❨ if i lay here | fayre&jacob | day seven ❩

I deal the death blow to Ike O'Nyle with a shot to the heart. Though I'm not sure if it's his that suffers more in the aftermath, or mine.

I catch him before he falls, give him the last kiss that he had so deservedly earned through fists and plasma and blood.

And then I let him go, wiping blurriness out of my eyes as he descends to an everlasting sleep. One that I had sent him on, first class.

Yeah. Needless to say I'm a fucking mess after the fact. My first kill - and no matter which way I try to spin it, I cannot think of a single way that it doesn't sound exactly like it was - and it was against one of two that I had truly let myself care for within this arena, one of two who I had lent my heart only to have it returned battered, bruised, and broken.

Ike O'Nyle was still dead, alongside three others when I wake the next morning. My throat is dry, my nose stuffed up, and I probably look like a good old mess for today's edition of national television. So what? Crying your eyes out for the better part of a night will do that to you. Sue me.

It barely registers that two of the three dead are the last two Careers - the boy from one and Elite from Four - that one of the three does not consist of Red or Halt or even Kassandra, meaning that half of the top eight remaining are from the two lowest districts. If Cricket had been trying to prove that she was better at getting results from her tributes when she was actively trying to kill them seven years prior, then this time there was no doubt that she was taking every effort and a half to distance herself from the very notion that she was in any way, shape, or form, biased. Even if one of the Twelves is Arbor Halt's own son.

I remember the stories of the top eight from my youth. That the Capitol sends out reporters to each of the tribute's families, someone they cared for, et cetera, once the living had been reduced to a third of their original number. Would it be Mother that stands to take the press, her relative quiet after a second failed mayoral run shattered by her own son exceeding all expectations? Would Noah do what he could to draw the attention to himself, to step into my shoes as the de facto eldest sibling? Would Charlotte do what he could to take the pressure off of him, like he had to me so many times? Would they hound Elias, translators explaining what the similarities between him and Kit La Roux, the boy I had once called an ally? Or would Lydia take charge, infatuate the Capitol with her charm, only to be drawn for death as punishment for my very length of survival? Or would Mama be the one to take charge, a polite refusal to allow any of her family to suffer the fallout like she had twice before with Mother's campaigns?

Thinking of them makes my heart ache, even more so than it had before. I wonder what they thought, seeing me care for Kit only to let him die by Red's hand three days in. Or, when trapped in the darkness, I shot to kill anyone I could - including a girl no older than Charlotte? Or when I teamed up and subsequently made out with Ike, only to be the name of his grim reaper two days later?

Perhaps nostalgia mixed with regret is why I find myself walking to the site of Kit's demise. Perhaps I hope that the sorrow of one failure nullifies the pain of the other in the hopes that I don't suffer the effects of some weird catch-22.

I'm not surprised when, instead of the ghosts of the dead, I run into a specter of the living, instead.

"Jacob." Fayre. My neighbor, the girl from Ten, who I'd watched from afar in the training center like I had so many others, who I'd seen when I'd stumbled upon Elite way back on the first day, and who I'd never even considered since then. "I don’t know what to say to you."

If Ike was a test of the heart, to see if I could do what was necessary even against all of my better instincts, then this girl must be a test of the mind. To see if I could recreate something so delicate, so completely messed up, against a virtual stranger.

"It's okay," I respond, my voice cracking after hours of tears and disuse. "Words aren't exactly my strong suit, either."

We stand, watching, waiting. Both aware of what must come, neither willing to make the first move.

"Have you always been the person you are today?" she asks, curiosity lining her words. "I want to know if anyone can leave this place without changing."

Once, I would have believed that possible, if only due to the fact that across one week of survival, I'd never strayed away from the path of coward, the path of the reluctant fighter who fights only because he had to. For six days, I'd been able to claim the moral high ground that- at least I hadn't killed.

But then I found the boy who'd been the closest thing I'd had to a friend within the arena, and watched him die by another's hand. And then I'd found the big stubborn idiot who endeared me as much as he annoyed me - my almost lover - and I'd left that place with his death on my soul.

No doubt the Gamemakers were trying to see if they could break me. And I'm not so sure that their attempt was a failure.

"In some ways, I guess I am," I respond, voice soft as emotion tightens a stranglehold on my heart. "I'm still the same scared boy who stepped on the train to his death three weeks ago, certain that salvation was to be a pipe dream at best."

God dammit. You'd think I'd be drained of tears after the events of the previous two days, but I guess that my body has better things to do than keeping me well hydrated.

