Get Me Bodied [Open Feast; Day 6]

[Deleted]

You awoke to Larry the lobster phone’s buzzing, only to discover the copper colored fabric of the balloon resting gently above your head. The balloon atop the bicycle has finally deflated. Sitting up slowly, you don’t move from the basket, but instead enjoy the gentle quiet of the confined space. How nice would it be to remain tucked away in your basket forever, until the last cannon sounded? You much preferred the thought of never having to face a single soul again than setting foot outside of your balloon cocoon. It would mean never having to face Tamron, or Riven, or any of the others ever again.

Lo, it’s Lena. You press the receiver to your ear. Magdalena’s voice cuts through the silence of the night. You don’t get to go quitting on me. Do you hear that? Now’s not the time for tears. You think you have to prove what good there is or—something—but it’s time you get something straight. Come home. Don’t go playing the martyr, or victim. You got yourself in there, now get yourself out. 

You find it hard not to cry at the sound of your sister’s voice. She is a remnant of the world far away. What would she think of you now, having cut down Fallon for a shot to come home? You were all pith and vinegar then—but the hours spent alone had you turning the thought over and over again in your head. District Eleven ached for change (as did you all). How could they see it in a girl that played the same game as everyone else?

Mija. Your heart flutters at your abuela’s voice. She is the warmth of a blanket on a cold winter’s night, the sun to your world. Just one word and your heart is already so full it may burst. Don’t forget that no matter how alone you are we are right there with you. Ten cuidado. Your heart was made to carry the burden of your body. Your spirit will be the one to bring you home. We love you, Salome. The words ease the pain of your loneliness. You brush away the fabric of the balloon and expose the night stars, and lay watching them burn above.

Hey Lo, it's me. Wilson. I- You close your eyes. Can you see his face, Salome? They all see something in you that you refuse to believe. Perhaps the choices you’ve made will never write you into history like they have for one like Harbinger or Katelyn, but that didn’t stop you from being the sixteen year old girl that has hung on for five long days. I miss you. We aren't as close as some of the other cousins, but we're all here. Waiting for you. We all love you. I love you. Stay strong. His words twist and stir, bringing you close to tears. Just, please don't die. Don't die like my big brother, Lo. Love you.

There’s no tears left.

It’s electric across your skin—this taste of home. As though you can feel each of them around you, their hearts and hands with you. Were the gamemaker’s trying to buoy you, or break you with these messages? If they had intended to shred the last of your spirit, they were sorely mistaken.

I was wrong about you, Lo. They all hoped and prayed you just wouldn’t go down in the first two minutes. But… you come this far. Fuck. Don’t get me thinking you’re coming home. Won’t do it. Just—know that I love you? We love you. No matter what happens, you won’t be forgotten. I promise.

Sampson had always taught you not to believe in all the smoke and mirrors of the capitol. Every bit of theatrics for the games had an ulterior motive. The way they cordoned off districts and turned one against another, all of it was to keep them weak. He had tried to tell you that duty to their way of life saved no one. Perhaps if you’d seen that, you wouldn’t have been sitting underneath these stars. There would have been no itch to save anyone but those that you loved, no need to stand for a whole district.

“Larry, I didn’t want to go home before.” You speak to the patient crustacean. “I wanted to—be something, something different. To be like Benat, who didn’t kill anyone. Except now…” You were no Benat Izar. Day six was uncharted waters. Only one other Izar had made it further, and you were certain there was no similarity between the two of you. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.” Larry, as always, gave his silent stare of dead eyed approval.

Rebellion still itched in your mind, but how could you ever send any sort of message without them blocking you out entirely? Would anyone even listen to the foolish girl from eleven, who had only just now begun to ponder all the things that Sampson had tried to teach her? But you have always been clever, Salome. There are other ways a girl can be subversive than ranting about the inequities between the capitol and the districts.

