Triple Crown

More added.

Cautiously I take a step towards him and, after hesitating for a moment, lay my hand gently and hopefully reassuringly on his shoulder. It might not be that reassuring though, since my hand’s shaking more than I’d like to admit.
Jackson doesn’t pull away or flinch at my touch, and he does seem to stop trembling some, so I begin again, “Jackson-” only to be interrupted by him taking my hand off of his shoulder and in both of his gently, turning around and speaking.
“Lizzie, I don’t… I don’t even know what I can say, if there’s anything I can say, to apologize for what I just did.” His golden eyes, so full of pain and anger and self-loathing, are locked on mine, and my heart immediately goes out to him. No matter what happened, who’s hurt or how hard I try – to be honest, I don’t try very hard at all – it seems like I can’t stop myself from bleeding for the world.
“Jackson, you didn’t do that,” I tell him emphatically, meaning my words with all of my heart. Jackson really does become a completely different person when he’s taken over by emotion, and everything that he is usually – respectful, logical, rational, kind – are all gotten rid of temporarily by the person he becomes. As I poke Jackson in the chest to emphasize my point, I add, “You would never do anything like that, because you are not the person who inhabited your body a minute ago.”
“Lizzie,” Jackson begins, clearly wanting to come up with reasons as to why he’s to blame for what happened, but I don’t let him talk.
“Jackson, I don’t want to hear you throwing yourself under the bus. It’s not your fault that you react to certain things the way you do, and it’s not your fault you’re so unpredictable and dangerous, so I’m not going to have you blaming yourself for things you can’t control.” I cup his chin in my hand and tilt his face up, so that he’s forced to look me in the eye. “Jackson, do you understand?”
“While it might not be my fault that I’m a monster, I still am one, Lizzie, and someone has to take responsibility for the things that I do,” Jackson says in reply, and I shake my head and sigh in exasperation. Of course he’s going to insist on blaming himself; you know, he really isn’t that unpredictable, even with the sporadic outbursts of rage and emotion.
“Yeah, and that someone is the people who fucked with your mind, body and soul: the US government!” I shoot back.
However, my words don’t seem to sway Jackson at all, because he reminds me, “You killed them all, a year ago. That means there’s no one left to blame.”
“No, that means I did them justice, but that they’re still to blame,” I counter. “They ruined your life, so I took theirs, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still responsible for what they did to you. Death doesn’t excuse their actions, Jackson. Nothing can ever excuse their actions.” I meet Jackson’s gaze again, and finally he lowers his head slightly in defeat.
“I guess you’re right,” he says quietly, staring down at the white concrete of the deck beneath our feet. All of a sudden I realize that it’s actually really hot out, with the sun beating down on the backs of our necks, and raise a hand to my forehead to wipe away a few drops of sweat that were trickling down and threatening to get in my eyes. “I just… I just still feel like I’m to blame for some of it, like it would be easier on everyone if I was dead.” He looks up at me, and I meet him gaze fiercely and almost angrily. How dare my best friend suggest that the world’s better off without him in it! I’m the only one allowed to do that!
“Jackson, you are an amazing person, and I know, for one, that it would absolutely kill me if you weren’t around,” I tell him, and raise a hand to the side of his face to gently caress his cheek. He looks up at me and meets my gaze, and I continue, “You help get me through the day, and deal with everything in my life right now.” I hesitate for a half-second, not knowing if I should take this all the way and end it on the path it’s headed. My emotion prevails over my common sense quickly, and I finish, “Jackson, you are as vital to my survival as air or water or food. I need you, Jackson.”
“Do you really mean that?” he whispers, his eyes locked on mine, and I nod my head slightly in reply. As soon as I do, Jackson’s arms lock around me, and he presses his lips urgently against mine.
This kiss is much different than the last one we shared, because I’m actually kissing the Jackson I love this time. It only takes a half-second for the hunger for more to overtake me, and I find myself clinging onto Jackson, my hands locked in his hair, as hard as he’s clinging onto me.
After a few long, passionate moments, during which time I find that I’m enjoying myself as much as when I kissed Luke, I run out of breath and pull back to suck in a few deep lungfuls of air. Jackson uses the interruption to bend down a little more and gently kiss my jawline, and I close my eyes blissfully. For a moment, it doesn’t matter that I’m a dimension and three thousand years away from home, or that I’m going off to my death in about three hours, or that I’m most likely not going to be able to save Abby, in the end, or that I won’t ever get to see my family again, because I am in paradise.
All too soon, Jackson pulls back, and my eyes immediately pop open. He stares down at me, a real smile – the kind that makes his face light up and reminds me why I love him so much – curving his lips, and murmurs gently, “You are so perfect.” He raises a gentle hand to the side of my face and traces the outline of my cheekbones, and I close my eyes and lean into his touch. How could this Jackson, the intelligent, rational yet passionate and caring boy that I love with all of my heart, ever be even remotely connected to the unpredictable, dangerous person he becomes when he gets emotional?
After a few moments, he removes his hand, but I don’t open my eyes, for fear of breaking the moment and having reality set in. I take a few deep breaths, inhaling Jackson’s scent and allowing myself to be intoxicated by it, to be pleasantly surprised when I feel his lips against mine.
Without opening my eyes, I kiss him back, my hands working their way up and locking into his hair again. His arms hold me against him, and one hand creeps slowly upward to rest on the back of my neck.
After a few moments, both of us simultaneously decide that we need each other more, and the kiss becomes more urgent. His arms lock around me tighter and I get a firmer grip in his hair as he pulls back to take a deep breath and immediately returns to kissing me, the oxygen seeming to have enhanced his need.
After what seems like only a nanosecond of paradise, my lungs start screaming for all they’re worth for oxygen, and I pull back to take a deep breath and sigh in contentment. Jackson looks down at me, his eyes locked on mine, and another, real smile dances across his face.
“Lizzie, I need you so much that it kills me when I’m not around you,” he tells me quietly. “You are my air, my water, my sustenance, you are everything I need to survive. If I had nothing else in the world but you, I would be the happiest and luckiest man to have ever lived.” He stares down at me, and, as I see the unbearable pain in his eyes, I feel my paradise and euphoria trickle slowly away.
“What will I do without you?” he whispers, voicing the question on both of our minds, and he raises a hand to gently caress the side of my face again.
“What will I do without you?” I echo almost inaudibly, feeling my bleeding heart work its way up into my throat and make it hard for me to breathe. “Who’s going to keep me sane in the face of death? Who’s going to keep me me, if you’re not around?”
“Luke,” Jackson answers immediately, and I bow my head slightly in agreement. A half-second goes by in silence before Jackson murmurs, his gaze glued on mine, “You know, you could live forever and never deserve him.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m dying with him then,” I reply quietly, dropping my eyes when the hurt I see in Jackson’s is too much to bear. As I stare down at Jackson’s chest, I can’t help but idly marvel at how obviously muscular he is, even with a shirt on. I guess a great physique is one of the very few benefits of having your genes manipulated by sadistic government scientists.
“And I could live forever and never deserve you,” Jackson adds quietly, causing me to look up at him in wonder. “It’s too bad I don’t get a chance to show you how much better you are than me.” A small, incredibly sad smile crosses his face, and he raises a hand to cup my chin gently. “I’m going to miss you, Lizzie,” he tells me quietly, and I know that there are no words to truly describe how torn up inside he’s feeling and how much he truly will miss me.
“I’m going to miss you too, Jackson,” I force myself to say, my throat all of a sudden so dry that I can barely speak. Choking back tears – I didn’t know that anything on earth could ever be this hard – I turn away from him for a moment to regain control of myself. I can’t cry, not now; after all, what will Jackson do if his concrete girl turns out to not be concrete?
“Lizzie, let yourself cry,” Jackson tells me, much to my surprise, and I turn back around to look at him in amazement. He’s the last person on earth who I think would tell me something like that – well, maybe second to last; I can’t think Max is a big fan of tears either, unless they’re fake and can be used to manipulate the audience – but he did. The concrete boy is telling the concrete girl that it’s okay to not be concrete.
“Holding back your emotions won’t do anything but concentrate them, and make the feeling even worse.” He reaches out and gently lays a hand on my arm, and I can see tears in his eyes too. I guess both of us concrete people are slipping today.
“You hold your emotions back all the time,” I remind him, trying to turn the attention away from myself so I can stop these damn tears from falling, and he bows his head slightly in admittance.
“I have to hold them back though, because I could seriously injure or kill the people around me if I don’t hold back my emotions,” he replies quietly, and now it’s my turn to bow my head in admittance.
A half-second passes in silence, during which time a singular tear carves a path down Jackson’s cheek and multiple tears wind their way down my cheeks, until Jackson says, a bitter half-smile crossing his face for a moment, “Isn’t it sad, that I have to choke back all of my emotions, because they’re all hatred and rage and sadness? Shouldn’t there be something more to feeling than that?” He looks over at me for confirmation, and I shrug, because I can’t give him that confirmation. Hatred and rage and sadness have dominated my emotions for the last three months, so I’m not in a place to tell him if there’s more to feeling than that because I haven’t experienced that in such a long time.
“Jackson, I can’t answer that, because I’ve been so full of hatred and rage and sadness myself that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be truly happy for any length of time. Sure, I’ve been momentarily happy, like when we kissed a few minutes ago-” – I look over at him to find a half-smile on his face – “-but I can’t remember what it’s like to be truly contented.”
“I don’t think there is such a thing as truly contented in this place, unless you’re in El Nieve watching the Triple Crown,” Jackson responds softly, and I nod my head in agreement. “I mean, it’s not like you and the other champions are contented when you’re trying to kill each other, and it’s not like the Sections are contented when they’re watching their children kill each other, so that means the only people who get anything out of it are the El Nieveans.”
“And what are they really getting out of it?” I ask. “That it’s ok to kill people in the name of entertainment, that amusement is more important than individuality?” After a half-second of silence, I add quietly, “What a fucked-up society they have.”
“One fucked-up society that’s going to take you with it,” Jackson murmurs, and I don’t have to look over at him to know that he’s crying again. It really is a shame he can only have this kind of emotion in the face of a tragedy.
A few, long moments pass in silence before it finally occurs to me that we’ve actually been gone for quite a while and should get back quickly to curb suspicions. “Jackson, we should go,” I tell him, turning to him to find his tears completely wiped away and all evidence he was ever sad destroyed, except for the inconsolable grief in his eyes. “We’ve been out here for a while, long enough to walk this deck a hundred times probably, so I think we should go back.”
“We probably should,” he agrees quietly, and, taking me gently by the hand, turns back towards the elevator and begins to walk, taking me with him.
He presses the button, and a few moments pass in silence as we wait for the elevator. All of a sudden, Jackson turns towards me and tells me sincerely, his eyes locking on mine, “Thank you, Lizzie.”
“For what?” I ask him, genuinely puzzled. Besides kissing him – which I’ve done a lot, but he may still consider it to be noteworthy – I haven’t done anything that would be worth thanking me for.
“For putting up with my monstrosities, even when they hurt you.” After giving me a small smile, he bends down and gently kisses me on the forehead. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “If you didn’t put up with me, who would?”
“Jackson,” I begin, intending to tell him that he doesn’t have monstrosities, that there isn’t anything for me to put up with, to be taken by surprise when Jackson places a finger on my lips to silence me.
“I don’t want to hear you lie, Lizzie, not when those words might be some of the last I hear from you,” he whispers, his gaze glued on mine, before leaning in and kissing me on the lips one last time. After a half-second, a ding that means the elevator has arrived goes off, and he pulls back to give me another smile and gesture wordlessly for me to go first. He really is always the gentleman, no matter what the situation is; he would be just as good for me as Luke – in other words, perfect – if his mind weren’t so fucked up.
As though to emphasize my point, after we stand in in silence for a few moments, I feel the elevator slowing down, and Jackson turns to me and tells me almost desperately, “Lizzie, I love you, and I will love you no matter what happens, no matter what dress you put on or what you say or what you choose to represent or even if you finally do choose to go up in flames. No matter what, you will always be my Lightning, always.” He gently kisses me on the forehead one last time, and, as that ding sounds again and the door opens, he gestures for me to go first. I look over at him to see unbelievable pain and what are undeniably tears clouding his eyes, and my last thought, as Max takes me by the wrist and hustles me off to go get dressed for Team Survival without even giving me a chance to say goodbye, is that I’ve broken my concrete boy.

More added.

“Lizzie, this is it,” Mitchell tells me as he tugs on the lightweight but unbelievably hot golden coat that’s part of the arena uniform for Team Survival. He stops readjusting for a moment to look me in the eye and say, “This is your last chance to get yourself heard, and truly make a mark, so don’t listen to any of the threats Rush has made you. He’s just bluffing on all of them anyways,” Mitchell adds quietly, but I can hear the doubt in his voice.
“Oh, I don’t think so Mitchell,” I counter. “I’m pretty sure that, if I don’t do exactly what Rush wants me to, my family and friends will end up dead. Of course, I’m dead either way,” I finish. Mitchell’s right: this is it, this is my last few minutes or hours or days of my life, and I’m going to be spending them trying to extend my time on this earth by shortening other people’s time. I can’t help but shake my head at the thought, as it’s such a waste of the time I should be enjoying. At least I’m going to do something important, and impactful; if it weren’t for the knowledge that I’ll die in flames, attempting to survive beyond the massacre at the Giving Hands would just be pointless. I mean, I’d rather die quickly than waste a few days knowing that I’m going to be dead soon anyways.
“What do mean, you’re dead either way?” Mitchell says, looking up from his readjusting again to regard me suspiciously and worriedly. “Rush threatened to kill you, didn’t he?”
For a fraction of a second, I pause, not knowing how to lie effectively and cover my ass. I mean, it’s not like I can actually tell Mitchell that I read Rush’s mind and saw that thought in there. Finally – although I guess it doesn’t take very long – a solution occurs to me, and I say, “Rush didn’t threaten to kill me, Mitchell; he told me he was going to kill me, even if I did be a completely good girl and win Team Survival like I’m supposed to.”
“But… why?” Mitchell asks after a moment of considering what I said. “If you do what they want you to, and you don’t give them reason to kill you, why would they kill you?”
“Because I’m a liability,” I immediately reply. “I’ve already lit too many things on fire for it to be possible to extinguish them all with one action, and I guess they figure that getting me out of the way will make it easier to stop everything I’ve started.”
“They can’t, though,” Mitchell murmurs, and I nod my head almost unwillingly. Even though this is what I wanted to happen – the Sections getting a chance at freedom – I know that my family and friends could be in danger because of it. Well, I guess they’re in danger normally, just because they’re connected to me, but they’re in even more danger now. “They can’t stomp out the rebellion you started, because it’s already spread to and taken over all of the Sections, even One and Two. When you die, a full-out war will start, and you will used as the martyr for the Sections, the example and the rallying cry. You be will famous,” Mitchell adds, the corners of his mouth twitching almost involunatarily in the barest hints of a bitter smile.
“Aren’t I already famous?” I reply, smiling despite the situation, and he nods his head in admittance and agreement.
“Yeah, I suppose so,” he says quietly, and I see the sadness taking over his expression, more than he should feel for just losing his spark.
“Mitchell, what’s the matter?” I ask him, and he meets my gaze again.
“I made you this and gave you this fate without even asking if you wanted it,” he replies, his tone bitter and resentful. “And now, when it’s finally occurred to me that you might not have wanted this, it’s too late to change anything. I have singlehandedly killed you, Lizzie,” he ends quietly, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from exploding at him. He thinks he made me this?!
“Mitchell, you didn’t make me the spark; you merely gave me the means of becoming one,” I tell him, and he looks up at me almost unwillingly. You know, he really does remind me of Jackson and Luke. “I chose to read a certain message into your outfits-”
“Yeah, the one I wanted you to see,” Mitchell interjects, and I give him my most evil, displeased look before continuing.
“-and personify that message, and that’s all on me. I could have chosen to not be the spark in the sense you were suggesting, and I could have chosen to save myself, but I didn’t. Mitchell, you didn’t kill me; I killed myself.” I meet his gaze and force him to understand, and will him to not take the blame for my actions upon himself. I’ve had too many people covering my ass lately, and I think it’s time I finally do some of that myself.
“But if I hadn’t made you the spark originally,” he begins, and I immediately interrupt him, not wanting to hear him blaming himself. When you hear it from nearly everyone around you, it really does get old.
“Then I wouldn’t be changing the world and giving millions of people a chance at freedom right now. Mitchell, you have done nothing wrong,” I tell him emphatically, “so stop blaming yourself for nonexistent wrongdoings. None of this is your fault; this is all on me, and you had nothing to do with it besides giving me the ability to do what I’ve done.”
“And that empowerment makes me an accessory to your murder,” Mitchell ends, and I roll my eyes and sigh in exasperation. My God, will he not let me prove his innocence?
“That empowerment is letting me help millions of people and make more of a difference in the world than I ever could have before. You have done nothing wrong, Mitchell,” I repeat firmly, and finally he has the common sense to bow his head in partial admittance.
A few moments go by in silence as Mitchell tugs and pulls at my outfit to make it fit right while I sweat buckets, and, when Mitchell finally runs out of things to adjust, he looks up and tells me sincerely, “Lizzie, I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss my lightning and my spark.”
“I’m going to miss you too Mitchell,” I reply, wrapping my arms around him and hugging him for all I’m worth. I don’t want to lose the only person who’s managed to make me somewhat fashionable.
Suddenly I hear the clang of metal on metal, which means that the transport tube’s here, and I pull away from Mitchell reluctantly. This really is it; it’s time to prove that I’m worthy of being a martyr by dying for a people I don’t even know.
“Goodbye, Lizzie,” Mitchell murmurs, and I turn back around to look at him one last time and see tears running down his face. Wordlessly – because I don’t trust myself to say anything – I give Mitchell a respectful version of the salute I gave the crowd during Hand-to-Hand and Team Survival, then turn away from him again to take another few steps towards the transport tube.
However, I immediately stop and whip around when I hear yells and someone breaking down the door. Much to my surprise and horror, I find five soldiers, one of them the same Protector that tried to kill Jackson, surrounding Mitchell and aiming their pistols at him. I try to run forward to findd that I can’t, and look down to see raw energy from the transport tube not just holding me back but pulling me into the transport tube. I’m helpless to watch as the soldiers force Mitchell onto his knees and the Protector steps in front of him and aims his pistol directly at Mitchell’s forehead. It’s at this point that the transport tube begins moving, and the last sound I hear before it whisks me off to a remote part of El Tiempo where the new arena is is a single gunshot.

“Holy shit, it’s cold!” I exclaim, wrapping my arms around my body instinctively. Even though I’m a wolf and therefore don’t get cold, this place is taking cold to a whole new level. As I look around at the snow-covered landscape, which reminds me some of the times I’ve been to Alaska excepts this place just feels bad, I think that it has be at least ten below out here. After all, my nose hairs are completely frozen, and I’ve only been out in the cold for about thirty seconds.
“Well, I guess that’s the Triple Crown committee’s new message to me,” I mutter, staring around at the forboding icy landscape surrounding me. “It’s gone from ‘This is no place for a spark’ to ‘No sparks survive here.’”
I see the green edge of a forest about a few miles off, my vision slightly blocked by the blowing snow whirling around in the air, and know that’s where I have to go. If I’m going to survive long enough to die a spark, the forest is my best bet. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to go into the frozen grass plains in this arena, considering the experiences I had with them in the last arena.
I turn my head slightly so that I can look at the grass plains and immediately have an involuntary shiver that has nothing to do with being cold run up my spine. They just look dark and evil, even more so than the grasses from the last round, and I’m not going to set foot in them if I can help it. After all, I already know that the forest’s a safer bet, and I haven’t even seen it close-up yet.
I turn my head to the left to see, with a small smile, Abby attempting to huddle up inside of her coat in order to stay warm. Her stylist, thank God, had the common sense to force her to wear the skimask that’s part of the arena uniform, so only her eyes are exposed to the cold. I refused the skimask from Mitchell, because I knew I wouldn’t need it and because I didn’t want my sense of smell inhibited by the fabric, but my face is getting pretty cold.
At the mention of Mitchell, my heart gets cold too, and I ball my hands into fists almost involuntarily. He’s dead because of me; I guess he’s just another name to add to my kill list now.
Forcing my mind away from the very sensitive topic of Mitchell, I make myself think about how I’m going to keep Abby alive in this place. Our strategy, for these first few minutes at the Giving Hands, is to have me run in and get supplies for us while Abby runs for all she’s worth and tries to reach the trees before the careers catch her.
Well, technically I came up with the strategy, because I knew it was the best way of making sure Abby didn’t get killed on the first day, and, even though Abby really wanted to help, she finally agreed to my plan, thank God. I don’t know what I would do if Abby actually did get herself killed on the first day and all of my grand plans of saving her were ruined in a matter of hours or minutes even.
Looking around the circle of champions, my view partially blocked by the huge golden Giving Hands in the middle of us, I find Marshall standing almost directly across from me and catch his eye. He gives me a smile that isn’t completely devoid of fear and nervousness, and I see his gaze flicker slightly in the direction of Danica, who’s lined up right next to him. When my eyes rest upon her and I see the murderous look in her eye, I can’t help but think that Marshall has a reason to be worried. I guess it’s a good thing he’s a much faster sprinter than her, otherwise she would kill him in seconds. Of course, she might try to kill him in seconds anyways.
I turn my head slightly to find Marcus three to the left – as in, three champions closer to me – from Danica, and I catch his eye momentarily too. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t seem to be very worried or afraid at all, but, as he turns to smile down at Adelaide, who’s right next to him, I immediately understand why. Marcus and Adelaide officially began dating at my wedding, after the talk I gave Marcus, and they honestly are the most perfect couple I have ever seen, except for my parents. I would congratulate myself on my match-making skills if it weren’t such a serious situation I happened to play matchmaker in.
I see McKenzie Lewis standing four to the left from me, her partner Sam right next to her, and I meet her gaze and nod at her. She nods back, and I can see the steely determination in her eyes. She wants to win – well, I guess survive is a better word – and she’s willing to go to almost any lengths to do so. I have no delusions that, if it comes down to it, she would try to kill me again, but I don’t begrudge her for that. After all, it is me or her, and it’s not like I can blame her for her wanting to be the one alive at the end of the day.
Finally my gaze rests upon Luke, who is standing right across from the circle from me, and I meet his gaze. He gives me a small smile, his ice-blue eyes tinged with a strange mixture of determination and sadness, and, as he stares over at me, I can’t help but be more than a little reminded of Jackson. Maybe they’re more alike than I originally thought.
At the thought of Jackson, my heart immediately fills with happiness at my last memories of him and unbearable sadness at the fact that those will be my last memories of him. It kills me to know that I didn’t even get to say goodbye, that I’m leaving my best friend in the whole world abruptly without even being given the chance to try to soften the blow somehow. Of course, I know nothing I could say could ever make Jackson take my death as anything but personal, but I would have liked to at least been given the chance to tell him goodbye and maybe make a witty last remark or two.
Sighing, my heart so heavy that it feels like it’s going to fall and drag me down to the ground with it, I come to my senses to hear the gunshot that releases us and officially marks the start of Team Survival go off. As I sprint forward, my eyes locked on the Giving Hands, I can hear Puck saying in my mind, “Champions, welcome back to hell.”

More added.

I reach the Giving Hands about a tenth of a second before anyone else, and, all of my attention on a bow, quiver of arrows, sword and three large packs sitting in the middle of the huge palm, I begin to climb, incredibly grateful for the warm gloves on my hands that are part of the arena uniform. After all, if I didn’t have them on, my hands would be sticking to the frozen metal, and I probably would have lost most of the skin off of my fingers by now.
I feel someone start climbing beneath me and instinctively kick out to hear Danica’s distinctive squeal and the sound of a body hitting the snow. Smirking slightly, I can’t help but be satisfied that I kicked Danica in the face. If I’m lucky, I might have even broken her nose.
All of a sudden, Jackson’s comment about me breaking his nose to prove that I hurt him, after I broke his jaw and it healed immediately, pops into my mind, and, after a half-second of dwelling on it and letting the sadness I’m feeling overwhelm me, I push it to the side with difficulty and focus all of my attention on climbing again. I cannot get distracted, because a millisecond of distraction, a fraction of a moment of letting your guard down, can mean death in this place.
A moment later, I find myself on top of the palm of the Giving Hands, and run towards the packs, bow and quiver to immediately nock an arrow and shoot the career girl coming up behind me in the chest without any hesitation. As the gunshot that signifies her death goes off – she’s the first one to die, in fact – I sling the packs and the quiver over my shoulders, strap the sword around my waist and draw another arrow and take out another career without even thinking about it, and fire an arrow at Marissa Evans to have her block it with the shield she picked up.
Cursing under my breath in Spanish – after all, wouldn’t it be great if I could take out Marissa now and not have to deal with her later? – I turn my attention to the other careers around her and put an arrow in a boy career’s heart. I see Terrell and Hunter cutting down hordes of non-careers side-by-side with broadswords about twenty feet from where Marissa’s standing, and fire at both of them to have arrows bounce uselessly off of the body armor they’re both wearing. In fact, they don’t even seem to feel my arrows, as they don’t look in my direction or even flinch at all. I guess they’re too focused on killing other children to be bothered by being shot at.
Turning my head slightly, as I don’t see any other careers in the immediate vicinity that I haven’t already shot at/killed, I find two tall forms that I quickly identify, even with the snow and wind distorting my vision, as Marshall and Luke running the direction of the forest. Good. They’re being smart and taking the proven run-and-hide survival route instead of the kill-all-competition survival plan that I seem to have adopted. Well, I did win One-Person Survival with that policy, so I suppose it’s not too bad a plan.
Squinting and looking out towards the border of the forest, I see, with satisfaction, a tiny, almost imperceptible form nearly at the trees. It’s Abby, which means she escaped the Giving Hands like I planned. You know, it really is nice when stuff I hope will happen/plan on happening actually does happen. In fact, she’s even going to be waiting on me a little longer than I thought, which is a very good thing considering the situation. That means she’s faster than I thought she would be.
Suddenly I hear someone coming up behind me and whip around to find Adelaide fighting off a huge career boy – in fact, it’s the boy I fought in the first round of Hand-to-Hand - spear-to-sword. After the career gets in a few good swings with his sword, all of which Adelaide blocks, he weakens some and she manages to stick him right in the chest, her spearhead going all the way through his armor and multiple layers of coats. A gunshot instanteously goes off, and she pulls her spear out of his body to turn and scan the area around her for any other threats. She catches my eye momentarily and nods, then grabs a bundle of spears leaning against one of the huge fingers of the Giving Hands and runs past me.
I almost immediately hear another person coming up behind me and turn around again to see Marcus battling a pair of non-careers who apparently thought it was a good idea to team up and try to take him down. Boy, were they wrong.
Within seconds, Marcus has cut them down, and, seeing Adelaide standing next to him with a spear in her hand and nothing to do with it, he gives her a smile and a gentle kiss. Just watching how he is with her makes my heart ache with longing for both Luke and Jackson, and I turn away from them to sigh. Getting hung up on the boys in my life right now will do nothing but bring me closer to death.
“Lighting, I’m coming for you!” I hear a voice call, and I whip around to find Marissa trying to climb the side of the Hand with a malicious smile on her face. Even though I have twice, if not three times, the killing skills she does and I would generally be able to mow her down easily, I can’t help but be slightly worried by the fact that she has a shield and I don’t. Hell, I don’t even have body armor; I guess I really should have thought to grab something protective instead of going straight for the weapons. Well, I guess there’s always the possibility that I could shoot straight through her shield and at least make her drop it by hitting her in the hand, if not more seriously injuring her.
It takes her a few seconds longer than I would have expected, even with the shield, spears and sword she’s carrying, to climb up the Hands, and, as soon as she comes into view, I understand why. She also happens to be covered in the full body armor that Hunter and Terrell are wearing, the kind that my arrows can’t do anything against. That means that she has now effectively rendered both of my weapons useless, so I’m completely and honestly screwed, and am bound to lose if I try to take her on.
Suddenly a saying about how it’s not dishonorable to run away from a fight to live to fight another day pops into my mind, and I know that’s my best bet. After all, getting killed by a career within the first fifteen minutes of Team Survival would not be very helpful for my goal of dying as the spark.
“Marcus, Adelaide, career ahead!” I yell at them, and, after they’ve downed the pack of five non-careers surrounding them, they turn around to see Marissa, take in her excellent defenses, and seem to decide that fighting is pointless too.
“What do we do?” Adelaide yells back, her eyes on Marissa’s quickly-approaching form. Fortunately, Marissa isn’t fast enough in her armor to catch us if we tried to bolt, so the same thing that could keep her alive could very well keep us alive too.
“Get the hell out of here!” I yell back, and Adelaide nods in agreement. I catch Marcus’s gaze and he nods too, and I immediately understand that he will go wherever Adelaide goes, so her answer is his answer too.
In unison, all of us start running for the other side of the palm, leaping dead bodies and dodging arrows and spears as we do so. Within a few seconds, we all reach the edge, and slide off the cold metal without hesitation. The three inches of snow underneath our feet catches our fall some, and, as soon as we are all ready to run again, we book it for the trees, leaving a very pissed and probably very tired Marissa in our wake.

“Lizzie!” Abby squeals as soon as I burst into the trees, and runs towards me to fling herself onto my midsection. Patting her head awkwardly as my sword drives straight into my side, I let out a sigh of relief when she finally pulls back, and sling the three packs off of my back to bend down and open them.
However, I don’t get a chance to inspect the contents, because I almost immediately hear Luke’s voice behind me, and spin around to find him about twenty feet away, talking to Marshall and completely oblivious to the fact that Abby and I are here. As soon as I see him, my heart fills with unexplicable joy, and I find myself running towards him, throwing myself into his arms and giving him a passionate kiss. When I pull back, I cling onto him as tightly as I dare for a few moments, burying my head in his shoulder and not wanting to let him go and out of my sight again, before finally pulling away again to look up at him and give him a smile.
“Hey,” I greet, my grin stretching from ear to ear, and can’t help but notice how his eyes dance with happiness as he looks down at me.
“Hey,” he replies with a smile of his own, and raises a hand to gently touch the side of my face. His expression is puzzled but incredibly happy, his befuddlement making him all the more handsome and I’m suddenly seized by a desire to kiss him again, which I do.
Partially recovered from his surprise, he kisses me back this time, and I sigh in happiness when I feel his arms lock around me protectively. It’s amazing how much I’ve missed him, even though it’s only been an hour since I last saw him and a couple more since I last talked to him.
“Why are you so happy to see me?” Luke asks after he pulls away, and stares down at me questioningly. My face falls some – I thought we already been over this whole don’t-doubt-that-I-love-you thing – which prompts him to immediately backpedal and say, “Sorry, that wasn’t what I meant. Do I get a do-over?” I see the hope in his gaze, and, even as I roll my eyes at him, I can’t help but nod my head yes.
“Ok, good,” he tells me before continuing, “Lizzie, it’s so nice to see you. What a pleasant surprise that you’re so happy to see me.” He gives me his best, most irresistable smile, and I stand on tiptoe to kiss him again, my hands working their way up into his hair, like what happened with Jackson earlier, this time.
At the thought of Jackson, my heart immediately sinks some, and I find jaw locked in sadness as I pull away from Luke to stare down into the snow.
Luke, being as intuitive and sensitive to my emotions as he is, doesn’t ask any dumb questions that make me want to punch him in the jaw – like most people would in this situation – and instead just whispers, watching me concernedly, “Jackson?”
“Yeah,” I reply back, just as quietly, and swallow with difficulty. I miss Jackson so much that I can barely breathe, and I’ve only been gone from him for about three hours. It makes me wonder what state of disaster I’ll be in at the end of Team Survival.
After a moment of silence, I look up and tell Luke, “I miss him so much. If it hurts this bad right now, I don’t even want to think about how bad it’ll hurt at the end of all this.”
“I know,” Luke murmurs, and steps forward to embrace me in a gentle, comforting hug. “Now you know how I feel every time you would leave school for a couple days,” he tells me quietly, a small smile crossing his face, and I pull back to stare up at him in wonder. Did he really feel that much for me, when we didn’t even know each other beyond names and faces?
“Freshman year must have been hell for you,” I whisper, and he nods his head in confirmation. I left on two- or three-day-long assassin trips two or three times a month, every month, most of them being during the week, so I missed school a lot. I guess I finally know why Luke always looked so relieved when he spotted me after I came back.
“Yeah, it kind of was,” Luke murmurs in my ear, and sighs deeply. I can’t tell whether it’s from contentment or sadness though. Probably a combination of both, considering there’s nothing, not even our emotions, that the Triple Crown hasn’t touched and corrupted.
I hear Marshall clear his throat very obviously next to me, and Luke and I simultaneously turn to look at him. “We should probably set up camp,” he tells us, and we nod in agreement. Even though Luke’s completely warm – that might just be because of me though – I can see Marshall’s teeth chattering, and know that Abby has to be in a similar state of frozen too.
“Did you guys get any tents in your packs?” I ask him, jerking my chin in the direction of the two large black bags, that are more like the size of duffel bags than backpacks, laying on the snowy ground around Marshall, Luke and me.
“Yeah, we got two,” he replies, and I nod almost regretfully. There probably aren’t any tents in the bags I grabbed, as mine are a lot smaller than the ones Luke and Marshall got, so I’m going to have to share a tent with Abby instead of one with Luke like I want to.
Sighing slightly, I pull out of Luke’s arms to walk back to where Abby is standing, watching us all carefully and almost vindictively. Clearly she still thinks that she’s the reason Luke and I are together, as she gives me a knowing smirk as I pass her and pick up two of the bags.
After tossing the third one at her, because it’s time she carried some of her own sixty-five pounds in our team, I roll my eyes and say exasperatedly, “Oh, shut up you,” and shove her teasingly in the direction of Luke and Marshall. When we cross back over to where they’re waiting, I dump the bags next to Marshall’s and Luke’s and into the snow again, and begin to rifle through them.
Much to my surprise and happiness, there actually is a smaller tent stashed in one of them; I guess I’m going to get to bunk with Luke after all. There also are dried fruit and vegetables, a gallon jug with purifying solution for water, matches, a lighter, jerky strips, vitamin pills and a sleeping bag in each one of the packs, which means that Abby and I have enough supplies to last us at least a month, if rationed carefully. Combine that with all of the supplies Marshall and Luke have, and the four of us are almost like a career pack. We could lose half of our bags and still have enough to support all of us for at least two weeks.
Suddenly it occurs to me that Adelaide and Marcus haven’t come to meet at the edge of the trees like they said they would, and I realize that I should really go look for them. With both of them being from Section Three, which occupies all of the Southeast and a little of the Southwest, they’ve never had much experience with snow, and might be stuck in a snowdrift freezing right now.
Turning to the rest of the group, I announce, “I’m going to go look for Adelaide and Marcus,” and take off, my quiver, bow and sword still on me, before anyone can protest or call my plan stupid and reckless, which it very much is.

More added.

It takes me less than a minute to reach the very edge of the trees and, when I do, I can’t help but gasp. There’s a full-scale blizzard raging right now – I guess the thick trees are such a good wind- and snow-break that we didn’t feel it in the forest – that could make even me get lost, much less a bunch of Southerners who have never dealt with or maybe even seen snow before. I guess that means that I now have Adelaide and Marcus to rescue; after all, it’s not like I can or would let them just freeze in the snow.
The thought of Marissa, Hunter and Terrell, all champions from Four and the southwest who have probably never touched snow before either, being stuck in the blizzard lightens my mood some, and I tell myself that, if I come across them, I’ll be more than happy to let them freeze. Unfortunately, Danica, who is from One and therefore the Northwest, might actually have some experience with snow, so she probably won’t have it as bad off as the other careers, because she’ll probably know to burrow into the snow to keep warmer.
However, I know that none of them have the snow experience I have – I’m from Colorado, winter is my favorite season, and I’m a wolf (we as a species just naturally love snow) on top of all that – so traveling in the blizzard will be much easier for me than for any of them. Besides, it’s not like I can actually die from the cold or snow; I think that means I have the arena advantage, not just over the careers, but over everyone else too. After all, I don’t think even Luke’s spent as much time in snow as I have, even though he is an avid snowboarder.
I want to go snowboarding with Luke some time. I think it’d be very fun to shred the hill and spray snow in his face at every turn. Of course, he might not find my showing-off to be very fun, but I know he’d enjoy it and wouldn’t be able to get enough of it just because I would be there with him. Jackson would have to go with us too, of course; I mean, it’s not like I’m going to leave my best friend behind – especially a best friend who’s nearly as good of a snowboarder as I am – when we’re going snowboarding.
I think my fantasies about Luke and Jackson getting along would probably be shattered at that point, but I guess they’re already been shattered in a way, since Luke and Jackson haven’t gotten along so far and they’re not going to get another chance to interact with each other.
Thinking about Jackson makes another involuntary sigh escape my lips, and I wray my arms around myself instinctively. Maybe, if I hold myself together, I can stop the pain from cutting me open from the inside.
Shaking my head and cursing my wasting time for remembrance – although I guess it’s not wasting, since I don’t have much time to remember Jackson now – I push all thoughts of Jackson and Luke and life outside the Triple Crown out of my head and run out into the blizzard.

The first thing that I notice is the snow, stinging my face as it’s tossed about by the wind. I’m not affected by and don’t feel the cold – I honestly haven’t ever felt cold in my life – but I imagine that a normal human being might be getting frostbite at this point, with all of my exposed extremities. I probably should wrap them up, to curb suspicions when I come out of this with all of my fingers, my nose and my ears intact and unaffected by the cold, but it’s too late for that now. I’m already in the storm, and if I stop now, I might get stuck.
That’s another advantage I have in this storm: even if my tracks get filled with more snow and covered up – which they undoubtedly will, with the rate it’s snowing and blowing out here – I have a downright-perfect sense of direction and an amazing sense of smell, so I’ll be able to find my way back no matter what. With all of my excellent senses, it’s basically impossible for me to get lost; the worst conditions in nature, like the blizzard I’m in right now, have never been able to even confuse me for a second.
However, human forensic countermeasures, like laying out a false scent trail, planting fake or not their fingerprints and leaving other forged clues, have always screwed with my mind and frustrated me greatly. After all, no sense of direction, no matter how powerful, can lead you towards a person you’re hunting when all of your other senses are leading you astray.
Jerking my mind out of my thoughts and allowing the animalistic part of me to take over, I raise my nose to the wind and sniff for Marcus’s and Adelaide’s scents, not bothering to be sneaky about it because there’s no cameras that can see me with the snow. I find nothing, which doesn’t surprise me, and, after straining for a few moments, hear nothing but the wind too. I guess I’m too far away from Adelaide and Marcus – or the storm’s too powerful for even my senses to work in it – to detect them, which means I’m going to have to keep moving and get farther into the storm.
Lowering my shoulders and bracing myself against the wind – it’s blowing so hard that it makes it feel like there are ten-pound weights strapped to me and dragging me down into the snow – I continue ahead, keeping my eyes peeled for any signs of life. I see nothing but snow after about ten minutes of walking, and stop for a second to peer around me again and try to picture in my head where I am in the arena.
I don’t know the landscape very well – hell, all I know about it is that it’s mostly flat, partially treed and partially grassy, somewhat rocky and very snowy – but I do know that I’ve traveled at least two miles from the tree line and my camp by now. That means that I’m about halfway between the Giving Hands and the forest, with nothing but snowy, frozen plains that eventually lead to frozen, snowy tall grasslands in front of me and a snowy, frozen forest behind me. Man, this whole place really is the middle of nowhere. I guess the only thing that could really be considered a monument or a landmark is the Giving Hands, and I probably won’t be able to see them until I get pretty close to them; the snow’s blowing too hard for me to have much visibility.
A normal person – everyone else stuck in this storm with me – probably couldn’t see five feet in front of him or her, and even I can’t see much beyond ten yards. After all, there is only so much that superhuman senses can do, and a huge blizzard can easily erase almost all of those advantages. In a sense, the snow has leveled the playing field, because it’s left us all blind, deaf and dumb for the moment.
I walk for about twenty minutes longer before deciding that I’m not going to be able to find Marcus and Adelaide with the snow blowing like it is unless I happen to trip over them and turn around, intending just to retrace my steps and return back to Marshall, Luke and Abby. However, there aren’t any steps for me to retrace, not even any signs that I had ever existed in this part of the world, and my bearings are completely thrown off because of this. I mean, I knew my footsteps would fill with snow eventually, but I didn’t realize they would only have a few seconds of existence before being completely destroyed by the blizzard.
It’s almost unsettling, to be perfectly honest, and, as I spin in circles desperately, trying to look for some clue to point me in the direction I’m supposed to go, I lose track of which way I was headed and which way is back.
Gritting my teeth and balling my hands into fists, I mutter under my breath, “Fucking great. Now I’m just as lost as the careers.” Even though I know that the storm won’t kill me, although the lack of water and food may weaken me, I still can’t help but be annoyed and slightly worried. What if the careers reach the treeline and come across Luke, Marshall and Abby asleep in their tents? Who will be there to save their asses and kill the careers?
Speaking of which, I wonder what Luke, Marshall and Abby are doing right now. I hope they’re not worrying about me – although they undoubtedly are; after all, we are talking about Luke, Marshall and Abby – because that would just be a waste of their time, and I hope that Marshall has the common sense to direct Luke and Abby to cover their tents with snow to camoflague them. While the fabric is white and undoubtedly would blend in with all of the other snow piles at the treeline, camoflague can never hurt.
Sighing and falling to my knees, I stick my hands into my gloves – I mean, I think the Triple Crown committee would get suspicious if I dug a snow cave with my bare hands and didn’t get frostbite after – and begin to mound up the snow around me into a pile about three feet tall and seven feet long. When I’m satisfied that the small hill is tall enough, I begin to tunnel into it, expertly packing snow and digging at just the right angle so as to clear an area for me to lay in.
Finally, after about forty-five minutes of work, the cave is complete, and I crawl into it and stretch out cautiously to be relieved and proud of my snow-cave-digging skills when it doesn’t collapse on me. I then, after sneaking a few glances at the area around me and finding no visible cameras, although there undoubtedly are some, eat a few bites of snow to keep myself hydrated. After all, it’s not like it’s going to cool my body temperature down, considering that it’s basically impossible for me to get cold or get a fever. I guess that’s one of the good things about being a wolf: your body temperature is downright impossible to move, so you don’t have to worry about fevers or hypothermia or eating too much snow.
I have taken my bow, quiver and sword off, eaten a little bit more snow, and am about to lay my head down and close my eyes when Puck’s voice breaks through the wind around me and I sit straight up, nearly hitting my head on the snowy ceiling.
“Section One: Michelle Bach and Raymond Morris. Section Two: Liam Nicholas and Lea Pennington. Section Three: Lissa Moors. Section Five: John Mullins. Section Six: Georgia Lewis. Section Seven: Lisa Miller and Lyle Hutchinson,” Puck announces solemnly, and my eyebrows go up in surprise when pauses to make it clear that he’s not going to read off any more names. I thought for sure that more people would have died today; after all, the total of nine dead is four less from the thirteen dead on the first day of One-Person Survival.
Suddenly I realize that Puck is going to announce the kill leader for the day, and, even though I know it’s probably not going to be me, since I only killed two people today, I still can’t help but listen with a sort of morbid curiosity. Who will have the ‘honor’ of being announced as the kill leader and therefore singled out as the person for everyone else to get rid of?
“And the kill leader for today is...” Puck begins, his tone noticeably more excited now, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Even though he’s intelligent and aware enough to realize the names he’s reading aloud are real children who died, he still enjoys it as much as all of those blind followers in El Nieve do, which makes him even worse than all of those blind followers. “Lizzie Lightning, with three kills!”

The sound that escapes my lips is a cross between a groan and gasp, as I’m downright shocked that I’m the kill leader. I mean, I thought someone – like Hunter or Terrell or Marissa or even Marcus – was bound to have killed more people today than I did! As soon as I’ve recovered from my surprise enough to think properly, I realize that Puck said three kills, and I wonder how that could be. I mean, I only shot two careers, so I didn’t purposefully or even knowingly kill three people.
It must have been, like what happened in One-Person Survival, that there was an unlucky non-career standing behind one of the careers I shot down who happened to get hit as well. In fact, as soon as that thought comes into my mind, I remember the small, sickly, pale boy from One – his name’s Raymond Morris, if I’m remembering right – happened to be standing behind Lissa Moors when I shot her, and the arrow went right through her shoulder and hit him in the shoulder too. Although I don’t remember him dying at the Giving Hands, I guess he must have wandered off into the snow and eventually frozen to death.
“Fucking brilliant,” I grumble, punching the wall of my snowcave almost instinctively. A small pile of snow falls down from the ceiling to dust me white, and, as I mutter more curses, I brush myself off. After I’m satisfied that I’m not going to wake up completely wet – even though the coat that’s part of the arena uniform is waterproof, I’m sure it would get wet if I laid in the snow long enough – I pull my hood up to prevent the back of my head from getting completely wet, finally lay my head down and close my eyes.
Even though it’s been a long day, and my body’s fatigued and on the point of collapse from all of the travel I’ve done and the lack of food, I somehow can’t shut off my buzzing mind, no matter what I do. I find myself laying there fifteen minutes after I tried to close my eyes the first time, staring at the white ceiling as my mind wanders around and picks through all of the various topic in my head. For a second, I think about Jackson, and, even though I try to jerk my thoughts away from him, it’s no good: I can’t tear my mind away from him any more than I can sleep.
I wonder what he’s doing right now. Undoubtedly he’s staying up, watching Team Survival and, if I’m on the screen, cursing my stupidity for getting myself stuck in this storm. He’s probably surprised by the low number of people dead today, just like I am; after all, Team Survival is always when the careers become the most brutal, so you’d think that there would be more people dead today. He’s probably also burning up inside with jealousy, if he saw the embrace I shared with Luke earlier, and worry, if he knows I’ve gotten myself stuck out here.
I wish there was a way I could send him a message and let him know that I’m alright, that he shouldn’t be burning up with jealousy because I’m sleeping with my arms wrapped around myself to stop the pain of him not being here from tearing me up from the inside. I really do miss him, so much so that I don’t know how I’m going to be able to deal with leaving him behind and breaking his heart when I die. Suddenly it occurs to me: there is a way to contact him, even though he is a hundred or a thousand miles away. Unfortunately, it involves me falling asleep, so I might be away for a while longer.
Sighing, I close my eyes again and try to make myself fall asleep, only to find that my heart is racing even faster than it was before with excitement at the thought of speaking to Jackson. However, after a few minutes of staring at the snowy ceiling, taking deep breaths and forcing my thoughts to stop running circles around themselves, I find that I’m partially relaxed and actually very tired, and drift off to sleep with Jackson’s face the last thing on my mind.

More added.