"But yesterday, I killed a boy, Fayre." And it's hard to keep my voice at anything above a pained whisper. "Shot him right in the heart, did what I was supposed to do to survive."

When her eyes find mine, there's a thousand shades of pain reflecting in hers. My pain, transparent for all the world to see.

"And after that?" The breath I take is ragged, stuttering. "I'm not sure about anything anymore."

My words echo in Fayre's voice, and I dimly note the fall of her blade - so similar to Red's - to the ground. "I’ve wished death on so many people," she admits, as if this is some sort of group therapy session. Which, in a sense, I guess it is. You have to take what you can get, this late in the game. "I’ve been ruthless."

She takes a step forward. "You know what they want from us," falls from her lips. And by Ripred, I do. "You’ve been counting down all the faces just like I have. We’re in the final eight."

A reality that as little as mere days ago, I would have thought to be nothing but fantasy.

"I don’t want to kill you, Jacob." And the feeling is mutual. One taste of death and I already know that if I never killed so much as a fly in my remaining time, it would be too soon. "But I guess what we want doesn’t matter."

What we want does not matter. For the opposite is going to happen all the same.

"I won't ask you to forgive me for this."

And I see now why it was Fayre Belanger of District Ten of all people that was directed for me. For though her first strike does naught but add another bruise to my collection, it is the parallels to yesterday that strike a spear of emotion through my heart.

Perhaps it's mere coincidence.

Perhaps Fayre Belanger is more devious than she lets on.

"It's okay," I respond, and though we both know it is not, it is far, far too late to worry about such technicalities. "I understand."

There's nothing to be felt when I raise my blaster. No panic, no fear, no righteous rage. Just a feeling of hollow, an emptiness opened by the weight of my sins.

"I won't expect any, either."

^{[ DARS ]}

There's a sense of deja vu when the blast of plasma slams into Fayre's stomach. A blow, painful yet far from crippling, against a foe who seems determined to tear me apart with their bare hands.

And instead of stopping her, she gets right back up to continue the fight. Just like Ike did.

Now, you'd think that having stopped Ike when he took a similar approach, that a random girl would seem like child's play to defeat in place of him. But I'm not gonna lie, I've felt the burn of the plasma bolts. I've taken them, in my leg, on my face, so I can say firsthand that they are no joke.

So to see someone take a direct hit from one, shrug it off like it's almost nothing, and resume her attempt to tear me limb from limb?

Yeah, that's a little terrifying.

And it's deja vu, though the differences between Fayre from Ten and Ike O'Nyle vastly outweigh the similarities. Ike could have killed me with his bare hands, but didn't. Couldn't. Wouldn't. I'm still not sure what the reasoning or logic behind his mind is. Was. Ugh, fuck.

Fayre is different. Similar. She wears her emotions plainly on her face, on her sleeve, for all to see. And there's something about it that unsettles me, in some way I cannot really explain.

"I will ask you this one thing." Perhaps it is the nature of the candor itself - for I am not so stupid that I expect anything good to follow that statement.

And I'm correct.

"If you are going to kill me, will you make it fast?"

As if death was a race, and I the judge, jury, and-

Well.

The executioner as well, I suppose.

"Please, don't hesitate. I— I don't—"

And having what remains of the heartstrings of my fractured heart being yanked by her iron grip doesn't help, either.

I may be a killer now, a stain that I will carry to my dying breath whether that's in a few minutes or a few decades. But it was, will be, only ever out of necessity. I killed a boy, and it sickened me more than anything I have ever done, and I'm pretty sure I ever will. And I wonder how there are people out there who can - and have - receive genuine enjoyment from ending a life, bathing in the blood of their killer, reveling in it every damn step of the way.

I am not that person. I will never be that person. Which is why, instead of signaling victory, Fayre's words only add further hesitance to an already reluctant machine.

"I said that I didn't want to kill you, but there is a part of me that wants to hurt you." And she tries, but effort an Ike O'Nyle does not make, and when her fist lashes out, I manage to catch it with my free hand.

Our eyes meet, and one more sentence falls from her lips.

"If you forgive me for anything,let it be that."

She withdraws, and yet instead of seizing the advantage, I aim to reassure her, instead.

"It's not in my place to damn you for doing what it takes to survive, Fayre." My voice is stronger this time, albeit still soft - as if I'm feeding off the energy of the conflict instead of being stifled by it. "But if forgiveness is what you crave-"

There's only the slightest of shakes in my hand as I aim for the second blast. Any aversion I had to firing the damn thing had been wiped from my mind the second I shot down my almost-lover from his throne on the stars.

