Showdown // [Zoya]

The warriors raised their weapons, and the district held its breath for the first blow. Yaa’s scythe raked itself across Opal’s flesh inches away from her spine, leaving in its wake a thick trail of oozing blood. Priscilla visibly cringed at the sight, balling her dominant hand into a fist at the idea of Opal’s new disadvantage. The battle was off to a disappointing start, but there was always time for a recovery, especially now that Opal was wielding the promising power of the flames she had once used to vanquish Akasha. The murmuring crowds adorned in mourning attire were black inkblots in the district square, another stain on their everlasting reputation of fallen tributes who deserved better than what they always received. She knew most of them would be whispering her sister’s name, just like they had whispered River’s. And Learna’s. And Penelope’s. And Fitz’s.

We’re a cursed disgrace, she thought bitterly, because even with a career like Locust in the Games they could not deliver a victor. They were overdue for a chance in the Capitol’s spotlight, and Priscilla wondered if she could be that chance. Volunteering for next year’s Games had already crossed her mind more than once, because she had always thought of herself as the superior one: stronger, bolder, capable of mastering any weapon. Had she been in Locust shoes, Mikhail would’ve died in mere seconds, and she would never have succumbed to emotional investment in anyone. Locust’s behavior was what baffled her most; why had she fallen for a fellow tribute? Where was the logic she had been notorious for possessing? How did their relationship start? She sighed, realizing that the subject would only haunt her. She buried it beneath the stress, hoping to repress it once and for all.

The hum of incessant mumbling grew louder when Opal lashed in retaliation, sword bearing the heat of an angry flame. Priscilla’s lip twitched when she spotted the blistering patch of red it left behind. She was convinced that Yaa deserved every ounce of pain she suffered by the girl’s touch, and more. Their gazes were smoldering in the arena’s heavy silence, but soon their voices would break loose and hush the crowds who anticipated Opal’s fury and Yaa’s possible attempt at justification. She was aching to hear Opal speak and share the hurricane of rage that seemed to dominate her senses, just as they had shared the pangs of despair over Locust’s unexpected and tragic demise. She was leaned forward, eyes fixed only on the television with little attention to spare. She was so intently focused that she nearly missed the approaching figure and its voice. At the request, she tore her eyes away from the screen and blinked. It was a stranger, no doubt, decorated with black to match the inkblots of the district square. The stripes staining her cheeks were indicators of tears, but her eyes - purely white, thanks to colored contacts - didn’t appear moist.

She considered the girl for a moment, then shook her head. ”No, I don‘t.” If there was even a hint of a smile, it was microscopic. She would be polite to her guest, but she was in no mood to smile, not when the possibility of Yaa’s victory was dangling before her burning eyes. ”I’ll sit with you. I could use the company,” she continued, eyes flickering to the screen once more. More blood drawn, more burns sizzling deserving flesh, more suspense. The duel was painful to watch, but she didn’t plan to miss any of it. She would spare a few minutes for this girl, however, merely because she was dressed appropriately for lament. Anybody who expressed grief for her beloved sister was welcome to her attention. ”Where would you like to sit?”