the darkness within | [laurel/fangor/maggie v hollow] day 2

There are no faces to mourn, not that I would mourn anyway. But the fact the sky stays motionless makes this feel less like the arena I have become used to; it feels like it has not tasted the death it was made to savour, and the flavour has instead been replaced by an unseasoned dissatisfaction.

Stars do not dance, they freeze with the night's chill, and when I roll over, I do the same. 

Everything is scared when I wake up. There isn't a sound, not even a rustle of leaves and it is like everything has died for the night out of fear that something wicked this way comes. Eyes wide, I stare out like a predator awaiting prey; goosebumps on my skin because the silence has a sense of sickness that makes me uneasy, yet there's an acceptance in my mind because this is the hell I have wished for.

The horizon calls my name, a bite in its breath and I am forced to cut out the surname it offers me, yet I take the bait so willingly, so easily, because this arena knows that I want to sever the tie.

I pace footstep after footstep, the harvest sun casting a golden glow over my skin and imprinting a gloomy shadow on the ground. There's a coldness that is inherent in my darker sister's body because she does not hold the same glow from the sun, and instead, the sun has taken her warmth and replaced it with a chill that goes beyond the bone. It penetrates her core, and I stare at her mimicking my movements on the ground, mockery in her motion, action in her reaction, and I cannot help but dig my axe into her behind me and drag it through her coal as I move.

A shadow is the voice inside my head that I do not need, it is a reflection of who I am and not who I want to be. If I could kill it, I would.

Temporal pain will have to suffice until the night comes again, and I'll wait up for the second I am left truly alone, content in my own silence and collected in the thoughts I have filtered and deem acceptable for my life to depend on. Ignorance remains bliss for the time being, so I turn a blind eye to what lies in my wake, forcing a piercing tunnel vision on whatever lies ahead.

The vegetables die to bare grass and slowly the grass builds itself into humble abodes that could house friendly faces. It grows slightly into a small village: frostbitten at the edges, yet still it maintains a feigned sense of warmth at its core. Just because it appears to have a heart does not mean I will spare it—the things with hearts are ultimately the worst because that means they have themselves to live for too, and I for one know that self-interest can and won't stop for anyone.

Carefully, I move through the village. I peer into the house and find them empty, not even bodies on the floor to tell a twisted fairytale of what could or might have been. Instead, the silence remains unbroken. The sun bleeds yellow over the walls and I breathe fire through the air. Disturbed by my own disaster, I intend on making this innocent scene a battleground. My own calculation is key.

And then the heart of this place shows itself—innocence in the truest sense of the word: children. I hear the voice before I lay eyes on the being, her words pitched and twitched to resemble the harmless sounds of a child who just wants to play. I spin in its direction and glare emptily past the mask on its face to its mechanical middle. It attacks and the facade is broken: childhood trauma bleeds from her fingertips and the disguise of innocence falls to pieces. I move, cautious of the danger, but ready to embrace it all the same.

More voices follow: technically perfect and broken—when I turn this time, I am accompanied by two other tributes and for a second, I'm not sure who to prioritise. The opportunity to take down true competition and reap their goods for all they are worth is definitely tempting, especially given my condition, yet the issue of fake children pressing themselves to leave mental scars on our minds somehow feels more dangerous than a human threat. I drop charges against the two tributes when one of them makes the first move and I realise that even apart, we are still in this together.

"I never liked children anyway," I say to them, readying the weight of the axe in my hand. Children are a responsibility that I never want. "No games, kiddo. I'm nobody's mother."

The robot creaks in analysis; her movements becoming more and more mechanic as time goes on. It is like, as each second passes, the illusion disappears with it, and behind the voice that has been pitched and twitched to create the seemingly perfect imitation of childhood innocence, there is a nightmare that is so perfect, it is scared of itself.

She circles, I circle back, and we dance a dangerous dance together. Waging weaponry of different style and grace, there is truly no place for any childhood naivety or doubt in this fight. Because the Capitol cannot replicate a feeling they will never feel—that glistening sensation that comes with growing up and thinking everything is possible only to find that the opposite is the harshest or truths—they will never understand what it is like to feel such warmth to only have it replaced with a freeze that penetrates straight to the core. Stopping for no wish, stopping for no goal until it eventually consumes hope whole.

