long rest. [the night brigade - post bloodbath]

She stares at the blood on the floor — the outline of a girl whose heart she forced to stop before its time.

Rose bloom dead in a florist's hand; it wilts this way.

Briefly, her mind struggles to cope with the damage that she's caused. She can remember the vibration that moved through her wrist as she cleaved a boy's arm from his shoulder, simply because he refused to yield to her. Obstacle meets Carly. There's not a scratch on her. She made many calculated decisions, and inevitably, she has proven herself right. If she trusts her instincts, things always work out in the end.

But then this is the aftermath, it seems.

Nothing she can ever do will erase the choices she made today. Regardless of the context, she is a murderer, and she did so willingly. (Strike it from the record, her hands were in shackles.) Twenty-four kids fighting for a chance in a rigged game, and she had the audacity to tell them to leave the only known shelter. To attack them with every ounce of her being. She places the sickle on the wooden counter, wiping it clean on the sleeve of her robe before doing so.

Flashing a polite smile to their slime-host, she raises another finger to signify a conversation pause. "One second, boss. I need to rally with the team, but then I'm free to talk business." She's just in time to watch the bunny statue come flying through the window, followed by Andrew's tall and lean frame — followed by Tune yelping in surprise. Which makes Carly chuckle, hiding her true smirk behind her knuckles, trying to distract herself from the knowledge that there's dried blood on her skin.

Tune and Andrew squabble in their own delightful way, a playful kind of fire, a matchstick romance. She's immersed herself enough in media culture to see all the telltale signs of it; the way they argue, the fleeting glances, the concern that could so easily read as frustration. At the end of the day, they're just teenagers in over their heads, and emotions will never have any say in the things that will transpire in the arena. It's every tribute for themselves. For ninety one years, it has been this way.

But when Tune looks at Andrew, her cheeks flush with color, and Carly knows this not simply because she has a love for the cinema — but because she blushes the same way when she sees him, too. Not that she would ever admit it, she assures herself, arms already crossed over her chest like a wall she raises to protect herself. He's charming, and there's a light in his eyes that calls to her, promises something deeper just below the surface, but this isn't her story. Due in part because there is no good ending to her memoir that allows his survival, and also because she has no interest getting in the way of someone else's possibility.

"I think ale sounds perfect. The first night is statistically the calmest, all the others will be searching for new safe havens. We at least have the evening to breathe." She joins them at the table, smacking Tune's hand away from the bandages wrapped messily around her waist. "If you're going to do it yourself, at least follow the base instructions." She begins to tidy up the dressing herself, wrapping it evenly and cleanly around the expanse of scarred skin. "You're not worth losing to an infection, okay?"

Her gaze falls on Andrew, haloed by fire light, the warm glow of the room where she lost her innocence. "Same goes to you. C'mon, let me get a look at you. Tune's right, you're practically a walking target in that outfit."