the sun burns red.— [double homicide (day three)]

For as hard a time as Arthur had wanted to give Abel, the kid had done good. Shot the stupid bird right in its fucking eye like it was nothing. After, they’d been left to smell the fumes of the lava, a mix of burning tires and melting plastic. He’d retied the bandana around his nose to block out most of the smell. He watched the embers lift up into the sky and wondered how many years he’d take off his life spending a second night setting up camp here.

At least they knew their way back. He could still tell the direction of the cornucopia, which meant a pair of bridges shouldn’t have been too much further north. They could trudge into new territory or double back on where they’d started for a central vantage point. If he made it through day four it’d be further than Bellamy, and further than that would be a big deal for a district three. Maybe even Klaus might be impressed.

What in the world.

The kid from eleven was down on his knees praying. Huh. He didn’t want to yuck the boy’s yum, but what on earth did he think he was praying to? The gamemakers?

Abel opened his mouth asking for firewood and Arthur grunted. The kid could whittle, so he’d likely be making something else out of nothing. Arthur figured that there must not have been much else to do in district eleven if he’d been reading a bible and whittling, but then, all the stereotypes he’d heard about eleven had been about how dirt poor they were. At least in three they let them play with tech and build things. He got his hands on a camera young, and spent most of his days in a dark room making magic. Probably a better use of time than whittling.

Unless you were brought into the hunger games.

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” Arthur had wrapped his arm in a torniquet to staunch the bleeding. He grinned thinking that at least now his arms matched, one puncture wound on each side. Maybe if he was lucky he’d get a cool scar under his eye or across his chin, too. He walked along the gravel and started collecting the dried out husks of wood before turning back to where Abel had been.

“So like. Do you really think there’s some kind of sky daddy looking out for you?” Arthur crossed his arms and wiped away ash from underneath his nose with his bandana. “No offense. I just don’t see many people back in three getting into the whole old world, new agey higher power kind of shit.”

[Arthur collects things and does actions in maintenance]

Part of him wanted to roll his eyes when Abel started talking about how God had been the one that made it possible for him to kill the mutt. Belief in the afterlife felt like a cheap way of disassociating from the carnage that surrounded them. Abel had gotten a lucky shot, mixed with a bit of precision and tenacity, that’s all.

But as Arthur opened his mouth to spit out something contrarian (Right, so you having to kill for God is all part of the plan, then caught at the back of his throat), he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Instead, he watched Abel whittle away at the pieces of wood they’d collected, smooth motions down along the bark with his knife.

His older brother Stanley had raised him to know when to press and when to hold; he’d have torn he pious to shit for hypocrisy at the first chance he got. Yet in the quiet yellow glow of the volcanic dunes, Arthur saw an earnest young man who desperately wanted to believe something as true. He couldn’t fault him for how he’d been raised, even if it hadn’t made much sense to him. And he was too tired to get into another argument with his ally. So, in the spirit of putting on his big-boy pants, Arthur Rollei knelt next to Abel, and sucked at his canteen.

“You ought to give yourself more credit, man. You’re not half bad with that thing… sometimes.” Arthur said. A cannon sounded and Arthur shivered. He turned to start picking at another piece of wood with his flint. He brushed sparks over the brush and blew until smoke rose toward the sky. “I’d like to believe in anything but myself. But it’s a hell of a lot easier to get let down that way. Easier not to be disappointed if you don’t expect much from anyone.”

He picked at the beginnings of a fire at his feet and stood to stretch out his back. Tsara still hadn’t returned his call. He paced a few feet to kick over a rock before turning back on his heels and starting again.

“Yo…” Arthur licked his lips as he pressed the walkie talkie to his lips. He listened to the static as he set the dial to the first station. “What’s up kids? Trying to get my eyes on Tsara from district three. She’s not returning my calls and I hope it’s not because one of you assholes did something you’re going to regret.”

Arthur switched to the next station for good measure, “But if you’re out there, Tsar – fire’s nice this time of night. Better than the tire fires back in three that’s for sure. Come find me in the dunes, y’hear?”

He switched off his walkie talkie and turned back to Abel.

“I’m not tired, man. You want to stay up for a while? I think... our districts might just think we're no half as stupid as we look.”