Warring Minds :||: Day 3 (Heartbreakers and Bicurious)

It's interesting to navigate the dynamics of it all. For that's what it really is at the end of the day, isn't it? The Hunger Games are nothing more than a marathon sprint of every lesson that's been drilled into your skull time and time again. Make a show for the cameras, stay on your toes, fight and sweat and bleed enough to survive but not so much that you're fucked over for the days to come. Like the days where you'd spent your mornings in school, your afternoons in the Career academies, your evenings at fancy social galas, the Games themselves have a rhythm. Mornings, the calm before the storm. Afternoons, the fight for survival. Evenings, euphoric on the battle high.

But no one ever talks about what comes after, when the masks fall with the sun and there's only brutal honesty to be found. Fridae and Turner are each off doing their own things that you honestly have bothered to look into, but Saylor seems lost in thought, staring off into the rapidly dying embers fading down over a choked horizon.

There's any sort of reasons that could explain that. Turner's kiss. The mind numbing reality that the odds of you dying here are great, too great. That for the second straight day in a row, not a single face dotted the sky, making the numbers going into the third day a solid twenty four yet again. But you're observant, and familiar - and you think it might have something to do with the fight. Specifically, the two slimy fish things that had died at the tip of Saylor's blade.

It strikes you just how unsuited Saylor is for this sort of life compared to the rest of you. Fridae's the sort who's endured hardship before, and could probably kill a man if push came to shove. Turner's a borderline sadist, and probably has killed a man before. And you - well, you know full well about you. Blood has stained your hands well before your name was ever pulled from the glass bowl.

But that soft boy? One and Four have Career heritages in their blood, Nine's an industrial nightmare that screws over all but the filthy rich, but Ten's a farmland. Sure, there's butchers and cowboys and whatnot, but a kid like Saylor with hands better suited for satin instead of steel likely stayed far, far away from that kind of life.

Well, until now.

In a way, he reminds you of a Silk from years past, one who had no idea what would come in the years future. Soft, innocent, forced to harden before he'd fully formed. You've had years to chisel your rough edges into polished diamond; Saylor by comparison had weeks.

And try as you might to take the route of Turner, who lives life by his whims, you are still human, and the heart pinned to your sleeve still bleeds red red red all over the irradiated soil. It's almost by instinct that you find yourself walking over to where Saylor is brooding, stopping only to pick up a certain piece of cold steel from your item stash.

"It's tough, isn't it? Killing." you say once you're within earshot, for once making little effort to hide the exhaustion in your voice. "Even if it is just a bunch of laboratory beasts."

At least he had that going for him - his first kills were artificially created in some Capitolite laboratory. You hadn't been so lucky.

"Makes me think of home, I guess." Saylor responds, and you tilt your head attentively. "I mean, we're all just trying to survive. Even them."

Them. Animals. Just like the eels. To you, they're nothing but soulless creatures with one purpose - but even they earn sympathy from Saylor. And you wonder, not for the first time, what sort of sick joke the universe had thought, putting someone so innocent into this kind of life. When your name was called, at least you could say you were prepared as to what to expect.

"You can..." Saylor says, shifting, and you waste little time accepting his invitation as you crash to the ground next to him. Then, once you've settled, he continues. "You know, if Fridae and Turner heard me talking like this, they'd probably make fun of me."

The laugh that escapes from his frail form is unlike any you'd heard from the boy - hollow, empty, devoid of any true sense of mirth. That, at least, you can relate to - poorly disguised cracks in the armor of your psyche, a laugh not because you wanted to but because it was the only reaction that seemed fitting. Either you laughed at your demons, or you drowned in them.

At least Saylor still had the fortitude to do the former.

So you chuckle yourself, though it comes out as more of a snort. "The difference is they chose this," you remind him - and therein lies the root of the connection; deep down, neither of you ever willingly chose this. "We didn't have that luxury, so their opinion doesn't matter."

You can feel Saylor's gaze raking over you, and you aren't surprised - the Silk you're portraying now is a far cry from the confident, seemingly invincible paragon of Careerness that you spend the majority of your time impersonating. But at the end of the day, it doesn't matter how much you pretend - you're just human, just like anyone else. Just an eighteen year old girl who can do the best in the shitty lot that life handed you, just like everyone else in this arena.

You eye your gun, making your hunch into a concrete decision.

"I've always found it easier when you don't have to swing and do the job yourself," you speak up after a few seconds of silence. "Makes it more impersonal, was always easier for me growing up." No need to elaborate on that - that's a secret that you think you'll only ever go into detail with with the Gamemakers.

So you take the revolver you'd claimed from the bloodbath - once a lifeline, now merely surplus - and push it into Saylor's hands. "I don't need things like this any more, so if you want to strike from a distance instead, no one will take it personally."

