▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀

chapter fifteen
FIGHT LIKE IT

▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

tw: character deaths, violence, gore
━━━━

Ptolemus tries to follow Sage back up to Ten's quarters, but the girl is too fast, her heart heaving and her legs taking long and sharp strides. Not to mention, a seething Enobaria intercepts him, those fangs of hers beared into a snarl. The door to her bedroom slams shut before a teary-eyed Philo can even turn the hallway. Out of all people, he might be the very last one she wants sympathies from. His backhanded compliment to Taura when she received her score causes her to clench her jaw. Half a chance!

She can hear his sniffles outside her door as she paces, a gentle knock to her door. Perhaps he could suprise her and offer her some comfort in this moment. But after seeing what she's seen, hearing what she's heard, and now feeling what she's feeling, she just can't stand being cradled and coddled right now.

She needs to stretch out, she needs to burst and tear, she needs to detonate and explode, and you simply can't cradle a bomb.

The pain of Taura's death torments every atom of her being, scratching itself through her, lacerating her insides with its claws from the pits of her gut to her beating heart. It extends its vengeful talons with a scream that stretches from her lips and makes Philo flinch on the other side of the door. He turns away with a startled whimper, scampering down the hall and blowing into his purple handkerchief.

She can't cry, she can only muster one scream, and it's difficult to breathe as she lunges for the first tangible item she can find. The fabric of the pillow case makes a retching RRRRIP and SNAP! as she tears it in two, white plumes of feathers bursting through the air. They're suspended for a moment before floating downward in a slow and taunting fashion. The image of Taura's body plummeting sends the halves of the pillow hurling toward the mirror. It doesn't shatter like the camera to Mateo's blade.

When she tries to scream again, it's just a strangled and raspy breath, her knees wobbling as she crouches to the ground at the foot of her bed. The tears swell, their salty drops surging and consuming her body, stinging all the freshly dug wounds. Like a brand, Taura's name and the promise she silently made her on that stage char her heart to bits. The sob hacks at her lungs as she holds her face in her hands. She whimpers the little girl's name whom she just watched violently die over and over again.

Taura, Taura, Taura.

Dead, dead, dead.

Gone, gone, gone.

How is she ever supposed to forget that?

The idea of another haunting from another phantom evokes the overwhelming urge to run to the ends of the Earth. Even there, Sage knows she'd never be safe.

Perhaps it's better that way. Perhaps that's how it should be. After all, if she isn't haunted by the little girl's murder who will be? Certainly not the Capitol. Who's to reap the penance for the loss of sweet, innocent, and loving Taura Santos's life?

Life in Panem has always been draped under a shroud of darkness, and Sage has always been an optimist, a stand in the sunshine kind of girl. But now the shadows have her surrounded, and the clouds aren't thinning. They're growing thicker and thicker like black smoldering smoke.

Meanwhile, just outside the Viewing Room, a seething Enobaria has a just as furious Ptolemus cornered against the wall.

"What the hell do you think this is?" she growls, eyes aflame. Even though he's taller than her by a foot, you wouldn't be able to tell with her attitude. She gestures with a pointed nail toward the elevator Sage went up. "This isn't some playground for your bullshit teenage romance."

Ptolemus doesn't even glance in her direction, that icy glare boring into where he wants to go. The elevator. "Move."

She sneers wryly as she scoffs. "Do you forget where you are?" Their scalding glares lock as his eyes narrow. "She doesn't need you." She jerks her claw away from the elevator and to point back toward the Viewing Room door behind them. "Our tributes do. They're both still alive, remember? Or did you forget because you're too busy sneaking off with Farm Girl?"

He props himself from the wall he's been backed into with a jolt, and even though Enobaria staggers backward from the shift of weight, her features remain hard like stone. The ice in his eyes melts with recognition at the reference to Marcellus and Kleo. Guilt gnaws at his heaving chest, shoulders rigid and jaw clenched. He averts her gaze in shame as he exhales shortly through his nose.

Running his fingers through his disheveled bedhead, he shakes his head, "I'm aware."

"You can't tell," Enobaria quips shortly. She sweeps a dismissive stare across his frame. "You give me shit about not letting them have dessert, but you can't even control your hormones to focus on their lives."

The guilt she's evoked from him grows like a dark, heavy cloud within his frame, swelling and beating and demanding all of his attention. Perhaps his focus has been skewed. He hears Enobaria's voice continuing with her chastising, but her mission has already accomplished as he tunes her out, swallowing the bitter taste down his throat. Inhaling sharply, he starts toward the door. He thinks about glancing over his shoulder again at the elevator. He wants to.

But he doesn't as he strides back into an uncomfortably quiet Viewing Room. Some glance in his direction, others awkwardly stare at their feet. Others just don't care. Shep is seated again now, head hanging as only Mateo's screens remain lit.

"That was a tough one."

Augustus lingers near One's black televisions just three feet away, clutching a water bottle and hovering it near his lips. Ptolemus feels the cloud of guilt darkening into something heavier at the man's infuriating voice. Then he recognizes the dazed look in his eyes— the same look he'd get right before a kill, that gleaming polish melting right off. He cracks a sneer.

