Chapter 1: The Lie
Notes:
For Void, with love <3
Chapter Text
The lights pulsed in beat with the music, and the entire room vibrated. Sweat was in the air, reflected off the multi color strobe show that had taken over this portion of the party. No one could hear anything. No one could feel anything except the artificial beat from the music.
It was perfect. At least, that was what Damanio Delaine thought. He preferred the beat to the other thing. The beat was loud and distracting, and if he could make it last forever, he just might.
The crowd was filled with young delinquents just like himself. Many of them worked within minutes of the empty warehouse they found themselves in. Factories filled this part of Eight, collectively known as The Smog. Damanio thought it was an apt name, with so much smoke to block out even the sun on the hottest summer days. It was one of the few places in Eight where a certain class of people would never find themselves. Murder and theft ran high for anyone who could afford two loaves of bread in the same purchase. The streets here were filled with those who couldn’t, who slept in the same building they worked because they simply had no other choice. Those who could afford a roof over their head share it with family and strangers alike.
Damanio had found himself in a few of those homes. Drunken escapades led him all around The Smog. It was his home.
(It was more of a home than his house.)
As the party continued on, Damanio shoved his way through the crowd, stumbling against the metal bar that sat at the back of the decrepit warehouse. He ordered a drink and he drank. The liquor burned his throat, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe, but he didn’t care.
If this wasn’t life, what was?
Someone shoved him aside, spilling a bit of his drink.
“Move,” they grumbled, the smell of smoke overwhelming.
The liquor from his cup ended up covering the stranger before Damanio could think through it. Even after thinking through it, he landed on the same conclusion: that it was an excellent idea.
The stranger lunged after Damanio, but he was just faster. He slinked back into the crowd, bodies pushing against his own, fumbling into the heart of the music.
Lights continued to flash, and the floor continued to shake, and Damanio couldn’t think of anything else.
It was perfect.
Damanio wasn’t sure which way home was.
(That was a lie. He was far too familiar with the suffocating walls he had to call home. It didn’t matter how many days or nights he spent away from the place. It always pulled him back in.)
Regardless, the streets in Eight looked different in the light. Most nights, he made it home before sunrise. Today was not one of those days.
The sensation came over him too quickly for him to react. The liquor burned his throat coming back up even more than it did going down. The stone street was now covered in bile. He tried to walk around it, but that was hard when the world was spinning. He barely managed to avoid slipping in it, instead finding himself a nice wall to lean against.
And then he started laughing. He couldn’t stop. It came over him like an itch he was happy to scratch. He laughed at himself, at the events of the evening. He laughed at the state of the street, at the state of himself.
He laughed at the idea of his father seeing him.
(Then he stopped laughing. Maybe it had something to do with the world continuing to shift. Damanio didn’t think about it too hard.)
He knew he was almost home when the streets started to widen and the smell of smoke dissipated. The cracked stone of the streets slowly turned into the paved path he had been raised on. Shacks turned into houses, which turned into fucking mansions, and it sickened Damanio more than the liquor did.
By the time he reached the gate, the world was silent. His heart ached for the thumping of the grimy warehouse. The gaudy statues, paintings, and fucking chandeliers sickened him.
He stumbled inside, greeted by nobody. He crawled into his bedroom. This time, when the liquor left his stomach, he managed to keep it confined to his private bathroom.
His bed was too big. The walls suffocated him. He longed for another night of pleasure.
If it were up to him, he’d never come home.
(When has anything ever been up to him, though?)
Damanio didn’t know when the knocking started, but he had a feeling from its intensity that he had been ignoring it for a while.
His head throbbed, and he craved sleep. He knew he wouldn’t get more of it, at least not right now. He pushed himself out of bed, his feet heavy and his mind heavier.
“What?” he yelled and immediately regretted it. His hands gripped his skull, hoping to do anything to stop everything from rattling.
“May I enter?” His father was disappointed, Damanio could tell. He didn’t know why.
(He knew why.)
“No. I’m…changing.” Damanio suppressed his nausea. He cleared his throat. “Is there something you need from me?”
The voice that accompanied his words felt so far from his own.
“We have our meeting with the mayor today. You will be ready in ten minutes to leave, I presume.” It was not a question. It was a demand.
And as much as he wanted to, he had to comply, for he was a Delaine, and they would expect nothing less of him.
“Yes, yes.” Damanio stumbled around his room, finding himself once again in the bathroom. The cold shower revitalized him, froze his skin to help him forget about the pain in his skull. His clothes from yesterday stuck to him as water pooled at his feet. The smell of smoke disappeared down the drain, washing away much more than dirt.
He felt as if he were watching the better parts of himself swirl down the drain.
As promised, ten minutes later, Damanio was dressed and presentable.
Coffee and eggs were left prepared in the obscenely large kitchen. He drank the coffee in one gulp, the hot liquid running through his veins and revitalizing him. He poked at the eggs, but opted for a second coffee as his father beckoned him to leave.
They didn’t speak as the driver pulled around. Damanio crawled into the back, gripping the mug. He closed his eyes.
If he focused hard enough, he could hear the music from last night.
It calmed him.
Damanio couldn’t remember the last two hours if he tried.
Hands were shaken and words were exchanged, but even the words had no substantial value. Empty promises met with fake smiles sickened Damanio.
Or maybe that was just the hangover.
He snuck away from the business bullshit for a breath of fresh air. Smoke and dust settled everywhere outside, but at least it was real.
Endless faces passed him, workers going to and from their jobs, some even passing him to enter the Delaine’s factory. His father’s factory.
(His factory.)
His father looked at the workers with disgust. He always told Damanio they had a shell of a life with the long hours and back breaking work. Damanio wanted to remind him who set those conditions.
Damanio saw more than a worker. He saw a person. He saw the respect one worker had for another. He saw the love in their eyes when they reunited with family at the end of a long day. He saw how little they had and how hard they worked, but he also saw how hard they worked for one another.
One boy stood out to him. He must have been Damanio’s age. His clothes were dirty and ratty, complemented by a scarf with teeth marks decorating the fabric. Maybe he recognized him from school, but the boy’s eyes locked with Damanio’s for just a few seconds longer than Damanio knew how to respond to. Eventually, the boy continued on his way, onto a life worth living.
“Damanio!” his father called from inside the factory.
He had no choice but to oblige.
For the second night in a row, Damanio found himself stumbling around a loud room without a care in the world.
There wasn’t music to drown out his thoughts, but the drinks and yelling sufficed. Gambling happened around him, and Damanio even took part in some of it. He lost, but what did it matter? Nothing mattered when he was a Delaine.
He fumbled his way to the bar to order another drink when a familiar face bumped Damanio’s arm with his elbow.
“Two for us. He’s paying.” The boy smirked at Damanio, and whatever part of the brain dealt with facial recognition was stirring, but it wasn’t enough.
“You…you…” Damanio couldn’t finish the thought, let alone the sentence. The bartender gave him two drinks, and Damanio paid accordingly.
“You have everything you could want at home, and yet you’re here. Why?” the boy asked in a whisper. Damanio almost spit out his drink.
“You…how…not me….” Damanio’s mind swirled, and it wasn’t because of the drinks, at least not completely.
He knows me. How does he know me?
That thought alone was enough. The boy was a Delaine factory worker. One of the boys who walked past Damanio earlier that day, when he was too busy mourning a life he’d never enjoy.
“Sindon. Don’t worry. We work together.” Sindon winked, and Damanio wasn’t sure what to feel.
Without giving it much more thought, he didn’t feel. He happily spent another night feeling nothing. He drank with his new friend. He gambled. He laughed.
For one more night, he wasn’t Damanio Delaine.
And it felt good.
He didn’t expect to see Sindon again, but he was happy to be wrong.
The warehouse was less crowded tonight, but the music played on. The two of them sat near the back, drinking away the night with silence between them. Damanio didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Sindon was enjoying the drinks too much to say much of anything.
It was quiet but it was freeing. Damanio didn’t have to put on a mask or feel like the world was watching him. He could simply sit, drink, and watch the world move on around him. It was peaceful. It was as far from monotony as he could hope.
“What brings you back?” Sindon finally asked after his fourth glass ran dry. Damanio tried to refill it, but Sindon pulled the glass away.
“Back?” Damanio asked, filling up his own glass instead.
“Back here.” Sindon rolled his shoulders back. “It certainly smells better at home than here.”
Damanio smiled. “Hardly.” Sindon’s question rattled in his brain, an answer not coming to him.
(The truth came to him, but that was not the answer he would share with Sindon.)
“I like the people,” he finally admitted. Not a lie, not a truth, something that landed comfortably in the middle of Damanio’s world.
“What about the people? What brings you back here, specifically?” Sindon asked. If anyone else pressed Damanio like that, he would assume they were looking down upon him, trying to understand the mind of a boy who barely understands himself. Yet when Sindon asked, he asked with genuine curiosity. He knew who Damanio was and still he sought him out at the bar and the clubs. He sat with him when no one else would. In the factory, they were strangers, but out in The Smog, they were becoming something closer to friends.
(Damanio hadn’t had one of those in a long time.)
“They’re unapologetically themselves,” Damanio finally answered. “They have no one to answer to. No authority to be scared of. It’s freeing.”
“Until the night ends.” Sindon didn’t have to remind Damanio.
(That was the one thing Damanio could never lose: the Delaine name. While everyone around him would return to The Smog and the small shacks they called home, he would walk the long walk home, to a house too big to call home and a life anyone else would kill for.
Shame didn’t come close to describing how it made Damanio feel.)
“I get it,” Sindon said, pulling Damanio out of his thoughts. Damanio shifted.
Where was he going with this?
“We’re all trapped. Isn’t that the point?” Sindon lowered his voice, letting the music around them silence his words. “The Capitol traps us in Districts, and the Districts trap us in monotony. We live and we die and the Capitol doesn’t care unless it ruins their comfort.”
Damanio blinked. He glanced around to make sure no one else heard Sindon’s words, for they would mean certain death to the wrong ears. When it was clear death would not come for him, he said, “Some of us just get prettier cages.”
“And yours must be gorgeous.” Sindon winked.
“Don’t you hate me for it?” Damanio asked. “I would.”
Sindon’s response was a shrug. “Cages are cages no matter what they’re made of. Besides, we’re both here, aren’t we? Drinking from the same bottle?” He raised his empty glass. Damanio was hesitant to raise his own. He didn’t deserve to.
“Surround yourself with people to care about. Then, fight for them. No matter who they are.” Sindon leaned in closer. “I’d for one accept shorter hours at that factory of yours.”
Damanio let the weight of his words slowly wash over him. Sindon was right and he knew it. It wasn’t something Damanio could do in a day or a week. It would take time and it wouldn’t be easy. Even at Damanio’s age, he knew the best things in life never came easy.
Maybe, just maybe, he could start looking at his privilege as something of an opportunity rather than a cage.
For the first time in a long time, Damanio found something to grab hold of, something that ran deeper than boredom or guilt.
Purpose.
When Damanio came home that evening, Enrica was still awake. He found her in the family room, book in hand. She smiled at him. He smiled back.
“You should be asleep,” he said with a wink.
“At least I was home,” she giggled. She waved him over to join her on the couch. Exhaustion swept over him but he gladly agreed.
“What are you reading?” he asked. He wasn’t familiar with the cover, but that wasn’t surprising.
“A memoir from one of Twelve’s Victors.” She offered the book to Damanio and he glanced at it.
“Grey Thornton.” Damanio shrugged and placed the book down on the table.
“Where were you?” Enrica asked. There was no accusations behind her words, just genuine curiosity and concern.
Damanio felt bad. His nights away from home grew longer and longer, and he could only imagine how he looked when he did finally make it home. Enrica never judged him, never looked down on him for the choices he made. She only ever wanted him to be happy.
“I made a friend, I think,” Damanio admitted. Enrica sat up. Then, she smiled.
“Will you tell me about him?” she asked. Damanio returned the smile, but shook his head.
“My secret. For now.” He squeezed her arm.
“I’m glad. You…you’ve seemed happier recently.” Enrica said.
He had? Damanio racked his brain. Time had moved differently since he met Sindon. He no longer dreaded the days and survived just for those nights.
Was he starting to learn what life could offer?
“I guess I have been.” Damanio stood up and offered a hand to his sister. She took it. “Let’s go out on the town tomorrow. What do you say?”
Enrica nodded. She pulled her brother into a hug.
“I love you, D.”
“I love you too.” He hugged her back.
There were a lot of bleak moments in the world. With the reaping approaching, it was hard to forget that. Yet Sindon’s words swirled in his brain and made Damanio realize he was right.
He did have people to care about. And maybe they cared about him more than he ever knew.
Days continued on for Damanio, and Sindon gave him something to look forward to. Whether it was nights at an underground party, gambling, or just drinking, Sindon helped Damanio forget.
He helped him feel.
Tonight would be slightly different. There would be no loud noise to drown out Damanio’s thoughts, nor would there be gambling or bar fights. Sindon wouldn’t tell Damanio what the plan was. All he wanted was for Damanio to trust him.
Damanio could count on one hand how many people he trusted. Somehow, Sindon had become one of the few.
Sindon did ask Damanio for a favor, which Damanio happily obliged. All it took was a quick break into the Delaine’s liquor cabinet. It shouldn’t have taken him long to find the oldest bottle, but, well, he wanted it to be perfect.
So many things in his life were perfect, and he hated it, but he couldn’t hate this. Not when being with Sindon was so freeing.