“Lizzie?” Jackson exclaims, his surprise soon replaced by a huge smile as he leaps to his feet and runs to embrace me. There is nothing but darkness around us – I guess Jackson was waiting for me to contact him in the dream world, so he didn’t bother even trying to sleep normally – and I notice, with some surprise, that we both seem to glow in the blackness. However, all other thoughts are pushed out of my mind when Jackson’s lips meet mine.
My hands immediately work their way up into his hair as I kiss him urgently, trying to convey how much I missed him these last few hours. After a few moments, he pulls back, breathing heavily, to stare down at me with a small smile on his face.
“I was hoping you’d come,” he tells me quietly, and bends down to kiss me on the lips once more lightly. “When I saw that you got yourself stuck in the storm, I got so worried,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on mine.
“Well, I’m fine,” I tell him, and bury my head in his shoulder as I lock my arms around him. “I’ve just missed you a lot,” I add lamely, thinking that no words can describe how much I’ve truly missed him. It seems like words can’t describe how much he’s missed me either, with the way he’s holding me so tightly.
“I’ve missed you a lot too,” he says quietly, bending over me to gently kiss the side of my neck. After a few moments of peace, in which we’re both just enjoying each other’s company and marveling at how much we’ve missed each other, he pulls back to stare down at me and ask me, “What in the hell were you thinking, going out into the storm with no food or water or supplies?”
“Hey, I did bring my bow, quiver and sword,” I shoot back, but he immediately rolls his eyes at me. Apparently he doesn’t consider weapons to be as important to survival as food or water or other supplies.
“Lizzie, don’t ever do that to me again, alright?” Jackson murmurs, wrapping his arms around me even tighter and threatening to squeeze me to death.
“Alright,” I feel compelled to murmur, even though I know that I will undoubtedly do something even stupider in the coming weeks. I then wrap my arms around him too, close my eyes, and sigh in contentment, enjoying the way his body presses against mine and his scent fills my nostrils.
Even though I don’t want him being put in the life-or-death situation I’m in, I can’t help but selfishly wish he was in the arena with me; I could really use him as the person who knows me almost better than I know myself. After all, despite the fact that Luke indisputably loves me more than Jackson does – I mean, I don’t know if it’s possible to love me more than Luke does – Luke doesn’t know me like Jackson does, and can’t read me like Jackson can, and doesn’t know what I’m thinking like Jackson does.
Luke, to be perfectly honest, doesn’t really know that much about me, even though he has been in love with me for almost four years now. He and I just aren’t as close as Jackson and I are; Luke is almost alien to me, because he’s so different from everything and everyone else I’ve ever known. It’s almost like Jackson is my drug of choice, my heroin that I’ve been on for so long that I would probably die from withdrawals if I were cut off, and Luke is the new, exotic pill of mine, the one that I got addicted to the first time I took it and am now equally latched onto. Unfortunately, something’s going to break in the end, and this double-addiction of mine can’t last much longer; the people I’m addicted to – and maybe even myself – won’t allow it to continue.
“Lizzie, I love you,” Jackson murmurs, his quiet voice pulling me out of my thoughts just as abruptly as if he had shouted in my ear, and I jerk my head up to meet his gaze. In his intense, almost flourescent golden eyes, I see the intelligent, caring person that I’ve grown to know and love and not be able to live without, and I also see such a level of devotion that my breath is literally stolen right out of my lungs. It’s the same exact look Luke gives me all the time, and it’s incredibly unsettling to see it coming from someone else. That devotion was Luke’s and Luke’s alone, not Jackson’s. So... what do I do, now that it is Jackson’s?
“God damn it, why do you have to make this so hard?” I cry, tearing my gaze away from his and turning away from him. “All I want to do is die in peace with as little pain as possible, but you and Luke seem determined to make that impossible,” I grumble, and hear Jackson laugh half-heartedly behind me.
“Lizzie,” he begins, laying one hand on my shoulder and turning me around to face him, “Luke and I are making this so hard on you, because, even though you might be beyond saving now-” – his face twists in disgust as he says those words – “-we are determined to try to keep you here with us. Neither one of us can afford to lose you, Lizzie,” he ends, his voice a whisper and his eyes so full of emotion that I can’t look at him without feeling guilty.
“Jackson, you lost me the moment I chose to be the spark,” I reply quietly, staring at the ground off to the side of his feet. I can’t bare to look at him without feeling my heart ache and threaten to explode, and, as I want to make this as easy on myself as possible, I’ve chosen not to look at him and face what I’ve done to him and put him through.
“Lizzie, you and I both know that isn’t true,” Jackson murmurs, and the sheer power of his voice compels me to look up at him and meet his gaze. As soon as I do, I immediately regret it, but can’t find the willpower to pull away and break the moment we’re sharing. “I won’t admit that you’re gone – and I certainly won’t give up on you – until the moment your heart stops beating and your soul leaves this earth for good. That is my promise to you, Lizzie,” he tells me, his tone low and intense, and bends in to seal his promise with a kiss.
I kiss him back passionately, closing my eyes and enjoying the moment as I press against him urgently and wrap my arms around him tightly, to reluctantly untangle my hands from his hair when he pulls back after a few seconds of pure paradise that’s better than any drug-induced high. He and Luke really are my personal opiates, the people that get me up in the morning and help me survive a day in this cruel world and see me off to sleep every night. I don’t know what I would do if I lost even one of them, as they have both become critical to my survival in the last three months.
I think that I would probably die from withdrawals if I were cut off from either one of them, and, since they both seem to be as addicted to me as I am to them, I’m almost afraid to know what they’ll do when they lose me. They’re probably afraid of what they’ll do then too; I guess that’s why they’re trying so hard to stop me from making them find out.
“Jackson?” I begin quietly, pulling away from him to stare up at him and meet his gaze seriously.
“Hmm?” he murmurs in reply, gazing down at me with a contented look on his face. He doesn’t seem to notice the solemn tone of my voice – I guess he’s still kind of on a high from our kiss – and raises a hand to gently brush a loose strand of hair away from my face.
“Do you... have you... do you really care about me as much as it seems like you do?” I burst out finally, my eyes locked on his as I search his gaze for answers. Immediately he comes to, and snaps out of the sort of trance he was in, to stare down at me calculatingly for a few moments before replying.
“Lizzie, why would I pretend to be more in love with you than I am?” he asks me in reply, and I bow my head in admittance that his question has validity. “Besides,” he adds, “I don’t think I could act more in love with you than I feel; I’m not exactly the acting type, after all.” A smile flits across my face at the last comment as I remember Jackson’s failed experiment with trying out for the fall play last year. While his audition was very amusing – everyone in the cafetorium, including Jackson himself, was cracking up the whole way through – he definitely did not get the part, much to my chagrin. I thought they could have turned the whole play into a comedy just using Jackson’s part.
Suddenly it occurs to me that that was one of the very few times that I remember Jackson being truly lighthearted, and I start wondering why. As I rack my mind for things that happened earlier that day, I remember, my eyes shooting wide open with surprise as I do so, that that was the first day I straight-out told Jackson, “I love you.” I didn’t realize I had that big of an effect on him back then, as Alexa hadn’t rejected him yet and he was still following her around at that point, and I’m almost honored to find that I did. I guess that’s another warning sign of how he truly felt about me that I didn’t pick up on.
“Yeah, I guess you aren’t,” I agree quietly, swallowing with difficulty as I realize that Jackson truly loving me is just going to make everything harder. Shaking my head, it occurs to me that I wouldn’t be having this problem right now if Alexa had actually been rational and chosen Jackson over Gwillan, and I mutter under my breath, “God damn it Alexa, you could have saved me a lot of trouble by being smart a few months ago.”
“This isn’t her fault, you know,” Jackson says quietly, and I look up at him in surprise to be reminded that his senses are as sharp as mine, so he can hear anything I say. “I might have chosen you over her in the end anyways,” he adds, and I shake my head at the blatant lie. Alexa is all Jackson has ever wanted, and he didn’t even know how he truly felt about me until Alexa rejected him, so why or how on earth would he have chosen me over Alexa if she chose him? That just doesn’t make sense.
“No, Jackson, you wouldn’t have,” I murmur, my eyes locking on his. “Alexa’s it for you, she’s all you’ve ever wanted, and you didn’t even know you loved me as more than a best friend until she rejected you, so I know that, if she had chosen you, you would be in a great relationship with her right now, not here threatening to die on me.”
I turn away from Jackson and sigh. Alexa really could have made things easier on me by choosing Jackson over Gwillan, like any sane person would have done. After all, Jackson is the obvious choice – at least in my mind, but I suppose I’m biased, considering that Jackson is my more-than-a-best-friend and Gwillan is my dumbass brother – as he’s better than Gwillan in every way, but I guess Alexa didn’t think so, unfortunately for Jackson and me.
“I... You... I guess... I guess you’re right,” Jackson finally says, after searching all ends of the earth for a counterargument and finding none. Maybe he’s finally learned that you can’t deny the truth, no matter how much you want to. Of course, I haven’t learned that yet though, considering that I’m still trying to deny many of the truths in my life.
A few moments go by in silence, during which both of us think about the state of our lives and our relationship – I snuck into Jackson’s mind and read his thoughts for a moment when he let his guard down, and he didn’t seem to notice at all – until Jackson pipes up and tells me chidingly, “What were you thinking, getting yourself stuck in that blizzard like that? Even if you can’t directly die from it, you still are making yourself more vulnerable and just asking the careers to come find you and kill you!”
“Well, it’s not like I could leave Adelaide and Marcus to freeze in the storm!” I shoot back. Suddenly it occurs to me that Jackson undoubtedly knows a lot more about what’s happening in Team Survival so far, considering that I probably haven’t been on the screen the whole time, and I ask him, “Jackson, where are all of the other champions right now, and what are they doing?” I don’t care if this technically is cheating, as cheating is probably the only way I’m going to survive long enough to die the true spark; besides, I don’t see how it’s cheating, since I’m only using my resources to survive, and Jackson is one of those resources.
Jackson replies without even hesitating – I guess he doesn’t care if it’s cheating or not either – “Adelaide and Marcus are fine. They’ve made a snow cave, found hot pads in their supplies, and are currently huddled up for the night.” I sigh deeply in relief; even though them being safe makes my whole mission pointless, I’m still very happy to hear that I don’t have to go save them. “The careers are stuck at the Giving Hands and immobile at the moment, as the storm and the darkness have stopped them from going anywhere. Like always, they’re in possession of nearly all of the supplies, but, knowing you, they won’t have that advantage much longer.” He gives me a smile before continuing, his tone getting even more solemn now, “Luke, Marshall and Abby are worried sick about you, and they’re awake and expecting your gunshot to go off at any moment.”
I sigh deeply, a wave of guilt at making Marshall, Luke and Abby think I’m dying out in the storm somewhere washing over me, and I can’t help but wish desperately that there was some way I could contact them too. Unfortunately, this dream connection only exists between immortals, so Jackson and Max – and Kuro, but why on earth would I voluntarily let him into my dreams and mind? – are the only people I can communicate with in this way.
“You shouldn’t have run off like that, Lizzie,” Jackson tells me gently, and I bow my head in admittance. The more I think about what I’ve done, the more I realize how truly stupid I was for doing it. “You’ve made a lot of people – me included – very worried. Unfortunately, you can’t get inside the minds of most of the pople worrying about you to tell them that you’re alright.” He raises a hand to the side of my face gently, and brushes a strand of hair away from my eyes. After a moment of silence, during which time I can feel his eyes boring holes into the side of my face with the intensity of their stare, he says quietly, “Just don’t do that to everyone again, alright?”
Turning back towards him to meet his gaze, I nod slightly, give him a smile and agree, “Alright. No more of that same kind of stupidity for a while now.”
Despite himself, the corners of Jackson’s mouth twitch slightly, and he bends down to kiss me gently on the cheek. “I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get,” he murmurs in my ear with a sigh, but I can tell that he’s just incredibly relieved that I survived the first day of Team Survival.
He just holds me and I just hold him for a few moments, until he seems to come to his senses and tells me quietly, “Lizzie, you should probably get some real sleep. You’re going to need all of the rest you can get.”
Even though leaving Jackson is the last thing I want to do right now, and I would spend all eternity in the dream world with him if I could, I know that he’s right, and, sighing deeply, say grudgingly in agreement, “I guess you’re right.” Staring up at him and searching his face, I ask him almost desperately, “You’ll be here tomorrow, right?”
“Of course,” he replies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, which remain concerned chips of golden ice. “I will be here every night that you are in there,” he adds, and steps forward to wrap his arms around me tightly and murmur in my ear, “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this earlier. I could have helped you a lot in Team Survival.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say quietly. It feels like there’s something in my throat, and I take a deep breath with difficulty. How will I survive another twenty-four hours without him?
“One day at a time, Lizzie. One day at a time,” he whispers, voicing my thoughts – and the only plan that will keep me alive for any length of time – as he holds me tightly against him. After a few long moments, he pulls back to meet my gaze and say pleadingly, “Don’t die on me, alright? I don’t know if I could bear that.”
“Alright,” I agree, the lump in my throat making it nearly impossible for me to breathe now. I hate to think about what Jackson’s going to do when I actually do die. I suck in a lungful of air with difficulty and whisper, my eyes locked on his, “Goodbye, Jackson.”
I am then seized by a driving desire to kiss him, and throw my arms around the back of his neck to press my lips to his urgently. He kisses me back just as passionately, his arms crushing me to him, and, after a few seconds of paradise, he pulls back almost reluctantly. I can tell that he’s just as thrilled about this goodbye as I am.
“Goodbye, Lizzie,” he murmurs, and bends down to kiss me on the forehead before dissipating into the darkness.
“I miss you already,” I whisper, forcing myself to swallow as I turn away from where he just stood to fade out of the dream world and back into my own body as well.

More added.

The first thing that I’m aware of when I open my eyes is that the wind has stopped howling. In fact, as I listen intently, it doesn’t even seem to be blowing at all. Turning to the entrance of my snow cave, I find that it’s been mostly filled up with blowing snow, and kick a hole in the white wall trapping me in here to crawl out feet-first. Rising to my feet and blinking at the intense brightness of the sun reflecting on the snow around me, I do a complete circle, looking for any sign of life, to find nothing but miles and miles of whiteness, with the brown-and-green darkness of the forest a good four miles back – I guess I traveled farther from the treeline last night than I originally thought – and the Giving Hands and the grasses only about two miles in front of me.
I recall what Jackson said about the careers setting up a camp at the Giving Hands, and immediately drop down behind a three-foot-tall snowbank in front of me. Warily peeping the top of my head out from behind the snowbank, I peer intently at the Giving Hands to see that there are, in fact, a few tents set up around it and some signs of life – a steaming stove, a few reddish things laying the snow that look like skinned animals (or at least they better be animals, I think with a shudder), and someone causing some rustling from inside of the tents.
Suddenly a figure pops out of one of the tents, and I immediately drop so that the top of my head isn’t visible. Even though I can’t see what the careers are doing now, I’d much rather not be able to spy on them than be dead. Turning away from the Giving Hands, I crawl around the mound that is my snow cave and peer cautiously over the top of it to find that whoever was outside the tents in the career camp has gone back inside.
It takes me a split-second to decide that I’m probably not going to get a better break than this, and, as soon as I do, I take off running back towards the trees without a backwards glance. Even though I’m weakened from a lack of food and water, and therefore not as fast as I would usually be, I’m still an excellent runner and have two miles on the careers, so it’s nearly impossible that they’ll be able to catch me – if they even spot me in the first place – before I reach the treeline. As soon as I reach the treeline, the advantage is all mine, because I can climb trees better than any of the careers and also have a bow, the perfect weapon for sniping people with. Marshall, Abby and Luke – and therefore a warm camp with food and weapons – are also waiting at the treeline, which means that I’ll have backup and the fight will be much too fair for the careers’ likings.
My mind focuses on the mention of Luke, and, before I have the possibility to tell myself to snap out of it and not think about him, I’m caught up in fantasies of him waiting for me with outstretched arms and a relieved smile. Shaking my head slightly, I tell myself that I have to actually get to the treeline to see Luke, as I had slowed down some when I got lost in my fantasies, and pick up the pace so that I’m jogging quickly.
“The quicker I get to the treeline, the quicker I get to see Luke,” I murmur to myself, and, now driven instead of slowed down by my visions of Luke, I increase my speed even more so that I’m almost spriting through the snow now.
Even with keeping this fast pace the whole four miles, it takes me about a half an hour to reach the treeline – the snow slowed me down more than I had anticipated – and I’m on the verge of collapse when I do so. Breathing heavily and leaning on a nearby tree, I am about to take off running west, the direction in which our camp was, when a call of “Lizzie!” from behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin in surprise.
“Marshall!” I call out in surprise, happiness and relief, and run towards him to give him a huge hug. I don’t care that rumors will undoubtedly spring up about how I’m cheating on Luke with Marshall, because I’m just so glad to see him and anyone with any sense could telll that they’re not true.
It takes a moment for him to overcome his surprise and hug me back, and, after a few seconds of clinging to him almost desperately, lest I lose him again, I pull back to see a worried, almost lost on his face. Warily I ask him, “Marshall, where are Abby and Luke?”
“That’s the thing Lizzie,” he begins, and I know something must have gone wrong. Are they dead, and I just didn’t hear the gunshots? “I don’t know.” He stares down at me, sounding just as hopeless as I’ve begun to feel, and I turn away from him to gaze off into the snow for a few moments to try to clear my mind.
After fighting off the rising tide of panic and anger that threatened to overtake, I’m able to finally think clearly. They must have gotten split up in the night and split up the supplies as well, as Marshall has one of the four bags we originally started with. That knowledge doesn’t really help me find them though, and we desperately need to. If they wander out of the trees and into the snow plains, they may get spotted by the careers and shot down. Then I’d really have an issue with Marissa.
I feel a hand at my neck and look down to find myself unconsciously gripping my wolf’s-head necklace in the hope of getting guidance or strength from it. Either one of those would be incredibly useful right now.
Turning back to Marshall, I question quietly, “What happened?” I search his eyes to find fear and almost a hunted look in them, and I realize that he too was running from something when he found me. That doesn’t bode well for Luke and Abby, because I can guarantee you that neither one of them is a good of a runner or a fighter as Marshall.
“A band of noncareers attacked in the night, took us by surprise,” he says, and I resist the urge to groan and/or scream out loud. Well, I suppose the noncareers’ attacking is better than some abominable snowman charging the camp. “We hear rustling the forest and I jumped out the tent to find five of them, weak with hunger and nearly frozen, waiting for me. The other five had surrounded Abby’s and Luke’s tent.” My hands instinctively ball into fists, and I clench my jaw. If I lost Abby this early...
“I managed to hold off the five around my tent and stick a couple too. Luke and Abby had woken up and were fighting the noncareers now too, and, after a few minutes, the remaining noncareers ran. I didn’t know why at first, since there were still enough of them that they could have taken us, but then I felt it: a... a presence, I guess you could say.” He looks off into the snow for a second, and the hunted look returns to his eyes. When he looks back up at me, he says, in a tone that chills me to my bones, “Whatever it was, it was pure evil.” After a moment’s pause, he finishes, “We knew we had to get away from there as quickly as possible, and, in our panic, we didn’t bother to run in the same direction. They could be halfway to the mountains by now.” He gestures towards the south of the arena and I see a huge range of peaks, which I hadn’t noticed up until now. Well, I guess I know where I’m going if the forest gets taken over by careers or abominable snowmen.
Marshall’s talk of that evil presence surprises me and sets me on edge, because I know there’s only one thing that could be, and it’s not a Triple Crown monster: Kuro. I wonder what he’s doing here, of all places. Maybe he’s hoping to convince me to wipe out all of El Tiempo; he’s going to be let down if he is.
“I realize now that I shouldn’t have ran like that, that that was really cowardly on my part. I should have faced whatever that presence was,” Marshall says, and I shake my head vehemently. Marshall and Luke and Abby were incredibly smart in running from Kuro; after all, I don’t think even Jackson and I put together could stop him, so how on earth would three mortals be able to stop him? Besides, Kuro doesn’t have much respect for humans as a whole – he considers them a lesser species, like how a dog is to a human – so I doubt that he would have let Marshall survive if Marshall had stayed and fought.
“No, you shouldn’t have,” I tell Marshall, and now it’s his turn to shake his head in disagreement.
“Yes, I should have,” Marshall insists, and, despite the fact that we’re debating about whether or not Marshall should have stayed and died, and that we’re both going to be dead in three weeks anyways, and Luke and Abby are gone with no way to find them, I can’t help but feel the corners of my mouth twitching at how we’re arguing back-and-forth like kindergarteners.
Suddenly the air of our conversation changes completely, and Marshall murmurs, “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you smile.” I feel his gaze on the side of my face and look up to meet his blue-green eyes, which are currently filled with longing.
I don’t like where this is going, I don’t like it all, but I reply, gesturing at the snowy wasteland and silent forests around us, “Well, there’s not much to smile about around here, unless death by freezing makes you happy.”
“Lizzie,” Marshall begins in a whisper, his voice so full of emotion that I feel compelled to turn and look him in the eye again, “you are my reason to smile.”
He raises a hand to the side of my face and gently traces my cheekbone for a few moments before I snap out of the spell his eyes have put me under and slap his hand away, narrowing my eyes at our surroundings. Undoubtedly hundreds of cameras and thousands of microphones captured that moment, which means I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do to Max – if I see him or communicate with him again, of course. I then turn back onto Marshall, very angry and very ready to give him a piece of my mind.
“Marshall, don’t you get it?” I exclaim, staring him down almost fiercely. “You’ve lost; I’m Luke’s; the game’s over! In fact, you were never even part of the equation!”
“You think I’m doing this to win you over, Lizzie?” Marshall asks in reply, his tone so incredulous that I’m shut up long enough for him to continue talking. “Lizzie, I know that you’ll never be mine, and I know that I never had a chance with you to begin with, but all the logic in the world can’t stop me from loving you, because there is no reason for me loving you. Even if this were all to end right now, and we were both to go back to our Sections and never see each other again, and I were to marry a really nice girl and be with her for the rest of my life, I would still love you some every second of every day. Trust me, I wish that I didn’t love you, because it would be so much easier on both of us if I didn’t, but I can’t control it, Lizzie. Every time I try to stifle it, and shut myself up, something stupid like that just comes right out, and all of my stifling and shutting-up efforts are for nothing. I don’t know why I love you, Lizzie,” Marshall says after a moment’s pause, his voice filled to the brim with such emotion and passion that I know he can’t be lying, “and I don’t how to make myself not love you – hell, I don’t even think that’s possible, but I do know that I love you, with all of my heart, for no obvious rhyme or reason, and that I can’t control the fact that I love, even though that would be a lot better for both of us if I could. I’m sorry, Lizzie,” Marshall finishes quietly, his gaze on the side of my face as I stare off into the snow, and I feel kind of like screaming and/or crying.
The only thing that Marshall just did is make me feel even guiltier about not loving him, when he, like two other boys in my life, has made me the promise of always. Or maybe it’s good that I don’t love him, because then I’d have an even more difficult time choosing which one of them to be with.
After a few moments of silence, during which time I force myself swallow and take a few deep breaths to calm down, I tell him sincerely, meeting his eyes again, “Marshall, don’t be sorry for loving me, when it’s something you can’t control. I mean,” I add, a wan half-smile accompanying my words, “it’s not like I can hold you accountable for something you have no power over.”
“But it just… it just feels like I should have power over it, you know?” Marshall asks me, looking over at me, and I nod my head in agreement. After all, I happen to know exactly what he’s feeling, because I feel those emotions every time I think about Jackson and Luke. “I mean, they’re my emotions, so I shouldn’t I be able to control them like any other part of me?” he continues, voicing both of our thoughts.
“Marshall, you have no idea how many times I have asked myself those questions,” I murmur, to feel his gaze on the side of my face again. “I’m not any closer to discovering the answers than I was when I first asked them though. Love is kind of… one of those things that there aren’t a lot of universal answers for, so you kind of just have to figure your problems out yourself, BS it some and find the answers you’re looking for on the way.” I turn to look at him, and meet his gaze again to find him staring down at me with an almost reverent look on his face. What did I say that had such an impact on him?
“How do you know all of this?” Marshall asks me, his expression completely blown away. I guess he didn’t realize I was such the expert on love; hell, I didn’t know I was such the expert on love.
“I guess…” I begin, pursing my lips in thought as I stare out into the snow. I then turn back to him and say, “I guess I’ve just been around enough relationships and enough love that I’ve picked up on some of the things that make those relationships work.” I shrug, idly thinking that my parents’ relationship is probably the best example of love that I’ve ever seen. After all, they fell in love the moment they first laid eyes on each other, and neither one has even noticed anyone else of the other gender in seventeen hundred years.
“Oh,” Marshall says quietly, and I can’t help but have another smile flit across my face briefly. You know, Kuro is right about one thing: these mortals are very amusing, although he and I have very different ideas about what they do that’s amusing.
All of a sudden, the wind changes, and a foreign smell, one that doesn’t belong in the forest or on the plains floods my nose. It’s the stench of darkness, hatred, corruption and pure evil; Kuro must be near.
I hear Marshall stiffen next to me and turn to him to ask, “Do you feel that?” Kuro’s aura has invaded the air around us, and I can just feel the eight and a half thousand years of deceit and lies and destruction.
“Yeah,” he whispers in reply, and I see that there’s a hunted look in his eyes now. Even the best mortal fighters are turned to frightened prey when Kuro’s around.
“Run,” I tell him emphatically, as I know that must be Marshall’s first instinct that he’s fighting incredibly hard against right now. Like I said, even the bravest humans cower when Kuro is near, because there’s just something about his aura that invades their minds and destroys everything but the raw, carnal fear in them. I guess you could say that Kuro kind of has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Fortunately, since I’m not a human, his aura and presence do nothing but annoy my sinuses and make me wary and pissed off, and the wary and pissed off parts are because Kuro has undoubtedly come to try to persuade me to join some evil cause of his. Fortunately, I’m not nearly as weak-minded as he seems to think I am, so nothing he’s said has even come close to appealing enough to me to make me turn my back on everything I believe in and team up with him.
Marshall, thank God, just lets his instinct take over and is sprinting away as soon as the word is out of my mouth. While I’m happy to have him out of here so that Kuro doesn’t hurt him, I’m still kind of nervous at facing Kuro alone, as facing him alone in my dreams, where no real damage can be done, is a lot different that facing him in real life.
I feel the darkness gathering in the air around me and close my eyes, not wanting to see Kuro form out of the stuff. Trust me, I have before, and it’s quite frightening actually.
“Miss Lightning,” I hear his slick, amused and malicious voice croon, and I open my eyes to find him standing in front of me with a smile on his incredibly handsome yet incredibly evil face. “What brings you to this delightful part of the world?” He gestures at the wasteland and forests around us, his grin getting even bigger as he does so.
“Work,” I reply tersely, and now he’s really enjoying himself. It seems like he almost gets more satisfaction out of me not playing along than me actually going along with what he’s saying. I guess he likes to see that I have ‘heart.’
“I see that. How’s attempting to freeze working out for you so far?” he asks, his grin now stretching from ear to ear, and, as a wave of anger washes over me, I have to resist the urge to punch him in the nose. I think I’d be great to see his perfect face be made a little human by crooked nose. “Oh, Miss Lightning, don’t bottle that anger up; let it out, and try to punch me in the face, if you are so inclined to do so,” he says, his grin ever bigger now, if that’s even possible, and I roll my eyes at him. His talent of reading emotions, which I had forgotten for a moment there, is one of the really annoying things about him. You really can’t keep any secrets from him, no matter how hard you try.
“Stay out of my mind!” I shoot at him, and his smile curves up even more so that I can see every one of his perfect white teeth.
“I am not it your mind, Miss Lightning,” he replies. “I am in your heart, which is far harder to shut than your mind.” His smile changes so that it isn’t so blinding, and he ends, “It is far easier to be ignorant than it is to be concrete; just ask the people of every age.”
“Well I’ve learned that I’m neither,” I say quietly, my eyes locked on his, and his smile returns to all of its former, blinding glory.
“Perhaps,” Kuro merely replies, his black eyes boring into mine as he undoubtedly searches my mind and heart and soul for anything he can use against me. That’s the thing about Kuro: you can’t tell when he’s in your mind unless he gives away something that makes it obvious – like he did when he was reading my emotions – so you have to keep your guard up the whole time you’re around him. “But those things will not matter if you will embrace what you truly are,” Kuro finishes, and I immediately tear my gaze away from his. I won’t have him using his mind games to convince me to destroy all of El Nieve.
“I can get you out of here, you know,” Kuro begins, and I look back up at him suspiciously. There has to be a condition; there is always a condition, if it takes thousands of years to set in, when it comes to making deals with Kuro. “All I ask for, in return, is you.”
My eyes shoot open wide in shock. Is he really saying that he wants me as a lover? Ok, Kuro has officially crossed the realm from sociopath to psychopath, because he has truly lost his mind if that’s what he means.
“And yes, Miss Lightning, I do mean as a lover,” he adds, and I look back up at him to see him smirking down at me. “Well, perhaps experiment is a better word.”
“But… why?” I ask him, completely stunned. Kuro has never shown any attraction at all to me before, so what changed that made him attracted to me?
“Like I said,” he begins, and raises a hand to the side of my face to gently trace my cheekbones, “I find you fascinating.” His eyes lock on mine powerfully, commanding all of my attention, but that doesn’t stop me from noticing that his hand is shaking some, and his pulse is hammering in his throat. Is Kuro, the immortal god of evil, honestly nervous?
“You don’t have much experience with seduction, do you?” I ask him, biting my tongue so that I won’t laugh out loud. Even though Kuro himself can be very frightening, and it probably isn’t the smartest idea for me to find anything he does funny, I can’t help but find the irony that he’s nervous incredibly amusing. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Kuro be anything but malicious and amused before, and nervous is about the last thing I’d think he would be.
He removes his hand, looks off into the snow, and replies after a moment, “No, unfortunately.” He then turns back to me, his malicious nature making a full-scale comeback, and says in annoyance, “It was so much easier two thousand years ago, when all I had to do was worry about manipulating men’s minds. Now, with all of these women in power, I have to learn how to manipulate their minds too!” He shakes his head slightly, but his smile returns, and I know that his moment of nervousness and almost humanness has passed.
Giving Kuro a look that says, “How could you be so stupid?!” I glance at the forest and snow around us. Hundreds of cameras and thousands of microphones undoubtedly picked up that last moment, which means that Kuro has outed himself – and me in the process – to all of El Tiempo. Man, you’d think a god would plan smarter.
“Oh, don’t worry about the cameras and the microphones and all nearby electronics,” Kuro says with a dismissive wave of his hand, and I look up at him in surprise. I didn’t feel him send out an electromagnetic wave to disable all nearby transmitting electronics, so they should still be running, which means that I do in fact have a lot to worry about.
“My mere presence disarms them, Lizzie,” Kuro says, and I narrow my eyes at him in suspicion. I know that he can do a lot of things – most of them not very good – but disabling electronics just by existing is not one of them.
Kuro rolls his eyes, as if he expects me to know all of this already, and elaborates, “By being the evil, barbaric side of every human – and essentially the worst of human nature – I am the antithesis of technology, of progress, of human ingenuity and Western Civilization even, or everything the mortals consider to be good about themselves. I am the anticivilization, if you will-” – his mouth twists into a sardonic smile for a moment – “-so all technology, a perfect example of human progress, stops working when I’m around, except for this little videocamera.” He reaches up to the collar of his shirt to unhook a tiny little black thing, with a tiny lense even smaller than a contact, that my eyes had originally passed over. “I designed it myself, so it does not immediately stop working when I am around it.” A smile crosses his face at the amazement on mine – I didn’t realize Kuro was any good with electronics – and he rehooks the camera back to his shirt collar.
I am just about to ask indignantly, “Why are you filming this?” when Kuro says, a millisecond before I can open my mouth, “I am filming this to capture all of your adventures here, as I think that you will find they will make quite a good movie, in the end.” He gives me an evil smile before continuing, “I have also filmed every second of your life outside of the arena, as to make an even more accurate film.”
I am about to leap at him and strangle him alive when he says, “You will thank me for it in the end, as I’m sure you’ll find the film quite… educational. Expect a tape sometime soon, Miss Lightning.” He gives me one last malicious grin before turning away and dissolving into darkness, leaving me standing there with my fists clenched and my heart pounding. Talking with evil incarnate is never very much fun.

More added.

“Lizzie, where were you?” Marshall asks me concernedly as he runs up to me, gapsing for air. I notice that his nose and ears are a little frostbitten, and send out a small wave of heat in his direction to thaw them some. Fortunately, he doesn’t seem to notice in his exhausted state.
“Don’t you remember?” I ask him, staring down at him concernedly to find no hint of recognition in his eyes. Did Kuro erase Marshall’s memory?
“I remember running away, and then suddenly realizing that I had left you behind and had to go back for you to make sure you were safe,” Marshall explains, and I sigh, partially in relief. It’s probably best that Marshall doesn’t remember what happened, because he’d be beating himself up over running away when I stood my ground if he did.
“Do you remember what you were running from though?” I ask him, narrowing my eyes at him and allowing myself to read his thoughts for a moment to be met by frantic thinking and then nothing. Kuro really did erase Marshall’s memory then, even of the first time Marshall felt Kuro was near.
“That’s the weirdest part,” Marshall replies, his breathing almost returned to normal. “I don’t remember anything but running.” He looks over at me, then adds, “Should I remember something else?”
“No, no. To be perfectly honest,” I begin, well aware that I’m full-out lying but not really caring, “I don’t remember what happened either. I just remember standing up against something – I don’t even know what that thing was now – and then running away.” I shrug and glance over at Marshall to be relieved when he takes the bait and believes me.
“I wonder what we were running from,” Marshall muses out loud, and, as I pretend to muse with him, I look over at him and study his expression. He truly doesn’t remember anything; it’s as if Kuro has given him a dose of the permanent-memory-loss serum that I used to give to people who saw too much when I was an assassin.
“I don’t know,” I reply quietly, thinking about how Kuro’s visit must look like to the Triple Crown committee. They probably think that I had something to do with the cameras and microphones being shut off – in a way, I guess I do – but I wonder if they’ll buy the story about me running away as easily as Marshall did. Undoubtedly they won’t, but they’ll probably be forced to, in the end, as, while they know that I’m an immortal, I doubt they could even comprehend the half of my powers. That means the possibility of them figuring it out – Kuro’s presence kind of throws everything off too; for all I know, he may stick around long enough to erase the memory of anyone who happens to partially figure out our secret – is very small, which I guess means that I’m safe for now. Well, my secret is, at least.
“It’s weird, that neither one of us can remember anything but running,” Marshall says, looking over at me calculatingly, and I nod my head in agreement, trying my best to seem as clueless as he is. He must buy it, for he turns away and adds, “It must have been some Triple Crown committee trick. God knows they love fucking with our minds.”
Grateful for the opportunity to blame everything that happened on the Triple Crown committee, I nod my head vigorously in agreement and say, “I don’t know of anyone else with the power to erase our memories like that, so it must have been them.”
“Yeah. Sons of bitches, all of them,” Marshall growls, and, as I see the hate in his eyes, I begin to fully comprehend how much he truly loathes the Triple Crown committee. I hadn’t though much of it up until now – I mean, he is kind of a career, and therefore one of the people most likely to prosper from the Triple Crown – but I guess he does have as strong a reason to hate the Triple Crown committee as much as the rest of us do. After all, he would be working in the forges and making weapons, like he loves, if it weren’t for the Triple Crown committee’s constant scouting of the Sections for careers.
“Well, we should keep moving,” I tell him, looking at the forest and plains around us nervously. Kuro could very well be lurking in the shadows of the trees, just waiting for a chance to come fuck with my mind some more, so I want to get as far away from the point where I met him as possible. I guess that means Marshall and I are going camping in the mountains.
“We need to find Abby and Luke, remember?” I add, when I see him looking down at me dubiously and almost suspiciously. Maybe he hasn’t completely bought my story about not remembering anything either, but I think he’s going to be forced into buying it when no other explanation – well, no other reasonable explanation – presents itself. After all, what actually happened isn’t exactly reasonable.
After a half-second of considering me in silence, Marshall finally takes the bait and asks, “Where do you think they would have gone?”
“Well,” I begin, pursing my lips in thought and testing the air experimentally to smell nothing but the clean coolness of the snow – I guess the violent wind that whipped up when I was talking to Kuro completely obliterated Luke and Abby’s scent trail; the Triple Crown committee probably did do that, now that I think about it – “if I were them, I would go somewhere with shelter, that’s away from the careers at the Giving Hands. That means that we can rule all of this plain-” – I gesture to the snow-filled barren wasteland in front of us – “-and everything beyond it. I don’t think they’d risk trying to go past the careers to get the grasslands when there’s better shelter and less of a chance of getting shot over anyways.”
Marshall nods his head in agreement, and adds, “That means that we’re left with the mountains and the forest.” Simultaneously we both turn around to look up at the huge, silent pine trees towering over us. While the forest does seem like the smartest option for Luke and Abby to have taken, there must a couple hundred square miles of it – this arena is probably three or four times the size of the last one, and I wasn’t even able to explore half the last one in three weeks – which means that Marshall and I are going to be very busy searching.
However, I’m not eager to go back into the trees, not after my lovely meeting with Kuro, so I tell Marshall, “I think we should check the mountains, just in case.”
“But it makes so much more sense for them to have stayed in the forest,” Marshall replies, before seeing my expression and silently bowing his head in defeat. “Alright,” he says. “After you, Miss Abominable Snowman.” At his last comment, I turn around sharply to find Marshall standing there with a smirk on his face, and I roll my eyes.
I tell him, “You only get to call me the Abominable Snowman if a) we don’t actually meet any in the mountains-” – the smile slips off of Marshall’s face some – “-and b) I actually fall in the snow and end up looking like an Abominable Snowman.”
His smile comes back, although it isn’t as big as it originally was, and he responds, “Well, I can make you meet your second condition right now.”
Before I can reply or prepare myself, Marshall has tackled me and is in the process of trying to get me as snowy as possible. I try to shove him off of me, but that doesn’t work, and I finally result to shoving a big handful of snow in his face, which gets him off of me pretty quickly.
“You’ve definitely earned your name now,” Marshall says as wipes the snow out of his eyes and spits out the snow in his mouth. He then gives me a truly dashing smile, and, even though I’m annoyed at him for tackling in the first place, I can’t help but smile back.
“Lizzie Lightning, the Abominable Snowman,” I say, considering the words for a moment. “It’s got a ring to it,” I finally announce, and Marshall smiles.
“It’s got more than a ring to it,” he tells me, “because it’s true!” I can’t help but feel the corners of my mouth twitch as I roll my eyes at him, which only causes his smirk to get even bigger.
“You smile a lot more than you intend to,” he observes out loud, and I turn to look at him in surprise. After all, it’s not every day that you find someone who observes you enough to say something like that in complete truth and honesty.
“It’s because you say a lot of dumb things,” I reply, attempting to cover the surprise I feel with a joke. Jackson definitely never noticed anything like that, and neither did even Luke. It makes me wonder about how much Marshall sees that he doesn’t reveal he knows.
“I didn’t say that you smile a lot,” Marshall replies quietly, and I immediately get annoyed at him. Can’t he just run with me making fun of him and not make a big deal out of something small? “It’s almost sad, that you stop yourself from smiling so much. Why are you afraid of showing that you’re happy?”
“I... um... uh!” I finally exclaim in exasperation. Like usual, my eloquence leaves me when it’s most needed. “Why do you have to ask so many hard questions?” I shoot back, narrowing my eyes at him in annoyance. He really would make my life at lot easier if he would just shut up and not question me at all.
“Because you are a very intriguing person,” Marshall replies, his smirk getting bigger, and I roll my eyes at him again. “If you wouldn’t be so interesting, I wouldn’t ask so many questions,” he adds, and I finally get so annoyed at him that I flip him off. By this point, he’s only making my mood worse, not helping his cause at all.
“Fine, fine, I’ll shut up,” Marshall replies, throwing his hands up in the air as a sign that he’s going to lay off.
“Good,” I reply. “I’d hate to waste another second of my life on flipping you off again.” Even though I did just insult him, I see Marshall’s smile return some, and I find myself noticing how beautiful his eyes are.
Wait... how beautiful his eyes are?! I shouldn’t be thinking about things like that; I have too much stuff to worry about without being partially in love with Marshall too!
We then walk towards the mountains in silence for a little while longer, me adjusting my sword when it starts to dig into my side and trying to ignore my growling stomach. Because our supplies are limited, with Luke and Abby having the other pack, I can’t afford to eat any of our precious dried food because I’m not literally starving, so I’ll wait until we come across some small game that I can shoot with my bow to eat.
As much I try to not think about the point Marshall brought up about how I smile more than I intend to, I find myself thinking about it and mulling it over in my mind for a good five minutes until I finally pipe up and say, turning to look at Marshall and stopping, “Marshall, the reason why I don’t want to show that I’m happy is because I’m afraid the Triple Crown will corrupt my source of happiness or take that away from me altogether.”
He nods his head in understanding, but I can see the questions in his eyes, and, sure enough, a few seconds later he asks, “You really think they would try to do that?”
“They would try to do anything they thought would break me,” I answer evenly and certainly, and Marshall drops his head in admittance and defeat here. After all, there’s no defending the Triple Crown committee’s brutality and inhumanness.
We keep on walking for about a half an hour longer, or until the heat of the sun beating down upon our backs and reflecking off the snow gets to us and we both stop to take off our outer layers of coats.
“Lizzie, let me carry yours,” Marshall almost pleads, and, after a five-minute-long back-and-forth debate during which I accuse him of thinking I can’t do anything because I’m a woman and he accuses me of trying to stop him from doing something nice for me, I finally agree to let him take my coat.
When I hand it over to him, I grumble, “Here, Coatrack. You’ve earned it.” I see Marshall’s smile get bigger out of the corner of my eye, and I can’t help but feel the corners of my mouth twitch too. His smile really is infectious.
“So I’m Coatrack and you’re Lizzie the Abominable Snowman, huh?” Marshall says, and I nod my head in agreement, my smile getting bigger as I do so. Any person who just happened to be listening on our conversation without having any background knowledge would probably think that we’re both crazy. Of course, that could be said about a lot of conversations I’ve had over the years.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I reply, and, after a second’s hesitation, add, my grin stretching from ear to ear now, “Man, we’re both fucking nuts.”
Marshall nods his head vigorously in agreement and says, “It’s the Triple Crown, not us.” Even though it was clearly meant as just a light-hearted joke, the mention of the Triple Crown distinctly darkens the light mood of our conversation.
However, I won’t allow the Triple Crown to ruin my conversations as well as almost every other aspect of my life, so I tell Marshall, “No, I’m pretty sure we’re crazy too.”
That comment, thank God, brings some of the light air back to our conversation, and Marshall immediately jumps in to say, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We are pretty innately nuts, after all.”
“It’s definitely not just...” For a moment I pause, not sure how to continue without dampening the mood again. I finally figure out what I’m going to say, and finish, “all of this,” gesturing around at the arena and snow and forest around us as I do so.
A few moments go by, in which the tone of our conversation changes completely despite my attempts to keep the air light-hearted, before Marshall looks over and says what has obviously been on his mind for a while now.
“You don’t have to die, you know,” he tells me quietly, his eyes locked on the side of my face, and my heart falls. Just when I thought I had maybe gotten away from talks like these for a little while.
“Yes, Marshall, I do,” I reply, turning to look at him and meet his eye. “I’m going to be killed even if I do win the Triple Crown, so what’s the point in surviving beyond here if I don’t have a life beyond here?” I hear the bitterness and hatred come into my voice and can’t help but think that I sound kind of like Jackson. Unfortunately.
“No you won’t!” Marshall shoots back, and I shake my head sadly. If I am Jackson in this conversation, then he is most definitely Luke. “Lizzie, if you win the Triple Crown, you’re guaranteed safety and all the wealth you could ever need for the rest of your life! You’ll never have your name entered into another champion drawing or be touched by El Nieve ever again!”
“Marshall, you and I both know that won’t happen, not with the way I’ve behaved in the Triple Crown,” I reply, and here Marshall loses some of his steam. Apparently he hasn’t been completely blinded by his love for me and actually has observed things with an objective, rational viewpoint; he’s doing a lot better than Luke and Jackson already.
“Lizzie, if you win and keep your side of the deal, they’ll be obligated to let you live and keep their side of the deal,” Marshall responds, and, before I have a chance to retort, adds, “Besides, the fans wouldn’t like it very much if they killed off one of the most loved champions in Triple Crown history.”
“You think the Triple Crown committee really cares about the fans at this point?” I ask Marshall, and again he loses some of his steam. Maybe he’s finally realizing that there’s no way to defend the Triple Crown committee, not with the track record they have. “All they care about is cleaning things up, and getting rid of those ugly little affairs – me being one of them – so that they won’t be bothered ever again. The Triple Crown committee has to be the single most selfish organization I’ve ever had the displeasure to interact with, so, if it comes down to the fans’ happiness or their happiness, which one do you think they’re going to choose?” I pause for a moment to give Marshall a chance to reply, and, when he doesn’t – it’s not like I really expected him to have an answer, after all – I continue, “And when you talked about them keeping their side of the deal: Marshall, the Triple Crown committee and I never had a deal. They forced me into this, tried to make me their puppet, and I refused to cooperate, so they’re not going to cut me any slack because both them and I know that we never had an agreement, that I was never going to work with them, no matter what.”
“They actually do sign a contract with every Triple Crown winner right after they win that says the Triple Crown committee won’t come to or interact with that person ever again, except to deliver prize money,” Marshall replies, but I shrug dismissively. I can’t believe he honestly thinks that a contract is going to stop the Triple Crown committee from killing me; I mean, they are the justice, as far as the Triple Crown goes, so they can’t break any laws no matter what they do, and I don’t think they really care about breaking tradition now.
“So mine accidentally falls into a fire, or accidentally blows out the window of a train going two hundred miles an hour in the middle of a rainstorm,” I reply. “A contract will not stop them from killing me, Marshall, because they will undoubtedly put a loophole in there somewhere, or find some way to destroy my contract and make it look like an accident. None of those are above their skill level or their level of deviance; in fact, I don’t think anything that they could do to kill me is above their skill level or their level of deviance.”
“Lizzie, I just don’t want to die,” Marshall tells me quietly, his voice shaking with emotion. He meets my gaze desperately and asks, “What will I do when you’re gone?”
“I don’t know, meet that nice girl you were telling me about and marry her and try to think of me as little as possible,” I reply, staring him down powerfully. If he’s going to play this game, I’m not going to buy into his self-pitying bullshit. Instead, I’m going to actually provide him with rational answers, not the “I don’t know”s I know he’s looking for.
“How will I not be able to think of you, if every month the Triple Crown committee comes out to give me my prize money and congratulate me, yet again, on winning the Triple Crown at the expense of you dying? How will I not be able to think of you when I won’t be able to go outside without being told, ‘Good job on winning the Triple Crown,’ and therefore be reminded, yet again, of the person who really should have won the Triple Crown: you.” Marshall meets my gaze imploringly, and I feel obligated to look away by the sheer amount of emotion in his eyes. I know he’s serious; I know he’s just as serious as Luke; but that doesn’t chage the fact that I can’t do anything for him except tell him to forget me.
“Marshall, forgetting me is the best thing you could do,” I say quietly, and look up to meet his gaze. “That does not, by any means, mean that I think you will, but it is the best thing for you – for both of us even – for you to do.”
Marshall nods his head in understand, and, after a moment of comprehending what I’ve said in silence, replies, “I know, Lizzie. Sometimes the best things are the hardest ones to do.” He meets my gaze again, and now it’s my turn to nod my head in agreement. I know exactly how that feels.
We then stand there in an awkward silence until I finally pipe up, “Well, Luke and Abby aren’t going to find themselves, so we should probably go get them. After all, I’d hate to have them freeze in the mountains on us while we’re talking down here.” A wan half-smile flits across my face at the last comment I made, mostly because that could very well be what they’re doing and smiling is better than crying about it.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’d be so good,” Marshall agrees, smiling insincerely too. “It wouldn’t be so good if we found human popsicles instead of them.”
I nod my head and smile one last time before starting to walk towards the mountains again, the sun still beating cruelly down on my back. After fifteen minutes, I’m drenched in my own sweat – I can’t get cold but I most definitely can get hot – and feel kind of like falling face-first into a huge snowdrift to cool myself down. However, I know that would be an incredibly unwise thing to do, as that would be a very large tip-off for the Triple Crown committee that I’m more than just immortal, so I suffer in silence and am incredibly relieved when Marshall stops for water and I get to stop with him.
“Thank God,” I mutter under my breath before turning around to take a jug of half-melted snow from Marshall and attempt to drink it. In the end, I mostly succeed – well, I do get hydrated at least, if through the tactic of effectively dumping the jug down my front and trying to get some water into my mouth.
“You’re wet,” Marshall notices when he looks up from drinking his own jug of snow, and I roll my eyes at him. Could he be any more of a Captain Obvious?
“No shit, really?” I reply, my voice oozing sarcasm, and a small smirk makes its way across Marshall’s face.
“Alright, let me specify: you are incredibly wet.” He reaches over to pull at the water-soaked inner layer of my clothes – which is almost like Spandex in its material – right below my neck, and his smirk gets ever bigger when he feels how much water I truly managed to pour down myself.
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, looking down at my front. “I thought this stuff was supposed to waterproof,” I grumble as an afterthought, pulling the material out to view it myself. Man, I didn’t realize I got that much water in it.
“It is,” Marshall replies, and I look up at him like he’s crazy. I don’t know what he’s looking at, but it’s definitely not the shirt I’m wearing.
“Well, I guess it’s not really waterproof, as it does get wet,” Marshall quickly backtracks, and I lay off on the ‘are-you-crazy’ look a little bit. “But you’re not wet, are you?” Marshall asks, and I immediately return to giving him the ‘are-you-crazy’ look.
I’m just about to reply, “Of course I’m wet!” when I realize that I actually am not wet. My shirt has absorbed all of the moisture off of my body to keep me cool and dry. I think I probably need to squeeze my shirt out though, since I don’t know how much more water my shirt’s fabric can hold.
“Oh,” I exclaim quietly in surprise. “Well, that’s a nice feature.” I look up to find Marshall smirking at me and I roll my eyes at him. “Hey, just because you were right-” I begin, only to have him cut me off.
“-Doesn’t give me the right to rub it in, I know, I know,” he replies, and gives me a smile. “I know the drill Lizzie. You’re not the first girl I’ve spent time around, after all.”
Suddenly I realize that I don’t know really anything about Marshall’s past, except for the fact that he’s a blacksmith turned career, and I really probably should know more. Driven by a morbid curiosity to find out about those other girls he’s spent time around, I ask, “Who were they, those other girls, and what were they like?”
I meet his gaze to find him staring down at me in surprise – I guess he wasn’t anticipating me asking a question like that, especially since that question makes it seem like I’m interested in him – but he recovers from his surprise quick enough to simply answer, as thankfully he has the common sense and sense of self-preservation to not tease me about asking something like that, “Well, the first girl I ever really dated was named Melinda, Melinda Cooper. That was in sixth grade, a long time ago,” Marshall says, looking up to give me a smile, and, as I smile back at him, I can’t help but think that it’s amazing he got his first girlfriend before I got my first boyfriend. Of course, I suppose I was kind of behind the curve in the boyfriend department, since I didn’t find anyone I found remotely dateable till seventh grade, so I guess that’s mostly on my pickiness and not on his attractiveness.
“Did you like her?” I ask him, and he nods his head, not seeming to be surprised by that question at all either. While it might seem like a stupid question to ask – after all, it seems like common sense that you have to like someone to date them – that sadly is often not the case. I guess there’s just a lot of people out there who are so desperate that they’ll hook up with someone they don’t even like being around.
“Yeah, she was pretty nice. She could be bitchy at times, but that kind of just goes with the sixth-grade-girl territory.” Marshall looks over at me again, and I nod my head in agreement. I know I could be plenty bitchy in sixth grade; hell, I can be pretty damn bitchy now, except I’m far more dangerous but less liable to explode now.
“What I remember the most about her is that she was gorgeous, downright gorgeous. Every boy in the school was drooling over her, and even some high schoolers, so I was downright stunned when she turned down a sophomore to say yes to me.” He shakes his head slightly – I guess he’s still amazed that Melinda Cooper said yes to him; I think it would be almost ironic if she watching today and seeing her ex-boyfriend following me around like a lost puppy – and I see the cloud of nostalgia covering his eyes.
“I guess you were a pretty good-looking sixth-grader, huh?” I tease, elbowing him in the ribs, and Marshall looks over at me and shrugs, a smile crossing his face despite himself.
“I guess so,” he says quietly, his gaze returning to the plains of snow in front of us. After a moment, he looks back over at me to say, “I don’t know though. She dumped me a week after for some junior – talk about pedophile there – so I guess I was kind of just a rebound relationship to keep those annoying other boys away.”
“Aww, poor Marshall got dumped,” I tease, smirking, and he rolls his eyes at me. I actually have never been dumped; I’ve always been the one doing the dumping.
“Yeah. It wouldn’t have lasted long anyways though,” Marshall says, and I look over at him in curiosity. What does he mean by that?
Marshall, seeing my confused expression, elaborates, “She was chosen as a champion two weeks later, and I watched her die permanently on national television two and a half months after that.” His voice trails off, and my mouth forms a silent “oh” of surprise. Well, I guess that’s one way to lose an ex.
“Wow,” I murmur quietly, and a bitter smile crosses Marshall’s face. He turns to look at me and meets my gaze, his eyes boring deep into my own, before turning away again, and, as I watch him in profile, I can’t help but notice how perfectly his blue-green eyes, with a ring of gold around the pupils, complete his face.
“Yeah,” he sighs quietly in reply. “For all that she was a bitch, for all that she used me, I never wanted her to go through anything like that. No one, no matter how much evil they’ve done, deserves this,” he finishes, gesturing at the landscape around us. No matter how much I disagree with him – I can think of one person in particular who deserves this torture – I don’t dare say anything to reveal my opinion, especially not with the fact that he just revealed.
A few moments go by in silence, Marshall giving the snow his undivided attention and me looking in between the snow and Marshall, until he finally turns to me again and says, a hint of a smirk on his face now, “So what about your first boyfriend? What was his name? What was he like?”
“Well, his name was Michael Springer, and I thought he was the greatest thing in the world when he first started dating,” I tell Marshall, and he nods in understanding, his eyes locked on me so completely that I think it’d take a battering ram to move his gaze away.
“He was tall, like six feet – and we were in seventh grade, so there weren’t like any guys taller than I was, since I was already five-seven – and he had black hair with the same cut as yours and the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen.” I glance over to see a flash of jealousy shoot across Marshall’s expression in a millisecond, and, after telling myself that he truly can’t help it – I’ve read Marshall’s mind and emotions; I know he’s speaking the truth – I take a deep breath and continue.
“He was really nice at first, always greeting me as I walked in the door to school and waiting for me by my locker and walking me to my classes and giving me little presents – flowers and cards and cheesy stuff like that. We had been dating for three months, and I was going to finally have him over to have him meet my parents, when it came out that all he wanted was to get in my pants.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes as I see Marshall trying and failing to supress a smirk – apparently he likes the idea of me getting furious with Michael – and, after a moment, I keep on talking, “I was not at all enamored of that idea, as you can imagine. However, I didn’t break up with him at the moment that it came out, because I thought he needed something worse than me just dumping him.”
“So what did you do?” Marshall asks me, his gaze locked on my face. It’s almost unsettling to see the complete and undivided attention he’s giving me.
“The next day during lunch, I told him I needed to give him something, took him to the center of the cafeteria where everyone could see, and broke his nose.” Marshall’s smile stretches from ear to ear now, and I’m surprised, based off the pure mirth on his face, that he’s not laughing right now. “My dad and brothers were so proud of me,” I add, grinning slightly despite myself, and Marshall nods his head in understanding and probably agreement too.
“So not only did you break his heart, you broke his nose as well,” Marshall says, and here he loses it, cracking up and laughing so loudly that I think someone five miles away could hear him easily.
“Marshall!” I hiss, glancing around us worriedly. He basically just sent out a beacon to anything nearby that says, “Here were are! Triple Crown champions! Come maim/kill/eat us!”
He notices my expression – he probably didn’t hear what I said because he was laughing too loud to – and claps a hand over his mouth to stop laughing immediately.
“Sorry Lizzie,” he tells me apologetically. “The thought of you breaking a guy’s nose is just so… you that I can’t help but laugh.” He gives me a smile, and I sigh and wave my hand dismissively. It’s kind of annoying that he can manipulate me as well as Abby can.
We sit in silence for a moment until my interest about something he said peaks and I can’t help but ask, “Marshall, what did you mean, I broke his heart? You didn’t know him, so did you know that?”
“Well, getting dumped by someone as perfect as you has to be a traumatic experience for anyone,” he says, and I sigh again. Why does he always have to lie to me like that?
He and Luke and Jackson would get along great if they weren’t all competing for my heart, I think idly as I wait for him to continue. After all, I might as well let him get all of his thoughts out now so that way I don’t have to hear them later.
“Besides, I can’t imagine you’d be very gentle about dumping someone – I mean, you did break his nose as a way of breaking up with him – so I think that getting dumped by you would be downright terrible.” The emotion and longing in his voice is enough to send shivers up my back, and I look away from his powerful blue-green gaze quickly. I don’t need his eyes distracting me right now.
Marshall stares over at me for a few moments longer before looking away to stare out at the snow himself, and we sit side by side in an uncomfortable silence for a while. We probably would have sat there forever, him bleeding for me and me bleeding for everyone else, if it wasn’t for the gunshot that went off and broke the quiet of the moment.
I immediately leap to my feet to look over at Marshall and ask him quietly, my voice filled with worry, “Do you think that was…?” I find it impossible to finish the sentence with either Luke or Abby’s name, as I can’t admit to myself that one of them might be dead right now because Marshall and I spent too much time talking and not enough time trying to find them.
“Let’s go find out,” Marshall replies, his voice low and strained with worry as well, and we quickly gather up the bag of supplies – I insist on taking it since he’s carrying our coats as well as a huge sword, five spears and a varied assortment of knives – to take off sprinting towards the mountains.
We’ve been going full-steam under the sun for about five minutes until Marshall finally can’t keep up the pace anymore and falls back, panting like a dog.
“Go… ahead,” he manages to tell me, and waves his hand towards the mountains before bending over and placing his hands on his knees, breathing so hard that I’m afraid his lungs will burst.
I give him one backward glance before deciding that he’s right, that Luke and Abby are more important right now, and that he could probably hold off anything that came at him – well, besides Kuro; let’s just hope he isn’t around right now – and take off running towards the mountains again. I know I’m onto something when, after fifteen more minutes, something catches my eye in the snow and I squat down to see footprints that have to be human and are small enough that they could be Abby’s. I then catch her scent, mixed completely with the stench of fear, and I know something terrible must have happened.
Balling my hands into fists and fighting back the rising tide of panic threatening to overtake me, I rise to my feet and follow the footprints about a quarter mile before the scent trail goes away and I’m left with nothing but blank snow in front of me. Turning in a complete circle to make sure that I didn’t miss anything and there aren’t any footprints or scent going in another direction, I sigh and am about to turn back when something about the snow in front of me catches my eye.
It’s been frozen and hardened, unlike the freshly-fallen snow around it. The snow being like that could not have happened without human help, and all of a sudden I realize what must have happened: someone must have frozen the snow like that to cover up the trail and stop me from following them. But who would have the technology or grudge against me to do something like that? Oh, shit…
My heart racing in my throat and my palms sweaty, I charge through the frozen snow and into the trees to see Marissa fire an arrow at Abby and hit Abby directly in the chest.

