WHO: Alexander Treadle (D8) and Amelia Butts (D7) WHAT: They're stuck in a tower, but they're hardly princesses. WHEN: Night 8/Day 9 WHERE: Secret Apartment, Castle of Illusions WARNINGS: Cute? Sad? Mostly it's fine! STATUS: Complete
In the blackness she searched for them, their pleas as desperate as her desire to find them. Every time she managed to reach someone they melted away in a pool of blood; a taunting voice mocking her attempts.
You’re next. You’re next.
It should have been you.
Amelia awoke with a startled cry, the feel of a phantom hand at her throat sending her into a coughing fit. For a few moments she didn’t know where she was, the memories slowly coming back as she kicked off the blankets that threatened to suffocate her. Amelia knew that if they had been outside her noise could have gotten them killed and a rush of guilt caught in her throat. It should have been you. “Alex? Are you awake?”
The coughing had done it, startled him from vast darkness filled only by whispers, and Alexander had grabbed the dagger from the nightstand, sitting up with the covers still rumpled over his legs and his hair in his face. He set the knife down, willing his heart to settle in his chest. "Yeah," he answered, leaning against the headboard and looking over to Amelia's bed. It would have been a nightmare, he figured, and threw back the other side of his blankets for her to come over.
Amelia held a pillow in front of her chest until he put the dagger down. She trusted him not to hurt her, but knew how disorienting waking up in a strange place could be. When he threw back the blankets she paused, not sure if she should move. With a deep breath she scurried over, crawling in next to him and pulling the covers up under her chin. Perhaps it should be strange doing this with someone she had only known for a few weeks, but he was offering her comfort and she knew not to take that for granted. She had always shared a bed with her siblings back home and the familiar heat of another person was almost enough to take her back to the memories of being safe. “Thanks. Sorry for waking you.”
"It's okay." He wasn't sure what else he was meant to do, not being Cypress or her real family, and it had been too long since Alex and his sisters had all been young enough to run to their parents' room during thunderstorms. "You want to talk about it?" he offered, feeling lame as he laid back down.
“They’re just dreams. About the games. About the others.” Amelia had never been one for nightmares. She had them, of course, but not any she could recall. It seemed unfair that she couldn’t get a rest even in sleep. She wondered if any other the others out there in the arena had any trouble sleeping. Probably not, they were older. “What were you dreaming about before I woke you?”
"Darkness," Alex answered, scrubbing at his face with his hand, attempting to clear away the shadows that lingered, the whispers of his guilt.
Faint stains were still visible where blood had dried on the clothes, but they smelled clean which was more than Alex had felt since coming up through the tubes from the prep areas. "Pinch the waist up," he said, "and the sleeve, and then..." He aimed the blow dryer at the neck, holding the other sleeve closed so the body of the jacket inflated with warm air, like a person-shaped balloon. Alex grinned at the hair-turned-clothes-dryer.
Amelia watched with idle curiosity, wondering if this was what all the kids in Eight did for fun. With a mischievous grin she placed her hands over the inflated jacket and brought them together with a solid clap. “Aw, I was hoping it would pop. Do it again!”
Alex had been at it for just over an hour, dismantling the fryer for parts after an attempt to ignite it had produced only a few sparks and no lasting flames. The canister that had held the propane gas was empty, and lugging around the entire heavy object was likely more trouble than it was worth. The process had been a mixture of brute force and delicate skill, clumsy and awkward as the large wrench was. Now he was down to a bundle of shredded toilet paper, fluffed to help the spark catch light, and pressing the ignition switch over and over again. The small fire took hold after several minutes of attempts, and Alexander managed to feed it into being on torn up scraps of corn dog box and the corn dog stick itself. He lit half a dozen things on fire, stamping them out with his shoe slipped on his hand before anything disintegrated so badly that it became useless. Charcoal took hold of fire better than things that hadn't been burned, that much he had learned in training. Carefully, once he was sure the fire was out, he dipped each piece of starter in the used fryer oil, laying them out to dry off.
