the art of the fracture // fatima, day four
Mar 27, 2022 3:09:19 GMT -5
Post by lance on Mar 27, 2022 3:09:19 GMT -5
F A T I M A
You'd thought you'd had it all figured out, really. Never mind that one of the very first things you'd been taught when you'd signed yourself up for Five's deadliest infiltration mission in almost a century was this: the simple truth of the Games is that they're always, always going to find some way to throw you off.
You'd known this, from the moment you'd said "I'm in," to the moment Solaris did his duty and summoned you to the stage to the moment Sierra lost her life in the bloodbath. If you plan far enough, you'd have so many backups, so many contingencies, that nothing would be able to throw you off.
Not Sierra getting her skull caved in - that was plan D, after A (winning the wealth), B (fleeing mostly intact), and C (losing the wealth but keeping all of your lives). Not two sets of mutts, each with their own wave of unpredictability and varied outcomes. Not even getting split from Rafael and Nowles alike when the entrance to an underground chasm was discovered.
Yes, even Rafael betraying you had its own contingencies - three of them, in fact. Plan K assumed he was predictable, stereotypical, play-acting some cartoon villain who monologued their entire evil plan right before the hero inevitably saved the day, and you pulled a reverse on him and betrayed him first. Plan L was if he acted faster than you predicted, but sooner than he would have liked - a scenario where you nipped his rebellion in the bud and, with the help of Nowles, either killed him on the spot or forced him out into the unknown.
And then there was plan M, where he outsmarted you entirely and not only betrayed you, but sabotaged your efforts of winning, be that through a simple destruction of gear or straight up murder. You hadn't quite gotten to the point where you'd needed Plan M, but damn, was it close.
Too close. The fact that the Salazar boy had escaped with nary a scratch on him was as infuriating as it was terrifying - your primary reason for allying with him, after all, was to follow the old adage of keep your friends close and your enemies closer - and you knew, even as you and Nowles had agreed to split watches, that you wouldn't get a wink of sleep tonight as a result. The fact that he'd taken advantage of the group's separation, attempted to sabotage your mech and very nearly succeeded would have brought your whole alphabet of plans crashing down all the way to the end.
You didn't want to get all the way to plan Z. Plan Z meant that you were completely, irrevocably, utterly fucked. The only goal? Survive.
You look over at Nowles' sleeping form, wondering what it would take for her to part ways with you as well. She was stubborn, fiercely independent, and best of all, a genius. Surely she knew that, sentimental value to the connection between your families notwithstanding, that two people were hardly an ideal or sufficient teamup against the horrors that the arena could throw at you. Like it or not, it'd taken all three of you to take on the twin terror packs of mutts that had been thrown or way. Take out one valuable warm body? There was a world where the cats had torn you and Nowles' mechs to shreds without Rafael's discovery of their hive mind, a world where the absence of his maniacal ramblings led to a too-late discovery of the poison coursing through your veins.
And you and Nowles are brilliant. But there's only so far two can go against seventeen.
Even with two cannons sounding throughout the day, you find yourself unnerved. Five deaths four days in is an ominous sign, and with each passing day and the number of you remaining matches that of a kid who can get reaped or above, and that only adds pressure to the inevitable dam that will come crashing down on each and every one of you. And that is something you're not sure if you're prepared for.
You take another look at Nowles, her trust (or perhaps her unconscious movements) placing her back to you. Somehow, one way or another, that fickle luxury of trust has found its way into the Games, pricking your heart and taking root. You were smart enough to avoid extending such courtesy to Rafael, but as the days wear on it's becoming more and more clear that you're not strong enough to keep the same from happening with the scrappy girl from Nine.
But when you shift your gaze to the mech you'd piloted for half of a week now, you are reminded of how powerful you felt when you'd fought in that for the first time. And perhaps you're getting too defeatist too fast - because Nowles is a terror in her scorpion, and yours had the power to bring down an entire wall on top of three mecha cats. Even without Rafael slithering his way on your side, the apex of your power still remains within grasp.
"You need a name, don't you," you whisper, flowing from your makeshift bed to your greatest weapon as quietly as you can. "You're not just my armor - you're my strength, as well."
A strength that turned you from an ordinary girl with extraordinary aspirations into a titan capable of standing up to everything thrown at you with a punch and a laugh. And it comes to you, as naturally as if it was chiseled into its very form.