He slid the bottle into a backpack and snuck out the front of the mansion. The streets crumpled around him as he moved through the city into The Smog. He felt comfortable surrounded by the desolate part of Eight. The dust and grime kept most away, but not Damanio.
He saw Sindon leaning against an abandoned shop. Damanio smiled as Sindon saw him. Sindon cocked his head towards the alley behind him, and Damanio followed.
Silence was prominent as they walked through the rocky cobblestone streets. Damanio was becoming less and less familiar with the buildings around him. As far as he was aware, this section of Eight was abandoned. All the buildings that stood were but relics. With no access to electricity or clean water, the homes and factories were relocated.
It seemed that was exactly where Sindon wanted them to go. Damanio kept following.
They had walked so far that Damanio could no longer see The Smog. At last, Sindon stopped in front of a tall tower.
“Afraid of heights?” he asked. Damanio shook his head.
Sindon led the way into the tower. All that was inside was a single spiraling staircase. Every step was cracked, if not completely missing. Each step bowed under the weight of their feet. Damanio was glad he wasn’t afraid of heights, for a piece of wood was the only thing keeping him from falling a hundred feet to the ground.
When they reached the top, Damanio’s legs ached, but his breath was swept away. The view was nothing like he had seen before. Somehow, they could see across The Smog, past the square, and deep over the forests and mountains that surrounded Eight.
“Wow.” Damanio was speechless. He didn’t know a place like this existed.
“Over here,” Sindon said, leaning against the stone wall that protected them from falling. Damanio stood next to him, his eyes falling over what felt like all of Eight. He knew it wasn’t, but he didn’t care.
It was amazing. It was so amazing, Damanio almost forgot about the liquor.
Almost.
He pulled out the bottle, took off the cap, and offered Sindon the first sip. The boy took a drink, then passed it back to his friend.
“That’s good.”
“Delaine special,” Damanio responded as he took his first sip. It was good. It didn’t burn like the drinks he typically ordered. It was smooth and refreshing.
A comforting silence filled the air, broken only by the passing of the bottle. Damanio didn’t mind. He never minded when he was with Sindon. With everyone else, silence was a curse, a reminder of the life he barely wanted. That silence fed into the guilt, knowing people kill for the comforts he had.
Sindon never made him feel guilty. Sindon just made him….feel.
(One day, Damanio would balance who he was with who he wanted to be.)
Time continued to pass quietly. Damanio didn’t know how much time, exactly, only that when they sat down, the bottle was almost empty.
“I don’t want to go back,” Damanio admitted.
“We don’t have to,” Sindon admitted.
“You have work.” Sindon shrugged.
“I have you.” If Damanio had taken a drink, he would have choked on the liquor.
“That’s not a good thing,” he said as he looked away.
Sindon didn’t say anything. He took Damanio’s hand, giving the boy time to pull away. When he didn’t, he just held it.
“What will you do about it?” Sindon asked. Damanio didn’t answer. How could he, when it was a question he had to bear his entire life?
He knew what he wanted to do, but he also knew what was expected of him. The two were too far separated for him to do both.
In most people’s minds, the choice was obvious. Damanio felt selfish that the choice wasn’t so easy for him.
So he left Sindon’s question unanswered as he drank the last of the liquor. He felt weightless, like it didn’t matter. There was a whole District out there for him to enjoy. Sindon proved it tonight.
Damanio never thought someone would understand. Shit, sometimes he didn’t understand. Tonight proved him wrong, and as long as he lived, he would want Sindon by his side.
He wanted to give Sindon the freedom to live. And then, together, they could both be free.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
Turned out, living became a whole lot fucking harder in the Hunger Games.
Damanio didn’t know what to do when his name was called at that fucking reaping. Not at first, at least. Fortunately, in the time it took the camera to find him, he was able to remind himself who he was. A quick smile and wink into the camera seemed to do enough for his image. He was glad instinct took over, for his thoughts had become much less helpful.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. That about summed up everything swirling in his mind at the time.
Now he paced the tiny room, his facade gone. Every thought he had ended in the same result.
He was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it.
His fear coupled with his anger and he didn’t know what to do.
So when Sindon entered, Damanio didn’t hesitate to fall into his arms.
He appreciated Sindon saving him from clichéd reassurances. They both knew the truth. The sooner they could accept that…
He wasn’t brave enough to finish that thought.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Sindon finally said. Somehow, Damanio managed to laugh.
“Well…”
“I’m serious.” Sindon pulled away from him. “You’re going to try.”
“I am.” Damanio shuddered at the reality of what trying entailed. Death, hunger, suffering, things he had never experienced in the eighteen years of his life.
(Crazy, how it would be the last year of his life, huh?)
“Here.” Sindon took off his scarf, the one barely held together by its remaining threads.
“No.” Damanio can’t accept any gifts. He can’t drag anything else down with him.
“Yes.” Sindon wrapped it around his neck. Damanio didn’t fight it. He didn’t want to fight it. He wanted a piece of Sindon, as selfish as it was. He wanted a small reminder of…
-of nothing because it didn’t matter anymore.
There weren’t any more words they could say to one another. Their months together were the most exciting part of Damanio’s rigid life. Sindon showed him how to live when all Damanio wanted to do was numb the pain of life.
And when Sindon’s lips met Damanio’s, he felt his world shattering around him for good.
“How hard will you fight?” Ridge Callaway asked Damanio as soon as the train jerked forward. Damanio didn’t know how to answer, so he didn’t.
Instead, Willa Cross answered.
“I’ve been fighting to live my entire life,” she scoffed. She looked down at Damanio. Not only did her height put her nearly five inches above him, but the callouses on her hands and dirt embedded within her skin were just like Sindon’s.
And nothing like Damanio’s.
“Great.” Ridge looked at Eight’s other Victor, Lilac Suede, who hadn’t said much of anything yet. “You get the fighter, I get the rich one.” The bite in his voice pissed off Damanio, and Lilac didn’t seem too pleased about it either.
He wanted to say something, something to shut Ridge up, but there was nothing. Nothing he could say to prove Damanio was anything more than a Delaine.
(Damanio found it hard to prove who he was when he had no idea who he was.)
“Come on, rich kid, let’s give the adults some space,” Ridge said, grabbing a drink before moving in between train cars. Damanio looked at Lilac, for what he wasn’t sure. She avoided his glare, so he reluctantly followed the other mentor.
Ridge took a seat in the adjacent train car, one that had a bar and a rack of liquor. Damanio hopped over the bar, took the first liquor bottle that looked appealing, and twisted off the cap. He didn’t realize Ridge was talking to him until he turned back around, liquor flowing down his throat.
“Slow down?” Ridge asked, a mix of anger and concern seeping through. Damanio did not, in fact, slow down. He drank half the bottle before finding a nice chair to fall into.
“Okay.” Ridge finished his drink, comically small compared to Damanio’s. Ridge held out his glass towards Damanio, and he filled it up.
“I am obligated to mentor you. You are not obligated to listen to me. Tell me what you want, and this will be a lot easier for both of us.” The circles under Ridge’s eyes told Damanio that he wasn’t kidding. He had to have been doing this for over forty years. From endless replays of Ridge’s Games all those decades ago, Damanio thought he remembered Ridge with blue eyes.
Now they looked grey and lifeless.
“I don’t want to die,” Damanio said. Somehow, it was one of the few truths he ever spoke out loud. “I don’t want to die before I’ve lived.”
Ridge nodded. He took another sip, then cleared his throat and asked, “Tell me your skills.”
Tell me how useless you are. That was what Damanio heard.
Damanio envisioned himself in one of those soulless business meetings his dad dragged him to. He pictured Ridge as just another rich colleague he was forced to treat well. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate to turn everything around on Damanio if given the chance.
Damanio put the bottle down. He straightened out his jacket and tucked Sindon’s scarf into his collar.
(Unfortunately, this was part of who he was, and he feared it would only become more relevant once he entered the Capitol.)
“I’m good at everything.” Damanio held his hands out. “I’m good at the things that matter.” He paused, waited for just enough time for Ridge to try and interrupt, but the floor was Damanio’s.
“You see a useless rich protegee? So will everyone else.” Damanio leaned back, rested his arm on the back of the couch. “They’ll be so preoccupied with each other, they won’t notice what I notice.” Damanio looked Ridge up and down, as if to prove a point. “You hate Lilac because she was like me. You hate me because I was given everything you weren’t. You fought hard for your crown, but I’ll fight smarter.” Damanio stretched out his back, like this whole conversation was a bore for him.
“And when all my opponents kill each other, I’ll be there to claim my own crown.” Damanio watched as the muscles in Ridge’s face contracted with his words.
“Very nicely done,” he finally said after releasing the tension. “Words won’t kill, though. Are you ready to get your hands dirty?”
“Looking forward to it, actually,” Damanio said without missing a beat.
Ridge didn’t respond.
(Only after would Damanio truly understand why.)
By the next morning, they were nearing the Capitol.
It allowed them a breakfast on the train before they would be taken to the apartments they would live in during training.
Damanio found himself eating alone with Willa. She avoided him as much as she could, but she wasn’t going to miss a meal. Damanio found himself wanting only a coffee. Despite the liquor from last night, he wasn’t hungover. It was…an interesting feeling, full sobriety.
Better he get used to it now, he assumed.
“Only a drink?” Willa grunted at Damanio. He nodded.
“You should have a cup.”
“No.” Willa leaned back in her chair.
“Okay.” Damanio didn’t let himself be intimidated by her. He had fought with people just like her more than once in a bar or an alleyway. He never backed down then; what would backing down now do for him?
“What’s your deal?” she asked. Damanio laughed.
“That I’m as fucked as you are?” He tilted his head, enjoying the rise coming from her.
“I will kill you before the gong rings.”
“I think that’s illegal.” Damanio clicked his tongue. “But, I mean, go ahead and try.” He raised his hands in a weak defense. She simply scoffed.
“Someone’s going to enjoy killing you.”
“I hope so.” Damanio smiled.
“Get ready.” Ridge’s voice surprised Damanio as he entered the train car alongside Lilac.
Damanio drank the rest of his coffee.
Then, the Capitol appeared. It really appeared, and it was more potent than it seemed on television. Colors everywhere couldn’t mask the darkness underneath it all.
Damanio was used to that darkness. He grew up in it.
He never let it blind him before, and despite it all, he won’t let it blind him now.
(No matter how scared he really was.)
Training was hard.
Damanio and strenuous labor went together as ice in the sunlight. Damanio was melting.
He collapsed on the sticky gym mat. His arms screamed for relief. When the trainer he was sparring with reached a hand out, Damanio didn’t take it.
“Again,” he coughed as he pushed himself up to his feet. He stumbled backward, hand still gripped to the dull sword.
“Go get water.” A demand, not a request from the trainer. Damanio shook his head until a shove from behind sent him away from the training ring.
It was an instinct to swing, a response embedded in him from his time in The Smog. His fist connected with the Eleven boy’s face. By the time pain shot through his fingers, guards were upon them. All of Damanio’s efforts to stand were for nothing, as he once again found himself stuck to the gym mat.
“Get-get off me!” he yelled to no avail. The Peacekeepers were not gentle as they forced his arms behind his back and dragged him away from the training center. He didn’t make it easy for them, squirming and kicking, but it didn’t slow them down. It didn’t matter. Nothing he did mattered.
“Let-let me go!” His complaints fell on deaf ears. He was panicking-a real panic he had never quite felt before. Where were they taking him? Why him?
He didn’t stop fighting as they took him outside the training room and towards the elevators.
“Wait here,” one of the Peacekeepers demanded as he shoved Damanio beside the elevator. Damanio scowled.
He had to remind himself he wasn’t in Eight anymore. That the shit he got away with there would get him killed here. So he waited.
It wasn’t long before the elevator doors opened and Ridge came walking out. He glared at Damanio, then thanked the Peacekeepers. He waited patiently for them to leave before he started scolding.
“Damanio-”
“I don’t see what the big deal is!”
Their words intersected with one another. Ridge was the one to give the right away.
Damaino wasn’t expecting that. He shrugged.
“He started it.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to finish it.” Ridge sighed. “The Games have already begun, Damanio. Do you really want a target on your back already?”
Damanio shrugged again, but he knew the answer.
“Okay.” Ridge sighed. “I’m going to ask this once. Cooperate. Don’t get into fights with tributes now. Hell, try to make some friends.”
Damanio laughed. “Yeah,” was all he said in response. His eyes fell back towards the training room. The boy from Eleven had taken his spot fighting the trainer. Damanio watched the grace in his movements. The grace Damanio lacked.
“Go,” Ridge demanded. Damanio obliged. He re-entered the training room with his head held as high as he could manage. A few tributes stared at him, but most minded their business.
He ended up at some survival station with some younger tribute he didn’t recognize. This one didn’t talk to him. That was a nice shift.
Although the trainer was talking to him, Damanio was more invested in the happenings around him. It seemed his little distraction had faded, and barely anyone paid him any mind.
Except for the Careers. Every time he looked up, he met one of their eyes. Some looked at him with amusement. Some looked at him like he was a rat they were already looking to trap.
He realized quickly that Ridge was right. He needed to set his own trap. He needed someone to take the heat off him.
He needed a friend.
(The word danced across his mind without much weight. Friends were a luxury Damanio never had, not until Sindon. And no one would be Sindon.)
In the few hours that remained before lunch, Damanio decided he had a way forward.
