sunlight blooms from stone // ezra + cyro + nikolai // day 5

[Tom]

Death would have been easier for Cyro Krane.

Bleeding in a sea of crimson hearts; mixing into an ocean of forgotten names until they bleed red with the fire of Panem. Death would have been easier, but he wasn't a dying man. Part of him wonders when his eyes open if he's really alive; whether the stagnant air was really there or if he was just dying once more, burning red hot like coals going out in a campfire. Dimming lights of a fire being quenched by the open air, until there's nothing more than the blackened earth, except he's no longer the remains of coals left behind in a crushed fire.

Cyro Krane breathes a heavy breath, knowing it's real, knowing he's alive, and knowing there was a reason why he was. Why? The question haunts him with a breath of uncertainty. Eleven wasn't meant to live over again. They've piled body after body into graves where the capitol stands over them with a grin; filled with teeth and the sharp bite of reality. Eleven was meant to die and stay dead forever in their eyes, but he's still alive, still breathing air, and his heart is still beating. For a moment all he can see is the stone cold layer above him, mixing with the fear of what's happened, fingers gently wrapped around a blade.

Was it because of Katelyn Persimmon's ice? Was it because of Xander Krane's smile? Was it because of Kirito Miristioma's pain? Was it because of Harbinger Rhodes determination? White and grey swirling his vision as he closes his eyes once more trying to stop his heart beating out of his chest. Fingers tightening around a blade where he swears he saw Amira's pretty eyes as she soaks up the sun, Levi's generous hands as he weeds a garden, and his nana who smiles with arms wide open, but all that's left is the fear that he's already lost something more. The fear of him not being real at all. The flash of Jade claiming Zenia is a muttation come back to haunt their alliance.

It's in the quiet moments of realizing he's awake and alive, unsure of if he truly was himself or another one of the capitols tricks, that Cyro Krane feels so alone. Left behind by Meredith, Arabella, and Lysander; all that was left was him in this stone resting for a moment, catching his breath and realizing that he doesn't even know if he's meant to be alive or awake. Presented in such a ceremonial pose as if this were the way they buried bodies in Eleven, but Cyro Krane was never that lucky. Crawling free from the space, is almost a relief, but catching the sight of the rest of the room shakes him to his core.

Black turns to white, almost as he were reborn into an angel and part of him gasps at the sight of how pure the white looks in the grim grey stone room. Not daring to move, he can feel the heaviness in his heart; beating like a drum of an illusion. Life. Death. Cyro Krane was still here somehow, but he wouldn't be like Carmen Stirling or Faux Rhodes. Eleven's already slipped through the cracks before. Part of him almost freezes at the thought of Hellemine really cursing him to come back and relive the pain once more. A sea of red emotions flooding him as he stands there for a moment, staring into the place; noticing the intricate art of creatures he has never seen. Figures that are haunting; burnt into his eyes until he can't breathe anymore.

It's a gasp that escapes him when he finds sunflowers blooming; yellow sunshine bursting from the stone walls, tied together in an intricate fashion that makes him feel cold. Beautiful, yet daring him to pluck one, but the smell is sweet and he doesn't want to dare try, but he grows closer remembering stories in fields of sunflowers, plucking them with the sunshine above his head. "Longevity." The word falls from his lips; a memory of a boy blooming in a field of them. Fingers brush against the sun colored petals, gentle and every so soft, until he plucks it gently, using the knife in his other hand to cleanly remove it. Longevity; a single word was a sign of what this was.

Brought back for a second chance, reborn like the others, but only for more time. Once getting a full glance around, he can see other items, some recognizable, but others just memories of his youth in passing. Beads of white wrapping around a chain, until a smooth large bead is at the bottom, connecting a cross to the chain is all he can remember of a cousin long gone; Salome Izar's blood lingers in this tomb of lost memories and broken promises of a second chance. Why him? Why Cyro Krane and none of the other Izars or Kranes? The question hangs in his thoughts as he brushes a hand over the cross trying to remember what he had been doing back then. Crying in his room, unsure of himself and praying for forgiveness for being born.

Fingers tighten around the artifact of a past, until his knuckles go white with a memory of pain, but also replaced with a new one of white hot fire spreading along his heart and wishing he had been able to know someone like Salome Izar. Strength in every step she had made, but now she's just another name. Another eleven tribute buried in the graveyard full of Izars. Letting go of the piece of Salome Izar, he places the rosary in one of the loculi; praying to whatever god that was listening to let her remain in peace. A whisper under his breath of the memory of Salome Izar.

"Sorry for disturbing you, Salome."

The sunflowers still bloom with the yellow of the sun, bleeding like a memory of the world outside of the games. Tying the sunflower plucked from the rest around his wrist, he moves on, slowly. Longevity tied to his wrist, memories of a blood sea and bruised dreams no longer carrying him. Yellow mixing with the red of the past to form the sunset where he would take Xander out to play among the wildflowers blooming on a levee of some irrigation system back in eleven, watching curious eyes take in the world as bees buzzed about and butterflies hide away. The orange of the sun dipping along the horizon until he can't remember why he was so tired anymore.

Xander told him once that orange was his favorite color.

Bright and dark both; like the sunrise and the sunset. He would speak in the dark of the night to tell Cyro that it made him happy that there would always be a new day to have more fun times. He would tell him that the orange always made the room sparkle with a new air. Every time, Cyro would tell him it was Amira Lockhardt giving them a new dawn to smile, to laugh, and to be brave for the night to come. A secret shared with only them; never told to anyone else, but Cyro wished he could tell him more about her. A burning fire spreading over his heart as he pushes on to view more of the strange artifacts left behind, blade in palm as he breaths in the stagnant air.

A rabbit's foot meant for luck attached to silver, fingers brush the soft fur, letting himself breath the memory of Benat Izar's death. Left behind for someone else to find, but he doesn't dare move it. There's a moment where he's closing his eyes thinking back to what his mother would say about the Izars. A family with a strong tie to tradition, unlike his own. Wistful dreams of being accepted into something like that, but never being able to. Weak. The word of his father would ring out against his skin as Cyro let out a broken breath, words slipping past his lips as he pushes the rabbit's foot back into its resting place.

"Luck is never on our side."

More sunflowers grow, almost out of spite from this place. Stone warped around them as they bloom against all odds, photos of joyful times scattered about in different loculi, some falling to the floor to reside. Flashes of past games left behind as a haunting memory of blood spilled into the ground never to be given another life like them. It's when he's staring at one of the polaroids where Teddy Ursa smiles with Chester from seven, Rory from ten, and a headless giant chicken plushie that he notices others are here in this tomb with him. Fingers gripping the blade tight to his chest, not quite realizing they had been there. Stuck in his own thoughts with anger of the past bubbling in his chest.

He should be dead.

Dominic should have made sure he was dead.

Xander shouldn't have to watch him die once, let alone die a second time, but that's the thing about second chances. Cyro Krane wasn't going to die again. The fire builds in his chest as he holds the knife by his side waiting for a moment to take in the other two who surely had to have died with him. Two other cannons to mix with his own. Another two bodies to mix with the ocean of blood, left others behind in order to die for someone else's sake. Ezra Valencia of District Three is not someone he expected to see, but Zenia had died. Three was just as cursed as eleven in ways. Nikolai Konstantine from District Eight is just as surprising, but he doesn't say the thoughts out loud, instead he forces himself to brush the petals of the sun, staring down the other two.

A grip of white knuckles and a lingering pain in an ocean of red as he can hear Arabella's words in his ears. May we meet again. They will meet again, but for now, he's here with two others, unsure of what they are meant to do. Death seemed like the likely answer, but he's tired of making enemies. Tired of people wanting him dead for leaving Xander behind. Tired of being a terrible father. Cyro Krane just wanted to breath for once, live for a second even if it meant someone could get the upper hand on him. Instead he breathes out, lowering the knife to his side before letting his voice rise heavy against the stone walls and stagnant air.

"We're not dead."

Eyes glancing about the room as he holds himself steady feeling like he's in a field of sunflowers, but knowing these grey walls hold them in. Xander would be watching with teary eyes as Wilson would scream at him to make the first move, but he's no longer in the mood. Arabella, Lysander, and Meredith could wait for him. There was enough time for him to hear the stories of other dead boys left behind. Eyes staring at the assortment of strange items around them and the haunting feeling of them not being alone. For a second, he smells the sunflower, letting the flora scent reach his senses as he leans back against a wall, holding the knife pointed out, threateningly, but lazily at the same time.

"Dominic from Four killed me for leaving my son behind... We would have been homeless, so if you want to kill me pick a better reason."

Longevity.

Death would have been easier.

Longevity.

A mix of red and yellow making the orange of a sunset and a sunrise to form the memory of a pleasant past. Among the grey of this tomb, Cyro stares ahead, unsure of what to do. Three tributes, three knives, and memories of a past long gone. Salome Izar and Benat Izar staring from their loculi waiting to see where Cyro Krane will end up among the stone tomb. Forever resting amongst the forgotten dead of those who never get another chance. Words almost a whisper on his ear as he can feel the echo of the Izars begging him to make use of his second life. Ghosts of the past lingering to his body like echoes of a legacy that was never his, but somehow became his.

"What are your stories? Who killed you?"

A smirk as he keeps the knife pointed, but stays along the wall, avoiding conflict if he can.

"Don't waste my time."

Longevity.

The sunflowers bleed with the brightness of Xander's smile.

[Cyro plucks a sunflower]

[goat]

ezra valencia

Death is this—

A misstep, a stumble, running into something you shouldn’t have run into, the rush of metal, a weapon, the way it takes your breath away when it hits your chest, the crunching of bone, sternum and ribcage breaking off inside you, the ground under your back.

It had been quick after that, at least.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to expect out of death, but waking up from it certainly wasn’t on the list. He’d emerged from the inky darkness into more, but there was something electric, alive, about this new reality. Eyes darting around the cavern, he peels himself off of the wall, clutching the knife he’d awoken with. The walls are ornate, embedded with plaques and mementos and memories, items belonging to people he never knew, that he might not even be able to recognize.

It’s then he realizes he isn’t alone. There are two other boys here with him, one from Eight and one from Eleven. They must have been resurrected, too. So, what, is this some kind of sick joke? Have they been brought back to life just to starve and suffer underground?

One of the other boys, the one from Eleven, speaks up, talks about how he was killed for leaving his son behind, but he had to do it. His logic is flawed, Ezra thinks, but he wouldn’t dare speak it, not when everyone in the cave is armed and in close quarters.

“What are your stories? Who killed you?” the other boys asks. “Don't waste my time.”

Ezra rolls his eyes. “I was doing pretty good at avoiding you all,” he says, twisting the knife around in his hands, watching the strange way it glistens. “The other tributes, I mean. And then the minute I accidentally run into some, the first thing they do is cave my chest in.”

His muscles tense, like they’re remembering how it felt when his bones shattered underneath them. “I wish they would’ve just left me dead. I didn’t even want to die once. Now I gotta do it twice. Seems a little unfair, if you ask me.”

[L△LIA]

Life comes back to you slowly, as if knowing it's not supposed to.

You are half-phantom before the memories even click into place, the ghost of your arm itching feverishly as you begin coughing so hard that you smack your head into the stone mere inches above your face. The collision echoes — through the halls, through your skull, through this moment and into Perdita dropping you, your body plummeting into the floodwater with a splash...

your forehead slamming into the base of a headstone so hard you felt it crack,

so hard that you gasped for air,

but there was only water...

water, blood, and bits of your own pulverized flesh all rushing into your lungs as you desperately hoped for one last breath and instead —

Something clatters to the ground and you convulse, choking on the bile retched into your mouth. Your forehead smacks into stone again in your panic to sit up and find enough space to keel over and vomit, but there's no room. There's no room. There's no room. There's no room! Hand scrabbling back and forth across the smooth rock, your scratch at it in a fit of hysteria, as if trying to dig your way out. Fingernails snap and bleed. You kick so hard that you bruise your toes and bang your knees, your thrashing meeting impassible ceiling over and over again. Sputtering, your throat burns as the bile continues to rise, but you can't spit it out and you can't swallow it down and so you repeatedly slam your head into the stone because you're trapped and drowning once again. You're drowning on your own bodily fluids. The skin on your forehead bruises then splits, trickling blood into your eyes. Bile bubbles over your lips as it pushes up into your nose and back down your throat into your lungs — burning unbearably — and there's no escape from the hell of this stone coffin, but you can't help hurling what remains of your body into the rock. Maybe it'll give way. Maybe if you kill yourself fighting it then it'll give way.

