Merchants of Soul :: Scout v. Justice [Day Six]

I'm going to die. The cut isn't deep enough, I missed Tate's throat and now—I stare into the eyes of giants above me. My knees are shaking, my hands are struggling to keep my axe gripped tightly, and everything is beginning to blur. The gash on his neck wasn't enough, the cuts on her body aren't enough.

And now I'm going to die.

Giants they may be, but the bigger they are the harder they fall. And it happens so quickly I feel like I dreamt it. One minute Natalie is ready to kill me, the next she is lying on the ground a broken mess of bloodied, blonde hair.

"Holy fuck," I mutter, my feet falling heavily in front of me as I turn.

I blink once, slow and deliberate, staring at the crack in her skull. It looks like an abyss; I swear I can see her brain. I lift my head and blink again and I see Tate fleeing. I turn to look at Atlas but everything is such a blur that I can't tell whether it is Machaon or Atlas standing next to me. I want to move, I want to keep my eyes open, but everything is so heavy. My eyelids, my heart, my pride—all trying to carry the weight of the world, all crumbling under the pressure.

I try feebly to catch myself on my axe, but the world shifts beneath me and all I can do is let myself fall. And for some reason, the ground beneath my cheek feels like home. I let my eyes fall shut and everything around me disappear.

---

I whimper in pain as I'm pulled from the ground, but no sound escapes. I yelp when they begin to carry me, but still I can't make a sound. My head bobs with their movements, my feet dragging lifelessly on the ground. I'm in and out of consciousness for most of the journey. One minute, one day—I've lost track of time. One moment I feel like I can walk, my feet falling strong against the ground, the next I'm struggling to even breathe.

It's not until they finally set me down that I can find any thoughts. I grab at Machaon's arm, squint to be sure it is him.

"Sorry for punching you," I say groggily, nothing above a whisper.

He shrugs and I let my hand fall from his arm.

"I’m over it."

Needles tear through my skin, thread pulls the jagged and bloody flesh back together, bandages turn from bright white to a deep red. I twist my head to look at Atlas.

"Sorry for yelling about the dick on my face," I mutter, managing to get the corners of my mouth to curl. "It was actually pretty funny."

My vision may be blurry, but his smile cuts through it.

"Fuck yeah it was hilarious."

I chuckle for a moment before the pain cuts back in. I grimace and groan and let my head fall back against the ground. I fall asleep to the sound of silence.

---

The anthem sounds more like a screeching chorus of mutts. It slices through the silence and relief of sleep like a blade through flesh. My head screams but I force my eyes open anyway. I sit up to watch the sky, the familiar faces of the day reminding me that Atlas and Machaon are the reason I'm still alive. Both Five's faces appear against the dark stone of the cave I've called home for the past six days. Natalie looks pretty in her picture, but all I can picture is a split in her skull and blood pouring from her head. And then there is Achilles and all I can do is wonder who got close enough to the bitch to end her?

The anthem concludes and I rummage through my bag, chugging a full jug of water and inhaling the trail mix I've been saving for when I was actually starving to death. It's such a relief to eat and drink that I gasp, not bothering what Machaon or Atlas think of me.

Besides that, I'm still so exhausted that even the clunky contents of my backpack feel like heaven beneath my head. I fall asleep within moments, the last thing I hear is a suggestion falling from Machaon's lips: "We should probably split up tonight."

And I'm thankful that they'll be gone before I wake. Before I have to kill them.

---

The sound of a cannon jolts me from my slumber. I scramble to my feet, twisting and turning to check my surroundings in such a hurry that the pain hits me all at once. I gasp, force the feeling of nausea away, and wait for the darkness at the edges of my vision to dissipate before I reach for my axe. It's heavy, but apparently Mach and Atlas know exactly what they are doing when it comes to first-aid because nothing is bleeding, even after my abrupt movement.

But they aren't here, so I can't thank them. And for that, I've never been more grateful in my entire life.

It's then that I realize that my beater has been replaced with a bro tank. Big letters across the front read, 'COME IN ME BRO!' And all I can do is roll my eyes. How many times am I gonna have to say it? I take the shirt off and twist it inside out so that it's nothing more than a white tank. That's when I notice the set of lips at my feet. I turn them over in my hand, hoping that they would be something more useful than a fucking whistle. What sort of sponsorship is this?

The sound of encroaching footsteps forces me into high alert, axe raised and eyes squinted in the low light. I hear a blade grinding against stone and recognize the disfigured shape before I can see her face. And I'm not sure whether I should be thankful to be facing such a weak opponent or in agony because she is the only person in this entire place who understands what it is like to be a sibling of a past tribute, a Career—the only person who knows what it's like to be me.

"Neither of us are supposed to be here."