If Saylor's anything like you, there's a bit of pride buried beneath the surface of that soft innocent exterior. Someone who craves help but hates asking for it or even accepting it straight up. But by giving him a choice, giving him the chance to deny it, you hope that will only further his decision to accept it.

And it's true. Killing something - or someone - with a weapon clutched in your own two hands is different than with something that can murder from a distance. Even now, hardened by years of practice, killing the gator had created a twinge of nausea in your gut. And for Saylor, who had twice the kills and none of the immunity built up, you can only imagine how hard it was for him.

It's a surprise when his head suddenly flops onto your shoulder, light, almost hesitant, as if he's taking a leap of faith that he isn't sure he's gonna surprise. But the prickling fades away into a warmth - and fates damn it all, you can feel your bloody heart generating a lake at your feet with how much it's leaking.

"Yeah, I promise I'll fight for you. For all of you. No matter what it takes." And that's not quite what you wanted - even if strategically it makes sense to have allies who will fight for you and die before you, your newly empowered heart wrestles your head out of the chain of command, if only for a moment. Because he deserves to fight for himself as much as he does for you.

If you die, then it won't matter in the grand scheme of things who wins, because you'll still be dead. But if you die, then perhaps helping Saylor Bell become that survivor in your place wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

"Goodnight Silk. And... thanks. Sweet dreams."

He's out before you can quite register it. And, with a smile softer than any you'd given in months save to your own flesh and blood, you gently remove Saylor's head from your shoulder and rest it against a makeshift pillow.

"Goodnight, Saylor," you reply, in the same tone you always shared with your siblings. "May you find the world you deserve in your own dreams."

---

Your hunch with Fridae was correct - water would not be a problem. Or, at least, one that found itself unsolvable. Aircraft had dropped sponsor parachutes in a certain section of the arena - a formula that added up relatively simply. Sponsor parachutes? Something you wanted or needed or both. Twenty four? One for each tribute. All dropped in the same area? Well, that was self explanatory.

The trek is rough going even with your mask somewhat filtering the air, and by the time you reach what appears to be a piece of architecture that has long since fallen to ruin and disuse, it's almost too difficult to press on.

But two things change that mindset before you can so much as suggest that you all stop for a rest.

The first is the appearance of another beast - and you swear, for do all mutts in here have two goddamned heads? - that lunges towards you with fangs glistening yellow in the smoky air. And like yesterday, you can thank your honed reflexes for the fact that what could have been devastating instead is reduced to a superficial slice across your arm.

Saylor rushes into the fray perhaps a bit too eagerly, wielding spear instead of gun, as he attempts to drive the beast away. Your own spear is drawn and you're fully prepared to turn the beast - a rat this time - into a shish kebab, when movement of a different sort catches your eye.

Enter thing number two - a rival alliance, with four very familiar figures amongst their cast.

For the moment, it seems that they haven't seen you. And just as quickly, you make your own decision.

"You guys help him out," you say towards Turner and Fridae without looking over your shoulder. "I'll be right back."

Your suspicion turns into cold hard concrete fact once the distance has been closed - the Wealth alliance. Seven, Three, Mae, and Grim Mercer, a mismatched pack not unlike your own. Rivals, better equipped than you could ever hope to be.

Most tributes would turn tail and run, seeing combat against such a set of foes pointless. But you are not most tributes, and you know that Wealth alliances are not invincible.

And as your gaze flits from Mae and Seven, who appear to be using a nearly identical two-headed rat as the one your own allies are dealing with as target practice over to Three and Grim, you find something that makes you pause.

Well, isn't that just a fucking coincidence.

"Nice spear, Grim," you say by way of greeting as you stalk towards the girls, pressing the button on your own, a perfect replica of the weapon your fellow Career girl holds. Relief floods through your veins when the familiar arcs of blue-white electricity spark to life - was the misfire yesterday a fluke? An indication of a finite amount of charges per day? You decide to worry about that later - and with a flourish, you smirk. "It'd be such a shame if something were to happen to its wielder, right?"

When all else is equal - the status, the weapon, the skill - then it is she who takes the initiative first who ends up victorious. Those who second-guess themselves, ponder the what-ifs, just find themselves bogged down. By the time they reach a solution, then those who acted first and thought later would have already stuck a blade through their face.

That's why when you charge, it's not at the beasts, but at the girl from Two.

May fortune favor the fucking bold.

I'm alone for the second time as night devours the day, the darkness that emerges a twin to my heart. Now that, that right there is a damn good line. Still though, I sit up against some pile of rubble just watching the others. Are Softie's lips still numb from the frost of mine? Did I steal a spark of his warmth? Is Lady Le Roux planning how to slit my throat yet? Is Fisticuffs Fridae starting to trust us careers yet? Although I'm alone, I laugh. I'm sitting here in a death arena and it's like nothing has changed. This is just like back home in the Training Center. I was alone then and I still know the answers to those questions.