You spend the morning ambling across the salt flats, and realize that it is a much farther distance to the mansion on foot. The balloon bike, for all of its troubles, was much more convenient than walking in all the armor covering your hundred pound body. You wondered about whether or not you were heading to your death. What awaited you was likely not a sea of the friendliest of faces (though to be fair, you barely knew any that remained at this point). Somehow you didn’t think you were all going to hold hands and do trust falls into one another’s arms that afternoon. Still—you put one certain foot in front of the other.

Walking through the doors of the mansion and through the cubbyhole that led out into the rose garden, the fear washed away in the first breath of sunlight. Flowers all in bloom brought a smile to your face. Sun reflected off your star shaped sunglasses, and you made your way to the long and empty table. Perhaps a bit of the first day returned to you, when, meeting Rio and Cassie, you’d tumbled from one Rose garden to another. You had to laugh at yourself for managing to tumble, fall, and trudge your way through six days.

What did you have to be afraid of now?

Perhaps someone would saunter in like an asshole and try to slice your head clean off, but it seemed a terribly rude thing at this point. The least they could do was wait until the food was finished.

The only thing to disappoint you was that you were very much alone. Sure, there had been the tardigrade bellhops that nooted and nooted until you shoved your flail into one of their slimy gullets, but beyond that, no one. Were they afraid of the feast? Plotting who they would kill, and how they would do it? Were they simply lazy sleepyheads that couldn’t be bothered to come?

“Maybe this will help.”

You pull out your megaphone, and press the button on the side. The delightful horn sounds of la cucaracha begin to echo throughout the garden, and you start to laugh to yourself. You play the song again and again, letting it echo across the way and through the garden. By the seventeenth time you press the button, your face turning red and eyes tearing with laughter. Static clicks as you begin to speak into the megaphone.

“HELLOOOOOOOOO…” Your voice carries across the bushes, and you move to take a seat at the center of the table. The rose-colored quartz colored gift bag caught your eye (you dispute the veracity of the name of the color, simply believing it to be pink under another name). Beside it you smell the steeping peppermint tea, and are reminded of district eleven in winter. Throwing manners to the wind, you begin stuffing your face with eclairs, the chocolate squirting out onto your plate in front of you as you munch. You sample a macaroon or two for their crunch, and decide to speak to the emptiness around you.


“YOU KNOW THERE’S A LOT OF GOOD STUFF HERE TO EAT IF Y’ALL JUST WANT TO HAVE TEA.”

“OF COURSE IF YOU DON’T THAT’S MORE FOR ME! PUTAS.”

With a loud belch, you place down the megaphone and wipe away the chocolate and other remnants with a napkin. Popping open your sunset orange lipstick, you begin to reapply. After all, you had to look good in case anyone decided to show their faces. 

[Salome enters the feast]

[kap]

Sage Scarborough

District Twelve was Sage’s home, and he still wasn’t sure whether he’d be going back there dead or alive. Remembering home wasn’t hard, no, not at all. That was both a good thing and a bad thing, though. If he thought about it too much, he almost regretted volunteering. Almost. If he didn’t think about it enough, he didn’t have much motivation to keep going. This meant that he needed an even balance. Unfortunately, it was hard not to think about home too much with the messages he had received over his lobster telephone the previous day.

Parsley, Rosemary and Thyme had all left messages with him, relayed from the District, to the Capitol, to Karl the lobster telephone’s very own speaker grid. Sage had picked up each of the calls at different points; Thyme’s call was first, shortly before his near-death experience fighting that other alliance and seeing the Summit girl die.

“Sage, it’s Thyme. You’re strong, and you can do this. Keep going. Affron would want you to. I know you want revenge, but make sure you think twice before you do anything rash. Fight to survive, not just to fight. Also, since I know you’d want to know this…” she paused for a moment, and there was brief static “...Affron. If you want your revenge…” there’s another pause. “I don’t promote revenge, or killing for that matter, but if it’s what will motivate you to survive, I need to let you know that. Stay strong. We all love you.”

The message had been longer than Sage had expected, but he was grateful for that. It was reassuring and nice to hear his dear cousin’s voice. It was almost soothing. Relieving. Refreshing. Unfortunately, it was clear to him that the Capitol had cut something out. Something they didn’t want him to hear, and from context, he was almost certain it was about who had killed Affron. This meant, though, that he would likely never find out.