"Is she still licking her wounds?"

Augustus's water spills onto the front of his suit, the plastic of the bottle crushed beneath his stumbling feet when Ptolemus lunges forward. That smirk of his splits across his features ear to ear when the Legacy's forearm jams into his windpipe, slamming him into the wall. Augustus laughs an unsettling and mocking laugh at his temper. The two men glower at one another.

Ptolemus digs his forearm deeper into his windpipe, the laugh shifting into a wheeze. Augustus still smiles in amusement. "Shouldn't you worry about tending to your own?"

"Enough!"

Enobaria yanks the Legacy off the Victor from One with an irritated snarl. Ptolemus begrudgingly allows her, but his glacial glare refuses to leave his taunting one. Augustus wheezes and laughs as he leans his hands onto his knees. There's a mixture of choking and cackles erupting from his throat.

"Uncanny, you almost sounded like your father, Nero—"

Ptolemus starts forward again, but Enobaria is already anticipating it, wrenching him back again toward Two's televisions. He feels his fingers flex and then clench into fists. Heat radiates from his palms, ghosts of violent sensations whispering against the flesh. To punch, to stab, to slash, to maim, to violently clench and snap, his hands know all the ways to hurt and kill. They've been built into him at a young age, restructuring a boy into an arsenal as they wait for his call. He can feel Ares, God of War, breathing down his neck, the image of the worshipped God in Two morphing with his father.

Every time he thinks he's distanced himself from his rage, it creeps back up on him, clutched closer to his heart than he realized until it's too late.

And then the anger, the parasite grown inside him, falls back into its dormancy, leaving nothing but the guilt and fatigue in its wake. It's moments like these that he realizes how much of his father really lives in him, and he hates it.

He has to force himself to sit in front of Two's televisions and bore his stare into their screens. Ash and embers simmer and cool within him as he attempts to ignore Augustus's taunts. He toys with his rings, energy bouncing around his ribs and searching for somewhere to burst out of. The words echo over and over again.

Like your father, like your father, like your father.

There's nothing Ptolemus has wanted to break free from more than the threat of being just like his father.

━━━━

It takes Sage twenty-three minutes to collect herself. That's all she'll allow, the reminder of Mateo's life still in her hands forcing her to steady their trembling forms, straighten her spine, and wipe the tears away. Some uneasy stares bore into her in the Viewing Room, but she ignores them. She can feel that her eyes are still puffy and raw from her salty hot tears. The screens burn her eyes at first.

Mateo and Trellis have moved on from the building. They travel mutely and aimlessly through the ruined city for hours, stopping for water and food every now and then. They work together soundlessly. Trellis refuses to speak in fear that Mateo might explode, and Mateo refuses for the exact same reason— that he himself might detonate if he were to break his silence.

She can see it building up in him again when he watches the sky illuminate Taura's face among the stars that evening along with the girl from Five. When he's toying with his knife before bed, he accidentally nicks himself, a drop of blood oozing out of his thumb. He clings to her leftover pack like a pillow in his sleep.

Sage is done taking shifts now, and Shep doesn't try to ask again. They both just watch over their remaining Tribute silently. Shep splits some crackers with Sage from the vending machine for a midnight snack. Luckily, unlike the evening before, Mateo and Trellis have an uneventful night in the Arena.

When she peers around the Viewing Room, she takes note of who's left. Johanna Mason and Blight Alder of Seven loom around the screens of their female Tribute— Carya. Both of Ptolemus and Enobaria's Tributes are still alive, as well as Finnick Odair and Mags Flanagan's. After that, it's just Mateo and Trellis.

Seven. There's seven left. Seventeen children murdered in barely a week.

They're probably interviewing their families now. Sage would watch if she could stomach it. From the sound of it, it doesn't seem there's much of Mateo's family to interview— at least not the "Mom and Dad kind" as he shared before. Even though he nearly mentioned what Sage would guess as his mother in his interview, judging by the sudden halt of his voice, the distant look in his eye, and her intuition, she knows she's probably been gone.

Perhaps his home interview is just those boys she remembers jumping to Roan's defense when Philo called his name at The Reaping. His friends. His family.

Although, after a speech like Mateo gave when Taura's cannon blew, they're probably dead now. Snow's threat about her own passions loom over her head like a noose.

She grimaces at the violence of such a cruel thought. Stop, she tells herself silently. We can't do this now. Mateo. Focus on just Mateo, worry for his loved ones later.

It's noon when the clouds of the Arena start to darken, deepening into a smoky black that produces the illusion that the sky is dying. There's a breeze whispering through the city, blowing through all its hollow parts like windchimes and creating an eerie whistle of glass and concrete. Trellis keeps glancing over his shoulder for signs of trouble, but Mateo won't stop peering up at the ominous sky. They both cling to their weapons tighter. The wind speed slowly and steadily climbs. Mateo grimaces when grains of sand scratch at his cheek as they're blown through the air.