Your head hits the stone so forcefully that you finally stun yourself, face lolling to the side. Vomit oozes out your mouth and your gut spasms in the wake of your stillness, still trying to clear your lungs. Arm dangling out the opening of the loculus, your twitching fingers discover open air at long last and you claw your way free, dragging yourself through smears of fresh blood and vomit until you tumble out. Your body crashes into the ground with enough force to momentarily paralyze you, but you struggle through it. Frantically rolling over, your shoulders shudder violently as you spit bile — coughing and dry-heaving between breaths. You can breathe. You sob so hard over the miserable joy of being able to breathe that your own crying threatens to suffocate you.

You stay like this, gagging and weeping, for a long while; it only feels like a fraction of the time you were trapped in claustrophobic nightmare. Even after your nausea settles, you still cough. It's nearly uncontrollable. For a while it's difficult to tell why it's happening, but after the bile is cleared you slowly realize the obvious reason as to why you're hacking up bloody water from your lungs. You drowned.

When you sit still for too long, arm wrapped around your knees, you can feel the way the floodwater lapped at the back of your skull as you laid face-down in it — the small waves of Perdita abandoning you as you died — too weak from your wounds to pull yourself up or roll over. That was all you had to do to save yourself, but you couldn't. You couldn't do it. You drowned because you couldn't lift your own head. Water drips from the ceiling to tap you on the back, taunting you about it still. It's enough to convince you to pull yourself to your feet, tender with new bruises, and search for a distraction.

The first thing you find is a human skull, but it does little to soothe you. You don't look too closely, turning away immediately as your stomach twists sharp and awful again, and come face-to-face with a bright splash of graffiti. Did you kill Enigma Lane? "No." You answer automatically, blinking stupidly at the words. They're familiar and another day you might have laughed and played along, quoting old fight scenes and feigning slashing at the air with one of Zack Detroff's weapons, but you're not in the mood right now. "I didn't kill anyone." Your voice is bitter. Resentful. You don't deserve this. You could make a list of every lousy thing you've ever done, exaggerating and embellishing at every opportunity, and still never deserve this... whatever this is.

Further down the hall there are piles of bones, dull in front of the intricately jeweled mosaics covering the walls — even the hulking skull of a dragon looks dusty and lackluster by comparison. Instead you turn your attention to one of the statues, a boy's hand reaching out for you. Eyes wide and mouth hanging open, he looks... well, he looks a little like you feel. There's certainly some fear in his expression, but more than that there's distress, as if he's desperate for someone to save him and instead there are only empty stone halls where corpses taunt him with their useless hands. You swallow and tentatively outstretch your fingers to touch his. You couldn't save yourself. You're not sure what Dmitri Kostas: The First Ever Fallen expects from you. You were just following his example, you suppose.

When you come across the piles of teddy bears, you aren't sure what you're feeling about anything, much less what you're feeling about a memorial to deaths even more unfair than your own. Something sinks within you and you know this is guilt, but you don't want to admit that when denial is so much... so much... it's not easier. Something else. Resisting the temptation to touch the soft, comforting head of a stuffed animal the same way you reached out for the statue's pleading fingers, you shove your hand in your pocket and stare at the floor because you want to wallow in your misery. You don't want to pity anyone except yourself right now. You died. This is your moment.

Something crinkles inside your pocket and you pull out a scrap of paper and a polaroid photo. It's your own face looking back at you. You're holding a peace sign up over one eye while winking, your other arm wrapped around your district partner. Steel is obviously playing along for your sake, but there's an obvious kindness about it in her expression. It really is for your sake. Your heart clenches a little at her awkward smile and the way her eyes aren't quite in focus, flicking too quickly between the camera and a last glimpse of your face before leaving you in search of... someone else. Perdita scowls in the background and part of you wants to scowl back, but it's not an expression you're used to making and so you only get halfway there.

Unfolding the scrap of paper, your lower lip gives a little wobble as you read the short message. Then you read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again. You read it again.

I love you SO much.

There's no signature, no dedication to you. It doesn't need one. You know your sister's handwriting.

Just like that you're crying again, flopping down in the memorial pile of teddy bears. Hugging an armful of them to you, a dozen fluffy faces smushed against your own, you ugly cry like the child you are. It doesn't matter that you're eighteen. You're not a fucking adult. And here? Now? There's not a good reason to pretend to be. Even the Sixty-Fifth Games had volunteers — strangers saving strangers, some beloved little girl from Eight getting to go home while yet another suicidal Hope child sent herself off to die. No one did that for you. You're not that lucky and the only person in the world who loves you that much — SO much — couldn't have volunteered to save you even if she weren't already busy contending with her own looming death. "Ch-ha-ha-harrrrrrrlieeeeeeee," you wail into the bears until they're uncomfortably soggy, their fur sticking to you. You trade them out for new bears and cry some more.

Is this it? You sniff miserably, dropping the stuffed animals as you sit up. Is this the moment when you're allowed to be sad for yourself? Sprawled in the middle of a memorial to a bunch of other dead kids, you're not so sure. It doesn't feel like it. Instead it feels like... it feels like... it feels like even your death doesn't get to be about you. Framed like this, within winding halls of shrines to other people, your death seems to belong to some endless collective. You are blurred out until you are just a vague body, relegated to the lower levels of some sort of death hierarchy.

"Fuck this!" Hurling a teddy bear at one of the statues, you petulantly pick up another and throw that one too. Again and again you fling them at these carefully curated relics that someone has decided are more important than you, honoring old deaths rather than acknowledging yours. "Fuck that!" Another bear bounces off the marble face of a girl holding a sword. "And fuck this!" You launch a bear at a bloody book, at a music box, at a freaking potato. "And that! And that! And that!" Huffing and puffing, you stand up and snatch a pink lily toppled to the floor by your tantrum. Thwacking it against the wall, you glare at the bruised petals and try to reach up to rip it apart a few times before you remember that the arm you're attempting to move isn't there. Baring your teeth in frustration before biting a petal off in slow motion, you savor its ruination as you spit the sour pulp across the hall. "You think you're such a pretty flower. You think you're so pretty that everything is all about you, huh?" You bite off another petal. "You don't care about me. Why am I supposed to care about you?"

Another petal.

You care about me, something childish whispers in the back of your thoughts when you're too slow getting the bitter taste out of your mouth to follow up with another complaint. You shake your head, tearing another petal free. "You don't care about me," you insist again, this time with measured conviction. Grabbing onto a fifth petal, the voice gleefully counters: You care about me! Finally you place the voice. You used to sit in the park with your sister, pulling the petals off wild daisies in just this same way.

"...he loves me?" Charlie would ask a daisy whenever you would pout about not being allowed to play fun playground games with the other kids, tasked with watching over her safety instead. "...he loves me not?" She would side-eye you with a crinkle across her nose, barely able to hide how she thought it was funny when you tried to pretend that you were all sullen and sad, insisting how this time you were for real. This time you were really, actually, totally upset with her. This time you were never gonna smile ever, ever, ever again! "Nah, he loves me." Holding up the single remaining petal on the flower as proof, she'd brandish it across your cheeks, tickling until you giggled and ripped up handfuls of grass to throw at her in gentle revenge. "Nanny-nanny-boo-boo! Niko loooooooves me!"

You hold up the pink lily, just one petal remaining. "You don't care about me," you pout at the silver music box the flower fell off of, the corners of your lips turning downwards. You want to chuck the ruined flower at it, but the stem slips from your grasp and drops quietly to the ground, landing in a puddle of lingering floodwater. You didn't realize you were shaking.

Continuing down the hall you come across a random patch of sunflowers growing unnaturally from the stone, stopping to twist at the thick stems to snap one free. With a resigned sigh you stare the yellow blossom down, its wide brown eye staring back at you. "Everything is stupid," you mutter. "What's the point of asking you anything? How come a flower is supposed to know how I feel better than I do?" Scoffing, you bite a petal off anyhow. "She loves me," your voice is high pitched and mocking as you spit the petal out and walk down the hallway with your mockery of a mental mentor in hand. You rip another petal out. "Wah! Wah! Oh, no! She loves me not. Whatever will I do if she doesn't love me?" The note tucked into your pocket crinkles with every other step.

"Oh, hooray! She loves me again! I'm saved! ...ha, no, you're not saved, you dumb idiot. Who's gonna save you? Not you. Not some gi—" You're so distracted by your own ridiculous commentary that you don't notice the large puddle of red tinged water until your foot abruptly lands in it, loudly splashing up your pant leg. Your breath seizes in your throat, face paling so dramatically that you nearly faint, and then you're coughing again. Fingers tight around the sunflower stalk, you pound your fist against your chest until you hack up another spurt of the floodwater still sloshing in your lungs.

You think about the photograph in your pocket and Perdita's scowl. You think about how she saved you from the bloodbath and how she saved you from the lizard mutts and about how you thought she was going to save you from dying in that storm. When she lifted you up from the flood — even with your arm gone and your guts falling out the gaping hole in your stomach and your smashed up chest collapsing in on itself — you thought she was going to save you. Wiping the side of your lips against your shoulder to clean the rancid spit, you raise the sunflower to your mouth and bite off another petal. "She loves me not." It takes a while before you're willing to acknowledge that a large ring of petals still remain to be plucked. You won't know until you know and apparently there's only one way to find out. "She... she loves me." You work your way down the row of yellow, stumbling as you walk, until you begin seeing scattered polaroids from a memorial you must have collided with while struggling to orient yourself earlier. There are dribbles of your own blood and vomit on the floor near a lost dagger coated in putrid bile.

"She loves me not." You stand there, spitting petal after petal into the stone opening in the wall where you woke up so horribly. You didn't die any better. "She loves me. She loves me not." You remember the frenzied voice of a boy screaming at a lobster. The lobster spoke with the voice of someone he knew, someone whose throat had been slit the same way Emmett's had. Both of them woke up here, you know this with absolute certainty before you even realize there are other people standing behind you, their words blurry in the background of your thoughts. Perdita heard that boy's ranting too. She knows you're here. She knows you're here, but you don't hear her voice echoing through the halls, screaming your name while searching for you. Niko! Niko! Seriously, how hard would that be?! Instead there's nothing, no evidence of her. Perdita left you to drown. In agony. Alone. Why would she care enough to come looking for you now?

The water dripping from the ceiling taps you on the shoulder again, pestering for your attention. "This sucks!" You declare loudly without warning, whipping around to shake your half-decimated sunflower at the guys behind you. "I just wanted to save my kitten! It's really ugly, but I never got to have one before and it's so tiny and I didn't want it to drown! And instead I drown?! After getting my arm hacked off and being gutted for waving hello?! And then crack! Crack! Crack!" You thwack the sunflower against the places where the girl's morning star smashed your ribs, breaking them until they punctured your lungs and jutted out from your ravaged skin. You flinch each time as the flower gently collides with the hastily patched up wounds, still impossibly tender. "I didn't —" You grimace, your mouth trembling. You don't know what you did to deserve such a brutal ambush. You'd done nothing but pardon other people from Perdita's wrath and now you don't know why she ever indulged your naivety. No one is willing to pardon you. "I —"

I didn't want to die, the truth of it festers in you, ugly with how candidly the sentiment is exposed on your face. Getting murdered was unbearable. You... you'd rather die than get murdered again. That doesn't make any sense, but that's it. Apparently that's the only choice. "This sucks! This sucks! This sucks!" Looking up to meet the eyes of two boys, knives in each of their hands, you stare them down with a wrecked sunflower clutched in your own. "This sucks. I'm right and I should say it." You cough again from the exertion of yelling, lungs spasming as you spit another mouthful of floodwater onto the ground, your body still trying to reject one death before confronting the idea of another.