"-then I suggest you look inwards, first."

There's no one else to blame for the sins of the past week anyways.

^{[ DARS ]}

Arm. Bicep, to be exact. It tears through her like nothing, and yet she presses on.

And I'm suddenly feeling very grateful that I've suffered nothing more than a handful of burns and bruises in the days past, never had to have my limits tested when it came to pain or endurance. Sure, I'm far from unscathed - a couple of cracked bones from the bloodbath and Ike, a pair of lucky shots from Halt tearing holes in my skin - but I've never, well, actually been in any danger of dying. Which, one week in, is pretty crazy when you think about it.

But I've seen it. I saw Kit break as his small little form took blasts to the chest in the form of plasma and blade alike. I heard Industria Spark's cries as she was butchered by the people around her. I saw the life fade from Ike's body as the bolts of plasma ceased to be an annoyance and quickly transcended the line into fatalistic.

And for the second time in as many days, I am the cause. I am the disease ravaging away at a girl whose only crime is to stand across from me as I desperately try and find a way towards salvation.

And for a route that's supposed to be desirable, for a path that screams a one-way trip back home, there's a goddamned lot of incentives screaming to do just the opposite.

Perhaps that's why Fayre Belanger is breaking before my very eyes. "What right do I have to forgive myself?" is spoken, and honestly? I feel that. Very deeply.

Her laugh is full of bitterness but lacks a bite, like a snake that rattles despite having no fangs. "If I'm going to be a monster, then I have to know it's because of myself." And that too, I can understand - because no matter how many times we may try to blame the Capitol, the Gamemakers, the puppetmasters of the entire damn operation - it's not them swinging the blades, firing the shots, taking the lives. It's us. A faultless machine oiled to perfection to punish twenty three for the rebellion of their ancestors and break the last one standing so completely that they may as well be dead to the world because of their sins.

"-Not because of a blade." Fists are raised, and I brace for the incoming storm. "And not because I'm afraid."

This time, I use a tactic tried and tested against Ike, but new to the girl trying to tear me down. When she lunges forward, I travel up, not back, a quick burst on my jetpack relocating the blow from, well, I don't know, probably my eyeball or something, to my leg.

And try as she might, there is no power behind the punch. This girl is no Ike O'Nyle. And I've killed Ike O'Nyle.

When I land to the crunching of plants beneath my feet, it's almost in the exact same spot that I took off from, save for a few steps backwards. Just enough so that if she decides to strike again, I'll have enough time to react.

"We're all monsters in here, Fayre," I say, not coming to the realization so much as finding the words for it. "Either that, or we die to them."

And there's no one to blame for that except our own damn selves.

"And I suppose..." My voice trails away, because for a moment I lose track of where I was going with the sentence. Hey, it happens sometimes, okay? So sue me.

Then the thought snaps back into place, and I continue. "I suppose forgiveness is deciding whether or not you're going to come to terms with that very fact."

When I raise my blaster for the third time, I can only think as to how it is all too apparent that the girl from Ten has come to that conclusion as well, made that own choice for herself well before we'd ever found ourselves on the wrong sides of a conflict.

And I almost hesitate, almost put my blaster down and leave it at that.

But I don't. I fire away, watch the red flash sail towards her prone form, a mixture of emotions too intense to pin down wreaking havoc inside my chest.

I suppose I'm still figuring out that part for myself.

^{[ DARS ]}

My conviction has wavered. And the world sees it fully on display, for for the first time, I miss my shot completely. No graze, no direct hit, nothing. Instead of striking flesh, the bolt of energy splashes harmlessly against a stainless steel wall.

And Fayre notices. Embraces it. Turns my own shortcomings into a blade to strike back at me, all the pain I've dealt to her thus far returned with interest in the form of a single cutting sentence.

"Aim for my heart next time, or for my head — that's the only way I'm staying down."

There's mirth to her tone, almost - key word being almost - coating the razor's edge. Taunting, sickening mirth. And all too quickly I'm finding myself caving inwards under the pressure, a black hole of every worry, every shortcoming, every single ounce of negativity generated by nothing more than my own thoughts threatening to tear me apart.

And I don't know if I can take it.

