what lies beneath | 96th finale

Nobody had taught Xov the amount of effort it took to kill someone quickly, the precise pressure that called every muscle to careful attention. Somehow, like second nature, she had thought to press her hip bone into the hilt of her glaive as it broke through Axyl’s ribs, and the dull ache left in her side marked her guilt as sure as the cannon sound. Afterwards she wondered how her body had learned to kill without her knowing, but then again, it didn’t quite feel like her body anymore.

She didn’t know how to end someone’s life honorably, only sensed that it was better to meet Axyl’s eyes as the light faded, bearing witness to the heaviness of grief that she could see within them, his broad shoulders finally relaxing under the weight of his sorrow. She recognized that gaze; it was like looking in a mirror.

Had he seen it too? Would she be forgiven?

”I’m so sorry,” Xov whispered, throat closing on the last syllable as she realized she hadn’t even learned his last name. The air became scarce and she crumpled forward over him, heavy sobs seizing her shoulders, emptying her body.

For at least one person in the world, she had been only evil–breaking his leg, then stabbing him in the heart–and for some reason, this felt even worse. These were actions the Capitol had made with her hands; they weren’t her, but also, horribly, they were. How could she honor the memory of someone she knew nothing about? At least with Maggie, she had something she could say thank you for.

A breeze caught her uneven hair, blew through her like hollowed bone, erasing the sounds of sorrow her throat made. It took her breath away like it would a baby, and she froze there for a second, turning each hand over in front of her, squinting at the awful amount of blood that had burst from Axyl’s chest, flowing down to her wrists. This marked the second time she’d soiled her hands with someone else’s blood. She knew she needed to do it one more time, but how could she? When every move she made caused so much damage?

Who knew how long she knelt there–seconds, weeks, months, eons. Swollen brown eyes, tear-clouded and numb, walked away on legs that felt like someone else’s. Toward the horizon, which seemed like the closest thing to home, but was still an infinity’s distance.

Someone washed her hands and face in a stream, the cool water soaking her sleeves and carrying the blood away. They removed her clothes to wash and hang them on a rock to dry in the setting sun. They slicked her hair back against her scalp, pulled her knees up to her chin to plant small warm kisses on the knobby joints.

Maybe that was what they meant when they said her loved ones would always be there. That some part of them stayed to take care of you when you couldn’t remember how.

After, she felt enough like herself to drink water and lay down, if not to rest.

In another lifetime, Marik had told her: "You have to find what you're fighting for and hold onto it because that's what will keep you going." So her final night in the arena, Xov lay awake dreaming of home in full color.

If she could just manifest an image vivid enough, she thought maybe she could transport herself back there, alive or dead. ”Take me home,” she whispered to the sky.

In her mind’s eye she mounted the concrete steps to the kitchen, and could smell the acrid, syrupy smoke of frankincense and firewood, the starchy steam of pasta boiling on the stove. She tasted the maple, sweet potato, bitter dandelion greens, licorice-sticky sassafras tea. The constant babbling of the river behind their house, muted by the gentle hush of the forest’s branches. The coo of the doves, mourning something, while mockingbirds flicked their grey and white tails at the sun.

Right about now, the azaleas would open their magenta trumpets, and she and her siblings would pluck the flowers from their stems to the suck on the subtle-sweet nectar. She could imagine the soft coolness of grass under her bare feet, and the smell of lilacs she could never have enough of.

But what she missed the most was the mud squishing between her toes, mud that was so black and smooth you could almost scoop and eat it like chocolate ice cream. Earth so good it gave without much asking. Niam used to brag that you could throw an apple over your shoulder and it would grow an orchard. This was the rich soil her ancestors had traveled so far to settle on in the days before the Capitol took to stealing Twelve’s children.

What would they think now that no place was safe?

When she imagined growing old, it had always been in their little hollow by the river. The cycle of life couldn’t be a cycle without family close by, carving out a path in front, clarified by familiar rituals of birth, marriage, and death. Later on, her children would become the ones who took care of her and called her spirit home after death.

Now, she couldn’t even picture what all of that meant. It was like waiting to go onstage in a play without having memorized any of the lines. Her path to that future had become labyrinthine, entry and exit both invisible. How could she live by that river when the sound of water reminded her of Marcus and Juno? When the morning glory vines had watched what she did to Maggie? And now when she looked down at the grass and mud, she would always think of the shape of Axyl’s body as it lay broken, slowly emptying, in front of her.

