numbers; speakers [ day 5 ]

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

Riv leans on me but I am not a domino—I don't fall.

I help her hobble past the devastation and through to the broken light. The mansion was home to all kinds of treachery; part of me feels like the walls have ears and eyes and see our every move and hear our every whisper with a hope of finding an ounce of fear.

Of course, it doesn't succeed because most of us have learnt to filter the weakness out and replace it with strength. Some people seem to have a habit of faking that, though; I think that the big girl, Fallon is only making herself seem big in order to protect her friend. I suppose that it is admirable, I don't think I'd put my life on the line for a broken person.

Do I know any broken people?

I glance left before my eyes shift to the right; I suppose that Riv is broken. Maybe that is just what death does to people; it makes them lose themselves in the thoughts and feelings of carrying out murder. But my mother always told me that no two people are the same, everybody is different, which assures me that perhaps I'd cope just fine.

I burnt myself and I survive. I think I would cope well with killing. Well, I think, I'd have to.

My footsteps cause the floor to creak as we move through the rooms of the mansion. The walls are decorated with all sorts of portraits and images which could be the foundations for all kinds of stories. One of the portraits holds a person who looks like they've seen a ghost. I shouldn't be surprised though, I think I've seen some too.

So we fall beyond the mansion's defences, removing ourselves from memories from five days ago and five minutes ago which remind us that we are never really safe. We come together, again, togetherness is the only serenity in this place in some ways. I need to remember that not everything in this arena is real; the bubble will pop in a few days and then I'll be back in the real, real world.

No more fantasies, no more illusions, or death, or hunger and thirst, and no more sea creatures which at as stars in the sky.

I need to remember that not everything is this arena is real, but I know that we are real. The other rejects were real too.

I sigh, but I told myself that I'd never tie my ties to tight because they are made to be undone. Just like shoelaces; you tie them just tight enough to keep your shoes on, but you tie them just loose enough to undo them again. I tied my ties tight enough to never forget.

That's good, I think, remembering keeps people grounded.

The ground we stand on is laced with thorns and petals. They aren't in a storm anymore, they aren't looping and turning and caught in a cyclone. They are peaceful, sweet, pretty. My grandmother used to put roses in the front window to let people know that she was in.

I hadn't seen a rose since she died before I came into this arena.

The weight of my stuff—that's all it is, really—stuff, drags me down onto the grass and I feel like a chucky pig that has been placed on its back and can't roll over. I lie on the bed of grass, staring up at the sea-sky-thing with wide eyes.

The day has barely begun, which means that we've got time. And that in itself is rare, but what makes this moment even more special is the fact that we have time to kill. 

We aren't killing people anymore.

I can think of a million and one things to do—pulling up grass and making small houses for insects comes to mind. Plucking blades and weaving them together into stick men also sounds fun, but both Lucas and Riv are here.

I don't think they like the things I do.

"Well," I say, lying back in the shape of a star. "Now what?"

[solo]

RIVEN FOWLEY

You killed him, why can't you kill another?

Because...because...

Because why? I don't think I know anymore. Maybe I don't have a reason not to kill. Would that be such a bad thing? It would certainly take away the guilt, but I don't think it would take away the weight.

There's blood on my hands.

Not the figurative stuff, but actual, literal blood, speckled across the pale white of my skin. It belongs to Gabby. That was her name, wasn't it?

Was. I don't think she is anymore.

Our footsteps echo around the halls of the mansion, my single bare foot creating uneven thumps as I stagger along beside Wylla. I can't survive with one leg. I'll need to fix it, but I haven't decided how just yet. Earlier today, I think when we were waking up, pain was seeping through my stump and up my side until I was sure it was going to kill me. But it's gone now. Perhaps I've grown used to it, and all I've done is numb the pain, but I don't really care. I'm okay, so long as I'm not hurting.

We step outside into the rose garden, greeted by scarlet petals strewn across emerald green fields. I'm reminded of the scarlet on my own hands and I lick my finger, trying as best I can to wipe it off. All I end up doing is smudging it.

Gabby. Her name was Gabby.

Atlas.

Gentian.

Their souls weigh me down and I don't feel like walking anymore.

Fortunately, Wylla decides to take a rest, dropping down to the grass beneath us. I follow suit, though with much less grace.

