tear stained hearts (bbh v. h | day 5)

Heathcliff wouldn’t be killed by a sniveling child from Eight, but by a career from One. The axe was an extension of a killer born true to his family name, hacking off limbs as easily as one could rip a bandage. He left the career in pieces, and Machaon was stunned. Somewhere behind him, bones were being snapped and he could only imagine how fresh and hot that pain would feel, how it would follow that tribute until the end of their days. The dragon’s shadow shrank in their midst. Giant wings thrust through the air until he could feel it like a gust of wind. The beast was leaving; hardly cracked and broken, it was soaring away and leaving them to a defiled cavern. Once again, too much blood had been spilled in front of the cornucopia. He was sure the bone hands welcomed that sacrifice.

”I guess it’s over,” he said. The battle, not the war. Nothing would be over until somebody was crowned victor, but for now the dragon was gone and another name could be added to the dead. He surveyed his surroundings and found that the other two girls were already gone, and the remaining tributes – reduced to awkward stumps and torsos – seemed more interested in the bags scattered around the cornucopia. He couldn’t remember their names so he didn’t bother calling out to them. The boy, who struck him as the career type, threw down a pair of gloves. Machaon didn’t sense a threat, so he snatched a bag for himself.

The result was disappointing; another bottle of repellent. He sighed and tossed it over his shoulder. Worthless. He knew his bag was heavy with supplies and he should’ve been grateful to have such a rich surplus, but something new and useful would be nice. Atlas pulled a knife from his bag, and Justice had giant rib armor wrapped around his chest. Great, he thought, realizing he had drawn the short straw. Then he turned and noticed the one-armed tribute gathering his discarded repellent. One man’s trash, another man’s treasure? The gloves were still there, fabric melting against rock. Claws protruded from each finger like an animal’s paw, but he slipped them on anyway. Protection was welcome in all forms. With how fiercely he gripped his sword, he would need something to prevent blisters.

His foot caught on something delicate, glass tinging as it rolled into jagged rocks. A vial. Inside, red liquid sloshed around and it smelled like medicine. Whether he trusted it or not, he was too thirsty to care, and the ache in his foot had returned with vengeance. He downed it in one gulp, and then they were on their way. He could only stand the sight of those skeletal hands for so long, thinking about how quickly they could drag him kicking and screaming into the deepest pits of Hell.

Nestled among the rocks, they healed Justice’s wounds to the best of their ability. He chewed on medicinal plants as something bubbled inside of him, pressing against the walls of his stomach until it cramped. The fucking vial. He mentally kicked himself for drinking a suspicious, blood-colored liquid. It was probably poisonous.

Fuck.

He sipped his water, hoping that it was nothing lethal. He felt stomach cramps but that was all – the usual aches had never left. The anthem overhead updated them with two new deaths, one of which he had witnessed. It didn’t faze him anymore. Perhaps it was because of Heathcliff’s belligerent attitude, or he had grown accustomed to the idea of everyone dying around him. It was no different from home, right? Simply subtract the blood and screaming. And the dragon.

The cramps subsided, and for a moment he thought he was safe. No fatigue, no pain, no worry – until he opened his eyes again, and Percy was sitting on Atlas’ shoulders. She was transparent with a gaping bloody hole in her chest. She pressed a finger to her lips. ”Shhh”

He swallowed and tore his eyes away, only to find more figures dancing in the shadows. Part of him desperately wanted to run away from these visions, because it was not fucking natural to hallucinate dead people, but he didn’t want to alarm his allies. They would call him stupid for drinking a random vial of poison, and that was not unreasonable. He was the weakest and the stupidest, trying to play warrior in a game he was not destined to win. Now he was watching ghosts and trying not to make his panic obvious. He shifted in his makeshift rock bed and tried to focus on something else, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opened them again, Stevie was standing over him. One eye stared into his heart like a sharpened icicle, and the other was a dripping socket of red.

It took one smile to send shivers through his bones. He rolled over and threw an arm over his face, eliminating the temptation to look at anything that would drive him insane. He had enough of this already; the thought of Lucia’s vacant eyes, Petra’s severed hand, and Ross with a bottle of whiskey next to his corpse. He refused to open his eyes and see their ghosts hovering above him. It wasn’t real – a mind trick triggered by poison, and he would not play this fucking game on top of the one he was already part of. The Capitol could have his body, but not his mind. The dead would not return to him in any form but memories.

As much as he missed her, he did not want to see Lucia again.

The hauntings left him tossing and turning. Each time he opened his eyes, a new shadow appeared next to him. Gradually they faded further and further into dust, until he was fully awake and questioning whether or not it was a dream. The poison had filtered through his system and he was alive. It left him with an uplifting, grateful feeling that rose him from the rocks, yet he also felt cheated. What was the purpose of that vial? To fuck with him? Little traps crafted by the Gamemakers to attract gullible tributes? You’re the idiot who drank it, remember? But he hadn’t been thinking straight. They were taking advantage of human weakness, and he supposed he couldn’t blame them entirely for his own mistakes.