( C H O O S E Y O U R O W N A D V E N T U R E )

( She loves you... )

She loves you not.

( She loves you not... )

She loves you.

[Tom]

White.

Angelic colors to put the dead in, to pretend they were angels brought back to fight once more for them. Burning white flames to snuff out in an instance just for them to fight harder and harder to make it home. The thought fills his head making it heavy with a cotton stuffed feeling of muted sounds as he scans the building for an exit; an escape from this prison under the ground where memories of a past mix together. Lost souls to haunt them, burned into the skulls of descendants and games lovers. Fingers splayed out tightly along the hilt of the dagger, twisting with the energy of his fears coming to the surface.

Xander Krane had watched him die. Wilson Izar-Krane must have screamed to shut it off. Katelyn Persimmon must have figured out the twist by now. Arabella Shirley would be spilling more blood by now. Dominic Merluccius would be disappointed to not have seen his face in the sky. There's a calm to the air; almost a brief tension filling before him, heavy enough to brush his fingers through and feel the pain of those who have died and fought to come back. Emmett Le Roux's legacy left behind in this tomb, weighing heavy like the statue of the first Le Roux standing there. Kestrel's dance burnt into the stone she must have died on, to the tune of the silver box nearby. A haunting feeling fills the room; branching paths of ghosts lost to piles upon piles of dead bodies long forgotten.

"I was doing pretty good at avoiding you all," Ezra from three says while twisting a knife in his palms, eyes rolling back at his own comment. "The other tributes, I mean. And then the minute I accidentally run into some, the first thing they do is cave my chest in." A caved chest was a serious injury, deadly for sure, but here Ezra was, standing before him. Eyes glance downwards to look at the wound, but his chest doesn't look caved in anymore. Fingers tightening around the blade, knowing the gamemakers wanted them to fight. There's a tension to the air, knowing that they're most likely locked in there, with only one way out. Kill or die. Taking in the information, he watches as Ezra tense with the last words.

"I wish they would’ve just left me dead. I didn’t even want to die once. Now I gotta do it twice. Seems a little unfair, if you ask me."

Cyro only hums in a slight agreeance, but not at wanting to be dead. He wished Ezra would have just stayed dead; his job would have been easier that way. Dying twice was unfair; building them up only to tear them apart not once, but twice. A fire burning with the last determination to not die once more. Cyro Krane couldn't die again. Xander had already watched him die once. He had more to lose than anyone else. More to lose in dying, but he was selfish. Selfish for leaving his son behind to give him everything. Everyone wanted him to die, to teach his son a lesson, to prove that he was selfish, to break him down, but Cyro Krane got up again every time.

Building up the strength to stand back up and fight, he's never stopped fighting since Amira died. Built himself a life where his son and him could find joy, but he lost all of that. He lost all of that because of the capitol and their political drama. Just more pawns to be moved in the bigger game of Panem, but he wasn't ever meant to be apart of it, but he decided to throw himself into the middle of it. Longevity upon his wrist, think he could carry the adoration of the sunflowers. Blossoming into a father that Xander Krane could be proud of, but he had died the same way Johnwayne's father had. Left to drown in a sea of blood and pray for Xander to not end up like Will Johnwayne or Dominic Merluccius. No one deserved that pain, but he had given his son that pain.

Katelyn Persimmon would make a great mother, but it was selfish of him to ask her to.

Selfish of him to force his son on her.

"This sucks!"

Sunflower pointed, words louder than he expected, but the stagnant air feels less haunting with them. The situation sucks. Everything sucks. Nikolai from eight wasn't wrong. Everything sucked so much now; death still lingering in their bones, but brought back from their death. Wounds bright, but scarred more now for him; red like the ocean of bodies panem has killed. All of it sucks because Cyro Krane can't do anything else. All he can do is stand there, keeping his knife pointed, holding himself tall like he wasn't terrified for his life on which of the two would make the first move. It sucks because he's stuck in a tomb, knowing the three of them were trapped by the gamemakers for some sick twisted fight to the death in order to climb out of it.

All of it sucks, but he stays quiet in his own head.

Meredith Strauss would agree with them, he's sure of that. She'd tell them all that it all sucks, but to fight for their own life. She'd look him dead in the eyes and tell him to fight, but not for everyone else, but for his son and himself. Fight for the next tomorrow and the days spent in the sunflower fields, laughing down about the meanings of flowers the people of eleven had. Meredith Strauss wouldn't hesitate like he was; she would strike like her life depended on it because it would. There's a memory of tears and abusive fathers; an evening of hugs and talking about how life really just sucks.

"I just wanted to save my kitten! It's really ugly, but I never got to have one before and it's so tiny and I didn't want it to drown! And instead I drown?! After getting my arm hacked off and being gutted for waving hello?! And then crack! Crack! Crack!"

The sound of the torn apart sunflower smacking Niko from eight in the chest over and over again makes the room tense again; filled with the same haunting energy as the other items sprawled out around the room. Lysander Mae fills his mind; the withdrawls making her see more than one person. A late evening of wanting to ask her why she drinks, why she needed to forget and not feeling anything, but the words left behind in a chill of the evening. Memories of his own father's bitter breath of alcohol filling his senses. The putrid smell always made him feel on edge, but Lysander Mae didn't smell like him. There's the alcoholic smell, but something else that was comforting in a way. Distant, but close enough to make him feel less alone in the arena.

Lysander Mae would have swung by now, claimed that there were too many of them to fight.

With the memories of tributes behind them, Cyro could swear there were more people to fight than just Niko and Ezra.

"I didn't —" The words heavy in the air as he stumbles once more over the words. "I —" Anger and pain linger in his features; almost making Cyro Krane feel bad for the guy. Almost making him want to put down his weapon, give someone else comfort like he's done for years, but he wasn't back in eleven. He wasn't alone anymore. He wasn't fighting for himself. He didn't get thrown into an unfair situation. Cyro Krane volunteered to fight for his life in order to give Xander a better chance of making it out alive into the world. Sunflowers bloom behind Niko's back, where they shine like a memory of life blossoming in the harshest of places. Growing out of spite, just to prove to everyone else that there was hope to be had.

"This sucks! This sucks! This sucks!" Eyes meet and Cyro stares back with the same fire he carried from day one; not backing down from a challenge. Knife held out gently, tightening his grip on it just in case. "This sucks. I'm right and I should say it." The boy from eight has the right to say it. All of this sucks. The world sucks. The system they've been put in sucks. Everything was unfair in this world of blood and bones. Hell, even the districts were unfair. Built up by a class divide and a games to tear the people of every district apart and pit them against one another.

Cyro Krane wouldn't be here if it wasn't for eleven failing him in the first place.

The poor get poorer. The rich get richer.

And all of it sucks.

"You're right. This does suck."

Eyes glancing away from Niko from eight, keeping his grip on his knife tight. Memories of a crimson ocean and tearful goodbyes. An 'I love you' sent from his dying breath still hanging in the air. Arabella's fingers brushing through his hair as if she could keep him stuck to the world of the living. A chill runs down his spine as he can remember the moments spent with Arabella. She had killed in order to save him. She had tried to kill to save him again. Dreams and idealistic thoughts heavy in her eyes; born to be a dreamer. She had given him more of a reason to escape than he realized. People like her always made him feel like there was a light in the world; burning bright for the rest of them to see. Almost attracting them to a fire to rest near, burning the demons of the night away to the outer edges of their exhausted minds.

Arabella Shirley would hesitate in his shoes.

Without him, what was her reasoning for fighting. Arabella had some, he was sure of that, but he can't help but stick to the thought. Would she fight to live in a tomb of memories and two other living tributes? Would she force her knife into their flesh? Would she fight to see him again? Eyes glancing from knife to sunflower as he can feel his heart hammer in his chest, building up with a fire of a memory from Arabella's anger back in the capitol. Questions in the air, until she trusted him. Trusted him with her life and part of him knew he needed to make it back to her. He knew that she needed him around.

Eleven was stronger together than apart.

He had promised her.

Cyro Krane wasn't going to let that promise die among the depths of the earth in a place with many ghosts of a past.

"It is unfair. Dying once and being forced to fight once more. Force two others to die for you, but this is Panem."

Eyes glaring forward as he swears the room grows silent.

"Nothing is ever fair here."

Twisted knife in hand as his heart thrums against his ears. Dying once had been enough to make him realize he was going to have to make more hard choices. Lose all sense of what he believed and fight for his son with everything he's got. Burn away at the humanity he carries with him and leave behind the desperation to see his son once more. Try to pretend like the more he knows about people; the more he wishes to not kill them, but he's gotten his hands dirty already and he needed to get home. The words that he angrily told Katelyn Persimmon ringing in his ears like a memory of that fire.

Even if I have to kill all twenty three others myself.

Cyro Krane would do it.

He would burn bright like the sun, build up his fire and burn people to ash for his son.

That's what makes him move forward in the end, twisted knife extending forward with an edge of tension to pierce through the room. Be the fire that ravages the land with all the spark to see his angel once more. Blood would be spilled onto his hands, drowning in a sea of red that he's built for himself. Drowning in the fear of losing his son, losing the only good thing in his life, and losing the fight in order to see his son.

In the end, someone has to die.

And it wasn't going to be him.

"I'm sorry-"

Eyes focused on the edge of his blade, breath heavy in his throat, and heart thrumming in his ears.

"-but there's only one way out."

A swift strike, face drawn into a frown as he can feel his fingers tighten around the hilt of the knife.

It was kill or die.

Cyro Krane couldn't die.

Not again.

Never again.

"I-I'm sorry."

(Cyro Krane attacks Ezra Valencia with Twisted Knife [Knife])
x7ikNhbNtAknife
(Shallow Cut on Left Forearm 3.5)

knife

[goat]

ezra valencia

There’s an outburst from the third boy, Niko— harsh words that are sharp around the edges, scattered flower petals. This sucks, he says, over and over, and Ezra feels his muscles tense. He can feel the panic radiating off the boy, and it’s making his chest tighten. He doesn’t want to panic as well. If they all start to freak out, it’s only a matter of time before somebody does something drastic. He just nods and tries not to get consumed by the energies.

Cyro seems more keen to speak to the both of them. “It is unfair. Dying once and being forced to fight once more. Force two others to die for you, but this is Panem.”

“Just because it’s always been like this doesn’t mean it has to be this way. We don’t have to do what they want us to,” Ezra says. He know what it makes him sound like, a rebel, an anti-Capitol sympathizer, but he thinks, maybe he is. He hadn’t necessarily liked them before, but now he can feel the anger bubbling up in his chest, hot like a stew that’s been sat on the stove for too long. The Capitol did this, it was nobody’s fault but theirs. They chose to shove all these kids into a death trap just because they could. They took Ezra away from his family, took everyone away from all they’ve ever known. Now he was supposed to die for them?

Cyro starts to walk forward, his knife outstretched. Ezra shakes his head, as if it will stop him, as if it will stop any of this. "I'm sorry,” Cyro says, “but there's only one way out.”

He lashes out, dragging his knife down Ezra’s arm. Ezra jerks it back, cradling it to his chest, and holds his own knife firm in his other hand. The apology from the other boy’s mouth means nothing, he knows it can’t be sincere. “Come on, man,” he says, his heart pounding in his chest. “Don’t do this. There has to be another way.”

