in the face of pain, there are no heroes // zane v. sinead

It's painfully apparent that when I'm not in the zone, I can't bring undeserved harm onto another person to save my own life. (Heh). In one world, I have the nerves of steel, the strength of will, to cut this girl clean in half, ending her in one fell swoop. In this one, that same swing of the blade almost misses her entirely - is it lucky or unlucky to leave but a mark on your opponent's form when you're torn between wanting her dead and finding the very thought anathema to your very existence?

I turn, and is it luck or chance when a projectile clips my leg instead of sinking into my heart? The girl's got a crossbow and normally that'd be fucking suicidal to charge into with how fast those things can fire - there's a reason their ammo is called bolts - but for once the insane weather actually works to my advantage. 'Cause as hard as it is to run, to swing, to strike physically when it's rainin' cats and dogs, I can't even imagine how hard it is to try and shoot someone instead.

Still. Gotta be wary. Those things can kill ya instantly but they can kill you slowly, too, and with my damn luck any chance of a quick and painless death burned up alongside Bastian's corpse.

(But, do I even really want that, anyway?)

(Do I even want to die when a chance to live is so, so tantalizingly close?)

"Did you kill Cedric, too?" For a second I can't tell if it's my mind playing tricks on me with the screech of the wind or if the nameless Twelve girl has found a voice, but then a flash of lightning illuminates her features and oh, yeah, that was no trick of my mind. And maybe it's damn lucky that I decided to do the smart thing for once in my life and strike first 'cause I think that I would have been shot at regardless.

It makes sense, sorta. The last time you see your district partner he's with some strange untrustworthy fuck and the next time you see that strange untrustworthy fuck he's on his own, your district partner nowhere to be seen. A logical conclusion, when you don't know what I know.

"Are you joking?" I call back into the storm, caring not if my words are carried away into the wind. "Cedric was the only damn good thing that happened to me in here! Killin' him's the last thing I'd ever want to do!"

Fuck if I just screwed over my future self, should both of us survive, but I'm tired of lies and deceit. I could have told this girl that yeah, I killed Cedric, and I was happy about it too, but what'd that do? Piss her off more? Yeah, right. I'm trying to earn a quick death, not a torture session.

Doesn't mean I can't still act, though. So I grin my megawatt grin, bring my blade close to my face, thankful that because of the deluge it'd be that much harder to see how forced it all is. "Fact is, I'm doing him a favor right now, killing you!"

And fuck, maybe that is true. No more district partner equals no more ties to home, no crisis of consciousness when it comes to pleasing a potential mentor. Fuck knows if she was still here I'd be fighting for Aneesa instead of myself, cause fuck knew that girl made more in the two weeks she spent away from home than I would in ten years of my future.

I kill Twelve, and Cedric fights that much harder to get home, fights that much better in an attempt to avenge whomever slighted his district's honor. Or maybe that's a lie I'm making up to convince myself that this is all worth it. 'Cause the fire of fighting for myself is sputtering in this storm, but maybe I can tap into all that energy that lifted my spirits yesterday if I just change the focus.

After all, I've never believed I'd make it past thirty, even before these damn games took away my freedom of choice. But Cedric? He wouldn't just survive - no, he'd have a chance to fucking thrive.

It's that euphoric thought of the future that sends my blade swinging towards his district partner with renewed vigor and enthusiasm. Cause murder for myself is boring - but cutting away the chains that bind someone I care for down? Heh, that's a cause my bleeding heart can get behind in an instant.

Damn. What is it with kids from Twelve and bein' able to read you like a fucking book?

My second swing ends up much like my first - turns it out wasn't a question of motivation so much as it is a confirmation that my luck reserves are running out. But then I again it's not like I've been consistent throughout this entire run anyway - the first day I was running on pure adrenaline, and killing Iden Averill came almost as an afterthought to the pure rush I felt at dancing so close to death and escaping after the fact. The second day was survival, the third day was "survival" with quotation marks because for all of its annoyance I don't think that rodent was actually physically capable of killing me, the fourth was self preservation with a healthy dose of fear, the fifth was desperation, and the sixth was acceptance. My own twisted five stages of grief, all detailing motivations towards killing or attempts at it, really.

Nothing in common, only a lack of genuine desire for bloodshed. And though the storm raging around me is mostly external this time, Cedric's partner has seen right through me anyway.

I really gotta ask him how they do it if I see him again.

"Does anyone who finds themselves in here really wanna kill, Twelve?" Man, my voice is getting hoarse. "Well, anyone that doesn't come from a Career district and isn't batshit insane, anyway?"