At the very least, he decided if he was going to die, he would take a few down with him.
By the time lunch came, he was no longer wallowing in the fact that the only thing he had accomplished was piss off everyone.
That’s what I’m good at. He didn’t bother reacting to his own joke.
As one of the first to get himself a plate of food, he had his pick of the tables. He picked one close enough to the doors. While he ate, he kept watching.
The Career dynamic was strong. The One girl seemed proud to lead, and everyone but the Two girl seemed proud to follow. Various others filtered in, many alone but some with groups. This included the Eleven boy, happily allied with his District partner.
One by one, Damanio observed them all. He figured if he couldn’t find his strengths, the least he could do was know what everyone else’s were. Why compete on their terms when he could rewrite the rules?
The thought made him shudder. It was a sentiment his father had embedded into him from birth.
Damanio had rewritten the rules, but not in the way his father wanted him to.
Yet he still couldn’t rewrite his life.
Tributes continued to pile around him, and Damanio knew time was short. Alliances would continue to form. Soon enough, he would be left on the sidelines. His mind raced, options boiling around him.
And when he saw the pair, he knew what to do.
They didn’t see him coming. He could tell by the way they reacted. The girl scowled as he stood beside the boy.
“This seat taken?” Damanio asked. He sat down before either could respond.
“It is not,” the boy said simply. He looked at the girl, then back at Damanio.
“What’s the occasion?” He asked nonchalantly.
“You looked lonely,” Damanio said. He gestured around to the rest of the cafeteria, where most people were slowly finding their way into conversation.
“Go away,” the girl growled. Damanio raised up his hand in defense. Then, he became his father.
“Look, I know how this looks. The loner from Eight trying to worm his way into an alliance.” Damanio leaned forward as if his next words were a secret. “Those six? The Careers? They won’t last if we don’t let them.” Damanio smiled, looking at the hostile girl. “You think I’m useless? So do they. So does my mentor. That means they won’t see us coming until it’s too late.”
“The hell are you saying?” the girl asked.
“I’m asking how badly you want to go home?” Damanio waited patiently as silence fell on the trio.
“We saw you earlier,” the boy admitted. “You pissed off Eleven.”
“I did.”
“That makes you trouble.”
“It does.” Damanio leaned in. “You know who he would target, should he come across us in the arena?” Neither of them answered, which told Damanio they were thinking exactly what he wanted them to.
(It was naturally unnatural how easy the words flowed off his tongue. How easy it was to win the boy over with his words. And even by the end of it, the girl got slightly more comfortable with Damanio’s intrusive presence.
It disgusted him, really. What else could he do, though?)
“I want to ally with you. I don’t need you to trust me; I just need you to trust each other. Let me be your bait, and when everyone is distracted trying to kill me, that’s where you come in.” Damanio’s offer hung in the air while they didn’t know what to say.
“You’re not afraid,” the boy said quickly. “You can fight. Can you not?”
“I’m fighting now. Can’t you tell?” Damanio winked. Then, he asked, “What should I call you?”
“Dex Crane. This is Naia Kostas. We’re from Nine.”
“Damanio Delaine.”
“I know,” Dex said. Damanio could only nod.
“Alright,” Damanio said as he straightened his spine. “Let’s train together.”
“We didn’t agree to anything,” Dex said.
“I know,” Damanio responded. “So what harm is thinking about it?”
Dex looked at Naia. To all of their surprise, she spoke.
“You’re not offering to be bait. You’re setting us up to be bait. You’re a coward.” She shoved her chair away from the table, seconds away from slipping away from him.
“You’re right.” The words surprise all three of them. “You’re right, I’m scared. But, Naia, look around.” She didn’t, so he said, “Everyone wants you to die for them. Isn’t that the whole point?”
“Then why are you still here?” If looks could kill….
“Because I’m brave enough to be honest about it.”
Silence fell around them. Damanio kept pulling at the thread.
It was all he could do.
“You know I’m right about that. And I know you’re right about me. I’m not trying to hide it. And I can guarantee I’m the only one here that would admit that.”
Naia looked at Dex, who was comfortably silent the entire time.
“Alright, Damanio. We will train together, but this does not make us allies.”
“Yet,” Damanio interjected.
“Yet.” Damanio could hear the uncertainty in Dex’s voice. He offered Dex his hand. A friendly gesture.
Dex took the offer. As his hand wrapped around Dex’s, a smile plastered wide on his face, he felt that it was all too easy.
And he made a promise to himself that when the knives came out, his back would not be the one bleeding.
Damanio was pleased when the rest of training went by without another incident.
Dex and Naia intrigued him. Dex was like Damanio with all the words he liked to say. Damanio could work with that. He could work with the words, forming them to be on his side.
Naia concerned him. She was as tall as he was, and no matter what he said, she scowled. She was lethal with nearly every weapon she picked up, slicing through trainers and training dummies like it was nothing.
“Spar with me,” he asked her the morning of their last training day. She scowled at him, as she did, but agreed. Training spear in hand, the two of them danced around the gym mat. Damanio watched her move. He moved with her, awaiting her first strike.
All his preparations didn’t matter when she moved so fast. She knocked her spear into Damanio’s, and he lost his grip on the weapon. He ducked, dove past her, and fumbled to pick it back up. Just as his fingers wrapped around the handle, she sent her foot into his side. He slid back against the mat a few feet. When he went to stand up, she was standing over him with the spear pointed at his throat.
He knew he should be glad she was on her side, but he saw the way she glared at him like he was borrowed time she couldn’t afford to waste. He knew she wouldn’t if it weren’t for Dex. Dex saw something in Damanio. Maybe Damanio’s words convinced him, or maybe Dex assumed when it came down to it, he and Naia could beat Damanio in a fight.
An alliance might have been enough for now, Damanio wasn’t a fool. He knew it wouldn’t last. Any other time, he might have avoided the Nine pair completely. But he saw how the Careers shifted ever so slightly when Naia passed them. He saw how they watched her fight, their heads automatically nodding in respect.
And when he saw the grimaces on their faces when he was their target, well, it seemed his gamble on the Nine’s was already paying off.
“Really?”
That was the only thing Ridge said when Damanio first told his mentor of his potential alliance.
“You seem surprised,” Damanio admitted. Ridge only shrugged.
“I didn’t think you’d listen to me.”
Ridge made himself a drink. When Damanio asked for one, Ridge shook his head. As Ridge was putting away the bottle, Damanio swiped his drink.
“You shouldn’t drink when training.” Ridge waited for Damanio to return the drink. When he didn’t, he poured himself another.
Damanio nursed the drink. That was the best he could manage.
“Okay. So you might have allies.” Ridge sat down across from Damanio. “Now what?”
Damanio shrugged. “At least I’m not getting beaten up anymore.”
“Yeah.” Ridge scoffed. They drank in silence. If Damanio were back in Eight, nothing about this would unsettle him. He wished that were the case.
“Okay. You have an alliance.” Ridge paused, then said, “Be careful. They will try to kill you.”
“Everyone is trying to kill me.”
“You’re opening yourself up for it to be much easier for them.” Ridge shook his head. “Trust me. Even if you don’t like them, even if you don’t trust them, it will hurt all the same.”
Damanio wasn’t sure what he was getting at. He assumed it was the alcohol or the guilt of past tributes washing over him. He simply agreed. The path of least resistance, at least for now.
Ridge didn’t excuse himself after his drink was done. He simply left the cup on the bar and wished Damanio a good night. Suddenly, his own drink felt heavy between his fingers. He placed the cup down, uncertain where the newfound fears were stemming from.
Trust me. Ridge’s words, his warnings, swirled around his brain like the liquor taking root in his stomach.
Damanio didn’t trust. It wasn’t a word he knew. It wasn't a feeling he was used to. And with all the happenings around him, he wasn’t sure he should start now.
He wouldn’t trust the Nines. He knew that.
(So why did it feel so hard to trust himself?)
Damanio was ready for the stage.
While most of the others were cowering in fear of the lights, Damanio couldn’t wait for his turn. It was his last chance to, well, do just about anything. A score of six certainly didn’t put him on the map. Dex and Naia still moved awkwardly around him, like they were waiting for him to make a single mistake.
He didn’t ignore the irony that every move he’d made thus far was a mistake. So how could they possibly catch him in anything else?
His confidence was unwavering, at least. He was prepared to enter the arena with those two beside him. He had no further missteps in training. And as he stood in line, more glamorous than he had ever been before, he really, truly believed some things might just work out for him.
(It was a projection and he knew it, but that didn’t mean he would lose it.)
Audience cheers and Adrian Goldsmith’s booming voice kept Damanio grounded. Tributes came and went on stage, and Damanio listened. He learned about the girl from Two’s younger brothers and their excitement to follow her lead in volunteering. He learned about the boy from Five’s mother and how she was all he had left. He learned about Willa, her unwavering support for her young sister, and her resilience.
Then they were calling Damanio Delaine and he became exactly who they wanted to see.
It started with a smile. As the lights warmed deep into his soul, he smiled.
Not just smiled. He beamed.
He shook Adrian’s hand, and they laughed like they were friends. Like they had reunited after many years apart. It was natural, and it was all Damanio could do to lean into that.
“Welcome, Mr. Delaine! Welcome!” Adrian pulled his hand away from the boy and led him over to the two plush chairs.
“No need for formalities. Damanio is perfect.” Damanio was glad they couldn’t see how fake his smile was, for he had perfected it by now.
He was perfect, just as he planned.
They sat, and Damanio finally, truly saw the Capitol for what it was. He saw the glitz and glamour and smiling faces. He saw the roses and heard the applause, and it threatened to drown him.
He wouldn’t let it. He let the applause wash over him gently. He owned it.
“Damanio, there are so many of us out there that would love to get to know you! We’ve hardly had the chance, isn’t that right?” The applause ignited something inside Damanio. He smiled.
“What to tell? Oh, Adrian, we only have three minutes.” They shared a laugh as fake as the lights above. Damanio had to stop his heel from lightly tapping on the stage below him. He wondered just how long he had been doing that.
Control yourself.
“Well, you seem no stranger to audiences! Are you a performer?” Adrian leaned in, eyes met Damanio’s, searching for something he wouldn’t find.
“Maybe in another life.” Damanio winked. “I am social. I love Eight and I love the people in Eight. I strive to spend as much time with them as possible. And then to come here, surrounded by even more beautiful and interesting people? Adrian, I’m blessed.”
Was the world shaking from applause, or was it all in Damanio’s head?
Why was his brain failing him now? No, not failing.
Breathe. Two breaths, that’s what he allowed himself. The smile reformed.
He didn’t notice it was weaker this time.
“It’s no wonder you’re so comfortable out here!” Damanio only shrugged. The thumping in his skull begged to differ, but he shoved it down. He locked it away. He drowned it out as fast as he could.
Listening had become challenging, and he pressed on.
“I would stay here all night if I could.” A few audible awws filled the air.
“And we would love nothing more than that.” Adrian leaned back. “Unfortunately, we must prepare for our next visitor. You are intriguing, I must say! How talented you are at speaking. Might I say, you look so comfortable!”
What was he implying? He was implying something? Don’t slip don’t slip - don’t you dare slip.
“Second nature.” Damanio winked. “I have my father to thank for that.”
What was he saying? His father-what did his father have to do with this?
what did it matter when death would come for him all the same-
“It seems you have intrigued us all, Damanio. It sounds like we should look forward to quite the show from you, and any friends you may bring along.”
Adrian was setting him up. He was setting himself up for the world would see right through him.
“Something like that.” Damanio didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t hesitate. He didn’t even take a breath. He just talked. “The whole world is watching, Adrian. I want to give them something to watch out for.”
His brain had become a mess of words and promises, and he no longer knew what was real, what was him, or what he said. His body was rigid. Pain shot down his spine. Sweat formed on his brow and he so desperately needed an escape.
How did it come to this? How did it fall apart so quickly?
If it fell apart now, on a stage-
what hope did he have for the real stage-
“Do elaborate, Damanio,” Adrian pressed, because he knew. Damanio was a fool, thinking no one would see through him.
The years of lies caught up to him and made him a hollow form of himself.
“Oh well, there’s no fun in spoiling the show.”
As if he planned it, the timer went off, and Damanio Delaine was freed from the stage.
“Good job-Damanio? Hey, hey!” Ridge’s voice was drowned out by applause and the pounding headache that never receded.
He knew he did it. He did exactly what was expected of him. He did exactly what he needed.
That didn’t change the fact that when he died, he wouldn’t die as himself. When the Capitol, the District, remembered Damanio Delaine, they would not remember him.
They would only remember what he wanted them to remember. And if death couldn’t bring out his truth, nothing would.
Nothing.
nothing.
As dusk turned to night, Damanio lay on the floor of his room. His eyes traced the darkness on the ceiling. He didn’t know what time it was. What did time matter? It wouldn’t stop what was inevitable.
It didn’t matter that Ridge told him he did great on stage. It didn’t matter that he was exactly who he wanted the Capitol to see. None of that mattered. None of that made him less scared.
Scared wasn’t even the right word anymore. He was past scared. Past the simplicity of a racing heart and fears of what to say next.
Damanio Delaine is terrified. Vein freezing, skin numbing, pure terror. He had never been underprivileged enough to feel it.
And that, that made it all the harder to swallow.
He couldn’t close his eyes. He couldn’t block out the thoughts. He couldn’t scream. He was frozen in the present, disappointed with the past, and scared to see the future.