As he stumbles back, his knife accidentally meets flesh. He yanks the weapon back, but it’s already too late, he’s drawn blood, and he knows he can’t apologize for it. The words would seem as fake as Cyro’s did.


[ ezra attacks niko; knife ]
p0uk7ZzW6yknife
2109 -- Deep Gash on Left Bicep -- 8.0 damage

knife

[L△LIA]

"You're right." Honestly, you were expecting to be told to stop whining. To stop being petty and selfish. You were expecting the same response that has followed every outburst you've ever had throughout your life — over being ignored, denied, loved less. "This does suck." It should feel validating to finally have someone acknowledge that you are right, this does suck for you. A lot of things have always sucked for you. Maybe those things were small and quiet and didn't bother anyone else; maybe those things were frivolous kinds of hurt when your sister was laying in a hospital bed, struggling to breathe through the shivering cold and shooting pains of her fourth transfusion that week; maybe you shouldn't have been jealous that Andorra got cookies after donating blood for Charlie and you got orders to watch over the library while your mother stroked your little sister's hair. Your sisters are important and you were just sort of there, in the way more often than not. "It is unfair. Dying once and being forced to fight once more. Force two others to die for you, but this is Panem. Nothing is ever fair here."

No. He's not validating you. He's not even acknowledging your presence. His patronizing tone writes you off as he strips everything down to a general sentiment in order to twist it around and make your tantrum about him. His life. His problems. You don't know why he bothered asking questions when he's so deaf to anything except his own voice. You could break out dancing right now — the way Andorra does when you're ignoring her endless nagging, acting as if no one is in the room except you — and he wouldn't even blink.

It's a helluva thing not to actually look at someone standing there with their forehead bruised purple and split open, half-dried streams of blood trickled down into their eyes. It pooled on your eyelids and spattered across your cheeks as you thrashed against the stone earlier and now it's dark and sticky. It's beginning to flake a little when you blink or grimace at his inability to be bothered with the other people standing in this room — don't waste my time — little shards of red floating down to land on your already ruined uniform.

Someone decided it'd be a good idea to dress you in white. It does an amazing job of showing off how you vomited bile all over yourself, how you tore through the knees of the pants when you were slamming your body into stone and dragging your convulsing body across the ground after, how your bloodied fingernails have already dripped and slashed blood all over yourself. There are even a few scattered stains of pink and yellow from doing a poor job of spitting out the chewed up flower petals and your right leg is still damp and washed faintly red from splashing in that puddle. Enough is going on that it'd be shockingly easy for someone is miss that you're short an arm, if nothing else all of the ironically glittery jewels do a phenomenal job of distracting from it.

You're a filthy mess. You're a filthy mess, but he looks away because this isn't about you right now, Niko. This is about allllllllll the kids who have ever died. Ripred, didn't you see the memorials? Have some fucking respect for the dead. Your grimace turns to a sneer, your upper lip twitching back with a flash of teeth. The one thing you've always had is good looks that you maintained meticulously, obsessing over your reflection because your smile and the general niceness of your face seemed to be the only thing that ever won you recognition and kindness from anyone. If you looked in a mirror now you wouldn't recognize yourself. Maybe that's why you're so easy to ignore now. And he's one of those kids! How dare you talk about your own problems right now. He died. Pay your respects.

There was a woman in the training center — running the improvised rationmaking and edible camouflage something or other seminar — who indulged your aimless conversation for a while, giving up on attempting to teach you anything after you changed the subject for the eight hundred and thirty-sixth time. You chatted for a while. About the weather, the paint color on the walls, what you ate for lunch... anything, so long as it didn't acknowledge where you were and what was happening to you. It was nice. She smiled back at you, even though you didn't ask her to. Finally she sighed real big and sad and full of pity, putting a hand on your arm so you wouldn't just run away. Listen, she said, just watch out for that guy over there. And those two girls. And that one. That guy, that guy, that guy, that guy, and that guy. Those other two girls by the big machines over there and the dark haired one just beyond that. They all volunteered. She didn't have to say why you should watch out for them. Everyone knows volunteers are either suicidal or, more often, sociopathic. You laughed like she'd made such a silly joke and got away as fast as you could. You didn't ask her to acknowledge the reality of your situation any more than you'd asked to be here.

Emmet had been one of those people. Perdita another. You tried to tell yourself that had nothing to do with why you couldn't hardly sleep that first night, despite the way you fell in with them because Perdita saved you from the bloodbath. She certainly didn't seem suicidal when she was killing all those mutts and you were scared to ask about why she chose to come here, even when you asked about her life back in Four, as if asking might prevent you from figuring out the truth. Emmett... well, he died too quickly to learn much of anything about him, but he seemed nice... too nice to sign up to murder a bunch of people as if that sounded like a good time.

The guy that helped kill you was blurry in the rain, but had a kind of familiar shape to his nose that makes you certain he volunteered to be here too. There was no hesitation in his attacks. He wanted to be here and must have loved every second of hacking off your arm — the way the bone cracked so loudly in the air, the way your arteries spurted, the way you screamed so horribly. He must have felt some kind of sick joy as he gutted you with his sword, twisting the blade to make sure he mutilated you nice and good. He liked it. You've always been good at being likable.

You're pretty sure that you recognize this boy too. He looks an awful lot like one of the that guy, that guy, that guy, that guy, and that guys. If nothing else his aggressive stance and harsh phrasing is a dead giveaway when juxtaposed against your unarmed reluctance and the wringing hands of the boy beside you. His introduction is blurry in the back of your memory and when you try to recall it you can only come up with the bitter taste sunflower petals and something about a son. You don't know why that's supposed to matter or make him sympathetic. He chose to be here. Accidentally knocking up some girl after five seconds of regretfully disappointing teenage sex doesn't make him special, it makes him irresponsible. You should have used protection, bro. Not being an unlucky virgin like you doesn't make him special. Nothing redeems volunteering to slaughter twenty-three children for the title of Year's Best Serial Killer.

You've watched enough Games that you're sure he has a long list of excuses. Everyone does. Ten years ago they themed and entire Quell around it. This person wants to escape their super mean family. That person wants to prove they're a worthy legacy to such-and-such ancestor who won or came in second place and brought shame to the family name or whatever. Or maybe the stranger whose name got called just looked super duper sad that day and the person volunteering was so caught up in playing hero that they forgot about how they were signing up to play villain to so many more. Other people just need money, like, so badly, but it's totally embarrassing to work menial labor! Have you, like, seen the job market these days? Oh em gee, murdering a bunch of people just seemed like such a better alternative to scrubbing toilets for minimum wage. Ripred forbid. That would be so icky. Like, ewww.

Admittedly, you're pretty dumb. You don't know a lot, despite having spent a significant amount of time absently thumbing through fancy knowledge books, looking for cool science-y pictures while waiting for a cute girl to show up and ask you to flex your mediocre understanding of the dewy decimal system in order to assist her with finding something. The cuter the girl, the dumber you got; a really nice smile just seemed to make it take foreverrrrr to find the book they needed. Still, as stupid as you are, even you know that abandoning someone isn't proof of love. It's running away from your problems. You know this because years ago Charlie asked you if maybe... maybe... m-maybe it would actually kinda sorta be b-better if she... if she died? Then everyone wouldn't have to worry about her so much. Andorra wouldn't have to constantly get the marrow sucked out of her bones for Charlie's treatments and your parents could be something other than perpetually, traumatically worried. The family wouldn't be so poor and debt-ridden from paying for her medical bills. You could live your life — really live it — instead of being forced to miss out on everything that Charlie couldn't do, just so she wouldn't feel alone while watching other kids. The two of you could miss out on all the fun together.

You didn't tell your sister she should die. Obviously. You love her and you'd rather miss out on a thousand games of tag, you'd rather be sick with worry over her or homeless or malnourished because the only thing you can afford to eat is shoplifted ramen, you'd rather anything than for her to die. Nothing is worth that. That's what you told her. You told her that you scrub the library's public toilets every day because you love her so much. You told her that Andorra isn't sad about donating blood and marrow, despite the needles and endless hospital appointments; she's proud that she gets to help her sister live. You told her all of these things and countless others because you love Charlie so much that sometime it feels like a selfish thing, like you're the greedy one for begging her to live. Without her you'd have no one to feel alone with.

You don't want to be the one to tell this guy that he doesn't know how to love his son. You don't want to be the one to tell him that volunteering to come to this hellhole means he never grew up enough to understand what love even is, much less how to show it. You're stupid, not cruel.

"Just because it's always been like this doesn't mean it has to be this way." The boy with the wringing hands attempts to defuse the obvious tension of the Volunteer's outstretched knife, his voice laced with frustration at the defeatist logic filling the room. His shoulders are a wall between you and the other guy's jumpy eagerness to slit your throats and play righteous. Strong. Sturdy. He doesn't radiate Perdita's strangely comforting mercilessness, but you're certainly not mad to have someone standing between you and a second death. Quietly you shuffle to the side slightly to cower behind him more effectively. Maybe if everyone can procrastinate long enough then you can at least finish coughing the floodwater up from your lungs. "We don't have to do what they want us to." Impulsively you try to applaud the sentiment, once again forgetting that you only have one hand and clapping isn't something you're able to do anymore. You settle for miming a pat on the back, nervous that actually doing so might spook him and cause havoc.

This sucks. It sucks that someone decent enough to stand between some filthy kid they don't know and someone who has already decided that everyone in the world deserves to die except him... it sucks that he probably died as horribly as you did and that there was no memorial here for him either and that if you were at home watching these games on your television, you wouldn't appreciate him for this the way you do right now. Instead you'd be impatient for the footage to cut back to Perdita or one of the other fierce career girls showing off their awesome strength and grit. There's nothing cute or charming about you right now. You don't know why he would quietly defend you except a fatal sense of decency and genuine hope in an alternative to fighting. You could stab him in the back. He doesn't know you. It's brave to stand here, like this. He probably doesn't even know he's being brave. He's just trying not to get murdered again.

Your stomach twists with guilt over the shame of pitying yourself when you're not alone. Other people died too. No matter how much you want your selfish moment of something being about you for once, you know you're a jerk too. Someone loves him as much as Charlie loves you. You should have brought him a sunflower to destroy too.

"I'm sorry —" The Volunteer's words ring hollow in these halls, empty and meaningless. If he were actually sorry then he would lower his weapon. You wish he'd just own his disinterest in the two of you rather than asking meaningless questions and feigning regret. "— but there's only one way out." That's a lie. His way out was never coming here to begin with, but like so many other ego maniacs before him, he can't fathom the idea of being a villain. In his mind he's a hero — to his son, to the person he volunteered for, to a nationwide audience that must surely be wailing over his sob story. And you, this other guy... hey, who are you two again? Sorry. Forgot you were here.

Sunflower in hand, you don't want to fight, no matter how much of a patronizing jerk this kid is being, knife outstretched as he advances menacingly and you shuffle back, still trying not to engage. It doesn't really matter that he wrote you off with barely more than a pause for the sound of your misery; there's a whole club dedicated to dismissing you that he can join. It's named Everybody. You just want to throw your tantrum and break stuff in peace. You just want to take Charlie's note out of your pocket and read it a few hundred more times. You just want to worry about how alone she'll feel without you to be alone with anymore.

Maybe you and this other guy could compare throwing strength with some of those weird muttation bones over there. He'd obviously win, but he's just shaking his head back and forth, attention fixated on the knife jabbing toward him. "Come on, man. Don't do this. There has to be another way." It slashes down his arm, but you don't see it because you're too busy getting stabbed. In his effort to de-escalate the situation he holds his knife back, colliding with you as he recoils from the attack and the blade sinks into your arm. With a scream you stumble back, foot sliding in a smear of your own bile. You hit the stone ground with a wicked THUD, disarmed of your sunflower as you roll with the pain and suddenly you're face down in water all over again.