More added.

As quick as my last name, I pull an arrow out of my quiver, fire it at Marissa, hit her cleanly in the forehead and hear a gunshot go off immediately. Some minor part of my mind registers that her partner, Hunter, has to be around here somewhere and probably won’t like to find out that I killed Marissa, but that thought is quickly shot down by the more pressing matter at hand: Abby.
Running over to her, I realize, with surprise, that her gunshot hasn’t gone off yet and that she’s still alive. I drop to my knees in the snow next to her, examine her momentarily to see that the arrow is in her lung and that there’s nothing I can do for her, that it’s amazing that she’s still alive, and gently scoop her into my arms, cradle her against my chest, and whisper, “Abby…”
She opens her eyes, which are as stunning and blue as ever, to look up at me and smile slightly. “Lizzie,” she replies, somehow managing to sound pleased to see me, even on her deathbed. She then notices my expression and looks down to find an arrow sticking out of her chest, and mouths a silent “Oh” of surprise.
We sit there in silence for a few moments, me holding her hand as tightly as I can without breaking her bones, so as to try to hold onto her spirit and keep her in this world for a little while longer, and stroking her hair gently, like I think a big sister should, until Abby breaks the silence by saying again, “Lizzie…”
“Yeah, Abby?” I murmur quietly as I stare down at her and force the tears that are trying to run down my face to stay back. Crying in front of Abby, especially at a time like this, would only weaken both of us.
“Can you sing for me, Lizzie?” she asks me quietly, staring up into my eyes with such hope that I can’t help but smile. As if I could ever say no to her, even without being in a situation like this.
“Of course. What do you want me to sing?” I ask her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. Or maybe that was just me making sure that I haven’t broken any of her fingerbones yet.
“Sing something happy,” she tells me quietly, and I nod my head in agreement. Happy sounds good right now; we could both use something happy.
I pause for a half-second, thinking about what song to sing, when suddenly the perfect song comes to me. “And I am always,” I begin to sing, my voice sounding terrible but Abby not seeming to mind, “always, always yours. And I am always, always, always yours.”
She closes her eyes, a happy smil on her face, and I stop singing for a moment to raise a hand to the side of her face again and feel her pulse slowing and her life fading away. In a desperate attempt to save her, I channel some of my energy into her, but with no avail. Her heart will not continue to beat, no matter what I try to do.
“Don’t try to save me, Lizzie,” Abby whispers, her eyes still closed, and I jump in surprise at her words and what they mean. I didn’t know that she could even feel what I did, much less know that it was me. I wonder what else she knows, if she knows that I can channel energy like that.
She seems to sense my surprise and befuddlement, as her eyes pop open to lock on mine and she tells me quietly, “I’ve always known that you were different, Lizzie. I’ve always known that you are one of those people they write fairytales about. I hope people get to read about you in a couple hundred years, Lizzie.” She gives me a kind, knowing smile that belongs on the face of someone forty or fifty years older than her, then asks me, “Lizzie, can you keep on singing?”
I feel tears threatening to cascade down my cheek, but blink them away fiercely; I cannot appear weak for Abby, especially not right now.
Clearing my throat and swallowing with difficulty, I force myself to give Abby a smile and tell her, “Of course,” and continue to sing, my voice cracking and finally fading after a few more moments of feeling Abby’s life slip away under my fingers.
“Thank you, Lizzie,” Abby whispers, opening her eyes to look up at me again. After a second of silence, in which I can feel her heart slow down to almost zero, she tells me quietly, her eyes locked on mine, “You know, you should sing that song for Luke sometime,” before her heart stops completely and her gunshot goes off.

I hold her limp body against my chest for a second longer, then set her down incredibly gently, close her eyelids, and kiss her forehead one last time.
“I hope you get a fairytale of your own someday, Abby,” I tell her quietly, and I clench my fists in anger and agony.
Again I’ve failed, and let another person down. My God, why do I always do this? Why am I so incapable of keeping the promises I make, even when I try my hardest to keep them? Am I just not good enough to make promises?
Numbly, I hear the ground parting in preparation of eating Abby’s body, and rise to my feet to give her one last, respectful salute before the dirt swallows her up.
“I’m sorry, Abby,” I whisper, my voice shaking and threatening to crack, and the first tear of many begins to work its way down my cheek.

“Lizzie, Lizzie,” I hear someone calling, and I open my eyes blearily. For a second, I am filled with the idea that the person calling my name is Jackson, and that the two forms standing above me are Jackson and Luke, and that we’re back in our dimension and everything’s fine, that the last three, terrible months have just been one long nightmare. The sharp scent of blood, fear and sadness and the clean scents of the snow and the forest then fill my nose, and Marshall’s features come into focus, and all of those fantasies are destroyed.
“Lizzie, where’s Luke?” Marshall asks me urgently, and everything that happened before I laid down in the snow to freeze and die comes flooding back. A new wave of grief overtakes me as I think about Abby, but I push that to the side momentarily to think about what Marshall asked me.
“I… I don’t know,” I answer quietly in reply, still feeling numb from everything that happened earlier. I can’t believe Abby’s actually dead, that I actually failed so quickly. I thought I would be able to keep her alive at least a week.
I blindly try to rise to my feet to find that my limbs are frozen from lying in the snow, and lay there on the ground for a few moments, stretching them out, before finally being able to get up. I see Marshall’s amazed expression at me not being dead – I’ve been lying in the snow for at least five hours, based off the change of the sun’s position in the sky – but he doesn’t say anything to voice his amazement. That’s probably because there are a lot more important things to be talking about right now
“I found a sword and pack of supplies about a mile that way,” he says, gesturing towards the north end of the clearing, where Marissa was standing.
When I don’t say anything in reply – mostly because I still don’t trust my own voice to not give my internal pain away – Marshall asks me, “Do you think they could have belonged to whoever the gunshot was for earlier?”
I turn to look over at Marshall and find him watching me almost warily, as though he’s expecting me to lose it at any time. The scariest part is that he might not be so crazy in those fears. However, I don’t see any more than the normal amount of worry in his eyes, so I rule out the possibility that the bag he found was Luke’s.
I happened to find Abby’s backpack in the middle of the clearing a little while after she died – or at least it seemed like a little while; I suppose it could have been centuries, for all that my sense of time can be relied on right now – so I know that the bag Marshall found isn’t hers either. He seems to know that too; I guess he must have seen the blood spots in the snow, found me asleep with half-frozen tears on my face and put two and two together. I’m incredibly grateful that he hasn’t said anything about it yet, as I don’t think that I could bear to talk about what happened to Abby right now. I’d probably just break down crying again, and that wouldn’t be good at all.
“Maybe,” I reply numbly, surveying the clearing and painfully reliving every excruciating detail of Abby’s death in my mind. The thought occurs to me that Luke and Hunter could have been here too, and that the backpack and sword belonged to Hunter, who Luke killed, but I quickly brush that thought out of my mind. There’s no way that Luke could have held his ground against Hunter for any length of time, unless Hunter was incredibly weak or half-frozen. Wait, half-frozen…
I find myself turning to Marshall and saying, “I think the backpack and sword are Hunter’s, and Luke killed him to protect him and Abby. That means that Luke is still around here somewhere-” – I pause for a moment to test the air and find that Luke’s scent, as well as a whole hell of a lot of blood, is in the wind, and I curse myself for not thinking of this earlier; I suppose I have a decent excuse for being mentally out of it earlier though – “and that he’s probably lying out in the snow, bleeding to death right now.” My heart falls out of my chest to land somewhere around my midsection at the words I’m saying, and I force myself to take a deep breath and swallow. I can’t let Luke die on me today too; I think I really would lose it if that happened.
I turn back to Marshall and tell him desperately, “I can’t let Luke die on me today too. We have to find him, Marshall.” I hear the shakiness and almost fragility of my voice and think idly that maybe it’s a good thing that Marshall can hear how unnerved I am; maybe it will spur him to action quicker if he sees that the concrete girl is close to breaking.
Instead of questioning my theory, like any sane person with knowledge of Luke or Hunter but not of me would, or telling me to stay here while he goes to check it out, like any sane person with no knowledge of me would, Marshall just says, “Alright,” and gestures for me to lead the way.
We cross the clearing in silence, the crunching snow underneath our feet the only sound to break the still air. Marshall is observant enough to see how shaken up I am and, thank God, wise enough not to ask me about it, so both of us are left to our thoughts as we walk.
I can’t believe I let Abby down and broke my promise to myself that quickly; I should have been able to keep her alive for a lot longer than a day! If I hadn’t run off last night looking for Adelaide and Marcus, Luke, Marshall and Abby wouldn’t have split up because I would have been able to hold us together against the non-careers and stand up to Kuro. Again, I’ve failed my friends when they need me most, and come back in time only to see them die.
“Lizzie, look.” Marshall’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and, shaking my head slightly, I turn my gaze onto him to see where he’s pointing. It’s a bootprint that has to be Luke’s, because it’s too small to be Hunter’s, with a small puddle of blood in the snow next to it.
“You were right,” Marshall murmurs, tearing his eyes away from the footprint to glance around at the forest for any other clues. “Luke’s in here somewhere.”
“Now we just have to find him,” I say quietly, and Marshall nods his head. Well, there’s only about seven thousand, five hundred square miles of forest in the whole arena; how possibly could we not find him quickly?

“We need to find Luke quickly, Marshall,” I tell him as we set up our tent around a small camp fire. As Marissa and Hunter were probably the only careers to come up here, and there probably aren’t any people nearby – well, except for Luke, wherever he may be – we’ve decided it’s safe to start a small fire. Besides, after spending all day in the trees, we know the woods around us far better than anyone else does, so we’re about as safe as you’re going to get in a Triple Crown arena.
“We’ll find him tomorrow, Lizzie,” Marshall tells me reassuringly. He’s told me that same thing nearly five times now, but I guess he doesn’t get tired of trying to shut me up. “For now, we just have to hope that he’s set himself up in his tent and isn’t lying out in the snow freezing.”
I bite my tongue in order to stop myself from adding, “Or bleeding to death,” but the mood of the air around us is as bad as if I had actually said it. After all, the mere thought of someone dying doesn’t exactly help people’s morale.
“It will be fine, Lizzie,” Marshall says, his eyes locking on mine, but the lack of conviction in his words isn’t convincing at all. “Right now, all you can do for Luke is rest up so that way you’re prepared and fully energized to keep searching for him tomorrow.”
After sighing deeply – I really do hate it when Marshall is right about things like this – I nod my head in agreement and admittance and crawl into the tent to have Marshall crawl in after me. It’s technically only a one-person tent, but it’s the best Marshall and I can do right now, so it’s going to have to work.
Suddenly Puck’s booming voice breaks the silence of the forest, and he announces solemnly, “Section One: Michael Smith. Section Four: Marissa Evans and Hunter Knightley. Section Five: Abigail Williams. Section Six: Andrea Sparks. Section Seven: Claire Downs.” Puck pauses for a moment, making it clear that he’s not going to say any more names, and my eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I hadn’t realized so many people had died while I was incapacitated in the snow.
“And your kill leader for today is... Lizzie Lighting, with five kills!” Puck announces, his voice oozing true enthusiam here, and I groan. Why on earth does he insist on being so cheerful for singling me out to die?
After a few minutes, I’ve laid my head down and am about to drift off to sleep when a clacking sound next to me jerks me wide awake. Looking over, I find Marshall huddled up under all of the blankets we could muster, shivering, with his teeth chattering uncontrollably. I hadn’t realized it was that cold in here, but I guess my perception of temperature isn’t exactly the best, considering that I literally cannot get cold.
Taking a deep breath and sighing at what I know I’m going to have to do, I wordlessly scoot over towards Marshall, lift the blankets up, and press myself against him to hear his teeth stop chattering almost immediately.
“You’re like a furnace,” Marshall murmurs in my ear, his arms wrapping around me possessively.
“I know,” I reply quietly in reply, slightly grateful for the human contact, even though it isn’t the human I’d prefer to be curled up with. “You’re not much of a furnace at all though,” I add, noticing with concern that Marshall truly is freezing, and doesn’t seem to be warming up quickly at all.
“This is why I need you to keep me warm,” he tells me in reply, lifting his head so that our eyes meet. Even in the darkness, his blue-green-grey eyes are stunning enough to take my breath away, and I quickly drop my gaze, not wanting to be captured in them and lose all of my wits.
After a few moments of silence, Marshall says to me, causing me to look up and meet his stare again, “Pretend that I’m Luke. It will make things less awkward and more comfortable for you, I promise.”
I don’t like the idea of pretending that Marshall is Luke at all, because I know that no one, not even myself, will be able to convince me that anyone besides Luke is Luke, so I respond, “If I pretend that you’re Luke, I’m going to be tempted to strangle you for running away and making us go on this hunt.”
“Dying at your hands would be a whole hell of a lot better than any other death I could experience in this arena,” Marshall shoots back immediately, his response so Luke-esque that I can’t help but wonder if it really would be that hard to convince myself that he’s Luke.
“Marshall, the only thing that will make this less awkward for me is if I pretend that we’re just two friends on a camping trip or something,” I finally resign to telling him. It’s the truth, I guess; however, that will never happen either, so this night is going to be uncomfortable for me no matter what I do. Oh well; at least Marshall won’t freeze and I won’t be left with another dead friend on my conscience.
“Well do that then,” Marshall replies immediately, and I can’t help but smile even as my heart aches almost unbearably. He and Luke are so much alike in their personalities that it’s almost scary; if there was a person who could actually come close to replacing Luke, that person would most definitely be Marshall.
Marshall seems to notice my smirk, for he asks, his expression confused, “What are you smirking for?”
“You just remind me so much of Luke, it’s almost scary,” I tell him, and Marshall bows his head slightly. I guess he’s not so fond of me defining him in terms of Luke. However, I can’t blame him, because I don’t think I’d be very happy if Jackson defined me in terms of Alexa. I think I’d probably flip out and strangle Jackson if that actually happened.
“Well, I’m glad to be your living reminder until we actually find him,” Marshall tells me, giving me a kind smile, but no smile in the world could cover up the sadness and weariness in his eyes. I can’t even imagine how painful this must be for him, finally getting to hold me like he’s wanted to, only to find out that I’m thinking about a different guy. It must be even more painful for Marshall to want me as bad as he does but also know that I’ll never be his, that he’s fighting a battle for my heart that he was never a contender in to begin with.
To be perfectly honest, I think the only way that I would end up with Marshall is if Luke and Jackson both died, and the barrier between my dimension and this dimension never opened again. Now that I think about it, I guess that possibility really isn’t that much of a long shot. Marshall might have a chance with me after all then, although, if that actually does happen, he’ll be getting a broken concrete girl, a spark who’s all burnt out, and I’m not sure he’d even want me at that point.
“We’ll find him soon, Lizzie,” Marshall tells me quietly, his arms wrapping tighter around me as he does so. A part of him probably doesn’t even want to find Luke, because Marshall wants me all to himself for as long as possible.
“I know. I’m just afraid of what else we’ll find when we do,” I reply quietly, and Marshall bows his head again, this time in admittance of the fact that we could very well find something terrible as well as Luke.
“We’ll find him,” Marshall repeats one last time before making his grip on me even tighter, giving me a gentle kiss on the forehead, laying his head down and falling asleep instantly.
As I look over at Marshall and watch his tan, handsome face in the darkness and feel his chest rise and fall against mine, I can’t help but be a little jealous about how he and Luke can just fall asleep instantly like that. It takes me ages to fall asleep generally, and I almost always have nightmares once I do fall asleep, so I would kill to be able to drift off like that without a care in the world and without knowing that there are monsters waiting for you on the other side.
Of course, I’m even less enchanted by the idea of sleep tonight, with knowing that Kuro is in this dimension in the flesh and blood probably not very far from here. The thought that he could be videotaping me right now for that movie he told me he was making crosses my mind, and, before I can dismiss it, an involuntary shiver runs up my spine.
I know I’m being watched all of the time anyways, and that all of this footage will undoubtedly be made into a movie someday, but I can’t help but want Kuro not be one of the people monitoring me. After all, I wouldn’t put it past him to release the complete footage, with everything I’ve done – including the encounter with him in which many of my secrets are revealed – just to cause more chaos and fuck with the humans in this dimension.
Kuro has never liked humans in the eight and half thousand years he’s been on this earth, and them losing faith in him and eventually not fearing him or knowing about his existence at all angers him greatly. He thinks that he should be the one being worshiped and having churches built in his name and being feared and revered by half the world, not the Christian notion of God.
Of course, Kuro happens to have – he actually happens to be – proof that that God, or at least a singular, very powerful, transdecendal being who happened to father a semi-mortal child about two thousand years ago, exists, but that doesn’t increase Kuro’s appreciation of that God at all. Kuro does happen to basically be the living antithesis of that God though, presuming that God is all that is good about this universe and the things in it, so I guess he does kind of have a reason to hate that God. Kuro is basically the living embodiment of all evil and badness and barbaric nature in humans’ – and probably other intelligent life forms’ – hearts, while that God is the much-higher, much more powerful, nonphysical embodiment of everything worthwhile in humans: all of their goodness, which means that Kuro, to truly personify evil, basically has to hate that God. Besides, Kuro probably hates himself, somewhere deep down, so the fact that that God created Kuro to keep order in the universe is another reason for Kuro to hate that God.
Kuro has gotten his revenge against that God once or twice though, like when he turned the entire population of Jerusalem against Jesus and was the deciding vote as to whether or not they should kill Jesus instead of the murderer. Kuro also started the Crusades in God’s name, so that’s another blow Kuro’s managed to strike against that God. I personally don’t think Kuro will ever stop trying to get back at that God, as I don’t think Kuro will ever stop internally hating himself, no matter how long he lives or how much he claims to enjoy his job. After all, I think being evil incarnate would be very sad and very lonely, no matter how much of a sociopath you are.
Taking a deep breath and sighing, I pray to whatever God created Kuro that Kuro isn’t watching me right now, then bury my head in Marshall’s shoulder and find myself falling asleep amazingly quickly. The last thing I think before I drift off is that maybe I should keep Marshall around just as a sleep aide.

More added.

“Good morning Lizzie,” I hear a voice say as I open my eyes, and I smile, thinking that the person saying it to me is Luke. Then I realize that the voice is wrong, and open my eyes to see Marshall lying next me with a kind smile on his face, and all of my delusions about Luke are swept out of my mind as everything that happened last night comes flooding in.
“Marshall, we have to find Luke,” I tell him frantically, leaping out of the sleeping bag and searching around the tent wildly for my weapons.
“Looking for these?” I whip around to find Marshall, standing – well, as close to standing as you can get in this tent – now too, with my sword in one hand and my bow and quiver in the other.
“Yes, give them back!” I immediately reply, lunging at him to have my hands close on empty air as he sidesteps me.
“Lizzie, you’re not in your right mind,” Marshall tells me emphatically, his expression concerned and his eyes intense. “Hell, you haven’t even eaten in at least a day!”
As soon as he says that, my stomach growls conspicuously and I’m aware of how weak I really am, and I glare at him, as if me not eating is his fault.
After he holds his ground in a staring contest with me for a few seconds, I finally concede to eat something and say, “If I eat, I’m going looking for Luke right afterwards.”
“And I’m coming with you,” Marshall adds. “He’s my partner after all, and I’m not going to leave him to freeze in the snow.”
“You know that he could be dead already, and we just didn’t hear the gunshot?” I ask Marshall, secretly hoping against that possibility with every fiber of my being myself.
He nods his head and replies, “Yeah, I do. I don’t think that actually did happen, with your hearing and there not being a blizzard last night, but I am fully prepared for whatever we might find.” After a moment’s silence, he asks, his eyes locked on mine, almost in a challenge, “Are you?”
“I guess we’ll see,” I answer shortly, then snatch my bow and quiver away from him and exit the tent to find and kill three snow-hare-looking creatures within ten minutes. Well, I guess I don’t really have to worry about going hungry as long as I have my bow.
I come back to the tent, intending to show Marshall my kill and ask if he wants any, to find him crouched over a half-holographic, half-paper map spread out on the floor.
“What is that?” I exclaim in surprise to have him visibly jump, lay a hand on his sword and whip around to look at me. As soon as he sees that it’s me, he removes his hand from his sword, but it takes a few seconds longer for the surprise to leave his face.
“This,” he finally says, gesturing to the map, “is a map of the arena that I received as a gift about five seconds after you left.”
My heart immediately begins to race at the possibilities that map could hold and I can’t ask fast enough, “Does it show where all of the other champions are?”
“Sadly, no,” Marshall replies, and my hope flies out the window. So much for finding Luke the easy way. “However, it does show the contours of the land, major landmarks, and where I am.”
“Where you are?” I ask him curiously, squatting down next to him in order to get a better look at the map. In fact, it does show exactly where he is, with a little red dot labeled “You (Marshall Moore)” on it. That would be very cool if that didn’t mean that the map is tied into the tracking devices we’ve been tagged with.
“Yeah,” he says, gesturing to the little red dot. “It’s pretty nice, because now I can see exactly where I am in the arena, even if it is kind of creepy.” I guess the map being linked to the tracking devices on us didn’t escape him either.
“Well, that’s one more advantage we have over the careers,” I tell him, and he looks up at me like I’m crazy.
“We have advantages over the careers?” he questions in reply, his expression incredulous and skeptical. Thanks for the mental faith, Marshall; it really means a lot to me.
“Yeah, we do,” I tell him, choosing not to chew him out for looking like a doubting deer in the headlights when I said that the first time. “Number one: we’re mobile, and we don’t have a set supply camp that we have to return to all the time. Number two: we’re a smaller group, and therefore a lot harder to track and catch. And number three: that map of yours can help us predict exactly where the careers are.” I gesture to the map, and Marshall meets my gaze questioningly again. Well, I guess it’s better than him continuing to be skeptical.
“How can we know exactly where the careers are? They’d have to be on the map too for that to happen,” he points out, and I shake my head.
“We can use the geography of the land to predict where they’re going to go, if they’re going to move from the Giving Hands at all.” After a moment’s pause, in which time Marshall looks at me expectantly, I continue, “We know they’re not going to come up into the mountains, because moving all of their supplies that far and up that much of an elevation change would just be a stupid move and would leave them incredibly vulnerable while they were moving. We also know they’re not going to go into the forest, because they won’t be able to see potential attackers coming at them with the trees in the way. We also know they’re not going to go into the grasslands for the same reason. That means that the only places left for them to be are the plains out here, which means that we have effectively narrowed down the careers’ potential base camp location to only a fourth of the arena, and that happens to be a lot more than the careers know about where we are,” I finish triumphantly, looking over at Marshall to find him nodding his head in agreement and smirking slightly.
“Well, when you put it that way, we actually might have the upper hand,” he says, and I can’t help but smile along with him. Just because the careers have a bigger group and have more supplies doesn’t mean that they’re strategically better off than the rest of us. Like I proved in One-Person Survival, the careers can be taken out easily if you take out their supplies, which I’m probably going to have to do again this time. Not that I have a problem with completely destroying the careers’ only method of survival.
“We can win this, Marshall,” I tell him, putting conviction into my voice, because I actually have some right now. Of course, there’s always that looming threat of one of us having to die for the other one to win, but we can’t afford to think about that right now. Right now, we’ve got our hands full with just trying to survive.
Suddenly Marshall seems to notice the rabbits on my back and, jerking his chin in the direction of the carcasses, asks, “What do you have there?”
“Breakfast,” I reply, dropping the rabbits on the ground to see an almost animalistic flash of emotion run through Marshall’s eyes that almost scares me. I mean, I’d expect to see something like that in my eyes, considering I actually, at my heart, am an animal, but not in Marshall’s eyes.
However, it has been almost a day since he’s eaten anything, so he must be starving too; I guess it’s a good thing that I went hunting when I did. After all, I’d hate for him to turn cannibalistic – it wouldn’t be cannibalism in my case, since, even though eating humans goes against everything I believe (they just don’t taste very good either) I’m technically not a human – and me have to kill him in self-defense. That actually happened once, in Max’s Triple Crown, if I’m remembering right.
A pair of non-careers – exceptionally stupid non-careers, if you ask me – got themselves stranded in a three-day-long dust storm without any food, water or other supplies – the arena was a desert – and, when the dust storm cleared, there was one non-career and a half of a human body left. Like I said, I would hate for something like that to happen to us; I really wouldn’t want to kill Marshall just because he got hungry and decided I looked like the best food option around.
I mean, I don’t think that would happen unless we committed an incredible act of stupidity or somehow lost all means of survival, and I would trust Marshall with my life – I mean, I have already – but I know that, if worst came to worst, the animalistic instinct would undoubtedly take him over and I would just look like another prey animal to him.
I don’t think that would happen to me though, just because I’ve spent so long keeping my animal instinct locked inside of me that I don’t even know if it’s possible for me to lose control like that. Jackson’s capable of losing control, because he hasn’t been away from the animal part of him for nearly as long as I have, but I think that it would take a lot more than getting stranded somewhere with no means for survival to make me eat human. I mean, it’s not like I can die from hunger anyways, and I know I’d much rather go hungry than eat a friend; besides, I have means of survival as long as I have my hands, my feet,, my teeth, and my shapeshifting abilites. Things like a bow or a knife aren’t really necessary for me to hunt. They’re more just for show, to keep people from being suspicious. After all, I think people would be a little wary of me if I told them I went hunting with just my hands and teeth; they might actually begin to suspect of being the animal I am, if you can believe that.
“Here,” Marshall says, pulling me out of my thoughts after a few moments, and I look up just in time to catch a lighter. “There should be dry, fallen wood underneath the trees,” he tells me, and I nod my head. I don’t need him giving me survival or fire-starting lessons – I think I’ve already proved that I’m more adept than him at both of those – but I’m not going to argue with him right now; all that will do is waste time, time that Luke doesn’t have.
It doesn’t take me long to gather wood – there’s lots of it underneath the trees, just like Marshall said there would be – and I light a fire quickly, aiding the flames by urging them to get bigger with my element-controlling powers. In no time, I am rotating a fully skinned and gutted rabbit over the blaze, with an almost-drooling Marshall standing next to me, his stomach grumbling loud enough that I think I could probably hear it from a half a mile away, no joke.
“That smells so good,” he says, inhaling the scent of the roasting meat deeply, longingly and with anticipation. To be perfectly honest, he reminds me of a dog waiting for a bone.
“Keep your tongue in your mouth, will you?” I tease him. “The rabbit won’t cook as fast if you’re drooling into the fire and putting the flames out.” I turn and look at him for a moment, giving him a smirk, to find him with an almost abashed expression on his face.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, dropping his gaze to the snow for a moment. “I’m just really hungry.”
“I can see that,” I say sarcastically, then turn my attention back to the rabbit to find that it’s fully cooked and ready for us to eat.
After pulling it off the makeshift spit carefully – and only burning half of my fingers in the process – I offer half of it to Marshall, and he almost lunges for it, he’s so eager to have some.
“Bon appetit,” I say, and give him a smile before taking a bite into my rabbit. It’s good for a rabbit, not nearly as stringy as other rabbits I’ve eaten; I guess I know where to go if I’m looking for quality rabbit meat: the mountains.
I look up momentarily to find that Marshall hasn’t even touched his, which strikes me as very odd, considering his self-proclaimed starvation and ask him, “What’s the matter? Rabbit too hot to eat?” My mouth is also not a very good judge of temperature, considering I’ve eaten so many strange things at so many different temperatures over the years that my taste buds have bascially become accustomed to temperatures that would freeze or burn other people’s mouths.
“What language was that?” Marshall asks me, and I sigh. I should have known I was going to get asked about that, considering that he’s also a self-proclaimed language nut.
“French,” I answer, then pause for a moment, not knowing what else to say. I mean, I don’t know if they still speak French – although I think Marshall would have at least heard of the language if it was still commonly used – since they don’t speak Spanish any more, so I don’t know if there’s anything else I accurately can say. “It’s an old language,” I finally add – I mean, that’s true in my dimension, and we’re three thousand years in the past from this dimension – and Marshall nods his head in understanding, his eyes still glued to my face and filled with an incredible want for knowledge. I think he would make a great college professor, if he gets out of here and has a chance to actually be one.
“I’ve never heard it before,” Marshall tells me, his gaze locked on mine curiously. I can feel him trying – and failing – to suck all of my linguistic knowledge out through my eyes, and I can’t help but smile slightly. To him, I’m probably like a living textbook, a record of long-lost languages that he’s been searching for his whole life. Too bad I’m going to die without him writing down every lost language that I know. Finally, after a few moments of silence, he asks, “What is with you and ancient languages? It seems like I can’t turn around without you speaking in a language that doesn’t exist anymore.”
Deciding to lie to keep things safe – and my lie isn’t really even a lie, since my parents are language nuts like Marshall; they were just around when many of these languages were being created – I tell him, “My parents are serious language nuts, even more so than you are.” I give him a smile before adding, “They live and breathe ancient languages, and, since I’m in the same house as them, I guess I’ve breathed in some of their ancient languages too.”
Marshall smiles slightly at me smiling at him and at what I said – probably at me smiling at him more than anything though – before replying, “Yeah, I never really had much free time to look into ancient languages, with working in the forges and training for the Triple Crown and all.” Marshall looks over at me momentarily, and I nod, his mention of the forges reminding me of something – well, someone – I haven’t really thought of in a while.
“I think you would like my ex-boyfriend Troy. He’s a language nut and blacksmith too,” I say, and can’t resist adding, “You guys have so much in common, maybe you should date.”
Marshall smiles weakly at my joke – obviously that would never happen, considering that he and Troy are both straight and both still hung up on me – and responds, “He sounds like a pretty cool guy. I think you have to be a pretty cool guy to catch your attention though.”
Feeling his gaze on the side of my face, I say quietly, with a half-abashed smile, “Yeah,” to feel the intensity of his gaze jump up exponentially.
“What was he like, your ex?” Marshall asks me, and I look up to meet his gaze curiously and see bitterness and longing in his eyes. Well, if he wants to jump in and make life harder on himself, I guess I should tell him. Besides, it’s not like he has much to be jealous of; I didn’t really love Troy any more than I love Marshall.
“Well, he’s very tall – seven feet even – and very strong – four-sport athlete, can run a mile in abut four minutes and bench about four hundred pounds, all that stuff. He’s also very handsome – trust me,” I say, smiling slightly at the dubious look on Marshall’s face, “that’s a fact that’s been proven by numerous polls-” – with him and I both being Olympic-caliber athletes and sort of a celebrity couple, People and a bunch of magazines like that did numerous polls about us – “-and he’s also very intelligent. He and I were basically a perfect match, compatible in every aspect, and some people even thought we would be together all throughout high school and college and eventually get married. He definitely wanted that; in fact, he even told me once that he would buy a ring and propose to me right then if there wouldn’t be so much societal backlash.”
“But you didn’t want that?” Marshall asks me, his eyes glued to the side of my face, and I nod my head in confirmation.
“No,” I reply simply, shaking my head. “It’s not that Troy wasn’t good enough for me – if anything, he was too good for me – I just never truly loved him. I thought I was, and maybe even believed in my heart that I was in love with him, but I was more in love with the idea of being in love than anything else. After a while – a year and about six months, to be exact – I decided that I didn’t want to pretend anymore, and I dumped him. Well, I did let him down pretty easy, so I don’t know if ‘dumped’ is quite the right word.”
“What did you tell him?” Marshall questions, and I look over at him to find him watching me earnestly before answering.
“That he was perfect for me, but that he wasn’t what I wanted,” I respond quietly. After a moment’s pause, a bitter smile flits across my face and I add, “Isn’t it funny how history repeats itself? First with Troy, then with Luke.”
“But you actually love Luke,” Marshall says, and I glance over at him in amazement and confusion. I thought he was supposed to be winning my heart, not trying to affirm my relationship with another guy. Oh, right, Marshall is also one of those very weird and very rare guys that will actually give me the complete truth and not try to manipulate me. “And don’t say that you don’t, because I see it in your eyes when you look at him, and the way your face lights up when you see him, and the way you kiss him like you can’t get enough of him.” Marshall’s voice gets choked off by emotion, and I look over at him again to find him clenching his fists and obviously trying hard not to punch something. It must be terrible, saying all of those increibly true things and wishing with all of his heart that he could be using ‘I’ and ‘me’ instead of ‘he’ in that sentence.
“I didn’t originally love him though,” I reply, and Marshall’s expression loses some of its anger. “Luke’s kind of...crept up on me during the course of the Triple Crown, so much so that now I don’t know what I’d do if he died and I lived. I think I’d probably spend the rest of my life trying to make it so that we were both dead.”
“And that’s why you want to die in here, right?” Marshall prompts, and I nod my head.
“Yeah. That way I can be sure that I die, since you never know what the Triple Crown committee will do. For all I know, they would paralyze me, but leave me fully capable of knowing that Luke is dead and that I’m helpless to take my own life and join him, just to torture me for all of the things I did to spite them.” I find my own hands balling into fists at that thought, since I know that the Triple Crown committee certianly could and maybe even would do something like that to me, just as their own personal, fucked-up way of getting revenge. Death would be a lot more merciful than that, to be perfectly honest.
“And you get to control your death in here,” Marshall adds, and I nod my head in agreement.
“I actually can be the spark if I die in here,” I finish, and now it’s Marshall’s turn to nod his head. I feel his gaze on the side of my cheek and sigh, not able to not think that it would be so much easier on him if he would just forget me and move on, or – better yet – never have fallen in love with me in the first place. After all, love in a place like this only makes things more painful and fucks things up even more.
“Is this really what you want?” Marshall asks me quietly, and I look over at him inquisitively. “Is this death by martydom – bleeding for the world, basically, and choosing to be the scapegoat – really what you want?”
“It doesn’t really matter what I want anymore, Marshall, because I’ve committed myself too greatly to this cause to choose a different fate now,” I reply quietly, bitterness tingeing my tone and emphasizing my words.
“You’re not answering my question, Lizzie, because I’m not asking you if you can get what you want. I’m asking you what you want, regardless of whether it’s possible now or not,” he tells me, and I look up to meet his gaze and see the raw intensity and emotion in his brilliant blue-green eyes. “So is this really what you want?”
“Well, it’s definitely one of the best ways to die, and, seeing as I’m going to die sometime, why not die like this? At least I’m helping someone if I die this way.” When I see Marshall open his mouth to protest that that’s not really an answer either, I add quickly, a hint of a smile on my face, “That’s a yes, Marshall.”
Marshall, however, doesn’t smile or nod his head, like I thought he would. Instead, he stares over at me with almost awe on his face. “So dying like this is really what you want, what you would do even if you had different options?”
“Yeah,” I reply immediately, then elaborate, “Like I told Luke once: everyone has to be something in this world, Marshall. I guess I’m the martyr.” After a moment’s pause, I add, “Besides, all I want is to make a change in the world, and I’d say I’m making a pretty big change in a lot of people’s lives by doing this. I’m granting people the freedom they weren’t strong enough to get by themselves.”
Here Marshall nods his head in understanding, although his expression is still slightly stunned and his eyes are still clouded in thought.
Suddenly I realize that, during the course of our conversation, the fire’s gone out, and that I’m not really hungry any more, so I toss the rest of my rabbit – I did eat about half of it – at Marshall to rise to my feet and tell him, “I’m going looking for Luke. You can stay behind if you want.”
“You honestly think I would?” Marshall asks me incredulously, and I bow my head slightly in defeat. No, I didn’t actually think he would, but I thought I should at least give him the option of staying behind and opting not to witness a potential breakdown or be in the middle of a hurricane or electric storm that I cause.
Realizing that we still have two fully cooked, uneaten halves of rabbits, I glance around for something to wrap them up in to find that there’s nothing. After all, it’s not like we’re going to find those huge green, waxy leaves like there were in the rainforest out here in the snow. Wait, the snow...
“I think we’re not going to be able to keep the meat we didn’t eat on us. I’ll have to bury it in the snow for it to stay fresh,” I tell Marshall, and he nods his head. Apparently the same thoughts occurred to him; he would flipping out and asking me frantically why if they hadn’t, because meat – and all food in general – is such a precious commodity out here in the Triple Crown.
“It’s a shame, that we can’t take the meat with us,” Marshall murmurs as he watches me bury the two rabbit halves in a three-foot snow drift about ten feet away from our tent. “One of those abominable snowmen you’re related to can come up and take our meat this way.” I look up sharply to find him smirking down at me, his eyes twinkling, and I can’t help but smile back. In his own, completely different way from Luke and Jackson, Marshall really is completely irresistible.
“Was it the big feet that gave it away?” I ask him, joining in the teasing and feeling my smile get exponentially bigger as I do so. Marshall’s right; it really has been a while since I’ve truly smiled.
“That, and you laying in the snow for almost six hours and not freezing to death.” Suddenly Marshall’s tone has gone from teasing to completely inquisitive, and I meet his gaze carefully. Marshall’s only to get more questions than answers out of starting this, whether I choose to answer or not. “How did you do that, Lizzie? That’s not humanly possible.” He stares me down, and, for the first time, I realize how truly poweful those blue-green eyes can be. I can feel myself wanting to bend to his will underneath their stern gaze.
“I have a... condition, I guess you could call it,” I reply, rising to my feet to gain ground on him and get a better hold of myself in our staring contest. “My body temperature is about three degrees higher than the average human, and it won’t change, no matter what I do.”
“So basically you can’t get cold?” Marshall says, and I nod my head in confirmation, smiling slightly at the amazed look on his face as I do so. I’d think, after all the things he’s seen me do and all of the things he’s learned about me and my past, that finding out I have an abnormally high body temperature wouldn’t amaze him that much. I guess he finds my anatomy more fascinating than I realized.
“That’s amazing,” Marshall replies, his expression still stunned and almost reverent now as he looks me up and down with a renewed interest. “It’s like you have homeostasis to the max.”
I can’t help but laugh at that last comment, and, when I’m coherent enough to speak again, I reply, “Way to go out of your way to quote Biology.”
“Hey, I passed that class with a hundred and two percent. I have rights to quote it as much as I want,” he tells me, and I burst out laughing again. Now Marshall’s just proving the point that he’s irresistible.
“Oh man, I love you Marshall,” I find myself saying when I stop giggling, and suddenly the air around us changes completely to have all of its frivolity replaced by sheer amazement and emotion. Surprised by the change and wondering what could have made it, I look up at Marshall to find him staring at me with an amazed, intense look on his face.
Without waiting for me to ask, “What?” he says quietly, his tone amazed, hopeful and apprehensive, “You just said, ‘I love you’ to me. Do you... do you mean that?” He meets my gaze again, his eyes pleading me to say yes, and it’s a few moments before I finally do respond.
“Yeah, I do,” I murmur in reply, my eyes locked on his, to see hope and joy blossom in his expression and a huge smile spread out across his face. I think he probably would have run at me and kissed me right then and there if I hadn’t added quickly, “But like a friend, or a brother even. Not like the way you love me, Marshall.”
It feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest when I see Marshall’s face fall, and, sighing deeply, I turn away from him. It’s too painful to look at him and know I caused that pain; I guess I won’t be looking at him for a while then.
After a few moments of incredibly awkward silence, during which time I’m staring off into the snow and Marshall’s eyes are boring holes into the back of my neck, he finally says, trying to make his tone sound upbeat but only sounding defeated, “Well, I guess you loving me like that is better than how it used to be, how you didn’t love me at all.”
“Yeah,” I respond, not able to keep the bitterness and exasperation out of me voice. What he doesn’t understand is that me loving him is actually going to make it just that much harder on both of us, because he’s only going to want me more and I’m only going to want to bleed for him more, neither one of which is particularly good. “Sure,” I add, feeling the air around us lose the fake optimism Marshall put in it to just be cold, kind of like our relationship.
After a few more moments go by in an almost restless silence, both of us waiting for the other one to say something, I finally grow tired of waiting, and, without turning towards him again, tell him, “Come on. We need to go find Luke.” I then turn and leave our campsite, not bothering to wait for Marshall to follow me. In the end, he never does.