"Montague Babe," you decide in a murmur, brushing your hand against the grimy metal of its torso. "A fitting name, for an al-Amin's true power."
However heavily the odds may be stacked against you, you'll be damned if you don't fight against fate's plans with everything you've got.
You'd known this, from the moment you'd said "I'm in," to the moment Solaris did his duty and summoned you to the stage to the moment Sierra lost her life in the bloodbath. If you plan far enough, you'd have so many backups, so many contingencies, that nothing would be able to throw you off.
Not Sierra getting her skull caved in - that was plan D, after A (winning the wealth), B (fleeing mostly intact), and C (losing the wealth but keeping all of your lives). Not two sets of mutts, each with their own wave of unpredictability and varied outcomes. Not even getting split from Rafael and Nowles alike when the entrance to an underground chasm was discovered.
Yes, even Rafael betraying you had its own contingencies - three of them, in fact. Plan K assumed he was predictable, stereotypical, play-acting some cartoon villain who monologued their entire evil plan right before the hero inevitably saved the day, and you pulled a reverse on him and betrayed him first. Plan L was if he acted faster than you predicted, but sooner than he would have liked - a scenario where you nipped his rebellion in the bud and, with the help of Nowles, either killed him on the spot or forced him out into the unknown.
And then there was plan M, where he outsmarted you entirely and not only betrayed you, but sabotaged your efforts of winning, be that through a simple destruction of gear or straight up murder. You hadn't quite gotten to the point where you'd needed Plan M, but damn, was it close.
Too close. The fact that the Salazar boy had escaped with nary a scratch on him was as infuriating as it was terrifying - your primary reason for allying with him, after all, was to follow the old adage of keep your friends close and your enemies closer - and you knew, even as you and Nowles had agreed to split watches, that you wouldn't get a wink of sleep tonight as a result. The fact that he'd taken advantage of the group's separation, attempted to sabotage your mech and very nearly succeeded would have brought your whole alphabet of plans crashing down all the way to the end.
You didn't want to get all the way to plan Z. Plan Z meant that you were completely, irrevocably, utterly fucked. The only goal? Survive.
You look over at Nowles' sleeping form, wondering what it would take for her to part ways with you as well. She was stubborn, fiercely independent, and best of all, a genius. Surely she knew that, sentimental value to the connection between your families notwithstanding, that two people were hardly an ideal or sufficient teamup against the horrors that the arena could throw at you. Like it or not, it'd taken all three of you to take on the twin terror packs of mutts that had been thrown or way. Take out one valuable warm body? There was a world where the cats had torn you and Nowles' mechs to shreds without Rafael's discovery of their hive mind, a world where the absence of his maniacal ramblings led to a too-late discovery of the poison coursing through your veins.
And you and Nowles are brilliant. But there's only so far two can go against seventeen.
Even with two cannons sounding throughout the day, you find yourself unnerved. Five deaths four days in is an ominous sign, and with each passing day and the number of you remaining matches that of a kid who can get reaped or above, and that only adds pressure to the inevitable dam that will come crashing down on each and every one of you. And that is something you're not sure if you're prepared for.
You take another look at Nowles, her trust (or perhaps her unconscious movements) placing her back to you. Somehow, one way or another, that fickle luxury of trust has found its way into the Games, pricking your heart and taking root. You were smart enough to avoid extending such courtesy to Rafael, but as the days wear on it's becoming more and more clear that you're not strong enough to keep the same from happening with the scrappy girl from Nine.
But when you shift your gaze to the mech you'd piloted for half of a week now, you are reminded of how powerful you felt when you'd fought in that for the first time. And perhaps you're getting too defeatist too fast - because Nowles is a terror in her scorpion, and yours had the power to bring down an entire wall on top of three mecha cats. Even without Rafael slithering his way on your side, the apex of your power still remains within grasp.
"You need a name, don't you," you whisper, flowing from your makeshift bed to your greatest weapon as quietly as you can. "You're not just my armor - you're my strength, as well."
A strength that turned you from an ordinary girl with extraordinary aspirations into a titan capable of standing up to everything thrown at you with a punch and a laugh. And it comes to you, as naturally as if it was chiseled into its very form.
"Montague Babe," you decide in a murmur, brushing your hand against the grimy metal of its torso. "A fitting name, for an al-Amin's true power."
However heavily the odds may be stacked against you, you'll be damned if you don't fight against fate's plans with everything you've got.