Automatically, I go to cross my legs, then remember I only have one and it will be a difficult task to undertake. So instead I lean against a rock behind me, my remaining leg stretched out at what now appears to be a bit of an odd angle. I suppose that's because I've got nothing to mirror it anymore.

My thin fingers move to the grass beneath me, running through it and reveling in the calm, familiar coolness of it. Back in Ten, grass stretches out as far as the eye can see, creating the pastures where we run the horses and take the cows to graze. I miss home. I miss my family.

"Well. Now what?" I glance to the side. Wylla is lying next to me, sprawled across the grass in the shape of a star, staring up at what I'm pretty sure is the sky. But it could also be the ocean. I'm not sure, I've never seen the ocean.

I don't respond right away. Instead, my fingers creep over to a ball lying a few feet away from me. It's small, but heavy and hard, shaded a midnight blue. I roll it beneath my palm and create a rut in the grass.

"I don't know." I shrug. "There's a lot I don't know anymore." Suddenly, my stomach lets out a growl, as if telling me I answered the question incorrectly. My cheeks flush and I duck my head. "Eating seems like a good idea."

I sift through my bag, pulling out a few plants I collected a couple of days ago. Not the most appetizing thing in the world, but I've eaten worse. Slowly, I munch away at the crisp greens, sourness filling my mouth and causing me to purse my lips.

After a few moments I reach for the ball, which I've allowed to rest while I eat, and roll it towards Lucas. "Catch," I say, somewhat disinterested, yet still mildly entertained by the child's toy. My fingers move to pick up one of the rose petals, feeling the waxy surface beneath my skin and rubbing it back and forth. I close one eye and adjust it so it cuts off Lucas's body, and I could almost be convinced that his head is growing out of the petal.

"Tell me about home, Lucas?" It's more of a question than a statement. "Help me forget I'm here for a bit."

[Riven eats plants]

[lance]

LUCAS O'HARA

Five days in, and the number of living souls within this place have dropped to a third of their original number.

Such were the thoughts rattling within his skull as he slowly plodded after the combined unit of Wylla and Riven. Four's death - "Gabby," the pretty girl from Two had spoken - had meant that he had outlasted yet another Career, yet another person who had trained their entire life to enter this place.

He wasn't sure how many remained, but he was certain that the number wasn't very high.

And still, even almost twenty four hours later, he still hadn't figured out how he was still alive.

It wasn't from lack of trying to lose his life, though, that much was certain. The first day he had let his heart take complete reign of his head and had acquired several new bruises from Tamron Rhodes. The second day, he had been double teamed by a pair of Sevens and had only been saved by the impeccable aim of Eva Hope and her spear. Day three had seen him nearly lose his life twice to his own curiosity, but the efforts of the tiniest Eckhart girl and Helios Delacroix had pushed him onwards towards the next day. Day four, he'd been assaulted by a bad-tempered crustacean, and it was only through sheer dumb luck that his knives had pierced its shell and not his own eye.

And now day five, a day where if the Career boy from Two had been armed with anything but his fists, it might have been him bleeding out in the mansion interior and not Gabby from Four.

If such things as guardian angels existed, then he had no doubt that his was working overtime to ensure that he didn't die from his own incompetence.

The soft thump, thump, thump of mansion flooring turned into the familiar crunching of grass beneath booted feet, and his gaze broke through the clouds that fogged his mind and focused once again on the pair of girls who, against all odds, had joined him in the prestigious position of living for another day.

He chuckled quietly as a mental image of how they must look to the outside world flashed across his eyes. There they were, three of the greatest survivors to frequent this year's arena.

An apathetic artist. A twelve year old with a fiery spirit. And a quiet girl with too much heart and not enough leg.

What a group they made.

Wylla plopped to the ground in front of him, and a second later Riven followed suit. A moment later, he joined them on the ground.

He'd just pulled three crayons from his bag - one found next to the butterfly knife, the other two arriving in a sponsor gift a moment later - when Wylla spoke, her spoken inquiry of "Well, now what?" filling the air.