They will see me. They will see who I am.
(How unfair it was that the world would see Damanio for who he was before he had the chance to see it first?)
I will suffer. I will starve.
(How unfair it was that this was his worry? That his greatest fear was someone else’s reality?)
I will die before I get to be me.
Time wouldn’t change that. He wouldn’t change that. Nothing would change that.
Damanio Delaine has gone his entire life changing. When that was taken away, what could he do but grieve?
The ceiling spun, but he was still lying on his back. He didn’t dare stand. He didn’t dare do a lot.
He finally closed his eyes.
It brought no peace.
Only more darkness.
Damanio was impressed by how little the launch room affected him.
It should, shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t he care that he was inches away from death?
He couldn’t figure out why it didn’t.
Ridge was with him. He hadn’t said anything, or if he did, Damanio didn’t hear it.
He was so tired of faking, but he didn’t know what the truth entailed.
Was it too late to find out? Or was he simply too much of a coward to do so?
“Damanio.” Ridge’s voice was sharp. Damanio knew he had to listen.
(Maybe, for the first time since he got here, he wanted to listen.)
“Trust your gut. Don’t keep your back turned on anyone.” Ridge sighed. “I will be there for you.”
Damanio nodded. What else could he do? What additional power did he have?
None.
The greatest spectacle of it all was how quickly Damanio found himself to be totally, utterly, and completely over his head.
“You can do this.” Ridge put his hand on Damaino’s shoulder. Damanio didn’t believe him. All that was left was for him to change.
The outfit caught Damanio off guard. Ridge, too, based on his reaction. Nylon blue pants tucked into steel boots. A white t-shirt sat underneath a nylon blue jacket that wrapped around his wrist. A pair of black gloves was clipped into the belt loop around his pants. Everything felt sturdy and cooling simultaneously.
Damanio couldn’t shake the feeling that all of it was familiar. Too familiar. Were the outfits reused from some old Game? Were they ones produced by the Delaine factory, a memory etched so far down he can’t place it?
He didn’t see how it mattered, so he stopped thinking.
All that remained was wrapping the tattered red scarf around his neck, carefully tucking it underneath the collar of the shirt.
His last piece of home. His last piece of him.
Damanio took a step into the tube. He let the glass enclose him.
He felt…
And then he rose.
Chapter 2: The Truth
Chapter Text
The heat wrapped around him like a noose.
Breathing had become hard. Seeing, well, that was a past luxury.
Smog sat in layers from his feet to his knees. The air was opaque. He couldn’t see who rose on either side of him. The only tell that he was surrounded by other people were the whisperings echoing off the walls. The light cries of confusion and fear that overcame everyone.
Including Damanio.
Think. He forced himself to.
Breathe. The air was still heavy, but Damanio could start to make out shapes in the fog. He saw crates, stacked twenty feet high. He saw objects littered across the crates, spilling onto the floor and thinning out around him. He started to see the tributes in the fog, but just their outlines. He couldn’t see Dax or Naia.
All he could do was run.
The gong rang, and his legs moved out from underneath him. The thumping of the metal grates sent shockwaves through his feet and he didn’t slow down. His hands found a crate, he shoved the lid off, and grabbed everything inside. He fumbled with a tool bag of some sort, unsure what was inside. It resembled ones in the Delaine’s factory. Otherwise, the crate was empty.
Screams around him told him it was time to go. Frustrated, he threw the bag over his arm and turned around. Shapes moved like ghosts, colliding with each other, certainly spreading bloodshed he couldn’t see. He ran away from the center of the bloodbath, away from the danger hiding in the fog. As his boots nearly reached the launch pads, he no longer felt the stability of the ground. The world spun as something, someone, slammed into his arm. He flew and then fell onto the stone ground, groaning at the impact.
His bag ended up sprawled out in front of him, loose tools and supplies sliding in every direction. Damanio scrambled to his feet only to get knocked down again.
Standing over him was a Career; he knew it. Who else would already have blood dripping from the edge of a sledgehammer?
He didn’t think as he sent a foot into his assailant's knee. The person swore, and the sledgehammer came down onto Damanio. It grazed past his ankle.
He crawled and kicked his way backwards, desperate to pull away. Desperate to live.
He got up to his feet and barely dodged another swing of the hammer. His attacker pursued, and it was all Damanio could do to avoid being struck.
This is how he would die. Curled up on the ground, nothing to defend himself. These were his last moments. A life he never lived evaporated into the fog around him.
Hands grabbed at him from behind, and he shoved them back.
“Damanio, it’s me!” The familiar voice did little to soothe him. He shoved again. Suddenly, the sledgehammer and its owner were gone. Swallowed by the fog, it seemed.
“Dex!” Another voice, this one also familiar. One body became two, and hands pulled frantically at the Eight boy. He was too stunned to react.
Too useless to do much of anything.
(Damanio feared the Games would show who he really was. An irrefutable tell of privilege and cowardice.
A part of him hoped it wouldn’t have shown so soon.
Privilege only got him so far.)
The trio ran. The chaos around Damanio shrunk. Screams of death morphed into screams of the machines. Air whooshed through compressors. Metal clanked against metal. The metal grates under their toes vibrated.
The smog remained.
Eventually, they reached a ladder. Damanio was the last to climb it. It seemed to go on and on, taking them higher and higher until Damanio was certain they would climb through the top of the ceiling. Eventually, the climbing stopped.
The air was much clearer up here. Damanio could see Dex and Naia, sweating and heaving. Dex’s eyes fell behind Damanio, across the entirety of the open portion of the factory.
Naia’s eyes fell on Damanio directly.
“T-thanks,” he said.
No one acknowledged it.
Silence filled the air as the trio caught their breath. Dex held a large wrench. Naia held a hammer. Damanio held nothing. The toolkit danced in his memory, a reminder of his failure.
“Well, factory boy,” Naia said. “Where do we go?”
Damanio took his time looking at the factory. The machinery could have been familiar to him, yes, if he had worked it. He racked his brain for memories of his last visit to the factory, for anything that could be of use.
All he saw was Sindon’s face.
Still, Damanio stood up on the catwalk. One wall sat behind him with countless doors attached to it. Across the wide open factory was another wall with similar doors. He saw no tributes. He wasn’t sure what the fog below offered, and he wasn’t sure any of them would want to find out.
“This way,” Damanio said with a comfortable, feigned confidence.
Pushing forward was all he could do.
For all their wandering, they at least discovered how far the factory stretched.
It took all day to walk half the distance of the catwalk, although Damanio figured their scavenging slowed them tremendously. He led his allies into each room they came across, searching for supplies. The rooms they searched ranged from control rooms to small offices and even empty storage rooms. The whole thing was eerily staged. Rust crawled up the metal wrong. Wires seemed connected in odd places, or not connected at all. Buttons didn’t hold the same fade as those that saw frequent use. He relayed this to his allies, but none of them could see how it mattered.
Their searches were empty. They found a few things, yes, but not enough. Never enough. Food was scarce, water scarcer. The humidity would drown them if they weren’t careful.
The least Damanio could ask for was factory plans or maps. Something to give them an advantage, a tell. A place to hide out. Location of actual supplies. Places to give them an advantage in battle. Dead ends. He found nothing of the sort.
“Let’s hold up in here for the night,” Dex suggested after they searched their fourth or fifth office that evening. It was small, with a wooden desk in the corner, a loveseat behind it, and a tiny end table. The drawers were empty minus a pen that Damanio pocketed. It joined the other useless trinkets that filled his pockets.
Naia leaned against the wall by the door. Dex sat on top of the wooden desk, his feet dangling. Damanio sat on the couch.
“So,” Dex began with a sigh. “What do you think we’re looking at?” It took Damanio an embarrassing few seconds to realize the question was directed at him.
Damanio cleared his throat. Useless thoughts rattled around his brain and he clawed at them, desperate to turn them into something more.
(The truth would be so simple. An honest three words.
He couldn’t find them.)
“I think…we should be able to find the main control room up ahead,” he said. “Should be some kind of map. That’s where they’re usually kept.” He paused. It wasn’t sufficient, it wasn’t enough. More words flowed from his mouth.
“We could use it to find the main office. Might find a master key. Easily lock us in, or them out.”
“Water?” Naia said, less of a question and more of a demand. “Food?”
Damanio nodded. “I think so.”
“You think?” Naia rolled her eyes.
“How would he know?” Dex asked softly. He leaned against the wall, seemingly fighting against the weight of the day. “None of us do.”
Damanio searched for a response but was spared by the loud mechanical whirl of the anthem. He waited for the projection of the faces, but it remained dark in their office.
“Open the door,” Dex suggested. Naia complied and sure enough, Damanio caught the end of the Capitol seal fading into the faces of today’s victims.
Faces came and went. Damanio found himself unfazed by them all. A pain festered in his gut and he did the only thing he knew how to do.
He repressed it.
When the air was silent and Naia shut the door, Damanio knew a few things for certain. Willa was still alive. All the Careers were still alive. And seventeen people were standing between him and victory.
(In his head, it seemed so simple, like knocking pieces off a game board. When they were just pieces, maybe it really was that simple.
When those pieces had faces and swords, well, he feared it wasn’t as easy.)
Damanio took the last watch.
Dex woke him from his dream. The shock of shifting from Sindon’s warm arms to the cold cloth of the couch jolted him awake. As the dream faded, Damanio found himself grieving.
(Grieving what? A life he didn’t live? An opportunity he let slip away from him? However long he’d known Sindon for, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.)
Still, he had to press on.
He stood up and let Dex sit on the couch. As the boy got comfortable, Damanio realized Naia hadn’t moved. She remained by the door, hammer gripped tightly, daring someone to enter.
“You can rest,” Damanio said. “I got this.”
She ignored him. He didn’t know what else to say that might have been worth it, so he didn’t say anything.
That was how they stayed as the night ticked on; Damanio seated on the wooden desk and Naia guarding the door.
In Eight, Damanio found himself simultaneously dreading and longing for the time to pass. It depended on where he was at the moment. It depended on who he was. He always joked that time ticked slower when his father was around. It still hasn’t been proven false, frankly. For a while, Damanio blamed his father. His rigidity. His compliance.
It was later that Damanio understood the truth behind the feelings.
It didn’t change the fact that when Damanio was in The Smog, time moved faster than he wanted it to. Hours felt like minutes, and none of it was ever enough for the boy.
He longed to be there again. He longed for a lot these days, it seemed.
He longed for the time to pass now like it did then. The endless seconds constricted the room around him. He felt like he couldn’t breathe.
He got up before he realized how it would look, him rushing towards Naia with exacerbated breaths. It took her raising her hammer before he slid to a stop, hands raised in weak defense.
“S-sorry!” He fumbled his words with a quiet yelp. Naia’s eyes were wide, hammer still raised. When she didn’t lower it, he started spouting words again. “I-I just need air.”
She squinted at him, then said, “The air out there is just as hot.”
“I know.” Damanio stepped back. “I won’t be long.”
She grumbled something he couldn’t hear and glanced at Dex, who was still asleep. Finally, she lowered the hammer to a less threatening position.
“Don’t bring trouble.” When he didn't reply, she opened the door.
The heat embedded in the air suffocates him but being outside the room is worth it. He leaned against the railing of the walkway, the metal grates creaking underneath his every step. The steam that rose around him told him machinery was running.
It made him wonder what the factory was for. There were no threads or needles as far as he could tell. No, everything around him looked too big and powerful for something as mundane as fabric. He knew in likelihood, everything around him was built for the spectacle of it all.
I was born to a factory. Damanio chuckled. And now, I may die to one.
A cannon firing did little to settle his nerves. He looked at the door, expecting Naia to peek outside to check on him. She didn’t.
Voices broke through the steam with such a subtle vibration that Damanio could have been imagining it. When he realized it was real, he thought it could have possibly belonged to Dex. At least, that was what he told himself when the voices grew in intensity. Still, he remained locked on the railing. Seconds passed and one voice turned to two and suddenly he realized his mistake.
Damanio panicked. His instinct was to flee, but how could he do that when he didn't even know where the voices were coming from?
How could he do that when the whole world was watching?
He lowered himself behind the rail, hoping the small metal bars would do something to obscure him. He listened closely. A few seconds of that told him where the assailants were.
A few more seconds told him they were getting close. Too close.
Think...think... Damanio couldn’t fight them, even if he did have a weapon. He looked at the walkway around him. The metal grates were screwed into the support beams, covered in a layer of rust. Every shift of his weight seemed to shift the grates an equal amount. Staying crouched, he slowly moved away from the front of his base.
It had to be the Careers. He couldn't possibly think of another alliance with that many unique voices. That, along with the laughing and clapping, told him all he needed to know.
Damanio could easily return to the office with Naia and Dex. Nothing was keeping him outside the room. Nothing but his own stupidity. He wondered, if he died, if his cannon fired into the night, would they come looking for him?
(He knew the answer to that.)
The voices that had spent so long approaching him finally became stagnant. A click of a door was followed by the familiar creak of it shutting. The room was a large storage room, Damanio recalled. He moved towards the sound, towards the danger. He walked onto the closest grate...then onto the next. His heart pounded in his chest. Sweat formed everywhere. He wiped his hands on his pants and it did little to help.
Damanio could hear the voices from inside the room. That was how he knew he had gone far enough. Without pausing, without thinking, his hands wrapped themselves around the first screw. He shoved the edge of his nail into it, twisting as much as he could. The screw came loose so easily. He wondered if the entire thing was on the verge of collapsing without his assistance.