”I don’t know how to get back there,” she confessed, her throat tightening around the words. ”Please show me what you want from me now.”

Was that what they all died for? Not just those she had killed, and would kill, but all the others? So she could go back to running around barefoot, picking herbs and thinking about marriage?

Shame pulled her eyes closed, pushing hot tears onto her cheeks.

When the anthem played, she was surprised to see Lucky’s face in the sky with Axyl’s. She did the math; it was just her and Lionel left. The scar on her cheek bristled at the phantom memory of the last time he’d hurt her, but she felt no desire for revenge.

She had a dream that he made fun of her haircut.

—

In the morning, she was convinced the Gamemakers were trying to bring her worst nightmare to life. The rain came down in drops as hard as crabapples, forming puddles the size of ponds that threatened to swallow her up. Her clothes hanging on the rock were wet again, and she struggled to pull them over her limbs before grabbing her pack and climbing onto Go-go’s back, pulling Gus along by the scruff of his neck. ”We need to find high ground!!” she yelled, too harshly maybe, because the bear had already broken into a gallop towards the center of the arena.

It became clear that the hunter’s lodge was the only shelter, an island in a quickly rising sea. Aside from the obvious geographic advantage, there was a glowing beacon in the sky that told her she had come to the right place.

”You gotta be kidding me,” she muttered.

Without thinking, she ducked her head as she entered the wooden structure, as if the ghosts were silently reminding her to bow to the dead. No sign of Maggie remained except for a patch of yellow flowers that blossomed in a spot only Xov would notice, her eyes drawn there by the gravity of memory.

She noticed the elevator after a moment, and dutifully stepped onto the platform, descending into darkness. No elevator music, just sterile silence.

When the doors opened to a full-scale coliseum, she almost rolled her eyes at the Gamemakers sitting courtside like basketball commentators. Were they out of ideas? They chose this setting over a thunderstorm? It was getting to be exhausting. Squinting under the sudden change in lighting, Xov's footfalls reverberated in the cavernous room as she took her place at the center, a bit disoriented.

Lionel wasn’t there yet. She glanced at the Gamemakers, trying to decide if this was all part of their setup. Their expressions gave nothing away.

She waited, listening intently to the pounding of her own heartbeat. Unsettling percussion.

Pum-tum-tum-ta-Pum.

And waited.

After a while she began to wonder if he had drowned already, but there was no cannon. Maybe he was trying to make her legs tired. She squatted on her heels, resting her chin on her arms.

When he emerged from the elevator, soaking wet, she sprung to her feet, pausing for Hades' speech but mostly ignoring it. For some reason, such a blatant reminder that they were on TV was all the more irritating, and now that she had followed a rat-maze for them to get here, she thought she would have much preferred the soggy lodge above them, where at least there were flowers blooming. But then, she thought they were probably trying to ensure she couldn't run.

”Hi Lionel,” she said, her voice echoing between the concrete walls. ”Nice of you to show up fashionably late. I always knew you were a gentleman.”

She approached him cautiously, one hand holding her glaive to the side, the other one clenching into a fist behind her back, as if holding back her nervousness with the string of a curtain. Her shoulders tightened with the muscle-memory of those last few movements that could bring her home if she did them just right. But the thought of making Lionel look like Maggie or Axyl, his blood covering this floor that looked like a school gymnasium, made her skin crawl.

She tried for a smile, but her lips quivered at the corners. ”I thought they were planning a wet t-shirt contest for us up there. Sad you won’t even have a chance now.” Her voice was shaking. She held her breath, then let it go as she met Lionel’s eyes. But as soon as she did, she thought about the last time she’d seen him, right after the Bloodbath, all dirty and battered-up from Lucky’s beating.

”I never did take Lucky’s other eye out for you. You might need to work on your throwing advice.”

She watched the floor where the jokes fell between them, just like the raindrops above them, pooling together and washing away, each one meaningless in the face of the flood.

Just noise.

”You know how much I hate to disappoint, sweetheart,” said Lionel, taking a bow. Something about the way he was still joking around with her made Xov’s shoulders relax just slightly. His gaze pored over her like a page and she stood still, sizing him up in turn. His injuries had healed a little since she last saw him, and he seemed taller somehow, more self-assured.

He reminded her that she was looking much worse in comparison. ”I must say, love, that this new look you got going on, it’s quite something. Is it supposed to give ‘homeless’ vibes? Cause if so, you nailed it.”

