standing room only [benchwarmers vs epa, day 3]

Truly, in every way, it was foolish of them to use the elevator at all at this point. Every time they did, the little indicator that could be found on each and every floor of this building lit up with a foreboding little red light to indicate which floor the lift was currently on. Which, by extension, meant that technically anyone who was keeping an eye on it could gather way too much information about where people were coming from and where they were going.

But, on the other hand, Jack didn't want to climb all the way back down the stairs just to turn around and come all the way back anymore than the others he was with. Plus, it'd been Jack who raised a stink about the vents, if he shot down yet another form of travel, it might seem like he was just trying to keep his allies in one place. Which he wasn't- if anything, it seemed like the best idea he could think of to put as much space between them and the medical supplies as possible now that they were loaded up and prepared as they could be. The further into the Games they went, the more people would be sniffing around for some sort of pick-me-up.

"Fine, yeah," he responded to Machiavelli off-handed. Maybe while they were back down there, he could go back for some more of that salve he put on his wound last night. In one night, the cuts had fully healed themselves closed, only thin little pink lines remaining on his thigh and shoulder as evidence that he'd ever been injured at all.

He thought for a moment about how lucky he was for it. Another couple of inches and he could've been just like Penelope Marcet, the second of the circus folk to spend their time in the Games losing limbs left and right. He supposed, truly, he wouldn't need his own limbs as much as she had. He was a tamer- so long as he had his voice and his heart, he could make the lions listen. But what she'd been best at: twirling through the air, hanging by a single strand of silk or a heavy metallic ring- she needed every muscle and every part. She had it all taken from her on live television.

Looking at his friends as they waited for the elevator, Jack wondered which had hurt more: the act of losing them in the moment, or the realization of everything else that the single swipe of a sword had taken later.

The doors dinged and, for whatever reason, he hadn't thought to be on guard against it. Another alliance poured forward from it, weapons already drawn. Sunrise first, one of the Garners soon after, each quickly deciding this encounter could only end in bloodshed as they attacked Machiavelli.

Telling the other tributes where they were was one thing; Jack hadn't ever considered the potential of literally summoning them to the same floor. "Shit." It went without saying, but he moved himself in front of Emerson on instinct. Two more still waited in the elevator- the other tribute from District Two and the other Garner. That meant two people who were trained in combat, and two more who the country would weep for upon their deaths. Emerson was his own alliance's most prized possession in that moment: both a shining beacon, and a moving target. He wouldn't die in the name of commodity if Jack was around to prevent it.

"Don't do anything stupid, Kid."

His eyes cut to Nessa in the elevator. Goes for you too, his expression warned.

Jack looked to Wolf. She didn't have to like him, she didn't even have to be nice to him- she just had to know that they were on the same page.

"Keep him back," he said. Keep him safe, he said really.

He pulled out the same weapon he used to shove the dummy collective back the day before and lunged toward Jimmy before he could think of a good enough reason not to.

It's Jack who urges him to hide. Another day of traveling up and down the training center, another day trying to prepare himself for the inevitable. In his mind, a clock is ticking down. He's not sure whether the hands are pointing to his death or another's, but either way his stomach churns like stormy waters. The pole sword strapped to his back had proven helpful against the plastic mass of writhing hands and blank faces, but the idea of drawing the blade through human flesh makes him want to disappear without the use of camouflage.

They're riding the elevator, and Jack kneels down and presents his shoulders to stand on. Emerson is grateful, but a quiet part of himself feels bad. It doesn't feel fair that he should get to hide away throughout this experience and leave the monster slaying to the others. The last thing he wants to be is a burden, but he still steps up onto the taller boy and is lifted to the hatch on the ceiling, pulling himself through. "I'll be right here." Which, of course, Jack already knows, but he means that in a different sense.

"And don't try telling me to stay hidden. If I hear something, I'm coming down." Maybe it's the darkness waiting for him on the creaking rooftop of the elevator that does it, tinges his voice with quiet emotion and makes him feel sentimental. He reaches his fist through the opening before it can be sealed shut, offering it to Jack to bump like they did during during those first few days of training. "Thank you for being my friend."

There's the thud of a hatch closing, the echo of his heart racing. Wolf is already up here, shrouded in the dark like it is her second home. They wait together in easy silence until the elevator comes to a stop, lurches, screeches under the weight of new bodies rushing in. The quiet seems to stretch on for an eternity, waiting for a scream or a battle cry; then he hears a fumbled sorry, the squelch of a blade cutting through skin, a symphony of bodies colliding into one another. A fight is happening. A very real, very human fight.

He grips his weapon, feels his mind racing with possibilities. It's not his intention, but he's so frozen by his hesitation that by the point he gains the nerve to strike, he's alone where he sits. As much as his instincts should tell him to try and run and climb away to safety, he can't listen to them. No, he doesn't want to attack anyone, the last thing he wants to cope with is ending someone's life, but he told Jack he would be there for him. He will not let the kindness he was given go unreturned.

The hatch is already open, the choice is already made. With a deep inhale, he points his weapon downward, knowing that he is choosing and hoping to hurt someone. And then he leaps into the unknown, joining the fray and knowing that there is no going back from this point.

"Nessa!"

He said her name like it was an accusation, and maybe that's what it should have been. He thought back to her approaching him before the Games to talk about cats, of all things. Back then, she'd just been a twelve year old girl discussing interests with someone likeminded. To compare that girl to this one, fierce little protector of her namesake in all its forms: relentless... it was more sad than anything else. How was she doing anything wrong?

"Then tell him to get back in the elevator with you, and leave!" He didn't want to be doing this either. It was Nessa's friend who came in swinging a knife. Speaking of- Sunrise was suddenly calling for a ceasefire now that the war they started was drawing blood. He raised his eyebrow, watching as the other tribute twisted and contorted, eyes looking for someone else to blame for the pain blossoming from the new wounds on his back.

"I thought you were my friend," he dared say to Machiavelli. Clearly, this required levels of emotional depth that Jack did not possess, because the thread of logic made no sense to him. Even his own ally seemed perplexed by this, voice hot with judgment- "It’s all stupid, anyway." Jack scratched his head, trying to make sense of what they were all even saying anymore.

"Now! Or else-" he raised his weapon as a warning. Maybe they'd listen to their ally.

A beat.

They still stood there once he finished counting to three, so he sighed.

"Fine."