It's a small puddle, but there's still enough to fill your open mouth as you yell and sputter from the trauma of drowning all over again. For a moment you're paralyzed, fear once more preventing you from being able to lift yourself up. You manage to forcefully exhale the water with a huff, your nostrils flaring as you scramble to your knees. The catacombs spin and you snatch up a dagger laying on the ground. It's difficult to grip it with the your hand spasming in pain from the fresh wound on your arm, the stitches of an old wound popping open along with it, but you pretend your hand is your mouth and will yourself to bite down on the hilt as hard as you can so you don't accidentally sink your teeth into your tongue.

"I-I'm sorry," the Volunteer says, desperately trying to pretend he means it. He's the good guy and he totally didn't start this. He's definitely not holding a bloody knife and stabbing innocent kids because that's what he signed up to do. You should feel bad for him. He left his family and bad decisions at home to come here! Not that you'd know what that's like. You're not a real person; you wouldn't understand. He died and you smashed up his funeral flowers. That was super rude of you.

You hate all of this so much that your hand shakes. You regret the hours, the days, the lifetime you spent watching Games re-runs. No matter how depressed you were, you should have been able to find the energy to turn the television off. You don't know what you ever saw in any of it. Apparently what he saw in it was something he wanted to experience.

( C H O O S E Y O U R O W N A D V E N T U R E )

( "Come on, man. Don't do this. There has to be another way..." )

There is, but apparently no one can find it in this labyrinth.

( "I-I'm sorry..." )

You don't apologize. When you attack him, you mean it.

[ niko attacks cyro; knife ]

SKBr2uTh7Tknife

[ 2174 — stabbed in bicep — 8.5 damage ]

knife

[Tom]

Death lingers in the corner of his vision.

A camera's glint of a knowing eyes watching them.

Ezra's words break the stagnant air.

"Just because it’s always been like this doesn’t mean it has to be this way. We don’t have to do what they want us to,"

Ezra from three was right; building up the tension and the pain in Cyro's body. Years spent feeling like he was breaking from disparity. A burning fire in his chest that lights with the memories of before the arena, fearing the day when reaping would come because the capitol had closed citizens into their homes; acted like the world wouldn't suffer from them being forced into curfews and away from the fields. Crops given to the districts putting workers off of work, killing families like his own. Tearing them apart and making them desperate to be able to feed their children and themselves. Snow's death had brought more death than relief; with one dead corrupted man another one rises, but they could be different. They could change the world, but yet he still follows the rules of their games.

Built up this expectation of Eleven's tributes because family and unity was important; took away the only thing that made him happy in order to keep him in his world. All of this was never about the world or Panem or Katelyn Persimmon or his parents. It had always been about his son; the son who everyone wanted to look at like Cyro's irresponsibility and they were right. He was irresponsible with his actions, but he would make the mistake over again and again if it meant he got to keep Xander's smile in his world and the new life that burst through like a tidal wave of emotions he never realized he could have.

They didn't have to keep up with the same system Panem has, but Cyro Krane had other matters to focus on. He was a father first, devoted his life to making sure Xander would live a world where he didn't have to worry. Built up a selfishness in order to break boundaries just for his son; losing everything he ever could in order to find a place where his son can grow happily. Whether that made him a bad man and father didn't matter to him; not when it came to his son. Cyro would sacrifice everything for his son, his angel, and his sunshine. Yellow petals glittering back at him as red stains the knife in his hands.

A sign of his devotion to his son.

Red coated metal and yellow petals;
The cycle continues.

"Come on, man," The words fall from heavy lips, almost as if he's asking Cyro Krane to give up on his son. Give up on giving Xander Krane a better life. Find another way. It's almost pointless listening to the words, but his heart aches with a dilemma. "Don’t do this. There has to be another way." It's those words that break him beyond repair. The anger boiling in his skin back in Eleven where he begged for another way; another solution to all of this pain. Divides built by families and leaders and workers and money; all of the anger towards the shame of knowing people look down upon him. Down upon Cyro Krane because he's made a single mistake and continues to make more in the eyes of Panem.

Ezra's blade gleams red with the reminder that this was still a game. A game they were forced to play and Cyro would play it. He would play it until he made it to the top. Made it out of there so Katelyn Persimmon doesn't have to deal with his consequences. Selfish. His father would shout. Selfish. His mother would shout. Selfish. The tributes would shout. Selfish. Panem would scream. Burn the image of his son alone to papers as if he were just another pawn in this story of Panem; built to be proof of what mistakes can cause. Another child without a father to love him. Another child left to be reaped or volunteered for drama later. Cyro Krane wasn't going to let that happen.

There had to be another way.

There always was another way.

Except, Cyro Krane couldn't find it.

It's in Nikolai from eight's eyes when he catches sight of it. Anger, shame, and pain. It's in the way Nikolai from eight finds a blade of his own; fear in his eyes disappearing, but lingering in the way his hands shake. Part of him knows that feeling, knows what it's like to be afraid of another person. It's the same way Cyro Krane had been shaking when his father started something; looked down upon him as if he were just another mistake making more mistakes. Binding the chains of society along them all; built up a story to make himself the hero of someone's story. Niko from eight carried the same fire Cyro has; burning to the surface in those eyes and he can't do anything else, but stare back for a moment and wait.

Wait for the moment his heart aches and the blood would surely be spilled onto the stone floors where a funeral already resided. An ocean of red to no longer snuff out his flame, but a boy from eight who looked down at him just like everyone else. Just like Will and Dominic, burning all of his words with the blood spilled upon his body; wounds licking up his sides and a neck that's scarred to no end. In the hollowness of those loculis; Cyro Krane can't feel the connection he had before to them. Never once was he an Izar. Less of a Krane than that. Cyro's always been himself; a boy who made mistakes and fights against every single person who doesn't want him to succeed.

Blood spills from his bicep; stepping into the pain until his eyes meet Nikolai Konstantine's. Fingers tightened around his own blade until his lips can find the words for him. Tears still in his eyes from the beliefs people had of him. Selfish. Stupid. Mistake. It's in the yellow of petals where he speaks; stuffed throat filled with the promise of adoration and longevity from the sunflowers. A knife coated in the blood of another person stuck in this system with him wanting to find another way. Another way to the surface, but he knew there was only one way. He had promised Katelyn Persimmon that he would do whatever it takes.

"Don't look down on me."

Pulling back from the knife, he stands back with his own knife held out in protection. Defensive and scared of what another death would mean. Build the true world that Will and Dominic saw for Xander Krane, but he couldn't let it be built. Hands shaking as he wipes his tears away, the emotional breaking of his heart coming more and more. They were looking down at him. Believed he was just another monster like Levi Izar-Krane had wanted to be. They believed he was another Iago Izar-McClaine. Another way is what all of them want, but Cyro knew there was no other way.

No other way, but death or killing them all.

"Don't look at me like I'm another mistake."

The words hurt when they leave his lips; pain in his chest of the days where he would hide in his room and cry out of his mother and father's sight because boys don't cry. Boys aren't meant to be weak. Boys are meant to stand tall and never break, but he's not his father. He's broken beyond repair. He's been broken for as long as he's been alive; built into a society where he's always going to be looked down upon. Someone would always sit higher, but he prayed for a change. Pray for Panem to break away from the norm and find a peace where no one has to hide away from their pain. A panem where his son could be free and not looked at because he's Cyro Krane's kid. Not viewed as the mistake of two teenagers who didn't know what they had done, until it was too late.

"Please. Please. Y-You don't understand. There's no other way. There's never been another way. Another way to them is death. It's only ever been death. All of it has been death!"

Eyes swirl with tears as he drops his knife extended out, grasping at his chest; heartbeat heavy in his chest as his eyes scan the room feeling locked in once more. Hidden away from his pain, but still just as broken as before. Xander would be watching, but he needed to see this. He needed to see the pain his father has endured because of Panem. It's heavy upon his breath as he breaths quick breaths, not meeting Niko or Ezra's eyes.

"It's always death! Death! Death!"

Death, as if it cures all the pain of the districts. Death, as if it's a way out of all of this. Death, as if they weren't all tired of it. Yellow petals, red blood, and silver metal standing in the walls of their funeral with broken boys lost to another system and mistake and unfair world. It's maddening how well he's kept himself together since dying. It's only coming back to him over and over again. Niko's knife mixing with Dominic's breaking of his bones. Eyes reaching back to them as he speaks again, remembering his own pain again.

Selfish.

Everyone screams.

Selfish.

He thinks.

"Don't look down at me. We've been through it all. We know the game they want us to play. We're no longer the people we were back home. I'm just a father who wanted, no needed, to get his son somewhere better."

A selfish boy turned into a fire; burning bright and red with the devotion to find a better life for the only light in his life. Heavy breaths and eyes focused on the other two, knowing that in the end, he was going to die fighting or kill to not make the same mistake again. Fingertips wrapped around his knife as he continues on with the yellow petals choking at his throat, reminding him he was running out of time. Running out of fire, but he needed to survive. He needed to make it out of there.

"Eleven lost a lot of jobs due to the chaos of the beginning of this year. I lost my jobs. There were none left or I was turned away because I had a son before I was out of reaping age and out of wedlock. Eleven turned their back to me. I was desperate and alone. Love makes you desperate."

Red oceans of a past, yellow petals of a memory, and silver metal of a desire.

"I'm really sorry. I am. I'm so sorry, but I have to. I fucking have to."

A system that had failed him. A family that had left him.

A home that had turned their backs to him.

A son who cried for him.

"There's no winning here. We all lose. There's only been one winner."

Pulling the knife forward, eyes focused on Niko and then to Ezra, he strikes with his eyes open, wanting to see the anger on their skin. See the anger against him in their pupils until it burns him up and gives him the pain he deserves for making the mistakes he did. Push him to the limits of his own devotion. Prove that he needed to survive and kill those who don't want him to succeed. Meredith Strauss, Arabella Shirley, and Lysander Mae needed him. They needed him to fight to get out.

All of it hurts as he lets the stone walls tighten around his heart. Letting the fire in his stomach from all the past char his flesh. Letting the yellow petals stare back with that bright memory knowing this would be the only way, the only way to survive this game of kill or die. Eleven was meant to be unity, apart of a family, but Cyro wasn't from Eleven. He was just another mistake to the image; taking away all of Katelyn's happiness and putting a shameful piece of it into the public's eyes.

Just another selfish boy who sacrificed himself for glory and riches just like everyone thought.

A failure.

"Death."

(Cyro Krane attacks Ezra Valencia with Twisted Knife [Knife])
RRT4_ncqGMknife
(Deep Gash on Right Thigh 8.0 +1 from Blades)

knife

[goat]

ezra valencia

Cyro doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe that there’s another way, that they don’t have to do what the Capitol wants them to do. Ezra doesn’t want to blame him— he doesn’t know this boy beyond what was put on TV after the reaping, he doesn’t know his life, but still, he doesn’t think he’s asking for much. A little empathy, some understanding, maybe. For the three of them to just calm down a little and try to solve this problem without killing anybody.

What if there isn’t another way? he thinks. What if they have to die so somebody else can leave? What if none of them get to leave, and they’ve slaughtered for nothing? He doesn’t know. He feels like he doesn’t know anything. He thought that when you died, you were dead, not that you came back in some underground cavern with the rest of the unlucky kids who got their brains bashed in.

Nothing makes sense anymore. If he thinks about it, it hasn’t since his name was pulled from the reaping bowl. He’d been a good kid, a member of the community, he helped people, he did everything right, he did everything fucking right and it still wasn’t enough. He still got sent here, and he still died. He didn’t even get a chance to explain himself. He wasn’t going to attack those other tributes, he really wasn’t. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all he can keep telling himself. Wrong place, wrong time.