When Sage peeks at Johanna and Blight's televisions, a faint familiarity catches her eye, causing her to stare a little longer. The shape of the buildings from their background slowly start to blend with the ones from Mateo and Trellis's.

Sage feels herself pale at the thought of another battle so soon. The thought of another cannon's blow. The thought of her remaining Tribute's face in the sky tonight. Her fingers wrap around Shep's wrist to alert him, and he flinches.

"Shep."

"I see it."

Everyone in the Viewing Room straightens with interest as the remainder of the Career Pack and Mateo and Trellis's paths merge together. It feels like watching a bomb about to detonate. The wires are crossing, the clock is ticking down, and her hands are bound behind her back. She has no choice and no power to do anything else but just watch everything obliterate. She silently begs Mateo and Trellis to turn left or in the opposite direction completely to avoid a collision.

Her pleas go unheard.

The wind howls, blowing harshly against the buildings and the Tributes' bodies, and Mateo's eyes widen when he locks onto the glint of a sword as he and Trellis turn right into a courtyard. The clouds swirl darker. Thunder rolls, an ominous symphony picking up its pace to chrous with the impending battle. Mateo is just starting to yank Trellis in another direction when Marcellus and his Careers notice them across the courtyard. Between them is a dried up marble fountain, the severed head of the cherub statue weeping on the ground.

"There you are! We've been looking for you since the Bloodbath!" Kleo calls out, waving her spear like a welcoming hand. Sage frowns at her tone. It even makes Mateo pause as he scowls. Trellis jumps at their entrance and adjusts his grip on his machete. "I thought we got along pretty well in Training."

"Yeah," Carya from Seven shoots. She raises her brows. "What's the matter? Didn't want to team up?"

Run, run, run, Sage pleads as she painfully watches the two of them stand there stiffly.

A part of her knows why he hasn't yet. The second he bolts, they'll be after him and Trellis like hounds on a hunt, and they're painfully outnumbered. Five to two. The odds aren't good. But doing what they're doing now, simply just standing and listening to the Careers' taunts across the courtyard, is just delaying the inevitable.

A fight is bound to happen, and someone, maybe more than one, is going to die.

Already, while Carya and Kleo have been talking, the Careers have slowly fanned out from their cluster. The girl from Four wields her trident in her other hand, her wounded shoulder wrapped up in gauze. She's got her eyes on Mateo.

Trellis side-glances Mateo nervously while the latter shrugs. "You guys weren't really my style. No offense."

"We kicked One out for you," Carya answers, twirling her ax boredly. There's a glint of dried blood on the blade from a previous kill— whether human or animal, one can't be sure. Her eyes snap back up to the two boys. "Looks like you handled them though, huh?"

A muscle in his cheek twitches, and dark shadows form over his eyes. "Something like that."

Thunder crackles like cannon fire in everyone's ears as the storm looms closer and closer. Sand whips at everyone's exposed flesh from the racing gales. It's picked up its pace so much that it almost muffles the speakers embedded in the Arena. She sees a shadow of Mateo's hands reaching toward his hip for a blade. They're too far away if he throws it from here.

That's why he's trying to get them closer.

"Sort of like how I did with Palmer." The name draws shadows to Carya's face, and she narrows her eyes at him. The boy from Four, who's been prowling toward Trellis's right, pauses his steps, side-glancing his ally. Mateo shrugs simply. "Good thing you couldn't stand him, right?"

Carya takes three sharp strides closer, the wind blowing her hair into her eyes. "I—"

"He's baiting you," a familiar voice bellows over the thunder. The detached knowing in Marcellus's tone is eerily disciplined as he peers blankly over the fountain. His sword gleams in his grip. "Take another step, and you're dead."

That warning causes all the other Careers to pause in their tracks, their chilled features faltering uneasily for a moment. They each take one step back.

"We gotta get outta here man," Trellis murmurs nervously, readjusting his sweaty grip around his machete.

Mateo ignores him. Now, he's just staring at the rumbling sky, then at the horizon shrouded by dark clouds and quivering buildings. He holds up his spare hand to shield his eyes from the blowing sand. It looks like the clouds are descending from the sky and growing closer and closer behind the Careers. "Just wait."

"Well, you had your chance to team up with us," Kleo shouts over the thunder and wind. She coughs from grains of sand, and shakes her head. "But now it's just us and you. Unfortunately, an alliance isn't in the cards anymore."

The thunder is deafening now, and the wind violently blows at the Tributes lingering along the ground. Rumbling approaches swiftly, the clouds pulled down from the heavens and into the alleys. It's when it swarms around the buildings and right toward the courtyard that Sage recognizes it for what it is. Instead of just black, there's hues of reds and browns from the sand and rubble. Trellis's jaw drops at the sight of the clouds approaching swiftly and threatening to swallow them whole, taking a staggering step backward. The Careers, wide-eyed, turn to face them as well, shielding their gazes with their palms against the whipping sand.

