alone inside my soul {GG vs TSS vs Z vs M day 5}

The dude's name was Arthur. And he was the fifth person I've seen die right in front of me over the past week.

I had always wondered why the bloodbath wasn't sitting heavily on me. Hell, I'd killed Iden Averill with my own two hands, maimed Bastian Fray and his district partner (Nylon, as I learned through the anthem), watched both Sixes die right in front of me and Anarchy Mer from Four fall to their hands as well. Yet at the end of the day the carnage was more of an afterthought - so lost was I in the heat of the battle, the rush of flirting with death and avoiding her, that the death and carnage was an afterthought in comparison. And sure, I'd butchered two mutts of my own but even though it was horrible they were still easy to forget about - nameless, faceless beasts created in a test tube or something like that with a lifespan that would have lasted days with or without me. It was easy to justify that.

But yesterday, Arthur Rollei from Three had his brains stabbed out right in front of me. Alive one second, dead as a doornail the next, and though I'd had no indication that any of them were aware of me, let alone cared about my presence, I just couldn't get the image of his body, suspended by Ten's spear for a moment, abruptly collapsing to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Cliché metaphor, I know, but that's what it looks like when you kill someone in an instant.

And quite frankly I'm glad that there was nothin' in my stomach and the gale force of the winds were drowning out any semblance of sound from more than three feet away because I'm not ashamed to admit that I nearly retched the water I'd drank right back out of there. And it's stupid, really, cause I'd been surrounded by death and squalor my entire damn life and for whatever reason it was the sudden death of a kid I'd never even met before that tore my walls down into a heap of rubble.

But I managed to keep my liquid lunch down, even as I trekked away from the Cornucopia to parts unknown. And as the third face - Luya, the girl from Eleven - follows Nylon and Arthur onto the sky, I can't help but just think about how fucked up all of this is. Kids like us, forced to go to the very extremes of our physical and mental limits if we want even a slim chance at living past our teenage years, endure torture of both the physical and mental variety to make it another hour, and after having each of those limits pushed day in and day out I'm not even sure if life is even still worth fucking living.

I'd had the epiphany days ago, but not for the first time I understand now, why Avriel looked hollowed out, his eyes trapped in memories from a year ago, why so many victors are never heard from again after their victories. The Games takes anything worth saving from you and beats it out, leaving only the worst parts behind. Compassion, empathy, even happiness - you either get that stamped out of you or you die knowing that your soul remained unbroken by the arena.

Too bad my soul didn't get the memo and shattered to pieces while my body still drew breath.

Luya's face fades into the night, and not for the first time, I'm envious of the fallen. Too cowardly to join them of my own accord, yes, but envious nonetheless. There's a mere fourteen left, counting myself. Half an arena's worth of kids remaining that must die if Aneesa or I are to make it to the end of the line and live out the rest of our lives as half-dead companions to Avriel's haunted psyche. Misery loves company, and all that.

My last thought before I pass out that night comes in the form of a wish, really - one that hopes that whatever has happened, she's taking this a lot better than I am.

One of us deserves to be whole, once all of this is said and done.

---

I wake up to the earth shaking beneath me. But it's no earthquake, as I quickly find, at least not in the traditional sense.

Instead, it's a clash of titans - two enormous reptilian beasts, unlike anything I've ever seen in my life, going at each other with an animalistic fury that, to my half-asleep mind, utterly confounds me. Aren't I in the arena? Aren't the only creatures aside from the tributes programmed beasts whose sole objective is to hunt us down and kill us? Why the fuck are they going for each other instead of us-

A gigantic tail slams feet away from me, and the rest of my brain kicks into gear. Get the fuck out of the danger zone first, ponder the ever fluid nature of the Games second, cause getting crushed to death doesn't sound all that ideal to me.

Yes, yes, I know, I crave death and all that, and that hasn't changed because of one rudely interrupted sleep. (Or two at this rate, I guess.) But a guy's gotta have standards, okay? And getting crushed doesn't quite make the list.

I'm on my feet, sword in one hand, bag on my back, in record time (nothing like a beastly brawl that might actually kill you and a healthy dose of fear-induced adrenaline injected directly into your brain to get you moving), and only when I deem myself a safe distance away from the brawl do I finally allow myself a look at the surroundings.

It's indeed two beasts, and they are indeed reptilian in nature, but that's where the similarities end - one is standing on two huge legs, with a pointed tail and an enormous jaw offset by the most ridiculously tiny arms I have ever seen proportionately on a creature in my life. The other looks more normally reptilian in nature, with its weird addition coming in the form of a huge sail-like thing coming directly out of its spine. I briefly wonder what the deal is, if these were supposed to be my trail today before something went awry with the programming-

-and then there's a bang and a blossom of pain erupting out of my gut that's so wholly unexpected that I gasp and drop to my knees. I look down to find red blossoming on my shirt, too slow to kill me right that second but definitely not slow enough to simply shrug off, and I raise my head and oh.