After his fight, when he’d barely survived, Sage’s next calls came through. The first of the final two was from his other cousin, Rosemary, and it started out in an odd way. The message began with the humming of a tune that Sage knows well; “Scarborough Fair.” He recognized the humming as coming from Rosemary, his cousin. They would often hum or sing the song the song together when they were little, as they’re the same age and grew up together. Then, her voice began to sing the first line of the song.

“Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme,” she sings in the tune of the song. Then, she stops singing and begins to speak kindly to Sage. “Sage, my dear cousin- it’s Rosemary. We’ve all been watching and we’re rooting for you. You’re strong, and you can keep going. I’m not sure when this message will be passed to you, whether you’ll be alive and strong, or in your dying moments. Regardless, I want you to know that we love you.” She pauses for a moment and it can be heard that she’s crying. Her next words sound like they’re struggling to emerge from her throat. “If you don’t come home, remember, you tried your very best, and we’re all very proud of you.” Then, the line cut out.

Sage took a deep breath after hearing the message. He was holding back tears after hearing it. It was extremely difficult for him not to be emotional, but he had to try and stay strong, as he’d been told to. Then, his final message came through. It was the one he was dreading the most, yet most hopeful to hear. He didn’t know what words would come from Parsley, which was what caused the dread, but he also just wanted to hear her sweet voice again. His kind sister was always there for him, after all.

Her message was brief, and her voice sounded hurried.

“Sage, you are strong, and you are smart. You are in there for a reason. It was your choice. Do not go back on it now. Do not question yourself. Do not hesitate. Keep going…” she pauses. “We are watching. We love you. No matter what, we are proud. Don’t slow down now. You can make it.” Then, the message ends.

Again, Sage struggles to hold back his tears, yet somehow still manages to do so. Knowing that the message was a recording and that the only way Parsley will hear what he says is if the cameras are on him, he speaks anyway, directing his words at her.

“I love you, too, Parsley. I’m doing this for you.”

---

As the night comes and goes, and the anthem shows in the sky, Sage watches as the faces of more powerful tributes show up. They were strong, like Parsley said Sage is. Yet, they still didn’t make it. They wouldn’t be the victor. They wouldn’t be the one going home to their family alive. Unfortunately, there was no way to be sure if he would be either.

---

The next morning, a Tea Party was announced. Sage had separated from his allies the night before, rather reluctantly, but since the Games were nearing their end, he hoped it would have been for the best. Making his way to the area where the Tea Party was to be held, he was cautious on his way. He made careful movements, keeping his eye out for other tributes. When he arrived there, however, weapon in hand, a creature began nooting at him, and nudging his axe. Reluctantly, as the creature’s collar read ‘for safe keeping’, Sage gave up his axe, which in turn, the nooting being swallowed. He was about to yell at the creature for it to stop, but decided against it, realizing it may not have been a good idea.

Retrieving his tea and party favor; a crayon, he graciously accepted them, although he remained cautious, not knowing if he would be jumped at any moment. As he wandered around the Rose Garden, which was where the Tea Party was being held, he tried to keep positive thoughts in his mind. He didn’t want to think about the fact that he was in the arena. He needed to try to think of the best possible outcome for the day; no one needed to die. If Sage could prevent deaths from occurring, including his own, he would do it.

It didn’t take Sage long to catch the sound of someone shouting through a megaphone. It was the voice of a girl; one he recognized but had never met in person. It was Salome, the girl he’d spoken to a few days ago on the Lobster Telephone, claiming to be getting chased by butterflies. Clearly, they hadn’t done all too much damage to her, at least not that she sustained to this point. For some reason, Sage felt safe following the voice. She had been kind enough to him before; maybe she wouldn’t try to kill him if he approached her.

Just to be safe, though, Sage took out one of his crayons, labeled ‘green’. It was a simple color and a simple name for it. Deciding he’d draw whatever he could think of that may protect him, he began to sketch out some armor. It was drawn well with straight, strong lines. Finishing coloring it in, he then put on the right vambrace. The next crayon he used had a bit of a stranger name, labeled ‘banana mania’. It was a yellow color, and Sage used it to draw another, well-constructed vambrace, similar as he had done before, except that this one was for his left arm. He put this on as well when he was finished.