And it's because she understands that I hesitate. And that her blade manages a cut across my arm. I suck air in through my teeth, glancing at the cut. Fresh blood bleeds into the already soggy bandages and I swallow hard. Fuck. I remember I'm supposed to be acting like a prick, like a tough guy, like a Career, like a heartless asshole with no conscience and no regrets, but—

I can't think of anything to say. No snide remark, no misogynistic pick-up line. All that comes to mind is what's real. It comes out as nothing more than a whisper. I'm not even sure she can hear me or whether or not the microphones and cameras will pick it up. But I said it. And it feels so good to say it.

"I never wanted to be a Victor. I've never even liked fighting that much."

I pause and try not to let my conviction waver as I take a step towards her, axe readied and muscles twisting into action.

"But I can't stop."

She's supposed to hate me.

It was only a few days ago that she was cursing me because I—hurt, Roger. I just lopped off her ear. I wear the name of a prestigious Career family which rivals her own and she should hate me. And I should hate her. And I should want to kill her. And this should be easy.

But I don't hate her. And she doesn't hate me. But neither of us can stop.

"I don't want to know you! I don't want to know your name! I was never supposed to know your name!"

And it sickens me to see the blood pooling beneath her head. She's yelling and the twinge of agony edging into her voice pierces my heart more sharply than her sword ever could. I didn't ask to be here. I didn't ask to know her name. And I was never supposed to recognize her beyond a television screen. Scout? Really? Not only did she share a name with a victor, but she shared one with my dead sister, too. How could one name possibly hurt me so much?

I think of hitting her again. I shouldn't, but it's been ingrained in my brain. Reflexive. ('What are you doing? Hit 'em while they're down!') But as my axe twitches in my hand she turns and looks up at me.

"We would have been friends or — who knows."

I've looked into countless pairs of eyes. I've stared enemies in the face, down upon the face of opponents, the glittery, starstruck eyes of girls who were interested in me. But I've never seen anything beyond the color, nothing more than a beautiful accessory upon pretty faces. I've looked, but I've never seen—not until just now. It's like I'm looking in a mirror, seeing the reflection of my own eyes looking back at me. And it feels eerie and comforting all at once.

And she's probably right. We would've been friends. I would've hit on her in the only dirty way I know how. And she probably would've told me off or maybe slapped me or maybe she would've slept with me. I've never had friends. I had people who beat me up when I was little for wearing blue suede shoes. I have siblings who'd rather throw me to the ground to impress mom and dad than see me smile or laugh. I have people who call me, "Fray!"—as if it were my only name. And then I have girls who like the muscles and the prestige and know nothing beyond my name.

Because I'm too afraid to tell them anything. I'm too afraid to tell anyone anything real. Because the moment it gets real is the moment people get hurt. And I don't like hurting people. And as good as I am at taking a beating, I fear having my heart broken. But if I could pour my heart out to anyone, I'd want it to be someone like Scout. Or like Opal. They'd listen. They wouldn't judge, they'd only listen. Understand.

I wish it was appropriate for me to tell her that she is beautiful right now. The freckles dusting her cheeks remind me of the sprinkles I see on the cupcakes in the store windows back home. My parents never let me eat cupcakes—too unhealthy. It's a reminder of everything I've ever wanted, and everything I can never have.

"Make me small enough that you can fit me in your pocket and take me home."

And she laughs. And it's painful to listen to. But I smirk because that's what I'm supposed to do, and I point at her ear lying in its own pool of blood because I'm supposed to, and I say, "I could always just take the ear home."—because I'm fucking supposed to. And I'm so tired of doing things because I'm supposed to, because I'm expected to, because they tell me to.

It's easy enough to dodge the blade of her tomahawk. But it isn't so easy to dodge her words.

"I know your name isn't Fray, Justice."

And she's right. It isn't. The boy named Justice was an innocent child who got bullied and teased because he had dreams of being a stylist one day. Justice doesn't like fighting. Justice doesn't want to wear a crown. Justice likes watching the sunrise. Justice has always wanted to learn to play the piano. Justice loves desserts. Justice really likes kids but couldn't imagine bringing any into this world. Justice would rather date the smart girl than the pretty girl. Justice wants friends who love him despite his cheesy pick-up lines, parents who want more than a title out of him, someone to be there for him when he isn't doing anything right.

Justice wouldn't hit someone while they were down. And he would've loved to be friends with Scout. And he wishes that none of this was happening.

But Justice is just a scared little kid, trying to live up to the expectation of his one and only idol—

Fray.

I press my boot into the blade of her axe and kneel down to close the distance between us. I swallow the lump in my throat before I look at her.

"And your name isn't Krigel, Scout," I say, managing a twinge of a smile before it quickly falls from my face. "But we're gonna try to kill eachother anyway, aren't we?"