More added.

“Luke!” I cry as soon as I see his blonde head sticking out of a snowbank, my heart filling with relief and happiness at the fact that, after two hours of searching, I’ve finally found him. However, all of my happiness flies out the wind at the fact that Luke is lying in a snowbank, and, coming to my senses, I run towards him in a panic.
I know that he could very well be dead already – maybe the Triple Crown committee ordered that a gunshot not go off and that his body not get eaten by the dirt so they can rub his death (and therefore their victory over me) in my face – but, as I try to brace myself for whatever could be waiting for me when I see him, I know that no amount of bracing myself will actually make any difference. I will be just as torn up if he’s dead whether I tell myself not to calm down or not.
“Luke,” I murmur when I reach him and drop to my knees next to him, my hands balling into fists and my heart creeping up into my throat as I see the huge gash across his ribs, probably only a few inches below his heart. It’s only by luck that Luke hasn’t frozen or bled to death yet – he’s still breathing at least – and I know, with absolute certainty, that he will die if I don’t try to patch him up, and may die even if I do.
“Lizzie,” Luke whispers, his ice-blue eyes, normally so clear but now clouded with pain, popping open and a weak smile stretching across his face as he sees me. “You came for me,” he says quietly, his voice so full of joy that I think my heart’s going to burst from pain, and I nod my head in reply, not trusting myself to speak.
After a few moments, I’ve finally regained control of my voice, and, trying to sound brave and strong and unshaken – basically everything I’m not right now – tell him, “Well it’s not like I was going to let you freeze in the snow. I can’t believe you thought I’d let you get off that easy for ditching me.”
Luke’s smile gets slightly bigger, and he reaches his hand up to find one of mine and give it a feeble squeeze. “How foolish of me,” he replies, playing along with the joke, and, even though I know that he’s very close to death and every second he goes untreated is every second closer to me losing him, I can’t help but smile too, and bend down over him to kiss his gently.
After a few long, desperate moments, I pull back to give Luke another smile and ask him gently, “What happened?”
“It was Hunter and Marissa,” Luke tells me, and immediately I know that my hunch about what happened is correct. I guess that means Luke really did hold off and kill Hunter then. “They tracked Abby and I after we ran away from that... presence-” – I can’t help but notice that Luke talks about the presence aka Kuro with more fear than he talks about Hunter and Marissa, even though he almost died, and may, in the end, die because of them – “-and finally they caught up to us up here. I told Abby to run when they finally cornered us, but Marissa followed her and left Hunter alone with me. I ran away from him for a little while longer, then got tired of running, turned to face him, and took him out after about five minutes of fighting, even though I got nicked up pretty badly.” He glances down at the huge slash covering most of his torso, and I idly think that I don’t even want to know what he classifies as ‘severely injured’ if this is only ‘nicked up pretty badly’.
“I’m guessing Abby didn’t have nearly as good luck with Marissa though,” he ends, looking up at me, and I nod my head slightly, my face falling involuntarily at the memory of Abby’s death. Even though Puck did announce her name for all of the world to hear and recognize it as meaning that she’s dead, I guess Luke didn’t catch it because he was passed out in a snowbank, attempting to die on me.
A few moments go by in silence until Luke finally asks the question on his mind – it’s not really my fault that I’m in his mind; he’s a really loud thinker. “Did you take Marissa out?” He meets my gaze, a sort of morbid curiosity in his eyes, and I nod. “Good,” he says, his tone slightly satisfied. “It’s no more than she deserved.”
“It’s a whole lot less than she deserved,” I can’t help but add, and now it’s Luke’s turn to nod his head in agreement.
“I don’t think there’s a torture bad enough on earth to make up for all of the things she did,” Luke murmurs, and, as I nod my head again, I am about to allow myself to get lost in my own mind and think about how Marissa Evans went wrong when I come to my senses and realize that Luke is the far more pressing issue here.
“Luke, we have to get you out of here,” I tell him, trying not to let the panic I’m feeling creep its way into my voice, and I bend down over him to carefully remove his backpack, sling it on my back and pick him up in my arms and notice, with concern, how much thinner he feels. I guess I’m not the only one who needs to be eating more now, although I guess he does have the excuse of being thrown into a frozen wasteland where food is very hard to come by.
“I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m the one who’s supposed to be doing this,” Luke mutters, and I can’t help but smile slightly.
However, I don’t say anything in reply, as I’m too preoccupied with my thoughts of Luke dying in my arms, and a few long, silent minutes pass before Luke finally says something again.
“Is Marshall with you?” Luke asks me, looking up at me curiously and worriedly, and I force myself to keep my expression in check. It would do no good for Luke to know about the little spat Marshall and I got in before I came looking for him.
“Yeah,” I reply shortly, not able to keep all of the tenseness out of voice, but thankfully Luke has the sense – and the knowledge of me – to not ask me anything about it when it’s obvious that I don’t want to talk.
After about fifteen minutes of silence, Marshall’s and my camp finally comes into view, and I look down at Luke momentarily to tell him, “We’re here.”
I then look back up to call out towards the tent, “Marshall! Marshall, I’ve got Luke!” and hesitate momentarily to listen for an answer. When none comes, I force myself to keep the concern off of my face and march towards the tent, thinking that Marshall better have a damn good reason for not answering.
When I come up to the tent, setting Luke down gently off to one side but not gently enough to stop him from groaning in pain, and pull the tent flap aside, I see that Marshall does in fact have a damn good reason for not answering. He has headphones in his ears, apparently plugged into the map he’s studying, and, as I look over his shoulder, I find him drawing some sort of lines on the map – potential career movements?
When I shift forward to get a better look at what he’s doing, my knee bumps Marshall’s back some, and he lets out a strangled cry of surprise to whip around to face me. When he sees that it’s me, he stops panicking some and takes a few deep breaths, and, as he pulls out his headphones out of his ears, he shakes his head at me.
“My God, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” Marshall tells me as soon as he can hear me, and I at least have the dignity to look abashed here. However, my abashedness doesn’t remove the grim look from my face, which causes Marshall to ask, his expression now becoming concerned as well, “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Luke,” I answer quietly, and Marshall immediately knows what I’m talking about. Without waiting for me to say anything else, he exits the tent quickly, and I follow suit, waiting for him to choke back a cry of surprise and horror like I did when I first saw Luke.
However, no such cry escapes Marshall’s lips. Instead, he merely tells Luke, as he manages a half-smile, “Man, you got yourself pretty dinged up, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess I did,” Luke agrees, returning Marshall’s grin, although neither one of theirs looks pain-free or real.
“At least you took out Hunter though. We won’t have to deal with him anymore, thanks to you,” Marshall says, looking over at me as a prompt, and I quickly nod my head in agreement.
“You did great Luke,” I murmur sincerely, my eyes locking on his as I give him a small, sad smile. I can’t help but wonder, every time I talk to him now, if that will be the last thing I say to him, the last communication I ever have with the boy who currently possesses more than fifty percent of my heart.
“It’s funny, how you guys like to lie to keep me happy,” Luke says quietly, not looking amused at all, and immediately my heart plummets. He shouldn’t be saying things like that; no, he should be saying that he didn’t do that great, and that he just got lucky, not decrying the fact that he did anything at all. I’m the only one who gets to say things like that!
“We’re not lying, Luke,” I tell him, my tone harsher than I had originally intended for it to be. Oh well; maybe he’ll get the message quicker by realizing how serious I really am. “You did an amazing thing, and it’s our place to thank you for it.”
“So killing another person is an amazing thing?” Luke shoots back, stunning me into silence. It’s amazing how much our roles have switched around in this Triple Crown: he’s become cynical like me, and I’ve tried to tell him things that may or may not be true to keep him happy like him. Actually, now that I think about it, he’s become a lot more cynical than I have become happy-word-distributing, so I guess that means that we’re both basically becoming or staying as me. Holy shit, we have another serious problem, besides Luke dying.
“It’s better than dying,” Marshall replies, sparing me from having to answer, and I make a mental note to thank God and/or Marshall for his quick thinking and excellent rebuttal skills.
“Oh really?” Luke replies, and I note again, with even more worry this time, how much he truly is sounding like me, which isn’t a good thing at all. “Who’s to say that my life is worth more than Hunter’s life? Who’s to put a value on human existence?” Luke looks between Marshall and me, his gaze daring one of us to reply. Unfortunately for Luke, Marshall actually takes him up on that dare.
“Either you die or he dies, Luke, so wouldn’t you rather it be you?” Marshall shoots back, stunning Luke into a momentary silence. “I mean, Hunter would have undoubtedly died sometime in the next three weeks anyways, even if you hadn’t killed him yesterday, so you wouldn’t have been saving him at all by sparing him and letting him kill you. You would’ve just gotten yourself killed and prolonged Hunter’s suffering out here.” Marshall gestures to the frozen wasteland around us, and I can’t help but smile at the stunned and almost indignant expression on Luke’s face. I guess he didn’t really plan for this argument to go like it has. “You did Hunter a favor if you did him anything at all, Luke. You can’t fault yourself for that,” Marshall ends, and Luke looks down and drops his head as a sign of submission, that he’s admitting that he lost the argument.
“Now come on, let’s get you inside,” Marshall says, and, scoops Luke up in his arms to march towards the tent again.

“Luke’s dying,” I murmur quietly as I stare into the flames lighting the darkness around Marshall and me, my hands balling into fists involuntarily at the thought of losing Luke. I cleaned Luke’s wounds and patched him to the best of my ability a few hours ago, and, having as much experience with death as I do, I know that he’s on his way out unless I can find an antibiotic to fight off the infection taking him over. However, I know that I can’t let him go, I just can’t, because a good chunk of my heart will go with him and leave me even emptier than I am now. “And there’s nothing I can do to heal him.”
Marshall has opened his mouth and is just about to say something in response – undoubtedly a lie that’s about how we’ll find a way to save Luke and there’s no reason for me to worry – when the snowy ground in front of me opens with a hideous scraping sound to reveal a folded sheet of paper.
“What the hell...?” I exclaim quietly, staring at the paper dubiously. Undoubtedly it’s something from Max, a map message or piece of useful information maybe, but, considering all the help Max has given me so far in Team Survival – as in, zero – I’m not very eager to pick it up and unfold it.
“Do you want me to...?” Marshalls asks me, gesturing towards the paper, and, for a half-second, I’m tempted to take him up on his offer and say yes.
However, I know that whatever’s on the paper has to be for me and that I should be the first one to read it, so, after taking a moment to steel myself and fight back my anger against Max, I dismiss Marshall’s offer with a wave of my hand and say, “No. It’s mine, so I should be the one to open it.”
I then reach out, pick the paper up with a slightly shaking hand, and do just that to find, written in Max’s crude handwriting, a command.
“Look in Hunter’s bag,” I read aloud, and immediately toss the note aside with a snort of contempt. Marshall and I already did look through Hunter’s bag, and pulled out everything of value: food, water jugs, clothes and hot packs to keep our hands and extremities warm. In fact, the only thing we didn’t take out of the bag was a small vial of clear liquid, which we thought, given that Hunter was a career, might be some sort of chemical bomb.
“Wait...” I think aloud, leaping to my feet and running inside the tent to pull the vial out of Hunter’s bag, giving Luke sleeping the corner a glance to make sure that he wasn’t waken up by my entrance. When I confirm that he is still in fact dozing, I hold the vial up to see that there can’t be more than fifteen milliliters of completely clear liquid inside the little glass tube. After a few seconds of examining it and swirling the liquid around, I finally come to the conclusion that I don’t have anything to lose, and decide to open it.
With some difficulty, I warily uncork it – it doesn’t explode upon contact with the air, which is a promising start – and take a whiff to smell a cacophony of herbal smells, underlied by a faint, familiar scent that I just can’t put my finger on. An explosive chemical cocktail wouldn’t smell like herbs and something else familiar, right?
After a few moments of looking back and forth between Luke and the vial, I eventually think what the hell, what’s left for me to lose, if it is a bomb at least we’ll both blow up together, and bend down over Luke to carefully trickle the contents of the vial into his mouth. Immediately some color returns to his deathly-pale face, and he begins to look alive again.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, staring down at the vial in my hand. I can save Luke, if I can get my hands on more of this stuff, and, considering that the careers have more than three-quarters of the supplies in Team Survival, I know exactly where I can get more.
Quickly I throw a pack of supplies on my back, gather up all of my supplies, and dart out of the tent to tell Marshall, who’s giving me a curious, worried look, “I’ve found a way to save Luke that involves raiding the careers’ camp.”
On a whim, I pick up the note I tossed aside out of the snow and am about to stand up when I notice that my black lightning bolt, the supersuit and switchblade in disguise, is sitting in the snow where the ground originally peeled away to reveal Max’s note. I guess Marshall didn’t notice its appearance, as he seems to be just as surprised as I am when I slip into my pocket.
I then stand up and am about to fold the note up and put it in my pocket with my lightning bolt when I notice that the writing on it has changed. Unfolding it again, I can’t help but smile as I read the new message.
Go get ‘em, Lightning.

“This is it, this is my chance to save Luke,” I murmur to myself as I stare out at the careers’ camp. It’s quiet, almost too quiet, with no guard out front, although I guess it is almost midnight and the careers aren’t expecting anyone to attack them on their own turf. You’d think that they might have revised that policy of cockiness for Team Survival, considering that I actually did attack their camp during One-Person Survival, but I’m not complaining. It will just make raiding their supplies that much easier.
I am just about to creep forward and make a run for their supply pile, which seems to be completely unguarded, when my eyes pick up something metallic glinting in the snow. Squatting down to take a closer look, I find, with horror – since I almost ran into it – a trip wire attached to two land mines dug up from the ankle cuffs. I guess they decided to try to turn my strategy against me this time, and they almost had me too.
However, with the location they have the grenades positioned in, they would end up blowing themselves and their supplies up if someone actually did activate the trip wire. I guess that means that it’s almost an ingenious plan; they just need to move the grenades farther away from their supply pile and their tents, unless they plan on blowing up with the supplies.
If it weren’t for the fact that I need to get some more of that medicine for Luke, I would back up and throw a snowball at the trip wire to activate it and take out the careers and their supplies quickly and easily. I probably will do that, after I get Luke’s medicine.
I skirt around and over all three of the trip wires they have set up easily, which my eyes have no problem picking out against the whiteness of the snow. As soon as I have a clear path to the supply pile, I approach the mountain, and carefully look it over, trying to find packs identical to the one Hunter had, to pull out two packs after a few seconds of observation.
I unzip both of them warily, giving my surroudings a glance as I do so, to stick my hands in them and have my fingers find two small glass vials in each of them. Sighing slightly in relief – I’ll have to thank Max for this later – I pull five more packs out of the pile to steal the vials out of them and put the vials in the first two packs I grabbed. I’d love to take all five packs – I mean, it’s not like you can really ever have too many supplies, unless you have so many that you have a mountain you have to booby-trap – but I don’t have enough shoulders and arms to carry them all with, and too many supplies will just slow me down and make me vulnerable. I toss the five looted packs onto the pile, and turn around to immediately feel the wind whip up around me and have snow driven into my eyes.
Squinting through the sheets of white, I find that, even with my eyes, I can barely see ten feet in front of me because of this instanteous blizzard that has to be a production of the Triple Crown committee. After all, normal blizzards don’t just start in five seconds, and the timing – clearly the Triple Crown committee is trying to get me lost and/or in a fight with the careers – is too perfect for this storm to be natural. I guess the only good thing about this storm is that the cameras and microphones are going to be able to see and hear less than I do, which means that, if worst comes to worst and I really do have to fight the careers, I have a cover for summoning more wind and more lightning. After all, a little more wind isn’t going to look out of place when the blizzard’s raging at at least fifty miles an hour, and the lightning could be easily mistaken for me using my supersuit to blow up something. For once, I have the perfect cover for being me.
Unfortunately, this storm, while being an excellent cover, also happens to be stopping me from seeing where the trip wires are. Sighing and reminding myself to cuss out the Triple Crown committee the next chance I get, I shrug one of the packs off my shoulders to pull out a lighter and flick it open, creating a tiny flame that instantly illuminates everything around me. That also means that it instantly illuminated me, so any person within a few hundred yards of me – aka the careers – can see me clearly, even with the blizzard, as the light seems to shine through the snow. I guess that means I’ll just have to be quick about using the flame to locate the trip wires and get out of here.
Squatting down, I hold the flame out in front of me to find the first trip wire mere inches from my hand. Keeping the lighter close to the trip wire so I don’t lose sight of where it is and end up triggering it, I step over it carefully, then turn my attention to the ground in front of me, where the next trip wire waits.
I do the same thing for that one too, and am just about to step over the third one and make a run for it when a light flips on inside the last tent, illuminating a standing human figure, and an excited voice that is unmistakably Danica’s says, “It looks like we have a visitor.”
The human figure points towards me, and, recovering from my momentary shock quickly, I leap over the third trip wire to begin to run.
Unfortunately, Danica’s almost as fast as me, and she started from in front of me to begin with, so, after a moment, I find myself skidding to a stop and staring down the barrel of a gun pointed at me by a smirking Danica, a light hanging around her neck that illuminates everything around us. Immediately I flip my lighter out and slide it into my pocket, since there’s no need to give her more light to see by, especially when I have the advantage of night-vision.
“I knew you’d come,” Danica murmurs, her eyes locked on mine. In the low light, with the snow whirling around her and a rifle in her hand, she looks almost mad, like she just broke out of a mental hospital.
Even though that gun can’t hurt me – well, I guess she could shoot it at me and it could hit me, but it’s not like it would do any damage; the more likely possibility is that, if she does fire it at me, I redirect the bullet by twisting the air around us or I just jump out of the way (amazing wolf reflexes) – the expression on her face is enough to send shivers up my spine. It’s one that says she won’t stop until I’m dead, or she dies trying to kill me.
“How’s Marshall doing?” she asks me, a smirk on her face as she stares me down. She has the definite advantage here, especially now that her fellow careers are waking up, grabbing their weapons, and coming out to surround me, and she knows it too. “Have you killed him yet?” My hands ball into fists at what Danica’s suggesting – as if I would mutiny against the one person willing to die for me who doesn’t really even know me; well, I guess Luke’s in that company too, but he won’t get a chance to die for me unless I get back to the camp with the medicine to heal him – and I can’t stop the gutteral snarl building up inside of me from escaping my lips.
Danica laughs at that, and the other careers – much to my surprise, there are only two others; it’s amazing that the other ones all got killed off already – join in, but I can sense the nervousness in her laugh. Some part of her probably knows that my snarl wasn’t human, and that she doesn’t have the psychological advantage at all. In fact, she and the other careers just don’t have an advantage at all.
“So, Lightning, I guess this is it. Now you’ll finally get to know what it’s like to die, except you’ll stay dead, unlike me.” A crazy smile, one that definitely makes me think she should be in a mental institution right now, creeps across her face, and she raises the rifle in her hand to aim it at my heart.
“Goodbye, Lightning,” she says quietly, her eyes locked on mine. “Not like anyone’s going to miss you.” As if in slow-motion, I see her fingers tense on the trigger, and, a nanosecond before she actually can fire it, I leap into action.

More added.

Running at Danica and taking her by surprise, I feel the bullet that originally had my name on it whistle by my ear and then imbed itself, with a slight boom, in the supply pile. When I reach Danica, I punch her swiftly in the nose and in the stomach, causing her to double over, unconscious, and drop the gun, which I immediately pick up. Hefting the rifle in my hands, I aim it at the other two careers, who are currently standing there in shock, to have them run at me, one falling behind the other so that they form a sort of line.
As soon as they move towards me, I fire at the first one to have him fall over, dead, and hear two gunshots that aren’t mine go off. Wait, two gunshots? I only shot the first career, so why on earth would there be two gunshots going off?
My question is immediately answered when I see the second career falling to the ground, blood spurting out of a wound in her chest. I didn’t realize the bullet was moving fast enough to go all the way through the first career and take out the second career as well, as the rifle seemed pretty old and therefore like it didn’t have that much muzzle velocity to me, but I guess I was wrong.
I have dropped the gun and am just about to walk away, the packs slung over my back and my heart slightly heavy at killing two more people, when I hear something move behind me and whip around to find Danica rising to her feet, the gun in her hands again.
“You’re supposed to be unconscious,” I tell her, my hands balling into fists at my stupidity. Why on earth didn’t I move the gun out of her reach when I dropped it, to prevent something like this from happening?
“And you’re supposed to be dead, because I’m supposed to have shot you a minute ago,” Danica immediately replies, her eyes locked on mine. If her expression was wild and crazy before, she must be downright insane now. “That doesn’t matter now though, because you’re dead either way.”
She lifts the gun up to aim it straight at my heart, a psychotic smile curling her lips. “Did you honestly think you could ever beat us, Lightning? No matter how tough you are, no matter how many people you can kill, no matter how good a survivor you are, you can never beat us, because we are the embodiment of survival skills, of raw want to stay alive, of pure human instinct, and there is nothing more powerful than instinct. You may be more civilized and more intelligent than we are, but that doesn’t mean you have an advantage on us at all. We are the true survivors, Lightning, not you, because we are fully prepared to take out anything in our path.”
“Danica, you and your career cronies don’t know the definition of true survivor,” I tell her, boring holes into her eyes with my powerful gaze. “You are opportunists with incredibly enlarged senses of self-preservation, but that doesn’t mean you know how to survive at all; no, all that means is that you don’t know the true purpose of survival. You don’t know that mental and spiritual survival, as in dying for the ideas you live for, is far more important than physical survival, than merely staying alive. After all, what point is there to staying alive if suffering and hatred is all that awaits you? This ignorance of yours does not make you strong, Danica. It merely makes you selfish.”
It’s a few moments before Danica recovers from her shock enough to manage a half-hearted sneer and say, “Well, that ignorance is letting me win this fight of life-or-death with you, so I’d say you’re the one who’s ignorant, Lightning.”
“And you just proved my point,” I add calmly, a smile stretching across my face as I stare her down.
Finally, after a few long moments of silence, she loses her calm and the staring contest, and bursts out, “Enough with this! You’re annoying me, so let’s shut you up, shall we?”
“Be my guest, Danica,” I tell her quietly, an infernal smirk that must just be driving her crazy painted across my face. I can’t die because her bullet won’t hurt me if it hits me, so why on earth would I even act afraid? If I’m about to have some of my deception revealed and be outed as an immortal, I might as well have fun taunting the person who’s going to out me.
“Hope you have fun dying, Lightning,” Danica says, her eyes locked on mine, as her fingers tense on the rifle’s trigger once more.
However, I don’t really want to be shot this time either, so, right before she can actually shoot me, I leap out of the way – and straight towards her – to tackle her and rip the gun out of her grasp. I then rise to my feet and hit Danica with the butt of the rifle, intending just to knock her unconscious long enough for me to get out of here, to have a gunshot that I definitely didn’t cause go off.
Squatting down next to her and looking her over with concern, I realize – my stomach twisting some as I do so – that I actually killed her by breaking her spine when I hit her.
“God damn it, I didn’t mean to kill her,” I mutter under my breath, dropping the gun as if it’s covered in poison and turning away from Danica as the ground eats her body. I force myself to swallow – throwing up because of my own brutality wouldn’t help anything at all – and clench my hands into fists, wanting to punch something.
I have shouldered my supply packs, which came off when I flung myself at Danica, and am just about to leave the career camp for good, when I realize that there’s still the supply pile to be dealt with. It would probably be a lot easier just to make a snowball and trigger the trip wires and watch everything blow up, but I feel like destroying something the old-fashioned way: as in, with hurricanes and tornadoes and lots of lightning, and, with the blizzard still raging, I have the perfect cover for doing so. The cameras are bound to be so covered with snow by now that they probably didn’t pick up half of the fight between Danica and me, so I doubt they’ll be able to pick up something like increased wind or some lightning strikes.
Picking up the gun and throwing it onto the supply pile – I don’t want anything to do with that rifle, no matter how good of a weapon it is, since I just killed three people with it – I take a deep breath and let all of the pent-up anger and sadness I’ve been keeping locked inside of me for the last three weeks out into the atmosphere to feel the wind immediately pick up and have electricity dance off of my skin to illuminate the snow around me.
Above me, a funnel cloud inches down out of the clouds, and, with one sweeping hand movement, I direct the snowy tornado/hurricane – complete with enough electricity in the form of lightning to power all of New York city for at least a week – onto the supply pile and smile in satisfaction as I watch the remnants of the careers’ dominance get flung around and ripped up in the hundred-and-fifty-mile-an-hour wind. I guess it’s a good thing that I’m basically immune to wind and all of the storms I create – I also happen to have a built-in protective bubble around me that stops any of the debris that gets picked up by the storms I create from hitting me – because I’d be sucked up into the funnel cloud myself if I wasn’t.
The storms outside and inside me rage on for about ten more minutes, until I finally lose steam and the energy to keep a Category-Five hurricane up and fall to my knees in the snow, completely drained from my efforts.
“And there goes the last of the careers,” I murmur quietly as I watch the funnel cloud retreat back up into the sky and let all of the things swirling around inside of it fall to the ground – backpacks, packs of food, tents, clothes – all ripped to shreds, fried by lightning and basically completely destroyed.
I am just about to turn away and leave for good, not intending to ever come back in this general direction of the arena again, when something large, long and dark lands in the snow in front of me, and I bend down to see what the mystery object is. I quickly recoil when I realize that it’s the rifle I used earlier, with a slightly-more-scarred barrel from being hit by lightning so many times, as I don’t want anything to do with that gun because of all of the people I killed with it.
However, I also know that, if I don’t grab the gun, someone else – who will have no qualms about killing people with it – will undoubtedly find it and use it for just that purpose, so, sighing greatly as I do so, I pick the gun up and shoulder it, finding that it fits my body as well as if it had been made for me. Shivering slightly and shaking that disturbing thought out of my head – the most disturbing part is that Rush might have done that just to fuck with me – I march away from the career camp, my hands tight on the barrel of the gun on my shoulder.

“Hey Marshall, look who made it back,” I have the energy to say, a small smile curling my lips at the shocked look on his face as he looks me over, before collapsing from exhaustion and falling into the snow.
I don’t know why people don’t sleep in this stuff more often, I think blearily, smiling as I note how the snow curls around my body to form an insulating layer of cold that cools me down and negates my natural heat-producing abilities.
“Lizzie, this is not a time to fall asleep in the snow,” Marshall’s voice, as distant as if he were a mile away, comes to me and invades my calm, half-asleep state of mind, and suddenly it occurs to me that his tone is worried, very worried.
But what is there to be worried about? I went on a quest to get... whatever the hell I was supposed to be getting and succeeded, too, so don’t I deserve a chance to fall asleep in the snow?
Slightly annoyed at Marshall’s interruption of my rest, I decide to pretend like I didn’t hear him and curl up in the snow more, noting peacefully how the white stuff pillows my body and makes everything cool, so cool. They really should make sheets out of this stuff. I would so buy some.
“Lizzie, it’s Luke.” That annoying voice won’t shut up, unfortunately, and is making it very hard for me to ignore it. Maybe it will shut up if I pretend like I’m listening... wait, Luke? Who’s Luke? Oh, right, Luke’s my husband, the one I went on a raid to get medicine for... wait, why does he need medicine? Oh, right, because he’s dying.
Wait, he’s dying!
I sit straight up, all mental sleepiness dispelled by the horrible thought of Luke dying. “Five more minutes, five more minutes to get him healed,” I mutter to myself as I get to my feet clumsily, “and then I can sleep in the snow.”
“Thank God,” I hear Marshall murmur to my left, but I pay him no attention. Every fiber of my being is focused on saving Luke, and everything else – including myself and the fact that I’m about to fall over from exhaustion – can wait till later.
Running towards the packs I dropped in the snow about twenty feet from the tent, I dig through them frantically to grab all fourteen vials of medicine out of them and then run into the tent itself.
“Lizzie?” Luke murmurs quietly when I come in, straining some to raise his head and look at me. I have to choke back a gasp of surpise and horror when I see him, because if he looked bad before I left, he looks terrible now. In fact, if he just laid there and didn’t move, I could very think he’s dead, he looks that bad. Of course, he will be dead soon if I don’t hurry.
“Lizzie, where am I?” Luke asks me as I bend over him and place a hand on his forehead to feel him burning up underneath me. He must be running at least a fever of a hundred and four, high enough to roast his mind, so I brush his question off as delirium caused by the fever and gently lay one of the snow-soaked cloths Marshall was using to try to cool Luke down on his forehead.
“Luke, it will be alright. It will be alright,” I whisper to him quietly as I carefully uncork the first vial of medicine and trickle it down his throat to have him, much to my relief, look instantly better. I then do the same thing with the other thirteen vials, his fever going down, natural color returning to his cheeks and his huge wound healing with each dose, so that, by the time all of the vials are empty, Luke’s wound has become a tiny surface scratch, he’s at a normal body temperature and he looks like he’s halfway through getting a good night’s sleep, not like he just almost died.
“Goodnight, Luke. I hope you sleep well,” I whisper to him quietly as I stare down at him, then bend down to give him a kiss on the forehead and collapse onto his chest afterwards, feeling the healthy warmth of his body wash over me.
Maybe I won’t lose him after all, is the last thing that crosses my mind before I am swept off into the world of dreams by the rising tide of exhaustion.

“You saved him Lizzie, you really did,” Marshall tells me quietly as we both watch Luke sleep, his chest rising and falling gently and evenly. He’s been asleep for the last twenty hours – ten of which I was sleeping on him – and hasn’t shown any signs of waking yet, so Marshall and I might be sitting there watching Luke for a while longer. Fortunately, he wasn’t woken up by Puck’s announcement of the dead – Danica, Terrell and the other career girl Katherine Sargent are among the dead, as well as
“I hope so,” I murmur in reply, my eyes locked on Luke’s face. I know that there’s still a chance for the infection to come back and for Luke to try to die on us again, but I really doubt that’s going to happen. That medicine really did do wonders for him; it’s a shame that I didn’t think to grab more, or administer it to Luke in small doses so that way might still have some left over, but oh well. All that matters is that I succeeded in my quest, and that Luke’s still alive.
“You saved him, Lizzie,” Marshall says again, his tone more insistent now. “Just take the credit as his savior and go with it.” I look over at him to see him staring at me almost in exasperation at my stubbornness, and I can’t help but smile as I nod my head.
“Ok, good,” Marshall says, my smile infecting his face as well, and he rises to his feet to cross the tent and stop at the exit. “I’m going to go get some food, be right back,” Marshall tells me, and I nod my head again, immediately turning to look back at Luke.
“Sleep well, Luke,” I tell him quietly, my eyes locked on his face, and, after a few moments of soaking in how tired I am, I rise to my feet, cross the tent and lay down next to him, resting my head on his shoulder and curling up against him.
“Let’s hope we both sleep well,” I whisper just before I fall asleep on his stomach.

I hear someone exiting the tent behind me and, knowing that it can only be one person, I quickly stand up, turn around, exclaim, “Luke!” and run at him to wrap my arms around him in a tight hug as my heart threatens to burst with joy. He’s alive, he’s not burning up with fever, he’s not covered in huge gashes, he’s not hungry or thirtsy – in other words, he’s about as safe and good as he’s going to get in this arena.
However, Luke doesn’t hug me back, and I pull back to find staring down at me in what appears to be confusion.
“Who are you?” he breathes, his eyes locked on my face with no look of recognition in them.
Suddenly it occurs to me why that medicine smelled familiar and why Luke had no idea where he was after I gave him that first vial: it must have been infused with a less-concentrated memory loss formula, the exact smae one I used to give to people who saw me kill when I was an assassin. Rage at the Triple Crown committee fills me, but is soon is replaced by a sense of hopelessness and unbearable sadness.
Even though the medicine was clearly diluted – I would have immediately recognized it from the smell if it was full-strength – it still might be strong enough to have completely destroyed all of Luke’s memories of me. If that’s the case, he will have forgotten the love he felt for me, and he’ll be able to see me for what I truly am: a brilliant, unpredictable, incredibly dangerous ex-assassin with a knack for manipulating people.
“Lizzie,” I force myself to whisper. My throat is bone-dry, and it feels like I can’t breathe.
“Lizzie... Lightning?” he says after a moment of staring at me, and I nod, a glimmer of hope sparking in my chest. However, it is quickly swallowed up by the complete and utter desolation dominating me, and I can’t bring myself to think that, even for a second, the Luke that loves me is still buried deep inside of him somewhere. It will just be even more excruciating if that Luke is gone completely.
“Why are you crying?” Luke’s puzzled and concerned voice draws me out of my thoughts, and I raise a hand to my cheeks to find that they are, in fact, covered with tears.
“Because you don’t remember me,” I whisper, and all of a sudden am struck with a pang of longing for my Luke, the Luke who would step forward and hold me and comfort me now, so intense that I feel compelled to wrap my arms around myself, lest the pain cut me open from the inside and I come undone.
I see movement in front of me and look up to have Luke wrap his arms around me awkwardly in a comforting gesture. Immediately I wrap my arms around him too and press against him, knowing that even this Luke who doesn’t know who I am can hold me together far better than I can hold myself together.
After a few long moments, Luke pulls back to raise a gentle hand to my cheek and wipe away my tears. He meets my gaze and murmurs, “What were you, to me?”
“I was the girl you had been in love with from the moment you first saw me in eighth grade,” I reply quietly, every world ripping my heart to shreds.
“I loved you?” he asks, and I nod my head in confirmation.
“You told me so ten times every day,” I add quietly, dropping my gaze to have Luke stare down at me for a few moments longer.
“I want to try something,” he finally murmurs, then cups my chin in his hand, tilts my face up towards his, and kisses me.

More added.