I wonder why I didn't hear the rumble of the engines, or see the lumbering hunks of metal on wheels approach, but that's not the point - because aside from the mutts, I'm far from alone. My mind races through the facets of the Games, imprinted on my memory due to Gunner's insistent watching of them, and wonder if this was supposed to be a feast or a grand challenge before the beasts decided each other was a greater enemy than we were.

But there's no watching from afar this time, no avoiding the greater number of enemies through stealth and a well-timed kill on one of my rivals. And if the other tributes have decided that this chaos is the perfect time to try and snipe down some competition, well, then who am I to deny that?

After all, this would be a pretty sweet death. As long as I avoid getting on the wrong side of the overgrown lizards, anyway.

It's easy to spot which of the vehicles took the pot shot at me, even if I can't make out the faces of the kids (one blond in an eerily familiar way, one dark-haired and a stranger), and easier to come up with a plan. And as I drop into a runner's crouch, I can practically hear Avriel's voice urgently advising against what I'm about to do.

But though I'm not stupid, I am reckless. And even if I misjudge this and die a horrible death underneath the vehicle's tires, well, then he can focus on bringing Aneesa home then. So really, it's a win-win all around.

I wait until the vehicle slows, as another kid rushes up to the plate, and make my move. Ignoring the pain in my gut (so sharp and fresh compared to the hunger pangs I'd long since tuned out), I break into a jog, then a sprint, before making a leap into the back of the vehicle, right behind driver and passenger.

"I appreciate the thought behind the gift, dude," I say, stabilizing myself as I hang half-on, half-off of the vehicle, machete gripped tightly. "But I didn't really care for it that much, so consider this a lil return to sender, mmmkay?"

It's a damn wonder how my desire for wanton murder and bloodshed fluctuates from day to day, and sometimes even from swing to swing. Two days ago I had trouble killing a fucking rodent that wouldn't stop headbutting me and squeaking my damn ear off. Today? I nearly cut clean through this random kid's skull, no problem.

Course, the bitch shot me. There might have been a bit more motivation behind it. But the fact that I wasn't able to nearly one-shot that rodent concerns me. Am I really that inconsistent with my fights? Does it take me missing death by pure chance to supercharge my body with murderous intent? Or do I just have a hidden yet deeply personal hatred of humanity that for some reason doesn't translate to annoying artificial creatures?

Who fucking knows. What I do know is that with one swing, I almost add this random boy to my kill list, and a few seconds later he's the last thing on my mind because blondie turns his head towards me and oh.

Figures that Bastian Fray would find himself resilient enough to haunt me five days after I've claimed my pound of flesh from him.

"Trying to blow my brains out in such a public place, Fray?" I say, and I almost hate how laughably easy it is for my self preservation instincts to be shoved aside after going through five days of poorly disguised torture at their whim. "I didn't take you for such a voyeur, darling."

But the message is clear enough even for my thick skull and it is so laughably easy to decipher that the reason my heart is hammering against my ribcage is only partially from the rush of the near death and while I may be reckless, I'm not stupid, and maybe I'm not quite as suicidal as I might think because while self preservation has given up the job, raw, animalistic survival has not. But for one brief moment they work in beautiful tandem, and I can't help but play with the fire even as I rush to escape its deadly heat.

"And don't you worry that pretty little head of yours, I know not to overstay a welcome," I say with an overexaggerated wink, and this time there's no almost in the disgust that washes over me.

To think that a month ago I considered doing this to live life to the fullest and die a quick, painless death, And now I can't even emulate the Zane of what used to be, much less the Zane of my wildest dreams.

And I decide it's tiring to keep up the act. The smirk drops, as does my voice, deadly serious where seconds ago it had been full of playful mirth. "'Sides, I'm sure you'll have your hand full with what's left of your boy toy in a sec anyway." When I chuckle, there's no humor in the sound. "Promise it's nothin' personal."

Though maybe it is. Maybe right then and there I decide that I hate Bastian Fray for finding it somewhere in his heart to not send a clip's worth of lead into my brain instead of thin air. Like seriously, I've maimed the guy, nearly shortened his friend or fuckbuddy or whatever by half a foot with a single blow, humiliated his family name and eighteen years of honorable Career values or whatever shit they indoctrinate kids in the wealthy districts and still he finds something in his heart to spare me.

So maybe simply playing with the fire isn't dangerous enough. Maybe I have to fully bathe in it before I feel something familiar.

So I salute mockingly towards the boys, right before I drop. And if I swing my blade towards Bastian's partner on the way out, then, well, I'll leave it up to the observer's interpretation as to whether that was intentional or not.

And if it hurts when my body hits solid ground and the vehicle drives away, then maybe just this once I damn well welcome it.