you can always bleed a little more.

I knew that it was cruel to be so optimistic / but in my solitude,
I couldn't resist the urge and spent entire days basking in idiotic fantasies /
sometimes verging on prayer.

HEAVEN / MIEKO KAWAKAMI

﹙ chapter eleven, act one ﹚

central island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    THE THING ABOUT CAREERS IS THAT THEY DON'T GIVE UP. Not even close; not even an option; not in their nature. It's not possible. At least, it shouldn't be ─── they're the best of the best, top of the class, their district's pride and joy, and they have been since they were old enough to hold a knife. Hours and hours of preparation and planning and sacrifice, all for a shot at glory. The trainers have ingrained and scarred it into their minds ─── failure is not an option. It never has been. This opportunity, the one they've built up to their entire lives, will not be usurped by some farmer boy playing god.

                    Failure isn't something they consider, not even after their recent, and first, humiliation. The amount of sponsors sent their way are still flowing readily, but a noticeable portion of them have switched over to supporting Fida and, by extension, Montgomery. ( It's only now that they've bothered to learn her name ). An unprecedented sway in public opinion leaves a sour tang in their mouths, much like blood. No, things are not going so well. The problem is vengeance, as it always is.

                  They bitterly vow, throughout the early hours of the morning while they sharpen their swords and stock up, to do better. To be smarter, stronger. They busy themselves with hunting down the weaker prey, hoping to regain their invincible reputation, but that does little. Eleven's hope, they say to each other, mockingly. How pathetic. How mortal.

                    Avens Fida is a threat to be taken seriously now, not just because he somehow got a higher score than usual. Because he survived, and laughed in the face of death. It may have been fake, but that's not how it sounded to the audience. They plan, hushed whispers over the fire, not only too quiet for the cameras to pick up, but also creating an air of suspense. One they desperately need.

                    Yoselin has caught Morgan Herring like the fish she's named after, making quick work of it and proving herself ─── and the title of Career ─── in one fell swoop. She is allowed to rejoin the pack. Julius has been undervalued by the two, therefore his bow and arrow are suddenly more of a necessity than an extra. Avens Fida exposed their weak points, the flaws in their seemingly impenetrable armour. Licking their wounds, biding their time, playing it safer, they will retaliate with extremes.

                    But not just yet. The playing field needs to be a little emptier first. Then they move in for the kill. And soon, one of them will win.

                    Because that's how it always goes.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

southern island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    THEY'VE BEEN TREKKING ALL NIGHT, AND INTO THE MORNING. By the time Amira calls for a break, panting, cheeks flushed and rosy, there's not enough air in his lungs to agree. He nods in lieu of speaking; the sun seems particularly hot and nasty today, beating down in a relentless barrage of humidity. He isn't the only one feeling the side effects ─── she sits down so quickly that, for a moment, he wonders if her legs have given out beneath her.

                    She digs through the pack, fishing out the canteen, hands clasping it like salvation. She unscrews the lid, trembling from the exhaustion, and gulps down the water inside. Avens lets her go on like that for a few seconds, before gently prying it away from her. While they did get sponsors during the first two days after their escape from the Careers, there haven't been any since, and the water is running out ─── and then, they would be back where they started; desperate and thirsty.

                    He sips at it, taking time between each swallow, before putting it away. Amira looks at him imploringly. "Please."

                    "No."

                    "Please?"

                    "We need to save it."

                    She leans back, closing her eyes, gingerly avoiding any weight on her arm. "How will we save it when we're already dead?"

                    "That's not the point." He says, but offers it to her nonetheless.

                    It's been five days. Five long, suspiciously quiet days. At least, he thinks so ─── being in the arena for so long has really messed up his perception of time, since night can fall here with the press of a button. Day and night bleed into each other, a long blur of him and Amira walking aimlessly, and alone. The Careers, whom he assumed would be desperate to kill him, have yet to make another appearance. If anything, it unsettles rather than relaxes him; they're alive, that's for sure, and kicking. Six more cannons have fired since, and it's probably their doing. So, why haven't they come for him yet?

                    All it does is plague him with paranoia; perhaps that's what they want, to disturb him without being there. Then again, he could easily be overthinking things. As a tribute, it's an occupational hazard.