As soon as his lips touch mine, I wrap my arms tightly around him, then soon decide that isn’t good enough and have my hands work their way up to lock themselves in his hair. He reacts to this by pressing me to him more tightly, and, for a moment, it’s possible for me to forget that Luke doesn’t know who I am anymore.
However, that moment is broken up by Luke pulling back to stare down at me, his eyes and expression full of wonder.
“Do you remember anything now?” I ask him quietly, reaching a hand up to gently touch the side of his face.
“Bits and pieces. We did that – kissing – a lot, didn’t we?” he questions in return, and I nod my head in confirmation. I know that there’s a stupid smile plastered across my face, but I can’t help it; after all, the Luke I love – my Luke – might not be completely gone.
“But you didn’t mean most of them, did you?” Luke’s eyes lock on mine, and I find myself shaking my head no.
“Not in the beginning, no. But in the end, I couldn’t get enough of you.” I give him a smile, and now it’s his turn to raise a hand to the side of my face.
“I must have been a lucky guy, to be loved by someone like you,” he whispers quietly, his gaze glued on mine, and, even as my heart threatens to fall out of my body with guilt at the fact that I didn’t love him as much he loved me, I can’t help but smile. Yeah, my Luke definitely isn’t completely gone.
“I never loved you as much as you loved me though,” I reply quietly, and, much to my surprise, Luke shakes his head in denial.
“Oh really? With the way you just kissed me, I think it would be the other way around,” he tells me, and I force myself to swallow. Do I... do I really love him that much now?
“Luke, you loved me with every fiber of your being. I don’t even know if it’s possible for me to love you as much as you loved me.”
“Ok, so maybe there are a few rebellious fibers in your body,” Luke responds, and I can’t help but smile. “Still, it’s obvious that you love me a lot, and I maintain the fact that I’m very lucky for that, if I don’t remember most of it.” He gives me a genuine smile here, one that melts my heart like the old Luke’s smiles used to do, and my grin gets even bigger. Besides the memory loss, this Luke really isn’t any different than the old Luke.
“You’re such a nice guy Luke. What on earth did I ever do to deserve you?” I whisper quietly, burying my head in his shoulder as I realize that the Luke I love – my Luke –isn’t gone at all and that the memory-loss formula must have been diluted enough to only repress his memories, not completely destroy them.
“Well, you’ve kept us alive in here so far.” I pull back to see Luke gesturing at the arena around us, his eyes locking on mine after a moment. “That couldn’t have been an easy task.”
“Luke, it’s because of me that we’re in here to begin with!” I burst out, my anger and self-loathing finally getting the best of me. If I had just gone along with the Triple Crown, or never become a famous interdimensional assassin, or not been born an immortal, he and I wouldn’t be in this mess. Well, I guess I can’t control the last two, but the first one certainly was in my power to control. I don’t think I ever would have gone along with the Triple Crown, even if I could go back in time and do it all over again, but I still could have controlled it, or at least not dragged him into it like I have.
“What do you mean?” Luke asks me warily, his eyes clouded with suspicion and distrust now. Of course, now I choose to be all high and mighty and come clean; if I had been thinking, or restrained myself better, I wouldn’t have said anything like that at all, since it’s not exactly helpful towards getting Luke to trust me again.
“I’m an assassin, and it’s because of my skill that the Triple Crown committee threw us both in here,” I reply simply, and Luke stares down at me in wonder and fear.
“Oh,” he exclaims quietly, his eyes locked on my face with definite fright in them, and I feel like screaming and/or falling to my knees and crying. I don’t want to Luke to be afraid of me; I mean, I don’t want anyone to be afraid of me, but especially not Luke, and it looks like that’s exactly what’s happened. Well, I guess the Triple Crown committee has succeeded in driving us apart by clearing up Luke’s vision some, and for that I hate them. “Anything else I need to know?” he asks quietly, his eyes locked on mine, and, even though there are a million things he probably does need to know, he’s not ready to hear any of them – and even if he was, I wouldn’t say them on national television – so I shake my head no.
A few seconds go by in a long, awkward silence until Luke finally pipes up, curiosity taking over his expression, “Lizzie, how did I lose my memory of you in the first place? I remember some medicine, in little glass vials, that someone was giving me, but I don’t remember who gave it to me or what happened after that.” He stares down at me, questions brimming in his eyes, and, yet again, I feel like screaming and/or crying.
“Well,” I begin, taking a deep breath to steel myself and steady my voice, “I was the one who gave you the medicine, because you were dying, and there apparently was a memory-loss formula in the medicine. It must have been diluted, or I would have sniffed it out and you wouldn’t be able to remember anything at all about me.”
“Oh,” Luke says quietly, his expression full of wonder and still some fear that I hate to see. I really don’t want my husband fearing for his safety while he’s around me; after all, no healthy relationships come out of fear. After a few more moments of silence, Luke asks the inevitable question of, “How do you know so much about what must have been in the medicine?”
“Because I used that exact same memory-loss formula when I was an assassin, to erase the memories of people who saw me kill. However, I used a lot more concentrated version of it, which is why I didn’t recognize the formula in the medicine right away off of smell,” I explain, and Luke nods his head wordlessly, his mouth hanging open and threatening to hit the ground. He’s acting almost more reverent towards me now than he used to, which I don’t want at all, as reverence always comes with fear, and no good relationships have their roots in fear.
“So you were pretty dangerous when you were an assassin, huh?” Luke asks me, and I nod my head in confirmation, a small, bitter smile flitting across my face.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I reply quietly, a wave of sadness and guilt washing over me. I wish Luke didn’t have to hear this, because I wish I hadn’t done any of it; I wish Luke wasn’t in here, because I hadn’t done any of that; and, above all, I wish Luke still had his memories of me, because I hadn’t so blatantly defied the Triple Crown and dragged Luke into it. It wasn’t fair of me, to rob him of his freedom and choice like that. After all, no sane person would choose to go through what’s happened to him because of me.
“I guess that means I don’t have to worry about dying in here then, huh, if I have you protecting me?” Luke says, making a feeble attempt at a joke as an equally feeble attempt at a smile flits across his face.
“Luke, you always have to worry about dying in here, no matter who you have protecting you,” I whisper in reply, and Luke’s face loses all of its falsely comical air. “After all, no one’s immortal, and no one’s immune to the Triple Crown. This place gets inside all of us, no matter how concrete we’d like to think we are,” I finish quietly, and look back up at Luke to meet his astounded and even more fearful gaze now. Well, at least he probably isn’t as afraid of me anymore, with me just telling him that there’s a high probability he could die in here.
“Do you think we’re going to die in here?” Luke stares me down, his blue eyes locked on mine, and I find myself answering honestly by nodding my head.
“Either you die in here or you come out dead on the inside. I’d much rather die in here,” I finish quietly, and Luke nods his head in understanding.
“You think it’s better, dying in here?” Luke questions, and I immediately nod my head. That isn’t even a question for me; if it was, I would have never voluntarily been the spark.
“I know it’s better, because you at least you die yourself, and get to control how you die. Besides, if you die in here, you don’t have to live long enough to see the world get fucked up and watch everything you cared about fall and everyone you loved die.” Maybe dying young isn’t such a bad thing after all, now that I’ve thought about it more. After all, if you die at seventeen, you don’t have to put up with sixty more years of the world falling apart. “In here, in the Triple Crown, there are no winners and losers. There are the dead and the broken, and, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather be the dead.” I meet his gaze seriously to find almost fear in his eyes, but I guess I can’t really blame him; I mean, I am talking about pretty scary stuff.
“You sound almost suicidal, Lizzie,” Luke says, clearly trying to make a joke out of it, but I can hear the worry in his voice and can’t help but be amazed by how much he still cares about me, even though he doesn’t even know me anymore.
“I guess I picked a good time to be suicidal then,” I reply quietly, to see surprise and more fearfulness – this time for my safety and probably mental health – take over his expression. He really is just innately good, and so easy to read; those are a few of the many things I’ve grown to love about him.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Luke agrees, but I can hear the uneasiness in his voice and see the worry and wariness in his eyes as he looks over at me carefully, as though expecting me to pull out a knife and try to cut my wrists right here and now. Fortunately, I’m not that suicidal. Yet. Give it a few more days in this hell on earth, with a Luke who doesn’t even know me and fears me, and I might be.
“You seem to hate yourself,” Luke murmurs quietly after a few moments go by in silence, and I look up at him in surprise. What brought a comment like that on, despite the fact that he is right?
“Well, I’ve done a lot of bad things my life,” I answer carefully, looking at him with my own sort of wariness. I don’t like it when he points out things like that, especially since he used to use things like that to unconsciously manipulate me and make me feel bad about myself, and, even though this isn’t that same Luke, I can’t help but be a little wary.
“Nothing you could have done could account for the amount that you hate yourself,” Luke responds, and, for the third time in this conversation, I feel like screaming and/or crying.
Even though this almost feels like how it used to be, it feels like the bad times we had, when Luke would subconsciously make me feel terrible about myself by trying to build me up when there’s nothing to build up, and it makes me wonder if his memory really is gone, or if the Triple Crown committee only took bits and pieces of it in an attempt to not only break me, but drive salt into the wounds as well. And that’s what I know Luke’s memory loss is now: the Triple Crown committee’s attempt to drive so much emotional shrapnel into my heart that I fall apart and cannot be put back together. When I originally realized that Luke lost his memory, that came very close to happening – I know I’m not out of the woods yet either, as I’m still dangerously close to breaking with every reminder of all the knowledge he’s lost – but I know that I can’t let that happen. It definitely wouldn’t be good for my position as the spark to be snuffed out by the Triple Crown committee. That would be counterproductive to what I’m trying to do, because that would only reinforce the message that the Triple Crown committee – and, in turn, El Nieve – is unbeatable, which is the exact opposite of what I want people in the Sections to think: that if they rise up and join forces, they can take down El Nieve easily.
“Luke, you don’t even know what I’ve done, so don’t try to make me feel better about myself when there’s nothing for me to feel better about,” I shoot back, to have Luke look truly hurt and disgruntled and immediately feel bad. I definitely shouldn’t have been so hard on him.
“Well, I do know there’s nothing you could have done that could be bad enough to make you hate yourself like you do, because you seem to hate yourself with a burning passion. Lizzie, that’s not good,” he murmurs, meeting my gaze and hesitantly laying a hand on my arm. “It’s not good for an amazing person like you to hate yourself like you do.”
“An amazing person? An amazing person?” I ask him incredulously, not believing what I’m hearing. Luke doesn’t even know me and he’s – falsely, I should add – still calling me an amazing person. Maybe he just is genuinely good.
“Yes, an amazing person,” Luke confirms, his eyes still locked on mine. “Lizzie, you love me, and loving someone’s a pretty big accomplishment, and a pretty amazing thing, so I don’t know how you don’t think you’re not an amazing person.” He stares down at me in concern, and I feel my heart rise up into my throat and stop me from breathing.
“Why are you so good?” I manage, after forcing myself to swallow three times, as I turn away from him so he can’t see my despair. I don’t need him coming up with some other great remark that only makes me hurt even worse.
“Why do you think you aren’t any good?” Luke questions back, and I shake my head as I stare off into the snow, a small, bitter and sad smile flitting across my face for a moment. Of course he chose to bring that back up; I guess Luke never gives up on any cause he thinks he can win. On this one, he just doesn’t realize that he lost it a long time ago.
Turning back to him and meeting his gaze almost fiercely, feeling empowered by a new wave of self-loathing and anger, I ask him, “Luke, do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed over the years, or even how many people I’ve killed in here?”
Luke swallows, looking incredibly uncomfortable because he doesn’t, in fact, know – he never knew those answers even when he did have his memories of me – and replies, “Well, no, but-”
“To be perfectly honest,” I continue, steamrolling over Luke’s words and not even giving him a chance to respond, “I don’t even know how many people I’ve killed over the years. I mean, I killed ninety-one as a government assassin, and probably at least that many who were other assassins hired by other people who were trying to take me out, but I couldn’t give you the actual number. It has to be something around two fifty, three hundred, I’m guessing.” I pause for a moment, which gives Luke time to open his mouth, and then immediately start talking again, “But I can give you the exact number of people that I’ve killed in here. I killed four in Hand-to-Hand, fourteen in One-Person Survival, and seven in here so far. Luke, that’s twenty-five people in three months. I’m a serial killer five times over.” My voice cracks with bitterness and anger and self-loathing at the end, and I have to take a deep breath and swallow before I’m able to continue. “Do you see now why I hate myself? Do you see now why I’m inherently dangerous when you’re inherently good?” I lock my eyes on Luke’s powerfully and stare him down, daring him to answer no.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to get that part of the dare, and answers, “No, I don’t.” When I stare at him in downright confusion for a moment – I mean, I did just tell him all the people I’ve killed, right? – he takes the opportunity to keep on speaking and continues, “Lizzie, you killed those people because you had to survive, and because you knew that either you died or they died, not because you actually wanted their blood. You can’t beat yourself up over surviving, Lizzie.”
“Oh yeah?” I shoot back. “I think I can, especially when I’m the only one that has survived. Well,” I amend, when I see the look Luke’s giving me, “except for you.”
“And you don’t see me beating myself up over surviving,” Luke immediately shoots back, and I can’t help but sigh. This would be so much easier if Luke would just me beat myself up over it.
“It’s because you haven’t killed nearly as many people as I have,” I reply, and Luke shakes his head vehemently. This is going to take a while.
“No, it’s because I know that the only thing that will come out of me beating myself up is self-hatred, and that’s just useless in here. After all, if you hate yourself, you’re automatically dead because you don’t want to survive,” Luke says, and, for once, I’m agreeing with him. I’m just not agreeing with the whole beating-myself-up thing.
“And that’s the point, Luke: I’m dead, whether you or anyone else likes it or not. From the moment I chose to become the spark, to fight for the Sections’ freedom, I signed my death warrant, because, if I don’t die in here like I’m planning on doing-” – I ignore Luke’s cry of protest and keep on talking – “-then I’m definitely dead when I get out, because the Triple Crown committee won’t keep me alive after I’ve dug myself in such a hole and proved nothing but trouble for them.”
“But Lizzie-” Luke begins, his tone defiant and pleading, but I immediately shake my head and cut him off.
“Luke, there aren’t any buts in here anymore,” I begin, meeting his gaze and staring him down, daring him with my eyes to interrupt. “I am definitely going to die, so I might as well embrace that fact, and go out in style. I might as well die on my own terms, and that happens to be in here, where I can be heard by everyone, not in an El Nieve execution chamber with a cloth bag over my head and a gag in my mouth. I won’t accomplish anything by dying that way-”
“And is this whole suicide mission of yours just meant to accomplish something that you could accomplish better by living to speak another day?” Luke shoots back, and I have opened my mouth and am about to retaliate when he continues talking. “Lizzie, you could do so much more, and change the world so much more, by living rather than dying. Hell, I don’t even know you, or know what you’re like or what you can do, but I know that.” Luke pauses for a moment, then finishes, his eyes locked on mine pleadingly, “Lizzie, it’s just common sense. If you live to tomorrow, you can change that many more lives tomorrow that you would never have met if you died today.”
“Luke,” I begin, feeling my chest about break open – this is so like Luke, my Luke, that it hurts for me to be around him when I know that Luke is buried and will take a long while to uncover, “this ‘suicide mission’ of mine isn’t just about changing people’s lives. It’s about giving people someone to rally around, a martyr who they can use as an example and paint on banners and write about in their speeches to stir everyone else up into rebellion. This mission of mine is more about feeding the fire of rebellion than changing lives.”
“And wouldn’t you feed the fire of rebellion more by surviving against all odds at the hands of El Nieve’s brutality? Wouldn’t that, your story of rebellion by not allowing El Nieve to kill you, be more inspiring than any suicide? I mean, then they’d have a live icon to rally around,” Luke says, and I shake my head and sigh. He just doesn’t get it, does he? But oh, right, he’s part of that majority of the population that actually has a sense of self-preservation and actually wants to live to see tomorrow.
“Luke, they don’t call them martyrs for nothing. Their deaths are always at the hands of the cruel governing party, and the events leading up to their deaths are always in defiance of the ruling party? I mean, would we remember Joan of Arc as clearly as we do today if she gotten away, and not died for her ideals? No, of course not. Luke,” I start, my gaze glued on his, “dying is part of the whole deal of being a martyr. If I don’t die, and give people someone to remember, then I haven’t done my job right.”
“So this is a job now for you?” Luke asks, his tone incredulous and ready to argue, and I nod my head, a small smile crossing my face, then start talking before he has a chance to say anything else.
“Damn right it is,” I shoot back. “And it’s the job that’s going to take my life.”
“Lizzie, you don’t owe the people of the Sections anything,” Luke tells me vehemently, his eyes locked powerfully and angrily on mine. It’s amazing how much he still cares about me when he doesn’t even know me. “You definitely don’t have to do a job for them that costs you your life. If they wanted to rebel bad enough, they’d do it without your help!”
“My God,” I begin, a small, sad smile flitting across my expression, “you have no idea how much you just sounded like Jackson.” Unfortunately, since Jackson is a bitter, rage-filled, hating person with almost as many scars as clear skin, that’s not such a good thing.
“Jackson?” Luke asks, his expression twisting up in confusion as he racks his mind for who on earth Jackson might be. As I am reading his mind, I realize as soon as he does when her remembers who Jackson is, and, in a less questioning and much more hostile tone, he repeats, “Jackson.”
“That’s funny,” I begin, not finding it funny at all but feeling obliged to say something before Luke says something else that might be even worse than just Jackson’s name. “You hate him even now, when you don’t even know what his relationship is with me.”
“You love him, and he loves you to an extent, but he’s hung up on another girl and you have me,” Luke immediately replies confidently, his eyes locked on mine, and I see something in them – a burning passion for me that I haven’t seen since Luke lost his memory. After a split-second of silence, in which time I realize how completely blown away I am by that correct answer of Luke’s and that momentary take-over of his body by the part of him that still knows who I am, he seems to come to and realize what he just said, and shakes his head vigorously, like a wet dog. He seems to be just as confused and shocked as I am now, as he looks up at me and asks, his eyes locking on mine again but with no remembrance and certainly no burning passion in them now, “Lizzie, what did I just say?”
“You just correctly told me what my relationship with Jackson is,” I answer, staring as deep and hard into his eyes as possible in an attempt to see if any of the emotion that was in them a few moments earlier is still in there. Unfortunately, all of it seems to have disappeared, and the Luke that doesn’t know who I am – in other words, the Luke that the Triple Crown manufactured in an attempt to break me –is the one in control of the body in front of me again.
“Lizzie, how is that possible?” Luke whispers, his tone just as stunned as I’m feeling. I probably should be happy – I mean, this means that my Luke isn’t completely gone, and that there may be ways to get him back quickly – but I’m too overcome with a desire for more of my Luke, for my Luke back completely, to be too happy about anything.
“All of your memories of me are still locked inside of your mind somewhere, and they happened to resurface for a moment to answer that question,” I hear myself saying, and I see, with a small smile, the amazement on Luke’s face. I guess he wasn’t counting on anything like this either.
“Oh,” he exclaims quietly, his expression full of wonder, and drops his gaze to stare at the ground in front of him and think. After a few moments of silence, he looks back up at me and asks, “Lizzie, does that mean that some part of me still loves you?”
I feel my heart free-fall out of my body, and it’s a couple long seconds before I finally come to my senses enough to reply. “Yeah, I think so,” I whisper quietly, still stunned by his question. Suddenly it occurs to me that him asking that just isn’t random, that there must be a reason behind him asking that, and I question, “Why do you ask?”
“Because some part of me wants you desperately right now.” I meet his gaze to see, sure enough, a fierce battle between passion and confusion in his eyes, and something about him – his apparent helplessness for the emotional turmoil roiling inside of him and the fact that he’s right, some part of him does really want me – makes me step forward and have him wrap his arms around me tightly.
As soon as he does so, he murmurs in my ear, “That’s better,” and seems to relax some – I guess that helped his emotions some – but doesn’t loosen his grip on me at all. In fact, if anything, he tightens his grip on me, so that I can barely breathe with my face pressed against his neck and the side of his face.
“Luke, suffocating me,” I manage to choke out, and he immediately releases me to jump back with an abashed look on his face.
“Sorry Lizzie,” he tells me, his tone and expression completely sincere. “Some part of me just wanted you as close as possible.”
“That’s alright Luke,” I murmur quietly as I gaze into his eyes, meaning every word that I say. I’d much rather have him accidentally suffocate me in an attempt to keep me close than not feel anything at all for me.
“Well, should we tell Marshall?” Luke gestures to the tent off to the side of the one he was in – we found a few other tents in the bags I grabbed but decided to only set one up, as having more than two set up would just be a pain to tear down and move with – in which Marshall is currently resting/reading his map.
“Yeah, probably,” I answer quietly, my eyes locked on Marshall’s tent.
I wonder how he’ll take Luke losing his memory of me. Some part of Marshall will probably be truly sad, as he knows how much Luke means to me, while another part of him will probably feel like jumping up and down for joy, because, with Luke out of the picture, he has a better shot at getting me. I don’t think he really ever gave up on the idea of getting me either, despite all of the things he said, because there’s something about the way he looks at me, and the way his voice changes when he talks to me, that is undeniable. Not only is he in love with me, he’s fighting for me as hard as Luke and Jackson are. Unfortunately for Marshall, he never would have or will have a chance.
“Lizzie, you alright?” Luke’s question draws me out of my thoughts and back into reality, and I shake my head like a dog after it’s gotten water in its ears in an attempt to clear all of those not-so-good possibilities out of my head. I really don’t want or need another boy fighting for me, when the two that are fighting are doing a hell of a job wrecking my heart as it is.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I reply quietly, not tearing my gaze away from Marshall’s tent. “Let’s go tell Marshall,” I say, and grab Luke’s hand to march him towards the tent.

More added.

“Oh my God,” Marshall exclaims, his hands balling into fists as he jumps to his feet, murder written across his face. “Those sneaky-”
“Marshall,” I call to him in a warning tone, leaping to my feet as well to lay a hand on his arm, which causes him to whip around and meet my gaze in surprise. Sure enough, he’s actually incredibly angry – no amount of acting could make up for the rage in his eyes – which makes me rather happy, because that means that the part of him – and there is undoubtedly that part in him somewhere – that’s happy Luke lost his memory isn’t the one in control of Marshall.
“Lizzie, they took Luke from you,” Marshall tells me, his eyes boring holes into mine, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to read me as hard as I’m trying to read him. “We can’t just do nothing about that!”
“And running around blindly with no idea of what we can do about it won’t do any good either!” I shoot back to have Marshall bow his head in admittance.
“But-” he begins to protest, but I immediately cut him off.
“Marshall, no buts,” I tell him firmly, and he bows his head again. “I don’t want you killing yourself over something we really can’t control now. Besides,” I add, “that’s exactly what the Triple Crown committee wants us to do. They want us to get angry, and take our anger out on the other champions left.”
“This is personal though, Lizzie. This is personalized towards you,” Marshall says, his tone more than a bit suspicious, and now it’s my turn to bow my head in admittance. “This is their direct attack on you. Their whole goal out of this is to break you, isn’t it?” I can feel Marshall’s eyes boring holes into my face, and I look up to catch his eye.
“Yeah, it is,” I answer quietly. “I’m sorry that you got dragged into it,” I then murmur, and drop my gaze to the ground again. I’m sure the Triple Crown committee isn’t sorry at all that Marshall got dragged into it though, as they probably view him as a liability now, as, being a career who broke off from the pack just because he didn’t want to associate with the other careers, not because the pack shattered like it always does – I guess there won’t be a shattering in this Team Survival, seeing as I’ve completely killed the pack – he’s dangerous to them. After all, he’s in direct defiance of the train all your life to win system that the Triple Crown committee has encouraged in the wealthier Sections it favors.
And I suppose they do have a reason for encouraging that system; after all, the Triple Crown would be really boring if it was just a bunch of skinny, scrawny, afraid little kids who don’t know how to use weapons and don’t want to kill each other. The careers at least make the Triple Crown exciting by guaranteeing that some people will die, and that’s the whole point of the Triple Crown: to kill off people for other people’s entertainment and horror.
“Well I’m not,” Marshall replies, causing me to look up at him in surprise and see him with an ear-to-ear beaming, determined grin stretching across his face. “This is my chance to get back against the Triple Crown committee and use love as an excuse.” He gives me a smile, his eyes twinkling, and I’m struck – yet again – by how much he really hates the Triple Crown committee and how much it really ruined his life.
If it weren’t for the Triple Crown – and therefore the Triple Crown committee – he would be back at home in Section Three, living a simple but relatively happy life working at the forges, and then maybe get a nice wife and have a few kids in five or ten years. He definitely wouldn’t be in here, this hell on earth, with a sword in his hand and a few kills to his name and a few more kills to make if he’s going to make it out of here alive, and he certainly wouldn’t have ever met me and have fallen in love with me and now be following me around while I take his heart and stomp on it over and over and over.
“Marshall, that kind of thinking will get you killed,” I tell him, noting almost blindly how blatantly hypocritical I’m being. After all, I didn’t just think things like that, I said them, am now living for them and am soon going to die for them. That doesn’t mean I want what I’ve brought upon myself for anyone else though. I especially don’t want it for Marshall, since he’d be doing it because of me if he were to do it at all.
“What does that matter? I’m dead anyways,” Marshall responds, shrugging and brushing my warning off to the side. I’m glaring at him and am about to chew him out for saying that – he really isn’t, after all, because he and Luke have a very good chance of winning after I take myself out – when he says, “Lizzie, don’t give me that look, because I know it’s true. I won’t want to live without you, so, when you die, I plan on going out too.”
“Marshall, I don’t want you to die because of me,” I tell him desperately, allowing all of the pleading I can muster to come into my voice. If I can make Marshall feel bad – and therefore make him think twice about dying with me – I can deter him from doing that. I mean, I didn’t ever intend for anyone to commit suicide with me, although it seems that there are now three boys who want to die with me. That’s really a shame, because the world could definitely use all three of those boys.
“Lizzie, there’s nothing you can do to stop me from dying with you now,” Marshall murmurs, his eyes locked on mine, and, much to my chagrin, he’s definitely serious. “I love you, and I won’t live without you, so the moment you die, a part of me that I won’t be complete without dies with you, and the rest of me will die soon after.” Marshall pauses for a moment, then finishes, his gaze glued on mine, “Lizzie, I am with you always, and I will follow you anywhere, even to death.” He takes my hand in his and gives it a gentle squeeze, and I turn away from him as I feel my heart creep up into my throat and threaten to burst.
This is the absolute opposite of what I wanted to happen; I don’t want any more people on my kill list, even if I don’t live to see them die, because I know that Marshall and Jackson and Luke will all be dying because of me if I die. I guess I really can’t win in this situation: either I die, and Marshall, Lule and Jackson die with me, or I live, and I kill other people in order to survive longer. I am a killer either way, and there’s no way for me to get out of it or avoid it.
“Marshall, why do you and Luke and Jackson have to be so damn devoted?” I mutter as I stare off into the snow, my hands involuntarily balling into fists. I don’t want to be basically worshiped – like Jackson and Luke and Marshall are basically doing now – I don’t want to kill any more people, inadvertently or otherwise, and I certainly don’t want to cause the deaths of three boys I’ve grown to love, if in very different ways. To be perfectly honest, it would be a lot easier – although it might be a lot more painful too – if Jackson and Luke and Marshall didn’t love me at all, and I was the one madly in love with them. That way I wouldn’t be responsible for their deaths when I die, because they might not even realize I exist in that scenario.
“Lizzie, you can’t control what Luke and Jackson and I do,” Marshall begins, and I whip around to look at him suspiciously. It’s almost like he’s been reading my thoughts, as everything he’s said so far has been almost a direct argument against my thoughts/opinions. “We all choose to die with you, and, since there’s nothing you can do about that and no way for you to change our minds, you should just accept it and let us do what we want. You can’t bleed for us, Lizzie, and we don’t want you to bleed for us,” he ends, his eyes locked on mine, and, after a few moments of a staredown, I finally look away.
They don’t want me to bleed for them, huh? Well, I’m going to bleed for them anyways, because bleeding for people is what I do. It seems to be my special skill, and, in the end, it’s the thing that will kill me. Isn’t that funny: the thing that defines me, that could be a great strength of mine, will, in the end, prove to be my fatal weakness. I guess wanting to bleed for everything is almost a good weakness to have, because the only things that will come out of my demise are good – well, except for the deaths of Jackson, Luke and Marshall, but them dying wasn’t really part of the plan.
“Lizzie, if you want to save us so bad, don’t die on us!” Marshall tells me emphatically, his eyes locking on mine. “You saving yourself is the only way to save us, so save yourself!”
“And if I save myself, then you and Luke have to die in the end,” I counter, to have my argument immediately answered by Marshall.
“And we would like that death, Lizzie,” Marshall finishes, his incredibly intense eyes boring holes in my own. “Dying to save you actually has a purpose, and is actually something that Luke and I were planning on doing if you survived that long. Dying to save you would be our ultimate accomplishment, our final goal. We would die happy, if we died to save you.”
“Marshall, don’t do this to me,” I groan, turning away from him again to glare out at the snow and trees. He and Luke and Jackson are so much alike in their behavior when it comes to me that I know Marshall’s speaking the truth: that if I die, all of them die with me.
“Don’t do this to us, Lizzie,” Marshall tells me emphatically, but I don’t turn around to look at him this time, mostly because I probably can’t bear to see the earnest and complete sincerity on Marshall’s face regarding the topic of dying for me.
“Marshall,” I finally begin after a few moments, as I think idly that why is it the only time Luke, Marshall and Jackson are actually a ‘we’ is when it comes to doing something stupid, like killing themselves over me, turning around to face him, “I don’t want anyone else dead, but I know that either I die or even more people die to keep me alive. That means, that if you and Jackson and Luke all want to be idiotic and choose to be collateral damage, then, by all means-” – I pause for a moment, finding the next words incredibly hard to say, considering that they go against everything I actually want them all to do – “die with me, because I have to think that more people will die if I survive than just you three if I die.”
“Now you’re finally talking sense, Lizzie,” Marshall says, a huge smile stretching across his face. “And I have to say, it’s kind of nice to have your permission to die now.” He gives me a smirk, which quickly fades when he realizes how sad the expression on my face is.
Marshall shouldn’t be happy about me allowing him to die; if anything, he should be disgruntled, or angry with me, or anything but happy, really, because he shouldn’t want to die, and he shouldn’t have had the bad luck to fall in love with me. None of the boys in my life should want to kill themselves over me, especially when they’re such better people than I am, but, of course, someone forgot to tell all of them that, and so now I’m going to have three more bodies on my hands, three more bodies of people I love. Watching Abby die was bad enough; I wonder if I truly will crack if one of them dies in front of me.
“Lizzie, what’s the matter?” Marshall asks me concernedly, laying a hand on my arm and gazing deep into my eyes in an attempt to read my emotions. Fortunately, I’ve spent so much time veiling my eyes that he’ll learn as much about what I’m feeling from gazing into them as he would from gazing at a blank piece of paper.
“You shouldn’t be happy about me giving you permission to die. You should be angry, disgruntled, annoyed, furious, loathing, anything but happy. Marshall, just because I’ve given you permission to die doesn’t mean that I actually want you to die.” I hear the desperation and pleading creep into my voice, but I don’t really care that I probably sound like a whiny, dramatic, typical high school girl right now. If Marshall realizes how much this is upsetting me, he might be persuaded to stop, especially if he really cares about my happiness as much as he says he does.
“Lizzie, I understand that,” Marshall begins gently, laying a hand on my arm in an attempt to comfort me, “but I don’t want to live without you either, and I know that’s what will happen if I don’t die with you, so dying with you seems to be the only way to follow you always, like I said I would,” Marshall ends, and I feel my heart sink some. Oh, great, there’s another one of those stupid ‘always’ promises, like Luke and Jackson have already made me. Unfortunately, all three of them seem to be very serious about keeping them.
“Marshall,” I begin, about to give him a very serious scolding for making me the promise of always when I really don’t want or need another boy’s heart for all eternity, when a rumbling sound up the mountain from us starts, and I pause in surprise to tilt my head and listen carefully.
My eyes shoot open in shock and worry when I realize what’s causing that sound, and I instinctively exclaim, “Oh, shit!” under my breath.
I then begin scurrying around the tent, trying to throw things together while peeking out of the tent flap and looking up at the mountainside constantly to make sure that it isn’t upon us yet – getting many weird looks from Luke, who’s standing outside the tent patiently – and Marshall asks me, his tone concerned like he’s fearing for my mental health as he steps outside of the tent with me, “Lizzie, what’s the matter?”
I look up at the mountainside to see what I had feared: a huge wall of snow rumbling down off of the cloud-capped top of the peak, and I reply, looking back over at him to see the shock and fear on his face now, “Avalanche.”

More added.

“Luke, we have to get out of here!” I tell him, grabbing him by the arm and tossing a backpack at him.
Unfortunately, Luke chose the worst possible time on earth to be frozen by fear, so I currently have a suicidal boy who might just jump into the avalanche if he thinks we – and I mean me – aren’t going to make it in Marshall and an paralyzed amnesiac in Luke. Man, I’d think I’d rather have any other two people on the planet for this situation, since my chance of surviving this avalanche has probably been drastically reduced by having Luke and Marshall as the people helping me get out of here, and, of course, it’s not like we had much of a chance of survival to begin with. In other words, we are completely screwed unless I come up with some ingenious plan.
“Run!” is the ingenious word that comes out of my mouth as I throw a pack at Marshall and take Luke’s hand to begin dragging him down the mountainside after me. After running for a few long seconds, I look over my shoulder to see the tent Marshall and I were just in get devoured by the hungry white wall of snow, and I pick up the pace some.
That will not be me, that will not be me, I tell myself. I will not die like this, at the hands of something so obviously made by the Triple Crown committee. After all, the last image that the people of the Sections seeing of me being me getting eaten by a white wall of snow – which is figuratively and literally El Nieve’s rage and revenge – wouldn’t exactly help give them the confidence to rise up and overthrow El Nieve, like I’m trying to get them to do. In fact, that would probably only scare them back into obedience of El Nieve, which is the worst possible thing in my mind.
“Lizzie, look!” Marshall yells to my left, pointing at something moving as fast as we are about three hundred yards behind us, and I peer closely to see that it’s not a something but a somebody, two somebodies, in fact: Adelaide and Marcus, booking it down the mountainside as quickly and desperately as Marshall and I are. As I look closely, I see the wall of snow roar behind them, gaining on them even as they run faster than I think is humanly possible, and, when it is about ten yards behind them, they seem to realize that they will never be able to outrun the avalanche and stop.
The last thing that they do before the snow devours them and two gunshots go off is kiss passionately, and I force myself to tear my eyes away from the spot where they once stood and look forward as I keep on running for my own life. Adelaide and Marcus made their choice to die together; now I have to give myself the possiblity to die with Luke later.
Suddenly I’m aware of movement to our right as well, and I turn my head to see Sarah and Nick – it’s amazing how many people were up on the mountain with us that we were completely oblivious to – running as fast as they can down the hill about two hundred yards behind us, a huge backpack that probably weighs as much as either one of them does on each of their backs. Their short legs can’t gain any ground on the wall of whiteness closing in on them, and, after a few moments, they seem to decide that they won’t be able to outrun the avalanche no matter what they do, and stop to kiss once before they too are swallowed up.
Gritting my teeth and balling my hands into fists, I force myself to not stop running and turn around and freeze the avalanche in its tracks by conjuring up a wall of air, as that would give me away as well as not bring Marcus or Adelaide or Nick or Sarah back. However, as soon as I tear my gaze away from the spot where Nick and Sarah chose to die, I see McKenzie and Sam do exactly the same thing about a hundred and fifty yards behind us and to our left: stop to face the avalanche and kiss one last time before they die.
What kills me the most is that I know my presence on the mountain is what caused this avalanche, and that Marcus and Adelaide and Nick and Sarah and McKenzie and Sam and all of the other champions that have been eaten up by the snow already would still be alive if it weren’t for me. Man, there really is no way for me to win, is there? Either I die, and take three of the greatest people I’ve ever had the honor of loving with me, or I live, and take out numerous other great people. It’s like asking me to choose between whether I want my family to die or my best friends: it will be incredibly painful and incredibly damaging either way.
As the rumbling gets louder and more immediate behind us – I swear to God I can hear Rush’s chuckle coming from the avalanche too as he watches us run for our lives – I know that the snow is gaining on us and that we will all be eaten up soon if don’t find something to take cover behind. Fortunately, the bottom of the mountain – and therefore the place the snow will lose steam, as well as a couple huge boulders that I don’t even think the avalanche behind us could move – is very close, probably less than an eighth of a mile away, so all we have to do is make it two hundred more meters. Two hundred more meters, and we’re golden, or at least we survive.
Unfortunately, two hundred meters after you’ve already run at least fifteen times that, with a huge wall of snow bent on having you for breakfast that’s steadily gaining on you, is a lot easier said than ran.
“Lizzie, we’re going to make it!” Marshall yells over the roar of the snow at me, and I look over at him momentarily to see his eyes blazing with passion and determination, and I know that he’s set and determined that I’m going to make it, even if he doesn’t.
We’re now about a hundred meters away from the boulders and the bottom of the mountain, and Marshall shouts, his eyes locked on our destination, “Almost there!”
However, the avalanche has also almost caught up to us too. Every few seconds, a glob of snow gets dislodged from the huge wave and hits me in the back, but I don’t dare turn around or let Luke or Marshall turn around, because the extra time it takes to do that will undoubtedly be the end of us.
Instead, I focus on our destination too, to find about five other champions who made it out of the avalanche ahead of us scrambling to climb the boulders, and then see five other champions coming towards the boulders – and the avalanche – like they’re running for their lives too. Upon closer inspection – I mean, no sane person runs towards something that could kill them unless there’s something equally as dangerous behind them – I see a swarm of blackness and, with my eyes shooting open in surprise, immediately realize what it is: Kuro in his form of pure darkness, helping to add to the chaos of El Nieve’s grand finale.
And I’m convinced that, if this was not meant to be a finale, it was at least meant as a way to make things a little more interesting, and maybe clear up the playing field some. Of course, Kuro, by making the other champions wild with fear and driving all of us together, has ensured that this is a grand finale, and that only one or two of us will come out of this alive. He’s probably hoping for only one, with his love for bloodshed.
Suddenly I realize that the boulders are right in front of me, and, shoving/boosting Luke up onto the nearest one and beginning to climb up myself, I turn around to make sure Marshall’s right behind us to see him about a yard away, with the snow only inches from devouring him.
As I realize what’s about to happen, I yell over the roar of the avalanche, “Marshall, I will not let you die!” and lean as far as I can off the top of the boulder to reach my hand towards him.
Marshall leaps and grabs my hand just as the snow grabs him and, for one moment, his beautiful eyes lock on mine surprisingly calmly and he gives me a small smile. He then murmurs, “Always,” and slips his hand out of mine to be sucked underneath the snow. The gunshot that marks his death is only a second behind, and I stay leaning over the side of the boulder for a few long moments, staring at the spot that Marshall Moore just occupied.
“I can’t... I can’t believe he’s,” I start, only to choke on my words and find it impossible to utter the last, inevitable one. I knew this was probably going to happen one day, with that day being sooner rather than later, but I didn’t think I would lose him so quickly or abruptly. Of course, I didn’t think I would lose Abby so quickly or abruptly either; I guess I’m just very skilled at getting people killed off.
I probably would have stayed there and stared at the snow in a state of stunned denial forever if it hadn’t been for Luke’s voice invading my thoughts. “Lizzie,” he murmurs quietly, laying a gentle hand on my arm, and I tear my gaze away from the snow with difficulty to turn and look at him bleakly.
“Lizzie, come here,” he bids me gently, but I shake my head no, a huge wave of rage at El Nieve for taking everything from me welling up inside of me.
Empowered by my anger, I leap to my feet, my hands balling into fists, to summon all of the pure, violent and stormy energy that I can, to lay waste to this desolate location that symbolizes El Nieve’s ruining of my life. Detection doesn’t matter anymore; El Nieve would undoubtedly find out in the end that I’m not just immortal, if they don’t already know that. The only that matters now is making El Nieve pay for what they’ve done, and, since I’m too far away to directly harm the city, absolutely destroying this symbol of their power will have to do.
Completely oblivious to everything else around me, I focus my mind – my thoughts are surprisingly clear; it’s as if my anger is making me think clearer and more coolly, even if the topic is completely destroying around me – on creating a huge storm above me and smile as the wind immediately picks up to whip at at least a hundred miles an hour around me. I’m vaguely aware of Luke looking over at me in awe and fear, but that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters right now is getting my vengeance on El Nieve, and avenging the deaths of Marshall and Abby and Adelaide and Marcus and Nick and Sarah and McKenzie and Sam and every other child who has died in the Triple Crowns over the last ninety-nine years.
Lightning crackles overhead, infusing the air with electricity, and I glance up momentarily to see, with vicious pleasure, a huge funnel cloud at least a half a mile wide forming above me. Willing the funnel cloud to come down and touch, I spot, out of the corner of my eye, Kuro standing off to the side of the boulders, completely untouched by the whipping wind and huge boulders and chunks of ice being thrown around by the storm, a smirk on his face. For one half-second, my sense returns to me, and I falter, wondering why on earth I’m doing this. The images of Marshall murmuring “always” as he’s sucked into the avalanche, and Abby dying in my arms after telling me that she hopes I get a legend after me some day, come into my mind, and I’m reminded of exactly why I’m doing this.
With another rage-fueled surge of energy, I send out a wave of at least a hundred lightning strikes so powerful that they’re bound to electrocute anything within ten feet of where they touch down. I think briefly that I probably just killed all the non-careers in the area, if they hadn’t been killed by the flying boulders already, but quickly push that thought out of my mind. Now is not a time for reason, or forgiveness, or getting soft. Now is a time for getting even, and the non-careers caught in this storm would have died later anyways; you could even argue that I’m doing them a service by killing them now and not making them suffer through any more hell on earth, like they would have if they survived.
After a few long moments, I lose the energy to keep the storm up any longer – this has to be the largest and most violent I’ve ever created, and it’s not easy to keep it up – and collapse to my knees on the boulder I’m standing on, the only one out of probably twenty that were lined up at the bottom of the mountain that’s still in its original position. It’s a few more moments of eerie silence, in which time I stare down at my hands numbly, before realization floods in and I begin to cry, which I hadn’t really let myself do up until now.
I cry for Marshall, and how his last word was ‘always’ to a girl he could never have an always with, and how I couldn’t save him from El Nieve, even after being given two chances; I cry for Abby, and how she knew what I was and still was naive enough to believe that I was the good guy, that I deserved a fairy-tale ending, and how I couldn’t save her either, even though I would have rather died than have her die; I cry for Marcus and Adelaide, and McKenzie and Sam, and Nick and Sarah, and everyone else that’s died in here, and how I couldn’t save any of them. But mostly, I cry for myself, because I know that I’ve failed my duty as the spark, that I’ve let El Nieve win, that I’ve lost everything that I once stood for, that I let that avalanche get to me and make me forget who I am and what I believe in, if only for less than a minute. I let down everyone from the Sections who was counting on me to stand tall and defiant and concrete and unbreakable by breaking, by finally truly snapping by letting El Nieve turn me against myself and get the best of me. Somewhere, between running down that hill and watching everyone I knew and liked from the Triple Crown die, and trying and failing to save Marshall, I lost part of myself to the avalanche, the most important part of me, too: the part that actually knew who I am and what I stand for, the part of me that actually was concrete, at least with my beliefs.
I would have kneeled there and cried forever if it was not for Luke, bless his soul. “Lizzie...” he begins, his tone shocked and fearful as he stares over at me from his seated spot on the boulder, and, shaking my head slightly, I turn to look at him and suddenly realize that he’s actually there, that I didn’t kill him too. I guess, with being in the eye of the storm with me, he was unaffected by the wind and lightning and flying objects.
“I’m sorry, Luke, that I didn’t tell you that I was an immortal,” I reply quietly, my voice sounding as dead as my heart and body and mind feel.
“It’s alright,” he responds, giving me a smile, but I know that it’s not alright, that it will never be alright until I actually give him a full explanation. However, I’m very happy to believe his lies, for once in my life, and nod my head, not really knowing what to do now.
“Lizzie, come here,” he tells me again, and this time I do exactly that, crawling over to him, curling up in his lap and sobbing into his shoulder. The thought that Luke wouldn’t be doing this if his memory hadn’t returned more crosses my mind momentarily, but everything except for for everyone I’ve lost – and how I wasn’t able to save any of them from El Nieve – is washed out of my mind by my tears.
I couldn’t tell you how long we just sat there, me mourning everyone and Luke mourning along with me. To be perfectly honest, I think he might have been mourning me more than anyone, as I know that he knows that I lost something inside of me to the avalanche too. It’s almost nice, despite everything that’s happened, to just lean back and feel his warm, hard body under mine and cry on him and have him wipe my tears away. It’s nice to have to have him back, and I know now that he is back, that his memory must have returned most of the way for him to be acting like he is.
After a while – it could have been minutes or hours or days, for all I was able to tell – I finally remove my head from his shoulder, wipe my eyes partially dry, and look up at him to find him smiling down at me with the same warmth and passion that he had before his memory was stolen. Yeah, he’s back, which is a very good thing, since I know I’ve ever needed him more than I need him now.
“Your memory’s come back, hasn’t it?” I ask him quietly, to have him nod his head in confirmation as his smile gets a little bit bigger. I guess he’s glad to be back too.
“Yeah. It came back, in bits and pieces, with every moment I spent around you. When I thought about the things I remembered – like the fact that your favorite color is blue, like my eyes – another things would come back – like the fact that your favorite number is thirteen.”
His smile gets even warmer, if that’s possible, and I feel compelled to add on, “And your favorite color is gold, like my eyes.”
“Yeah,” he confirms quietly, his eyes twinkling as he looks down at me and holds me against him. After a moment of just staring at each other, we decide simultaneously that we need each other, and I lean up to kiss him as he bends down to kiss me.
After a few moments of paradise, in which I recall exactly how good of a kisser Luke is, I pull back, give him the most sincere smile I’ve ever given anyone, and tell him quietly, “I’ve missed you.”
“And I’ve missed knowing you,” he murmurs in reply, and gives me one last short kiss before pulling back and just holding me against him, both of us reveling in the fact that we’re alive, that we know each other, that we haven’t been taken from each other yet.
We probably would have sat there soaking up each other’s warmth forever, if the Triple Crown committee didn’t bring it upon themselves to ruin our moment with one of their terribly-timed announcements.
“Champions, the Triple Crown has not been won yet,” a voice booms across the silent arena, and I realize, with a start, that it’s Rush speaking. I guess he decided that he wanted to remind us that one of us has to die personally.
“Well, I guess this is it,” I say as I turn back to Luke, my eyes locking on his to find the same peculiar calmness that I’m feeling. “This is really it.”
After a moment’s pause, I tell him, “I don’t want to stop, even if they order us to, this time.” And I’m being completely sincere: I don’t want to live with the wreckage around me, especially with the knowledge that I’ll just die in the end anyways, even if I do get a few more days or weeks with Luke. Even the extra time with Luke just isn’t worth it.
“Lizzie, there is another way,” Luke begins, and I shake my head emphatically, as I know exactly where he’s going with this: he’ll kill himself to save me.
“Not another way that I’m willing to take,” I immediately shoot back, and Luke sighs deeply. Obviously he knew I was going to reply with something like that, but still was hoping against it.
“Lizzie, I don’t want you to die with me when there’s a way for you to not die at all,” Luke tells me, and I can’t help but smile bitterly as I shake my head.
After a moment of staring off into the snow and trying to formulate a response, I finally turn back to him and say, “Luke, this is the only way we will both be happy. I love and I need you, Luke,” I begin, my eyes locked his, “so much so that I know that I literally would not be able to live without you. It would be like trying to live without oxygen, or food, or water; it just wouldn’t work. I know that there’s no way on earth that I love you as much as you love me, but Luke, I love you as much as I can, and how much I can love you is growing every day. You’re growing on me, Luke, and, like I said, you’ve already grown on me so much that I need you just to get through the day and survive. You are the person I wake up to in the morning, and the person I fall asleep on at night, and that’s exactly how I want it, Luke. I will not leave you, and I will not let you leave me either, and, since at least one of us has to go and neither one of us will leave the other one, both of us have to go.” I meet his gaze to see the shock and amazement plastered across his face, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s really that surprising that I love him as much as I do. I mean, I thought I made it pretty obvious, with going into the career camp in the middle of the night to get medicine for him and nearly losing it when he lost his memory.
Suddenly it occurs to me that Luke wasn’t nearly as opposed to this double-suicide in Hand-to-Hand or One-Person Survival, and I ask him, “Luke, why is dying together such an issue now, when you were fine with it in Hand-to-Hand and One-Person?”
“Because it’s so… immediate, so real now,” Luke replies, and, when I look at him curiously – it wasn’t real before when were about to skewer each other with swords or jump off a forty-foot-tall hand? – he elaborates. “Before, I always knew that the Triple Crown committee would stop us from actually committing a double-suicide, because they couldn’t afford to have their main event flushed and lose the possibility of having someone actually win the Triple Crown for the first time in seventy-five years. But now, with all the trouble we’ve been causing them, I think they might be almost happy to have us kill each other, because then they won’t have to deal with us anymore.” After a half-second’s pause, Luke adds, “It’s also permanent, if we kill each other now. We’re not coming back if we die here, like we would have if we died in Hand-to-Hand or One-Person.”
I nod my head in understanding, but I can’t help but sigh. I knew something like this was going to happen – Luke was going to insist on him dying instead of both of us dying, and I was going to vehemently oppose that – but I didn’t realize that Luke might actually have cold feet, after all that we’ve been through and all the other times we’ve tried to kill each other.
I take a few moments to put together a rebuttal, then reply, “Luke, this is the only way out. One of us has to die – that’s a given, and something we can’t avoid – and, since neither one of us is willing to live without the other one, we both have to die. And maybe it’s better that it’s permanent. I mean, do you really want to come back to all this?” I gesture around at the arena, and Luke lowers his head in admittance. “Besides, even if we were to come back, the Triple Crown committee would kill me off at the first chance they got. At least if we die this way they don’t get the satisfaction of killing off the spark themselves.”
Luke nods his head, and finally sighs and says, “Alright Lizzie. But how are we going to kill each other, considering that we only have one weapon between us?”
He gestures to my sword, resting about five feet away from us – it must have come off either during the climb up on top of the boulder– and I reach onto my back to find that there is, in fact, no bow or quiver on me. They must have fallen off during the climb up too, although they apparently fell into the avalanche, which means they could be anywhere in the huge piles of snow around us.
“Yeah, that kind of is a problem,” I agree quietly, and rise to my feet to look over the edge of the boulder and peer down at the snow for any signs of weapons I can go diving for.
However, it hasn’t been fifteen seconds before I hear someone leap to their feet behind me, and I whip around to find Luke standing about ten feet away with my blade in his hands and a desperate look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry Lizzie, this is the only way,” Luke tells me, his eyes locked on mine, and I run towards him as I realize what he’s about to do to to catch the blade in the palm of my left hand, mere inches from his face.
Immediately pain shoots through my fingers, and it takes all of my willpower not to cry out loud or start screaming and/or crying with the sheer physical hurt of it. Thankfully, Luke stops driving the blade towards him when he realizes that he’ll cut my hand open even more than he already has if he does so, but the damage has already been done. I can feel my fingers going completely numb, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to lose that half of my hand. If so, I guess it’s a good that it’s my left hand, because I’m right-handed.
“Lizzie, what are you… oh my God!” Luke exclaims, attempting to drop the blade, but I don’t give him a chance to. Instead, fueled by incredibly powerful self-loathing and the knowledge that Luke is so much of a better person than I am that there’s no comparison at all, I pull the blade back towards me with my left hand – I mean, I’m going to die anyways, so why does it matter if I really do lose the top of that hand? As I watch my self-inflicted death come close and closer, I idly think that it’s a good thing I’ve lost almost all feeling in my left hand, otherwise I’d be screaming in pain right now.
The blade is two inches, an inch and a half, an inch from my face – when, all of a sudden, it stops moving, and I look up for the source of the stoppage to find that Luke is gripping the blade with his right hand to stop me from killing myself. I hear him inhale sharply as the pain sets in, but he doesn’t remove his hand, and instead stares me down stubbornly, as if daring me to pull the blade closer to myself.
Of course I don’t, because I don’t want him to lose the top half of his hand either, and we simultaneously drop the bloody blade to have it clatter loudly on the boulder between our feet.
“Hey,” I begin, my voice sounding weak, frail and strained – probably because that’s how I’m feeling right now – “we have matching wounds.”
I hold my bleeding, numb left hand up – I can’t even flex me fingers, so they’re not exactly straight – to have Luke line his bleeding, probably numb right hand up against it, and, sure enough, our wounds match perfectly – a single, deep cut across the palm that threatens to separate the top of the hand from the bottom and probably has done irreperable damage to our hands and fingers.
“Now we can really say we’re a matching couple,” Luke replies, smiling weakly, and I laugh slightly, the insincere sound of it echoing around the deathly-silent and deathly-still arena. After a few moments, I lose the willpower to pretend that I’m happy, and quiet falls over us again for a few moments as we just stand there and stare at our hands numbly. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think either one of us really can comprehend what just happened, but we’re both content to pretend that we can, and neither one of us feels like pointing out this folly either.
“We still haven’t really solved anything though,” I finally feel compelled to say, and look up at Luke to find him watching me and nodding in agreement.
“Well, how can we solve this?” he asks, his gaze darting to the sword at our feet for a moment before returning back onto me. “I mean, we only have one sword, so there’s not really any way for us to die simulanteously. One of us would have to kill the other and then kill themselves,” he ends, and I can’t help but think, with more than a hint of self-loathing, that I would undoubtedly be the one killing us both if we did that.
As I look down at the blade and contemplate our options, my eyes tracing the metallic sheen of the blood-coated metal, a new possibility, one that would solve our problem completely, crosses my mind. “Wait…” I begin, and bend down to pick up the blade and heft it in my hand. “If we line up with our necks close together, we can position the blade so that it will cut both of our throats when driven upwards.” I hold the blade up against my own neck in demonstration, and Luke nods in agreement, understanding sparking in his eyes.
“That will definitely work,” he agrees, his gaze glued to the bloody blade. I suppose I can’t really blame him for not being able to take his eyes away; I mean, it is the weapon that’s about to kill him and is already partially covered in his blood.
After a few long moments of silence and Luke staring down at the blade almost in awe, he finally seems to come to his senses and looks up at me. “Well, I guess this is really is it,” he says, his eyes locking on mine, and I nod my head in agreement.
“If this were a sports game, it would be crunch time,” I add, and a weak smile darts across both of our faces.
However, neither one of us is truly happy, and we stop pretending to be so after a few feeble moments of terrible acting. We then just stand there for a few moments more, each one of us seeming to be waiting for the other one to move, until I say to Luke, “Luke, you have to come closer for this to work.”
He seems to come to at the sound of my voice, and shakes his head slightly and looks up to realize what I said and do just that, coming so close that our noses are almost touching as he looks down at me and I look up at him.
“I guess this is goodbye,” he murmurs quietly, and I nod my head wordlessly in agreement.
“I guess so,” I echo, my voice sounding so strained and desperate. I don’t really feel that strained and desperate, but maybe that’s just the shock of actually being about to die and nearly losing half of my hand earlier.
“You know that I will love you always, right?” Luke tells me, and I nod my head, a small smile flitting across my face. Always is the word that started and has consistently defined our relationship, so it seems fitting that it’s one of the last words he’ll say to me.
“And you know that I love you, right?” I ask him in return, and it’s his turn to nod his head, his smile actually out of genuine happiness as opposed to the amusement that caused mine.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, and then bends down over me to give me a passionate but gentle kiss.

More added.

Immediately I drop the blade, and reach my hands upward to have them lock in his hair, not caring that they’re bloody. He doesn’t seem to care either, as he merely tightens his grip on me and holds me against him even more desperately, like he’s afraid I’ll leave him when he lets go. In a way, I will, although hopefully we’ll be going to the same place when we die.
After a few long moments in paradise, perhaps the last moments I’ll ever spend there, we both pull back, and he gazes down at me for a little while longer before I finally come to my senses and realize that we’re supposed to be dying right now.
Taking a step back, I bend down to pick up the blade and heft it in my hand again, marvelling at how perfectly balanced it is. It’s almost like it was made for me, to be perfectly honest. As I think about the possibility that it was, I shudder involuntarily – I mean, I like a good blade just as much as the next fighter, but not one that was specifically made for me to help me kill more people – and Luke’s gaze becomes concerned.
However, after spending so much time around me, he has enough common sense not to ask what’s wrong, and just stares down at me expectantly until I raise the blade so that the edge is touching both of our throats.
Luke’s hand then closes over mine, his eyes locked on mine, and he murmurs, “Together.”
“Together,” I agree, and then we both simultaneously begin to drive the blade upwards. After about a half-second, the blade stops touching and starts cutting, and the unmistakable scent of blood – his and mine – fills the air.
We both ignore the pain, however, and continue to drive the blade upward, until I begin to feel a little light-headed from all the blood I’ve lost and Luke begins to look a little light-headed from all the blood he’s lost.
All of a sudden, just as the blade seems like it’s about to actually cut open our throats if it goes any higher, I hear a rumbling noise overhead, and we both look upwards to find a huge helicopter, like the one the Triple Crown committee used to airlift us out of One-Person Survival. However, it looks different than the one the Triple Crown committee used – it’s almost like a stripped-down version of that helicopter – and there wasn’t any official Triple Crown announcement telling us that we had won, which makes me think that this helicopter might not have been sent by the Triple Crown committee. But who sent it then?
Instinctively I lower the blade from our throats, feeling my skin healing up as I do so, to have Luke remove his hand from the hilt and stare up at the helicopter as well. However, his eyes fall on my neck before he has a chance to, and, with an amazed look on his face, he reaches a hand out to gently touch the newly scabbed-over skin of my neck.
“Lizzie, you heal so quickly!” he murmurs in amazement, and then looks up at me to meet my gaze curiously.
“Part of being immortal,” I reply quickly, and immediately tear my eyes away to look back up at the helicopter. I don’t like the look of this, I don’t like the look of this at all, because I have no idea who sent that helicopter in.
“Oh,” Luke exclaims quietly in shock, and we both move out of the way to give the helicopter room to land, with it settling down precariously on the boulder a second later.
The passenger door, with tinted windows so dark that they’re almost black, begins to open, and I lift the sword instinctively. If whoever is coming out of that helicopter intends to hurt us, they’re going to have a hell of a fight awaiting them.
A huge foot, soon followed by the beefy leg it supports, comes out of the opening door, and a very familiar voice says, “Oh, do put that sword down Lightning. Everyone knows you’re going to do a lot more damage with the clouds than you will with that thing.”
As the person exiting the helicopter comes into full view – and nearly blocks out the sun while they’re at it – my jaw literally falls open in surprise.
Max.

