87th Bloodbath

K Y L E R

He sleeps, but does not dream.

Which is a more poetic way of saying he's scared shitless. Of course he is. 'Tribute is terrified of dying,' isn't really news that belongs on the front page. He's a leading actor, that much he's confident enough to say — but is he someone who truly understands the gravity of their situation? Perhaps not. And that was okay during the first few days, but now it's serious. A complete and terrible torture.

This is the point of no return.

Because in a matter of moments — seconds that stretch into hours, a millennia he can count on his fingertips — only a hundred shaky breaths and a thousand anxious taps of his foot against the ground — a winning smile, a charming personality, a boy made for the big screen — it all ceases to matter. Because there's no such thing as a free pass in the arena. It's a pistol between his lips, and he has nothing beautiful left to say.

"You gonna miss me?" he badgers Mackenzie throughout the morning, hearing the ringing in his head bleed into the birds singing just outside. He keeps saying it. "How are you going to make it without me? Admit it. You love me." He's trying to pour it out of himself, all the ill-timed jokes and forced bravado. The smirk that says, 'you can't fell me,' and the eyes that look like falling.

Sinking into the dark.

"I'll be the tallest guy on the field, just come to me," he had told his allies only the night before, an odd group of strangers who came together like a puzzle with endless possibilities — something wonderful, something cruel, something unknown. "And you, my love," he had whispered to Lore with fur draped around his shoulders and a champagne flute between his fingers. "Save me a dance at the end."

He plays it over in his head as the sun stops rising, when the breakfast goes cold and the day moves regardless of him — shaking Mackenzie's hand one last time, waving goodbye to Jacinta, offering Lenox a fleeting grin. The most sincere, hopeful expression he can manage. She's home, and she's an enemy, and it's all too confusing to think about right now.

So he takes the needle in his arm like a champ, keeps his gaze on the ground as the hovercraft carries them away to the final stage. This is the second act — a new role and a new script. And there's no preparing for this performance. He looks to his side, sees a stranger he can't name, and imagines snapping their neck with a twist of his hands.

And then he shudders, and swallows hard, closing his eyes. It's easy to be prideful when there are no consequences. Life has always been kind to vain, misguided princes — boys who have never known what it means to be without. No stability, walking through halls and feeling like the floor has evaporated into sky beneath him. A step away from crashing.

Until he's locked in a room with only his stylist, and his thoughts. He groans, rubbing at his temples in frustration. This isn't the kind of thing you can will away with a shot of whiskey. Much as he'd like to — Lazarus doesn't even humor the idea. "Get serious, and get ready." He says it with kindness, but there's an urgency to it. Like he's done this before.

Like he's tired of going through this.

Kyler tries to ease the tension by getting ready, pulling the unassuming clothes over his long limbs and placing the dog tags around his neck. The metal rests coldly against his chest, burning through the fabric in the way that he knows it reads everything about him. Every little detail ready to be dissected and turned into a statistic. Like he's not even a real person.

Maybe it's karma.

The perfect slap in the face for an actor.

"Got any clues?" he asks as he laces up his combat boots, feeling like a rebel soldier preparing to march into battle. His stomach flips, and Lazarus just shrugs with a quiet frown. "Well, safe to say that we're not gearing up for the runway." Nobody laughs, the clock keeps ticking, silence tries to consume everything.

Until the ceiling whirs with life, and a voice summons him forward into the unknown. A glass cylinder opens in the center of the room, and he takes a step toward it when Lazarus grips his arm. It's shameful, and sad, but he can't even hear what his stylist tells him. He watches his lips move, sees the words as they form and the hopeful fire in his eyes, but it's all drowned out by the beating of his heart. The way he seems ready to tear at the seams.

"Whatever you just said, I'm listening. I'll make you proud." This time they both laugh, and he's grateful for the flush of warmth. He holds it in his fists as the tube closes around him, feeling his muscle tense and the heat run up the length of his spine. It's not a circumstance of underestimating his power — his morality is the obstacle here. Even terrible people have to draw a line in the sand somewhere.

'Get your allies and run, that's all that matters,' his heart says to him desperately, but his head argues for the hunger building inside of him. 'This is the moment that defines the Games, you should want the glory.' But even gold pales to the sound of those numbers being counted down, watching as the world moves and shifts around you, blinking up at a blur of light behind clouds. Behind smoke.

He lifts his shirt over his nose instinctively, taken aback by the fumes in the air. This is nothing like his home district, the way that life seems to exist in everything. He tries to calm his adrenaline, taking in his surroundings as the countdown nears the end, the dried weeds failing to break through concrete and the unstable tower of metal hanging just over their heads. That's not even focusing on the other tributes around him.

But there's little time to recognize every danger in his path — because soon an emotionless voice echoes through the space. "Let the Eighty-Seventh Annual Hunger Games begin." A gong drowns out all other sound, a stampede rushing into the unknown. Together. Against each other. A sea of bodies, a strong wave of greed and pride, washing across everything in their path. Because that's all they can do.

Fight, and run, and be uncertain every step of the way.