The split second that they rush forward to flee from the sandstorm, Mateo's arm jerks, aim centered on the closest Career. Carya from Seven falls, her cannon a dull note in the thunder. He's thinking about throwing another knife when Trellis yanks at his sleeve, tugging him in the opposite direction. The Careers follow in fear for their lives as the swirling cloud of wind and sand shrouds them all in darkness. Eventually, the ravenous beast swallows Trellis and Mateo whole too, blinding them.

It's even difficult for the drones to pick up images of their figures for the viewers. Instead, through the shadows, all that can be seen are their bodies' heat signals. Wide-eyed, Sage watches as Mateo runs blindly, him and Trellis unknowingly veering off to different paths. He turns a corner around a building, shoulder grazing the brick wall. All that can be heard is the wind's howling and a few coughs and sputters from the sand blowing into their lungs. He crouches down to the ground and rips Taura's pack off his shoulders.

Sage knows what he's looking for before he finds it. Shuffling through its belongings, he curses until he finally finds the goggles at the very bottom of the pack. He yanks them out desperately before rapidly shoving them over his eyes, the band wrapping around his skull. He almost groans in relief as he blinks grains of sand out of his eyelashes.

Once he's permitted some semblence of vision again, he shrugs the pack back onto his shoulders, pulling the collar of his shirt up to cover his nose and mouth. He breaks into a sprint down the alley with a blade in his grasp. The sound of Kleo's cannon splinters the atmosphere and sends him scrambling into another direction.

She peeks over to Eleven's screens, a heat signal with the distinct shape of Trellis seemingly pulling a machete out of another limp one's frame. His victory is short-lived. The knee-jerk reaction to shout "WATCH OUT!" dangles over the tip of her tongue, but it's in vain as an even larger heat figure approaches him from behind. Marcellus runs his sword through Trellis, and his cannon blows. Eleven's screens fizzle into black.

Breathless, she glances back to Mateo's screen as he races through the sandstorm. Luckily, it seems he's put quite a bit of distance between himself and the remaining Careers. However, when Trellis's cannon blows, he almost falters, tempted to turn around for his ally.

Sage watches him realize it's futile, and in defeat, he keeps going.

━━━━

Rage is a feeling that forces you to realize how alive you are. The hot blood pumping from your heart. The grinding of your teeth and the flexing of your fingers. The heave of your lungs and the power erupting from your throat as you kick and scream. But it's also a feeling that once it's washed through you, like a storm, it leaves destruction in its wake. It leaves you empty and exhausted as you pick up the pieces and debris to recover, rebuild, and start all over again.

Mateo is in the latter phase. Sage has watched him hide on the third floor of another building structure far from the courtyard for the remainder of the day, back sprawled along the cool conrete and eyes blankly boring into the ceiling above his head. He looks so hollow, so empty, so... defeated.

It didn't take him long to realize that Trellis was gone. With the sandstorm, the Careers, the cannon fire and his inability to show up after several hours, it's become apparent that he's all alone now. His disappointment is confirmed in the evening sky, Trellis's picture following Kleo and Carya's. The boy holds his head in his hands and tugs at his curls with a heavy and sad sigh.

He struggles to sleep, and Sage watches as he slowly deteriorates in front of her. That hard, angry exterior of the boy she met on the Reaping Stage fades into the broken one she observed on the train later that evening, resigned to the idea of his imminent death. When he had Taura to consider, even Trellis, that spark burned in him, keeping him alive. Now his spark has fizzled, the candle light going out, and he's returned to not caring if he lives or die.

She hates the look in his eye. It's the same look when the wild horses finally break.

Sage can't help but struggle with annoyance at his surrender. Doesn't he know? Doesn't he understand how close he is to coming home? He has a chance— a real chance.

She waits and hopes for him to get up for the next day. As the hot hours pass, he maybe takes a few sips of his water, returning his gaze back up to the ceiling. He's napping in the warm sunlight that seeps through a crack in the pavement when the next two cannons erupt. He barely stirs.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Arena, Sage catches the two Tributes from Four attempt to turn on Marcellus of Two in their alliance. Surely, two Careers against one would mean victory for the pair, right? The odds don't seem to matter as Marcellus manages to outplay them, the girl dying first, the boy falling to his sword only a minute after. Fortunately for Mateo, the machine from Two doesn't leave his battle against his former allies unscathed.

By sunset, Sage can't take it anymore. He's curled himself agains the cool wall now, knees cradled to his chest. The rage has died and the pain has gutted him. Something tells her, the heartbreak that's drowning him has been mounting long before these Games.

Huffing, Sage strides out of the Viewing Room, ignoring the curious stares in the room. The elevator takes her to the ground floor of the Tribute Center, and she makes haste to emerge into the mob of intrigued but weary Sponsors out in the Square. Unlike prior to Taura's death and Mateo's speech, they're suddenly hesitant to offer their assistance. She doesn't let it get to her though. She only needs one.

