The Bloodbath

Before the crash, Tiggy considered the adrenaline pumping through her veins to be a treasure. Nothing like gold, she was sure, but it was terribly similar to the kind of trinkets her family had an acquired taste for. Artifacts of misfortune, as she liked to call them, were no less beautiful than the rest of their kind. Atop her red hair, she imagined her sudden burst of energy to be a bright crown, burning as proudly as the sun. She was fierce in her desperation to survive — and she was gentle in her willingness to accept that the odds were stacked against her.

Every footstep seemed to equal a hundred heartbeats, ricocheting inside of her chest like a star imploding. Tearing itself into a new constellation — one to immortalize the way Tiggy had fled so openly from death. And the way she was still running. Even when it felt like she was so close to detonating, she had to hold herself together. She could feel the way her soul moved like water, how free it was, and the way she was jealous of the solid earth. Expressing her emotions had never been a problem, but she was deeply anxious about sharing too much of herself.

Her parents were nothing short of actors, but she hadn't really inherited that skill. When she helped to sell their wares to the citizens of Four, she was effective and precise. It wasn't that she didn't love to tell stories, but she was never quite comfortable lying to the customers. Or to anyone, really. Her bluntness had been the target of several early school detentions — softly telling her teachers, "No, I didn't do the homework. You already know that I'm never going to do the homework." As honest as she was with others, she had to give herself the same treatment.

She tried to be kind.

It was all a little exhilarating, the things she had proven herself capable of in the last few minutes. Time was relentless in the way it could trap you in what felt like an eternity of grief, and then condense it into the second it takes you to blink. Quick as that, endless agony is just the exhale of a breath, watching cold air die on the wind. It was morbid, more than anything. She was so focused on getting away that she hadn't really processed the things she had seen, and the sounds she had heard. Dead bodies didn't frighten her, but there was something about watching the process that urged her to panic.

There wasn't a clear reaction to what was happening to her, so she gave herself to the momentum, instead. One moment she was throwing herself to the side, and now she was rolling across the hard floor of the railcar. Her shoulder landed first, igniting a bruise she hadn't yet noticed. It burned across her skin, awakening the nerves that had gone numb. As soon as she was alone, the world seemed quieter, and all the more scary for it. She allowed herself to lie there, feeling the tracks hiss beneath her, and the vibrations echoing all around. She tricked herself that she heard Topper calling her name.

"Tigs!" It had to be an illusion. "Tiggy Libertine!" And even if it wasn't, what was she going to do? She couldn't save him, and she wasn't entirely certain that she could save herself, either. Sitting up, she stared out the open door and watched the arena slowly roll past her. Every glimpse she saw was a new danger — and in every stretch of sand, there was a smear of red to be found. And the shapes of bodies lying still, but didn't allow herself to focus on those. She closed her eyes, and sighed, and tried to forgive herself for doing what was in her best interest. He was a stranger.

But she could name him. That counted for something.

"Don't make it easy for them," she echoed what she had last said to Topper, now using the encouragement for herself. She stood up with a wince, glancing down at herself and frowning at the tacky outfit she had almost forgot being forced into. Not that she wanted to forget how it had felt giving that prick who dressed her exactly what he deserved. As she surveyed the room she was now in, she occupied her hands with untangling the two braids that were messily draped over her shoulders. This particular railcar was quite unassuming, just a lot of empty space and metal walls. She noticed pipes along the ceiling, and an exit at either end of the narrow passage.

Before she could choose which to take, a thud behind her caused her to turn on her heels, auburn waves spinning with her. "Hello there!" There was something about the eagerness in his voice that made her take a step back, lowering her hand to her axe hilt. Worse than that, she watched the boy try to push his hair out of his eyes, only to leave a smudge of fresh blood across his face. "Is it just us in here?" She retreated another footstep, slowly inching to one corner of the railcar. The last thing she wanted was to fight this guy. She didn't want to fight anyone.

"How fortunate for us."

Tiggy scoffed at him before she could stop herself, trying to hide the frightened edge of her voice with stubborn rage. She wouldn't let it be easy for him — even if she lost, and she knew it was likely, she would do everything in her power to make sure she didn't die staring up at a smug smile. She'd use the last of her strength to kick his teeth down his throat, if she had to. "Speak for yourself. Your company's not as thrilling as you think." With great effort, she tried to mask her expression with indifference, but even then you could see the signs that she was truly upset. If she broke down, he would win. It'd be over.

There was no way she would allow that to happen.

Right as he prepared to close in, and her fingers secured themselves around her weapon, a quiet little sound echoed under the noise behind her. It sounded almost like an animal moving inside the wall, like the rat infested apartments she had grown up in for much of her early life. Like a switch, she watched as the stranger's visible interest in her shifted to whatever was hiding from them. He pouted at Tiggy, almost like it was sad that he would have to skip out on killing her. "Or not." When he struck out with his axe, she jumped back and had to convince herself not to start running immediately.

A trail of blood was dripping out of the gash her almost-attacker made in the steel, and soon a cry of pain and fear could be heard over the whir of the train. She could feel her stomach flip, trying to ignore just how young the voice was. She stood there, frozen in disbelief, as the energetic killer wasted no time using the blade of his axe to strip the metal away. Before long, he had dragged out a little girl, and he presented her to Tiggy as if she was a great bounty. The most awful part was how desperately she wanted to help the kid, but she also recognized that doing so would lessen her chances of surviving greatly.

There was only one ticket out of here. Getting it for herself would be hard enough.

"Help a guy out, would you?" He said the words like he was sharing something that should be coveted. Like she should be grateful for the mere opportunity. And worst of all, she had to listen to herself reply to him. "Okay, then." Her heart started beating faster, and she was worried for a moment that he would call her bluff right then and there. "You found her, so go ahead." Her chin was already trembling, and she could feel her voice starting to waver. She felt cruel, and she felt powerless. But she'd wear this mask if it meant making it out of this room alive. "Show me how it's done."

Of course, she weighed all of her options as she watched him focus on his new prey. It was terrible, but this tribute was a needed distraction in the place of having to fight someone who clearly didn't seem too bothered by being in the Games. She hated the way he was so dedicated to his craft, flourishing his axe with a wicked glee. Something about him reminded her of Ramsey Robichaux, but there were little differences she didn't have the time to place. All she knew was that, to her, he was something to run from. And she could run.

Even as the screaming started, and she could hear the girl begging for help, she fell into place behind him — she removed her axe, and stared over his shoulder at the stranger she was betraying. Only when she knew his eyes were away from her, trained on his target, did she mouth the words, "I'm sorry." She retreated backwards as he attacked, inching closer to the exit as the thuds of his axe covered all the awful sounds. Like when the door creaked open with a metal screech, and he was still so lost in the frenzy. She didn't exist to him.

And she was terribly, horribly glad to disappear.

With a palm full of stars

I throw them like dice (repeatedly)

On the table (repeat, repeatedly)

I shake them like dice
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