It didn't stop him. It barely slowed him down. One by one, he loosened the screws of the grate. Each one that came loose sent another pulse of energy from his heart to his stomach. Nervous was an understatement.
When the last screw came loose, he backed away. He stumbled back towards his safe room. He pushed inside, ignoring the raised hammer that had threatened him one too many times before. Naia glared at him as he quietly shoved the door shut behind him.
"Careers," he said, releasing the first calm breath he managed in minutes. Naia's eyes moved from Damanio to the door before taking a step closer to listen for them. Damanio didn't inch closer. He didn't do much of anything except sit there and wait.
The wait, combined with the knowledge of what he had done did little to calm him. He felt trapped between the known and unknown; between the endless ways this could unfold in front of him. All the ways he could die. All the ways Naia and Dex could die. All of it.
Too much of it.
When did Damanio Delaine turn into a coward?
(Maybe he was always a coward.)
There was no longer room for maybe.
He started to believe there never was.
As the night started to fade away, Damanio started to think that any potential fight had been avoided.
He stayed on the wooden desk for the night, his body ungrateful for the position he left it in. Naia's yawns grew with each passing minute, but she never once rested. Damanio long stopped trying to convince her otherwise.
Dex started to flutter awake. Damanio straightened his back. He repressed the urge to groan as his muscles tingled from inactivity.
"Did I miss anything?" Dex asked as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. Damanio glanced at Naia. She didn't return the look.
"Careers are nearby," she said. She gave him a few seconds to react to the information before adding, "They stayed away from us for the night."
"Why didn't you wake me?" Dex asked. When Naia didn't answer him, he looked to Damanio. "Did you know?"
"Yes," Damanio answered. "I heard them."
"Shit! Shit...guys!" Dex's voice shifted to a whisper as he sprang off the couch. Damanio didn't move. He had no answer that would satisfy Dex. No reason that would make sense to the boy.
When Dex realized neither of them were opening up with ideas or excuses, he asked, "Now what?"
"We sneak out of here," Naia grumbled. "They clearly don't know we're here. We keep moving. Quietly, quickly."
Silence filled the air and Damanio didn't like it. He didn't like the silence that bounced around in his brain. He didn't like the unanswered questions that haunted him. He definitely didn't like the lack of control he had, or the questions that would stick to him like a tick. Clearly, nothing came from his actions that night, or he would have heard it.
And it seemed all three would suffer the consequences.
After much debate, the trio agreed that leaving the office was safer than staying. They needed to find somewhere else, and fast.
Dex was on edge. He wouldn't stop pacing, wouldn't stop leaning into the door to try and hear what was happening on the other side. Damanio didn't blame him.
They gathered what little supplies they did have and slowly, slowly creaked the door open. No voices broke through the air. Naia was the first to exit. Her boots connected with the metal and every subsequent move seemed more threatening than the last. Damanio followed her, and Dex was last.
Damanio looked back at the grates he had touched the previous night. Everything seemed to be exactly how he left it. Even knowing what he had done, it wasn't obvious. It made him doubt the whole thing. Could it have very well been a dream? A vivid imagination that his brain tricked him into believing?
"This way," Damanio said, guiding them away from the tributes that would want them dead. They moved quietly yet quickly, hoping the Careers were still sleeping. Hoping for anything at this point.
So when the first arrow flew right over their heads, it was no wonder panic ensued.
"Run!" Damanio shoved his allies forward. He made the mistake of looking behind him, locking eyes with the large boy from Two who smiled too brightly for the death he was about to enact on those in front of him.
He didn't notice the walkway shifting under his steps. Not with Damanio and his allies locked in his sight.
Damanio didn't trust it. A second arrow flew towards them, this one getting caught in the jacket wrapped around Damanio's waist. He pulled it out and shoved it in his belt.
A yelp from Dex forced Damanio to open his arms. The boy stumbled in them, an arrow peeking out the back of his shirt. Blood filled the new hole, and Dex grit his teeth.
"Go!" Naia shoved the boys ahead of her, staying behind Dex as Damanio did his best to keep him moving. Every step was a challenge. The boy from Nine was struggling.
And there was nothing Damanio could do about it.
A loud shift filled the air and Damanio looked back. The first of the walkway grates seemed to crack, shifting as the amount of weight on it increased. Feet fumbled trying to regain a balance, but too late. All he could do was watch as the metal bars shifted, cracked, and collapsed under the feet of those who would see him dead.
And the boy from Two was no longer looking at him with a death glare. How could he, when death came for him instead?
The rest of the Careers seemed shocked. Some yelled. Some instinctively jumped over the now gone pathway. Some continued attacking Damanio's trio, but to no avail. Another creak, another snap, and another cannon fueled the adrenaline inside Damanio.
They reached the end of the walkway carefully but quickly maneuvered down the ladder. Dex lost his grip multiple times. His eyes drooped shut. His pale skin somehow continued to lose color. Damanio was convinced each new jolt of his body would be his last.
By the time they got to the bottom of the ladder, Naia took the lead in helping Dex. Damanio ignored how she basically shoved him out of the way. He couldn't take offense at it. He couldn't push back. The way she looked at Dex, the way her face dropped the second he got shot, he knew it only meant one thing.
And if his fears came true, he knew she would kill Damanio the second his back was turned.
He pushed that away for now and helped guide them across the factory floor. It seemed every hallway and room were as indescript as the ones on the second floor, but after some weaving, they were able to find a small storage room in the back of a tight corridor. The only footsteps left in the dust that settled on the ground were their own. It wouldn't be a permanent place for them, but it was good enough for now.
Naia helped Dex as he collapsed to the ground. He leaned against one of the shelves as she took a look at the arrow. Sweat and tears seemed to mix on his cheeks. Damanio kneeled near him and offered a hand.
He didn't take it.
Damanio could only sit there and watch as Naia soothed Dex. He could only watch as Dex's breath turned from the strong boy Damanio met in training into the weakened version of what they should have been. Naia glared at Damanio.
"We need to wrap it before we remove the arrow."
Damanio nodded. The storage room had a few small boxes littered around on the shelves. Damanio searched through them, ending up with a handful of napkins. He gave them to Naia, who carefully, carefully arranged them around the base of the arrow. She removed her own belt, fastened it around his back, ensuring pressure was never released from the wound. Damanio caught himself holding his breath.
As he released it, Naia pulled the arrow from Dex's back. The boy released a soft whimper, and the dressings turned slightly red.
"You should rest," Naia instructed. Dex didn't hear her, or if he did, he didn't respond. She tried to help move him, but every jolt of movement seemed to make him convulse more. Eventually, she was able to get him to lie down. She balled up her jacket and slid it under his head for support.
Damanio didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do. Times like these always made him feel useless, when nothing he did seemed to be enough. When he felt like this at home, there was always a vice he could hide in. The Smog was there when nothing else was. The drink numbed the uselessness, allowing him to just be.
There was no 'just being' here. There was only death.
And that was the scariest fact of it all.
It didn't take long for Dex to succumb.
Naia stayed with him every passing second. Damanio watched her fight sleep. Each time her eyelids closed, they stayed like that longer and longer until she jolted herself awake. After hours, they stayed shut.
Until the cannon.
Damanio's veins went cold as Naia jolted awake due to the boom that echoed off the walls. She pressed her fingers to Dex's neck. Damanio thought he heard a choke in her throat.
And still he didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do.
Time passed and neither ally did anything but sit there. Dex's body stiffened in Naia's lap. She couldn't let go, and Damanio couldn't bring himself to make her. Eventually, it was she who made the move.
Damanio watched her as she gathered the few things they had. She slowly removed her jacket from under his head and her belt from his body. She removed his own jacket from the clip on his belt and covered his head with it. She took his wrench. It flew in the air towards Damanio. Somehow, he caught it.
She whispered something into his ear. When she got up and pushed out of the room, Damanio was afraid to ask what she said.
A goodbye. An apology, Damanio decided. He hung back for a few seconds, a million emotions he couldn't name pouring down on him. He sighed and held the wrench close to his heart. Then, he followed Naia out of the room.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed with the air as dim as it was. The sounds of machinery whirring were a blessing. An excuse not to share words between the remaining allies. That didn't stop Naia from glaring at Damanio, from watching his every step, or from keeping a good distance from him. Damanio didn't blame her, even if she blamed him.
It won't do. He clenched at the thought. It dug into the back of his brain, taking hold in between the guilt and the grief. He shook his head before remembering who was watching.
Then, he led the way.
The factory seemed to never end.
Even though Damanio knew that was impossible, it didn't change the fact that every strange corridor led to a new section he had never seen before. Even the Delaine's factory didn't stretch this wide. Although his father was thorough, he wasn't wasteful. Space was well optimized. Machines flew together both conveniently and efficiently. Here, they didn't seem to share that pattern. Here, it seemed every corner presented a new threat.
Damanio knew it was intentional. That didn't make him appreciate it, though.
He kept trying to find the right words for Naia, but nothing was coming to him.
Dex was the only thing keeping them together. Without him, what was to stop them from collapsing?
Damanio assumed he would find out soon enough.
(The selfish part of him didn't want to wait for her to make the first move. Even though they met only a week ago, Damanio felt like he knew her better than she wanted him to.
And that, that was dangerous for them both.)
It was all he could do to get away from the storage closet. All he could do to keep pushing forward.
He was surprised at how long it took her to ask what his plan was.
"Dunno." Damanio sighed. "We need food. Water."
Honesty. It felt strange, but Damanio had nothing else to offer her. Maybe it was an offer, a piece of vulnerability he had scarcely shown her before.
Or maybe it was just another instinctual manipulation tactic.
Either way, she didn't bite. She kept her hammer gripped tightly, her knuckles white from the excess force. Damanio did the same with the wrench.
But it was he who kept pushing forward.
His throat ached by the time they stumbled across a cafeteria.
It was clear tributes had been here before. As far as he could tell, no one was currently there. Used plates and crumbs lining the floor led them to the kitchen where a small amount of food remained. Damanio searched through the cabinets away from the food, allowing Naia the option to eat first. When she didn't take it, he asked her to.
"No."
His search found him two small water bottles hidden behind a stack of pots. Damanio found it strange, but passed one to Naia anyway. As easily as she refused the food, she couldn't resist the bottle. Both bottles ended up bone dry within minutes of his discovery.
"I'm going to eat," Damanio said, taking a seat beside the leftovers. He was slow, deliberate with each bite. The food filled his stomach in a way he had never felt before. Hunger wasn't a new feeling to Damanio, but it never came with the anxieties of his next meal like he was experiencing now. Even with the food in front of him, he wasn't sure it was enough. He wasn't sure of anything these days.
Eventually, Naia took some food for herself and ate, keeping a large distance between herself and Damanio. As they ate, Damanio wondered what truly kept her from whacking him over the head with the hammer. Was it some sort of respect for Dex for bringing them together? Was her fear of the Careers larger than her fear of Damanio? The longer he analyzed the possibilities, the longer he could delude himself into thinking everything could turn out okay.
He knew it was a matter of time before one of their tools ended up embedded in the other's skull. As adverse as Damanio was to seeing anyone else die, well, he was still Damanio Delaine.
And he still wanted to go home.
They found themselves back on the second floor.
This time, there was no metal walkway to creak under their boots. The hallways in this section of the factory were wider. Empty offices decorated the walls the duo passed. They searched a few, but everything was scarce in supplies.
Everything was also scarce in other tributes. Damanio really wondered where everyone was hiding. His eyes glazed up, wondering how many floors the building had to offer.
They found themselves in a room that had something they had yet to see in any prior room. A window. Damanio couldn't stop himself from pushing towards it, wiping the steam off the glass to see what outside had to offer. He didn't know what he expected, and he thought he did a good job of expecting the worst. Somehow, that didn't make it hurt less.
Night had fallen once again and outside somehow looked more menacing than inside. Stone gravel surrounded the building as far as he could see, passing underneath a giant metal fence that seemed to rise about twenty feet high. Damanio tried to look up, to see how tall the building was, but the angle was no good while the window was shut.
He looked for a latch and found one at the top of the window. He clicked it open, then pushed the window up. Wind struck his face and the fresh air was a shock after breathing in nothing but rust and humid air for the past few days. The sound of the wind revitalized him.
He stuck his head out the window and looked up. The roof of the factory was within reach. It seemed the building had only one more floor. Damanio looked down. A small ledge seemed to wrap around this section of the building. He looked back up.
“I think I hear someone,” Naia muttered, having not moved any closer to the open window.
Damanio listened closely. He heard them too, the voices that bounced off the metal that surrounded them. His next moves were not carefully calculated. They weren't even thought about. He just acted.
When did he have time to think?
He maneuvered through the open window, first his legs, then his torso. He carefully balanced his weight on the ledge. Once all of his body was outside, he looked up. The roof was much closer now than it appeared inside. With a breath, he reached up, grabbed a hold of something, and climbed.
Everything felt sturdy under his hands and feet. The slight incline forward certainly helped. Within seconds, he reached the flat point of the roof.
"It's safe!" As he yelled, he turned around. To his surprise, Naia was only inches behind him. When he looked at her with relief, she returned with something less.
Something sinister.
He grew the distance between the two of them, then held his breath. The voices only got louder, and he assumed the Careers had found the room the two of them were in only moments ago. As he waited and listened, he found himself not focused on what they were saying at all. He could tell it was angry, sure, but his mind was elsewhere.