Do I want to go home? Is there even a home to go back to? Has Gunner already moved on with my absence? Has Avriel already given up on me and moved on to the poor fucks he's gonna have to mentor next year with or without my help? Was Nine even ever considered a home?

"I don't have a home to go back to, really," I shrug, and I guess there is one benefit to duking this out in the rain - my blade is shinier than it has been since I first bathed it in Career blood. "I'm just your ordinary fucker who's too scared to die and too human to kill without hesitation."

Maybe it was easier to strike out in the past. In the past, I'd only ever fought living beings that were actively trying to kill me with an inhumane glint in their eyes, or Bastian, who literally chose to blow himself off than be goaded into finishing me off right then and there. This random girl that's done nothing but find herself in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like me, isn't a murderer. She's just a kid with unfortunate luck.

Just like me.

But the difference is that I've ended a life. And she hasn't given me that same vibe. And that, I hope, is what makes the difference in the end.

"But see, I can't really afford a catch-22 while you're firing that thing at me, so..." The muscles in my neck pop as I tense and relax - no play-acting this time, just a genuine want - no, a genuine fear. "I guess I can promise that if you stand still I'll make it fast?"

Trying to get it over with failed. Trying to do it for someone else's sake failed. Maybe this time I just need to accept that it's gonna suck and tear off the bandaid - one swing, just like that.

Dying is scary, I think as I advance. Don't do it.

Fuck knows I'm trying not to. But clearly, I need to try harder.

Twelve standing still, as it turns out, does not make it easier for me to kill her in one fell swoop. Instead, my blade catches on the base of her crossbow and is shoved off, just like that. No skin bitten into, no nothing. At this rate, we might as well call it a stalemate and walk off in our separate directions because we'll be here until the end of time.

This is only further accentuated when she sends another bolt my way and only catches my arm by pure chance instead of any real skill and god who thought it was a good idea to put a street rat and a soft girl in the same fight and expect it to be productive, let alone entertaining. Gunner's fantasy's of striking down evil and dying a martyr's death have never seemed further away than right at this moment.

She asks, then, why I keep fighting. And I stop and think for a moment, because why am I? Sure, I have Gunner back home, but whatever is building there is just that - still building. A relationship of months, born in fire, never really tried and tested without that passion fueling it. And Avriel - heh, my bleeding heart may have latched right on to Avriel but come on, I knew that guy for all of two weeks before I was sent here to die.

And she mentions a family and a home with fondness in her voice and I just-

can't relate.

And that's when it clicks. Because Twelve? Twelve's fighting to keep what she already has. And me?

Well, I guess I'm fighting for what I could have, instead.

"Because winning is my chance at a real life for once, Twelve." That's why it clicked. That's why while I craved death, I could never follow through. Because hope? Hope is an addictive drug all on its own. And yeah, I had my childhood ripped away from me due to circumstances beyond my control but somehow in the last few hours I've turned the sourest of all lemons into a tantalizing lemonade that lies three more days' worth of survival away and suddenly, I wonder if this is why so many kids volunteer themselves year after year.

Suddenly, I wonder if this is what Gunner had been wanting all along.

"I came from nothing before I got reaped." It's easy to admit, as it always has, but it feels freer this time, somehow. "Had nothing and no one of my own. I spent seventeen and a half years living on the streets and six glorious months with a roof over my head because a guy I knew took pity on me and let me into his life." And because I'm good in bed, I silently add, but Twelve here looks like one of those girls who would be scandalized by such a thought so that one doesn't get voiced.

"And I'm glad you have a family and a life to fight back for. I'd have to be a right cynical hateful old fucker to begrudge you for that when we're both stuck here in circumstances outside of our damn control." The rain pounds against my face, a perfect act of symbolism for the rawness of my exposed soul. "But I'm also selfish, and if I rolled over and died every time I had to make a choice between myself and someone who could potentially have it better, than I would have croaked long before Lady Luck tossed me into this hellhole."

And maybe that's the determination I need. Maybe that's the rationale, the motivation, the feeling. Not mindless adrenaline. Not selfless devotion. Not even the iciness of fear.

But the calm, warming embrace of hope.

I swing my sword once, twice, to better get my feeling. I'd killed Careers with this before, and it's just a matter of remembering how. But before I strike, I look the girl from Twelve right in the eyes, and I make a vow.

"When I meet your family back in Twelve, I'll make sure they're taken care of."

And honestly? It's the most genuine promise I think I've ever made in my entire godforsaken life.

