18 ft. ( i+i+s, day 1 )

[tick 12a / calla]

I N G A

The sound of the fighting seeps through the floorboards as Inga creeps down the hall. She'd darted up the stairs in the midst of it all, dodging the gaps and the splinters and the rickety looking handrail. She kicked at a piece of the banister and yanked it from its fixture to hold in front of her as a makeshift don't-fuck-with-me stick.

Just in case.

Now she nudges one of the doors open with it, stepping light over the threshold, wincing at the creak. Inga passes over the moth-eaten bed against the wall, the cold and crumbling fireplace in the corner, the rustic light fixture fallen and smashed in the middle of the room. The cold comes in through the broken window, where the curtains flutter slightly. The fabric is so caked in dust that it makes them look like grey velvet.

Inga pokes at the snow drifting in across the room with her foot.

Great. Just like she thought. The clothes should've been enough to clue her in, but some part must've kept hoping.

She pushes the curtain back and grimaces at the dust it leaves behind on her hand - then she grimaces at the view.

More snow. More trees. More cold.

Nothing she could have really prepared for.

Would it really be too much to ask for an island arena? Or at least something with water? Half of the kids they reap every year don't even know how to swim. And that's their own problem. That's their loss. Taking advantage of things like that are how people like Blair Murdock won.

The fighting downstairs has gotten quieter. Time to move on soon. Or slink back down to see the carnage.

Inga watches a few silhouettes sprint outside against the snow, a little group of them heading towards the forest. She turns the stick in hand uneasily.

What she wouldn't give for something to properly throw right now. It'd almost be too easy.

They're not even covering their backs.

ELEGANT

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

I S O L D E

the room's got the smell of blood. floor's slick with it, dark from the cold air, coagulated. body of the girl lies limply, fireplace smoking now, and career one and career two step around the bits of sunken skull and strands of blonde hair. the light kinda makes it look like a fucked up baroque painting.

the divine and the dramatic. saw an illegal reprint once on the black market. they called it Judith Slaying Holofernes.

door's guarded. but we came through the window in the hall. we watch Gunner walk back through the frame, certain kinda ease in the stride, wiping blood off his face. guess he's with the careers.

lame. i liked him.

the wood's splintered, wet and rotten beneath us, all the varnish rubbed off. we're going up the stairs so, so quietly while the career pack argues over their pile of prizes. and between the slow steps, trying not to creak the wood, i'm listening to the guy with the eye flirt with Gunner in the weirdest fucking way.

beg for it? bro, it's taking everything outta me not to say something. ick.

i turn to Sage, pulling a face. take her hand, and we inch upwards.

it's more of the same upstairs. the rooms are crumbling. layer of dust as thick as the snow. wonder what intern had to spend their day scattering a bag of artificial dust over the artificially broken furniture. wonder how much it cost to stage it. the glass glitters serenely in the cold light.

i turn into a room. and then turn back out.

because someone's in there. she's by the window. wind blows through the ragged frame, curtains fluttering lightly. girl from Four, back turned to the doorway, she doesn't see us yet. i grip Sage's hand, leaning against the wall for a second.

she's not with the bunch downstairs. because if she was, she wouldn't be armed with a leg of the banister.

like, it would be stupid to attack.

and it would be stupid not to.

it's two v one.

all she's holding is a big stick.

we're not trying to kill out here, day one, unprompted. we're not like fucking psychotic. but it's cold. and she's got clothes. it's just a little armed robbery.

going shopping, i mouth the words to Sage, nodding towards the door.

the room's too much of a mess to be quiet, crunch of glass under my boots. so five steps in, she's turning around, and i smile at her.

"hey, what's up."

the downstairs is still muffled. the chill gets a bit worse closer to the window.

"cute jacket, girl." she brings up the stick of wood. i hold up the ice pick. "we want it."

ELEGANT

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

S A G E

Inch by inch, I pluck at my heartstrings. Trying to rip them out without Iz noticing. Before I get all tangled in the gore and she realizes I'm better for bloodletting than having.

Had to shove my hands in my pockets to keep them from shaking when I realized where we were headed. And it's a dreadful thing to realize that breathing is getting easier. If I'm not scared, then this pressure in my chest must be anticipation.