It takes her nearly an hour, but finally, she finds a man with a beard like a billy goat and eyes as golden as the coins weighing down his pockets. He's dressed in leather, stare glued to one of the screens that depicts Mateo's tired frame still laying exactly where she left him. There's a glint to his gaze that hints he isn't rooting for him to die, to pay for his words he spewed a few days before. So when Sage asks him if he'd be interested in Sponsoring Mateo, she's pleasantly surprised at the lack of persuasion she has to implement for his agreement.

However, when she whispers what she wants him to send, his brows furrow quizzically. "You want me to send him what?"

"Trust me. It's what he needs right now."

Sage ensures she sends him a note in the parachute that will mean something to him. That will illuminate the spark once more, warming the blood beneath his flesh and reignite the spirit that lives for the race across the horizons. She prays it's enough.

The parachute chimes softly seconds before the anthem blares through the Arena. It almost looks like he won't bother getting up for it as it floats in from the open window. Sage watches anxiously, gnawing on her raw fingers and knee bobbing up and down. Get up, get up, get — up.

Moonlight gleams across the silver, and Mateo slowly straightens, just staring at it dully. The anthem continues to play, and he glances above his head toward the window for a glimpse of the pictures in the sky. Mild intrigue builds at the sight of the two from Four.

See? Sage wants to point out. You're almost there. You're almost home.

You can go home.

He peers back to the shining pod before expelling a soft sigh from his nose. Heaving himself up slowly, he shuffles toward his parachute. His bloody and dirtied knuckles pry it open. It almost sighs too as it reveals his gift. For a moment, he just stares, blinking at it dumbly. The way he picks it up, it's as if he's expecting it to evaporate from his grasp, or perhaps morph into something lethal, The Capitol refusing him as a potential Victor. Mateo even sniffs it, but once he picks up the slip of paper with Sage's note, he realizes it's quite safe. His brows furrow as he reads it once... twice... he tilts his head thoughtfully, a muscle in his cheek twitching and tugging at the corner of his lips.

FIGHT LIKE IT — S

The recognition builds in his irises like a rising sun, the dawn's glows slowly blanketing the dark earth and illuminating what once was hidden. She watches him eye the chocolate chip cookie once more, his sweet tooth getting the best of him as he takes a tentative bite. Then another. Eventually, his uneasy steps return back to his confident, brave and unyielding racing strides as he gobbles it down, licking every finger and scraping up every last crumb. When Mateo peers back up at the stars again, he's searching for something.

Sage nods to him as she stands, the hope reigniting in her too. Their spirits run a similar path, and their horizons haven't run out yet.

See? This is what you have to live for. The sweetness, the warmth, the joy. The laughter that burns your belly and draws tears to your eyes when your best friend does something ridiculous, the victory of a well-won bet as you skim rocks across the stream's surface, the sun on your back and the wind in your hair as you feel the freedom carry your heart into the sky. Life is what you have to live for.

You have something to live for, Mateo.

"Fight like it," she whispers.

━━━━

With the dawn comes several forms of rebirth in the Arena. Mateo springs back to life, like a wilting flower turning up its petals toward the sun. There's a fresh determination in his eyes and in his stride as he gathers up his belongings from the place he's been slowly rotting. She can see his imagination running at the idea that this might be his last morning in the Arena. His next?

Safe in his District Ten home.

Sage's words replay themselves in both their memories like a song they just can't get out of their heads. Fight like it, fight like it, fight like it.

He knows he can go home if he fights like it. This might be the first time Mateo's really allowed himself to fully want it for himself. To claim this fate as his own.

It's yours, it's yours, it's yours, she vows silently.

After counting his knives ten times, only three left, he adjusts Taura's pack on his shoulders, embarking on his final trek through the Arena. Mateo doesn't glance back to the safety of his latest hideout, dark eyes peering straight ahead. Behind him, the clouds slowly darken again.

When Sage sneaks a glance over at Two's televisions, she spots Marcellus making his own journey, sword still in tow. His left shoulder hangs strangely from its socket, dried blood seeping through the makeshift bandage he's wrapped around his wound. Sweat cakes his flesh as he weaves through the alleys with some kind of precision. Behind him, the clouds darken too, and the breeze whispers an eerie whisper.

It doesn't take her long to realize just what the Gamemakers plan to do. Rather than wait hours upon hours, maybe days, for the two remaining Tributes to finally cross each other, they plan to push them together for the final battle. Right back to where it all started.

The Cornucopia.

Slowly, two sandstorms creep up from the horizon with a purposeful revival.

Across the room, Ptolemus feels nauseous. He tries to take small sips of his water, but it's no use, the sourness burning his gut. What are the odds? What are the odds that this year's Games— of all Games—  is between Ten and Two? A part of him prays that one of them will fall to flying debris as he watches the wind speeds climb over the last half hour. Both boys pick up their paces in the Arena in recognition.

He can't look at Sage, and she can't look at him. What are they going to do? What are they going to do if Marcellus dies, and Mateo wins? Ptolemus silently kicks himself when he finds that notion easier to chew than the opposite. Marcellus the Victor, Mateo in a coffin.