Now, feeling much safer, Sage, carrying his tea and party favor, went over to where he had heard Salome’s voice coming from. When he saw her, he noticed her applying lipstick. Apparently, her appearance wasn’t the last thing she was thinking of. As for Sage- with the ridiculous clothing the Capitol had put him in, he didn’t really care how he looked at this point. He approached the girl cautiously, noticing she was unarmed. He figured that she must have given her weapon to the nooting creature as well when she had arrived. Luckily, this meant that if she did attack him, she couldn’t do as much damage.

“Hey- Salome, right?” Sage said to her. “I’m Sage. District Twelve. We talked on the Lobster Telephones when you were, uh… being chased by butterflies.”

---

1404 words
[Sage draws green right vambrace]
[Sage draws banana mania left vambrace]

[solo]

I hesitate before joining my friend enemy I-don't-know-anymore.

I hang back, hidden behind a rosebush, eyeing her as she laughs and plays her music for the whole world to hear. I grimace, and at first, my only thought is that she's doing nothing but draw attention to herself. And then I remember: this tea party is mandatory. I don't know how exactly, but the Gamemakers will kill us if we don't. I'm sure they're creative enough to come up with some new cause of death. Perhaps they'll send another elephant stampede.

I shiver, and push the thought away.

Another face comes on to the scene, and I'm completely taken by surprise when I recognize him. Sage, I think is his name. I spoke to him in the Training Center. He taught me how to throw a knife. Admittedly, I was a fair bit better than him, but his tips were useful. I realize I haven't drawn a set of throwing knives yet, and tuck the idea away for later.

My gaze follows him as he moves, eyeing the little penguin who waddles over and insists that he give up his weapon. Something is lifted from my shoulders, a sort of worry that I no longer have. He's not armed, and I assume Salome isn't either. Not to mention she's in a good mood. Perhaps she won't try to kill me this time.

Reluctantly, I step out from behind the bush, immediately confronted by a penguin of my own I don't bother arguing with it. Instead, I hand over my throwing axes, and watch in amazement as it swallows them whole. I'm not sure if I'll get them back.

I step up to the table. My gaze flickers nervously between the two tributes in front of me, wondering in the back of my mind where Lucas and Wylla have gone. They're probably close by. My eyes drift down to the food in front of me, and my stomach growls loudly. I've eaten nothing but greens the past five days. With a bit of struggling, I sit down in one of the seats, my fake leg bending a little awkwardly beneath me. I still have to get used to it.

"You're still alive." I say flatly, nodding towards Sage.

(I'm sorry I laughed.)

It's not a threat, or at least, that's not what I mean by it. But I won't be surprised if he takes my words the wrong way. People die so fast here, it almost seems like we value life less and less as each day goes past. Now, it's akin to discussing the weather.

I turn my head to glance at Salome, trying not to flinch.

(You snake!)

"Is, um...is the tea good?" the words are hard to get out, scraping against my throat and struggling to stay down. But they come out anyway. I don't know how to talk to her anymore, but I can try.

I reach for a biscuit, munching down on it and suddenly realizing just how hungry I am. I catch sight of a neatly-wrapped crayon, one that's changing color; and a silver parachute next to it. I take both and pull them towards me.

While I wait for an answer, I take the crayon that's changing color and sketch out a pair of gloves over my hands. The crayon moves in between the spaces of my fingers, filling in the pale white of my skin with solid color. The second crayon I use to bend down and create boots over my feet. I make them like Kennedy's, grateful to have some after going barefoot for the past five days.

I miss home.

[receives crayon from sponsors, uses it and her party favor to draw boots and gloves]

RIVEN FOWLEY

[kap]

Sage Scarborough

It was strange, what Riven said to Sage. He recognized the girl from the training center; they’d practiced with throwing knives together and she’d been significantly better than him at it. Briefly, he’d wondered if she’d used those skills in the arena yet. Shaking the thought from his mind, though, he responded to her comment about him still being alive. It was a fitting comment, he supposed. After all, it wasn’t like he seemed to be all too much of a threat.