“Lightning, shut your mouth. You’re going to catch flies if you don’t,” Max tells me as he stares down at me, a smirk on his face at the stunned expression on mine.
“What… what are you…?” I stutter, looking up at him in amazement as I’m not able to articulate anything because of my surprise.
“What am I doing here?” Max finishes for me, and I nod my head wordlessly in a yes. His grin gets even bigger – I mean, it’s not every day that you can render me speechless, so you have to enjoy the moments when you can – and he replies, “Getting you out of here, obviously. I mean, unless you two want to die in here?” He looks between Luke and I expectantly, and we both shake our heads vehemently in unison.
“Good,” Max says, and then orders us, “Now on the helicopter, both of you,” to give me a huge shove in the back that almost sends me falling into the helicopter.
As soon as both Luke and I are inside, and Max has closed the door behind us, he barks out, “I need medics for these two, right now!”
Immediately, an army of white-coated people runs towards us with syringes and bandages and various other medical tools, and, with part of my mind still being in the arena and still associating white with El Nieve, I react instinctively.
A gutteral snarl comes out of my throat, and I can feel myself vibrating as the wolf part of me wants to change form and rip these terrible white people to shreds. Fortunately, I’m not so far gone that the reasoning part of my mind has disappeared completely, and I’m able to control myself and shut down the wolf inside of me before I actually succeed in doing anything like that.
However, I do make everyone around me jump in surprise, and many of the doctors begin retreating, their hands shaking as much as my whole body was a few seconds ago.
In fact, the only person who doesn’t look perturbed at all is Max. All he does is look down at me with a critical eye and say, “Shapeshifter, huh? Probably should have seen that coming, with all that unnatural body temperature and not getting tired and everything.”
“Shapeshifter?” Luke exclaims in amazement, and I turn to look over at him and find him staring at me in shock. “Are you not… are you not human then?” he asks me quietly, his eyes wide, and I force myself to swallow deeply.
If I answer yes, I will have betrayed him completely by not bothering to tell him that I’m not even the same species he is, but if I answer no, I will just be lying to him even more. I guess I just have to be truthful for once, and hope that Luke doesn’t hate me for lying to him earlier.
I bow my head slightly in admittance, and Luke stares at me with such shock and amazement and betrayal that I can barely live with myself. I try to tell myself that not telling him was the best thing to do, that it would have been dangerous for both of us for me to tell him, but I can’t bring myself to think things like that, when he’s right in front of me with his faith in me shattered in two.
I hear the question of “What are you, then?” echoing around in Luke’s mind, and, not being able to bear listening to his broken tone anymore, I answer simply, before he can ask question, “I’m a wolf.”
“Oh,” Luke exclaims quietly, and now he’s the one Max should be telling to shut his mouth or he might catch flies. In fact, Luke’s expression would be incredibly funny if it were under any other circumstances, but, right now, it’s just a painful reminder of how I betrayed his trust.
I feel compelled to say, even though I know that it probably won’t fix anything – to be perfectly honest, I don’t think anything I say right now will fix anything – “Luke, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It would have just been too dangerous for both of us for me to tell you anything about what I really am. I’m sorry, Luke,” I end sincerely, my voice trailing off and threatening to crack as I look over at the hurt and betrayed expression on his face.
For once in his life, Luke doesn’t lie to me and tell me that it’s alright that I lied to him, that he’s not hurt at all, that everything’s fine. In fact, he just doesn’t say anything at all, and lets the doctors lead him away with his eyes on the ground and unbearable sadness plastered across his expression.
“Max, what did I just do?” I murmur quietly as I watch Luke go, my heart threatening to crack with every step that he takes away from me.
“You told him the truth. That’s all that you can do,” Max replies, and I turn to look at him to find him staring down at me with compassion and maybe even commiseration on his face. I guess he probably had to tell someone that he loved that he was immortal too, at some point, and they probably reacted in the same way Luke did.
“Humans always act like this, when they find out what we really are,” Max continues, and my suspicion is confirmed. “They always come around though, if they really love you, but the relationship is never quite the same.” I stare up at Max to find him watching Luke go with sadness and nostalgia on his face that truly makes him seem, despite the fact that he doesn’t look any older than forty, the ninety-one years old that he is.
“Who did you have to tell?” I ask Max, to have him turn his calculating, blazing gaze onto me for a long moment before answering.
“My girlfriend,” he replies quietly, tearing his gaze away from my face to look down the helicopter. “She dumped me right after,” he adds, his voice trailing off, and I lower my eyes out of respect for what he’s lost. After all, she was probably the only girlfriend he’s ever had, and that might be because he latched onto her so tightly that he couldn’t ever bring himself to be with another person ever again. That’s the thing about immortals: we tend to get so glued to one person that they might be the only person we’ll ever want or love. It’s almost cruel, the way that works, because most of the time we get latched onto mortals and then end up killing ourselves when they die.
“She was it for you, wasn’t she?” I question, my tone just as hushed as his now, and he nods his head yes, his expression even more sad now.
“I guess she didn’t feel the same about me that I did about her,” he adds quietly, and again I lower my gaze out of respect. I can’t even imagine how painful that must be, to have the one person for you reject you for being what you are. It would be like Luke telling me that he’s over me, or that he never really loved me to begin with, and that he doesn’t want to be around me anymore.
We stand in silence for a few moments longer, Max mourning the loss of the girl he loved – who is probably dead now, now that I think about – and me mourning the potential loss of Luke. I mean, Luke has been through a lot with me, and has put up with a lot of things that I’ve done, but I don’t know if he’ll stick around and put up with this one. This is basically the largest lie that I could ever tell him – pretending to be human when I’m not, because that makes my whole human existence false and everything he presumed to be true about me doubtful. After all, if I didn’t tell him the truth about what I really am, what else am I not telling him?
“How did you guys – I mean, I’m presuming you’re with the rebels now, considering that there isn’t any Triple Crown branding on this thing-” – I explain in the middle of my thought, to have Max nod his head in confirmation – “get in here, or even get a helicopter, for that matter?”
“The Sections are a lot stronger than I think you realize, Lizzie,” Max tells me, meeting my gaze, and takes my complete attention as a prompt to continue. “We snuck into El Nieve in the middle of the night and stole this thing right out of their armories-”
“I’m sure Rush just loved that,” I can’t help but interject quietly, smiling slightly as I envision all of the shades of red and purple he probably turned.
“-and stripped it all of specifically-El-Nieve parts. We then flew up here, and let ourselves in to the arena with the force field destroyer on this bad boy-” – Max pats the steel wall behind him, and, for the first time I’ve ever witnessed, something Max pats doesn’t try to collapse underneath his hand – “-to get you two out of here. Unfortunately, we didn’t get here in time to save more,” Max ends quietly, his face falling some. Even though he didn’t even know the other kids in the arena, he obviously didn’t want any of them to die – I mean, who would, unless the person you’re asking is from El Nieve? – and clearly he feels bad about not being able to save them all. Man, the more I think about it, the more he really is like me. I guess that means that Triple Crown victors tend to be a specific type of people, and Luke, who is definitely not the type of person who would normally be a Triple Crwon victor, just happened to survive this long because he had me on his side.
Max and I share a few more moments of silence, both of us mourning everyone who was lost in the arena, until Max seems to come to his senses and realize that my hand still needs healing – my body doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job of fixing it by itself, which is not a good sign at all about the damage I did to my hand, because my body can heal almost any wound I receive – and turns to me to say, “Lightning, we need to get that hand of yours looked at. Your neck’s fine – scabbed right up, and you shouldn’t even have a scar if you leave it alone – but your hand’s not doing so well.”
He then turns to the rest of the helicopter and yells, “I need a doctor for Lightning! I need a doctor for Lightning!”
When no one comes forward after a few moments – I can’t really blame them for not rushing in here, considering I snarled and was prepared to rip them apart the first time Max called for them – Max snorts and shakes his head in disgust, and mutters under his breath, “Bloody cowards, all of them.”
However, as soon as Max says that, a familiar tall, thin man with a shaved head in a white coat steps out of the main hallway of the helicopter to turn to Max and ask, “You called?”
“Lars!” I cry when I recognize him, and a smile bursts out across both of our faces.
“Miss Lightning,” he greets warmly, and steps forward to shake my hand – the non-damaged right one, of course. “That storm was quite an exhibition of your talents, my dear,” he tells me, and I can’t help but feel my smile get bigger and bow my head in admittance. It’s nice to actually have someone compliment you on what you can do instead of freak out and insist it’s not normal, that you’re a monster who needs to be exterminated, or run away from you in fear, for once.
“Now, let me see about that hand of yours,” Lars says briskly, and, without waiting for me to say anything, takes my left hand, palm-up, in both of his and examines it critically.
After a few moments, he looks up at me again and asks me, “You weren’t really planning for the future when you did this to yourself, were you?”
I shake my head no, feeling almost sheepish now, to have Lars sigh deeply. I guess whatever I did to my hand must be even worse than I originally realized.
“Miss Lightning, I’m afraid you’ve probably caused permanent nerve damage to the fingers above the cut in your hand at best,” he tells me, meeting my gaze concernedly.
Immediately I ask, “What did I do to my hand at worst?” to have him reply, his expression falling even more now, “At worst, we might not be able to save the top part of your hand.”
“Oh,” I mutter quietly, turning my gaze away from Max and Lars so they won’t see the dismay and fear on my expression. A life without the top of my left hand… I might not be able to ever play basketball or baseball or football or volleyball or softball ever again, and I don’t know what I’d do without my sports.
“Well, letting your hand sit certainly isn’t going to help anything, and we have a better chance of saving it if we treat it quickly, so come on, Lizzie. There’s still hope for your hand yet,” Lars finishes, and gives me a beaming smile that seems to warm me from the inside out and makes me believe everything he’s saying, that my hand isn’t gone yet and that there’s still a chance to save it.
“Thank you Lars,” I tell him sincerely as I let him lead down the cavernous main hallway of the helicopter.
“No thanks is necessary, Miss Lightning,” Lars responds as he stops in front of one of the numerous identical steel doorways lining this corridor, pulls out a key, and opens the door. He then looks up at me and gives me another smile, “I always try to make my patients be optimistic about the situation, as things tend to go better when you think they’re going to go better.” I can see a twinkle in Lars’ eye as he looks over at me, and I know that he knows that I’ve had difficulties with that whole optimism thing before, which, by the way, is completely overrated. I’ve succeeded so many timees with a pessimistic attitude that optimism shouldn’t even show its face to me.
“After you, my dear.” Lars motions for me to enter the newly-opened room, which I, of course, do, to gasp in amazement.
He has just walked me into a huge, spotless and white operating room, with a gleaming, padded operating table occupying the middle of the room and rows and rows of glistening surgical tools that I could probably kill thousands of people with lining the walls. There is also a huge white chest off to one side, which I figure must contain gloves and hospital gowns and all of that stuff, what appears to be a stainless steel refrigerator off to the other side, and a little machine sitting in the corner with buttons labeled with such things as “I-200.”
The little machine piques my curiosity, and I gesture to it as I ask Lars, “What does that thing do?”
“Oh, it’s a medicine maker,” Lars replies. “You plug in the medicine you want, and, a few seconds and some humming later, it pops it right out.” To demonstrate, he steps forward, presses the red button marked “A-1000” and, a few seconds later, five little red tablets with “A-1000” engraved in the top of them pop out of the machine and into his waiting hand.
“Whoa,” I can’t help but exclaim. A medicine maker, huh? If we had that kind of technology in the twenty-first century, we could save a lot more people than we already can, presuming that thing can make any kind of medicine.
“It’s a very nice machine,” Lars agrees with a smile and a twinkle in his eye as he looks over at me. “The best medicinal technology known to man.”
I am about to ask a million other questions about the machine, like, “How does it work?” and, “Where does it get the ingredients for the medicines from?” when Lars takes me by the hand, sits me down on the operating table, retrieves a bottle of water from the refrigerator – so I was right, it is a refrigerator – and hands me the bottle of water and the pills the machine just made.
“What are these?” I ask him suspiciously, staring down at the little red tablets warily. Presuming they still use the metric system, the “1000” on the tops of the pills stands for one thousand milligrams, but I have no idea what the “A” stands for.
“Anasthetics,” Lars replies promptly. “They’ll knock you out almost immediately, so make sure that you’re seated away from the edge of the table when you take them.”
He then looks at me expectantly, and, after regarding them, regarding him and sighing, I pop all five into my mouth to lose consciousness only a few seconds later.

More added.

I blink my eyes blearily to find myself staring up at a steel ceiling. In my confusion, I wonder, “Where am I, a holding cell?” However, after a few moments, everything comes flooding back in, and I sit up abruptly to find myself hooked up to some kind of drip. Huh. I don’t remember that being there when I took the anas
“Finally you’re awake,” a familiar voice comes from the right, and I turn my head to find Max, seated in a chair that’s threatening to break under his weight, watching me with a smirk on his face.
“How long was I out?” I ask him immediately, shaking my head in attempt to clear my muddled mind and get myself thinking straight. Unfortunately, those anasthetics seem to have numbed my mind as well as my body, and I end up slightly dizzy and just as confused as before after shaking my head for a few moments.
“An hour,” Max replies, and, as I make sure that he’s watching, I look down at the drip in my arm pointedly. Max immediately understands, and answers my unspoken question, “Your body burned off the anasthetics Lars originally gave you in fifteen minutes, so we had to hook you up to drip anasthetics. The funniest part is that bag that you burned through in forty-five minutes is supposed to be strong enough to knock someone out for two days,” he ends, his smirk getting bigger as he does so.
“Part of being a wolf: we burn things off quicker,” I tell him, and he nods his head in understanding. It then occurs to me why I was knocked out in the first place, and I look down at my hand in anticipation to find nothing but a tightly-wrapped white bandage.
“It’ll heal up soon enough, and then you’ll get to see how good of a surgeon Lars is,” Max tells me, and rises to his feet to pull the IV out of my arm – not very gently, I might add – to unhook from the IV. “Come on Lizzie, there’s someone you should meet,” he then says, and half-pulls me to my feet off of the operating table to push me out of the door and nearly in to someone standing right outside.
“Oh, sorry,” I immediately say, and, when I back up and get a closer look at who I nearly took out, I see that there’s actually three people there: two men dressed in all-black that are almost as big as Max and a small woman standing in between them.
She’s short, probably five-four at best, with long black hair that nearly reaches down to her waist and piercing blue-gray eyes. However, her eyes aren’t friendly like Luke’s are, they’re merely calculating, like I’m a specimen she can’t wait to dissect, and it’s almost enough to send shivers up my spine. I wonder if this is what the scientists that experimented on Jackson looked like, before I burned them up with their building.
“Who are you?” I ask her bluntly, my social skills apparently being numbed by the anesthetics as well. I can tell that she’s important, sure, but I don’t really care what her position is, as I’ve never really had much respect for authority.
Her nose wrinkles at my less-than-hygienic appearance and smell, and she answers, “Caroline King, the officially-elected leader of the Seceding Sections of El Tiempo.”
I don’t like the fact that she’s talking down to me, and I definitely don’t like the fact that she’s making her dislike of my appearance so obvious, so I tell her, my tone cold, “Sorry about looking like this, I just haven’t had time to take a shower, with fighting for my life and all that. And, by the way,” I add, my temper really getting the best of me now, “I don’t really care who you are, but you have no right to talk down to me like that. Just because you happen to have been elected leader of the ‘Seceding Sections of El Tiempo’ – although I don’t know who on earth would actually want you as their leader, unless all of them have sticks up their asses too – doesn’t mean that you’re any better than me, and it certainly doesn’t mean that those big bodyguards of yours can keep you safe from me.” I stare her down menacingly, fully enjoying the fact that I’ve got a half a foot on her at least.
“Are you threatening me?” she says incredulously, her tone more surprised than offended or angry. I guess she didn’t really plan on anyone being brave enough to stand up to her with those two bodyguards hulking next to her, which I, as a safety precaution, have frozen by making the air around them completely solid. I also have frozen Max, who tried to burst into our conversation a moment ago, in the same fashion, and have bent the air around him so that she can’t see him. However, he can still hear us loud and clear, and I can’t help but hope that he’s hearing every word I’m saying to this stuck-up, stick-up-her-ass, holier-than-thou, grade-A bitch, because she deserves everything I’m saying to her.
“Yeah, I am, and I even can carry out my threats,” I reply, hardening my gaze even more so that I’m half-surprised she doesn’t become frozen like her bodyguards.
“But… why?” King’s – I’m definitely not calling her ‘Caroline,’ after all, because calling her by her first name implies that I can tolerate her some – tone is utterly stunned and at a loss, and I can’t help but burst out laughing at her ignorance. She honestly thinks she can treat people the way she does and not have them react negatively?
Oh, right, she probably actually does, because everyone’s been kissing her ass up until now. In me, she’s finally found someone her own size –in a figurative sense, or course; if it was literal, almost everyone would be bigger than her – someone who won’t bend to her will and do exactly as she wants, and she doesn’t really seem to know how to deal with it.
“Because arrogant bitches like you, with your holier-than-thou and kiss-my-ass-because-I”ll-kick-yours-if-you-don’t acts annoy the hell out of me, and I don’t exactly like your attitude either,” I tell her, to smirk when she seems at a loss for words. “What’s the matter, Caroline?” I say derisively. “Can’t think of anything to say to someone who won’t kiss your ass or treat you like you own them?”
“You’re making yourself a dangerous enemy, Miss Lightning,” King finally says, her tone as cold as my gaze, with her blue-gray eyes flashing as they lock on mine.
“King, I’m not afraid of governments, or even of gods, so why in the hell would I be afraid of you?” I shoot back, staring her down as intensely and with as much hostility as I can muster.
“Your bravery amuses me, Miss Lightning,” King tells me, her mouth curling into a malicious smirk. “We’ll see who’s afraid at the end though,” she ends, and then turns and begins to walk away, prompting me to release her bodyguards and shove them all down the hallway with one big burst of wind.
I turn around to face Max, who is currently invisible to everyone but me – the only reason he’s not invisible to me is because I’m the one who made him invisible – and unfreeze him and make him visible again to have him yell at me, “What in the hell did you do that for?”
“She deserved every word I said to her,” I shoot back defensively, hardening my gaze as I stare him down and contemplate freezing him again.
“I’m not saying that she didn’t, Lizzie,” Max begins, which stuns me into silence, “but she’s right: you just made yourself a very dangerous enemy, because she can make the people of the Sections love you or hate you by saying just a couple words up on a stage.”
“Oh,” I exclaim quietly. So that’s how she got elected leader of the rebelling Sections: she manipulated the people with her words. And if she chooses to manipulate the people again, and turn them against me, then I’ll get burned, alright, but burned at the hands of the people of the Sections.
“I probably should have thought that through better and not have frozen you to stop you from breaking it up, shouldn’t I?” I murmur, and Max nods his head in confirmation.
“Yeah, you probably should have,” he agrees, and places his hand on my shoulder and begins to guide me down the hallway. I don’t protest, as there’s undoubtedly another person he wants me to meet, and he probably should be there to moderate me and make sure I don’t cuss them out like I did with King.
However, after a few seconds of walking in silence, a question occurs to me about the conversation I just had with King, and I ask, looking over at Max, “Why does King look at me like I’m a tool she can’t wait to use?”
“Well, I like to think of this rebellion against El Nieve as sort of a chess game between King and Rush,” Max answers, meeting my gaze.
“And that makes us both chess pieces of King then,” I say, and Max nods his head in confirmation. “Max, I don’t want to be used. I want to be the one playing the game.”
My eyes lock on his, and, after a few moments of this staredown, he agrees quietly, “I don’t really want to be used either, but I’ve been used all my life, so I guess I’ve gotten used to it by now.” Max shrugs and then sighs with weariness, and the sadness and tiredness on his face begin to truly hint at how long he’s lived and how many terrible things he’s seen.
Our conversation lapses into silence, and we continue walking down the hallway, both of our eyes on the floor.
However, it’s not in my nature to keep quiet when I have so many questions, so, after a few moments, I look back up at Max and question, “Well, if we are chess pieces of King, then what am I?”
“The queen,” Max replies immediately, and I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. If there’s anything I like less than arrogant bitches, it’s royalty – even though I am technically royalty myself – and I don’t want to be it, even if just from a figurative sense. Fortunately, Max sees the confusion and suspicion on my face and elaborates, “You’re the queen because you’re the weapon King can’t win without. You’ve caused this rebellion, and you can either further it or shut it down. However, King’s screwed, and the rebellion’s doomed, if she loses you,” he finishes, and I nod my understanding. As much as I don’t want to be royalty or a chess piece, I see Max’s point loud and clear. However, I think I just showed King that it’s even harder to tame a spark than it is to catch one.
“Then what are you, in this game of chess?” I ask him, and he shrugs noncommittally. I guess he doesn’t want to be equated to a chess piece either.
However, I won’t accept that as an answer, and he seems to know this, as, after a half-second of silence, he answers, “Rook, bishop maybe. Someone who can help out the war effort some, and maybe make some inspirational speeches to help the Sections, but not someone who can really change the game.”
“Oh really?” I shoot back, my eyes locking on his. “I’ve won a lot of chess games with rooks and bishops.”
“Then you haven’t had me as a rook or bishop,” Max replies, and, despite the fact that I just insulted someone who can make everyone I’m fighting for hate me, and that Luke probably hates me, and that everyone I knew and loved from the Triple Crown is dead, I can’t help but laugh. In so many ways, Max reminds of my dad, except for the fact that my dad is a two-thousand-year-old god and Max is, well, not.
“You found me, and helped me be the spark though, so, if it weren’t for you, this rebellion wouldn’t even exist,” I tell him, to have him shake his head in denial.
“Mitchell was the one who made you into a spark. I was the one who suggested you break Luke’s heart to get liked by the audience,” Max says, and I sigh. In many ways, Max is like me, too: he doesn’t like to take praise for anything, even if it is something he actually did.
“I still wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you though,” I murmur, my eyes locked on his face, and here he finally bows his head in admittance. After all, Luke would be dead if it weren’t for him, and I would have gone with Luke too, so I guess I really do owe my life to Max. Of course, he also gave me that tip – when he was drunk, but he still gave it to me – about the land mines underneath the ankle cuffs that definitely helped me win One-Person Survival, which means that I owe him my life twice over.
We walk in silence for a little while longer, the bitterness that both of us have at being pawns – yet again – palpable in the air. In fact, we probably would have continued the whole walk down the hallway without speaking if it weren’t for the fact that I spotted another one of the unmarked steel doorways and had my mind immediately go to Luke.
Max, being a step ahead of me by reading my mind, immediately answers, “Luke’s fine. Lars patched him up, and he’s just resting right now – because, unlike you,” Max interjects, looking over at me with a smile on his face, “anasthetics that are supposed to knock you out for four hours actually do knock him out for four hours-” – I can’t help but smile at this comment myself – “but you can go see him as soon as you wake up.”
Max’s reply doesn’t do anything to calm my fears that Luke will hate me, and that he won’t want to see me, but Max seems to notice this, as he adds gently, his tone causing me to look up at him and meet his gaze, “Lizzie, he’ll come around. He’s been through so much with you already that he can get through a little more.”
My heart immediately begins to fill with sadness at his words, not because of what they actually mean but because of who they remind me of, and I say, looking over at Max, “That sounds so much like something Marshall would say.” After a half-second of silence, I add quietly, “I miss him, Max.”
“I know,” Max replies softly, his eyes locked on mine. “You can’t let yourself drown in it though, because people still need you.”
“I know,” I echo, then add, looking back up at Max to give him a sincere smile, “Thank you, Max.”
“No problem, Lizzie,” he responds, returning my smile.
I then drop my eyes and slip my hands into my pockets, and we continue to walk down the hallway, with me idly wondering how long this hallway is, as we haven’t seen the end yet even though we’ve probably been walking for five minutes at least.
Suddenly it occurs to me that, while I do know that the arena was in someplace cold and snowy, I have no idea where that was, so I turn to Max and ask him, “Where are we coming from?”
“Alaska,” he answers immediately, and I almost curse my stupidity out loud. Of course the arena would be in Alaska; I mean, where else are there large expanses of untouched snowy wasteland in US – or, I guess it’s El Tiempo – borders?
“And I presume we’re going to El Nieve?” I prompt, to have him nod his head in confirmation.
“Yeah. After all, the only way for us to win this is to take the fight to El Nieve, and catch them sleeping,” Max adds, and now it’s my turn to nod my head in understanding.
“You must have already caught them sleeping, for you to have stolen this,” I point out, and Max smiles slightly and nods his head again.
“Yeah, I guess we did. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think El Nieve really thought the Sections meant business till we stole this thing,” Max elaborates, and I nod my head and stare down at the floor, feeling kind of like a bird by nodding my head so much while walking.
After we walk in silence for a little while longer – during which time we pass lots of other steel doors and see the first signs of human life on the helicopter besides Max, King, Lars and the other doctors – and don’t stop for anything, I finally turn to Max and ask him, “Where are we going?”
“There’s someone who wants to see you, and someone I think you want to see too,” Max tells me, and, before I can even begin to guess about who that might be, he stops abruptly to knock on one of the steel doors to the left side of the hallway.
I hear someone from inside call, “Coming!” and feel the floor vibrate under my feet slightly as the owner of that voice gets to their feet and crosses the room to open the door. I then gasp audibly when I see who that person is.
Jackson.

More added.

“Lizzie!” Jackson immediately cries, his voice relieved, and he runs towards me to wrap me in a huge hug and hold me against him so tightly that I think he might crack a couple of my ribs. After a few long moments, during which time I hug him back, incredibly relieved and happy to see him too, he pulls back to stare down at me and murmur, his tone becoming concerned now, “Are you alright? Is your hand alright?”
“I’m…” I begin to say, and quickly backtrack to end, “My hand’s fine,” because God knows, with all that’s happened in the last few hours, I am not fine.
“Thank God you’re alive,” he murmurs, and presses me against him again, causing his sharp but not unpleasant scent to fill my nostrils and almost intoxicate me. It’s amazing to think that I thought I could survive much longer in that arena without him there.
“I missed you, Jackson,” I say into his shoulder, and cling onto him even tighter. As much as I love Luke, I still need Jackson too, and nothing that happened in the arena could change that.
“I missed you too,” Jackson whispers in my ear, his lips tickling my neck. Taken by surprise, I jerk backward to stare up at him and find him looking down at me with a smile – one of those true smiles that lights up his eyes and really shows how handsome he is – on his face.
Suddenly, I realize how truly fatigued I am, with the stress of everything that’s happened lately, and that I’m about to collapse on Jackson.
Fortunately, I’m able to keep my feet, and he apparently notices my weariness, as he tells me, “Come on. We can talk after you sleep,” and then places a gentle hand on my back to guide me into his room so that I can fall onto his bed. He then closes the door behind us, and comes over to sit down on the edge of the bed next to me.
I roll over to look up at him and murmur, “Those three days in the arena were three days too long without you, Jackson,” before rolling back onto my stomach and immediately falling asleep, the last thing in my mind Jackson’s smile, which I haven’t seen in what feels like forever.

Everything around me is soft and fluffy and incredibly warm – in the case of the person next to me – which isn’t right. In the arena, nothing is soft and fluffy, and that’s where I am, right?
Groaning and rolling onto my back, I open my eyes to find myself staring at a steel ceiling that definitely doesn’t exist in the arena. I then feel the person next to me stir, and roll over a little more to find myself staring at Jackson, which causes everything that happened before I fell asleep to come back. Unfortunately, the thing that comes back the most powerfully is the look on Luke’s face after he learned that I’m not a human and I didn’t bother to tell him about it.
Just thinking about how irreparably I may have damaged my relationship with Luke makes me sigh and want to suffocate myself with the pillow my head’s resting on.
However, Jackson, being a step ahead of me by taking advantage of my weakness and reading my thoughts, immediately steals my pillow and pulls me closer to him with a murmur of, “You’re not committing suicide on my watch.” What sends shivers up my spine is that it sounds like Jackson’s been prepared to say that line for a while now, as if he’s been expecting me to attempt to commit suicide.
However, I decide to play along with the ruse and reply, “Yes, sir,” with a little smile on my face, and sigh in happiness when he locks his arms around me and holds me to him.
“How are you so beautiful when you’ve just woken up, when it seems like I always look terrible?” Jackson asks me quietly as he raises a hand to gently trace the outline of my jaw.
“Actually, I was wondering the same thing, except about you,” I admit, and it’s completely true. It seems like Jackson always looks like a young god, no matter what he’s doing, and that amazes me because it seems like, half the time, I look terrible enough to disgrace his beauty.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lizzie, because if anyone has eyes, they’re going to be looking at you.” He then gives me a kind smile, and I see some more of the worry that’s been hiding at the back of his eyes for a while now disappear in oblivion.
“You really are so much like Luke that it’s scary sometimes,” I murmur, as I allow myself to think about Luke. I wonder if he still hates me as much as he did when my secret first came out; undoubtedly he does, since I haven’t had a chance to explain it to him.
Unfortunately, I have the feeling that, no matter how much explaining I do, I can never truly fix our relationship, because that ultimate deception of him cannot be mended by a few words. After all, it takes a lot more than words to mend a broken heart, and that’s basically what I’ve stuck him with; I mean, I have to think that he feels betrayed and let down, maybe as badly as if I had downright rejected him the first place, which I think qualifies as him having a broken heart.
After a few moments of silence – obviously Jackson doesn’t really want to talk about the subject of Luke, although I suppose I can’t really blame him – I look Jackson in the eye again and ask him quietly, “Do you think Luke will forgive me?”
“Lizzie, he loves you so much that he would forgive if you killed him. I’m sure he’ll forgive you,” Jackson tells me, but there’s something about his tone that makes me think that those words are scripted, memorized, come up with beforehand, and I can’t help but wonder how long Max spent talking to him and how many other things Jackson has scripted responses to.
“Jackson, I did something even worse than kill him: I killed the girl he was in love with. Do you think he’ll ever forgive me for that?” I repeat.
“Lizzie, you didn’t kill the girl he was in love with,” Jackson replies immediately, his tone more lifelike now, so that I think these words might actually be his own. “You merely told him that she wasn’t who he thought she was,” Jackson says, and, when he sees me open my mouth to protest, immediately keeps on talking, “which isn’t the same thing as killing her, because the girl that he still loves is alive and well and laying next to me right now. She just... isn’t human, that’s all,” Jackson ends lamely, and I can’t help but shake my head as a bitter smile crosses my lips.
“She’s just not human, that’s all?’” I repeat, and continue to shake my head. I’d say – and Luke seems to agree – that me not being human is a whole hell of a lot more important and deserves a lot more care than a “that’s all.”
“Lizzie,” Jackson begins again, obviously in an attempt to stop the violent protest he sees I’m going to make, “it’s like a blind cat falling in love with another cat, only to find out that that cat is actually a dog. The essence of the thing the blind cat fell in love with – the dog-cat’s personality and opinions and everything that made that dog-cat so perfect in the blind cat’s eyes – are still there, just in a different exterior than the blind cat originally thought.”
Despite the fact that Jackson’s trying to make a very serious, very real point, and that all of the points in the world – even ones as good as the one Jackson just made – might not be able to make Luke not hate me for lying to him for so long, I can’t help but laugh at the analogy Jackson chose to use. “So you’re calling Luke a blind cat?” I choke out, collapsing into hysterical laughter as I lay against Jackson.
“Yeah, something like that,” Jackson says after a moment, and begins to laugh with me too, his deep chuckles filling the room and serving as a living reminder of how incredibly amazing he is when he’s happy.
“You have a beautiful laugh,” Jackson murmurs in my ear after we both quiet down, and I lean against him, enjoying the way his hard body presses against mine.
“You kind of have a beautiful laugh too,” I murmur after a few moments of resting with my head on his shoulder, and I look up to give him a genuine smile that soon becomes a smirk as I see the look of amazement on his face – like he’s fearing for my mental health. Although, now that I think about it, I suppose I kind of have given him reasons to worry before.
After a few moments of just laying next to him in a contented silence, something that I find incredibly interesting occurs to me, and I begin, as I look up at him and meet his gaze again, “Jackson?”
“Hmm?” he murmurs back as he absentmindedly traces the outline of my cheekbones with an outstretched hand. He doesn’t seem to notice the sincerity and thoughtfulness of my tone – he seems to be too distracted by the fact that I’m lying in front of him – but I have a feeling that he’ll be paying very close attention as soon as he hears the gist of what I’m going to say.
“You know, I think this is the longest I’ve ever been in your company without kissing you. Why is that?” I meet his gaze almost fearfully, as I think I know the answer but don’t want to admit it to myself.
Jackson – like I predicted – immediately snaps to attention and regards me carefully for a few moments before replying, “Well, you tell me. Even though I could if I would, I can’t read your mind and have no clue what you’re thinking.” However, I know that to be a blatant lie as well, as I know that Jackson must at least have theories about where I’m going with this, but, in the interest of continuing the conversation, I decide not to point this out.
Instead, I say, starting out quietly and gaining volume and confidence as I speak, “Jackson, I think being with Luke in arena, and seeing him forget me completely, and realizing how terrible life would be without him, changed something inside of me, and tipped the scales in Luke’s favor.”
“Are you saying that you don’t love me anymore?” Jackson asks me, his eyes locked on mine, and immediately I shake my head no. Of course I still love Jackson, because I know that I can’t live without him either, but I don’t think I need Jackson as much as I need Luke anymore.
“Jackson, I definitely still love you, because I know that I wouldn’t be able to survive without you there next to me to talk to me and help me face the things I don’t want to face, but I don’t think I need you as much as I used to, and I think I need Luke more now. It’s almost like-”
“You’ve found a new addiction in Luke, and he’s helping wean you off of me,” Jackson ends for me, as I gave him access to my thoughts for once, and I nod my head in confirmation to look at Jackson almost fearfully. I have no idea how he’s going to react to this – I can’t even imagine how much pain and emotional turmoil I must be putting him through by saying those words – and I know that I’m screwed if he happens to lose it now, as I’m weakened from my stay in the arena and by the emotional turmoil I’m going through with Luke.
“You think that almost like we’re drugs,” Jackson says quietly, his intense golden gaze boring holes into me, and I nod my head in confirmation, because it’s definitely true. Jackson and Luke have become the drugs I need to survive, the things that are as critical to my existence as water and nutrients and air. After all, I know that I wouldn’t be able to live without either one of them, and just thinking about attempting something like that makes my head and heart hurt.
“You guys are, to me,” I tell him quietly. “I’ve grown to need both of you for survival, so much so that I don’t know what I’d do if one of you went away, or I did something that would make you hate me and never speak to me again,” I end, finally voicing the issue that’s been truly nagging at me about what would happen if Luke really does hate me for lying to him.
“Lizzie, Luke will never hate you, and he will never want to not speak to you ever again, because he needs you for survival as much as you need him,” Jackson tells me, and my eyes immediately shoot open wide in surprise. Jackson notes this and continues, “He loves you with all of his heart, and he knows that he wouldn’t have a reason to live if it weren’t for you – I mean, he wouldn’t even be alive right now if it weren’t for you, but that’s beside the point – so he could never not speak to you again, because for him, that would be like holding his breath because he decided to shun the air: it just wouldn’t work, and eventually he’d either crack and breathe, or die. You are as necessary to him as we seem to be to you, so he will never hate you, and he will never think about leaving you, because he needs you, just as much as I need you.” Jackson’s voice trails off, and I hear the desperation in it as he looks me in the eye with so much passion that I’m almost scared.
He doesn’t want to be losing to Luke, and clearly he’s trying to gain some ground. Unfortunately, his bit of truthfulness about what Luke will do only help Luke gain ground, even though it did exhibit Jackson’s honesty.
“Jackson,” I begin, seized by a sudden pulse of emotion that drives me away from him and onto my feet, “I really need to go talk to Luke.” I stare down at him for a few moments, the betrayed stamped across his forehead almost too painful for me to look at, before I bend down and kiss him gently on the lips.
After a moment, I pull back, for fear of being tempted to stay, and tell him gently, as I look him in the eye, “I’ll be back.” I then give him one last smile before turning and leaving, feeling a little bit better about my relationship with Luke, even if I just ruined the one I have with Jackson.

More added.

“Luke!” I exclaim instinctively, upon walking out of Jackson’s room and turning to the left to find Luke standing there, almost like he was waiting for me. “What are you doing here?” I immediately ask, as I can’t help but wonder if he really was standing there waiting for me. If so, he must have heard some of Jackson’s and my conversation.
“I was waiting for you, because I think we need to talk,” Luke tells me quietly, his eyes locked on mine, and I can tell that he too wants to talk about what I said and what he heard in Jackson’s and my conversation.
“Here, let’s go to my room.” Luke takes my hand gently in his – his mere touch makes me feel a little bit better, and heartens me some – and leads me down the hallway to another, identical steel door about five down from Jackson’s.
“Come on in,” he says as he opens the door and holds it open for me, like the true gentleman he is.
The first thing that I notice about Luke’s room is that it’s distinctly different from Jackson’s. Jackson’s almost looked like a military bunker, the kind of room a full-time soldier who’s never known anything but battle would set up, while Luke’s room looks like a much-neater version of the average seventeen-year-old boy’s room, with a small laptop sitting on the desk next to his bed and the shelves completely empty. In fact, the whole room is completely empty except for the change of clothes hanging in the open closet and one framed picture sitting on his nightstand. I walk across the room to see what picture it is, as I’m very intrigued by it, and my breath catches in my throat as soon as my eyes fall on it. It’s a picture of the painting Abby did on the wall of my room in the Champion’s center, except, in the picture, the always is emphasized a little bit more than it actually is in the painting.
“We’re allowed to have one personal item in our room,” Luke says quietly behind me, and I set the picture down and turn around to find him watching me with unbearable regret and remorse in his eyes.
A moment goes by in silence, my eyes locked on his, until I finally work up the nerve to say something, and burst out, at the exact same time that Luke does, “I’m sorry.”
“Here, I’ll go first,” I immediately say after I realized what’s happened, and, after taking a deep breath to calm my nerves – of course, it doesn’t really help at all – I continue, “Luke, I’m sorry for not telling you that I’m an immortal shapeshifter, and lying to you by leading you to believe that I was human, and I’m sorry for thinking that you wouldn’t be angry at me when you found out. I should have thought more about that beforehand,” I end quietly, looking at Luke from underneath my eyelashes, to see him give me a kind smile.
I then look all the way up to have him tell me, “Lizzie, I’m sorry for taking the news of your immortality and non-humanness so badly, because I know now that you really were just keeping it from me to keep me safe, not because you didn’t want to, or because you didn’t think I deserved to know. I shouldn’t have flipped out on you like that when you kept me ignorant because you cared about me and didn’t want me getting hurt, and I’m sorry for that. To be perfectly honest, I think I should have given myself fifteen solid minutes to think about it and process it all before actually reacting to what you told me.” Luke gives me another smile, and I feel all of the fear and anxiety that’s been hanging over me and making it hard to breathe leave my body as I truly process his words.
“So you don’t hate me?” I ask him, and he shakes his head no, his smile changing to a smirk as he does so.
“Of course not. I could never hate you, Lizzie; you’re too amazing for that.” After giving me one last kind, sincere grin, he leans forward and kisses me gently on the forehead, at which point we stand in a contented silence for a little while, me enjoying the feeling of Luke’s arms wrapped around me as I rest my head on his shoulder.
However, I know that Luke’s questions about the specifics of what I really am will get to him eventually, and, sure enough, Luke soon bursts out, “So... is there anything else you are, besides an immortal shapeshifting wolf?”
I pull back to look up at him, a smirk on my face at his naive curiosity that gets bigger when I see the almost anxious look on his face, like he’s fearing that I’m offended by his question.
Of course I’m not – I’m the opposite of offended by it by finding it amusing – so I tell him, “Well, I’m a demigod too, and technically royalty, a princess, if you want to get real specific about it.” My lip curls when I say that I’m a princess, as I don’t like royalty, especially not princesses – because they tend to be the most dramatic and stuck-up, in my experience with them – and I definitely don’t like being royalty.
“So your dad’s a god and a king?” Luke asks, his expression completely blown away, and it’s all I can do to not crack up and answer his question coherently.
“Yeah,” I confirm, nodding my head and allowing my smile to get even bigger as Luke shakes his head in amazement.
“What about your mom, and your brothers? Are they immortal shapeshifters too?” Luke questions, and I nod my head again.
“Yep,” I reply shortly. I don’t really want to think about my family right now, with the fact that I still might never get home and see them again, even though I survived the Triple Crown. In fact, the only way I’m ever going to get home is if the rebels win the fight with El Nieve and remove the barrier between Luke’s and my dimension and this one. However, Luke is still full of questions – I mean, who can blame him? – so, before he gets a chance to ask his next one, I read his mind and answer, “And yes, that does mean my parents are older than fifty-two and forty-nine.”
“You just read my mind, didn’t you?” Luke asks, narrowing his eyes at me, and I nod my head, feeling almost bad about it now. What if he freaks out and decides that he is going to hate me? “So that’s how you could always answer my questions before I asked them,” Luke murmurs. “I had always wondered about that.” He sees the fear on my face and gives me a reassuring smile, as if directly telling me that it’s alright, he’s not going to freak out or get mad or suddenly decide to hate me.
“Well, even though you can read my mind, I’m going to ask my question anyways: how old really are your parents, if that’s not offensive or rude for me to ask?” Now it’s his turn to look at me with trepidation, and I can’t help but smile. He really is incredibly cute and incredibly naive. I guess it’s better that he’s naive than like me though.
“My parents are two thousand and twenty-five and two thousand and twenty-two, respectively,” I reply, a huge grin spreading across my face at the amazement plastering Luke’s expression.
“So they were alive when Jesus was then...” Luke murmurs, sounding like his breath honestly was taken away by that last bit of information.
“Yeah, although my dad was the only one who was actually in the Middle East at the time,” I add, and Luke looks up at me with his question just written across his face. “And, before you can ask,” I quickly begin again with a smile, “yes, my dad did get to meet Jesus Christ, and yes, my dad got to see how amazing that guy was. In fact, seeing everything that Jesus did was what truly affirmed my dad’s belief that there had to be something higher than him because, in his words, he’s too human to be the most powerful being in the universe.”
“What did your dad mean, he’s too human to be the most powerful thing in the universe? I mean, he’s a god. He’s not human at all.” Luke eyes me curiously, and I can’t help but smile and shake my head at how completely Luke is missing the point my dad originally intended to make.
“What my dad means is that he’s on too low a level, he’s too physical to be the most powerful thing in the universe,” I answer, to leave Luke looking as clueless as he was before. Taking a deep breath, I continue, “My dad is a physical god, a god that walks this world.” I look at Luke for a sign of understanding, and, when he nods his head, I keep on talking. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, he’s on this level.” I hold my bandaged left hand up at about chest level, and Luke nods his head again. “The god that created the universe – and also, in my dad’s first-hand witness, the father/creator of Jesus Christ – is on this level.” I hold my right up about four inches higher than my left hand, and Luke nods again. “The god that created us is on a completely different level; that god is not physical, nor does that god walk this world. That’s what that god used Jesus for.”
“So you’re saying that the real god, the one that actually created the universe and is the most powerful thing in it, is too high up for us to be able to physically see or touch that god?” Luke questions, and I nod my head in confirmation, pleased that he’s finally picked up on it.
“Yeah. That god is like... too perfect, I guess you could say, for him-her-it to walk on the imperfect world.” I nod my head in confirmation, which prompts Luke to nod his head in understanding.
“So I guess that makes your dad a physical god, and the god that created your dad a metaphysical god, right?” Luke questions, and I nod my head in confirmation again, very happy that he’s finally beginning to understand.
We sit in silence for about a half-second before Luke finally realizes that I’m not going to read his mind and answer his questions for him right now and voices the question on his mind.
“You said something to Puck about your friend Kuro, when you flipped out on him during the last interview we did.” Luke meets my gaze for confirmation, and I nod my head again, wondering if Luke has actually picked up on what Kuro actually is. “Well, I looked up Kuro, and it turns out that it means ‘evil’ or ‘blackness’ in Japanese. However, Kuro also is a god of evil, according to Japanese legends, and there are recurring themes in many other older religions – like the Greeks and the Egyptians – that made some scholars think that Kuro might have actually existed, for the idea of him to have spread to such different places over such a long period of time. So, I guess I was wondering if the Kuro you were talking about is actually that Kuro, the one that so many ancient civilizations feared and hated.”
“Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner!” I say, to smile halfheartedly at my own joke. While I am almost proud that Luke connected all of the dots on his own once I let him in on the whole immortals-exist-gods-walk-the-earth thing, I don’t really want to talk about Kuro right now, especially not with the knowledge that he’s actively watching me and recording everything I’m doing so that he can torture me with it later.
“So, is Kuro actually a god of evil then?” Luke asks, his brow furrowed in confusion, and I nod my head briefly. Luke immediately then asks, “Well, if you say that the god that created your dad is a nice god – I mean, if you presume that the general gist of Jesus is true, then that god did send down his son to die for us – then why would that god create a creature of complete depravity and evil like Kuro? It just doesn’t make sense, for that god to love the world but also create a creature such as Kuro to harm the world.” Luke looks over at me for an explanation, and I take a deep breath. If Luke had a hard time grasping the metaphysical versus physical concept, then he’s going to have a hell of time grasping why on earth Kuro was created.
“Well, I presume you already know that old saying about too much of a good thing, right?” I ask before beginning to explain, to have Luke nod his head yes. Good. That’s one less thing I have to try and fail at explaining.
“Well, that also applies to good itself. If there’s too much good, too much light, too much life in the universe, then the universe can’t support it all and things begin to die off. It’s like if you have too large a population for the world to support, then people are going to start dying off.” I meet Luke’s gaze to make sure that he’s following to continue to talk when I see that he is.
“Well, Kuro was created in the year 6666 BC to keep the order between good and evil in universe. At that time, there was too much good in the world for the world to support it all, and too large a population in too small a place for everyone to be supported by the land, so all of the good in the world was starting to literally kill. The metaphysical god seemed to notice this, and created Kuro as a way to counterbalance all of the good in the world and return order to the universe. Ever since then, Kuro has been responsible for every large natural disaster and every major war that we know about, and probably lots others that we don’t know about. To be perfectly honest, he has probably changed the course of human history more than any other single being or person, even if he has generally affected it negatively.” I meet Luke’s gaze almost warily, just anticipating all of the questions Luke’s going to have about Kuro, to read his mind momentarily and find... nothing. Luke seems to grasp the concept of Kuro perfectly, if you can believe that.
In fact, the only question he has is about my dad, which he quickly voices, “Well, why was your dad created then? I mean, you’re dad’s a lightning god, so what did he have to counterbalance? Were there not enough storms at around 15 BC?” Luke meets my gaze curiously, and I can’t help but smile.
He’s so full of questions, that, to be perfectly honest, he reminds me of a little kid. I guess I can’t really blame him for having so many questions though, considering that the topic he’s asking about is one where basically everything is unknown.
“Well, my dad actually isn’t just a lightning god,” I begin, to have Luke nod his head in understanding. I guess he didn’t really think that the god up in the sky would really just create another god just because there wasn’t enough lightning.
“My dad happens to also be a force for good in the universe, the exact opposite of Kuro basically.” I look over at Luke to double-check that he’s still following to see, with happiness, his gaze locked onto my face with complete attentiveness. Man, if every kid listened to their teachers the way Luke listens to me, everyone would get As, no question about it.
“So your dad was created to counterbalance out Kuro some?” Luke questions, connecting the dots without any prompting from me, and I smile and nod my head yes. You know, it really is amazing how quickly he’s figuring everything out.
“Yeah. About fifteen years before Christ, Kuro was getting too much power, and causing too many bad things to happen. I mean, it was right around that time that he was in the process of ending the Egyptians, and he had ended the Greeks not too long before that, and he was already laying out the seeds of Rome’s demise, and, with more people being born and therefore more possibility for evil – Kuro feeds off the evil in humans’ hearts, which means that he basically gets more powerful every day,” I explain as an aside, to have Luke nod his head in understanding – “-coming into the world every day, Kuro was getting so powerful that the world wasn’t able to support his evil, and the balance between good and evil in the whole universe was being threatened. The metaphysical god decided that it had to intervene and do something before things got too serious, so it created my dad, in the hopes that he could counterbalance out at least some of Kuro’s evil. I mean, my dad couldn’t be too powerful and completely counter out Kuro, otherwise we would be back to the too-much-good issue again, but my dad also had to be powerful enough to counter out at least some of Kuro’s evil, lest the whole world become evil and things completely get screwed up, so my dad was made to be not as powerful as Kuro but powerful enough to keep him in check.” I look over at Luke to make sure that he got all of that to smile when he nods his head in understanding.
“So what has your dad done to counterbalance out Kuro’s evil, over the centuries?” Luke asks me, and I have to think about which instances I’m going to use, as there are so many recognizable and famous ones that I could spend hours listing all of the times my dad has kept Kuro in check and saved something good.
“Well, my dad kept the Roman Empire alive for three centuries longer than Kuro had originally intended,” I say, to have Luke nod his head. “My dad also helped the Americans win the Revolutionary War, to show that progress and forward, good thinking have a place in this world.”