It'll destroy her to lose them both.

Standing abruptly, the sandstorms swirling and pushing at the boys' backs, Ptolemus simply can't take it anymore. Enobaria starts to scold him again, but he ignores her as he bursts out the door and down the hall to the bathroom. He flings himself inside, jerking the faucet violently. Cold water comes rushing out. Without hesitation, he splashes it against his clammy and heated flesh. It offers some comfort, but the nausea still lingers. He huffs as he takes his wet fingers through his messy hair, chest heaving.

Sage's nerves rattle through her like a tin roof in a hurricane. The weight of reality sinks her deeper into the marble tile beneath her feet as the violent sandstorms have propelled Mateo and Marcellus toward one another. They're both only blocks from the Cornucopia now. Only blocks from the final battle. Only blocks from victory and death.

Why did it have to be against him? Why did it have to be against a boy from Two? It feels so cruel. Then she remembers the knowing in his stature and the reflection of the crown in his eyes. Of course. It had to be against him. The Fates seemed to write it themselves.

Ptolemus looks like a wreck when he returns. She's never seen him so disheveled. They lock gazes unintentionally for a moment, and she can tell it startles him. She remembers the way he'd echo her thoughts and feelings as she revealed her heavy heart those nights in the Garden. Impossible, he called all this. Despite the armor, she knows this is impossible for him too— that's why she bids him a tentative but knowing nod.

Someone's going to die, and someone's heart is going to break. And there's nothing neither of them can do to stop it.

The howling wind slows its battle cry when the boys have the Cornucopia in their sight. Sage's heart hiccups painfully in her chest once Mateo and Marcellus are both in one another's horizons. Thankfully, the former's goggles give him a slight advantage as the sandstorms ease. Marcellus tries to shield his eyes from particles of dirt that scratch and claw at him. It doesn't seem like he's noticed Mateo yet in the dark and grainy haze. Either way, they both creep closer and closer to one another.

Thirty feet. Twenty. Almost fifteen.

The barreling sandstorms slowly die out, and the dark clouds lighten, as if drained of their rich and threatening pigment. It happens in such a way that it feels like a dream.

Fear slips through the cracks of Mateo's raw features at the looming shadow of Marcellus so close, and she notes his hesitation. She feels herself frozen where she stands and she isn't even in the Games. Then she spies it the same time that he does. The "it" being nothing at all, actually. No gleam of silver in his opponent's hand.

His sword. Marcellus has lost his sword in the storm.

Go.

Mateo lurches forward the same time that the Tribute from Two finally blinks the sand out of his eyes, his knife hurling itself through the air. The leftover breeze skews his aim as it embeds itself into Marcellus's already wounded shoulder instead of his heart. Like a furious bull, he screeches in pain, glare bulging and piercing. Fully alert to the battle before him, his gaze locks onto another one of Mateo's twirling blades just in time to dodge it with ease.

The latter screams a war cry as he barrels his entire body weight into the Career's shoulder. They both slam to the ground, Marcellus howling in agony at the knife digging itself deeper into the already vulnerable flesh. Mateo's own ribs ache from the contact of the boy's solid form, and he coughs at the dust clouds that swirl at their impact.

They roll around in the dirt three times before Marcellus uses his upper hand in strength to loom over Mateo. His chest heaves and his teeth grind together as fresh hot blood seeps from his oddly hanging shoulder again. His knees block Mateo from reaching for his final knife, and his fist winds up for a blow. Unlike her Tribute, the Career doesn't miss, the crack of his jaw causing Sage to gasp. Shep stands beside her as they watch history unfold.

Mateo hisses in pain, and Marcellus's good hand reaches for his throat. His palm is so massive it can wrap all the way around. Knuckles clenched, he squeezes and squeezes. Electric shocks sear Sage's insides as she watches Mateo choke and sputter, eyes bulging out of his sockets. The sight of him suffering, of both of her Tributes suffering, makes her eyes sting with tears.

He claws at Marcellus's hand with both of his and his skin flushes red. Sage wants to tear her gaze away before the ghastly image is tattooed into her memory, but she can't. She can't give up on him yet.

Just when it seems that Marcellus might squeeze the breath right out her Tribute's lungs and never give it back, his right arm swipes upward in a desperate attempt. There's a twist and squelch as he digs the dagger deeper into the muscle and flesh of his opponent's shoulder. It continues to present as an Achilles heel, Marcellus shrieking in pain. It's ear-piercing, sparking crackling feedback against the microphones' audio, and everyone in the Viewing Room winces.

Mateo seizes the opportunity and distraction to propel Marcellus's leaden and hefty weight from his lankier frame. It's just enough for him to wriggle out beneath him as he gapes for air, fingers clawing at the dirt. Sage grimaces at his wheezing. He continues to crawl away from the monstrous boy.

With a furious grunt and roar, Marcellus yanks the blade from his shoulder, crimson pools gushing out and trickling down his arm. Air hisses between his teeth in a sharp whistle. Quickly, he envelopes the dagger into his good hand, rising it high in the air for a strike.