”Yeah, I am,” he replied. ”I see you are, too.”

He remained mostly quiet after this. As he sipped his tea and ate his pastries, he noticed a silver parachute falling from the sky, which he quickly grabbed when it was close to him. Inside the contained attached to the parachute were two crayons. They were labeled ‘thistle’ and ‘cerulean blue’. He retrieved them from the container, but rather than putting them away, glanced at the other two tributes briefly before beginning to draw with one of them.

The crayon labeled ‘thistle’ was what he used to draw a blunt weapon. Initially, he wasn’t going to draw a weapon, but now that he thought about the possibility of other tributes doing the same, rather than remaining unarmed, he did. The thistle crayon fit nicely in his hand, and he used it to draw something he’d seen Marcus draw a few days earlier before they’d parted ways. It was a ‘baseball’ bat. Baseball wasn’t exactly a thing they had back in District Twelve, but he’d seen the bats before, and figured that one may make a decent weapon just in case he needed it. The bat was thick, and the lines used to draw it were strong. The handle was big enough for both his hands to fit around it, too.

Sage glanced at Riven and Salome as he finished what he drew. He didn’t want them to think he was readying to attack them. No, he didn’t want to. He wanted to have a peaceful day, and the weapon was just in case someone or something decided to attack him first. Therefore, he decided to speak up and tell them just that.

”I’m not gonna attack you guys. This is just in case someone… or something… goes after me,” he assured them. Then, he put the cerulean blue crayon in his tote bag, and turned back to the other tributes that were with him. To be completely honest, he was glad he was stuck with tributes that didn’t want to kill him just then. It was rather relieving not to be getting attacked left and right.

---

[Sage receives 2 crayons from sponsorship]
[Sage draws thistle baseball bat]

[Deleted]

The boy from twelve reminds you of your cousins. Brown hair, brown eyes, and a nose that may be too big for his face. You don’t recognize him because you never bothered to learn the names of all the other tributes (you are more than impressed with the other boys and girls that can still remember everyone that remains at this point). When he speaks, however, you recognize him right away.

“Sage, eyyyy,” You are all smiles as he takes a seat at the table. You hadn’t thought much of the boy who had spoken to you on day three. It was all just a dream now: the butterflies, swinging from the rafters, all the boys and girls swallowed whole by the Nakom. “Oh—I made it out of the butterfly swarm. I—” It hits you, and your face flushes, when you remember that he had been searching for another. Seth? His face had been in the sky that night. You wonder if he mourns him now, as many days past as there was then. “I’m sorry you didn’t find who you were looking for.” You push a plate of cakes in his direction. “Come and sit with—”

You’re still alive.

Riven speaks, and the hairs stand atop your neck. You turn your head from Sage and clench your teeth together. What did she want from you now? If she so much as raised a finger to either of you, you thought you would—well, what would you do? She looks at you with the same deer in the headlights look you’d seen in the training center, and then whispers out words.

Is, um… the tea good?

You take a long a gulp of the peppermint tea. Turning the cup upward, you swallow until all of it is finished and let out a sigh. This was the tea of your youth, the same that your abuela would make when nights grew painfully cold, or if your throat had an itch. It reminded you so much of home, in a way. Home. You form the word on your lips again, and speak it just loud enough to hear. Only fourteen left now, sipping on tea and stuffing their faces as though life had no meaning (did it ever?). You crack your knuckles and dig through the pink gift bag, and clutch the crayon between your fingers.

You could draw a dagger, you know. Drag it right across her fucking throat. And then you can put it through this idiot’s eyes.

In the seat beside Sage, you find the unmistakable visage of one Iago Izar-McClaine. He’s paler than you remember, with sunken eyes and a scar across where he should’ve lost his arm—perhaps they’d given that back to him in the afterlife. He smiles a yellow smile and leans over the table. You lean closer, your heartbeat quickening. What’s the matter, Salome—just before you were talking about going home. You really think they aren’t thinking the same thing?