More added.

“Kuro backed the British?” Luke asks, and I nod my head in confirmation.
“Yeah, as Kuro is definitely not a fan of progress or forward thinking, and he hates democracy and the idea of freedom with a burning passion,” I answer, to add after a moment of thinking, “In fact, if I’m remembering right, Kuro even commanded some British troops in that war. Unfortunately, my dad’s influence was too strong and Kuro just didn’t care enough for the British to actually win, so the Americans prevailed.” I shrug my shoulders, and then look over at Luke to find him with a completely stunned look on his face that completely puzzles me. What did I say that was so confusing?
“So would the Americans have lost if Kuro cared more?” Luke questions, his eyes locked on mine, and, with a small sigh, I nod. It kills me to admit that Kuro could completely destroy my dad and the world if he wanted to, but unfortunately that’s the truth.
“Definitely,” I answer shortly. Unfortunately, Kuro happens to be the single most powerful physical being in this universe because of all of the humans in this world whose evil he can feed off of, so Kuro could tip any war or conflict in whatever direction he wanted to if he put all of his power behind one side.
“So our country only exists because Kuro didn’t care enough to tip the war in the British’s favor?” Luke looks me in the eye curiously and almost incredulously, and I nod my head again, a half-smile crossing my face at the shock on Luke’s face. I guess he doesn’t understand how much power Kuro truly has and how much he could and already has affected human history.
“Yep. Isn’t that scary to think, that our country only exists because Kuro didn’t favor the British enough to help them win?” I think aloud, and Luke immediately nods his head in agreement.
“That’s downright freaky,” he murmurs, shaking his head in disbelief. “We’re only Americans because of Kuro’s apathy.” A half-second goes by in silence before Luke looks up at me and asks, “Why do you think Kuro spared America, if he hates progress and free-thinking as much as he seems to?”
“Because we’ve caused so much chaos over our existence to give him quite a show,” I immediately reply, knowing that what I’m saying is true, even though it makes me angry just thinking about it. “All Kuro wants is chaos, and, while he can’t see directly into the future, he can read humans’ minds and hearts with one glance, and he can also tell if the person he’s reading will make a big difference in the future, so he can roughly figure out the future until the newest generation of people on the planet right now die. Because of this, he can see what chaos is going to occur in that period of time, and if any countries are going to rise and fall, and I guess he figured out by reading people that he could get a lot more chaos later by letting America survive by giving up on the chaos of watching the country get destroyed.”
“So Kuro’s willing to give up momentary chaos now for more chaos later?” Luke asks me, and I nod my head in confirmation.
“Kuro is always looking to manufacture the most chaos, so he’s always open to letting people and countries survive if they’ll cause more chaos later, even though that means forgoing the chaos that would occur from those people and countries falling and dying now. He also has been known to intervene and stop people from dying at a certain time if he can see that they’ll come to a more entertaining death later.” When I see Luke looking at me in confusion, I explain, “He’d much rather see someone burn after having their best friend lock them in a room and light the whole building on fire than have that person put a gun in their mouth a few years earlier.”
“Oh,” Luke exclaims quietly, and I look down to see his hands balling into fists. Luke stares down at his lap and clenched fists for a few moments before looking back up, staring me down and saying, “So Kuro treats us all like we’re entertainment?”
“Yeah,” I respond shortly. “Kuro lives to cause and create chaos and evil, and he just happens to enjoy doing so.”
Luke shakes his head in disgust and anger, and sighs deeply. “Well, this Kuro of yours sure sounds like a son of a bitch. I feel bad that you ever met him.”
“You have no idea how bad I feel that I met him too,” I mutter quietly, shaking my head, and a small half-smile flits across Luke’s face.
“Yeah, I guess I don’t,” he murmurs quietly, and silence overtakes us as I stare down at the floor and try to stop the rising tide of anger at Kuro from rising and taking me over. After all, I don’t think it would be very good if I lost it, shapeshifted and broke the helicopter on a rampage.
Suddenly I hear Luke’s thoughts – he really is an incredibly loud thinker, from the perspective that it’s almost like he’s shouting his thoughts for me to hear them and from the perspective that his face almost always gives away what he’s thinking – and, before he can vocalize them, I rise to my feet off the bed and face him.
“Luke,” I begin quietly, my eyes locking on his, “I won’t shapeshift in front of you, because I know that it won’t do any good and will only freak you out more.”
“You don’t scare me, Lizzie, and nothing you ever could be could ever scare me,” Luke tells me firmly, his eyes locked on mine as he rises to his feet to regain and use the four-inch height advantage he has on me.
I can’t help but smile bitterly at Luke’s comment, because it’s so obviously untrue – there are tons of things that I could become that could utterly terrify Luke – and I say, in a challenging, almost confrontational tone, “Oh really? You so sure about that?”
“Yeah, I am,” Luke replies, his eyes locked on mine as he takes full advantage of him being taller than me by literally staring me down.
“You’re an idiot then,” I tell him quietly after a moment of just meeting his gaze, and I turn away from him to sigh. If I weren’t as tame of an immortal – or at least an immortal that can tolerate humans, unlike Kuro – Luke would have been dead a long time ago.
“No, you’re the idiot for thinking I should be scared,” Luke tells me, and I whip around to look up at him in indignation and anger.
Me, the idiot? I mean, I know I’ve made a lot of stupid decisions over my seventeen years, but I’m definitely not making one now. In fact, he’s just made himself an idiot twice over by calling me an idiot when I could literally erase him from history! Besides, I know I’m right for refusing to shapeshift in front of him, because I don’t really want to scar my boyfriend/husband for the rest of his life.
“Lizzie, I will never be afraid of you because I trust you not to hurt me, even if you are as dangerous and frightening as you say you are,” Luke says quietly, his eyes boring holes into mine.
However, all of his attempts to manipulate me by using his steely ice-blue gaze are for naught, as I immediately reply, “Luke, trusting me is even more idiotic than wanting to see me in my real form, and it could get you killed just as quickly too.”
“Lizzie, I trust you with your life because you’ve earned that trust, so what I don’t get is why you don’t trust yourself,” Luke says, his gaze glued to mine, and, after a half-second of staring him down, I look away to stop him from seeing the doubt as to how to respond in my eyes.
Luke takes my silence as an opportunity to get heard out and adds, “Because that’s what this really comes down to, Lizzie; I mean, if you trusted yourself, you’d have no problem with me trusting you.” I turn back to look at him to have my eyes captured by his again, and I decide to let him keep on talking – mostly just because I like the sound of his voice, and the way my name rolls off of his tongue. “But what I don’t understand is why you don’t trust yourself, when you’ve done so many amazing things and kept so many promises-”
“I’ve kept my promises?” I exclaim incredulously, my gaze immediately hardening as it locks on his again. “Luke, if I had kept my promises, Marshall wouldn’t have died in One-Person or Team Survival, and Abby wouldn’t have died in One-Person or Team Survival, and I wouldn’t have let losing you for a while in Team Survival get to me so badly, and I would be dead three times over. Luke,” I say commandingly, “if I’ve done anything, it’s let down people, not keep my promises.”
“And I’m telling you, that’s not true!” Luke immediately shoots back. “You have kept so many promises, the biggest one of those being the unspoken one you made to the Sections, and the only reason you didn’t keep that promise to its end – your death – is because Max pulled us out of there before you could kill yourself! Lizzie, you are one of the most, if not the most, devoted and dedicated people I have ever met, so I don’t know how you could ever think that you let people down and don’t fulfill promises when you really do the exact opposite.”
I stare at him in dumbfounded disbelief for a few long, silent moments before finally realizing what he actually said to me and beginning to laugh bitterly.
Me, dedicated? That’s especially funny, considering it’s coming from the master of dedication himself. It just makes me wonder what the fuck was Luke was thinking when he said that, or if he was even thinking at all. I mean, that is a blatantly false statement, and an idiotic one to boot, considering that it will never be true.
“Lizzie, why don’t you think you’re dedicated?” Luke asks me, and I stare at him blankly because I don’t know why he even needs to ask when the answer is so obvious. “I mean,” Luke continues, and I can’t help but smile bitterly as I wonder what justification Luke is going to come up for his ridiculous argument, “you were ready and willing to give your life up for a people you don’t even know just because you think they should have a chance at freedom, so am I missing something? Is that not dedication?”
I stare at him wordlessly for a few moments longer – to be perfectly honest, his argument makes so much sense that I have no idea how to respond – before finally formulating a rebuttal and saying, “Luke, devotion to a cause doesn’t matter as much as devotion to a person, and God knows I’m not devoted to a person. I mean, all you have to do is look at our relationship for proof of that.” I stare him down to have Luke shake his head in denial, and I take a deep breath as I prepare myself for the wearying, obviously fake points of my goodness Luke is going to throw at me.
“Lizzie, you were prepared to die to give the people of the Sections a chance at freedom, so how is that not devotion to people?” Luke asks me, and it’s my turn to shake my head in denial.
“Luke, what you’re missing is that I wasn’t really thinking about the people of the Sections when I volunteered to be the spark. I just wanted to defend freedom, and make a political statement that would prove to everyone there are some things worth dying for,” I tell him, confident that I’ve just won the argument, to have him immediately respond.
“Lizzie, you still ended up being undyingly devoted to the people of the Sections though!” Luke shoots back, which prompts me to immediately reply, “Not because I actually was trying to though!”
I then take advantage of the fact that Luke shuts up momentarily to add, “And the means, the intentions, matter, don’t they?” I stare him in the eye, daring him to deny his own words, to have him bow his head in defeat.
“You’re still devoted though,” Luke murmurs, and I shake my head and roll my eyes but wisely say nothing. Continuing to argue the point would get me nothing but irritated at him, and that’s the last thing I want right now.
A few seconds go by in silence, neither one of us really knowing what to say or even if we should say anything – after all, the silence is kind of nice, in my opinion – until my curiosity finally gets the best of me and I read Luke’s mind to find him wondering about if I actually meant the things I said to Jackson. However, I think I should let Luke ask those questions himself – and I don’t really want to let him know that I’ve been invading his mental privacy – so I keep my mouth shut and wait for Luke to say something.
Sure enough, it’s only a few moments longer before Luke looks over at me, and I look over at him to meet his gaze, and asks me, “Lizzie, I heard some of the things you said to Jackson, like that being in the arena with me had changed you, and I was wondering if you actually meant those things.” Luke seems almost abashed asking – I guess he thinks that I might be mad at him for eavesdropping – but he has no reason to be abashed. After all, when you’re dealing with things as odd as immortals, you have to ask your questions when they come to you or you’ll end up drowning in them.
“Luke, I wouldn’t have said them if I hadn’t meant them,” I say quietly, my eyes locked on his. “Those days are over.”
Luke nods his head in understanding, and a small smile begins to creep across his face despite his best efforts to fight it. I guess he’s happy to hear that he’s been steadily growing on me. “So do you really love me more than him, then?” Luke questions, willing me to answer with the sheer intensity of his gaze, and I nod my head yes and give him a small smile as I do so.
“You know, now that I look back, I don’t know how I could have ever loved him more than I love you,” I add quietly, my smile getting slightly bigger, and then lean forward to kiss Luke gently on the lips.
Immediately his arms lock around me and hold me to him, and he kisses me back urgently. After a few long moments of this, we both run out of breath and simultaneously pull back, at which time he looks down at me and gives me a genuine grin that lights up his eyes in a way that I haven’t seen in a while.
“You’ve missed me, huh?” I murmur quietly, my eyes locked on his, and he nods his head yes.
“You have no idea,” he replies quietly, and just stares down at me for a little while longer, just drinking in the fact that I’m there in front of him, before bending down and kissing me again, this time gentler but with just as much passion.
It’s a few more moments before we both pull back this time, and, when we do, I whisper, “I think I do.” I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed physical contact withe Luke, even if it was for only a day, until now
This brings a smile to Luke’s face, and he agrees, “Yeah, maybe you do.” He then leans forward to gently kiss me on the forehead. I lean into him, thoroughly enjoying the way his hard body presses against mine, and dreaming of just curling up with him and never leaving this room again.
A few peaceful, contented moments go by in silence until a very profound thought comes to me and I pull back to meet Luke’s gaze and tell him quietly, “You know, Luke, I think I’ve finally realized something that basically explains our whole relationship. You’re the means and I’m the end.”
“Very true. Very, very true,” Luke agrees quietly, his eyes locked on mine, and he bends down to kiss me gently one last time and hold me against him comfortingly.
I then continue to fantasize about staying in this room and just talking with Luke forever, only to be abruptly jolted out of these fantasies by a huge blast rocking the helicopter and sending both Luke and I sprawling onto his bed.
As soon as the helicopter’s stopped rocking enough for me to be able to walk without losing my balance, I pull away from Luke and run out of the door of his room to find Max running down the hallway towards me.
I call out to him, “What happened?”, while taking note of the grim, worried expression on his face and his hands clenched into fists.
“We’ve been hit,” Max replies as he comes closer, practically falling over from exhaustion and wheezing so hard that it sounds like his lungs are about to give. I guess he’s been running up and down the helicopter telling people that.
“El Nieve missile?” I ask him, to have him nod his head grimly and wordlessly in confirmation.
After a moment of trying to catch his breath, he elaborates, “The only reason we weren’t shot out of the sky is that the missile wasn’t one of their full-power ones.”
My eyes shoot open wide as I realize what this means, and I think aloud, “So we’re about to be shot out of the sky then,” to have Max nod his head in confirmation again.
Even though Max, Jackson and I can’t die in this crash – well, I suppose Max could if the whole helicopter burst into flames and burned him alive, but, considering that he can control fire, that’s very unlikely – all of the other humans on the helicopter, including Luke, certainly can. However, I can’t let Luke die on me like that – like I said, I wouldn’t really have a reason to live if I lost him – and I don’t really intend to let El Nieve shoot us down like that, so I turn to Max and ask him, “Have you ever gone skydiving?”
Max’s eyes shoot open wide in shock and horror at what I’m suggesting, and he tells me in a warning tone, “Lizzie, no.”
He then opens his mouth, most likely to add something about how it’s too dangerous, even for us, to have me cut him off, “Well, now’s a good time to learn.” When I see Max give me a dubious look, I add, “Max, what do we have to lose? We might be able to save a couple other people in the process anyways.”
Max is about to say something in reply when another blast rocks the helicopter, and the whole thing tilts forward, sending me tumbling into Max and sending Luke, who had just come out of his room after gathering up his stuff – I guess Luke realized what was happening too – tumbling into me and all of us tumbling down the hallway.
When we stop rolling, I clamber carefully off of Max and out from under Luke to help Max to his feet – Luke got to his feet by himself – and tell him, “Well, I guess it’s too late to go skydiving now.”
Max laughs at that, his voice nervous and high-pitched, which surprises me some. I mean, even though there is a possibility that he could die in this crash, that possibility is very low; maybe he’s just worried about the other people on here that could die in the crash... like – oh, right – Luke.
Turning to Luke, I give him a small smile and intertwine my fingers in his to have him tell me quietly, his eyes locked on mine, “Well, I guess this is it.”
“Yeah, this really is crunch time,” I agree quietly, and a small smile spreads across Luke’s face. As opposed to Max, he seems unusually calm for someone who’s about to die, but I guess that’s because he gets to die with me.
We then just stand there in silence for a few moments longer, looking each other in the eye and communicating more emotion than any words ever could, as the helicopter – and us – plummet ever closer to destruction. In fact, we probably would have died in silence too, if it weren’t for Luke murmuring, a moment before the elevation measurement tool in Max’s hand says we’re going to hit the ground, “Always.”
“Always,” I echo quietly, my eyes locked on his, and then, in the spirit of what all the other Triple Crown couples who were about to die did, lean up to kiss Luke passionately. After all, if Luke’s going to die, he should at least have a good last memory of me, not one in which I’m breaking his heart or lying to him.
I close my eyes, waiting for impact... to find, after a few seconds, that we haven’t crashed. Opening my eyes, I look around in shock to find that the helicopter is level again, and we’re not plummeting to our deaths anymore. Suddenly it occurs to me that Max is gone – he probably has been gone for a while now, with me not having eyes for anyone except for Luke for the last few minutes – and my eyes shoot open in surprise as I realize where he must have gone: he must have gone out onto the hit section and used his fire-controlling powers to keep the blaze from melting any more of the helicopter. He also must have fused the rotors back together and made them partially functional, for us to have not crashed yet.
This theory is proved when I hear a banging on the helicopter and Max bursts through a newly-made hole in the metal of the side to our left.
“Well, that was fun,” he exclaims, and I have a feeling that, if he had any hair, it would all be blown back by the force of the wind he just came out of. However, I don’t get a chance to ask him any questions about what happened, as he takes off running down the hallway towards the control room of the helicopter as soon as he’s gained his bearings enough to do so.
“Well, it looks like Max just saved our lives – again,” Luke murmurs, looking down the hallway after Max, and I nod my head in agreement.
“Yeah, he seems to be pretty good at that,” I say, and turn to the hole in the side of helicopter to see, with a start, that we’re actually flying in between pure-white buildings right now, no more than ten feet off the ground. I then hear something fly off of the top of the helicopter, and, a fraction of a second later, we plummet to the ground, both Luke and I being thrown up into the air by the immediate drop and then tossed around by the force of the impact.
I just lay there with my eyes closed for a second, focusing on the pain that’s quickly going away as my body mends all of my injuries. Once I seem to be only slightly battered – which is probably better than everyone else on the helicopter right now – I rise to my feet unsteadily and look around to find Luke lying next to me, a bloody cut on his forehead.
Bending down over him, I touch the wound and channel some of my energy into it to have it immediately heal, and then bnd down over him to murmur in his ear, “Luke, we have to go. It’s war time.”
Luke immediately starts at my words, his eyes popping open in surprise and confusion as he stares up at me. After a half-second, everything that just happened seems to come flooding back into his mind – I guess the force of the impact gave him short-term amnesia – and he quickly pulls himself up to glance out at the streets – upon which whole regiments of Protectors are beginning to assemble – and sigh.
I note the Protectors too, and know that we’re undoubtedly going to have to fight them, so I take advantge of this moment of inaction to pull my lightning bolt out of my pocket and have it transform to cover my whole body in the supersuit. After all, while I could wipe them out either way, I don’t really intend to fight the Protectors with just my bare hands.
He murmurs, his eyes locked on the Protectors waiting to meet us as we get off the helicopter, “We’re fighting again.”
“At least we’re fighting the enemy this time,” I remind him quietly, and he turns to look down at me for a few moments before responding.
“Yeah, I guess we are,” he agrees, and then pulls a pen from his pocket, clicks a miniscule button on the side, and stands back to watch as it becomes a fully-automatic M-16.
I look at the weapon questioningly – I never really saw Luke as the kind of person who would use a gun; to be perfectly honest, I didn’t really see him as the kind of person who would use weapons at all until I actually saw him use them, but I especially did see him as a gun person – and Luke notices this and tells me, a sheepish smile on his face, “I was inspired after seeing your lightning bolt, so I had Max get me one of these.”
“Are you prepared to use it?” I ask him critically, and here he falters, stumbling over a few sounds that aren’t words before finally falling silent to think about a response.
It takes him a half-second to reply simply, “I don’t know,” his gaze locked on mine the whole time.
“Fair enough,” I say quietly with a shrug and a small smile, a sentiment that Luke echoes, although the smile he gives me seems far sadder than the smile I gave him.
We then stand in silence for a moment, and we probably would have stood in silence for a while longer, neither one of us really knowing what to do, if it weren’t for Luke saying, as he gives me a genuine smile, “If I die, at least I get to die with you.”
His saying ‘I’ instead of ‘we’ reminds me that I still haven’t told him about the fact that I’m not completely immortal, and, as I reach a hand forward to grab his arm and stop him from running off into the battle, I tell him, “Luke, I’m not completely immortal.”
This brings his attention back to me immediately, and he asks, his eyes locked on mine curiously, “What do you mean?”
“I can die by ‘normal’ weapons, like spears and swords and arrows and stuff like that. Those are the only things that can kill me.” I see a look of relief shoot across his face at the fact that I didn’t say I can die by guns, as that’s what all of the Protectors have. However, I know that Rush has probably ordered that they all have some form of normal weapon, like a dagger or shortsword or a short spear, to deal with me and some sort of fire grenade, even though fire is the element least likely to kill him, to deal with Max.
Suddenly Luke seems to remember that the Triple Crown committee abducted me for my immortality as well my assassin skills, and he questions, his expression serious, “Does Rush know this?”
I nod my head wordlessly in confirmation, and he sighs slightly, all of his momentary happiness thrown out the window by that. “So you aren’t safe then,” he murmurs quietly, and I nod my head wordlessly again.
A half-second goes by in silence before Luke looks up and tells me, “Well, at least if we die, we get to die together. That’s all I could ever want.” He gives me a genuine smile, and then intertwines the fingers of his free hand with mine.
“And that’s all I could ever want,” I echo, returning his smile, and, at that moment, I couldn’t think of a better way to go out: with Luke, in defiance of the tyranny of El Nieve and the oligarchical you-do-the-work-we-get-the-rewards government of El Tiempo.
“Always,” he murmurs again, his eyes locked on mine, and I nod my head in agreement and then echo too, “Always.”
“Alright then,” I say after a moment, tearing my gaze away from his and mentally ordering the suit to cover my face as well. “Let’s go kick some El Nieve ass.” I then run out of the hole in the side of the helicopter without waiting for Luke to follow, determined to win and show El Nieve that they don’t own me and that they will never own me.

More added.

I shoot down another Protector with a blast of lightning, and turn around just in time to punch one in the face that was sneaking up on me so hard that he’s immediately knocked unconscious, and, best I can tell, dead. I guess my super-strength and super-speed have come out finally, which I’m definitely not complaining about; after all, I’d love to have every advantage possible when fighting Rush and El Nieve, because you know they’re going to play dirty. Speaking of Rush, he actually ordered that the Protectors only go into battle with ‘normal’ weapons, like swords and spears and the like, because apparently he didn’t think that there would be this many rebels to fight and because he wanted to get rid of me really badly.
Suddenly I hear the whirring of helicopters above us, and look up to see two helicopters, emblazoned with the white crown of El Nieve, opening to release two more regiments of Protectors, and I sigh. Just more people I have to kill in order to win.
I am just about to charge the area where the new Protectors have just touched down – it’s best to hit someone while they’re unprepared, and while they don’t have their weapons out – when I hear machine gun fire echo across the square, breaking through the din of the battle, and feel something strike my suit so hard that I fear it might have hit me, too.
Whipping around immediately and scanning the rooftops – El Nieve, in an amazing bit of good planning, actually installed machine guns on all of the rooftops just in case of a scenario like this; unfortunately for them and fortunately for us, there’s no way of locking out unwanted users of these machine guns – I see five Protectors, one of them the Protector who tried to kill Jackson before One-Person Survival, lined up at the machine guns and firing on the crowd. I would have been content to let them shoot and take out their own men – after all, it seems like almost half of the men falling around me are wearing white instead of the mismatched rebel drab – except for the fact that my friends and fellow rebel soldiers are dying as well, and I don’t want to lose half of the rebel force to the Protector’s fire, so I lift my arm, telepathically order the miniature gun that hides in the forearm of my suit to pop out, and shoot the three Protectors down before they can take another shot.
As soon as this is done, and the clearing is safe – well, safe from machine gun fire, that is – I turn back to the battle to summon up tree roots from the ground and strangle three Protectors nearby, and then conjure up a tiny tornado to suck up one of the Protector regiments that just landed and crash that El Nieve helicopter into a nearby row of white buildings. Deciding that I want to take out the other newly-landed Protector regiment myself, I charge them to stick my hands out and electrocute the ten Protectors closest to me before they can even register what’s going on. Smiling viciously, I turn to the rest of the regiment, and, without moving another muscle, get inside each man’s mind and drive him absolutely crazy, so that they think their fellow Protectors are their enemies and the rebels are their friends, and then turn away from them to let them destroy each other.
However, I immediately feel bad for what I’ve done – I mean, there are a lot more humane ways I could have killed the men – and I can’t help but mutter underneath my breath, “Kuro would be proud.” However, I also don’t intend to turn around and undo what I just did to those men, as I don’t really want to see them tearing each other apart and because I would have to kill them in the end anyways, so why not go along with my original plan of letting them kill each other.
A flash of red and orange a little bit above my head next to me catches my eye, and I turn slightly to see Max fighting and downing, his sword moving so fast that even my sharp eyes can barely follow its movement, the group of ten Protectors that were dumb enough to surround him. As I watch, I see that one Protector manages to stick Max with his dagger, but the cut immediately heals back up and Max cuts that Protector down a half-second later. It really was stupid of Rush to send his Protectors into battle with nothing but short swords and spears, considering that pistols could have helped them take the rest of the rebel soldiers out much easier.
However, I can see Rush’s rationale for doing so, because he knows that I am the face of the rebellion and, if he kills me, the Sections might not have the energy to keep fighting, so, if he loads every Protector with weapons that can kill me, then the possibility that he kills me is much higher. Of course, he also loses a lot more Protectors this way, but I guess he figures that killing me is worth it, if my death with turn the tide in El Nieve’s favor.
All of a sudden, a strange humming noise starts above me that’s unlike any noise that I’ve ever heard before, and I glance up to see a huge ship, its whole bottom covered with the El Nieve white crown, hovering above us. I then see, out of the corner of my eye, the storm of blades that was once Max stop immediately, and turn to him to see him staring up at the ship with a look of pure horror on his face.
I don’t like the look on his face, I don’t like it at all, because I know that anything scary enough to give Max that look must be downright frightening. Turning my attention back onto the ship, I see a back portal on it open, and a huge black, smoking thing fall out of that portal. I hear Max immediately gasp in surprise and horror, and, a second before the thing hits the ground, I realize what it is: a bomb of some sort.
It occurs to me, as I run through the battle blindly after mentally ordering my suit to retract – I can’t run as fast in full armor, after all – and putting up an air shield around myself, my only objective finding Luke and covering his body with my own, that it doesn’t make sense for El Nieve to be bombing this square, especially with a good sixty percent of the people in the clearing being Protectors and there being a lot of El Nieve civilians and citizens around in the process of evacuating. However, I don’t get a chance to take this thought further as, as soon as I find Luke, only thirty feet away from me, and begin to sprint towards him for all I’m worth, the bomb hits, the first shockwave completely destroys my air shield, and everything goes black after one huge spasm of incredible pain.

More added.

I open my eyes some, and immediately they hurt from the light. All other feelings in my body then come flooding in, and everything hurts. It feels like I’ve been thrown off the end of a bus going a hundred miles an hour after having my skin scrubbed with sandpaper and lit on fire. The scariest part is all of that might have actually happened, because I honestly don’t remember.
Screwing up my face against the pain, I can’t stop the groan of agony that rises up in me from escaping my lips, and, all of a sudden, I hear someone stir about five feet to my left. Well, whatever happened to me, my senses don’t seem to have been affected by it.
I hear the person next to me rise to their feet almost warily – maybe they don’t think they heard right; a more likely explanation is that they hope they didn’t hear right – and a very familiar hard, bitter, intense but not bad smell fills my nose.
Jackson.
“Lizzie,” he begins quietly, his voice trembling with emotion. I hear the air stir as he moves towards me again, but thankfulyl he has the common sense not to try to touch me. I wonder vaguely about how bad I must look, considering I feel this terrible, but the thought is quicjly pushed out of my mind by a much more pressing issue: Luke.
I want him to be there next to me and hold my hand and lie to me by telling me that everything’s alright and that I’m perfect. I want him so badly that I can barely breathe, and I don’t know if I will be able to breath much longer without him here.
Distantly, as if he’s a mile away, I hear Jackson call for some pain medication for me, and I finally work up the courage to open my eyes again. It takes a few moments for them to adjust and the pain to go away, and, when I’m finally able to see, I find Jackson standing over me with a worried look on his intensely handsome face.
“Lizzie,” Jackson begins, his expression surprised and relieved at me having my eyes open, but I cut him off.
“Jackson,” I croak, my throat aching so severely that I only manage to keep on talking by visualizing Luke standing in front of me, “where’s Luke?”
Jackson’s face immediately falls, and my mind is only a few nanseconds behind his reaction.
“Is he…?” My voice trails off, and I find it impossible to finish and utter that last, inevitable word.
After a few moments, Jackson bows his head slightly, and a sort of numbness takes me over. A life without Luke…
As realization floods me, I swallow with difficulty to lay there motionlessly, everything gone from my body except unbearable heartache and pain.
My spark has been extinguished. For the first time in my life, I am truly cold.

Max is the first person brave enough to come visit me, considering I nearly killed two attendants by getting so angry that a miniature tornado started whipping IV needles around the hospital room, and even he gives it three days to come and talk to me to let me cool down and get a grip on myself.
“How you feeling?” Max asks me as he sits down in the chair along the wall next to my bed, and scoots the chair closer to my bed so that he can look me directly in the eye without much effort on either of our parts.
“Terrible. Like I want to die myself,” I answer truthfully. My voice is no more than a rasp, and it hurts to talk; just another side effect of being burned alive so badly that I shouldn’t even be alive in the bomb blast.
Max nods his head in understanding, and our pitiful conversation lapses into silence.
However, I can’t keep my bitter curiosity in check for very long, and I soon find myself turning my head so that I can look at him and asking, “Max, why’d they do it? Why’d they bomb the square?”
“Probably in an effort to kill you,” Max replies, his facial expression and voice cool but some emotion – nervousness, perhaps? – hiding in his eyes. The answer he gave was completely false, and he should know that – with him being a fellow immortal and knowing my conditional immortality – but my throat hurts too much for me to bother with pointing this out. However, I can’t help but wonder what he isn’t telling me, and what the real reason is for El Nieve bombing the square.
“Have you captured Rush yet?” I question after giving my throat a few seconds to rest, and Max shakes his head no.
“He’s holed up in his mansion at the center of the city with all of the remaining Protectors surrounding it, and we’d lose too many people if we tried to attack them directly, so we’re just letting them sit for now,” Max elaborates, and I nod my head wordlessly in understanding.
Suddenly a wave of anger washes at the fact that Rush is the reason Luke is dead – I mean, no one else would be ruthless enough to order something like that, and he probably even did it with the intention to kill Luke (undoubtedly he had someone reporting to him how the battle was going until that person got blown up, so he would know Luke was in the square) and break me in the process – and I shift myself, with more pain than I care to feel, into a sitting position, to turn my head in Max’s direction again and tell him, “I want to be the one to kill Rush. I don’t care what King says; I’ve won this chess game against Rush, and it’s time for me to checkmate him.”
“Done,” Max immediately replies, without any further questions, and I can’t help but smile. I will be the one to kill Rush and avenge all of the people he’s killed, like Luke and Marshall and Abby; it’s an honor actually. Besides, I’m sure Max will love it for the symbolism: the spark runs into El Nieve and strikes its leader down to end the war. You couldn’t get more symbolic than that.
Oh, wait, I’m not really the spark anymore, am I? The pain from Luke being gone is too intense, and I just don’t want to live anymore, so if I don’t even have the will or the energy to keep myself alive, how I can feed the flames of a rebellion too? It’s just not possible; suicidal people just don’t have the will the lead thousands of others potentially to their deaths storming a palace.
“Lizzie,” Max begins, interrupting my thoughts, and I look up to meet his fiery gaze, “Luke would want you to keep on living, and not let his death get to you. He would want you to finish what you’ve started, and truly be devoted to this cause to the end.”
Max is obviously trying to use the ploy of ‘it’s what Luke would want!’ to manipulate me into doing what he wants me to do, and, if I were in one of my sad, depressed moods – for the last three days, I have switched back and forth between rage-filled and sad moods – it might actually be working for him and he might actually be manipulating me to go on and do what he wants right now. However, I’m not in a sad mood, I’m in an angry mood, and this obvious attempt of his to get inside of my head and screw with my emotions by bringing Luke into the picture does nothing but make me even angrier, and I let Max hear about it too.
“Don’t pull that ‘it’s what Luke would want’ bullshit card on me,” I snarl, my eyes locked fiercely on his. “Luke is dead, so he can’t tell us what he wants, so don’t even try to pass your personal agenda off as his, because I know what he wouldn’t want: you using his memory and name to manipulate me into doing something I don’t really want to do.” After a half-second of me boring holes into his brain with my gaze, Max finally has the decency to look away, and I look at him for a moment longer before turning away and sighing myself.
Even though I don’t really want to be the spark anymore, when it feels like there’s nothing left inside of me, I know that I’ll probably end up doing it anyways, for the same reason that Max listed: to finish what I’ve started. I’ve gotten the people of the Sections this far, and I can’t just abandon them now, when the rebellion is almost done and just needs one last push to be truly successful. Besides, I’d hate to go off and leave the Sections with no one to lead the rebellion but King, because I definitely don’t trust her leadership skills – or her, for that matter – and have some sneaking suspicions that she might be inclined to make herself the next Rush – in other words, a dictator, no better than the one that was just overthrown – if she were allowed to run free.
Suddenly it occurs to me that Max should have been burned alive like I was, and I meet his gaze to ask him, “Why weren’t you burned in the bombing?”
“I reacted fast enough to channel the fire and stop it from reaching me,” Max answers, and I nod my head in understanding. I guess he would have time to channel the fire of the bomb, considering that he wasn’t trying to save someone else when it hit.
“He died a hero, you know,” Max says after a long silence, and I look up at him in surprise. I mean, I didn’t think that either one of us would be brave enough to break the silence like he just did.
“I know,” I answer quietly, my eyes on the white wall in front of me as I fight against the anguish threatening to overtake me. “It doesn’t make it any less painful.”
“I know,” Max ends softly, his voice trailing off as he stops talking, and I can’t help but wonder if this is how he felt when the girl he loved died as a champion. I think it’s probably hurting me more than it ever hurt him though, because Luke and I were so much closer than he and that girl were when she died.
“Lizzie,” Max begins after a few more moments pass in silence, and I look over at him to meet his gaze, “I’m sorry.” His tone is so full of empathy and sorrow that it almost sounds like he himself killed Luke, and I manage to give him a smile as I force myself not to break down and cry in front of him, because I would never hear the end of it.
“You didn’t kill him, Max,” I remind him quietly, and he drops his gaze to the ground in admittance. “Rush killed him, and I’ll kill Rush in the end, so you have nothing to be sorry for.”
Max, however, in the spirit of being a stubborn immortal – it seems like all of us are so headstrong and stuck in our ways that nothing could change our minds – just shakes his head wordlessly and rises to his feet after another second has passed in silence, and, on his way out, he murmurs something so quietly that not even my incredible ears can pick up all of it. However, what I do hear sounds an awful lot like, “I wish you were right, Lizzie.”

“Lizzie, you have to eat. I’m not going to let you starve on me,” Jackson tells me emphatically, but I shake my head wordlessly again. I don’t want to eat, because I don’t want to keep on living, and I certainly don’t want to be fed by my best friend, as that’s just too demeaning and too big a hit on my already-crumbling pride.
“Lizzie, please,” Jackson almost begs of me, meeting my gaze and putting every bit of pleading he can muster into his eyes. Even though he does end up looking rather in pain – me willfully wasting away can’t be very easy for him to watch, after all – it doesn’t sway my resolve at all, and I shake my head no again. After all, if Max couldn’t persuade me with the ‘it’s what Luke would want’ card, then Jackson has no hope of persuading me at all.
“Lizzie, I will force-feed you if I have to,” Jackson says, his voice taking on a warning tone here, and I meet his gaze again to see the steely determination in his eyes and realize that he really is prepared to hold me down and shove the spoonful of soup down my throat. I guess his want to see me healthy is overruling his want not to use force against me to get his way.
“And I’ll run away from you if I have to,” I answer evenly, my eyes locked on his, and I scoot towards the edge of the hospital bed to emphasize this point, even though I don’t think I have the strength or the willpower to run away from Jackson. After all, Marshall and Luke are both dead now, so if I run away from Jackson, all of my broken boys will be gone.
“You don’t have the energy to, Lizzie,” Jackson tells me confidently, and I can’t help but sigh. This would be so much easier if he would just hold my hand and let me die so I can maybe have the always with Luke Luke promised me instead of Jackson trying to keep me alive against my will.
“Please eat, Lizzie,” Jackson begs again, to add at the end, “I don’t want to see you shrivel up and die in front of me.”
That last part really gets to me – after all, now that I know truly how badly that would hurt Jackson, I don’t want to make him feel that – and, after sighing deeply once more, I open my mouth and allow Jackson to feed me the soup.

More added.

“Damn it, that was the last good door. Max is going to have my head for that,” I mutter quietly as I turn away from the three inches of solid steel that I just punched a hole through in a rage against Rush and how he took Luke from me. I then look down and see the top four fingers of my left hand twitching, from the permanent nerve damage I inflicted upon myself with that stunt with the sword at the end of Team Survival that Lars wasn’t able to repair, and I forcefully close my hand with a sigh.
It’s been a week since I first found the will to live again after that fateful conversation with Jackson over soup, and, with the help of special supersteroids that returned me to about half of my full strength and health in only two days, and, ever since then, I’ve been running and lifting and making myself strong enough for battle again, so that I will be prepared to avenge Luke’s death when the time to kill Rush comes. My anger has been driving me, and has called out the worst in me too: my most animalistic nature and the best of my survivalist instincts.
I don’t plan or think ahead or really even think about anything but killing Rush anymore; I just survive, eating and drinking and going to the bathroom when I have to and bathing occasionally. After all, Rush’s ingenious plan to bomb the square where we were all fighting killed Luke, so therefore planning must be bad and I won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole anymore.
“Max just ordered fifty new doors, to replace all of the ones I punched through when you were out, so we can just blame it on me if you want,” comes a voice from behind me, and I whip around to find Jackson watching me with a deeply worried look on his face.
I see his eyes trace the outline of my bared torso, which my ribs stick almost grotesquely out of – I’ve dropped ten pounds in the last week, with only eating as much as will let me live to the next meal – and I quickly answer, “Whatever. Doesn’t matter to me,” so I can turn back around before Jackson can say something about my weight.
A few moments pass in silence without either one of us saying anything and Jackson not leaving, until he tells me quietly, “Lizzie, I will always be here for you.”
I turn around to find him watching me with a sad look on his face, and, after meeting my gaze for a moment, he turns and leaves without another word. I stare at him for about a half-second, contemplating what he said, before calling out to him, “Jackson, wait!”
He immediately stops and turns back around – he’s about twenty feet away from me – to affix me with a curious and expectant look to have me throw myself into his arms, my lips finding his after a moment of confusion.
His arms immediately lock around me and hold me to him, and he kisses me back passionately, almost desperately for a few seconds. In those few seconds, I feel happiness, the first real happiness I’ve felt since I first woke up that first day after Luke died, which is an emotion so alien to me that I have a hard time recognizing it when I first feel it. However, after a few moments, I have no problem at all knowing what is, and am almost sad when Jackson pulls back to catch his breath and stare down at me with wonder on his face.
He just looks down at me and I just look up at him, noting the shock and happiness in his eyes and the huge bags under his eyes – I guess he hasn’t been sleeping too well lately, with me making offhand suicidal comments and obviously trying to starve myself – for a few moments before he finally breaks the silence by murmuring, “I may not be Luke, but I will try my best to give you your always, Lizzie.”
“Jackson,” I begin quietly, my eyes locked on his, “I don’t need an always. I just need somebody.” I then lean up and kiss him again, and, after a few long moments of that alien feeling of happiness, I pull back, somehow feeling that this is wrong, like I’m betraying Luke somehow, even though I know for a fact that Luke would want me to be with Jackson as opposed to being lonely.
“Somebody is better than nobody,” I mentally tell myself, and turn my gaze back onto Jackson to find him watching me expectantly with more than a hint of concern in his expression. He’s probably worrying about my mental health, and whether I’m in my right mind now or not.
“Jackson, I’m tired,” I tell him, as a wave of exhaustion washes over me and threatens to knock me over. I haven’t slept in almost three days, with all of the working out and pure surviving that I’ve been doing, and I hadn’t realized how much of a toll that had taken on me until now.
“Come sleep then,” he bids, and, before I can say anything in response, he scoops me up into his arms and begins to carry me down the long steel hallway of the Protector barrack that we rebels have set ourselves up in.
“You’re warm,” I murmur into his shirt as I curl up against him, letting the heat radiating off of his body come into me and warm me from the outside in. In fact, he’s so warm that he might even be able to melt my heart.
“And you need to eat,” he replies, shifting me slightly in his arms to get a better gauge of my weight. “You’ve dropped at least ten pounds since I last carried you. That’s not good, Lizzie.”
“’Insanity is the only sane reaction to an insane world,’” I quote, and I feel Jackson’s chest vibrate slightly as he laughs halfheartedly. What I said really wasn’t funny, since I’m basically justifying my efforts to starve and kill myself, but I guess Jackson would rather laugh at the truth than face it, and I can’t really blame him for that.
“This world is only insane if you make it so, Lizzie,” Jackson tells me, and immediately, despite my exhaustion and the calm that overtaken us and told me to stay in Jackson’s arms and let him care for me, I roll out of his arms to hit the cold steel floor with a thud and leap to my feet, my eyes blazing. How dare he insist that this world is only insane if I make it so, when this world is the one that took Luke from me!
“No, Jackson, this world is insane,” I shoot back emphatically, my eyes locked on his as I almost dare him to deny that. “It’s not just my point of view that makes it that way. After all, what world, after allowing them to live through so many other life-threatening situations and making them fall in love and believe that maybe they actually could have an always, kills one of them and leaves the other one to fend for herself? No sane world, that’s for sure!”
“Lizzie,” Jackson begins, but I don’t let him speak, and bulldoze over his interruption like he hadn’t said anything at all.
“And what world covers the girl in burn scars so that she can’t look down without being reminded of the moment the boy died? Only a sadistic world, a world that God has forsaken and evil has taken!” I meet his gaze fiercely, daring him to deny this, and, after a few long seconds, he looks down and sighs.
“Lizzie,” he finally begins, after organzing his thoughts and formulating a response for a couple silent seconds, “the scars might not go away, and you might never be able to forget anything that happened in the arena, but it will get better. Time will heal your heart, even if only minimally, and some sense of normalcy will return to your life, because nothing ever likes to be changed permanently.”
“Jackson, how can my heart heal if it’s completely gone?” I ask him quietly, my voice shaking with emotion. When he doesn’t respond, I continue, “Luke dying isn’t one of those cliche ‘Oh my God my heart’s broken I’m never going to be able to function again’ because Luke and I have gone through too much for anything about our relationship to be cliche, and because it doesn’t feel like my heart’s been broken. It feels like it’s been completely removed from my body.” I meet his gaze for a long moment before continuing, “When you kissed me, and I felt happy, that happiness almost felt alien, like it doesn’t belong with the heartbreak and anguish that has completely taken over my emotions as of late. Can you believe that: happiness feels alien?!” I exclaim bitterly, turning away from him and shaking my head. Luke wasn’t the only thing that died when the bomb hit apparently. After a few moments of staring at the floor in an attempt to regain control of my emotions, I look back up at Jackson and end, “Time won’t help me here, because there’s nothing for time to heal, only a hole for time to make seem even hollower.”
“Lizzie, you still feel, therefore you must still have heart,” Jackson tells me, and adds quickly, when he sees me open my mouth to protest, “Things will get better, Lizzie. You might not ever really move on from Luke, but things will get better. The pain will get less intense as your memories fade some, and, a thousand years from now, you might be able to love another person again, and, when you do, I will be there waiting for you. I would wait a thousand years for you, Lizzie, and even more if I had to.” Jackson’s eyes lock powerfully on mine, and, when I don’t say anything in response, he ends emphatically, “It will get better, Lizzie.” However, this little spiel of his has done nothing to improve my mood or assure me of anything except for the fact that Jackson likes to lie to me if he thinks I’ll like the lie better than the truth, and I shake my head bitterly. Has Jackson not listened to me at all these last few minutes?
“Jackson, time cannot heal my wounds, because I’m so emotionally shredded and fed up with life that there’s nothing left to heal. You telling me that everything will get better, and that I’ll eventually heal, is like telling an amputee that their leg will heal right up with some time: it just won’t happen, Jackson.” He opens his mouth to respond, but I, being a millisecond ahead of him, hold up my hand, read his mind and add, “And before you say that I’m condemning myself to eternal pain, you have to realize how much Luke and I really went through, and how much I needed him and still do need him for survival. Jackson, this last week has been like hell without Luke, because he is like my air, or my water, or my protein: I can function for a little while without him, but, in the end, something will give, and I think I’m approaching that breaking point right now. I can’t live this half-life, this hell on earth, much longer without Luke to hold my hand and tell me I’m perfect and be everything I ever wanted, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. I am Cinderella, Jackson, and my Prince Charming has just died and left me alone and empty in a world I don’t really want to be in.” I meet his gaze imploringly, and, when I see that I’m not really making any progress in changing his mind, let my temper get the best of me and exclaim angrily, “What do you want me to do, Jackson: just pretend like everything’s fine and dandy and that I wasn’t irreparably damaged by what’s happened here, and just go on living a lie the rest of my life? Is that your brilliant solution for me: just cover up the pain and put a fake smile on every day?” I ask incredulously, my eyes burning holes into his mind. “I won’t accept that solution, Jackson, because the life I would lead if I did that is no life at all.”
“Lizzie,” Jackson begins, his tone more than a bit desperate, but I immediately shake my head and brush past him.
“No, Jackson,” I tell him, staring him down. “I don’t want to have you lie to me anymore, because I don’t like the lies that you tell.” I meet his gaze one last time, searching his eyes and finding only a want to explain, before walking past him down the hallway and leaving him standing by himself.