So was Naia's, it seemed.
It concerned Damanio. Nothing about her gave him relief. In fact, he realized it was a feeling he had felt all the way from the first day they met. He overestimated how much sway he had with her. Really, it was Dex keeping them together. He knew that. Of course, he knew that. He was a fool to think he could keep it together after Dex died.
The Careers searched and left and took their voices with them, and Damanio felt more unease than he did when they were right outside the door. Something about the Careers simply intimidated him less than the girl in front of him. He couldn't understand why. Logically, any of them would rip him to shreds within seconds of finding him.
Maybe death wasn't what scared him. There was a certainty to the Careers, a certainty to the death they would surely bring. When he looked at Naia, when he tried to piece her together, he fell short each time. And by the time he understood her, he feared it would be too late.
Damanio Delaine did not fight this hard or this long to be made a fool.
He didn’t think either of them slept the rest of the night. The faces in the sky only kept them both on edge. Seeing Dex’s face, alive and well, only made Damanio feel worse.
(When he realized he felt worse for himself than he did for Dex, well, that only compounded matters.)
Naia held the hammer tight. Damanio, the wrench. They sat in an unspoken standstill, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
As the sun rose, Damanio could tell the black roof underneath them would suck up heat too fast for them to stay outside. He relayed this to Naia. She didn’t respond. When he stood to find another way back into the factory, she rose too.
Damanio crossed the roof to explore his options. He saw ledges similar to the one he crawled up onto to get here. Nothing distinguishable.
He kept walking, and Naia kept following. The roof felt never-ending. The potential threats in each passing room did little to help him decide when to act.
He had to, so he did. He found a window already slightly ajar and a ledge big enough to support his weight. He maneuvered himself to the ledge, his eyes never leaving Naia, who stood too close to him for comfort.
She didn't do anything though, and Damanio was able to push the window open and find his way inside. The room was completely empty. No storage, no furniture, nothing except the window and a door.
Damanio turned to look outside the window. He heard Naia shuffle down onto the ledge. He saw her legs. He watched her sit in the window, getting ready to shift inside.
Later, when asked what he was thinking when his hands found her shoulders, he would lie and say he had planned it since Dex died. He would lie and say her screams and the sound of the impact didn't haunt his dreams. He would lie and say he didn't remember how her body looked, awkwardly contorted on the gravel ground as she took her last breath.
The worst lie would be when he would tell them he was glad it was her instead of him. Because even when the guilt buried itself deep into his gut, ripping him apart from the inside out, he wasn't sure it was a lie.
(Her death was a mirror and a killer’s face reflected in the glass. She showed him what he desperately tried to hide.
And he could no longer escape it.)
The factory was quiet. It shouldn’t be. It should be running with machinery, full of people moving from device to device. Somehow, the Capitol has taken the only thing Damanio has ever known and made it unrecognizable.
And him, with it. Who was he becoming?
He was afraid to find ou. He was afraid that no matter what, he would.
He was wandering around with very little purpose. First, he was on the third floor. There wasn’t much to it, just a large hallway that wrapped around in a square, with doors on each side that wouldn’t open no matter how hard he tried. A giant padlock blocked each door. There was no combination, no spot for a key that he could see. He decided there was nothing worth finding on that floor and slipped back down to the second floor. He didn’t stay there long. He returned to the bottom floor with a wrench and a desire to return to what once was. As flawed as he knew ‘once was’ was, he selfishly craved it. He needed it, a sense of normalcy. Of him.
(How scary was that?)
Damanio walked. He wandered. He pushed Nine out of his head. If he stopped walking, the thoughts would return. The fact that he was here and alive and had nothing to show for it anymore. Was he a fool for thinking he ever had something? Or was he a fool for thinking that what he did have was his to keep?
Damanio Delaine had spent his whole life fighting for something more without the cost of everything else, and he feared it was far too late to find it.
So he walked. He pushed everything out of his mind. Damanio did what he assumed his father did at the end of a long day at the factory, knowing the men around him with bent joints and permanent scars of dirt would return the next day to give a piece of themselves they would never get back while he returned to a plush mattress and a full belly. He forgot. Or, simply found the strength not to care.
And when he got tired, he found a small storage unit to climb into the back of and managed to find a restless sleep.
Dex and Naia visited him in his dreams.
Fortunately for Damanio, whatever they had to tell him or bring him woke him up. Like many of Damanio’s dreams, it left him as he woke.
He was grateful for that this time.
And as he found his feet, he pushed forward. That was all he had.
All he deserved.
It was his fault that he walked straight into the enemy.
Or rather, enemies. The Careers surrounded him like a pack of wolves surrounding a deer: quick, efficient, and without flaw. Damanio saw the faces of those he wronged, the friends of those he killed, ready to strike.
(He saw Dex and Naia’s faces in the smoke and to him it wasn’t right, but he felt he was in the minority.)
He kept hold of his wrench. Both from One stared him down, metal pipes and rusted swords cutting through the smoke like a threat, like a promise. He saw Willa beside them, her hand gripped tightly around a long wooden dowel. He knew he would get no mercy from her. He didn’t pretend otherwise.
“I would like to apologize for how we last met.” The words that flowed from Damanio’s mouth felt like a stranger even to him. A voice that had served him well for so long did little to soothe his nerves now.
“You should be,” the One boy spat, his sword cutting through the light as it got closer. Damanio couldn’t retreat, not with the Two girl breathing down his neck with something sharp lightly pressed into his spine.
“It was unfair of me.” Damanio raised his free hand; the other one kept a tight grip on the wrench. His only lifeline, fabricated from blood.
Just like everything else around him.
Willa glared at him as One pushed forward.
“It was unfair of me to be so sloppy.” Damanio clenched his jaw, his next words unfiltered honesty, “I should have done more to ensure you all fell.”
He anticipated the first strike and a quick dodge to the left. The One boy stumbled forward but quickly adjusted, and the sword was once again approaching Damanio. Damanio blocked the second strike with the wrench. He shoved hard, doing little more but irritated the Career. Pain sliced into his back, and he whipped to face the bloodied knives of the One girl.
He closed the distance, wrench raised. The metal barely grazed past her head as she ducked under his swing. She wrapped her arms around his stomach, and a quick lift sent him falling to the ground.
When his eyes opened, it was Willa’s face he saw. He might’ve seen her hesitate. It was subtle, but he might have noticed it if he was thinking about anyone except himself. Instead, he watched as she lowered the wooden dowel into his skull.
The explosive crack of wood on metal beside his skull was the only thing that told him he survived the strike. His vision pulsed with the heartbeat in his skull. Wood fragments were scattered around him. He released a groan followed by a cough as he struggled to breathe. Blood sank into every sense until all he felt was death. Darkness swirled in his vision and pain was too easy a word for what Damanio felt. All the things that were once him, his thoughts, his worries, they simply vanished, replaced by something much worse.
A deep breath came with more pain, pain sharper than anything Damanio had ever felt before. It flowed through his body, through his bloodstream, until there was nothing. He no longer felt the cold metal floor sinking into his spine, nor did he feel the pain exploding in his skull. He knew what it meant. He had felt it once before. Once, when he had too much to drink in The Smog, and someone offered him something he couldn’t refuse. First, he felt everything, every pain and every shallow breath. It came and went and left him with nothing. At the time, he thought he was floating. He didn’t fear death anymore, although death could have taken him then. Damanio Delaine hadn’t learned to fear death in Eight.
In a replica of Eight, he still couldn’t fear death. As he lay dying, all he could feel was…well, nothing. Even death was kind, releasing him from the pain the Careers inflicted upon him faster than he deserved.
(Death wasn’t this kind to Dex, who suffered for far longer. It wasn’t so kind to Naia, who desperately tried to regain motion in her legs once she was steady on the ground.)
Then he heard a cannon and he knew he was dead. It was strange. Damanio was too privileged to ever give much thought to death, yet he was smart enough to know that something simply didn’t feel right. He couldn’t be dead - could he?
He had to find out. He tried to blink, breathe, scream, anything to hang onto the little line of life he had left, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t brave. He wasn’t worth fighting for.
He did feel the added pressure of something falling on his arm. Still, through the fog of the factory and the blinding pain, he didn’t know what. A second cannon rattled the floor, and maybe that one belonged to him, but no. He was still alive.
How?
Why?
The light vibrations of footsteps filtered away from him. There was nothing left for him to do. There was so little life left inside him.
And yet, he just wouldn’t die.
Chapter 3: The Life
Chapter Text
Time didn’t pass the same in death.
Damanio’s body was happy to remind him that he wasn’t quite dead yet. As the time passed in an indiscernible amount, his senses returned to him.
First was the pain. The pulsing in his skull returned, spreading from his head down to his feet. With the pain came the cold from the floor seeping through his clothes and into his skin. The hissing around him, was it steam?
Everything was still spinning. Blurry, disoriented, he could hardly see much of anything. He ran his fingers across the floor, wiggled his toes, anything to hold onto that life.
His hand stopped against something on the floor that wasn’t the cold he had become accustomed to. It was cold, but a different cold. A solid cold.
His head turned, and the pain was excruciating. Through the disorientation and the pain, he saw her. In life, she was big, intimidating. In death, it was a harsh reminder that she, too, was just a child.
Damanio closed his eyes once again.
He wouldn’t have awoken if not for the blast of music.
The anthem jolted him, constricting his body to a seated position. Movement was a mistake, but it was inevitable. Blood rushed through every extremity as faces were projected like they meant nothing.
Willa was first. Damanio looked down to see that her body was still there. Dried blood seemed to be located to a single wound in her back. When her face was replaced by the Ten girl, and the world went quiet, Damanio knew it was time to move.
(Wherever she died, whoever killed her, inadvertently saved his life. And he didn’t know how that made him feel.)
Standing was hard, but he managed. There was nothing left behind from the fight that should have ended his life, nothing except a small package with a parachute attached to the base. Bending over hurt, but he managed it anyway. Without opening it, he fled.
He had to stop as his body needed to expel everything he had eaten in the last two days. The exertion of it shot more pain through his skull. Once his body was done, he stumbled forward.
He moved until he couldn’t bear it any longer. Somehow, he found his way into a closet hidden in the back of a larger office. He collapsed once again, this time fearing when he would inevitably have to get up once again.
His hands fumbled with what he could only assume was a sponsored gift. Pulling it apart was hard. He almost gave up twice. Inside rewarded him with a single pill, a small bottle of water, and a note.
Keep fighting - R
Damanio scoffed. What fight did he have left?
As the pill passed his lips, he guessed he would find out soon enough.
The pain in his skull might have been numbed, but nothing else found that same relief.
Weak medicine. Damanio hadn’t moved from the hiding spot he found. He found no reason to. The Careers that remained were certainly searching for him, as confused about his survival as he was. Whoever remained, Damanio lost track, were out there as well, likely faring better than he was. If anyone stumbled across him, they would secure themselves an easy kill.
And give him the death he deserved.
Death had tried to take Damanio so many times. Even before the Games, he flirted with it. He never feared it. Never once thought it was something that would find him. He was a product of his upbringing, a privileged reminder of what money bought. What it secured. Strip it all away and Damanio Delaine wasn’t a Delaine. He was barely Damanio.
He was nothing. A coward. A fraud.
Naia knew. Damanio closed his eyes, wishing for the pain to return to force the thoughts to stop flowing. It didn’t, so they kept rushing in.
Naia knew and she tried to warn Dex but he didn’t listen and now they’re both dead because of you.
Damanio slammed his fists down on the storage rack. The noise echoed off the walls. His knuckles, still bent from the impact, shook.
Not with fear. With something more.
He didn’t remember standing, only the act of fleeing the room. He didn’t know where he was going, only that it was elsewhere. And even though he knew running proved itself to be so ineffective, he did it anyway.
That was all Damanio Delaine knew how to do, after all.
Despite the smoke and the heat, he found himself at the Cornucopia once again.
It looked different. He almost didn’t recognize it since it was so devoid of life. The plates remained, now flushed against the concrete. Blood stained the floor in dark splotches that looked eerily like the oil stains Damanio grew up avoiding. There was no avoiding these stains. These ran deeper.
He wasn’t oblivious to the irony of the location he found himself in. He delivered himself directly to the enemy.
Except, they didn’t seem to be there. Damanio listened closely, but the only noise he could hear was the whirr of the machines around him. As he closed in on the metal structure, he held his breath so he could listen. He listened for subtle whispers, for the shift in metal under their boots, but there was nothing.
Still, he searched around the structure twice before daring to go inside. The stacks of supplies were lined up near the back of the Cornucopia like bricks. Weapons seemed sparse, but essentials seemed plentiful.
Damanio swiped a large backpack and opened the top container. He filled his bag with everything he could ever need. Medicine, food, water, all the shit that tributes find themselves desperate for by the end of the Games. When he was done with the first container, he searched the second. Item by item, he filled his bag with things until he feared the straps would break under the weight.
He armed himself with a long wire rope and a few knives that fit nicely in his belt.
Do more. He frowned. Everything he took would hardly be noticeable to the three Careers that remained. Damanio wasn’t sure who was left besides them. It couldn’t be many.
His eyes shifted from one thing to another and soon enough, his eyes were following the path of machinery that surrounded him. It was amazing how familiar everything should feel to Damanio. He was certain the machines around him were similar enough to the ones at home. Yet the harder he tried, the less he could place them.
I’ll blame the injury. Damanio would laugh to himself if it didn’t hurt so much. Instead, he continued to look. To observe. To find something to break.