“It’s a party. We don’t have to hurt each other.” The colors around you spin and swirl together, and your periphery is fuzzy. Why were you suddenly thirsty again? You pull down your sunglasses and shake your head. “They don’t want to hurt me.”

LIES!

Iago slams his fists against the table, and you jump in your seat. Do you know how close you are? Do you know how long our family has been waiting for someone to come home? Don’t you know what you could do, what you could say about the capitol, if you got the crown? He sneers, and you’re suddenly aware of the smell of rotten eggs and copper that come from between his blackened lips. You really think you’re not going to be dead after you killed Fallon? After turning on your old allies? Oh my days, Salome—you can’t believe that people don’t hate you now. Innocent Salome—ha! You’re a fraud. He’s leaning across the table now, and yet you’re stuck in your seat.

“N-no. I did that to—I just wanted to…”

Play the game? You wanted to go home, you finally wanted to go home, and now you’re just like the rest of them. Iago starts to crawl across the table, his body moving like a snake. Go ahead, go ahead and kill her. Didn’t she kill Gentian? And Atlas? Get your fucking revenge. Or at least get another one out of the way. He eyed Sage and shook his head. And this one’s so stupid, you could probably throw him in front of you like a human shield. Lord knows the others are going to tear into him…

“Riven, Sage, I’m sorry Iago doesn’t mean any of this, he’s just…” But you can’t take your eyes off of his form, now standing on the table. He crossed his arms across his chest and gives a shrug. Was he wrong? For all the damage the capitol had done, for all that your family had to suffer, and your district too—wouldn’t it have felt good to wear the crown, and speak what you felt to be true? You could be something bigger than yourself, bigger than any of the games or victors, if you stepped forward and spoke out. Blood would run in the streets and the districts would burn, but perhaps from the ashes, a new order could rise.

He extends his hand and you stand. Shakily, you move to take it.

Mind if I cut in?

You turn but have to look away—the light shines so brightly you can barely see—before looking again at the face of one Benat Izar. He’s bathed in white and gold, smiling just as you remember. You look from Iago to him before he takes your hand and has you standing atop the table. He loops his fingers around yours, and puts a hand at your waist. The two of your begin a two-step across the table, stepping over plates and knocking over place settings.

You know, it doesn’t matter what you’ve done. He says as he dips you backward. You’re always going to regret it because of how others are going to feel. But— He scoops you up with a grin. The key that they don’t tell you, the one that’s going to help you figure out who Salome Izar is… He wiggles his eyebrows and does a jig in front of you. Forgiveness. You can either spend the rest of your time here thinking about how you’re going to get to that crown, how to slight everyone else, how to be the same miserable person as… him. He says, with a wink toward Iago.

Or you could start by forgiving yourself. And forgiving them.

“What if they still hate me?”

That’s life, darlin’. But you know, you’re either going to greet death with open arms, and know who you are, or go kicking and screaming as you get pulled under.

You wrap him in as tight a hug as your can, your arms now around yourself. You blink, once, twice, and turn to Riven.

“Can we start again?” You say, standing on the table, covered in bits of pastry and splashes of tea. “You don’t have to forgive me, but I forgive you. I—I want to forgive you, I want to try. I don’t… I don’t know what I’ve been doing or where I’ve been going or who I’ve turned into…” You kneel, your hands crossed over as if in prayer. “But today—I can forgive you today. I don’t know what I’ll be tomorrow, but, I got an angel on my shoulder telling me I can still do good. And I’ve made so many mistakes, I want to try and fix them before it’s too late.”

Boo!  Iago calls out before kicking his feet up on the table. Benat smacks the back of his head, and you laugh.

You reach a hand out to Riven, and another to Sage.

“Will you join me?”

[solo]

"Yeah, I am. I see you are too."

I look down at my hands. Am I alive? I'm not really sure anymore. The edges of reality have started to fade, the doorway into the next universe seems so much closer than it did a few weeks ago. And I suppose it is. I'm going to die soon, right? My life line is running out and I'm certain I've almost reached the end of it.