He sipped the last of his water and tucked the empty jug away. His sword was painted with the crusted blood of two dead tributes, and the thought made his stomach churn. There was a second weapon in his bag; the gem-encrusted hammer he had looted from Petra’s body. It glistened as he turned it in his hands, and it began to feel more like a trophy than a weapon. He didn’t celebrate death, but he hadn’t used it for anything either. Perhaps he needed to. He was no good with a sword, while Justice was amputating careers with an axe and Atlas was shattering skeletons with his hammer. He needed to make a real effort to improve, or else they might consider killing him sooner than everyone else. He didn’t sense that level of hostility from Atlas, but what did he know? Either of them could be plotting betrayal. And they could suspect the same of me.

A mutual will to survive against the odds kept them glued together. He tested the weight of his weapon with a few cautious swings, then followed their lead to a new destination. Black water stretched beyond clouds of mist, stained green where the little bits of light could touch. It was a lake he wished he could trust, but everything about its eerie water whispered suspicious. He kicked a pebble into its depths and watched it sizzle into nothing. ”Definitely not water,” he mumbled.

Justice chuckled. ”Not even I would try skinny dipping in this.”

The temptation to roll his eyes was acidic, but quickly replaced by panic as Justice’s perverted comment cut off. Footsteps bounced across the death pool and stamped against his lurching heart. He gripped the war hammer and felt everything inside of him turn to ice upon recognizing the trespassers.

”Look at that Mach, it's your hottie tot district partner and her entourage.”

”Shut up.”

Nothing about this reunion was amusing; he didn’t want to fight the seamstress from his District. A bearded tribute was beside her, and then another familiar face: Minos. They had shared snacks one night, he recalled. The boy had been high out of his mind. Now he might shove steel into Justice’s heart, if the fountain spouting from his neck didn’t drain him first.

”Sorry about this,” he said, and he didn’t know whether he was talking to Minos or Natalie.

He knew better than anyone that humans were fragile creatures, yet the snapping of bones still startled him. His war hammer connected with the boy’s ribcage and suddenly he felt as powerful as Atlas, standing upon a pedestal of broken skeletons. He didn’t know what he had expected; a sharp influx of triumph? A warm sensation that would carve his own beating heart into a golden trophy? That sounded like a career’s life, not his. Perhaps Justice was rejoicing in how he had narrowly missed slitting Minos’ throat. The fountain pouring from his neck was enough to weaken him, but not quite kill him just yet. With so much lost blood and broken ribs, however, there was no telling how long he would last. Machaon didn’t feel good about any of it. All he could recognize was dread curling in the pit of his stomach.

Minos proved to be sturdier than any tribute he had ever met. He didn’t fall flat on his face or double over to catch his breath – in fact, he didn’t hesitate to snap back at them with jaws unclamped. ”Don’t say you’re sorry when you’re not, eight,” he said. Machaon groaned internally. Again with the dehumanization, using numbers instead of names when Minos should’ve remembered. He didn’t want the Games reducing him to a district and a statistic. The people trapped within this hellscape were humans, not puppets, each with their own families, personalities, aspirations, talents, and weaknesses. The Capitol stripped them of these details, leaving them bare and primal. Blanks slates to be rewritten by violence.

”You want what everyone wants, to live, yet you won’t. You’ve faced so much death, and yet it’s only getting started.”

He could count the days on a whole hand. This was not the beginning; this was the eye of the storm, yet nothing compared to a fire-breathing dragon. It didn’t leave him feeling any more confident or fearless.

”Last time I checked my heart was still beating,” he lied, because it was pounding against his ribcage like a pendulum hanging by one string. ”And that means I’m living. Maybe I’m not living a life of hope, but I don’t think anyone here is.”

He could lie to himself about hope, but reality always reminded him that there was none. Machaon was dead. It didn’t matter if he sat on his knees and prayed to a false God or the Gamemakers, and it didn’t matter whether Natalie was right or not. If Justice betrayed him, he was dead. If he betrayed Justice, he was dead. If they fled their separate ways, something else would ensure of his death. The number eight meant nothing to The Capitol. To him, it meant home, and it also meant never seeing home again. Natalie was a vision of the train, the food, his house, his father smile, his mother tears, and a casket he hoped he could be buried beside. She was a welcome face during dark times, but what she had to say would not comfort him before death.

”What do you want me to do, betray a career? Like that’ll work,” he grumbled. Justice was standing right fucking there, most likely prepared to gut him if he even considered the idea of backstabbing him. Justice had the temper of a child, but he was poise and ready to pounce. He could slice limbs off in one swipe, and slit somebody’s throat with a blade as short as an axe. Machaon had tasted an ounce of his power the night he had socked him in the face. He was not about to plead for more.