The folded up silver parachute from the bread and iodine was cut into strips - this material was much more difficult to merely singe, some sort of nylon based synthetic that would melt and burn quickly, just the thing he needed. Alex used the dagger to punch a small hole in the mason jar's metal lid, pushing a strip of oiled material through. He knotted it at intervals on each side of the lid and screwed it back into place. They would have to be more careful about carrying it now, lest the oil spill out, but a well-aimed makeshift bomb thrown from a rooftop into the locker bay, would create a grease fire explosion that could cause havoc if enough Careers were present. God, he hoped they would try to put it out with water.
The stick that had been his first weapon was turned into a torch with the aid of the remaining parachute pieces and some of the string, tied tightly inside an empty popcorn bag to contain the excess puddle of oil. It wasn't the best weapon, but could likely come in handy at some point and was easier to transport.
"Anything you want to make?" he asked, surveying their supplies spread out around him.
Amelia considered all the items around them before coming to a decision. “Lunch.”
The television had nothing but static and loud white noise, and Alexander jabbed hastily at the mute button, unsure how to manage much else with the extremely complicated remote control.
“Maybe it will show us the other tributes. If we know where they are we could come up with some sort of plan.” Whether it be fight or run. A part of Amelia had been hoping for glimpses of home on the television or even for familiar faces back at the Capitol. It was probably foolish to let her mind wander away from the Games, but tucked away safe in this room she allowed herself to hope. Alex continued to click through the channels, but there was nothing to see but static. Maybe they were doing something wrong. “I like you Alexander, but your taste in television blows.”
She made him laugh, but nothing could make the screen show them anything more enlightening than ants on snow. Alexander left it on in the background all the same, just in case something happened to change.
They had found the checkerboard in one of the drawers. There hadn’t been many board games in Seven, but the small wooden pieces were a familiar sight. The pieces were heavy and soft in her hands and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was holding a piece of home. “King me!” She was losing by a long shot, but there were worse people to lose to than Alexander. She never had a mind for long term strategy.
Alex did with a genuine smile - he had promised not to let her win, but he was going to claim it was luck and ask for a rematch and lose the second time. If someone in the Capitol thought him weak for wanting to make Amelia happy, he didn't think trouncing a girl at checkers would change any favor. This respite from the usual hardships of the arena was welcome in some ways, and dangerous in others. The closer he felt to Amelia, the harder it was to imagine someone stealing the life from her. "I don't think you're as bad at this as you said you were," Alex insisted, shifting one of his pieces with a composed stare. "You're a hustler, aren't you?"
“Yep, but don’t worry, you’re not the first one I’ve fooled.” Amelia smiled as she took one of his pieces with her king. Maybe this game would end closer than she thought.
The door opened entirely of it's own accord once he had given up and unpacked for another night stuck in a tower like some strange twist on a princess in a fairy story. It was a clear sign that taking supplies from the little palace was not going to be allowed. Live in luxury and risk meeting your end once someone was let up to corner you, or suffer the rest of the arena, with the freedom to run rather than fight. "We're not going to be able to find this place again," he said solemnly, putting only his own meager, gathered possessions back into his backpack and pockets. "If you want to risk what happens, I'll stay with you," Alexander pledged. "But if you want to go we should each take one more drink and try to make it out of the maze before it gets too dark."
Amelia didn’t want to go, but she knew it was certain death if they stayed. The Capitol would not reward them for hiding, even if they had given them the means to. Besides, how long before another tribute found the open door and decided to join them? They’d be caught like rats in a trap. “One more drink, then we’ll find somewhere safe to go. We stick together, no matter what.” This place had already separated her from him once, she wasn’t about to let that happen again. “It’s you and me.”
"'til the end," he agreed, and this time, the hug shared between them felt wholly natural.