"Not for long." I say with a short laugh, my fingers tracing circles in the table cloth.

"I’m not gonna attack you guys." I glance upward, surprised when I see Sage holding the handle of a soft pink baseball bat. I've seen them before, in the school yards, used my the younger kids to play an odd sort of game. Here, I don't think he plans on using it to play. "This is just in case someone...or something...goes after me." I shrug, and return my gaze to the table cloth. Sage is the least of my worries at the moment. I'm still worried about how Salome will react.

"It’s a party."

Speak of the devil.

"We don’t have to hurt each other."

I lift my head again, turning towards Salome, assuming she's speaking to me. But her eyes are intently focused on the seat next to Sage. My brows knit together, confusion written across my face. I watch her expression go from surprised to scared, and I almost say something. What's she looking at? What's she thinking? These are things I'm used to figuring out on my own, but for some reason, the answers are out of my reach this time.

"N-no. I did that to—I just wanted to..."

The scene unfolds slowly before me, and it only becomes more confusing from there. She's standing on the table, dancing with an invisible partner, and I can't help but wonder if this is what I looked like the day I saw Jasper in the arena. Talking to the air, going insane. That's what Wylla had called it, right?

(You're being crazy, Riv.)

"Will you join me?"

I look up, grey eyes meeting soft brown. She's begging me, and I know somewhere in the back of my mind that this isn't really Salome. Something's not right. It's too easy, too easy to forgive and forget. But I have a feeling she's not really the type to forgive.

"Salome..." her name comes out, quiet, barely there. I bite my lip. If Wylla were here, she'd know what to do.

I reach up, pale fingers lacing with tanned. I hold her gaze. But instead of stepping on to the table, I pull gently, urging her to come down. I'm not forceful. I'm careful, my voice gentle, filled with concern and the edges of hurt and betrayal and care all at once.

"Come down, alright? I don't want you to fall."

RIVEN FOWLEY

[Deleted]

You see that, she doesn’t want your forgiveness.

The look in Riven’s eyes tell you so many things—this woman wanted nothing to do with you (but not out of malice or spite, but rather, so she didn’t have to kill you), that she couldn’t possibly understand your sudden decision to ask for forgiveness, nor for you to forgive her. Iago had a point, after all. This was the Hunger Games, not a place where you sang kumbaya and held hands. One of you would see home again, and the other would be staring up at the ceiling of a pine box. For some reason, a part of you thinks that one of the three of you will escape. Sage, for his ability to endure even after all that he’d face. Riven for a tenacity that bubbled underneath her surface. And you? Because the Izars were known to surprise, even when hope seemed gone.

But do you want to go home?

“We can be sixteen.” You say to her, and to Sage, and to all the boys and girls that wander through the rose garden. Despite the hallucinogens flowing through your system, the thought crystallized. Tomorrow it could be any of your faces in the sky. But tonight? There was no reason to play the game, not when you had time to still be alive. “That’s all we’ve ever been, you know. Just kids, just—even if we knew what it meant, even if it meant only one of us could live. But we’re not special. Or different. We’re just kids. Damaged, broken kids.”

You’re going to have to face her tomorrow. Or the next day. And she’s not gonna have forgiven you then. And it’ll either be you or her, Salome.

But you can’t help but kneel and keep your hand wrapped in hers. “Maybe one day one of us will be alive, and forget all of this. But don’t you want one more night to act like we used to?” Your voice is almost pleading now. You sound so very far away. Are there stars in their eyes? “You were someone else before you came here. Don’t forget them. That’s what the games has done—made us forget who we were. But that person still exists, even after everything we’ve done.”

Perhaps that’s all you’d ever be.

Dying now would have you live forever, as Benat and Iago and Levi have done. When you see his brown curls and bashful smile, you realize Benat’s always been that perfect memory. The boy that bounced you on his knee and kept you safe when he was supposed to. Iago was fire and rage, but more, too. A boy that had wanted to send a message (and almost close enough to succeed). Why was your story any different? It felt muddled, mixed up. And yet being remembered is as unimportant now as it’s ever been.