                    Amira allows herself a few more swallows before wiping her mouth with her sleeve, putting the canteen safely away. She's a good ally, that much she's proven over the past week, but she has little discipline. If she had her way, they'd be all out of water by now, sick and tired like before, resorting to drinking from puddles and ponds. She yawns, stretching ─── and wincing ─── and arches her back like a cat, before arranging the pack as a pillow and lying down.

                    "Wake me up in an hour," she says. "I just need to close my eyes a little."

                    And she's out like a light.

                    Progress has been slow. Battered, they've continued somewhat aimlessly, now so enveloped by the island that there's no way of telling which direction is north. Cuts and bruises of varying severity litter his body, crying out with every movement and breath, the parting gifts of Octavian. He still doesn't quite grasp the fact that he's alive. That he escaped.

                    All you've done, the voices whisper from beyond the veil, is delay the inevitable. We'll see you soon.

                    Amira has it worse. The dagger was pulled cleanly enough from her arm, not ripping the delicate sinew any further, and the bleeding did eventually stop. So much blood, her blood, coated his hands as he roughly tied the material from his jacket around it. How mortal she seemed, a pale ghost bled dry.

                    The wound is messily healed over, a thin and tight layer of skin keeping the insides in, but it's pink with what can only be infection. Over the past few days, the unnatural hue has spread further and further down her arm, in the distinctive shape of veins. Her whole limb has been rendered almost useless, which he suspects to be blood poisoning; but, he doesn't share his concerns with her. She already knows her fate.

                    It's now that he gets a chance to look at her, to really look at her, not the hasty glances he cannot help but send her way. A genuine appreciation, like admiring a painting, or some fine craftsmanship. The way she throws her arm over her head, snoring ever so slightly. The way the sunlight catches off her blonde hair, like pools of gold. Oh, he doesn't trust her, not in the slightest ─── this is an arena, these are the Hunger Games, and they're cursed to follow the same old pattern ─── but he's glad that he impulsively stopped Yoselin from killing her, that she came forward with the proposition of alliance. He would've gone mad without her, for sure. If he's being entirely honest, he's even───

                    "Tributes of the arena!" The sound of trumpets startles him, breaking his stare, which is a good thing. If Amira caught him doing that, it would only complicate things. He perks up, shaking her awake. He doesn't want to miss a single word.

                    Ever the presenter, the voice of Claudius Templesmith pauses just long enough to garner attention. But even without the speakers and sheer volume, Avens would still be hooked. This is what he's been waiting for ─── they're bored up at the Capitol, and now something will happen to break the repetitive cycle of dull day and night.

                    "I'm sure most of you know what I'm announcing. I'm sure some of you are already declining my invitation."

                    Invitation? He quickly connects the dots, looking back to the previous Games he was always forced to watch. A feast, much like the bloodbath. A chance for the Gamemakers to shake things up and continue providing the entertainment they so desperately love.

                    "Think again, tributes. This is a special feast. You all need something. Medicine, weapons, redemption, perhaps."

                    The latter can only apply to the Careers, which makes the whole event seem a lot less appealing. But he does need something. Amira's inflamed arm needs more than ordinary herbs to fix it; Capitol medicine is expensive. Of all the sponsors they've received, even pooling together the money, it probably wouldn't be enough. This feast could solve that.

                    "Each of you will find something in a backpack marked with your sex and District number, at the Cornucopia tomorrow, at midday. Think about it before you refuse this generous offer. For some, this is your last chance. Don't waste it."

                    And then, there's nothing but a faint echo of his words hanging in the air. He starts as Amira grabs his hand, gazing at him imploringly. "No." She says. "You're not risking your life for me."

                    "Who said I was going to?" He responds, but it's a poor defence. She knows he's already made up his mind.

                    "So you're not?"

                    "Obviously I'm going."

                    "You don't need to play the hero. I'm capable of getting it myself, or with you." She shakes her head. "Stop thinking that you can do it alone."

                    She must be unaware of how that simple statement cuts straight to his heart. He's always managed until now ─── who comforted Willow when her husband, his father, was shot in the streets? Who fed them all on tesserae as soon as the drawers opened, without much care as to whether he was chosen or not? When Willow was imprisoned on suspicion of stealing produce for three months, who raised Aster? Who continued to do that as she slowly healed, spooning the stew and coaxing it down her throat? And, who managed to do it all by himself?