My stability, never strong to begin with, has taken hit after goddamned hit with every damned day that I've spent wandering this literal death trap of an arena. The first day? Cracked ribs and a cracked knee. Second? A swarm of fucking butterflies making a meal out of my arm. Third? Standing by helplessly as Kit La Roux decides that hope was a myth, an imaginary thing made up to sooth little kids during the most dire of situations. Fourth? Getting ganged up upon by mutts and relying on outside help to ensure my survival. Fifth? How about not being able to see a goddamned thing as laser bolts are flying everywhere and nearly taking my eye out in the process. Sixth? Well, everyone knows all too well about sixth.

And now seventh, a girl who's proving to be too easy and laughably impossible to kill at the same time.

"You are not a monster, Jacob Fel."

And there's something about those seven words, even as her next strike is blocked on my forearm - just like Ike taught me - that proves to be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

Anger, hot and wet, bursts like a dam from my fractured heart. For a moment, my vision blurs - but the catalyst is not fear, not sadness, not this time.

"How do you know, Fayre?" My voice returns to a heated murmur as my free hand wipes clarity back into my vision. She's just a girl to whom I had no connection, someone unworthy of more than a second thought throughout my week in this artificial prelude to hell.

"You weren't there when all I could do was watch, helpless, as the boy I'd pledge to protect decided three days in that he'd rather prefer death by assisted suicide over even trying to harbor any sense of hope that things could get better." The number of emotions behind my eyes increases tenfold as once again, I lock the other's gaze with my own. "You weren't there when a little girl's screams as she was butchered alive meant nothing as I decided that saving my own hide was more important."

There's a hiccup, both in emotion and in my speech, before I continue. "You weren't there as I murdered the boy who deigned to be my first kiss in cold blood, not because he'd struck me first, but because I'd labeled him a threat and fired at him with the intent to kill."

I take one step forward before raising my gun for the fourth time. "How can you presume to know so much about me, Fayre Belanger-"

When I fire this time, the shudder isn't from fear, from hesitation, but from pure, unbridled emotion.

"-when you know not a god damned thing?"

^{[ DARS ]}

I hate it.

Hate that when the burst of plasma splashes against her arm again, I feel relief. Hate that when barbed by her words, I break down on national television. Again. Three crying spells in two days - it's a wonder that all of Eleven hasn't given up on me.

And I hate that I was tossed here in the first place. Hate that, on what was supposed to be my last year before freedom, the last year I could make something of myself when it came to these Ripred damned games and at the very least, volunteer to save one of my brothers, it was I that was plucked from obscurity into the worst kind of fame imaginable.

But most of all? I hate that I'm too goddamned weak to do anything about it.

A better aim would have ended Fayre the second she decided that her conviction to holding onto life was wavering. A better fighter would have saved Kit from an untimely death. A better person would have found a way to resolve the conflict with Ike without the result being his death.

And none of those people are me. I'm not good at fighting or resolutions. I'm just Jacob Fel, a soft, privileged boy from District Eleven whose only notable skills include a tendency for random bouts of insecurity and panic, and for being absofuckinglutly useless in, well, anything, really.

And I hate it. I've always hated it. But never more than in this moment, I think.

I'm dimly aware of more words from the girl from Ten, her lungs in prime working condition even as I blast away bits of her body with every shot fired. Most of it isn't registered.

But one thing pierces the red haze creeping at my vision.

"I am not a monster."

And for once, the words in response are not hard to find.

"Congratulations." I hate the way that venom drips from that one word. Me, a boy whose one redeeming quality consisted of his meek and humble manner, spitting acid at a girl with one foot already through death's door. Then, softer, shame tossing itself into the maelstrom of emotion tearing me apart. "At least you get to die with your soul intact."

Pain, the physical kind this time, erupts in my arm. My cry reopens half-healed wounds in my throat, already worn to rawness from tears and shouts across the previous days. Too late, I realize, that Fayre Belanger has reconsidered her fate, decided that if she's going to die this day, it will be with her blade in her hands instead of her hands grasping onto nothing.

"I do not hate you," she says as she withdraws, blood flowing from the first physical piercing of my form since Cedar Halt nearly took my eye out two days prior. As if the lack of hate from a girl I barely a know - a girl I'm about to kill - is supposed to be any comfort to seven days of pain and suffering.

I don't have a chance to respond before an apology follows the sentence, and precedes two more.

"But I want to go home," she murmurs, from blood loss or emotion, I cannot tell. "I don't care how."

There's a second of pause, before I raise my gun for round number five. "We're all going home the same way regardless of the small details," I respond, my voice no louder than hers.

"Broken. Battered. Defeated. Dead."

Like clockwork, another bolt leaves my gun and sails towards the girl from Ten.

"One way, or the other."

^{[ DARS ]}