She almost let out a laugh at just how right he was, but she clenched her jaw instead, aware that the folks at home were likely glued to the TV right now. Xov stood straighter in an attempt to look more dignified. Still she couldn’t help but wonder what she must look like on the screen–maybe like a fish out of water, a bear in a dress; a tattered, feral animal, smelly and soaked-through, transplanted to this squeaky-clean television set. She was past the point of caring about appearances, now that everyone in Panem had seen more of her than she had ever wanted to reveal.

Lionel stepped closer and her muscles tensed; she held her breath. But instead of pulling out a weapon, he revealed a gem-studded eye patch from his pocket that could only have been Lucky’s. Had Lucky really been wearing that as he faced Lionel’s sword? Then again, he had seemed like the type with a dark sense of humor. As Lionel ran a finger over its surface, she watched the impish grin of satisfaction unfolding in his features. It wasn’t just a collector’s token, she could tell. It was a debt paid.

”... don’t you worry, I made sure to get his other eye. I think my advice might not have been the problem, love, some of us just aren’t cut out for it.”

Xov shrugged off the jab. So the two of them had gotten even, Lucky and Lionel. Xov had to admit to herself that she was impressed by Lionel’s follow-through, but she could only hope that his winning streak would end here.

When he leaned in to whisper, her spine prickled, knuckles turning white on the glaive’s handle. Turning one eye to the side, she half-expected a hidden knife to appear from somewhere, but he just whispered, redundantly,

”Not going to lie, you look like shit. Like, truly pathetic. Which must be true, because if you remember, I am never wrong.”

The honesty was starting to grate at her nerves; she recoiled, left hand covering her ear where his warm breath had condensed on her skin, smelling awfully of stale milk.

Yeah, she got it. Understood. She looked bad, and more than that, she was unrecognizable even to herself. It was why she had avoided her reflection for eight days. But it didn’t matter. She stepped back, unable to stand so close to him any longer.

”Wooooow, you really know how to make a girl feel seen,” she bit back. ”I was going for a punk rock look. Gotta think ahead of the Capitol trends,” she added, tapping a finger to her temple. ”If you win, maybe your greasy schoolboy haircut will make a comeback.”

The words were running out as fast as her heartbeat was accelerating. Xov held no hatred for Lionel, but right now, she didn’t like the way he sucked up all the air in a room, when she already felt like there was no space left for her. She wanted her footing back. Taking a step backwards, she tried to center herself again.

”Sorry, Lionel, you know I’m just messing with you. But that’s never going to happen. If there’s one look trending tomorrow it’s going to be mine.”

It was time for the end to begin. Her unsteady hands clasped the glaive more eagerly than she could ever admit. A more grounded part of her held back that energy, urging her to clear her thoughts. To stop mirroring his constant sad comedy.

”If it means anything to you, I have been thinking…that you’re very brave.” She didn’t know why she said this out loud, even though she meant it, just like she had meant it when she told Maggie. The truth spilled out of her like a self-soothing salve when faced with something impossible, like pouring milk on a burn. She cleared her throat.

”But I want my future so bad it hurts,” she said, left hand thumping her hollow chest. ”And you’re standing in my way.”

Xov narrowed her gaze on Lionel’s, but did not see him. Instead a million images of home swelled up in front of her like a cresting wave, washing over her. With everything she had, she moved to join them.

The glaive caught Lionel’s arm as it swung up to block her strike. ”That was rude. You ruined my shirt,” he said sullenly. ”I liked this shirt.” Xov frowned in sheer amazement at the amount of pure nonsense that spilled from this boy’s mouth, almost like it sprung up from some inexhaustible bullshit source deep within him. That was one way to cope with adversity, she guessed– whereas she withdrew further into herself, he got louder.

”And it’s nice to know that you have been thinking about me.” He pulled an axe from a sheath on his hip, swung it around as easily as if it were part of his arm. It was a little disconcerting how well fighting became him–when they’d met, Xov had thought his best talent might be frisbee. ”Though, usually when girls are thinking about me it’s because they want to see me naked.”

Xov would have raised one eyebrow if she could, but both knotted together instead at this curious bluff, which had her wondering: how he would even know a girl’s thoughts–did he read their diary or something? ”How would you–” she began, but he interrupted her with his show-and-tell.