                    He did; and he will carry on.

                    "I'm going, and you can't stop me."

                    "Maybe not," she concedes, determination blazing in her blue eyes. "But I can follow you. I can distract them. I can help."

                    She's stubborn and just about strong enough to do it. As of yet, her legs are in working order. But something could get her, perhaps not even a tribute, and she'd be unable to defend herself. A useless arm, and a couple of knives she doesn't know how to use. She'd be dead in a few hours, for sure. And then he'd be alone again, in the heat and madness.

                    "You wouldn't make it." He says, and surely she knows that to be true.

                    "Why don't we find out?" She says. "I'm sick of people telling me what I can and can't do. I'm dying anyway. I will die anyway. What more is there to lose?" She takes a step forward, eyes glistening with tears ready to be shed. "Please. Please. Let me help in any way I can, and it might work."

                    "It might not." He says, voice tight.

                    "What if it does?"

                    He thinks. Again and again, he comes to the same conclusion. "Fine." He admits defeat. "But we need a plan. We're not going in there without knowing what to do."

                    By midday, as invited, they've reached the shore onlooking the central island, ready to brave the Cornucopia once more.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

central island, the arena.
july, 70 att.

                    HIDDEN BY A GROUP OF DENSELY PACKED BUSHES ─── NOT DARING TO GO FOR THE OBVIOUS OPTION OF HIDING UP IN THE TREES ─── THEY WAIT. What more is there to do? The air is thick with tension, waiting to be cut. Facing the downward slope of the Cornucopia, both Avens and Amira scan the surrounding circle of forest. Others are there, he knows it, but don't dare to come out into the open again. The Careers are down there, waiting for the fresh meat to walk in, and they certainly won't be the first to go down there. As planned, they need a distraction ─── and charging in there won't do them any favours.

                    The air around the Cornucopia is stale, tainted with coppery blood, yet also on the brink of being charged. It's a unique combination of peace and promised conflict, and it's suffocating him slowly. He's been crouching for the last twenty minutes, waiting for the first strike. For the first fool, which will not be him.

                    No, that would be Mara Cayden.

                    Truth be told, he's surprised to see her. While her image was never displayed in the sky at night, he'd had the idea that she was dead somehow. That the Mara he knew died the night she offered a curt goodbye, before disappearing into her room. That she never really left. Even more so that she would come all the way here ─── she must've put as much distance between herself and the Cornucopia ─── which can only mean that she too, is desperate.

                    She doesn't look well. Her dark skin is flushed and paler than usual, and there's an unhinged look in her eye. The way she moves across the bare expanse of dirt and sand is scattered and uneven, choppy like the bruises marring her skin, and the limp on one of her legs is a telltale sign of injury. He could've stopped this, if he'd been there.

                    If he'd been a better friend. But are they even friends? There has never been a right word for what they are.

                    Mara makes it some ten paces across, eliciting the attention of the Careers, when the rest of the remaining tributes surge onto the chessboard in a furious wave. Desiree lurches forward to meet her, a wicked grin spreading across her features, and she picks up a knife from the depths of her jacket. Of course she wouldn't run out; the Careers monopolise the Cornucopia. She has everything she could ever need and more. A part of him almost shouts Mara's name as the steel glints towards her in the blink of an eye, but she's already skirted to the side, running both towards the packages, and veering away from Desiree.

                    Run, Mara, run. He wills silently. Is it selfish to want them both to survive?

                    A glance to his side, to tell Amira that they should go now, but she's gone. He blinks, searching around, finding nothing other than the quickly unfolding carnage before him. They were supposed to go in together ─── yet, she's already gone either into the carnage or away from it. Taking a moment to compose himself, he grips his trusted machete and starts to creep closer to the Cornucopia, where he now sees the bags. The Careers have gathered them together, not being allowed to tamper with them, and strewn them into one large pile. It'll take time to find his package, which is, of course, what they intended.

                    Just as he's about to make his move, Mara darts to the side, sliding down the slope, avoiding another knife streaking past her head. The tall noirette gets closer, no longer throwing knives, but switching them out for identical daggers. Desiree has had her entire life to train; Mara has had three days ─── the difference shows. Mara can barely land a cut on her, and it becomes very obvious that ducking and weaving won't work forever. From the start she's losing, and badly. As the tip of Desiree's knife is an inch away from slashing out her eyes, he makes up his mind.