And then he saw it. The metal vat with a painted red symbol of drops of liquid burning a hand.
Damanio simply wanted to replace the hand with a handful of Cornucopia supplies. Easy enough, surely.
He dug through the supplies until he found what resembled a handheld circular saw. He was certain he’d seen workers use this plenty of times, which means Damanio should be able to figure it out.
There were plenty of switches for him to try and when it finally did turn on, it nearly flew out of his hand. He then held the saw at the edge of the vat and activated it. As metal met metal, drops of liquid began leaking from the newly formed opening.
He waited until the leak started pouring out like a faucet before he dropped the tool on the ground. He took a step back as the liquid slowly crept forward, vapors slowly rising above it. It got closer and closer to the supplies.
With a smile, Damanio turned and fled the scene.
The feeling of victory didn’t last Damanio long. By evening, he was still lost. He lost track of how many days he had been here. He couldn’t count how many tributes were left. He couldn’t even navigate the damn factory. Hours passed, and it felt like he was going in circles. Every turn led to the same machinery, to the same doors and hallways and vents and bullshit.
He never felt so lost. Ironic, really, how lost he thought he felt in Eight. Who he was, who he wanted to be, everything he thought mattered withering away around him.
Death had that effect, he assumed.
He didn't realize his body slid to the ground until the cold of the floor shot up his spine. The ceiling was so far away, endlessly rising above him.
When he closed his eyes he saw Naia. He saw her body hit the floor, not too different than how he was lying now. He wanted to open his eyes, to forget her, to forget the pain. It was pointless. There would always be more pain. He guaranteed that.
Footsteps finally forced them open. He gripped his knife and stood up. He didn't see anyone.
"Come out!" he yelled without thinking. What would quiet do for him?
No, quiet wouldn't save him now.
(He would soon learn what would.)
A small foot stuck out from behind a large machine. Damanio scoffed. He couldn't see much else of the tribute, but he knew the kid was small. Unthreatening. Damanio had nothing to lose.
(It felt right and wrong.)
He approached the machine and suddenly the foot was gone. Damanio froze. He looked behind him. All he saw was the same thing he had been seeing for days. Machines, pipes, smoke.
"Where are you?" Damanio grumbled to himself. He walked around the machine to no avail.
Had it been so long that he was seeing things? He didn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it.
And footsteps behind him told him he didn't have to believe it.
He raised his knife just in time to block the boy from Seven from landing a lethal blow with his own knife. Damanio grunted and kicked the boy back. He was small, only thirteen, if Damanio had to guess.
It should be easy.
Damanio pushed forward, raising his knife once again. He swung but the boy dodged, slipping under Damanio's arm and sending the blade across his back. Damanio swore, stumbling forward and away from the blade. The boy pushed on, forcing Damanio to continue to back up.
He clenched his teeth and tried another strike, but the boy once again retreated. He was quick, and Damanio was not.
Calm down. Damanio let out a breath. One misstep was all he needed. One cocky lunge from the boy...
The thoughts scrambled inside his head as the world around him turned upside down. He heard his knife clatter to the ground before he understood what had happened. As his eyes adjusted to his new reality, he felt the blood rush to his skull, a skull already horribly compromised.
He screamed and his head throbbed. He looked up, now where his feet sat caught in some rope. He heard footsteps on metal, the small boy running towards Damanio to finish the job the Careers couldn't.
Damanio wiggled his feet and the rope loosened. The blade cut behind his skull, barely missing. He wiggled his legs some more, desperately fighting against the rope. When they loosened just enough, he yanked as hard as he could.
He landed on the boy, he could tell. If not for the uneven feeling of the ground, for the screams that escaped them both. Pain everywhere; that was all Damanio could focus on. He never knew everything in his body could hurt at once.
He rolled to the side, blood in his mouth, a thunderous clap of pain across his skull. The boy reached for the knife. His own or Damanio's, Damanio wasn't sure any longer.
Damanio reached for it as well, his fingers colliding with the hilt. The boy reached it first and picked it up. Damanio's hand found something else, and he threw it. The boy backed up and, through the pain, Damanio forced himself to his feet.
Then he ran. He weaved through the machines, fighting the pounding in his skull. He had no destination.
He simply ran.
And the world watched as the charming Damanio Delaine fled from a threat beneath him.
Except, nothing was beneath him anymore. Nothing was ever beneath him. He was the lowest of it all, living in skin that shouldn't have belonged to him. Living off of a factory that people lived and died in so he could live and die with a bottle in his hand.
He couldn't cry. He couldn't feel bad for himself anymore. He lost his right to pity himself.
And when he couldn't run anymore, he collapsed.
Maybe this sleep would bring him death. That was more than he deserved.
When he woke, everything still hurt.
How was he alive? He groaned, the pain in his skull somehow stronger than it was earlier. He didn't move from his spot on the ground; he only took in the surrounding area. He was in another empty office, lying a few feet from a couch just like the one they held out in a few days ago. Before it went to shit.
He closed his eyes but all he could see was them in the room around him. Alive, laughing, breathing, things he now took for granted.
He covered his ears. The added pressure only increased the pain in his skull but he didn't care. He deserved it. He's deserved everything he'd gotten since they launched him in his damn place. Hell, he deserved being reaped. Better him than someone like Sindon.
He thought he would fear death when the time came, but maybe it was what he needed all along. The life he was chasing, the highs he used to escape the lows, none of it mattered in the end.
Please forgive me. He hoped Sindon would know he tried. He tried and he failed. Maybe Sindon knew Damanio wouldn't come back. Everyone seemed to know.
His hands moved from his skull to the scarf still wrapped around his neck.
Yeah, Damanio thought. Death wasn't so scary after all.
He woke once more in the same spot on the ground.
He groaned as the Capitol seal faded into the first face. The girl from Seven, then the boy. Damanio’s attacker, dead.
It really was that easy for someone else.
Damanio was surprised not to see his own face flash up there. Maybe that surprise was laced with disappointment.
Maybe he didn't want to think about the dead anymore.
He sat up as the air around him silenced. Pain seemed restored throughout him but he moved anyway. Hunger, thirst, injuries, aches, pains, he didn't care. He should care, but he didn't.
He closed his eyes and for a second, he was no longer in the Hunger Games. He was in The Smog, the real Smog. The one that brought him comfort and highs and Sindon. The one waiting for him to return, no matter how he stood.
He opened his eyes and his blood ran cold. He didn't realize he was crying until his cheeks got cold.
Damanio longed for normalcy. What he had at home wasn't normal, but he missed it so badly.
He left the office. There was nothing left for him. Only bad memories and even worse ideas. Only death.
He found his way back towards the kitchen, the first place he went with Naia after Dex died. He was so lost in his own mind that he didn't realize the room was occupied. As he turned on the kitchen sink and splashed water onto his face, an arrow flew overhead.
He slammed into the ground with the counter to block another arrow. Pain reignited his veins; damage from the last time he fought a Career was still very prevalent. He wrapped his hand around his knife, but it would do no good. He already knew it.
He was a dead man walking. He had been all this time.
He closed his eyes to accept it. Then, his attacker made the mistake of speaking.
"You should have died the first time." It was the boy from One. Damanio remembered him well. Cocky and relentless, it was the same boy who killed Willa in front of him.
"And you should have done a better job killing me," Damanio said in return as he moved around the counter. He took the chance to briefly glance out to see where the boy was. He saw him - bow raised and ready to strike.
And strike he did. The arrow flew past Damanio, and it ignited something else in Damanio. Something new.
Something violent.
Without thinking, because Damanio didn't do that anymore, he pushed himself up. His feet smacked against the ground. Body met body and Damanio landed on top. The boy hit Damanio with the bow, but the arrows had flung out from the quiver. They lay around the two, too far to reach.
The bow hurt. Damanio raised his knife to block the strikes, then tried to send the knife into the boy's chest. He blocked, then shoved hard, and Damanio lost his balance. Damanio fell back, then stood up. The other boy stood a few feet in front of him.
"You destroyed our supplies," the boy said. Damanio shrugged.
He advanced, crouching to try and dodge another strike from the weapon. As close as he was to the ground, he was able to pick up an arrow. An elbow connected with his back and he dove to avoid another strike. The boy threw the bow down in favor of a large hammer that he pulled from his belt loop.
Damanio ducked behind a table. Why was his vision swirling now? Why was he fighting this boy, whom he had no right to fight? He couldn't even kill the Seven boy.
He had no time to dwell on what he should and shouldn't have done. All he could do, all he'd ever done, was act.
The knife slid out of his fingers as he released it towards the boy. As Damanio expected, he easily dodged it. Damanio followed, raised an arrow, and impaled it into the boy's upper leg. He screamed, lowering the hammer onto Damanio's arm.
Now he was really in danger of dying. The new pain combined with the pain in his skull collapsed him to the ground. One dragged himself over Damanio, hammer held high.
Damanio reached for the bottom of his pants and pulled. The boy fell on his back, his head whipping against the hard ground. The hammer slipped from his fingers, and Damanio didn't hesitate to wrap his own hand around it in replacement.
He crawled on his knees. Blood seeped from a wound he couldn't see on the back of One's head. One groaned and his eyes glazed.
At least they did until Damanio sent the hammer into his skull.
Damanio didn’t leave the kitchen for days. His routine became something mundane. He ate, drank, slept, walked, and then did it all over again. The only thing that broke up the monotony of it all was the occasional cannon and pain that spread through Damanio's body.
Whatever damage Willa did to him seemed in no danger of fading. It felt like his brain was pressing against his skull, desperate to escape. It spread through his nerves, his veins, his blood. It ate at every part of him. Like his body knew he should be dead, but he wasn't.
Seemed to be a trend.
He couldn't even manage a laugh.
How frail he had become. Damanio Delaine of Eight would scoff at himself now. Sure, he was the same boy, but he felt far from it. Far from the cocky bastard that slinked through The Smog. Far from the life he once had.
Nothing stopped him from his routine, though. He accepted death so long ago yet it kept evading him. It was a game, now; how long could he defy the Games itself? A death owed, a cannon traded.
Ate, drank, slept, walked.
It kept him sane.
It kept him alive.
And somehow that was the hardest part of it all.
A voice boomed down from above.
"Congratulations, finalists. You have all fought honorably to make it this far. I request that each of you join us for a special gift. A celebration of your accomplishments thus far." A pause as the request set in, then, "Consider this request mandatory. We hope to see you on the third floor in twelve hours."
"Screw you," Damanio muttered to no one and everyone simultaneously. He wasn't going to move for them. What did he care? He had nothing for the Capitol, nothing left for the Games, and they had nothing for him.
They know. That's why they're corralling you.
He still didn't move.
Damanio wasn't surprised by the note at his feet. A simple thing, really. A note from Ridge in an attempt to force him to concede to the Gamemakers request.
It read simply: Three left. Go.
It made Damanio chuckle.
"Why?" Damanio asked, knowing Ridge couldn't answer. Not without wasting more funds on another gift Damanio knew wouldn't come. No one would sponsor the failure from Eight. Not anymore.
He waited another few minutes, the pounding in his skull still ever present. A gift from Eight. Willa's last screw you to him.
They died together. Willa's body, Damanio's mind, taken simultaneously by kids trained to do just that. And yet she was rotting in the dirt while he was rotting on his feet.
Damanio wondered which Careers were left. He knew at least one of them was. His little stunt with the supplies wouldn't change that.
More time passed and Damanio's legs moved out from underneath him. He stood and let the blood rush back to them. Pressure subsided in his skull but left him lightheaded.
He inhaled.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time since doing so, it wasn't Dex or Naia or Willa he saw.
It was Sindon. Then, it was Enrica.
He walked.
Damanio didn’t see anyone as he moved to the third floor.
He wasn't sure what he was doing, if he was honest. He didn't know why he was listening to Ridge, or the Capitol; he just knew that he was. It didn't make him feel better. It didn't give him purpose. It certainly didn't reduce the pain.
He stopped thinking about it. Nothing good came from thinking, he decided.
He walked until he came to a door, a door he recognized. He recalled the series of doors on the third floor that he couldn’t open, a giant padlock blocking the way. The only evidence that it was once there was the slight discoloration where the lock once sat.
He placed his hand around the knob. It opened with ease.
The room was huge. The ceiling sat so high he couldn't see it from the ground. The room was well lit, and the concrete floor sat just like it did in other parts of the arena. A wall sat fifteen feet in front of him and wrapped back around him. Other than the massive ceiling, it felt somewhat small.
The room was empty. No furniture, no tributes. Well, other than Damanio.
He shut the door behind him and sat, leaning his back against the wall.
Then he waited.
The walls around him shook him awake.
He didn't even realize he fell asleep. He stumbled to his feet as he tried to get a grip on his current reality. He watched as the walls disappeared in front of him, expanding the room significantly. He could see a tribute appear to his left, now revealed by the retracted wall. In front of him were the last two Careers.
To his right sat a large door embedded within the wall. It struck Damanio as odd. It took up at least half of the wall space, and would easily fit a dozen people through it. Something tugged at his stomach, something unsettling.
Boom….boom….boom…
The floor shook underneath Damanio in tune with his heartbeat. With each beat, dust and debris slightly shook around him. It grew. Within seconds, every beat shook Damanio to his core.
scccreeeeeeeeeeeech
The sound of metal colliding with metal sent Damanio’s hands over his ears. He saw one of the Career girls do the same. He took a step back as the door opened and revealed the culprit with it.
