from going hungry. He should be used to the hunger, he is from Nine, after all, and that is like, really close to being the lowest district.

He tries so hard to not swing and miss but that is exactly what he does.

"No." I tell him. "I'm going to watch you suffer, watch you wilt and die." Petals on the ground, I'll count them to the sound of his screams of agony. A broken symphony, but one that is mine.

"It's all smoke and mirrors." I glance up to his crown that is nothing more than a ring of roses. "Be careful not to choke."

Déjà vu. The sword only pricks him, it doesn't spike him, it doesn't show the person I am underneath. It is a portrayal of a failed attempt, again, a story of trial and error. This was not the way I have been taught to respond to a miss; you are supposed to hit twice as hard as usual, get the upper hard and control the fight from the top. It feels like my foundations are being dismantled brick by brick - but no, I don't think about it because I am still in the thick of it, fighting for what is right for me.

It is a knock to my confidence, it reminds me of when I saw Hero's face up above. Cadaverous and silent, I fell silent with him. I realised that I still had half a heart then, because I could feel it become ugly and broken in my chest. I had to dispose of it then, sever all ties before my own ties severed me and sent me someplace I don't want to go. The emotion was tender and raw, I shielded myself because careers do not cry and a career is exactly what I am.

Yes, I am a career, and in the Hunger Games, there is nothing more than a career. I find my feet once more, staring at Titus' glass face that, for some reason, seems impossible to break. Why does it all seem to slip away when I have come so far and gotten so close? Maybe both of us are just wilting at different paces and there isn't anything that will satisfy our undying needs, not even death itself. Not the toxicity, not the guts and not even the glory.

I shake my head. I know it isn't meant to be this way. My eyes burn, two suns captured from the skies and placed into my skull. A fire that can never be extinguished, not for a million or so years. It burns within me and I can feel it in my veins, pulsating around through my blood, giving me the evidence I long for that shows me I am still alive and have the power needed to show my worth, to live for those I lost along the way, for Jacob, Hero and for Adelaide.

Titus' stance shifts to a more offensive one and I mirror his movements, working through the pain of a broken knee. I'm not letting the hurt take me, not today.

"You sure know how to talk shit, Lux." Gee, thanks. "Do you know how to eat it?" I tilt my head. I've never heard of anyone doing anything that absurd in Four or in the Capitol - perhaps it is just a thing in Nine. I guess that would explain why half of them never seem to make it out of the bloodbath alive, though. 

He swings the bat around before bashing it against my back, I can feel it go deeper than I want immediately. The pain throbs but I have to ignore it, the blood runs down my back but I have to forget about it. As long as I am alive, there is still a career in these games. Unpredictable, unforgiving, unapologetic: we are the worst of the worst and the best of the best.

I should know better than to make a mountain out of a molehill, so I shuffle forward, sword in my hand and show Titus what I've still got.

"I don't speak shit, I don't hear shit, and I don't take shit. Know your place, and know that it isn't here."