Now that we're here it's a bit - lackluster? The pools of blood are chunky and brown, clumped on the floorboards and smeared by fingers and footprints. I'm out here fighting for my life when Lucky's voice gets uncomfortably velvety over a pile of winter mittens.

When Izzy grabs my hand, I tap silent laughter against her pulse point with my forefinger.

My other hand holds her knife, and for some reason that's just as comforting.

Whatever keeps them distracted. Lucky turned seventeen and left his boyhood in that laughter that boomed across the pool room. A joy that made waves. How quickly that has melted into a cruel imitation of it. He'll only celebrate funerals from now on.

We creep up the stairs. She leads and I'm more than happy to follow. If it takes the weight of thinking off my shoulders, I'll make a home in Izzy's shadow. Until I'm so full of her I'll lose myself entirely. Seems the only way I'll live to see tomorrow.

The attic space is full of jagged stars. It doesn't take Izzy long to find something. She pops in and out of a room, nodding toward me -

going shopping.

I hope against hope it's dead or dying. Cooling skin to pick apart with talons and not a warm throat seeking teeth.

Of fucking course it's just a plain old girl. With hair like the threads of dawn and a big ass stick. Is she a part of the rat pack downstairs? Not that it matters, I guess, it's too late for them to do anything about it. There are plenty of ways to stifle a scream.

We're mugging Inga Vanas.

I make a face at Izzy's back as she approaches, scrunched brows a little bit incredulous. Though when she treads closer to danger of course I follow suit.

Are we gonna try to kill her? That just feels like a lot this early in. Fuck, uh, do I go for the heart? The kidneys? I don't think I even know where those are.

Inga raises her stick, Izzy points her knife.

Okay, she's doing this.

And I'm the back up, holy hell, I'm the backup. I've got to do... something.

I creep toward the other side of Inga, teeth clenched in a grimace as the tip wavers between aiming at her ribs or her neck. I can't decide which is a better target.

I'm trying really hard to be threatening right now.

"Things don't have to get messy. Unless you wanna be stupid." My gaze flicks to Izzy, seeking reassurance.

That was helpful, right?

ELEGANT

[tick 12a / calla]

I N G A

It happens like a bad movie scene. Something cheesy and trashy and horrible. Inga watches the little ants run through the snow, feels the chill settle a little more firmly, and then she hears the most incidental little sound come from behind her.

She spins with her stick raised. Jagged end primed.

Still, takes her a whole minute to clock the first scrawny little threat, let alone the second one. Six. Purple. Ten. White. Strange combination, even stranger gameplay. Inga looks at them both incredulously. Glances at that weak weapon grips. The wavering.

"You're kidding." She says flatly.

But they're not. And she narrows her eyes. Her foot slides against the edge of a floorboard as she shifts into something more defensive.

"I don't think this is really your colour."

It's not that she's actually threatened by them, it's just that sometimes someone not knowing what they're doing will be more dangerous than the alternative. It's all that floundering. The blind panic when they realize they've made a mistake and can't back out. They'll hit anything. They'll lose their minds.

So yeah. She discreetly starts to edge away from all the pointy bits they obvious don't know what to do with.

Cornered animals are the ones that bite, and all that.

Great timing for that thought.

Six lunges and Inga goes for Ten at the same time, grabbing for her wrist and trying to knock the weapon from it. They all seem to tangle on the way there, though. Six knocks into Inga, Inga crashes into Ten. Someone pulls on the curtain and brings the dust down. They're all somehow connected, and when the back of Inga's knees hit the windowsill, her heart drops.

The jagged glass around the hole tears through the fabric at her elbow. Her body crashes into the rest of it and she can feel the shatter against her shoulders. She's still holding onto one of the other girls. They're still holding onto her.

The three of them topple and go falling into dead air.

There isn't even enough room to scream. The fall feels like it's over the moment she realizes it's happening. In what feels like a measly second later, Inga's back is smacking into the ground, the snow bracing the impact as all the breath is knocked out of her and her ears start to ring.

She lays there, stunned.

She lost her stick somewhere in the blink of the descent. She can't see the knife that Ten was holding. All that's there is the white breadth of the sky above.

When a snowflake lands on her forehead and melts, Inga realizes that her hat is gone.

The side of the lodge swims back into focus, the window they toppled out of standing out dark like a missing tooth. The back of Inga's head stings. Her tailbone aches. Her ears are already getting cold again.

She's gonna have to kill them.

ELEGANT