Niko lashes out at the other boy, jamming his knife deep into his arm. A mirror image of what Ezra did to him. He looks at the twin wounds, twin trails of blood, and tries not to be sick, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t—

He doesn’t want to kill. Not a person, anyway. He’s killed two mutts and he can’t help but let it haunt him. The first one had been trying to kill him, but the second, the second had just been crossing his path. He’d assumed it was going to attack and stabbed it through the neck without a second thought. What if it wasn’t going to hurt him? What if it was just trying to exist?

He can’t stop thinking of questions he knows will never be answered.

“Don't look down on me,” Cyro says, and Ezra forces himself to look at him. He has no room for judgment, not on anybody in this arena, especially watching this boy disintegrate before his eyes. His words are shaky, all over the place, laced with death and the brutal facts of a tragic backstory. There’s no coming back from this, and Ezra knows this.

He’s too far gone.

Ezra doesn’t want to end up like that, but what choice does he have? When has he ever had a choice?

“There's no winning here. We all lose. There's only been one winner.”

Something bubbles in his chest.

All he’s ever done is live his life for other people. He never got the chance to live it for himself, and now he’ll never get to.

“Okay, Cyro,” he says, knife outstretched toward Niko. He crafts an apology in his head that neither one of them will get to hear. “Is this what you want? You want us to kill each other? This is the only way, right?”

Ever the people pleaser.


[ ezra attacks niko; knife ]
Hvym8iVX7Aknife
2110 -- Deep Gash on Right Forearm -- 8.0 damage

knife

[L△LIA]

Clambering to your feet, you launch yourself at the other boy with all the momentum you can manage. Struggling to stand is no easy thing when the only hand you have to help you is the one holding a knife, but you get up and you do it forcefully enough that you can't take it back. You can't pull up short and drop your weapon. You can't regret the choice you've made or, if you do, you can't regret it quickly enough to take it back. You have to own this.

Your knife digs into his arm, deep enough that you're fairly certain you feel it slip against bone. Your stomach lurches. You don't like any of the ways this feels so similar to the paper cranes and stone lizards you've been fighting; you don't like any of the ways this feels so different from those creatures. Even yesterday, when you flailed a bit in a pitiful attempt to deflect the people attacking you, your knife was mostly harmless. At best your dagger was a pesky nuisance. At worst it was so ineffectual that there's a high probability no one even noticed you were holding it.

There's a natural twist to the way the blade pushes into his flesh and you remember the way the cranes you fought stayed impaled on your other dagger for days because you didn't have it in you to take their fragile corpses in your hand and twist them off. You didn't like the idea of the way your hands might crush their tiny bird bones. They looked so delicate, the kind of delicate you were always taught not to touch rather than be taught how to do so without causing harm. And now? You're already yanking the dagger back because there's no pausing to contemplate anything. He made that rule and so you follow it. The knife doesn't withdraw easily; you can feel it ripping and tearing on the way out as the flesh tugs against the blade's helical edges.

You stumble back gracelessly, the disorientation from your fall intensifying your panic as you skitter on your feet and jerk your head around to attempt to gauge the situation. The feeling of gouging him replays in your stomach, waves of uneasy softness twisting to replicate the sensation of flesh giving way. "Don't look down on me." Your head swims as blood streams down your arm, hanging slack at your side. "Don't look at me like I'm another mistake." It soaks your sleeve and drips down your hand, trickling onto the knife and mixing with the blood of the person you just attacked. As it drips onto the floor you swear you can hear the sound echo — for him, then for you.

"Please. Please. Y-You don't understand. There's no other way. There's never been another way. Another way to them is death. It's only ever been death. All of it has been death!"

There was more than one time when you asked Charlie what it felt like to be so sick all of the time. You understand that there are times when the doctors look at the results of her bloodwork and then back at her, stunned with disbelief that she had been able to walk into the examination room, to take a seat and chat with them casually, when she was dead on paper. You know that she has permanent IVs and that the needles they use to pull marrow out of her bones and to push it back in are larger than anyone should be conscious for, but when they do it she's lucky if they use a strong local numbing anesthetic. You get that sometimes she bleeds right through her own skin. You've seen the way her tongue swells purple with blisters and how she sleeps for all but a few scattered moments throughout the day — fifteen or thirty minutes of drowsy lucidity here and there — when her blood cell counts are at their lowest.

Those are all facts that you know, but it doesn't mean that you've ever understood what any of that felt like for her. Not good, you would conclude after she would attempt to find the words to describe how surprisingly horrible it felt to be so tired, how it wasn't the same thing as being sleepy. She said she was a ghost in her own body. She said her body was heavy and her thoughts so foggy that trying to think the smallest things would give her headaches worse than any surgery she'd ever had. She said the spontaneous bleeding felt like her body trying to fall out of itself and you really didn't understand that. You didn't understand any of it. You didn't understand any of it until now.

"It's always death! Death! Death!"

What Charlie described was what dying feels like. Not dying in the way where people look at her with pitiful little frowns and lower their voices because that girl is always dying, she's been dying her whole life — didn't you know? No. It felt like dying in the way where you actually fucking died yesterday and someone brought you back to life, but they didn't care much for the quality of it. You didn't wake up normal. Sure, your wounds are mostly mended on the surface and you have enough blood to be able to stand up and move around, but that doesn't mean you actually have enough blood. One gash and you can feel your thoughts slipping out your arm. You're not the kind of dizzy that someone gets after spinning in too many circles, but the kind of dizzy where your peripheral vision shrinks and the room softens. Slowly, slowly, slowly there is less of the world.

"Don't look down at me. We've been through it all. We know the game they want us to play. We're no longer the people we were back home. I'm just a father who wanted, no needed, to get his son somewhere better. Eleven lost a lot of jobs due to the chaos of the beginning of this year. I lost my jobs. There were none left or I was turned away because I had a son before I was out of reaping age and out of wedlock. Eleven turned their back to me. I was desperate and alone. Love makes you desperate. I'm really sorry. I am. I'm so sorry, but I have to. I fucking have to. There's no winning here. We all lose. There's only been one winner. Death."

There's a dull ache in your head as you try to process the speech that's happening, but it takes conscious effort not to drop your knife. You have to direct each part of your body individually and if you don't keep up with telling your legs to be legs then your arm begins forgetting to be an arm. The water they didn't finish pumping out of your lungs sloshes a little whenever you falter. You wonder what your disemboweled stomach actually looks like beneath your uniform and imagine that the skin graft covering the hastily patched wound must resemble plastic wrap. It probably undulates each time your abdomen clenches, your innards floating around loosely like fish bumping against the glass of a wobbling aquarium tank. Boop! Boop! Aaaaand here we go again... boop! This was all the life someone thought you needed.

You regret wanting to know what your sister feels like all of the time. You regret realizing that this is maybe the only thing she has ever known, that maybe she hasn't ever felt the way you used to feel all of the time, the same way you had never felt like this before. It's enough to make you forget that you regret lashing out against a stranger. You want them to go away. You want everything to be quiet so you can read your note. You want to write one back.

A knife stabs into a leg and there's blood everywhere; you're not the only one being undone so easily. "Okay, Cyro," the boy who defended you for a fleeting moment says stretching his knife out to point at your throat. Your mouth hangs open, heavy breathing as you try to process this turn of events and tell your body how to run away. "Is this what you want? You want us to kill each other? This is the only way, right?" You want to shake your head in objection, back away, duck and cover, but there are too many parts to the instructions and you can't do any of it in time. All you can manage is flinging your arm up to shield your neck, a guttural scream cutting the air as the dagger slashes through another part of your arm.

Your fingers convulse, struggling to hold on to your own weapon. Your arm hemorrhages blood even faster than before — cold on the inside as your veins empty, but warm on the outside as the heat of it flows across your skin. It's not so horrible as having your arm severed or your organs falling out of your open stomach, but you hate how thick the air is and how much of a struggle it is to move through it. You hate the pain, even as it begins to meld with your ever-shrinking periphery.

You should probably sit.

Instead you topple forward, focusing more on trying not to drop your knife than you do on how your legs fumble getting from point a to point b.

( C H O O S E Y O U R O W N A D V E N T U R E )

( Tell your life story... )

Ha. What life?

( Do what you're told... )

— so long as you're not the one telling yourself to do it.

[ niko attacks cyro; knife ]

ro|pegZNFGknife

[ 2108 — block ]

[ accuracy ]

knife

[ 2169 — miss ]

knife·knife

[Tom]

Red.

Like the ocean of blood. Like the blush of Amira Lockhardt. Like the burning fire of pain. Like the wounds on their skin. Like the hatred for all the pain in his life. The wound is red as he drags the knife into Ezra from three's thigh. The ripping sound sending the anger of his father ripping through his heart; bouncing around his head until he's hearing static noise once more. Tears staining his cheeks, dripping to the stone floor where death lingers beneath them; blood from a past staining the ground. Fingers tightening around his twisted knife as he pulls it out with a ripping force that scatters his mind once more.

Death.

Everything leads to death and despair.

"Okay, Cyro," Knife pointed towards Niko with something in his eyes; a feeling bubbling in Cyro Krane's chest. "Is this what you want? You want us to kill each other? This is the only way, right?" Silver turns red as Ezra cuts into Nikolai from eight; burning the image of his own tears into his skin. A sorrow filled mind as he can feel the red dripping in a pool from their wounds. Torn apart like three kids who are dying with a despair that only Panem could hear. Weaker and weaker, he can feel himself slipping once more. Slipping into the pain; running away from the pain in front of him. A shout broken from his throat as he feel his heart bubbling up in a fire, burning the gasoline of his own doing brighter and bright.

Is this what we wanted?

No.

Is this what Panem wanted?

No.

This is what the Capitol wanted.

Three kids who were out of the view of the majority; burning themselves on the fire of the capitol's hatred for anything, but obedience. Districts failing each of them in a different way. Xander's smile could only cure so much. It's been so long and he can feel himself slipping back into that past, where he wants to run and cry, leave his heart upon the earth for good. Carve his heart out and never have to feel it. Never have to feel like he's a failure. Another mistake upon the soil of Panem; a piece of this machine that continues to move. Everyone's turned his back to him, but now he's made a mistake standing in front of the capitol and Katelyn and everyone in Eleven.

Eleven was his home. Arabella needed him. Katelyn Persimmon didn't deserve his baggage. Fight. His heart screams, but he's stuck standing there for a moment; staring at the knife in his palm. Eleven was watching him stumble over his own thoughts. Xander was watching his father; probably asking Wilson what was going on. Katelyn Izar-Krane and Ludo Izar-Krane were probably screaming for him to fight. Vasco Izar could be watching him with those pitiful eyes; staring him down and wishing he could have done more, but he should have done something sooner.

Katelyn Persimmon could be watching. In her throne room of ice with those cold eyes, watching intently and asking him to fight for himself, for his son, for anyone. Opal by her side watching him with those fire filled eyes; wishing he wouldn't fight. Eleven could be watching with those thousands of eyes wanting him to survive or die. Fingers tense along his own knife as he can see Niko topple towards him, blocking a strike and moving out of the distance of the blade, breath heavy on his tongue. Tears still pouring as he can remember the bruises along his skin, the endless nights underneath covers trying to pretend he's fine when really he's never been fine.

It's Xander that keeps him moving; the mornings where he would smile down to him, jump on the bed and giggle until he woke up. It's the quiet evening when he can hear Xander slumbering in the background as he silently reads in a chair nearby. It's the memory of that field of wildflowers where Xander laughed and laughed and laughed for hours. It's the way Xander holds his hand and looks at him like he's his entire world and the feeling had always been the deepest form of love. Never wanting to break that feeling; Cyro would fight for his son every second of every day. No matter who stood in his way.

Even if it was his own heart.

Cyro would fight for Xander.

Even if it broke him into a million pieces by the end.

"No. I-I.... d-don't...."

