Anthem - Day 8

Three game makers, one table, a million miles of tension collected between them. Joy and excitement dances over Sloane and Ruby's faces as the trio rewatches the games, going through the highlight reel put together by the junior gamemakers. Together they watch the unfolding of the arena, the fog rolling through, sparks collecting in their purple hazes. Chaos rains down on all these children, and Chanel feels her stomach roll.

“It’s getting close," Ruby says, a small smile spreading across her cheeks. Chanel looks at her with unabashed disgust, a hangover thick in her skull. She doesn't have the energy to pretend at feeling anything other than rage. "We’ll have our victor before too long.”

"Just have to slaughter a few more children," Chanel shoots under her breath, tasting whiskey on her tongue from her coffee. It's making her bolder, crueler, angrier. She picks up her mug and takes another swig, liquor burning.

“Today better turn out some more deaths." Ruby goes on, and Chanel isn't sure if she's pointedly ignoring Chanel's mumblings, but either way it makes Chanel want to roll her eyes. "We need an exciting finale, and soon.”

Sloane claps her hands, and Chanel wonders if the stick shoved up her ass is the reason her shoulders are so squared all the time. She's exhausted just trying to think about keeping up that posture.

"Chanel, how about you do the honors? Change the day over for us." Sloane demands, and Chanel knows without knowing that she heard her snide remark. If there's one thing Chanel has learned about Sloane Belmont, it's that she always knows the right moment to throw someone else to the wolves, knows the thing to make someone else uncomfortable at the best moment for her. Especially now, she sees the way Chanel bristles, the way she has constantly bristled at every turn, how she hates being made responsible for this. "Or I could call Mr. Hailsham. Maybe he'll want the honor."

Sloane's face splits into a grin, and Chanel's falls even further, shoulders slumping. Deftly, she runs her hands over the control panel, feels her eyes go dead while Sloane watched on the monitor as the moon rises above the tributes. They sleep among rubble and bioluminescent forest, hiding from one another atop a mountain of Chanel's own making. Together, they input the code to trigger the anthem, and run the script to shift them from night into morning, gooseflesh rising across all three women's skin. Excitement, anticipation, culmination—the end is near, and they can all feel it.