And it's as simple as that. I stand and I pick up my axe and I wait long enough to give her a chance to stand. And I don't know why but I want someone to know—"My favorite color is the soft pink you see in the sky when the sun sets."—so I tell her.

And then I swing.

Because the name Justice and Fray will always go together, no matter how hard one tries to escape the other.

"I didn't want to know that."

No one ever does.

"That's such a girly color."

So I've heard.

"You should see it when the sun sets on the ocean..."

...

She hits the ground hard and I'm not quick enough to avoid the very tip of her blade gliding across my neck. I sputter and slap my hand to the cut in my neck, blood slowly seeping through my fingers. It's warm and thick and is a solemn reminder that I've got enough life left in me to keep fighting. Add another kill to my list, be a little less of a disappointment to my family, try to forget the way eyes look as they glaze over with death.

If she had managed to cut just a little bit deeper I wouldn't have to worry about any of it.

"I couldn't have been friends with you."

She hisses through her teeth, pain and agony creeping into her voice. I clench my jaw, not because I'm angry, but because I have to her her now. I have to swing at her full force while she lays twisted and battered on the ground. And if I hesitate, I'll look like a fool in front of all of Panem. I know they're all watching; I'm supposed to kill her. Right here, right now.

I want to close my eyes, but I know can't. Everyone back home will see. And I'll never be able to live it down. I'll be the soft Career who lets lower district kids draw dicks on his face, whose favorite color is pink, and closes his eyes when he goes for the kill. And as much as I want to say I can deal with that—I'm not strong enough. Never have been, never will be. I care what everyone thinks, I want my parents to be proud of me, and I'm not strong enough to break free of the mold I was set in.

A soft glimmer at the corner of my vision makes me pause. I glance at the cut in my arm and find the smallest of jewels, blood already beginning to crust over it. I hold my arm up, brush the jewel away with my thumb. But it sticks and all I can do is stare. My eyes shift in and out of focus from the plastic jewel on the tip of my thumb to the other rhinestones dotting her blade to the others glittering on her cheekbones and jaw line.

I can't be anything more than a generic Career, cut from the same stone as the Morenos, Shores, and Lexigs. Krigel may fit the mold, but the Scout does not. She's her own person. I'm some cheap trick, pretty boy who can swing an axe. And she was meant to be the same thing as me but instead she has rhinestones dancing in her hair and across her face. She is the only person I've met in this world that proves that there is hope for me. And her blood is dripping from the blade of my axe.

I've grown used to being let down, numb to the pain of disappointing everyone. But snuffing out the only light I've ever seen throughout my years of wandering in total darkness? I don't-- I'm finally going to break. And it's going to be the girl whose best insult is something along the lines of—"You lizard-eared scumbucket!"—that does it.

I'm fighting tears now. My eyes swim but I don't let the tears fall. I brush my thumb over the tip of my nose, the purple stone sliding off easily. The corners of my mouth twist into a smile and I raise my eyebrows.

She says we could never have been friends.

"Are you sure?"

And I don't mean for my voice to break when I ask, and I don't mean for it to come out all raspy and out of breath. But my heart is twisting and my throat is tight and the rhinestone tickles on the tip of my nose and I just want to go home and for this to end so I can go back to pretending that nothing bothers me and nothing hurts.

And I wish I still had hope.

And I wish I didn't have to take someone who shines so brightly and plunge her into eternal darkness.

"So sure."

And the whisper is so wistful I almost miss it. It's only the movement of her lips that gives her away. And she's looking at me again and I'm lost again in some dumbstruck schoolboy routine. Except it's deeper than appearances and there is no crush or love or whatever all the storybooks say. It's an understanding.

"You don't look like the kind of guy girls want to be friends with."

And it almost feels like a playful tease. Almost.

But the crusted blood in her hairline and the fresh smell of hot blood makes everything seem darker. Much more serious than a flirting at a party or a training center. It's twisted just how frightening one of the things I love to do most turns into a horrifying act when all the right pieces fall into place.

"Do I not look like a girl anymore?"

But if I just look into her eyes...

"Would you have looked at me and thought: 'I wanna be friend zoned by her.'"

Little creases at the corners of her eyes tell me she is smiling. Her voice is something beyond innocence. Dimples, freckles, and even the tiniest crinkle of the nose. These are the things I notice when I look at girls, the tiniest hints of personality hidden beneath polished and painted exteriors. But I'd never tell anyone that.

"Did you?"

And I think back to that night that she invited the five of us with familiar names to join her. And I remember not hearing a single word she said. I remember leaning back against a wall and thinking, 'I'd like me a piece of that.' And I remember her legs when she still had two to stand on and how when she spun on her toes, the bottle in her hand sloshed around like a trapped ocean. I can clearly picture the way her face scrunched up in momentary concentration when she would scribble something down. I left that night and dreamt about kissing up the length of her jawline and about her skin on mine and how my name would sound on her lips.