Or rather—you had always wanted a mythology to surround yourself. The thought hits you hard in your stomach, and you can feel the world spin. You’d always wanted to be remembered for being good (but what was ‘good’ here if you weren’t dead?).

“I can’t promise a happy ending. But my cousins—they’re here, I can see them, I—they’ve helped me to figure out what’s important. And right now it’s that I’m only going to get so many more chances to live before…” You look to Riven. “One of us is going home, Riven, I—I know it. And we have to make sure that every last second counts.”

[kap]

WIP
-Sage stays quiet for most of the conversation
-gives Salome a weird look when she is talking to no one
-Sage asks "Do either of you know who killed Affron? I need to know..."
WIP

[solo]

"We can be sixteen."

Sixteen seems like it was ages ago. Everything seems so far away now, I've been here so long that all I can remember is the mansion with bird legs and the fish in the sky. Things weren't always like this, were they? I can't remember. How long have I been here? A day? A week? It could be a year, for all I know. The lines of reality are blurring and I can't seem to pull them into focus.

"That's all we've ever been, you know. Just kids, just—even if we knew what it meant, even if it meant only one of us could live. But we're not special. Or different. We're just kids. Damaged, broken kids."

I don't think I was damaged. At least, not before I got here. I was whole, a work of art put together by a craftsman, carved and molded to perfection. I'm not perfect anymore. There's chips in my side, paint peeling from my skin, things falling apart inside that can't really be fixed. I'm not sure I'll ever be whole again. I'm not sure any of us will be, not after what we've been put through.

Salome doesn't step down from the table, but she drops into a kneeling position, fingers laced with mine, eyes pleading. Her voice is distant, there but not really there.

"Maybe one day one of us will be alive, and forget all of this. But don't you want one more night to act like we used to?"

I want one more night. I want one more day, one more year, one more lifetime. But I know those are impossible wishes with no genie to grant them.

I don't think I want to be forgotten.

"You were someone else before you came here. Don't forget them. That’s what the games has done—made us forget who we were. But that person still exists, even after everything we've done."

I'm not sure that person exists anymore. Who I was and who I am now are complete strangers, two people who I don't think could ever be friends.

My thoughts are interrupted by Sage, and I glance sideways momentarily, still focused on Salome's words but trying to give him my attention at the same time.

"Do either of you know who killed Affron? I need to know..."

Affron. I don't think I even remember his face. A shiver runs down my spine, chilled to the bone by the fact that I've already started to forget. If I can't remember anymore, who will? I don't want to be forgotten. I don't want my soul to fade from existence after I die, simply because no one could remember my face or my name.

I remember he's speaking to me, and shake my head. I don't know who killed Affron. I wish I did.

Salome is speaking again.

"I can't promise a happy ending. But my cousins—they're here, I can see them, I—they've helped me to figure out what's important. And right now it's that I'm only going to get so many more chances to live before..." she turns to me and locks her eyes on mine. "One of us is going home, Riven, I—I know it. And we have to make sure that every last second counts."

Home. It seems like another impossible wish. I used to know what home was, but now, I don't think I do. All I have are two allies friends, and they aren't any more full than I am. We're all damaged. But I think maybe when we're put together, we're whole again. Maybe that's close enough to home.

I glance down, sweeping a few plates aside, and pull myself up to sit on the table next to Salome. My free hand folds across hers, placing it between mine and crossing our fingers together, a mix of dark and light. For a moment, I'm silent, and I lean my head on her shoulder.

(I'm Salome, from District Eleven.)

Maybe this is her.

After a moment, I look up. "Let's be sixteen tonight." A faint smile graces across thin, cracked lips, and I squeeze her hand. Then it fades and suddenly I'm serious again. "Promise me one thing though."

I turn to look at her, catching her eye once again, wondering somewhere in the back of my mind if she'll actually remember this tomorrow.

"Promise you won't forget me."

(I won't. Never ever, ever, ever, ever.)

I don't think I'm the one going home.

(You'll always be my Riv.)

RIVEN FOWLEY