                    Lurching forwards from the bushes, he lasts three steps before he's immediately plagued by Yoselin. "I told you it wasn't over, farmer boy, didn't I?"

                    She's something of an expert with a spear, keeping him out of his own measure but still in hers, left unable to retaliate to her heavy and quick blows. She plays it close, the tip coming too close for comfort and nearly stabbing him completely, only reaching his side; she plays it far, withdrawing the tip and then striking, but not far enough for him to land a hit.

                    Yoselin is fast, but not faster than him. He grew up among the birds, and the mice, and they know how to run at first sight of danger. They know when to use their bursts of speed to their advantage. She doesn't, barely tiring, but breathing heavily ─── she can't last forever. Her spear is quick, both at attacking and retracting, but not as fast as those three steps it takes to get by her side. Then, he plans a downward slash to the vulnerable handle, where it will clatter from her hands.

                    That doesn't happen. Realising that she can't defend herself with the tip, she swings it around like a massive stick. A massive, metal stick that collides with his temple at full force. Pain explodes on one side of his head, met by the other as he collapses to the ground. A cry escapes his lips, the smell of his blood hanging around him in a haze.

                    How embarrassing, he vaguely thinks, as a blurry shape steps over his body. As it drives Yoselin back, far enough to be pushed into the range of Dakota, the boy from Seven. The one he thought they'd go for first, but she's his problem now, two spears clashing against each other. How stupid, to think he could take on a Career.

                    He feels his hands being grabbed, and pulled back. In his concussed stupor, he does nothing to resist it. When he feels the shade on his eyelids, he looks around, the blooming throb keeps him unbalanced, but it seems his vision is still intact, only blurred at the sides. And, he sees Mara, in the flesh.

                    Up close, she looks even worse, much like himself. Whatever few pounds she managed to gain from gorging while in the Capitol have been worked off, leaving her cheeks hollow and bony, like before. She keeps a knife in her hand, stained with blood; he suspects it's not her own. Her eyes are cloudy and hazy, but the acute disbelief pierces the veil between them.

                    "What were you thinking?" She seethes as soon as she sees him open his eyes, fixing him with a glare. "Taking on Yoselin like that?"

                    Despite himself, and his rather pathetic situation, a lopsided grin makes its way onto his face. "Good to see you too, Mar."

                    Her jaw clenches at the old nickname, but she says nothing about it. She keeps looking towards the Cornucopia ─── which is steadily becoming a repeat of the bloodbath ─── attention split between him and whatever is laying in her bag. Which proves his earlier thought: she's desperate.

                    Something in her voice breaks. "What were you thinking?"

                    "I was coming for you." Of course he was. It was the most natural thing in the world. "She just got in the way." He replies, sitting up with a rush. "I wanted my package. Still do, actually."

                    She stares at him, and he realises this might be the second time he's seen her cry.

                    She sniffs, composing herself, wiping her grimy face with her sleeve. It just pushes the sweat and dirt around, though. "Just keep them away from me," she says as they near the pile of bags from behind, the point furthest from any Careers. "I'll get them."

                    He nods, raising his machete in preparation, and stands guard while she digs through the heap. They're spotted almost instantly, by an Octavian who is in his element. All of the bravado from five nights earlier vanishes as he can see just how royally pissed off he is. His throat goes dry at the sight, urging Mara to hurry up.

                    "I'm trying," She hisses under her breath, saying several words he wouldn't repeat in front of his mother or Aster. "I need a minute."

                    "We don't have a minute!" He half-shouts as he parries Octavian's first blow, pushed down onto one knee by the force, muscles aching. He wonders how his machete didn't shatter under the impact, or his bones. The next knocks him off his feet, body going lax as he's tossed like a doll into the heap of bags.

                    So close to salvation, yet so far from it too.

                    He looms forward, bringing the sword high for the final strike. Avens wants to cry out; maybe if he gets Mara's attention, she can keep Octavian away. She's proficient enough with a knife to hold her own for a minute, even with her suspected illness. But there's no air in his lungs for that ─── it only comes as a weak gasp. He wants to scramble away like he did before, like a rat up a drainpipe, but he can't. Everything hurts, clamouring for the attention of feeling. His limbs are on fire when he tries to get up, to roll over, anything.