And I'm disappointed because apparently she really is right. We'd never be friends. Not in this reality or an alternate one. I'd simply be a boy and she'd simply be a girl.

"No, I didn't," I say, my eyes finally breaking from her's and falling on the new puddle of blood beneath her arm. "I had a line picked out and everything."

She was spouting about conspiracies so I had the idea to chip in. You know, now that I think of it, they gave me such an uncomfortable bed. Mind if I sleep in yours? But I'm not about to share that with her. Those memories seem so distant now. They don't even feel like they are mine. It was some other boy who thought all those things, not me.

She struggles to stand again, and I wonder just how many times I'll have to shove her to the ground before she stops getting back up. How many times will I have to watch her fall before the gentleman buried deep, deep inside finally decides to catch her?

She sways and I take a few steps closer with an arm outstretched. But she steadies herself after a few shuddering breaths and a bit of concentration.

And then I watch as her fingertips brush over the tip of my nose, taking the purple gem as they go. And she holds the bead of plastic to my lips and says, "Make a wish." And I'm convinced she truly is a fairy from another world here to grant me a single wish. Or perhaps she's more like a falling star, hoping she can make someone feel better before she fizzles out.

"I'll even friend zone you if that's what you want."

And I really do laugh then. A spluttering, barely containing myself laugh that slips through my lips. It brings more tears forward with it. So I shut my eyes and I hold my hand gently over her wrist to steady her hand. I bring my lips to her fingertip and whisper against her skin. And I feel a single tear finally fall free.

"I wish--" I swallow the lump in my throat and try to catch my breath. And my hand shakes against hers and I wish, wish, wish that wishes did come true.

"I wish you'd tell me a fairytale."

And I keep my eyes closed as I step back and I take deep shuddering breath. And I hope she can hear what I really mean when I say 'fairytale.' Because as I swing at her again I need her to understand what I mean.

Please, Scout. I wish you'd tell me a lie.

And this time as she crumbles, I make sure to catch her.

“O-once, once upon a t-t-time--”

Time seems to slow to a near halt and for a split second I wonder if I’ll ever get to hear what happened once upon it. One moment she’s falling away from me, the next I’ve got her wrapped up against my chest. She’s as light as a feather, but my heart feels heavier now that her cheek is pressed against it. The break in my arm screams for me to let go, but I don’t dare to let her hit the ground again.

My hand follows the curve of her back as she exhales and the handle of my axe begins to slip free of my grasp. I clutch desperately at the wooden handle. Don’t let go, Justice, you fuckhead.

“There was a-a fair maiden, the fair-fairest maiden in all the land…like soooo pretty.”

A nervous and broken chuckle accompanies the few extra tears that roll down my cheeks. I stare out over the expanse of eternally stagnant water. I think I see figures dancing at the jagged edges of the opposite end of the lake and can’t help but wonder if the things she says come to life. Maybe even this shitty place knows that Scout Krigel deserves to have her dreams come true.

“There’s no way y-you’ve ever--” My axe slips again at my side as she turns her head into my shoulder, my jaw clenching and my eyes closing. Don’t let go.

I feel her breath on my skin as she continues. And even in the extreme heat, a shiver flows up my spine, the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. Waiting, listening, breathing.

“Ever seen a girl this pretty.”

The thought starts at the back of my mind, moves forward until the thought dances on the tip of my tongue—‘I wanted you to tell me a lie.’—but the words never leave my mouth. She’s moved on to the boy.

“There’s th-this prince, too. Nice hair. He’s okay, I guess…or…”

And I try to laugh, but it’s nothing more than a shuddering breath. Both of my arms begin to shake from the strain of holding onto things. In one hand, an opal studded axe with blood dripping slowly from the tip of the blade. The only thing that has kept me alive for this long and the only thing that can spill enough blood to guarantee that I’ll go home. And in the other--

“Or he’s gonna be.”

The fair maiden. The sunset on the ocean, the sprinkles on the cupcakes, the light at the end of the tunnel, the only idea I’ve ever fallen in love with, and the only person who can guarantee that I’ll be okay.

I let the axe slip through my fingers and wrap my arm around her waist. I press my cheek into the back of her head. I take a deep breath and hope to taste the ocean on my tongue, but I can’t smell anything beyond sweat and blood. But that’s okay because at least I know this isn’t one of my desperate fantasies. At least I know she’s human, that she’s real.

I try to disappear into her breathing, let the rise and fall of her chest simply carry me away to somewhere new, somewhere safe. Because even though she struggles to stand, I have never known someone so steady. My fingers find the back of her neck, lacing themselves into her hair. And I think I could stay like this forever, letting the closeness and easiness of--this to consume me.

“And the fair maiden?”

I ask, breathing my question into her head.

“Is she gonna be okay?”