Riven responded a moment later with a simple answer of "I don't know," and gradually, he tuned her out as he took the first crayon - the teal blue taken from what could have only been Gabby herself - and pressed it against the skin of his left forearm. The rectangular shape was easy to trace on his skin, traveling from just above the wrist to just below the elbow and back. A quick coloring resulted in his entire forearm covered in the bluish color, and without a thought he tossed that crayon aside and grabbed the second, received this time from the sponsorship basket but otherwise identical to the crayon won through trial and combat. The process repeated itself on his right arm, teal lines traveling from just below the elbow to just above the wrist and back, and soon that arm is as filled with color as the first.

He'd just finished drawing out the contents of a medkit - complete with the box container, needles and thread, and bandages - when Riven's voice penetrated his consciousness, a single word - "Catch," preceding the small round ball that rolled over towards him. He watched it with an unwavering gaze until it came to rest just shy of hitting his thigh, before picking it up and examining it.

"Tell me about home, Lucas?" Riven's question caught him by surprise, and for a moment he was silent. "Help me forget I'm here for a bit."

After a moment of pondering, he let out a light chuckle. "Home isn't really all that special if I'm being completely honest, Riven," he responded.

He paused again, thinking. "If the skyscrapers in the Capitol were replaced with factories and shrunk down to a quarter of its size, then you'd get a pretty good idea of what Nine looks like. There isn't much in the way of nature or anything unless you look for it." Many a time, he had found himself wandering these endless streets, navigating between each industrial complex for something interesting to draw.

Some times, he had succeeded. More often than not, however, his adventures ended in failure.

"It's kind of ironic, really, because from what I've heard, before the Dark Days, Nine consisted mainly of hunters and foragers, and we were a lot more in touch with nature than we are now. There's a giant forest that surrounds pretty much the entire district, but we aren't allowed to cross it." He paused, weighing his next words carefully before speaking. "Does make for some nice drawings, though."

He intentionally left out the part where he had actually crossed over the fence one time, assisted by a boy who, much like him, had been thrust into a Capitol-made arena and had subsequently lost his life. The adventure with Rolf Parks had been unlike anything he had ever experienced, but even though the other boy was six feet under and he was mere hours away from achieving the same fate, there were still those back home that could be punished for a loose tongue.

And for someone who had as little regard for their own life as he did, he found that he was becoming increasingly aware of how other lives could be affected by his actions.

"What about you guys?" he asked, eager to shift the spotlight off of himself. "What's Ten like?" Then, turning towards Wylla, "Or Three?"

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

WYLLA LYSANDER

"I don't know." Riv says, shrugging in time with her words. "There's a lot I don't know anymore." Huh, I like to think that I've learnt a lot more in this arena than I could have learnt back in Three. Admittedly though, I can't go beyond the fence and find water with a dowsing rod in here—but opportunity knocks in this arena, you just need to answer it.

"Eating seems like a good idea." But I ate yesterday, and supplies are scarce; I don't know how much longer I'm really going to be alive. I need to save the little I have in case I make it all the way. And though I am taking this competition at my own pace, day by day, hour by hour, I don't plan on dying.

Which only leaves one option: win.

I've heard about the little girl who did it before. She isn't so little now, in fact, she's big, and she's pretty—but she was about my age when she won. Saffron Lowe defied the odds; I think the world needs a reminder of what exactly little girls are capable of. We can take the world by storm, and we can be powerful.

I haven't had the moment to prove it, yet, but it is coming. I feel it in my fingers, through my bones. Mum used to say that feelings like this are bad for your health; she would say that they gave Jim two doors down from us a heart attack. But I think it is a good sensation; it's strength, determination, it's the will to live and to keep on living.

After all, I'm alive and she's dead.

My left reaches for the crayons collected from the dead girl; one is white and the other is a brassy copper colour. I figure that it is about time I drew another weapon, another thing to stab and stun with. Taking the brass crayon firm between my thumb and fingers, I begin with a long stick which has a hammer-like head at the top, with multiple spikes protruding from it. The drawing isn’t great, it’s shoddy; but as it slowly transforms from a drawing to a real life, actual stabby, actual hitty, murder weapon, by Ripred, it looks more lethal than anything. And that is all the matters when the aim of the game is to kill.

But, of course, bravery started with my self-sacrifice and goes on with survival; no one has ever won the game dead because it just isn’t possible. I pick up the white crayon, fashioning a little point in white and a neat spool which houses the thread. The needle morphs into reality a few seconds later—it still amazes me how this magic is even possible—and it looks helpful to anyone who is going through the wars.