Tears fall as he holds himself up, stumbling into a wall where the stone is so cold against his skin, burning the image of death in his mind. The way Hellemine has cursed him along with all ones in District Eleven where he carries the legacy of the Capitol's biggest fear. Another Eleven tribute who could win. Another Eleven tribute who could break down the system Panem has been built upon forever. A boy who wanted to be the hero who collapsed it all for Xander, but he couldn't. Fingers splayed on the wall as he coughs from the depths of his lungs, tearing up his mind as the tears blurry his vision. Panic bubbling at the surface as he can clearly see how he's playing into the game. Playing into the game they had always wanted; a game he swore he would turn upon it's head.

"No. NO. NO!"

Catching his footing, pulling at his hair, trying to release the tension of his own mind making him feel crazy. He's always been crazy. He's always been on the edge of a breakdown. This wasn't the first time. This wasn't the first time he's realized he's been wrong, so wrong. Tears spent upon Amira's lap as she brushes his hair from his eyes. Fingertips always soothing as she told him he was nothing like what his father told him. Mistakes were to be made. As long as he learned from them, he could survive, he could live, and he could thrive. Except, she died from his own hubris. Died because he couldn't keep his father at bay. Died because he's a failure.

He's a failure.

Always has been;

Always will be.

"I just want my son. I just want to see my son again. I just want to not be selfish. I just want to make the right choices. I just want to not feel like I'm drowning once more upon a sea of blood. I-I...."

Tear stained cheeks, red stained wounds, silver shining metal, and a desire to go home. Death would be too easy. Death would let him leave all of these worries behind. Death would mean he got to be selfish for once, but he didn't want to be. He never wanted to be. Cyro Krane volunteered for his son. Volunteered to give his son a new life; built from the only option he had left. A dream to just live in a peaceful world where no one could tear everything apart. A world where Panem doesn't exist. A world where Xander could smile forever.

Peace and happiness doesn't exist.

Not here.

Not now.

Possibly, not ever.

"I just want to live."

Fingers tighten around the blade as he pushes forward with his heart and his memory of his son. Sunflower petals drifting around with a yellow of longevity; a memory of his own desires and his own past. Every petal becoming another piece of his fucked up life, but altogether there was a sunflower, shining back with a smile made of red. Breaking through the stone flowers, blooming where it was never meant to bloom. He swings forward to strike against the stone and fulfill his promise he made to Katelyn.

Even if I have to kill all twenty three others.

"Which means you have to die."

A tidal wave of red;
A glint of silver;
Petals of yellow.

"I'm sorry."

(Cyro Krane attacks Ezra Valencia with Twisted Knife [Knife])
Gt01Hbx_A9knife
(Block)

Accuracy

knife
(Shallow Cut on Right Thigh 3.5)

knife·knife

[goat]

ezra valencia

Niko screams as Ezra digs his blade deep into his arm. Ezra grits his teeth, trying to keep the terror from creeping onto his face. He’s afraid, and angry, and he hates himself for what he’s done, what he’s doing. He wants to tell himself that it’s okay. He wants to tell himself that it isn’t his fault.

He presses his back against the damp wall of the catacombs, arms limp and knife dangling from his fingertips. Air can’t rush into his lungs fast enough, he tilts his head and heaves, but his head is still fuzzy and his mind doesn’t know what to focus on. He watches through tunnel vision as NIko tries to strike Cyro twice, failing both times.

Niko’s damned them both, but he doesn’t know it.

Cyro goes off again, twitching, screaming, like something is trying to burst out of his chest. It’s like a building on fire, a trainwreck— you don’t want to look but you can’t help yourself. You want to know if anyone has died, who’s being carted away with burns or broken bones, who’s searching for who among the rubble.

Ezra doesn’t know if there’s anything left to find.

“I just want my son. I just want to see my son again. I just want to not be selfish. I just want to make the right choices. I just want to not feel like I'm drowning once more upon a sea of blood. I-I….” Cyro babbles, and Ezra grips his knife tighter.

“Then why did you volunteer? I had to be here. You had a choice. A choice!”

There used to be sympathy inside him, radiating out through every word he spoke, but he doesn’t know where it’s gone. If he saw himself in a mirror, he thinks he wouldn’t be able to recognize himself. He’s so different from the person he once was, even the person he was a week ago, and he doesn’t want it to be his fault, but it is. He made the choice to attack the other boy, and for what? To prove some stupid point?

“I just want to live. Which means you have to die. I'm sorry.”

Cyro moves to attack again. Ezra jumps out of the way, but the knife catches on his thigh as Cyro pulls away. It’s a papercut, nothing more, not like the other deep gashes adorning their three bodies.

“What makes your life worth more than mine?” Ezra asks. “Or his?” He gestures to Niko.

The three of them are a sight to behold— wounded, scabbed, bleeding. It’s sad. It’s pathetic. It didn’t have to be this way, but it is, and Cyro was right. There really is no other way. Only one of them gets to leave this. Will it be worth it? Killing somebody?

No, it won’t be, and there’s no use in trying to justify it.


[ ezra attacks niko; knife ]
CdJGWlfW7Mknife
2085 -- Shallow Cut on Right Forearm -- 3.5 damage

knife

[L△LIA]

"Like a bomb."

That's what Charlie said the very last time you asked her what it felt like to be so sick, always on the edge of dying. She had been really sad that day, staring off into space while picking at a hangnail until you put your hand over hers to stop her. It was starting to bleed. Both of you looking at the blood... that's when she answered your question. After she said it, her voice bitter, she got up and walked away and you thought she must have just been in a lot of pain that day. You thought some part of her must have ached in a way that felt like she was bursting or something like that.

What you didn't know yet is that when someone is conscious of how they're dying there's a silent ticking sound in the back of their head, like a countdown to the inevitable moment of self-destruction. Because you had never been someone whose death people fretted over, you had never thought about the effects your death might cause. Sure, you'd considered how terrible it would be for you and your family to lose Charlie, in that general sort of way that acknowledges sadness but doesn't think too hard about the details — you didn't think about empty chairs and quiet halls uninterrupted by humming or sudden tidy places where books have always piled up; you thought about people crying at a funeral or maybe even seeing her dead body on a hospital gurney, but in the way where even if she were lifeless, she was still there. You'd never thought once about how it might be for your family to lose you. You never realized how a person's death has a blast radius. Charlie dying doesn't just hurt her; it hurts all of you. You dying —

Blood drips from your fingertips like tick, tick, tick. You are dynamite and each wound on your body burns violently, threatening to light your wick.

"What makes your life worth more than mine?" Someone asks and you blink, hard. "Or his?" It's difficult to focus on them, to differentiate the sound of voices from the soft noise of water leaking from the ceiling or your own thoughts. Usually your thoughts aren't this loud because everything bursts right out of your mouth without much of a pause for contemplation. Maybe your mind is still as quiet as ever. Maybe it's everything else that's muffled and faint. That can't be good.

You think about sitting down again, trying to balance your weight to let yourself down gently, but a knife slashes out for you again before you can get too far. You're not sure which part of you they were aiming for, but it cuts across your last wound and your hand finally gives out. Knife clattering to the ground you clutch your mangled arm to your chest, wishing you had your other one to hold it with. Instead all you can do is hunch over it feebly. It doesn't protect you from anything, but your feel a little smaller, a little safer somehow. That's as close to comforting as you can get.

When you die there won't be a lot of people who will miss you terribly.

The girls you flirt with at the library will surely encounter plenty of other people in their lives to roll their eyes at, plenty of other people who will make their hearts flutter for a fleeting moment before forgetting all about it by the next day, plenty of other people to help them find the books they need in order to finish their history reports or science fair projects. Someone else will buy them a sandwich at the cafe to bribe them to spend part of an afternoon together and whoever that is probably won't get grounded for wasting money on dates when there are debts to be paid.

When you're gone Andorra won't have much less of a big brother than she had before, because you were never there for her to begin with. Your parents will regret not spending more time with you, but they'll use it as motivation to be more present for both of your sisters and so in the long run your family will probably be happier than they otherwise might have been. They'll know better than ever that their time together shouldn't be wasted and that no one should ever be taken for granted. They will be sad when they think about you, but they will hold each other as they cry and they will be better about continuing to hold onto each other after their tears are dried.

What makes your life worth more than mine?

If you're important to people, on a small scale or a large one, you certainly don't know it. All of the time you spent flopped on the couch in a losing battle with depression never made you feel like you were destined for particularly great things, but even your good days didn't accomplish much. Your life has always been small and quiet and you never thought there was anything wrong with that until now. You're not sure why these other boys think themselves so much bigger than you, but you've never claimed to be anything more than objectively sorta tall and so you suppose you don't provide much competition.

You don't want to compare sob stories because the only sobbing you have a right to yell about is the sobbing you've done over your wounds since being here. The rest of the stories aren't really yours to claim. You refuse to use your sister or how you worry about her as some kind of cheap bargaining chip the way that guy over there keeps using his son, as if that kid isn't his own person with his own life and if his lousy dad dies then he'll just poof into nothingness, as if he never existed at all. Charlie won't disappear without you. If you only know one thing it's that she's infinitely stronger than you've ever been. She'll miss you so much that you'll ache from the grave for hurting her like this, but she doesn't need you... not really. Some things will be harder for her emotionally without the support system you provided, but she'll survive your death in ways you probably couldn't have survived hers.

Honestly, you don't know what makes your life worthwhile. You don't think that's a question you get to answer; it's other people that determine if you lived a valuable life. Whether or not you occupy any significant amount of space in someone's heart isn't something you get to argue or beg for. You matter to someone or you don't and you've always tried so hard not to ask anyone about that, because you're afraid to know the answer. You're scared not to matter. You're terrified that when you explode your blast radius will be so small that hardly anyone will notice.

( C H O O S E Y O U R O W N A D V E N T U R E )

( You close your eyes... )

For the smallest of seconds you pretend none of this is happening. You think of your sister. You whisper: "I love you so much too." Even if she can't hear you, you hope she knows. It's one of the only good things you've ever done and if she doesn't know that without hearing the words then everyone is right and you deserve to die.

( Ten, nine, eight... )

Even as you struggle to pick your knife up, you hear a countdown. You wonder if the other boys can hear it too.

[ niko attacks cyro; knife ]

GRCw8nKY4wknife

[ 2122 — shallow cut on cheek — 3.5 damage ]

knife

[Tom]

Cyro Krane burns like a relentless forest fire.

Acres and acres of destruction by his own hands; burning life to ash in order to renew a cycle so old that even his ancestors knew about it. Fire to nutrients to soil to life. Over and over the cycle repeating like a relentless fire scorching through the earth; building up smoke and debris and broken hearts. Pain in its path, left behind by the fire of a broken boy who didn't know how to exist, didn't know how to stop this fear of losing his son, didn't know how to explain that every single thing he does is for him. Every single piece of his fire is built for his son to live with a family that he deserved; a family that wasn't like his own with backs turned and anger burning.

"Then why did you volunteer? I had to be here. You had a choice. A choice!"

Why? Why? Why? Is that all everyone wanted from him? Why? No one understands him. No one will understand him in this arena. Too many broken hearts; too much blood staining stone; too many crumbled up yellow petals. Salome wasn't there. Benat wasn't there. Levi wasn't there. Cyro's been alone for so long. Alone in a world that turned their backs to him; a world which looks at him like the mistake he is. A whistle of a sound reaching his ears knowing that he's died once; a memory of the sound of breaking bones and a rushing of water. Words spoken to as sky to Katelyn Persimmon.

Don't let him lose that smile.

Bright and filled with the sun; a smile that can shatter the darkness in someone's heart.

"Why! Why? Did I have a fucking choice? Die on the streets or give my son a chance? Watch him suffer the same way I did or give him a chance to keep smiling? If you want to know why, it's because I made the only choice I had."