There's a renewed vigor in my limbs as for once, my aim hits true. Metal hits flesh and doesn't scrape, doesn't glance off, but sinks into it like nothing. And you'd think that after a week of this shit, I'd have gotten used to having the idea that metal forged in a certain way is deadly and there's a reason it's been used in these barbaric arena fights for damn near a century.

But it doesn't. My sword tears through flesh and muscle like nothing, and it wasn't the blade that was having problems, it was me. All I needed was a reason, a mindset, one good hit. The mental game has been won - nothing the girl could say or do could break me now, live or die.

Yet curiously, I notice, she doesn't seem to care. The next bolt she sends my way goes wide, and whether it's intentional or not I honestly cannot decipher. But the pursing of her lips, the tightness of her face, those aren't the actions of someone who is pleased by the developments.

Maybe I should be genuine more often, if this is what comes from it.

She asks another question, asking what I would do at the end of it all, and for a second I pause.

What would Zane Holbrook do with a victory? A victory that, for once, doesn't seem as impossible as it once was? So focused I had been on ensuring I had a death to my choosing that I'd never once contemplated as to what life might consist of instead.

So I admit as much; "I don't know." Because honestly, I'd never even really given the topic some thought - I had, after all, just made this earth-shaking revelation that life might be preferable to death minutes ago, and the battlefield was hardly the place to seriously contemplate such matters. "For the first time in my life I'll have the power of choice and the ability to do whatever I want."

And that mere thought alone is almost intoxicating, yet my focus remains unbroken as I send my sword towards the girl yet again.

"That, I think, is enough for me."

I settle for a simple thing, and my resolve falters. Whether sinking my blade into her leg was a lucky hit, a fluke, or just required the stars aligning or some shit like that is beyond me, but whatever formula I had perfectly replicated to achieve such a blow has eluded my attempts at maintaining a permanent grip on its formula.

The girl's blood has already been washed clean from my blade when she questions my dream and very nearly sends a bolt straight into my chest. But luck or fate or simply reflex saves me and I still live to draw another breath, to swing another strike, to answer another question. Exhaustion is starting to peak around the edges of my consciousness - I never was much one for unnecessary physical pursuits, being a street rat who needed to conserve as much energy as possible, and this fight is already lasting longer than just about anything I had done since the bloodbath.

But still, I persevere. But still, I push forward. But still, I answer.

"Oh, I'm sure there will be structural red tape and a strict oversight and about ten to twenty years of therapy to exorcise the ghosts out of my head that will limit me if we want to get technical about it." And this conversation is proof, really, that I can only stay serious for so long - this last shot Twelve had sent my way had kickstarted my heart into overdrive as it realized just how close it had gotten to getting shot right out of my chest, and I use that manic energy for good instead - smiling in the face of death, bouncing on the balls of my feet, shaking out my limbs, staying light and loose. I've never seen a boxing match in person, but I've seen them on Gunner's TV, and this is what I'd imagine they felt like.

And like a boxer, I strike quick and fast, a clap of thunder accentuating my next strike. I don't even care if it's critical at this point - all I have to do is outlast this girl until she runs out of arrows or drops dead.

"Still worth it for me." Cause fuck, I've already killed once. The sin is laid bare across my shoulders and will choke me towards the end of time. And if I can still talk and laugh and fight at the end of all that - well, maybe there's fuckin' hope for me after all.

Persevere. All I gotta do is fuckin' persevere. Cut, cut, block, stab, cut, cut, cut, not get my eye or my heart shot out by a stray crossbow bolt. If this is what the Capitol constitutes as entertainment, seeing two kids utterly fail to end each other, well, then they're getting their fuckin' money's worth, all right.

But it doesn't matter if I can't bring myself to deal a killing blow, or even if it's physically capable for me at this point. Just outlast the bolts, outlast the girl, deal more damage than I'm given. I can patch myself back up just fine afterwords, and it'll all be fine.

I got this. For the first time in my entire damn life I have a reason to live, and I sure as hell am not going to squander it here and now. If I die before I reach the end this time, then, well, it's not going to be because I was looking for it.

Twelve, it seems, finds herself out of questions even as yet another bolt (and damn, I really should have been counting them, huh, if I wanted to make some sort of grand move after our war of attrition), with a simple declaration: may the best man win.

I could be serious. I could treat this like every pound weighing down on my shoulders means something. I could make another vow, like I had a few minutes ago.

"Don't worry, I plan to," I say instead with a shit-eating grin before once again, I swing with the intent to kill.

Yeah, seriousness for extended periods of time never really was within my capabilities. And if I fuckin' die, well, at least I was true to myself till the bitter end.