So I use it, because I’m going through the wars, patching myself up and finishing it off with some of the bandages I still have from yesterday. Sewing yourself up hurts far more than any of the injuries the other tributes have given me so far, but I know that in this case, it really is a case of no pain, no gain.

"Tell me about home, Lucas? Help me forget I'm here for a bit."

Quite frankly, I think that forgetting is impossible. But who am I to rain on her parade?

"Home isn't really all that special if I'm being completely honest, Riven," Lucas says, offering Riv the escape she wants. "If the skyscrapers in the Capitol were replaced with factories and shrunk down to a quarter of its size, then you'd get a pretty good idea of what Nine looks like. There isn't much in the way of nature of anything unless you look for it." I arch a brow. It sounds like Hell, no, worse than Hell.

I lie down again, eyes open as I listen to Lucas' words. I don't forget, though, I know exactly where I am and why I'm here; it's not an escape, it's just a distraction.

"It's kind of ironic, really, because from what I've heard, before the Dark Days, Nine consisted mainly of hunters and foragers, and we were a lot more in touch with nature than we are now." Huh. "There's a giant forest that surrounds pretty much the entire district, but we aren't allowed to cross it." He pauses for a moment; I imagine that memories of home are tugging on his heartstrings. "Does make for some nice drawings, though."

He could still draw here, really. There are crayons and I'm sure that if he drew some paper, he could create some kind of masterpiece. It might provide him with some kind of comfort, but, it would be short-lived. Happy memories are just that; memories.

"What about you guys? What's Ten like? Or Three?"

I tuck my hands underneath my head, gazing aimlessly above.

"There's lots of technology." I say, turning my mind back to the life I lived before giving myself up. "Mum never had a good job. People are poor; we hear stories of people from Two and Four who are richer than rich." I turn my head towards Lucas. "I like it though." I smile for a second. "There are flowers, well, some, and I decorated my bedroom all nice two months ago."

Paper chains and chains of dandelions hanging from the naked bulb which droops from the ceiling; it isn't much, but it is my own space, a territory, a kingdom for a little Queen like me. Mum would always come in and tidy away my clutter into places where I could never find it again; I'm still missing the water pistol my uncle gave me yonks ago.

"I don't miss it though." I say, throwing myself back into the moment which matters. "I like the Capitol a lot. I really want to wear the clothes they wear and meet all the people. So pretty." I say, eyes closing as I imagine the different dresses and hairstyles and colours.

Pretty, I think.

"And Ten?" I say, head rolling across the grass to look at Riv.

[solo]

RIVEN FOWLEY

Sorry but it's midnight here and I still need to get trib maint done and I fully intend to sleep in tomorrow, so here's a lovely filler which I promise to actually write tomorrow.

• listens to Lucas and Wylla and goes to her happy place
• will talk about Ten but I'm really sorry I don't have time to write it up right now
• receives two more crayons from sponsors
• uses the copper one to draw throwing axes
  
  "For once, I have not lost my weapon because it melted. Well, I'm sure it did, but I wasn't there to see it. I shove the thought away quickly. I don't want to imagine where the melted black wax is now. Instead, I pick up the copper crayon, dragging it through the grass to create the rough sketch of an axe. One after the other, small enough that I can get a firm grip on them, a complete set. I never threw an axe during training, but I threw a couple knives, and I don't think I was half bad."
• uses the white one to draw a prosthetic leg
  "I can't keep walking around on one leg. I don't mind leaning on Wylla for support, but it hinders our ability to defend ourselves, and I'm sure she's getting tired of it. So I take my second crayon, the white one, and place the tip against the ground. It's ironic, really, because white reminds me of hospitals. Not that I've been in very many. Our family could never afford it.
  My movements are careful, precise, because I know I'll have to walk on this thing. A spring at the knee, a strap at the top to attach it. I draw it next to my existing leg, mimicking the size and height, praying I won't be standing lopsided when I put it on. I doubt it will be anywhere near comfortable. But I can't survive with one leg, and perhaps this will give me some sort of ability to actually walk."

[Riven draws stuff with some crayons]