Fingers tighten around his knife as he can feel his heart beating in his chest; the smile that broke his heart and made him into a father. A father who tried to make sure he was strong and gave his son all of the love he could. No one deserved to suffer like he had. No one deserved to fear being alive and making a step in any direction, but he's always been afraid. Afraid that he's making the wrong decision just like always. A mistake smeared upon the documents of Panem to be forgotten for later, unless he becomes the only thing they ever wanted him to be.

A killer.

A fighter.

The perfect tribute like Katelyn Persimmon had been for Eleven.

A victor meant to survive.

"I would choose him over me every fucking time!"

Red hot burning against his skin; pumping blood through his body with a fire he's never felt. His heart is beating heavily in his chest; the hairs on his arm standing on edge as he can feel himself no longer crying anymore. There's a pain that bursts to life in his fingers; gripping his blade tight trying to keep himself together. Arabella. Meredith. Lysander. They would have begged him to fight. Fight to be reunited; stronger together than apart, but he can't breath. He can't breath and all he can hear is the blood pumping through his body and the sounds of wounds opening.

"What makes your life worth more than mine? Or his?"

Nothing. He wants to scream. Nothing. His father would shout if he had a tongue. Nothing. His mother would huff under her breath. Nothing. Katelyn Persimmon would laugh. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The Izars would chant. Nothing. Wilson Izar-Krane would angrily scream to the void. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING. NOTHING.

Everything.

Xander would whisper.

"Nothing."

It's barely a whisper upon his lips as he pulls back, running his empty hand across his face; rubbing in the pain of his body and letting himself break down just a bit. Fingers splayed heavy along his face as he can feel his heart beating heavy still. Niko's different. Ezra's different. Both of them look for other ways; a different path than what is given. A different life with different horrors of their own. Different deaths filled with blood stained seas and different faces. A letter to his son is what Dominic would have made him. A memory of a father who did nothing but died for him; an echo of a past. Tear filled memories of watching him break and break and break over and over again. Burning in a fie of his own creation; big enough to engulf an entire field of wildflowers until there's nothing left.

"I'm not worth more than you. I will never be."

It's a whisper upon Niko from eight's tongue that reminds him of dying. A last message to someone else. An I love you to someone else; lost in the feeling of a ticking bomb that the three of them had become. A fire built up by himself burning all of them around him; burning them to nothing more than ash and going around in a circle like the broken kids they were. Broken kids who fought for their own reasons, but Cyro choose this. Cyro choose to kill. Cyro choose to put his son onto someone else's shoulders and push the narrative in the way he wanted because he was so angry. No help came for him. No one dared to stop him on the street and give him a hug. No one dared to look at him for longer than a moment.

The Izars turned their back to him.

Katelyn Persimmon was out of reach.

Eleven didn't want him.

Xander was all he had left.

All he would ever have left.

The red that drips from his cheek burns; like a spark of a flame. Filled with the memory of someone important to Nikolai Konstantine, this wound burns with the same fire of Xander's smile. Burns his skin like the world wasn't burning around him. A memory of a fist slamming down into him; tears in his eyes. A memory of Amira's gentle hands holding an ice pack to his cheek; smiling like the world wasn't a cruel place. A laugh echoing in the air as if she believed he wasn't a mistake; wasn't a mistake on the world. Xander's smile staring back at him the day he held up a sketch of them in that field of flowers; the words I love you upon his lips like he could easily see the world as beautiful.

"My life isn't worth more than yours. It's never been worth more."

Grip tightening around his knife as he drops his hand, wipes away the tears on the way down. A fire burning in his stomach; no more smiles to bloom across his lips. Cyro Krane was broken. Numb by the pain of having to do what it would take in order to get home to him. Katelyn had told him it wouldn't be easy. He understood that now. He understood that it never would be easy. Cyro Krane would have to do the one thing he was afraid of. Take away someone's sunflower blooming in a field of a bright sun; turn these two into the flowers below; left behind and cherished.

"My son's life is. It'll always be in my eyes."

Red stained cheek;
Crushed yellow petals;
Glittering metal carrying his heart.

"I'm so sorry, Ezra."

Death would have been easier.

"I made my choice."

(Cyro Krane attacks Ezra Valencia with Twisted Knife [Knife])
z4ebAtuMDlknife
(Shallow Cut on Left Shoulder 3.5)

knife

[goat]

ezra valencia

Somebody is going to die soon.

Ezra can see the obvious signs— the ragged breathing, the pools of blood, the gaping wounds. It’s only a matter of time before one of them hits the ground and doesn’t get up. He doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want to be here when it happens, but he has to see it, because it might be him.

You can’t look away from your own death. You have to accept it, whenever it comes. Ezra thinks there are easier situations to accept than others. Dying of old age, or a cancer you’ve had for years, that’s easy. You can prepare for it. You can have your long, lengthy goodbyes with the people who love you. Dying like this, you can’t imagine it. It hovers over you your whole life, sure, but you never think it’s going to be you. Ezra thought he’d get lucky. He thought he’d done enough, been a good enough person, that it’d catch some other poor boy from Three.

He can’t believe how naive he was, and he can’t believe that he has to process it after coming back to life and being forced to attack two other human beings, if they can even still call themselves that.

Cyro is still upset, or angry, or losing his mind, and he’s still screaming, and Niko is silent, and Ezra does’t know what to do. There is nothing he can do to stop this, it’s already set in motion, and he’s contributed to the chaos just as much as the rest of them. Niko slices down Cyro’s cheek, and Ezra wonders if that’ll finally be it.

It isn’t.

He wants to say, I’m sorry about your son. He wants to say, I’m sorry it had to be like this. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you said it was the only way. He wants to say sorry to Niko, sorry for accidentally stabbing him the first time, sorry for purposely stabbing them the second.

The apologies aren’t worth anything. Nothing will change because of them.

“I’m not worth more than you. I will never be.”

I’m not worth more than you, either.

Cyro speaks his apology out loud, but it’s more for him than it is for Ezra, he has no place to accept it. When he lashes out, Ezra lets the blade hit him. It glances over his shoulder, and he grits his teeth, bearing the weight of all the other gashes on his body. He wants to feel angry, angry at the circumstances, angry at being attacked, but he isn’t. He’s just sad.

“This has to end, Cyro,” he says. “We can’t keep doing this.”


[ ezra attacks cyro; knife ]
NJuetH1mrdknife
2142 -- Miss -- 0.0 damage

accuracy; day 5
knife
2185 -- Stabbed in Chest -- 9.5 damage

knife·knife

[L△LIA]

Three.

Two.

One.

When the bomb goes off it goes off with a BANG... BANG! BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!

The knife slips from your useless fingers once again, but you barely notice, your head turning to the sound echoing from somewhere far away. A particularly stupid piece of hope twists in your chest, your mouth hanging slightly open. Perdita. You tell the traitorous voice in your head not to run its mouth; it can't be her. She left you for dead. If she wanted to save you then she wouldn't have come here — she would have simply stayed with you yesterday instead of dropping you face down in the floodwater and walking away.

Still, you can't deny that it sounds like fists attempting to beat down a locked door and you can't help hoping that it's her, knocking and knocking in hopes that you'll answer. That's who you are. You're the person that looks up each time someone enters a room, hoping they're looking for you and you're a little disappointed every time they're not. You're easy like that.

Part of you absolutely wants to fantasize about flinging the door open to confront her — a new man, a serious man covered in battle scars and the blood of his felled enemies; tough enough to survive on your own. Maybe you'd even be strong enough to march right past her, pretending as though you didn't see her at all because she is nothing to you now. She would gasp! Clutch her pearls! Regret ever leaving someone as dashing and fearsome as you! Oh, Niko! I'm so sorry! She would cry out and maybe you'd finally pause, your back to her as you turned your head just partway to say: I've already heard too many fake apologies today. Tell them to someone else, ma'am.

Jerking out of your reverie, you scold yourself for ma'aming her. Again. Why are you still —

The boy that stood in front of you earlier, shielding you while wringing his hands and hoping for another way, rips his dagger out of the other guy's chest and you both watch in shock as the life flickers out of his eyes and a body hits the ground. You swallow meekly, hand shaking like you just witnessed a murder because you did. It's not like when you turned around while pretending you were a lightsaber wielding ninja — Shing! Shing! Pew-pew-pew! Zzzt! — to discover Emmett's throat slit and his unexpected corpse floating in the water. It isn't like that at all.

You can't quite pinpoint why it's so different seeing one person kill another than it was to see someone killed by paper cranes, but it is. Maybe it's because something about Emmett's death felt accidental, but there's nothing accidental about this. Both of you stare down at the body, no one moving or speaking for a long while, as if competing to see which of you could also be that still.

You attacked him too. You're part of this and yet you feel so separate because it's not the same thing, is it? Stabbing someone a little is no saintly thing, but stabbing someone so hard they die is something else entirely. "How'd you do that?" You finally ask, trying to wrap your head around it all. Each time you raised your knife it felt harder to follow through with using it. Not because of all the wounds on your arm or the blood loss — none of that helps, but it wasn't the reason. Not really. Blood wasn't the only thing you were lacking. You're not asking how he found the physical strength.

"I don't know," he mumbles in reply, still staring at the aftermath of what he's done.

You keep staring too. You know the dead guy asked to come here, but you also know that he didn't ask for this. He wanted the bounties on your heads so badly he didn't think much about the one he was putting on his own. You blink numbly as his blood blooms across the chest of his white uniform, the fabric rapidly absorbing red and red and RED and RED. "Do you feel different now?" You should have learned from Charlie not to ask questions with horrible answers, but you just can't help yourself.

"Yeah." The admission hangs in the air. It's everything you actually need to know, but after a while he murmurs a little bit more. "I feel like a monster. I can't come back from this."

You finally manage to tear your eyes away from the body and glance over, but he's too shell-shocked to look back. You watch him watch the stillness until you ache. "My littlest sister doodles monsters in the margins of her notebooks sometimes." Andorra would hold them up to show you, even when you told her you weren't interested and asked her not to bother you about it. "She swears some monsters are really nice if you just give them a chance." You don't know why you say it, it's just the only thing you can think of to say and you have to say something. You're beginning to fear silence. "Do you wish you could take it back?"

"Do you think the person who killed me wishes they could take it back?" You don't think the people that killed you regret it, but the longer you stare at this body the more you think that if you'd been the one to kill him then you probably would. You'd regret it a lot. You'd tell yourself that nice monsters only exist in the imaginations of annoying sisters who are just trying to dream up a dumb backstory for why their big brother is always a little bit mean to them, as if you were just another grumpy imaginary friend and not a jerk who's scared of loving her the same way he loves his dying sister. You didn't think you had it in you to go through all of that again. Surely it was easier not to get attached, considering the track record. "I don't know."

"Do you..." Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, you try to re-balance the growing ache in your chest and the little pangs that sputter and stab each time you look back and forth between the glassy eyes of the boy who died and the glassy eyes of the one who killed him. "Do you need a hug?"

"No." You frown a little, shuffling a step closer to him anyhow. "But thank you."

You look down again. Then back up. Down. Up. Down. "...can I have one?" He continues staring blankly, but eventually leans over and gives you an awkward one armed hug. There's a lump in your throat. Reaching into your pocket, you fumble with the edges of the photograph before finding the tiny scrap of folded paper tucked up against it. You don't look at him as you hold it out. "Here," maybe he doesn't want a hug, but you still feel like you should give him something in return. "This is for you."

You're relieved when he doesn't open it immediately. He just holds it in his hand, his arm dropping back to his side. Still, he can't seem to look away and so you go back to looking too.

Moments pass, then minutes. You want to ask for another hug, a bigger one, but instead you finally manage to ask the question you've been wondering this whole time. "Am I next?"

"I think you have to be."

( C H O O S E Y O U R O W N A D V E N T U R E )

( The truth... )

You think so too.

( The lie... )

Maybe he's the one telling it.