”This was Lucky’s, you know. He tried to cut my head off with it, but obviously, he failed.” A greedy fingertip ran along Lionel’s soiled blade as he watched for Xov’s reaction. She only stared back at him, steeling herself, but dreading the pain of that filthy metal. He was asking if she would beg for mercy like Lucky had–by Lionel’s account.

Her impatience mounting, she opened her mouth to respond, but then the head of the axe was hurling towards her face. Forgetting that her forearms were no longer armored, she pulled her right arm up to stop it. The blade zipped her skin open. Xov was not made for pain, would never get used to the feeling of being cut. Her upper body tensed against the shock of her skin being broken.

She forgot her camera manners–hopefully her parents would forgive her. ”Fuck, Lionel! Did you ever think to wash that thing? Are you trying to kill me, or just give me hepatitis?”

Xov jumped back, holding the glaive diagonally in front of her.

”No need to wonder. I will not beg for mercy. Be serious,” she huffed, spreading out the last two words as if ordering a child to do an impossible task. The was no hate behind her words, but they were pointed like darts. ”You sound like him when you talk like that. Sadistic. Is that what you wanted?”

The glaive that was once Maggie’s now called out to her for a quick ending. Her blood was pumping now, urging her to act. One breath after another. The red thread was still wrapped around her wrist, holding her onto herself. He would not get under her skin. He would not pressure her to hate, against her nature, not so close to the end.

”Lucky mocked me too. For defending Juno and Marcellus. But I’m alive and he’s not. Act like you enjoy this, if you want to. I will still outlive you.”

”Oh please!" Lionel exclaimed dismissively, waving her off. ”I sound nothing like that thick headed fool. His empty threats and weak taunts were just like him: disappointing."

She shook her head as he spoke. No, he reminded her of Lucky, but now, she thought Lionel might sound even worse. She wondered maybe if Lucky’s gang had been such a jerk to him on that first day that Lionel had picked up the sadist shtick and was trying to do it better than Lucky and Xylia. He seemed like the one-upping type.

As he went into the gory details of Lucky’s death threats and his subsequent triumph, Xov pursed her lips, hesitant, listening with a wary expression. The ease with which he spoke about ripping Lucky to shreds made her skin crawl like ice-cold water. For the past week, when she thought about Juno and Marcus dying, Lucky’s face had appeared in her mind, uninvited alongside the rush of emotion, the garnish in the glass of her bitter memory cocktail. Always there, pinning down her anger almost conveniently on one point, one person.

At least with Lucky, she could blame it on his upbringing–all the careers she had met recently might as well have been from another planet with the effortless way they moved with weapons, their bodies trained to kill. They had been preparing for this their whole lives. It wasn’t surprising that they could detach themselves from taking the lives of other children. But Lionel? What did he even do in Five? Sit around and think of cringey pick-up lines? To see him learn to savor killing like this was absurd. She watched his face as she spoke, trying to figure him out. Was he just bluffing?

"So call me what you want, love. A sadist. A monster. It doesn't bother me, I know what I am and I am not ashamed of it."

Lionel’s stride erased the space she had made, the blade of his axe swinging for the middle of her chest. A shout came from her lungs as she tried to move out of the way, vaguely wondering, is he trying to tear open my shirt? It was too far, the pervert–she wouldn’t put it past him to do anything for the cameras at this point. Or maybe it was just for the sake of his own pleasure. She was starting to doubt her own ability as a judge of character. Still she tried aloud to pin him down.

”I know your type,” she goaded. ”Boys like you just want to be good at something so they can have something to brag about. You got good at killing? So what?” Xov circled to the left, weighing her weapon in her hand again. ”I’ve killed too,” she continued, regret like sand in her throat. ”Lots of us have. Find a new goddamn hobby.”

Xov wanted the words to bite him the way that it nagged at her, this soft blond boy from the suburbs of Five turned serial-killer-bloodthirsty, bragging about Lucky’s end. The story was too familiar for comfort. Almost like the little girl from Twelve who grew up learning how to nurse tiny animals back to health, but now found herself wondering how to remove the smell of other people’s blood that wouldn’t leave her skin no matter how long she scrubbed it.

Would she be just as unrecognizable to the people at home as Lionel was to her?

The question made her slightly dizzy as it danced through her skull; she pressed her sandaled feet into the cold floor, narrowed her eyes at him again.

”You could have been good at anything, Lionel. Instead you do exactly what they told you to.” Her own breath tasted like metal in her mouth. ”Fine then. You’ll only make this easier for me.”