It left Damanio speechless. An entirely metal creature stood where the door once was. It was shaped like a human, sort of. Two metal legs held a metal body with two arms. There was a head too, but that was where the similarities ended. It swung one of its arms out and Damanio could see it was more than just a metal arm.
It was a giant sword.
Grey metal covered the entire thing, which made the red core in the center of its chest stand out more. Damanio couldn’t tell what it was made of, not the core nor the rest of it. Hell, he didn’t even know what it was.
“Congratulations on making it this far! The contestant who lands the killing strike on The Forge will be crowned Victor. Best of luck!”
The voice was silenced and a roar from the creature sent everything into motion. Damanio ran, not towards the creature but away towards the other single tribute. In his peripheral vision, he saw the two Careers running towards it.
His eyes locked back towards the other girl, who now raised her mace in defense. In response, Damanio raised his own knife.
Another roar from the creature forced him to stop. Heat rose from the ground and Damanio was covered in sweat. Breathing became difficult. He glanced back towards the Careers, towards the monster. He saw the Two girl shoot an arrow towards the monster’s core. It barely ricocheted off the metal plate beside her intended target.
Footsteps in front of him forced him to turn back around. He recognized the Five girl, even past the raised mace that now sat between her and him. He ducked under the first swing, then the second. He backed up, each step in rhythm with the steps of the monster. He couldn’t risk letting the distance close between them. It would only take one hit to kill him.
He didn’t think as he aimed and released the knife from his grip. As it flew past her, he grabbed another one from his belt to replace it. He threw this one as well, this one finding a spot in her arm. She stumbled back, reaching for the handle of the knife. It distracted her just enough for Damanio to rush her, final knife in hand, and send it towards her chest.
Another roar from the creature sent more vibrations through the ground and heat in the air. Still, Damanio’s knife found itself embedded in the girl’s chest. She collapsed to the ground, mace bouncing against the ground as she let go of it. Damanio reached for it as her breathing slowed.
Another roar and Damanio looked back towards the monster. The two Careers were swerving at the monster's feet, desperately trying to strike the red core. It reached down and swiped at them with its dull arm, missing them both by a few inches. It came down with its other arm, and the blade cut clean through the Two girl.
Damanio heard the screams from the other Career, soon drowned out by the monster itself. One retreated and Damanio raised the mace.
She was a threat, he was more than aware. But that thing, what the hell was he supposed to do about that?
He looked around the room. There really was nothing to work with. No furniture to raise him up. No weapons to bring the monster down. All he had was the supplies in his bag and the mace in his hand. And his mind, which had been slowly failing him over the past few days.
Any idea that came to him would end with him killed. If Two couldn't land a killing shot, what hope did he have?
What hope did either of them have?
Did the Capitol really expect them to kill this thing? Or was it a distraction, a way to force them together, raise the stakes with little effort on the Gamemakers' part? The creature has proven it will kill, yes, but Two struck first.
Two struck where it could see her…does it even see? Damanio groaned and the One girl continued to approach him. Not with vengeance, which was what he might expect, but with fear.
Damanio shuffled to the side. He didn’t want to give her the opportunity to try. She seemed so concentrated on escaping the monster that his movement didn’t catch her attention. He reached the edge of the wall as the Career continued to run. She would reach the wall soon. Damanio had to move.
He ran in the opposite direction, closing the distance between himself and the monster. His chest beat with his footsteps, struggling to balance on the shaking floor. He glanced up at the monster, waiting for the moment it turned to strike Damanio.
That moment never came.
Damanio got behind the creature as the One girl reached the other side of the room. He locked eyes with her and even from this distance he could see her fear. The creature swung one arm towards the girl, barely missing as she slid underneath the attack.
If I stay here, she will die.
The realization washed over him, striking him harder than the blow to the head that almost killed him. How easy victory could be if he let the monster do what it wanted.
He closed his eyes.
No.
He forced them open. He gripped the mace. His blood was on fire, his heart pounded against the wall of his chest.
Coward, traitor, murderer, useless. All the things he was once too afraid for the world to see were now stuck to him. The armor of confidence wasted away, never to be reforged.
He will not die a coward.
He took a breath in.
His feet moved out from underneath him. It got closer to the back of the creature.
His hands connected with metal and he climbed. The hot metal singed the flesh on Damanio's hands but that didn't slow him. He climbed, gripping onto the metal so tightly it cut into him. There was no time to wonder what he was doing, what his plan was.
He just climbed.
The creature noticed his presence. It backed up, its erratic movements causing one of Damanio’s feet to slip. He held on tighter.
The core was in reach. He just had to stabilize…
He never got the chance before the arrow flew at him. He didn’t see it, not until it went past his face.
Move.
He wouldn’t stop for anything.
Another arrow.
Another slip of his foot.
Move.
He could reach it.
Steady. He pushed his feet into the metal, his left hand gripped on as tightly as he could.
The roar of the machines shook the room.
His mace was raised.
Then it struck.
The outer coating shattered, small pieces of glass and metal flew across the air. It didn’t stop the second attack, or the third.
Smoke formed from the device while blood flowed across his palm. The creature stumbled forward, landing on what would have been a knee.
Damanio climbed down as far as he could before the creature collapsed. He jumped off the edge, rolling across the ground while his skin and muscles screamed for relief.
The machine shut down. Sparks flew and smoke dispersed from the shattered core. The red light inside pulsed, like a heartbeat.
It seemed in no danger of stopping.
A quiet whimper forced Damanio to sit upright. Even that was a gamble. He was certain the next time he closed his eyes, it would be his last.
He saw her. Then he saw the metal on top of her, once grey, now stained red.
Damanio stood.
It hurt.
He walked.
The girl was contorted underneath the metal. Every gasp was followed by a new cry.
Damanio closed his eyes.
This is what victory felt like.
He didn’t watch as he put her out of her misery.
Instead, he joined her on the ground, letting his eyes close for that final time.
Another cannon fired. Another one that should belong to him.
Coward. Traitor. Murderer. Useless. Victor.
It was all the same now. There was no mask to hide behind anymore.
There was only him.
The train that brought Damanio Delaine home was quiet.
It was the first quiet he had since he woke up. He woke under flashing lights surrounded by beeping machinery, cables and tubes attached to him, giving him life he didn’t deserve.
His head ached for days. The doctors called him lucky. All the damage he endured during the Games wasn’t permanent.
“It should have killed you, all the damage to your skull,” a nurse whispered to him when they thought he was asleep.
Should have seemed to be a recurring trend in Damanio Delaine’s life.
Regardless, healing was slow. Damanio kept it slow. He thought time would heal deeper than his physical injuries. He hoped time would help him find…something. Anything.
He was a lot of things, but a fool, well, he knew that one too well.
A Victory Interview was inevitable. It came naturally to Damanio. The speaking, the stage, the crowd, it was easy.
And then the Games restarted. The bloodbath. He saw himself on the screen. He saw the mask drop. He saw the fear. He watched a useless boy be saved by two kids leagues ahead of him.
And then he watched those two kids die while he got to live.
They called him ruthless. They called him brave. He saw what they were trying to do.
The Capitol couldn’t have a coward as a Victor.
In an attempt to save his own skin, to become more, he had somehow shrunk to an even lesser version of what he once was.
He felt the fear they labeled bravery. He saw the panic they called strategic.
It made him sick and there was nothing he could do to fix it.
Well, almost nothing.
They let him sneak the drinks into his room on the train. They let him keep the door locked during the journey back to Eight. If people checked on him, he didn’t know it. He kept the liquor flowing. It was smoother than the stuff made in Eight, yet it tasted worse. That only made Damanio drink more.
Anything to make him forget.
The faces still came to him when he closed his eyes. A drunken sleep couldn’t change that. Still he drank more. If he couldn’t forget, he could at least not care.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. How many nights did he spend within The Smog, drinking to find a way to not care? The bottles were different, but the escape was the same. And what would wait for him in Eight?
More of the same. Except he knew one thing for certain. Escape would never come.
And the whole world knew it.
Victor’s Village was his cage.
He went home once. He saw his family. His dad didn’t know what to say to him. His mother hugged him, but it was void of all the warmth it once held. Enrica was scared of him. She hid behind their parents, gripping onto their mother’s dress so tightly it left the fabric indented.
They didn’t come with him to the new house. He was okay with that.
(That was what he told himself.)
The empty house was not that much bigger than the Delaine’s, but a world’s difference to Damanio. He lived in manufactured rooms, a luxury built on the lives of those he took. He always lived in a luxury built on others' discomfort, but this was a new low. Sometimes when he woke up, he saw the red stain on his hands. He couldn’t wash it off. He couldn’t escape it.
The doors were locked from the inside, but so was Damanio. He didn’t have the strength to leave.
And no one ever came to see him.
(Knocks filled the bottom floor a few times, but Damanio was too drunk or tired to care. The doors remained locked and unanswered.
Some thought they would stay that way forever.)
Damanio made the mistake of returning to The Smog.
He couldn’t help himself. He needed something like he once had. He needed an escape.
He was a fool to think they’d give it to him so easily.
The crowds in the bars found a way to keep away from him when he entered. The barkeeper served him with no joy. Every time he looked towards the crowd, he caught someone glaring back at him.
He didn’t stay out long.
Somehow in his return, his home felt emptier. Larger.
More suffocating.
He drank more to compensate. He slept as much as he could.
It didn’t matter anymore.
That was the lie he told himself, at least.
Damanio heard a window slide open from the bottom floor.
He tried to break out of the daze of sleep he had trapped himself in. When he stood, empty bottles slipped under his feet.
Something was knocked over downstairs. Damanio grabbed the first thing he could find, one of those bottles, and went downstairs.
(He was in the arena again and his heart was pounding against his chest. His headache returned and he was prepared to kill. He would kill whoever it was because that was who he’d become, who they’d made him out to be. A killer.)
As he rounded the corner, he swung. The intruder yelped, backing up with their hands raised in defense.
“Damanio, stop!”
The familiar voice hit harder than a blow to the chest. He dropped the bottle, stepping into the freshly shattered glass.
“Sindon.” Damanio could barely say his name. He didn’t deserve to. Sindon shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t, he-
He looks concerned. Too many feelings, too many emotions attacked Damanio. He didn’t deserve to feel them.
(Why now? Damanio had been home for weeks. He assumed Sindon abandoned him, because that was what Damanio deserved.)
“Can I hug you?” Sindon asked. Damanio’s heart shattered.
He would hurt Sindon. He hurt everyone he met. Wasn’t that clear?
“Why are you here?” Damanio’s ask was so weak, so unlike the Delaine presented across the country.
“I was worried about you.” Now it was Sindon’s turn to look guilty. “I wanted to come. I…the factory had us working too much. It’s a shitty excuse.” He raised his eyes to meet Damanio’s. “I didn’t think you wanted everyone to see us.”
Damanio couldn’t have cared less who he was seen with. He had made a home for himself being seen with all the wrong people.
Sindon was never the wrong person. It was always Damanio who was wrong. He still was. The Games didn’t change it, only amplified it.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here then. I’m here now, if you’ll have me.” Sindon gently raised a palm to Damanio. An offering that didn’t belong to Damanio.
“No.” Now Damanio’s voice was one he recognized. Harsh. Violent. The voice of a killer. “You should leave.”
Sindon shook his head. “I know you don’t mean that.”
“You don’t know me!” Damanio backed up, more glass embedding itself into the soles of his feet. He deserved the pain. He deserved it all.
“I do.” Sindon stepped forward, unintimidated.
He was always braver than I.
“Stay away from me.” Damanio grabbed the back of his head. “You saw what I did.”
“I did,” Sindon said. “You won.”
“I ruined so many lives. I ruin everything.” Damanio choked back a tear. “My sister won’t even look at me. Eight hates me.”
“You’ll ruin yourself too if no one stops you,” Sindon said softly.
“I already have!” Damanio’s voice was loud, too loud.
“We all are.” Sindon was closer now. Damanio didn’t notice. “Everyone in Eight is ruined. But, this?” Sindon looked at the broken glass folding under their feet. “You were in the Hunger Games, Damanio. You can’t punish yourself for that.”
“How?” Damanio asked. He was genuine. It was the first moment of genuineness he had since…since he last saw Sindon. “I see her face all the time. I see them all. How…how do I escape that?”
“I don’t know.” Closer, within arm's reach. “I don’t know what it will take. Let me help you, though. Let’s figure it out together.”
Together.
Damanio Delaine didn’t deserve it. He knew that. Anyone who met him knew that. He played a dangerous game of lies and charades and he lost. The whole world saw him lose and outlive twenty-three kids. They watched a privileged boy become a killer.
(Together sounded nice.)
He was selfish to want it. He shouldn’t be selfish. He should save Sindon from the person he was becoming.
Damanio didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.
So Sindon answered for him. Arms wrapped around Damanio shattered the tiny resolve he had left. Sindon’s arms were warm and strong and held Damanio up so graciously while he was collapsing.
Together.
They could start living.
Damanio Delaine lived a whole life before the Games and took it for granted. He lived another life in the Games and it nearly killed him.
It wouldn’t be easy, and he didn’t have to pretend it would. He knew that Sindon saw him for all of him. The privileged Delaine wearing the mask. The cowardly traitor who killed to save his own skin. Sindon saw it all and loved him all the same.
That could be what living looked like after all.
ladyqueerfoot on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Sep 2025 02:53AM UTC
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