The Day After Tomorrow {Garrison + Lenox vs. Benedict + Syd}

When the dust settles between the others, sort of, Syd sleeps like a baby. Which is to say, in fits and spurts, keenly aware of everything wrong in his body and in the environment around him during every conscious second. He is aware of Benedict holding a gun close to his chest, no doubt loaded and ready to fire if Belle’s rage doesn’t dissipate. He is aware of the stench of lingering smoke in the air. Most of all, he is aware of the way his stomach twists and groans from some unseen sickness.

And then there’s the lizard thing.

Bene’s named his Sizzle, but Syd glares daggers at his whenever it gets too close. He doesn’t want a Capitol-assigned friend. He nudges it away and rolls over when it tries to cuddle into his chest. The glow -- the gray ethereal blob floating above his head -- provides unwanted light. Honestly, he might as well paste a sign over his head saying here we are! Come find us!

During a particularly frustrating period of sleeplessness, Syd thinks of killing it. It’s a Capitol tool through-and-through, and that fact won’t change, regardless of how cute the thing is. Dressing something up in finery and giving it an adorable squeak doesn’t change anything.

But he doesn’t kill it. He tells himself he’s tired, maybe tomorrow.

He doesn’t admit to himself that he can’t.

The hours stretch on like that, miserable and anxious. He’s woken up for good when his phone lights up. The name Lorraine Gaultier flashes across the screen.

He sits up quickly. His fingers fumble over the buttons. How does this damn thing work? Finally, he opens up her message. It reads:

[MESSAGE FROM LORRAINE GAULTIER. ERROR: SMS NOT AVAILABLE ON THIS DEVICE.]

SMS?

He scrunches his nose, stares down at the screen. Maybe he’s doing something wrong? Maybe he can fix it…

So that’s how he spends the next few hours: trying to figure out how to see the message from Lore. All the while, worries take hold and settle at the front of his thoughts. Is she dying? Is something wrong? What if she’s asking for help? Would he even want to help? She’s not an ally, but… he doesn’t want her to die. It’s a weird in-between sort of association, ‘cause she’s just a person who was kind to him. He wants her to live in the same offhand way that he wants everyone to live. Belle, Coach, Benedict…

(Not himself. He never factors himself into this mental equation.)

If he thinks about it too much, his thoughts crash up against the excruciating reality that only one of them can make it back. That maybe one day he’ll have to choose, if he’s unlucky.

Syd Scoria’s in the business of dying, of being the most useful One in Twenty-Three for the people he’s designated Victor in his head. All of his grand speculation about how this is supposed to go won’t save him from the tension created by the logic as it breaks down.

Sooner or later, it’s gonna crumble.

He chucks the phone in his bag and stares up at the sky.

Since he’s painfully awake, he feels the smoke descend. In the dimness of the early morning, he smells it more than sees it. Then, as the sun rises -- or, at least he thinks it rises -- the air doesn’t grow brighter.

He makes the mistake of not thinking much of it. After all, what else is new? They’ve spent enough time meandering through the tire smoke that he’s almost used to it by now. The others rise and they move on, thinking… well, maybe they got turned around again. Maybe they can get away from the smoke.

Somewhere in all that darkness, they lose each other.

And Syd can’t handle that, not even a little. His sole purpose here is to keep the others alive. What the fuck is he supposed to do if they’re gone? What is he surviving for?

It’s like he’s a little kid who’s lost his mom in a crowd. He can barely function.

”Benedict!” he calls. ”Coach! Belle!”

There is not silence, not really. There is the thrum of the air and the scuffle of his boots against the dirt. And -- and voices.

”Hello?” he says, turning his head.

”S-” he hears. Like someone about to say his name.

He throws himself toward the noise, and that’s when he sees it through the smoke.

Two figures -- kids he doesn’t recognize -- tearing into Bene’s flesh.

Syd lurches into action, hollering deep from his chest. ”NO! NO! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM! BENEDICT.”

Take me, he thinks. If one of us has to go, please, take me instead.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he hears music playing.

It’s a dark and cacophonous omen, much like the smoke stinging his nostrils. He coughs as his feet stumble through the muck. He tries to steady himself in the fray, keep himself upright, and he can’t help but grimace at the way the sewage feels as it slides against the wounds on his bad leg.

Benedict’s falling in.

He sinks further into the slush, and Syd hears him panic. ”Oh shit, oh Ripred…”

”Benedict,” Syd says, softer now, wading deeper into the mess. ”Hey. Hey. I’ve got you, come on.” His legs struggle as the sewage seems to pull against every movement. For a moment, his focus is on pulling his ally up, keeping him from drowning completely and being lost to disgusting, murky depths.

He can’t think. All he knows is that he can’t lose Benedict, not like this, not when the others aren’t with him to bear the weight of this moment. Syd isn’t strong enough to handle it.

A gunshot rings out, and Syd lets out a primal shriek of frustration. He thinks it's hit Benedict.

He starts to cry. He can’t. He can’t. It can’t happen like this.

Not here in the muck.

The sadness and rage take permanent hold in his chest. His breaths are shaky, panicked, and he decides to let go of Benedict. Just for a minute.

”Stay here,” he says firmly, knowing full well that Benedict isn’t going anywhere. Stay here where you’re standing, he means. Stay here, alive. Don’t move, don’t die, just fucking stay.

And with that, Syd Scoria throws himself forward, fumbling through the shit, throwing himself at the first person he can spot through the smoke.