Forehead bent towards him, she charged forward with a frustrated growl, her glaive aimed for the collar of his favorite yellow shirt.

"And you're one to talk, love. You are doing exactly what they have asked. So you can shove your hypocritical opinions up your ass and perhaps then you can find a way to jump down off your high horse and stop pretending to be better than those around you."

Lionel’s axe found a new place on Xov’s side to draw blood from, like he was trying to paint a picture on her shirt, iron-red on gray. She grunted as a new hole ripped open her shirt, one hand moving there to hold her blood in. A hungry look drank in her wounds, and she half-expected him to lick his chops like a dog watching a dangling steak. She wanted to vomit, to turn away so she couldn’t watch him watching her–though she thought she might be able to feel his predatory look even with her back turned.

Her eyes danced between the exits, out there in the dark hallways but unusable, the gamemakers, back to Lionel, his shoulder hunching towards her like he thought he’d trapped her in some invisible net connected to his own body. A thought crossed her mind that if she made it out of here alive, she would make a habit of going in and out of doorways just for the sheer pleasure of enjoying the freedom to exit a room whenever she wanted, something she’d taken for granted before. She wanted out.

Xov chewed on Lionel’s bitter accusations and would have spat them out if her mouth wasn’t bone dry. A hypocrite? She had acted how she believed, with reciprocity at the top of her list. Took care of Juno when he took care of her. Tried to defend Marcus when he took a burn in her place. Fed Gus when he brought her plants to eat. Hurt Lucky when he hurt her friends (and Lionel). Hurt Gunner when he put a bullet in Marcus’s body. All according to how she’d been taught– to stand up for the people she cared about.

Except for the killing part.

Maybe she had been hoping there was something else going on behind Lionel’s alarming thirst for her blood, which seemed like a sudden change from the boy she’d run into in the woods after the bloodbath, beaten with a broken leg and still laughing–but then maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that was on her for thinking that people always kept something good buried in their hearts, even when violence burned in their eyes with a drunken hunger like wildfire. Maybe she hadn’t watched enough Games reruns. Because part of her couldn’t believe that someone could be permanently evil. Or permanently anything. Temporary was the law of the land, like the river running past their cabin, always flowing and changing.

It was why she had hoped her words could chip away at something in Lionel, thought she didn’t know what. Empathy, maybe. Someone under his stubborn thick skin who would at least give her an honorable end. Whatever that meant, it didn’t look like this–his mocking voice, his crooked smirk, and the slow, agonizing death he was planning for her.

It was settled then. She couldn’t die here.

Left shoulder throbbing as it leaked her life, Xov’s grip tightened on her glaive. Inside, she was saying goodbye to the Lionel that she used to think she liked. He had already said it to her, but here she was, still standing against the window hoping he’d turn around.

Either way, she would always see him.

”Sure,” she responded, eyes suddenly hot and stinging with tears that she blinked back before they could pool together, ”I must have misjudged you. After all, you said you’re never wrong.” She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling.

”Tell me then, what ‘type of guy’ are you, Estrada?” she spat his family name like he had hers, the letters warping in her mouth. ”If there’s no nice guy hiding in there, then what is? Or are you just empty underneath it all? I’m dying to know. Literally.

Only she wasn’t yet. She could still taste the home she had dreamed of last night–it was so close but impossibly far. More questions swirled in her mind, but her throat felt numb from shouting. She thrust her glaive toward the soft space under his ribs, where he’d just clipped her, because it felt easier to hurt him back than to argue.

Somewhere along the way, Lionel had learned how to smile for the cameras. Xov looked on in wonder and disgust as his hand coiffed his hair while the other weighed the axe for another swing, a wide grin opening towards the gamemakers’ table. There had always been something off about him, like a lack of self-awareness or bad timing. She didn’t anticipate that he would end up being just as happy to kill on television as any of the careers were.

At least his constant talk gave her a moment to breathe. Just a few seconds each time, but it was enough to watch for the places where his arms didn’t cover when he defended against her strike, or the direction he tended to swing, leaving open spaces on his torso. Things that she had learned by the blows that Maggie had dealt her, and to Xov were mostly guesses. Still, it might be her only chance at getting ahead. He was almost twice her size and easily stronger, but she was fast, and her eyes were sharp.

"Are you scared, love?" Lionel crooned at her. "Don't worry, for you, I'll make this quick."