I feel nothing when I look at the robot. It is not a girl, merely a collection of wires and metal plating to try and make me feel anything other than fury and rage. But I will never give up so easily, not even when faced with something that tries to worm its way into the depths of my heart and sit prettily waiting for my care to come out and keep it company. The axe strikes down against my thigh and the pain only fuels a hunger for its combustion and does not distract from the duty I have given myself.

It tries to make me feel, but I won't let it—I might not be a woman, but I am not a girl either.

"But you're already playing, Mommy," it whines, the modulated voice ringing through the air like an alarm. The final word of her sentence hangs heavy in the air for a few moments, almost like the air suspends itself around it to try and make me see how it shines with a sense of superiority, because being a mother is supposed to be the greatest experience of a woman's life, because being a mother is perhaps the only superpower a human can ever possess. Yet the words are like glass and it only takes a second for me to realise that I am able to define superpower in my own way, and subsequently I can bring my admiration away from motherhood and bring it to survival.

To breathe, in times like this, is the best superpower.

"I'll play cat's cradle with your wires when I cut them out of your chest."

The other two tributes continue on in their own conversations with the robots; their interest peaking only at the metal warrior attacking them. Perhaps I am wrong for lending a hand to take down the devils they face, perhaps I am being too good to them for letting my own monster continue to live on unharmed. But I figure that strategy is more than just performing exceptional physical abilities and looking out for yourself—it's about relationships and the audience, ultimately, it is about getting people on your side.

So I look between my robot and the one attacking the other girl and size her up. Tall, dark, pretty; a danger that drips from her eyes and lungs that breathe an air of caution to all those who come into contact. She is what the Capitol want from a winner, because the juxtaposition of a pretty face against an ugly interior makes for the best story. She's surely already got a hundred men and women in the Capitol wanting to keep her alive—maybe they could keep me alive too.

"You do look delicious, dark eyes," I call out to her, watching as her sword comes down against the robotic leg. "But don't worry, I won't let it get a taste."

It creaks before cracking, the robot fizzing from the joints before falling backwards slowly, coming to the ground with a thud. That comes as confirmation that there was no child behind such mask, that there were no true feelings stuck in that cage of a chest; only the inner workings of a mechanoid that has been created with the purpose of seeking and destroying.

But it has fallen flat, thankfully, through our war, it finds itself amongst the dirt it belongs with. 

I heave my axe up and over my shoulder, eyes glowing with my own fire from attacking and feeling that success; the other two tributes stand still for a moment, waiting for retaliation from the final robot—of course, it is the one that tried so desperately to turn me into something I am not. I glare it down from across the way, weighing up its motion to try and predict its next move. Yet there is no predicting the savagery of feigned childhood games, and so the robot's voice sizzles with suspicion, counting between us before striking.

The boy finds himself with a small wound on his neck, nothing too serious, in fact, nothing major at all. Perhaps if it had been a few inches left or right, the wound would have been a gash. It is difficult to stop a bleed in the neck, especially a large one—I ponder how so easily he could've met his demise and there wouldn't have been anything either of us could do. Dark eyes and I would've had to watch, I don't know, maybe try to dull the sharp pain by wishing him onto the next world well. That seems to be what other tributes have done when someone has died.

It seems to be what they do when they kill, too. Call it human, I find it hypocritical.

Alas, he stands dandy and lashes back out at the bot with sheer strength that knocks it down a peg. The high horse of childhood naivety canters away and the robot is left exposed, in the open, facing three tributes who will not stop until they are satisfied the job is done. I have learnt through my family ties how important it is to follow through with a deed, no matter how dark or deadly, and though there was once some hesitation in agreeing with that, I now find it set in stone with my other morals. Because being with something until the end shows courage—people like courage. Facing fear is fascinating.

There's no place for courage where there is no fear, though, and with the robot girl sparking as dark eyes makes her attack, I can see her systems shutting down.

"Enough of the petty games, little lady. We have more important business to attend to." Dark eyes says so valiantly, grit in her tone which makes her words admirable, like she is a leader to two soldiers. But I am not a soldier of anyone else's regiment, not a soldier at all—instead just Laurel, just me, trying to prove that you can still have bloodlust without your own blood.

"Dark eyes is right." There is no place for a mutt's games when we have our own to calculate and carry out so carefully. Circumstance forces our performance; the sky falls to our feet in this arena because the world is made for us.

"These are our Hunger Games, not yours."