”And no offense to your friend here, but he sounds crazier than Justice. Talking about ‘taking the life of Nine to pay for our damage’. What the fuck? Also his name is Atlas, so you can stop referring to us by some fucking numbers.” The last sentence he spat at Minos’ shoes. A pet peeve, he recognized. He was not the best at remembering names, but why not learn everyone’s name now? As they sliced and diced in front of an acid lake, why not pay attention to someone’s real identity? He respected Petra’s identity and she had perished days ago. Nothing would ever make him forget.

”If Justice is so dangerous to you, why is your ‘friend’ not attacking him? He’s the threat, right?” He scowled. This was not the reunion he had envisioned, bickering over the life of a career who had helped him stay alive. He was an obnoxious asshole with plenty of bite to back his bark, but he was still an ally. The time had not yet come for them to separate. With Atlas here, there was still glue to hold them together.

Unless they murdered him, of course.

”What a load of shit. I am sorry that we have to fight, but I’m gonna defend my friend just like you plan to defend yours.”

His opponent’s skeleton was no longer a magnet, and his hammer sailed past his body. Its weight carried him awkwardly toward the lake, and he righted himself near the shore. Days ago he had nearly singed the hairs on his head when he rolled toward the pools of molten gold. Today would not be the day he melted his own feet off. He gripped his weapon tightly and found Minos again. He was knees deep in crazy, labeling Atlas a dog and demanding him to fetch. All of this demeaning banter was exhausting – nobody had the decency to treat each other like equals, save for himself and Natalie perhaps. Her opinion of Justice was lowly, but everyone hated the careers. They overachieved, they thrived, and they killed heartlessly. What was there to like?

Except it was a stereotype. Not all careers bathed in their own achievements. Not all careers succeeded in a game they wasted their lives training for. Not all careers had hollow chests. Justice certainly had more emotions than the next tribute, although his way of expressing them was problematic. He simply shrouded himself in a façade of obnoxious comments and confident smirks. Was it annoying as fuck? Yes. Did it make him any less of a human being? No. Yet he was certain the others disagreed, and therefore killing him would be less of a sin and more of a chore if they could succeed. Perhaps it would be easier if they did kill Justice. After all, he didn’t trust a career not to betray him in the dead of night, but he still couldn’t wish for the boy’s death. There was never enough hatred within himself to do so.

”It'll be alright, Machaon. No matter what happens it'll be alright,” Atlas insisted.

Words whispered upon deathbeds. Every family said that to their sickly daughter, and in the end she died anyway. It sounded like a contagious case of denial. He wanted no part of that. ”I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Minos had more to say, so he stepped away from the acid waters and listened. ”More like he’s got a fist up your ass and you’re his puppet. Watch your back, Machaon.”

”Well that was a disturbing image,” he said, and he was determined to ignore the snarky comments because he was never one to see the humorous light of any situation. Death was grim. Any moment now they could kill Atlas or Justice and he didn’t want to walk away from their corpses. If he could run and cower in the corner so he didn’t have to watch them die, he would. But even he was not stupid nor frightened enough to submit to that. They needed an extra hand to fight for them. ”It’s also wrong. Justice doesn’t play any part in what I decide.” Most of the time, that damned career was off on his own rampage.

He wasn’t hot-blooded enough to stay angry with his district partner. ”You’re right, Mach.” His heart settled, but he didn’t feel comforted.

”I’m sorry too, Mach.”

Don’t be, but me too.

She was also right. Justice had kicked up the storm by trying to slit Minos’ throat, but what would’ve happened otherwise? Would they have exchanged howdys and trudged on their way, balancing themselves on the shore of the acid lake? He doubted it. If Justice hadn’t lunged first, someone else would have. He didn’t trust Minos or the bearded tribute to keep their weapons behind their backs.

”Fair enough,” he said with a nod, ”But you shouldn’t blame Justice for this. He started this fight because he’s smart. He knows this is the Games, and tributes don’t walk away from each other. If he didn’t hit first, I’m sure Minos here would’ve tried to gut him. Everything can be argued as self-defense.”

The spikes soaring past Atlas’ head was self-defense. The stitches Natalie ripped across Justice’s arm was self-defense. When Machaon raised his weapon, it was self-defense.

Or maybe he was tricking himself into believing so. It justified murder, didn't it?

”Don’t worry, I know what you guys are doing is self-defense.” His eyes darted to Minos, coated in blood and crazy. Atlas was wrong when he said that everything would be alright, but maybe there was hope that things could be a little less than alright. Not terrible, not devastating, but bearable. That meant the three of them surviving this storm of sailing steel and mouths dripping venom. That meant taking another swing at Minos. That meant wishing he could sentence Minos to a grisly death.

He was the worst wisher in existence.

”Let’s see who the best defender is.”