The head of his axe hurled towards her hip; she swiveled out to avoid it, but it caught her ankle with the worrying crunch of cold steel crushing bone. She cried out even though she didn’t want to, and couldn't stand the way he would savor the sound. Her right knee crumpled forward and then snapped back as she tried to right herself.

Deep brown eyes full of tears, wrought by disbelief and thundering pain, followed the space where her own blood mingled with Lucky’s on the blade. They looked just the same, her blood and his, as if when opened up like this, their insides didn’t know who was who.

Xov’s head was spinning.

It hurt so bad she forgot every piece of advice she had ever learned about pain, her mother’s “fix-it voice” ordering her around in a flurry of memories. Breathe through it, walk it off, shift your weight, put pressure on it, take a pain reliever, have some tea, here’s a hot water bottle. Drink water, don’t climb so high, it’s infected, this man is going to lose a leg, we need to make a tourniquet. It’s broken. Grab me a branch for the splint. We’d better pray.

”Your aim is still shit,” she growled through gritted teeth, leaning on her good foot. ”I’m not afraid of you. You’re just like a crow, cawing in my ear. Loud for no reason. But you’re no bird of prey no matter how much you dress like one.”

She hoped he was no omen of death, either.

Biting through the pain, she swung with all the force she could, the weapon heavy in her arms. Just like before, all she needed was a few more minutes. To outlast him.

”Just drop the act, Lionel. You can be yourself around me. I promise I’ll give you an honorable death.” She hoped she’d throw him off balance if she could get a rise out of him. ”Anything you want to say to your family back home before I finish this?”

Steel sliced through the fabric of Lionel’s shirt, parting the skin of his stomach, burying deeper and deeper as he grabbed the handle and pushed, word by word.

“This. Is. Me."

Xov’s knee-jerk reaction was to let go, his warm blood making the handle slippery, the sight of the tissues under his skin, the lines of fat and purplish red, turning her stomach. Niam would be sacrificing a rabbit for good luck back home as she had said in the justice building, and it would happen almost like this, entrails freed from sternum to tail. And now Lionel sacrificed himself the same way as he moved into her knife. Her eyes quivered in disgust and bewilderment as they met his. Was he trying to curse her with his own blood? Or was he really just that cocky?

"Stop trying to look for someone who isn't there, because in the end, only one person will be disappointed."

His hand against her shoulder was warm where the rain had turned it cold. When he pulled her in closer, growling, the forced movement made her ankle scream. The air between them seemed to exert its own pressure. "Take it or leave it. But stop trying to turn me into something to make you feel better."

Even though she held his gaze, she had already stopped searching behind his hungry look. Up close like this, she could see in his eyes the path from the Lionel she’d seen nine days ago to this camera-ready street fighter. That this boy had a pain threshold that was beyond what she could imagine–Xov, who yelped at a paper cut. He had joked with her about Lucky kicking him while he was down, and now she could almost picture him in ten years, sitting around a table with his family and maybe children, laughing off the story of how he’d pulled her blade into his stomach just to see her reaction. She could almost hear the way his voice would say it: And you should have seen the stupid, sorry look on her face.

In another world, she would have wished anyone a future where they could tell the stories behind all their battle scars. But in this one, she had to be the one who took it for herself.

Xov stumbled from his shove, clambered to pick up her weapon off the ground where he threw it, her foot still hanging by the sinews. Pain crept from her ankle so fast that she felt it everywhere. In her attempt to control her limbs, she battled the seconds that gave Lionel space and time.

He pressed his hand to his stomach, the blood seeping through his fingers. ”And before you finish this? Please, stop lying to yourself, babe, it’s becoming a little embarrassing."

Xov’s hands found purchase on the handle of her glaive, sticky with Lionel’s blood. She breathed heavily through the ache, the iron-oxide odor tickling her nostrils. Every time she smelled it, she could see their faces. Maggie and Axyl. Soon, Lionel would be there with them. She had a feeling his face would be just as hard to erase from her mind as it was turning out to be in life.

”It would not make me feel… better… to believe you are a good person,” she said, trying to catch her breath through the pain in her leg. ”I’m so glad you’re an asshole, so I can leave here and never think about you again. Then I will have really won.”

Xov clenched her fists around the shaft of the weapon, her thin muscles trembling as she summoned all their force. ”I’m tired,” she confessed. ”You sure you want to be a victor? Because if you'd want to rest forever after that, I wouldn’t blame you.” She closed the distance between them, swinging with one big exhale.