Mateo barely turns in time to catch sight of the gleaming metal prepared to pierce his skull. The tip buries itself into the dirt and sand near his cheek as he rolls out of its lethal path. Marcellus wrenches it out from the earth and winds back up for another blow. Hastily, Mateo shrugs off Taura's pack. Swinging it through the air in front of him as a shield and a sword, it consumes the knife. Still clutching the pack by the strap, he hurls it across the ruins. It slams into a mounting pile of bricks.

He reaches down to his hip for his last blade as the two kneel in front of each other. Just as his fingers wrap around the handle, knuckles hurtle into his cheek bone. The pain causes his eyes to water, and he raises a fist to block another blow. Marcellus doesn't aim for his face again, this time punching him right in the kidney. The boy almost gags as his gut retches from the impact. His grip wains on the blade, and he keels over.

Sage's heart somersaults. She takes a step closer to the screen, as if it were just a portal she might be able to step through. Emerge into the Arena and whisk her Tribute to safety. But there's nothing she can do.

Nothing she can do but watch.

It's agonizing. The worst torment she's ever known. Every second feels like a century.

Marcellus pins the boy beneath him again, knees digging into his ribs. Mateo dazed eyes refocus at the shadow looming over him, widening and right arm reaching again to dig his fingernail into the Tribute from Two's wound. But Marcellus already knows his tricks as he swats his hand away. His fingers clench around the boy's throat again with a lethal grip, and he doesn't hesitate to squeeze, even lurching Mateo's skull upward only to slam it back into the ground.

All the fine hairs stand on Sage's body, and she covers her gasp with her trembling hands. Ptolemus bores his stare into the ground, unable to watch. Enobaria inches closer to the screen with an eerie glint in her eye.

Tighter. Tighter. No air comes out of Mateo's lips as they just open and gape. Marcellus seems to be squeezing with all his strength. It looks like it's about to be overover, and tears pool in Sage's eyes, warping the violent image in front of her.

She hears the sound of flesh tearing before she sees it. With his last few breaths, Mateo lurches his remaining blade into Marcellus's gut. It causes the Career to falter. He doesn't scream, he doesn't yell, just pauses— stunned at the sudden sensation of metal poking at his insides. Mateo shoves the heel of his palm into his opponent's wounded shoulder, then his windpipe as his ribs are alleviated from the pressure.

Marcellus seems dumbfounded in his haze, right hand fumbling and unsure of what to grab next. He tries to move his left hand, but his shoulder refuses to cooperate, fingers flexing as he winces in pain. He reaches for the handle of the blade in his gut, then tries for Mateo, back to the blade, Mateo again as the Tribute from Ten rolls them so that he bears over him now.

Mateo, still wheezing, reaches for his last knife that's embedded in Marcellus, the warm and sticky blood staining his palm. The latter tries to cover it with his left hand. It's no use. From the way that the Career's eyes widen in horror— it seems like this will be it. The blade in his gut will find a home in his heart instead. Mateo, though tired, is just ready for it to be over.

He's ready to go home.

Despite the darkness in his eyes, he almost looks sorry as he starts to pull the dagger from his opponent's gut.

He doesn't see Marcellus's good hand fumbling for a brick waiting nearby.

Sage shrieks when a sickening crack of bone erupts from the air, Marcellus's hand swiping and Mateo's skull turning. The impact of it sends him right into the ground. Blood trickles from his temple. His dazed eyes try to open, and Marcellus raises the brick again.

Someone quickly pulls her face into their chest. From the scent of wool and leather, she already knows it's Shep. She whimpers at another crack, squeezing her eyes shut and the stinging taste of iron coating the insides of her mouth. She almost gags as she tries to block out the awful sounds.

Across the room, Ptolemus pales as he watches Marcellus commit gruesome murder in exchange for his life. Even the violence is unsettling for him. He exhales a shaky breath, begging for it to be over soon. He can hear Sage cower across the room into Shep.

Her fellow mentor doesn't let her look at the screen, and she doesn't try to.

Not until the cannon.

Everyone stiffens. Sage pushes herself off of Shep, and he releases her. Her wet and knotted lashes stick together as she tries to make sense of the images on the screen. The ceremonious singular BOOM of thunder echoes hollowly in every crevice of her trembling body. Her heart freezes, completely stunned between heartbeats. Someone's footsteps start toward her, but hesitate.

Mateo's cannon leaves her shell shocked. It doesn't feel real. Like a whisper, it haunts her, wondering if she really heard it or if it's just a figment of her imagination. The screen doesn't lie.

Marcellus, exhausted, drops the blood-stained brick into the dirt. He holds his side as he flops to the ground, chest heaving.

It doesn't feel real.

Claudius Templesmith's voice calls through the sky. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, the Victor of the Seventy-Third Hunger Games."

Mateo Mince?

"Marcellus Boyd!"