His lips aren't numb, but they tingle.

She's thought of fifty different ways to beat me.

There's no fucking chance she trusts us entirely. Smart choice.

My eyes trail down to the hammer in my hands. I'm not one for introspection much, that shit just takes way too much effort. But I do wonder in a way what they see. Blonde, cold intense eyes, definently hot, but with skin hardened by ice. Was fucking Nanette right? Am I actually here for something, or did I really just shove that short shit back at the Reaping for the hell of it? Even I don't know because nothing has changed. I'm still the boy sitting on the edge and I still don't mind it. Maybe I'm just the shadow of someone who wants to be seen.

I snort. Isn't that something.

Voices pull my eyes up to where Softie's head falls onto Lady Le Roux's shoulder. The move by Softie doesn't surprise me, but the tenderness of the Lady of Elevens herself raises an eyebrow. She's by no way a weak woman, but for the first time I'm seeing past the glaring golden mane of the lioness. My lips tilt up into a smirk as my hammer shifts. Hello Silk Le Roux, it's nice to finally see you. I wonder whether we'll ever have to find out what happens when the lioness meets the sea. Can she swim or will she drown? Weird, in a way I don't think I want to know.

The anthem is more of an annoyance than an informative occurrence as it blares into the arena's atmosphere. Everyone is still alive, all twenty four of us. Some are probably crying, some are snuggling next to one another, and some are like me: fucking shit show twinks sitting on a pile of garbage. I literally can't think of an image more appropriate for me. And I have to give the Capitol some credit, how do you not get attached to twenty four horny, depressed, anxious teenagers with guns and spears? That's quality television.

In the morning, I wake up with a bit of a coughing spell. The dryness in the back of my throat is beginning to burn and I can taste blood from a fresh crack in my lips. This feels like the Monday mornings after the trainees back in Four would steal one of their parents boats for a party weekend. Booze, drugs, and sex all under the sun for forty eight hours. Yea, I reaffirm myself, this feels exactly like those Monday mornings. At least I don't smell like tequila and something saltier than the sea.

Trying to ignore the headache behind my eyes. I get up and pull my pack up and over my shoulders. The others seem to be feeling the same without water and anyone, even a complete dumbass, would know we won't last much longer without water. But before I can even say anything, the sound of engines ripping through the air usurps my thoughts entirely. I stare at the smoke trail that leads to where twenty four silver chutes float towards the earth. I laugh.

"This is gonna be fucking wild."

I say starting off in the direction of the chutes. As we walk though, I begin to fall behind my mind mirroring my attention span during history class. I'm looking at the broken down pillars of concrete, the piles of rubbish, the other broken down pillars of concrete, and Ripred knows what else when the fighting starts faster than a twink talks when he's given any actual kind of attention. Cause gay panic, ya know?

To the left Softie starts stabbing some rat with two heads and to the right Lady Le Roux is stabbing out to faces all too familiar. Where the fuck is the originality? Another set of two headed ugly mutts and another face off against the ones we lost to at the Cornucopia. Still though, as I've told my therapist, I never walk away when violence is justified and well... the burn of my healing abs tells me its pretty damn justified.

"Fucking bet."

I say to Fisticuffs as she goes flinging herself fists first at the mutated rats. Yea, that image will never get old. Meanwhile, I come strolling up to our Leading Lady with my hammer out and my eyes turned towards the girl she's just stabbed. Does she feel it? The spark in the cold? One of my hands hovers over the bandages still wrapped around my core. I smirk, welcome to my world.

"Softie and Fisticuffs can handle the rats, I'd rather have some fun with you. Or do you really prefer to play by yourself?"

I say letting my lips trail close to one of her ears before suddenly swinging my hammer towards the other girl with a wink towards Silk. 

Are you trying to get yourself killed, man? My blade bites the air and I feel so fucking hollow. A flood of motion overwhelms my periphery, the tang of blood catching on harsh winds. There's monsters in my closet and I know I'll break the second I meet eyes swimming with sinister regret. So instead I focus on this stupid mutt and the way Fridae's words bite.

"Not trying, no." I don't think her mind works like mine, corrugated steel instead of silk. 'Cause she's trying to hard to make it to the end and I'm losing myself in daybreak. I've got to make the most of these moments, any one could be my last.

I'd rather not die bitter and bloodstained, fighting and fighting until there's nothing left. No matter what happens here, no matter what anyone thinks of me, I want to live as Saylor. I want to die as him too.

I'm tempted to ask Fridae what she thinks will happen to me. If not today then tomorrow. Does she think I can actually win this?

It's not a matter of want, of course I want to live. I want to prove something to them.

But we're all aware what ending awaits me. It lingers in every conversation, more than an elephant in the room. I'm chasing unhappily ever after and they're letting me pretend it's anything but. "Just helping."

It's all I can do.

I set my jaw and I swing.