                    Octavian seems to sense this, honing in on his prey's fear and soaking it all in. "Goodbye, little farmer."

                    He hears a scream that isn't his own, but accepts his miserable end. Avens keeps his eyes as far open as he can, wanting to see his last moments, waiting for a stab that doesn't come. He may have accepted it, but Mara didn't. Instead of killing him, Octavian staggers back, pulling a knife that landed in his leg.

                    He starts to crawl away, as Octavian seems to be preoccupied. He'll thank Mara later. Except it wasn't her, since she's just found the packs, holding them both in one hand, plus an extra on one shoulder.

                    No, as he turns to look at the towering and increasingly furious Career, he realises it was Amira.

                    She didn't leave him for dead! A cannon fires, and Avens has no wish to be the next. Soon, however, another rings out, one that chills him to the bones. Julius, seemingly invincible Julius Emerson; master of the bow; in the middle of the career pack; lies dead on the ground. His glassy eyes are staring at his killer ─── Dakota Garner, proving himself as the greatest contender for the crown, after them of course.

                    Dakota lets out a laugh, one that rings out over the carnage, hollow and insane: "Not so special after all!" He shouts, eliciting full attention, especially as a knife strikes him in the chest. Then another.

                    In a matter of moments, Octavian has already strode over, cut his wooden spear in half, and separated his head from his shoulders. It's messy, and Avens forces himself to look away before his mind can fully memorise the way the sword cuts into bone. The way the bloody stump falls to the ground, serenaded by cannon fire. At least he won't remember the rest of it ─── by the time he turns around, Amira is gone, again.

                     He forces himself to run into the line of trees, soon hidden by the foliage, swallowing the lump of panic in his throat. How, exactly, is he still alive? How many more times can he cheat death? And, more importantly, where is Mara?

                    She's above him, of course. Mara has always excelled at being silent; they used to have a game where she would try and sneak up on him. There were only a few times where things like her reflection, or someone calling her name, allowed him to realise where she was. He looks up, meeting her brown eyes, making a motion to come down. He may have been raised up in the trees, but he doesn't even want to think about climbing up right now.

                    ( Truthfully, he doesn't want to think at all. How can merely existing be so terrible? )

                    She drops down, absorbing the impact with her knees. She must really be out of it if she didn't roll, and he can see the grimace of the impact. Lifting up the bag in one arm, he takes it, immediately checking the inside. A metal jar of some kind; impossible to tell what's inside. Another is in her hand, marked with an F11, and one more across her shoulder. An ally.

                    He realises again what the games will end with. Broken alliances, broken friendships, one broken person. He's quickly realising that no one will leave, if at all. Betrayal spreads its wicked tendrils; who else could she possibly trust with her life, if not him? Why should he even care if he's done the very same thing? "Thank you." He says curtly, turning on his heel.

                    "This is where we leave each other?" Even though he can't see her gaze, he can picture her plaintive look. Can feel it tugging at his heart. She hesitates. "For good?"

                    Avens blinks, breathing deeply. The next words hurt, but they need to be said. That part of him silently crying doesn't matter. "I think . . . it's best we forget everything between us."

                     She says nothing. Avens waits and waits for her to say something, but he's lost sight of her again. And no matter how long he looks, she's gone. Or maybe he's the one who's dead.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,260 words! )
the last few chapters felt a little dry so here's
some fighting ✨ and a feast,, which wasn't
 in the first version of inured (what was i doing
back then 💀) but to start with, a quick switch
to the careers, though told in the third person.
it felt right to write it, that's all. it doesn't rlly
contribute to the plot in any other way 🤷

some dynamic between amira & avens, who
aren't exactly besties (understandable) but 
are getting closer / more trusted. then amira
vanishes at the start of the feast and appears
again to save him. but after that, i think avens
knows he can't afford much more trust.

but that's not the focus! no, the star of the
show is undoubtedly the reunion between 
mara and avens 🥺and some proper emotion
shown by her in the middle of a fight to the
death. ( finally an interaction! i've been dying
to write the two of them together again ) and
i've had some fun with the repeating themes
in this one. boy will we haunt the narrative as
the story progresses 🤭

don't forget to vote & comment <3