It doesn't feel real. The camera briefly flickers from the champion back to the defeated. He looks like Mateo. Through his wounds, she can still make out his signature scar and dark curls. But at the same time, it looks nothing like him at all. The hovercraft extends a claw, wrapping its metal fingers around a limp, lifeless body. His limp, lifeless body.

The haze clears so suddenly it's almost disorienting all over again, her body and senses reacting to the painful reality before her mind can climb out of the shock. The tears start to pool in her eyes, and her lungs start to heave, and the choked sob curls her toes and wrenches itself out of her throat. And now it feels all too real. The whimper that slips past her lips doesn't sound like herself, and she clamps her jaw shut, muffling her cries in the silent Viewing Room. Trembling fingers try to cover her lips.

Ptolemus attempts to reach for her shaking frame, the shock of what everyone just watched still stunning him too. "Sage."

Her name combined with his voice sends shocks across her already fragile heart. Wide-eyed, her glassy and red rimmed gaze peers up at him, and she mindlessly recoils. He almost flinches.

"Come on," Enobaria beckons, starting toward the door. She doesn't even glance over her shoulder to ensure her fellow Mentor is following, the determination prevalent in her strides. "Let's get him."

Ptolemus feels himself tearing in half. He knows he needs to go to Marcellus, his Tribute, his Victor, not just out of a sense of duty but out of a sense of decency. He remembers the relief he felt when Brutus and Lyme greeted him on that Hovercraft four years ago. But Sage. How can he leave Sage like this? He turns back toward her, taking a desperate step forward.

Another squeak escapes her as she shoves a sob back down her throat. She can't do this here. She won't do this here.

A knowing part of her whispers she won't have much of a choice. Mourning is mourning, and there is no right time or place when the depth of the pain is this deep. She really thought she was going to bring Mateo home. Mateo thought she was going to bring him home.

The air in this room is completely suffocating.

She can feel Ptolemus staring at her, and she tries to stand a little straighter, eyes avoiding his completely. "Congratulations," she breathes stiffly. There's no bitterness to her voice, just... heartbreak.

He hates the way she's shrinking away from him. He wants to take a step closer to her, but he's afraid she'll cower away again, so he just shifts his weight anxiously. There's so many emotions building up in both of them they can barely think straight.

They both should've known this could happen...

Enobaria clutches the half-opened door of the Viewing Room, pausing at the lack of her fellow Mentor. Her voice is grating, digging against the walls of his skull. "Ptolemus, now."

A muscle in his cheek twitches, heart thundering and voice booming. The tension pulls and pulls until it snaps like a rubberband and stings everyone's hands. "Just wait a second, alright?!"

Enobaria drums her pointed nails against the door in annoyance. Disheveled and running his fingers through his messy hair, he swivels back to Sage again. He wants to reach for her, to scoop her up, to do something useful for her, but she's already turned away from him.

"Sage, I'm..."

The Victor from Two loses her patience. "PTOLEMUS, LET'S GO!"

"OKAY!"

Everyone in the room flinches at their tones. His chest heaves as he begrudgingly leaves, the sands of the hourglass unmoving as they've all sunk to the bottom. He turns back to glance at Sage over and over again on his way toward the door. Her back is turned to him, shoulders hunched and arms wrapping around herself. His heart plummets into his gut like an iron weight. He almost turns around again, but the door shuts, making him think better of it.

Everything feels so wrong.

Sage waits until he's gone to finally release the sobs she's been choking down, her jaw aching and her chest burning. She wants to scream. She wants to scream so fucking bad, but she knows she can't, the pain melting into something weaker than vengeance and drowning her in it. A sad, tired, and defeated pair of green eyes bore into her. When Sage looks to him, she notices the glassy glint in his eyes too.

"Shep...?"

The seasoned Mentor closes his eyes in defeat, and she heaves herself into him like a scared little girl. Shep is stiff at first. But eventually, he embraces it like he did before, embracing her too as she sobs into his chest. He knows and remembers this feeling all too well, and after twenty-one years, this might be the hardest loss yet.

He tried to warn her.

━━━━
»»————-　♡　————-««

I am... very sorry :(

Fuck that brick man.

I know a lot of you were wanting him to live, I'm ngl, the more I wrote him the more I thought about changing my original plan but... I've decided to stick with the canon (technically movie canon, but) mostly because it coincides with the plans I've made and unfortunately Mateo's story ends here. If it makes you feel any better, his life as a Victor would've been just more pain given his personality and how he's perceived by The Capitol and Snow.

And now... the 73rd games are over and we deal with the aftermath... thoughts? Opinions? I know this was sad and I'm sorry if I've disappointed with the creative choices I've made. I know you guys really loved him :(

I am curious to hear what you're thinking of the story so far, of Sage, of Ptolemus, of their relationship and how you perceive their romance? I'm always worried about how I'm writing them and how it is presenting so I'd love to hear your feedback!

Let me know what you think! If you want to check out my other oc x oc Hunger Games fic it also has Benjamin Wadsworth in it as a character very similar to Mateo with a better range to be light-hearted at times and a major conspiracy theorist.

Rip Mateo Mince :( <3

Word Count: 8137