“This is it,” I murmur to myself, my eyes locked on the steel door in front of me that, in a few moments, will open and let me loose on the city of El Nieve and, more importantly, Rush’s mansion and all of the Protectors surrounding it. “This is my chance to avenge Luke’s death.”
“Don’t get too caught up in the avenging part, Lizzie,” Max tells me, and I look over at him to find him watching me with almost sorrow in his eyes, like he thinks I’m going to be killing myself out there instead of Rush. I suppose that wouldn’t be so bad if I did die – I mean, then I wouldn’t have to put all that effort into killing myself – but my primary goal is to kill Rush, and show El Nieve that it cannot take something from me without expecting retaliation.
“After all, if you go so crazy with the avenging thing that you kill half the city, then you’re no better than Rush.” Max meets my gaze momentarily, and I nod my head in understanding. I definitely won’t let myself be like Rush – I think I’d probably have to kill myself if that happened – but I’m definitely going to avenge Luke’s death too, because that might be the only thing that will make the pain in my chest a little less severe.
“This is a chess game that I’ve almost won. I’m not going to lose so late in the game because I let my emotions get the best of me,” I say in reply, almost staring him down, and Max nods his head almost begrudgingly. I guess he doesn’t really believe that I’ll be able to do it, and restrain myself; I’ll just have to prove him wrong then.
“Don’t let your anger get the best of you, Lizzie,” Max warns as the door begins to creak open, and I nod my head impatiently, the only thing I’m able to think about how I’m going to attack Rush’s mansion as soon as that door completely opens.
When the door’s about halfway open, I can’t hold myself back any longer, and run towards the exit, a fierce smile on my lips. I will get my revenge at last, and then I will be the one who got the last laugh.
Max calls out to me, just as I raise my arm – I have my supersuit on; after all, even though it probably would be much more rewarding to take out the Protectors and Rush with just my bare hands, even I’m not reckless or self-confident enough to try that – and begin to shoot down the mob of Protectors waiting for me, with Rush’s pure white mansion glistening in the sunlight and calling me to come destroy it and its owner, “Just remember that there is nothing in this world worth losing yourself for!”
Then the door shuts, and I’m left alone with an army of Protectors to take out and plenty of rage to do it with.

Coughing slightly and telepathically ordering the helmet to retract from my face, I peer around at the room I just blasted into to find Rush, who’s more amused than surprised as he looks at the rubble around him and the film of dust covering what’s left of his possessions – the room I blasted into is his bedroom apparently – standing about fifteen feet from me. You would think that, after fighting through an army of at least a thousand Protectors and killing them all, my anger would have all been used up, but a wave of rage washes over me as I see him and I cross the gap in between us with five long strides to pick Rush up by his collar and slam him into the nearest wall.
“You killed Luke,” I snarl, my faces inches from his. It’s not a question; no, it’s a statement I’m daring him to deny.
“Oh, the bomb that got dropped on the city square?” he asks in reply, still not looking perturbed at all. “I didn’t order that.”
“Yes you did,” I shoot back, dropping him and taking a few steps back to sling the bow off of my shoulder – I figured it would be most symbolic to take Rush’s life with the weapon I’ve killed so many others with – draw an arrow, and aim it straight at his heart. “You have ten seconds to tell the truth,” I tell him, staring him down with as much anger and force as I can put into my gaze.
“I didn’t order the bomb dropping,” he repeats. “I mean, you and I both know I’m not above killing large amounts of people to get my way-” – his mouth twists into a sardonic smile for a moment – “-but why would I give the order to bomb the square when it was mostly my own people? I don’t believe in such pointless killings.” If Rush didn’t give the order, then that means...
Something seems to be lodged in the back of my throat, and I can’t breathe for a second. “I don’t believe you,” I finally whisper, my mouth so dry that it’s hard for me to speak.
Rush tells me, his black eyes locked on mine, “Miss Lightning, I thought we had agreed to be honest with each other.”
At that exact moment, a band of rebel soldiers, led by King herself – who, up until this point, had been mercifully in a different part of the battlefield – bursts through the wall to my left.
A fraction of a second after the dust clears, King seems that I still have an arrow aimed at Rush’s heart and screams at me, “Lightning, end this now!”
Slowly I turn my gaze back onto Rush to find him standing there with a hint of a smle on his face, and I then look down at the bow in my hands and back up at Rush. All I have to do is release the bowstring, and the Sections’ checkmate of El Nieve will be complete. But here I am, questioning the principles of the game by wondering if white is really white. Are the Sections really worth saving if it turns out they’re as ruthless as El Nieve?
After a few long moments, I finally tear my gaze away from Rush and murmur, “No.” I then turn to face King and aim the arrow straight at her heart – she doesn’t, apparently, have the sense to wear armor into battle – and tell her quietly, “I will not be your queen any longer.”
My fingers let go of the bowstring, and all hell breaks loose.

More added.

I make it to the entrance of Rush’s mansion before I’m finally overwhelmed by grief, misery, despair and rebel soldiers. Five of them hold me down, me squirming wildly against their grip the whole time, while two others do their best to handcuff me. Once that’s done, and I’ve fully tested the strength of the handcuffs by driving my wrists into them so hard that I begin to bleed, they allow me to get to my feet, with that same escort of seven soldiers hovering around me to make sure I won’t do anything stupid.
Unfortunately for them, doing stupid things is almost a hobby for me at this point, and I focus all of my lingering anger and energy on creating a tornado right in front of me that will suck up all of the rebel soldiers... to have nothing happen.
My eyes shoot open wide in shock and fear as I realize why, and I turn my head to get a better look at the handcuffs. Sure enough, they’re the exact kind I used to use on immortals that strips them all of their powers.
Suddenly a familiar face comes into view, and I look up to find Jackson, a bloody sword in his hand and shock painted across his face, standing in front of me after fighting his way through my escort. “Lizzie, what did you do?” he asks me wildly, his eyes locked on mine almost fearfully. Obviously he knows I did something stupid – I mean, I wouldn’t be in handcuffs if I hadn’t done something incredibly stupid – but apparently he doesn’t know how stupid or bad it was. I suppose that’s good for the moment, considering he might have strangled me out of pure exasperation if he knew how bad what I did is.
“I killed the right person, Jackson,” I murmur quietly in reply to his question, returning his gaze calmly, and, as he reads the mind of one of the soldiers around me, he sighs deeply.
“Lizzie, that was an incredibly stupid thing to do,” he tells me quietly, and I can’t help but smile bitterly. Does he honestly think that I don’t know what I did was stupid? Although, now that I think about it, it might almost be better if I were ignorant to my stupidity, because that would mean that I wasn’t so completely uncaring about whether something’s intelligent to do or not.
“I know. It was the right thing to do though,” I repeat stubbornly, and he sighs again, this time more than a bit of anger entering his tone. In fact, I think the only thing that kept him here with me and mostly stable was the fact that I might be executed soon for killing the rebel president and that he thinks he has to stop that from happening.
To be perfectly honest, I would be almost happy if they executed me – I mean, that would save me the trouble of taking my life myself – but I can’t think Jackson would be too thrilled about that, with his irrational care about my well-being. I mean, you’d think that, after seeing how little I care about myself, that eventually he’d stop caring about me too, but I guess that isn’t going to happen; unfortunately, he’s too damn dedicated and determined for that.
“Mr. Carter, I’m going to have to ask you to back up from the prisoner,” one of the soldiers stammers from my left and Jackson’s right, and Jackson turns his blazing golden gaze onto him with anger and annoyance rampant across his face.
“And why is that, sir?” Jackson inquires in a tone of mock politeness – it’s mock politeness because Jackson’s anger, so very thinly veiled, is easy to see in his burning eyes and his thin mouth and his almost quivering voice – as he stares down at the soldier, who has the misfortune of being at least eight inches shorter than Jackson.
“Because I have to inspect her, Mr. Carter,” a voice from behind Jackson comes, and Jackson whips around to find Lars standing there with an expectant look and a small, friendly smile on his face.
Jackson, with a scowl on his face, then begrudgingly steps aside, and Lars turns to the guards and tells them, “Remove her handcuffs, please. They’re not doing either one of us any good.” He gives me a smile as he does so, his eyes taking in every aspet of my not-so-good appearance.
“It looks like you blew up a building Lizzie,” Lars comments with a smile that falls some when he sees my left hand and the fact that it’s twitching violently, which I don’t really care about so I don’t bother to stop it.
“I kind of did,” I say, and gesture to Rush’s half-ruined mansion behind us. As I fought my way into his quarters, I got impatient and just began shooting through walls to make a shorter path. It worked reasonably well, since it only took me five minutes to be standing outside Rush’s door, which I then blasted down too.
Lars looks at the mansion for a few moments, his scruntinizing gaze taking in every detail of its appearance, before turning back to me and telling me, a friendly grin accompanying his words, “Well, you certainly are quite the accomplished demolition crew.”
“That’s not the only thing she destroyed,” Jackson mutters to my left, and I turn to him to give him the coldest gaze I can muster.
However, Lars isn’t perturbed by this comment at all, and turns to Jackson to tell him with a smile, “And I will find out about what else she destroyed later when I interview her.”
“Interview me?” I question, staring over at Lars like he’s gone crazy. What does he want to interview me for: to find out how much my mind got screwed up by the Triple Crown and all of the stress after it?
“A psychic evaluation, really,” Lars amends, with an almost sad smile, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. So he really does want to get inside of my head and figure out exactly how screwed up I am.
“Well, let’s get this over with then,” I say briskly, and, without waiting for Lars to say or do anything else, walk past him and Jackson to board the helicopter that’s landed outside of the mansion and presumably dropped both of them off. I then stop, just as I am about to go into the interior of the helicopter, to turn and look and Jackson and Rush expectantly, and have them both sigh and then follow me, which brings a small smile to my face. Unfortunately, it might be one of the last I’ll ever smile.

“Why did you kill King instead of Rush?” Lars immediately asks me after we’ve sat down on the sparse furniture in his bedroom, which is currently functioning as an interview room.
“Rush, even if he was an evil guy, was at least honest. King was dishonest and evil,” I answer clearly, returning his gaze with an intense stare of my own.
“Rush told you that the rebels bombed the square, didn’t he?” Lars asks me, and I falter for a moment: could that have not been the truth?
However, a moment later, I shake my head slightly to clear all doubting thoughts out of my mind – I read Rush’s mind and evaluated his emotions and wasn’t able to find any hint that he was lying, so I know he wasn’t, because something would have shown up if he had – and answer, “Yes, he did, which I know is true.”
I look at Lars expectantly, waiting for him to confirm or deny this, and, after a long moment of having a miniature staring contest with me, he sighs and says, “You’re right. That was King’s order, not Rush’s.”
After a half-second of silence, during which time I work really hard at not completely crushing the pen I’m playing with, Lars adds, “She thought it was worth the sacrifice of a hundred rebel soldiers to take out two hundred Protectors.”
“She was wrong about that,” I immediately murmur, and, much to my surprise, Lars nods his head in agreement.
“I know,” he says softly, his eyes on the ground, and I look over at him in amazement. I guess, even though I know that he’s a very reasonable guy and a doctor who likes saving people to boot, I thought he would side with King, her being the president of Seceding Sections and all that bullshit.
“She did it to get rid of me too, didn’t she?” I ask Lars quietly, my eyes locked on his, and he nods his head almost wearily. Maybe he’s getting tired of telling me about all of King’s terrible decisions.
“She thought you were a threat to her power-” – Lars begins, to have me immediately interrupt with a muttered, “Well, she was kind of right about that,” – “and she thought that you could jeopardize her efforts to get elected president of all of El Tiempo once the Sections took El Nieve.”
“So basically she killed Luke for the sake of power,” I murmur, my eyes shooting open in realization and the pen in my hand snapping and splattering ink all over as a wave of rage washes over me, and Lars nods again, even wearier this time.
“She didn’t exactly understand the value of human life,” Lars says, to have me add on, with a slight, triumphant smile at the fact that I won and King lost, “Or the fact that I couldn’t be killed with a bomb.”
Lars nods his head a third time in agreement and says, “Yeah, that too.” Our conversation then lapses into silence for a few moments, the feeling that I truly did the right thing by killing King washing over me even more as I sit there and think about it, and we could have sat there in silence for much, much longer if it weren’t for Lars.
Looking up at me and meeting my gaze seriously, he asks me, “You also killed her in an attempt to kill yourself, didn’t you?”
I freeze at his question, not knowing how to reply. If I say yes, then I’ll be letting him know that I really am suicidal and will make him worry about my mental state even more than he already does. However, I have a feeling he’d see right through any lie I could tell him, so I finally just decide to tell him the truth and nod my head, the weariness that seemed to have overtaken Lars now spreading to me. “Yeah, I did,” I say quietly, my eyes on the ground.
“And that’s perfectly understandable, given all that you and Luke had gone through together,” Lars tells me, which causes me to look up at him in shock. I thought he would be telling me that it’s completely unacceptable that I want to die, and that I need to get happy right now. “Luke was the person you loved, the person who had become a good chunk of your world and a person that you probably wouldn’t be alive today without, so it’s perfectly understandable for the depression over him dying to be so severe as to make you suicidal.” Lars meets my gaze compassionately, and I sigh in relief. Finally someone who kind of knows what I’m going through and actually understands why I’m acting the way I am!
“I miss him so badly, Lars, that sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe,” I tell Lars quietly, my gaze locked on his almost pleadingly, like I’m begging him to save me from my grief and myself. “I feel like I should be the dead one, that, out of both of us, I’m the wicked one, and that it’s wrong that he paid for my sins by dying instead of me. He should be the immortal one, Lars, and I should be the dead one.”
“You make it seem almost like you hate your immortality,” Lars says, staring me down, and I nod my head instantly in confirmation.
“Well, after all that I’ve seen and done and all of the hatred I’ve experienced and the whole world telling you that you shouldn’t exist and being more than willing to make it so that you don’t exist, it’s hard not to hate yourself,” I murmur, my gaze on the tile covering the floor of Lars’ bedroom. After a few moments of just staring at the floor for guidance, I look up at him, meet his gaze and say, “I’m unnatural, Lars. I shouldn’t exist, and, to be perfectly honest, I’m not so happy that I do.”
“But your immortality is a great gift, one that many humans would kill for,” Lars tells me, and I shake my head and sigh. He just doesn’t get it, does he?
“Immortality is great for like the first eighty years. Then all of your mortal friends start dying, and your family is probably dead by now too, and you’re left alone in a world that’s forgotten you exist and never really wanted you to exist in the first place.” I sigh, and, after a half-second’s pause, continue, “It’s much better to just die when you’re eighty, so you don’t have to see your world fall apart around you. I mean, sure, in a hundred years, I could still look seventeen, but what does that matter if everyone I care about is dead and I’ve got nothing left in here?” I raise a hand to tap my chest, and Lars nods his head in understanding.
“I guess I should be grateful that I will eventually die then,” Lars says, with a half-smile, and I nod my head gravely in agreement.
I tell him, which I remember I told to Luke once – was that really only two weeks ago? It seems more like two hundred years ago – “Value your mortality. You have the ultimate escape route of death that I would give up all of this immortality-shapeshifting-demigod-princess crap for.”
“You’re actually a princess?” Lars asks me in amazement, and I can’t help but laugh. It’s amazing how alike – even if it is stupidly alike – men can be.
“Is that really all you got out of what I just told you?” I question incredulously, and here Lars gets a sheepish smile on his face.
“Sorry. I just didn’t realize you’re actually a noble, with all that you seem to despise authority.” He gives me a knowing grin here, and I can’t help but smile back.
“Yeah, I don’t particularly like being noble. I’d much rather be a peasant, if I had a choice in the matter.” I meet Lars’ gaze, and he nods his head in understanding. After a half-second of silence, I add, with a small smile, “Royalty is so overrated.”
Lars grins again too, and a few more moments pass by in silence, neither one of us really knowing what to say.
However, I can’t keep my curiosity at what Lars is actually trying to accomplish here in bay much longer, and finally it gets the best of me and I look up at him to meet his gaze again and ask him clearly, “Lars, what are you trying to accomplish with this psychic evaluation?”
“To see if you were sane when you killed King,” Lars tells me, and I’m almost excited about what that implies: I’m going to get tried for murder, with the potential of execution as a punishment, even if that is a very unlikely punishment – after all, I think the Sections still kind of like me, even though I did kill their leader, because I basically saved them.
“We both know the answer to that already, Lars,” I reply quietly. We both already know that I was completely out of my mind with grief and rage over Luke dying when I killed King; in fact, I haven’t been in my right mind for a moment since Luke died.
“Yeah, I suppose we do,” Lars agrees quietly, and his tone is almost sad. Maybe he, being a doctor that does it to save people rather than for money, doesn’t like seeing me wasting away and trying to kill myself.
“Can I go then?” I ask, placing my hands on the edge of his bed so I can push myself up if he does dismiss me.
“Yeah,” he says after a moment, his lips pursed in worry as he does so. However, I ignore his expression and silently rise to my feet to cross the room. I have pulled the door open that will release me to the rest of the hospital Lars has set up shop in and am just about to walk out when Lars’ voice stops me and causes me to turn around.
“Take care of yourself, Lizzie. I would hate to read about your death in the papers,” Lars tells me quietly, his eyes locked on mine, and I nod my head almost unwillingly. He and I both know that I will continue to try to kill myself until we find Luke alive or until I die, but I might as well agree with him now to avoid the extra hassle.
I have turned and am about to leave again when Lars calls out to me and I turn around to have him say softly, his eyes sad behind his glasses, “Goodbye, Lizzie. I hope this is not the last time we see each other.”
I nod my head again and say quietly, “I hope it isn’t either,” before finally turning and leaving, with both of us knowing that it probably is going to be the last we’ll see each other – alive, at least; Lars might be called out to examine my body if it’s found.

More added.

“Lizzie, is there anything you want out of the Champions’ Center?” Max asks me, as we both stare up at the huge white building looming in front of us. It’s been a week since that conversation about my sanity with Lars, and I’ve gotten five new scars on each of my wrists since then. In fact, the only good thing that’s really come out of this week is that I got my possessions back that Max stole from me when he kidnapped me, like my backpack and car keys and phone. He also gave me Luke’s possessions, which I took with a good deal of pain and nostalgia; I’m planning to take them back to Luke’s parents, now that the barrier El Nieve had set up between the dimensions has fallen. It seems like three thousand years ago, not three weeks ago, that that bomb hit and ruined my life.
Max and I are here, in front of the Champions’ Center, because I decided I want to burn it down myself and truly destroy the Triple Crown in El Tiempo. After all, Rush is dead – after I killed King, the soldiers accompanying her started firing, and one of them shot Rush and killed him – the members of the Triple Crown committee were killed later in the siege on El Nieve, and the arena was dismantled and eventually set on fire by a mass of revolting people of the Sections even before the rebellion officially took the battle to El Nieve, so the Champions’ Center is the only thing left of the Triple Crown. It’s very fitting that me, Lizzie Lightning, the spark that burned down El Nieve’s hold over the Sections, will be the one to literally burn down the last remnants of El Nieve’s tyranny and cruelty.
I am about to say no, that I just want to see this horrible building and all of the horrible memories I have inside of it burn, when I realize that there is something I want out of there, and I turn to Max and tell him, “Yeah, there is.” Then, without waiting for him to say anything else, I enter the building, and jump into the elevator to ride up to the eighth floor, each little ding as the elevator goes up another floor echoing around in my head.
I sigh as soon as I step out of the elevator, all of the memories – good and bad, although most are bad – I have of this place flooding in: Jackson showing up and Luke with ‘betrayed’ stamped across his forehead; Abby and I teasing each other over breakfast and me flipping out at Nick when he told me that I didn’t have to gather my own dishes, that that was what Abby was for; me saving Jackson from death one night and Luke from death the next; me not getting to say goodbye to Jackson before being whisked away for Team Survival.
“There’s so much pain in this place,” I can’t help but murmur as I look around at the pure white walls and tile and carpet and furniture and drapes, because it’s true; the whole place just looks desolate, abandoned, depressed almost, if it’s possible for a location to have feelings.
I stare around for a few long moments before finally remembering why I came here in the first place, shaking my head slightly, and pushing myself down the hallway to walk towards my room. I have laid a hand on the doorknob and am just about to enter when I freeze, because I don’t know if I can actually face what’s waiting for me in there. Will I lose it, and be in so much pain that I burn myself up with the building and lose the thing I came here for?
No, I can’t do that; I owe it to myself and to my memories of Luke not to, so, after taking a deep breath and telling myself that I will behave, that I will not lose it, I open the door silently and enter my room.

I cross the room silently to stand at the foot of my bed and gaze at the painting covering the opposite wall with more than a bit of warmth at the memories it brings back – about how everything Luke and I had wasn’t false, that I truly did love him some, that, in the end, I actually wanted the always he promised me – and also more than a bit of pain at the fact that he’s dead, and that the girl who painted it is dead too.
Sighing deeply and telling myself not to cry, I take my phone out of my pocket with shaking fingers – it’s an iPhone 4, and I love it with a burning passion – to pull up the camera, take a few steps back so that I can get all of the painting in the picture, move the little focus box onto the always at the bottom of the painting, and finally snap the picture. I double-check it to see that I captured a perfect image of the painting, and then immediately make that picture my wallpaper, so I will see what could have been my always every time I pull out my phone.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, tears beginning to leak out of the corners of my eyes now as I stare at the painting for a few moments longer.
Finally I tell myself that, if I keep Max waiting for too long, he might light up the building with me in it, and I tear my gaze away from the painting with some difficulty to exit my room, shutting the door behind me with a definitive click. I then get in the elevator again to ride down in it numbly, each ding echoing with a formal finality in my mind this time.
“You got what you wanted?” Max asks me when I leave the building to walk out into the bright sunlight where he’s standing, and I nod my head yes.
“Let’s light it up then,” he says, and tosses me a can of gasoline and a blowtorch. When I look at him skeptically – I mean, I know gasoline can really help things burn, but I don’t think we can actually burn the whole building down with what we have – he questions, “You can control fire, right?”
I nod my head yes, and he says, “Then this is all we need to burn this place to the ground.” I’m surprised by the hardness of his words, and I look over at him to see the anger blazing in his already-flaming eyes. I had never really thought that Max had much of a grudge against the Triple Crown committee, but, now that I see it, it makes perfect sense. After all, they did ruin his life and then make him in charge of sending four kids off to slaughter every year; I think I’d hate whoever did that to me too.
“Do the honor and light it up Lizzie,” Max urges me, and I open the can of gasoline to splash some on the white wall closest to me and then flick open the lighter and throw it onto the newly-poured gasoline, where it immediately starts a flame that licks up the side of the building and scorches the white paint right off of the steel frame.
I can’t help but feel savage pleasure as I watch the whiteness of El Nieve, that color that has tortured me everywhere I’ve gone in this dimension, get turned into black ash by the fire that I symbolically and literally started. El Nieve’s finally getting what it deserves: its destruction, and the destruction of everything it stood for.
When the flames start to run out of paint to burn and diminish after a few moments, I splash more gasoline onto them, causing them to flare up ten feet up the side of the building, and then walk around the building slowly, splashing gas as I go and channeling the fire to make it follow me too. Deciding that there isn’t quite enough flame yet – and running out of gasoline to toss the empty can aside – I conjure up more fire, so that there is now a complete ring burning around the bottom of the building. It makes the building almost look like the top of a torch that hasn’t quite gotten eaten by the fire yet.
I feel the infusion of power into the air that can only mean someone else channeling the elements and turn to find Max summoning even more flames than I did, the ones he’s summoning working their way up the side of the building and into the open window on the second floor. I stare over at him in almost awe, as I had no idea Max was such an accomplished fire channeler. I don’t have nearly the skill with fire to do that, and I probably don’t even have the natural ability to control flames like that. Of course, I can smoke Max any day in a hurricane-starting competition, because I doubt that he could even start one.
Max seems to notice my gaze, as he turns to me, a savage grin across his face and the reflection of the flames dancing in his already-fiery eyes, and tells me, “Come on Lizzie, you’re going to let yourself get beat by your old instructor? That’s not a very good example of the student overcoming the teacher.” He gives me a smirk, and shoots another burst of energy into the fire with an outward-thrusting hand motion.
The heat from the blaze is so high now that it feels my nose is about to burn off and I find myself taking a step back – being burned alive once was bad enough; I really don’t need two layers of hideous scars – but the heat doesn’t seem to be affecting Max at all. In fact, if anything, he seems to be almost rejuvenated by the towering flames. Maybe he’s like me: he can pull energy from fire the way I can pull energy from storms and lightning.
“You’re much better with fire than I am. I might as well just let you have this one,” I reply, taking another step backward as a spark jumps out and burns the skin of my cheek.
Max nods his head in understanding, and looks like he’s actually going to take me up on my offer and burn the whole building down himself, when he remembers that I originally asked to be the one to burn the building down. He then takes a step back himself, relinquishing his hold on the flames, causing them to sputter, fall and eventually partially die off, to tell me, “No. You wanted to burn it down, so, if you don’t want to burn it down anymore, you should at least be the one to destroy it.”
“Alright,” I say, looking up at the building. “The only question is: how else am I going to destroy it? I mean, you can’t control any other elements, setting a hurricane would be too destructive and might even suck us up in it, and destroying this is basically a two-person job… Wait,” I murmur, staring up at the structure and realizing that it’s almost all metal, and that metal’s an excellent conductor of electricity.
“I can use lightning to destroy the building,” I say aloud, turning to Max to have him nod his head in understanding and approval.
“I’d say that’d be the most symbolic thing of all,” Max tells me with a smile, and walks away from the building to motion for me to go.
When I see that he’s far enough away that he probably won’t get hurt by it – unless some part of the building falls on him – I close my eyes and focus all of my energy on summoning a storm, and, with a tingling in my fingertips, feel the wind immediately pick up and open my eyes to see that the sky above is pure black and stormy, a perfect representation of nature’s destructive power and the power I could have over the world if I abused it.
Behind me, I hear Max gasp in surprise, and I can’t help but smile. Seeing a storm summoned in person is always much more striking than just watching it on camera.
However, my happiness doesn’t last very long, as a wave of anger against the Triple Crown committee and El Nieve for ruining my life and indirectly taking Luke’s washes over me and I focus with all of my might on pulling a lightning bolt out of the sky, the largest and most powerful one I can manage. As I stare up at the churning clouds, I see the tip of a lightning bolt flicker out of the sky, but doesn’t come anywhere near touching the ground. I must not be putting enough power into the storm then.
Closing my eyes and clearing everything out my mind except my anger and my want to destroy the building in front of me, I put all of my energy into summoning the lightning boltt, and, just as my knees buckle underneath me and I collapse to the ground from total exhaustion, I hear the definitive crackle of lightning and open my eyes in time to see a lightning bolt jump out – the sheer electricity and power of the lightning I summoned was strong enough that I probably would have been electrocuted where I was kneeling if I weren’t immune to lightning – hit the building and, in a half-second, turn the building into nothing more than a pile of ash.
The lightning leapt back up into the clouds as soon as it hit, and, with nothing to sustain it, the storm broke up and dissipated in the matter of a few seconds.
I just kneeled there, staring at the ground and trying to fight through the layers of exhaustion covering my brain to remember why on earth I did this when someone behind me exclaims quietly, accompanying their words with a whistle, “Wow.”
I turn my head slightly to see Max walking up next to me, his eyes on the pile of ash that used to be the Champions’ Center. He stops so that he’s parallel to me, and turns to me and asks, “How did you summon that much sheer power without burning yourself up?”
“I…” I begin, taking his offered hand and getting to my feet slowly. I then turn my gaze onto the ashes in front of me and finish, “I don’t know.”
“I guess I know not to get on your bad side now, or I’ll look like that building,” Max tells me teasingly, but his eyes tell a completely different story: he’s scared of me now.
“Don’t remind me of that, Max,” I say with a sigh, and turn away from him and the remnants of the building to look out at the rest of the city. Everywhere Triple Crown insignia is being destroyed, with posters of Rush and Triple Crown committee and past champions that decided it was in their best interests to fight for the Triple Crown trampled underfoot and posters with my face all over them being plastered all over the city too; I guess the people of the Sections don’t hate me enough for killing King as to not appreciate what I did for them.
It’s downright scary to think that, if I lost it for a moment, this whole city could be like that building: history. If I let my anger get the best of me, and I started one huge wind burst or one lightning strike or one hurricane that I couldn’t control, I could level the entire city and kill everyone in it.
That’s one of the reasons why I don’t like being immortal, because I’m kind of forced into playing God by the power I have. I’m truly afraid of losing it, and destroying everything around me, because I know I wouldn’t be able to live with myself then. I’m afraid of myself, to be perfectly honest, because I’m afraid I might not be able to control the power inside of me, and I might end up killing someone I love one of these days. I suppose I already did, with Abby and Marshall and Luke, but I didn’t really kill them with my bare hands; I just let them down, and failed to protect them like I said I would.
Max comes up next to me and looks out across the city with me, the buildings reflected in his fiery eyes in such a way that it looks like they’re all on fire. “You’re the hero around here, Lizzie,” he says quietly, as he gestures to the posters covering almost every open inch of building, with pictures of me ‘valiantly fighting for my freedom and the freedom of the Sections’ in Hand-to-Hand, One-Person and Team Survival.
“I don’t want to be the hero, Max,” I murmur quietly as I look out at the city – and those downright horrible posters – with him.
“Why not?” he asks me, his tone surprised, and I look over to find him looking down at me curiously.
“Because heroes always end up dying young or dying villains,” I reply softly, my gaze being drawn back onto the white city that has found something else to worship: me.
“I suppose you have a point there,” Max agrees, and our conversation lapses into silence, neither one of us knowing what to say and me not particularly wanting to talk.
“We should probably get back to the hospital. Jackson’s bound to be worried sick by now,” Max says after a few moments pass in silence, and I tear my gaze away from the city sprawling out in front of me to look over at him and nod my head in agreement.
“Knowing him, he’s probably recruiting a search-and-rescue team to come find us,” I joke to go along with Max’s comment, and we both smile weakly, even though it isn’t very funny at all. I mean, Jackson would go searching for us himself – he definitely wouldn’t trust our safety to soldiers that he doesn’t know – and Jackson might actually have a reason to search for us, if I decide to try to commit suicide again – it’s been a fairly regular thing these last few days, although my wrists have always healed too quickly for me to bleed out before someone finds me – and freeze Max so that he can’t call for help to save me.
Max reads these thoughts in my mind – I don’t bother hiding my thoughts anymore, as the only people that are going to read them are Jackson and Max, and I trust both of them with my life – and turns to me to meet my gaze and question, “Lizzie, why do you think that you need to die to be happy?”
“Because Luke is dead, and he was my happiness up until now,” I answer quietly, meeting Max’s gaze calmly. He can question me about my suicidal tendencies all he wants, but he’s probably never going to get the answers he’s looking for. “My heart died with Luke too, and what’s the point in living if you’re not whole, if living is just excruciatingly painful for you?” I meet his gaze almost challengingly, daring him to come up with a reason as to why I should still have a will to live.
Max, however, doesn’t lose his cool with this answer of mine and begins, “Lizzie, I know what it’s like to want to kill yourself,” to have my snort of derision cut him off before he has a chance to say anything else. He doesn’t know what I’m going through, and he and I both know that, so why would he say something so incredibly stupid like that? All he’s going to accomplish there is pissing me off!
“Does this help prove anything?” Max questions me, upon hearing my snort of derision, to hold out his hand and show me the web of criss-crossing scars covering it that I somehow had never noticed up until now.
“It looks almost like your hand has been sown together,” I murmur in amazement as I stare at the scars with morbid curiosity. “Wait,” I start, tearing my gaze away from Max’s hand to look up at him and meet his hard gaze.
The arena he was in for Team Survival was cold, even colder than the one for Team Survival this time around, and I remember Max went off the grid for a few days during that Team Survival. I guess I know where he went now: trying to kill himself by getting frostbite and freezing to death but the Triple Crown committee not letting him.
“I know exactly what it’s like to want to kill yourself, Lizzie,” Max repeats, dropping his hand now that he’s proven his point and searching my gaze with his own. “It gets better though, it always does,” he tells me reassuringly, and I can’t help but shake my head in denial. Even though Max survived a Triple Crown and has had more than his fair share of heartache over the years and even has tried to kill himself before, he really doesn’t know what I’m going through because what I went through is so much different than what he’s gone through.
“Why does everyone keep on telling me that?” I exclaim in exasperation, throwing my hands up in the air. “Max, how can it get better if there’s nothing left for time to heal?” I ask him, my gaze locked on his as I almost dare him to reply with a response that I’ll actually accept. As if I would actually accept any response he gave me here, even if it was technically right and logical and answered the question completely.
“There is always something left, Lizzie,” Max tells me, refusing to back down or retreat at all. “The day you completely lose your ability to feel is the day you lose your humanity, and the day you become a model citizen of El Nieve. You have not hit that point yet, Lizzie,” Max ends firmly, his eyes locked on mine almost fiercely.
“Maybe it would almost be better if I was a model citizen of El Nieve, because then I wouldn’t be able to feel the pain of Luke dying,” I murmur quietly, turning away from Max, to have him sigh in exasperation. Clearly this is not the result he was looking for, although I don’t know why he thought he could ever sway me in the first place.
“Lizzie, being able to feel, even if what you feel is pain, is always better than feeling nothing at all,” Max tells me emphatically, stepping in front of me so that he can meet my gaze again. “Emotions are what make us alive, and, if you lose your emotions, then you become something less than alive, something that doesn’t deserve to take in some of the earth’s oxygen. Feelings are holy and perfect and always unadulterated, even if they are pain and sadness and despair, and feelings can always change too, so I can guarantee you that you won’t be feeling sad forever Lizzie. Keep your feelings around. You might be surprised at how good they can become if you do.”
“Max,” I begin, my tone becoming imploring and almost begging now, “why should I keep feeling if all I feel is unbearable sadness and pain? Isn’t it just better to be numb, and at least not be hurting all the time?”
“No, it’s not,” Max immediately shoots back, with such passion to his tone that I’m almost shocked. He then takes a deep breath, and continues, “Emotions are what make you human – pardon the expression – and, if you lose your humanity, your ability to feel, then you really do become the people you just destroyed.”
Max then gestures out the sprawling, desolate white city in front of us, and I bow my head in defeat. I definitely don’t want to be an El Nievan in the fact that I’m numb, but maybe they had the right idea. Maybe numbness is the best policy, because, while you can’t feel happiness or joy, you can’t feel pain either, and not feeling pain sounds pretty good right now.
I sigh deeply, knowing that Max isn’t going to give up his side of the argument any time soon and that I’m not either, and mutter under my breath as I turn away from the city, “It would have been so much easier if I died up there in Alaska.”

More added.

“We’re going home, Lizzie!” an estatic Jackson tells me, and he wraps his arms around me to give me a bone-crushing hug.
I can’t breathe – and I don’t particularly want to be hugged either – so I push on him hard enough until he realizes that I’m protesting being held like this and he lets go of me, at which time I tell him, for explanation, “You were suffocating me.”
“Oh, sorry Lizzie,” Jackson apologizes shortly, his apology sounding very-halfhearted, to immediately repeat, his eyes locked on mine with such joy that I haven’t seen in him in what seems like forever, “We’re going home! You’ll get to see your family, and I’ll get to see Kodiak again, and everything will be back to normal!” I instantly stiffen at the ‘back to normal’ comment – I mean, back to normal implies that no one who doesn’t belong in this dimension is going home – and Jackson amends, “Well, not back normal, but at least still existing.”
I nod my head in approval at that because, while I might not want to have everything existing because I don’t really want to live, Jackson obviously does – and any other sane person would too – and it’s just easier to smile and nod than actually make an objection.
Jackson notices that I haven’t reacted to this news at all and asks me, “Aren’t you excited? You get to see your parents and your brothers and everyone you missed when you were in here.”
I get mental pictures of my brothers and my parents and try to prod some sort of emotional response out out of myself to be met with… numbness. Now that the full reality of Luke being gone has set it, I truly have become numb, moving and talking and eating and basically just living as little as possible, and, when I do move, it’s generally in an attempt to kill myself with something.
“How am I going to tell Luke’s parents what happened to Luke?” I murmur quietly, meeting Jackson’s gaze almost desperately for the first time throughout this whole conversation. Finally I voiced the question that’s been eating away at me for the last week, or ever since Max gave me Luke’s belongings, so now it can eat at both Jackson and I. Oh well. Misery does love company after all; I wonder if I, in my misery, will love it too.
“You’re going to have to tell them the truth: everything that happened in this dimension, as well as the truth about us, and what we are,” Jackson replies, and I nod my head in understanding. The only problem with that plan is whether or not I can find the bravery to walk up to their doorstep and tell them that their son is dead because of me.
Jackson seems to realize exactly what I’m going through, as he cups my chin in his hand, tilts my gaze up towards his and tells me sincerely, “It will be hard, Lizzie, but I know you, and I know you’re tough enough to do it. Look at it this way: you owe it to Luke to let his parents know what happened.” Jackson’s eyes are locked on mine, his intense golden irises searching my own and reminding me how kind of beautiful he really is, and I nod my head again, this time in agreement. Jackson’s words have inspired and almost impowered me, and now I think that maybe I’m ready to go home, and own up to what happened to Luke
“Good,” Jackson replies, his gaze still glued on mine as a small smile creeps its way across his face. Without warning, he bends down and kisses me gently on the forehead, and then pulls back to wrap his arm around my shoulders, look down at me and ask, “Are you ready to go now?”
I nod my head in confirmation – I’ve already said my goodbyes to Max and Lars, and there’s not anyone else who’s alive in this dimension that I like well enough to want to say goodbye to – as I take a deep breath to brace myself for what I’m about to tell Luke’s parents. Just like Jackson said, this isn’t going to be easy on them or me, but I owe it to them to tell them about what happened and tell them about their son’s heroism, and let them know that their son helped save a whole country. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair of me to not them how Luke died, considering that he is their son.
Jackson opens a gateway in the air with a sweep of his hand, and, as the hole grows wider, I stare out at the snowy – even though it should be the end of August, and therefore not very snowy – very-Elizabeth-looking street in front of us with almost awe. It’s amazing to think that I’m finally going back, after all that’s happened here and all the scars I’ve collected and all the people I’ve killed, to lead a fake normal human life again. To be perfectly honest, I don’t even know if I can pull the whole normal-human trick off any more, with my huge mood swings and general depression and lack of want to do anything.
However, I can’t help but feel my heart lighten some at the prospect of going home, to the dimension that I actually like and belong in and that hasn’t scarred for the rest of eternity, and getting to see my family and friends, and getting to just value life, and maybe even return to some sense of normalcy, even if that normalcy is frequent suicide attempts and constant depression. I want to go back to the place where I belong, the place that I actually want to be, and, despite the fact that the county is full of people who believe the opposite of what I believe, and, despite the fact that you can’t walk down the halls of the high school without hearing some derogatory joke about President Obama, that place is Elizabeth, Colorado, 80107.
“I’ve missed Mom and Dad and Timmy and even Gwillan and Gruffen,” I murmur, and Jackson nods his head, a small, almost sad smile at the fact that he has no one to miss in our dimension crosses his face.
“Let’s go see them then, shall we?” Jackson questions, and I nod my head in agreement, slipping my hand into his proffered one and walking hand and hand, with everything to document my time as a martyr and a revolutionist and a liberator of a country on my back in a cloth gym bag, back home.

I stand on the doorstep of Luke’s house, my hands balled into fists and my stomach clenched in knots. I chose to come here first, as opposed to going home right away, because I know that I have to tell them, that I just have to, and that I might lose all will to do it if I went home first. However, the task is proving a lot more daunting than I originally thought it was, because I have no idea what or how to tell them what happened. I mean, it’s not like I can just say, “Oh, hey, I’m kind of not human and your son kind of died in a different dimension because of me. Sorry about that, and I hope you have a good day!” Even I don’t lack the people skills to know that saying something like that would completely idiotic.
However, I can’t think of anything else to say. After all, what do I tell whoever answers the door? “Your son is dead, I’m here to tell you why?” No, that’s even worse than my original idea of what not to say!
“This would be so much easier if they could just read my mind and I wouldn’t have to say anything to them,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head as I lean against the doorframe, eying the doorbell almost fearfully. As soon as I ring it, I have to come clean for everything I did and caused, and I’m not sure I really want to do that right now, even though I know I owe it to Luke’s parents to them why their son isn’t here today.
“Or if they could just watch a video?” an amused voice says to my left, and I whip around in shock to find Kuro standing there, leaning on the side of the house, with a malicious smile that’s even more amused than usual on his face and what appears to be a DVD in his hand.
My eyes shoot open wide in shock as I realize what must be on that DVD, and I snarl, my eyes locked on his, “You didn’t.”
“Oh, but I did,” Kuro replies, to immediately add, “I thought you’d be grateful. After all, I just removed the talking part of your presentation.”
“You son of a bitch,” I whisper harshly, staring him down with as much loathing as I can muster into my gaze.
“Lizzie, that’s not the way to talk to someone who just did you a favor,” Kuro tells me reprovingly, and immediately my mouth gets sealed shut.
I frantically try to open my mouth, with no results expect straining my jaw, so I settle for making the meanest face I can muster at Kuro, which happens to make him laugh.
“Even to the end, you insist on fighting me,” he murmurs after he becomes intelligible, shaking his head, and looks up to meet my gaze again. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Lizzie. Maybe you’re not betraying your nature by being human, but betraying your nature by being animal.”
He then sets the DVD down on the table on the porch and turns and leaves in a cloud of black smoke, and my mouth sealant disappears with him to leave me standing there, flexing my jaw a couple times.
“He sure likes to make my life hard, doesn’t he?” I mutter underneath my breath, but I can’t help but walk over and pick up the DVD to examine it. It’s a standard disk alright, the kind that’s compatible in any computer or DVD player, and the words “Triple Crown” are written across the top in neat, straight handwriting – not the handwriting I’d expect Kuro to have at all.
Huffing some, I hold onto the disk in my left hand, thinking that it’s my backup plan if I find I can’t talk and that it will keep my hand from completely twitching and freaking Luke’s parents out, and cross back over to the door to ring the doorbell and wait for someone to answer.

“My God,” one of Luke’s parents, his mom by the feminine quality to her voice, exclaims. I immediately decided, upon trying to talk to them, that I couldn’t, and just put the disk in and sat them down to have them watch. Ever since then, all I’ve heard from them is exclamations of amazement and horror and shock. I can imagine that this is probably incredibly scary for them, seeing their son kill or be killed and transcend to an almost animal way of life.
Suddenly I notice something odd out of the corner of my eye – the calendar hanging from their entrance hall still is on May, not August. Maybe they’ve just been so torn up about Luke being gone for more than three months without an explanation that they forgot to change the calendar.
I look up at the screen to see we’re at the part where I started a hurricane in the middle of the night at the career camp, and suddenly both of Luke’s parents’ eyes are on me. I pause the film by solidifying air and making that air press the button so I don’t have to move from where I am – I’ve been doing the same thing with the fast-forward buttons the whole time we’ve been watching, since there is a lot of film and we don’t have time to watch it all; I also don’t really want to watch it all – and I walk forward to the front of the room, in front of the TV screen, to turn and face them and search their faces. As is to be expected, there is amazement and shock in them, and also some fear. Damn it, I was hoping to have them not fear me till a little farther into the film.
After a few long moments of almost unbearably awkward and tense silence, Luke’s dad finally opens his mouth and asks me in a whisper, “Did you... did you cause that storm?”
“Yeah,” I answer simply, pursing my lips in what is supposed to be a smile but probably just looks like a grimace.
“How?” Luke’s mom immediately questions, and I turn my gaze onto her to meet her eyes for half a second before answering.
“Lightning isn’t just a name,” I reply, and her eyes pop open wide in surprise, and she opens her mouth to speak again, only to be cut off by her husband.
“Are your parents... like you then?” he asks, and his tone is almost fearful. He greatly respects my parents, so I guess he’d hate to find out that they’re freaks like me.
Unfortunately, I’m going to have to burst his bubble, so I nod my head yes wordlessly, and add, “My whole family is like this.”
“Oh,” they both exclaim faintly, and I can’t help but smile slightly. I then turn around, manually push the play button, and, getting fed up with watching Team Survival footage, I fast-forward to the footage that made me come here, the moments leading up to and the actual bombing of the square, to silently walk back to the back of the room and watch the film myself.
On the film, Luke says to me, as he gives me a genuine smile, “Well, at least if we die, we get to die together. That’s all I could ever want,” to which I reply, with a smile of my own, “And that’s all I could ever want.”
I find that I have to turn away from the screen, and I sigh. The rest of the film hasn’t hurt this bad, because I know that I didn’t ever mean what I said to him as much as I did at this point. What hurts the most is the fact that, when I actually wanted the always he promised me, that promise got broken by death. I guess that means that I almost have a reason or a justification for being bitter and suicidal.
I then hear the part where we both say, “Always,” to each other, and I sigh again to find that I’m fighting back tears now. I hadn’t realized watching the tape would be this painful; I guess it was naive of me to think that watching it wouldn’t be painful.
The sounds of fighting on-screen interrupts my thoughts, and I look up to see myself slashing through groups of Protectors and basically clearing half of the square of white bodies in less than five minutes. It’s almost scary how good I was at killing people.
I then see the bomb begin to fall out of the sky from the helicopter – the helicopter that King herself was in – and everything goes white and then red for a moment – I guess Kuro’s special camera of mental torture is even bomb-proof – before the air clears and you can see the bodies lying about. Max gets up, after a moment longer of staying down to make sure there isn’t going to be a second bomb, and runs over towards me to pick me up and carry me out of the square, the whole time looking anxiously over his shoulder to make sure that we’re not going to get blasted again.
“And that’s why I’m here,” I murmur quietly, using the solidified air to press the pause button and having both of Luke’s parents turn back to me with looks of horror on their faces.
“Luke is...?” his mom begins, not able to finish, and I nod my head wordlessly in bitter confirmation to have her begin to sob.
“Trust me, you’re not the only one who wishes that wasn’t the case,” I murmur quietly, my eyes locked on his dads’. “I loved your son with all of my heart and soul, and I cry over him every day. I miss him so much, so much that sometimes I don’t know if I can keep on breathing with the knowledge that he’s never coming back, that he’ll never be at my side again to lie to me and tell me that everything’s alright, that I’m perfect, that we get to have an always. I hate myself, for causing his death by getting him caught up in the rebellion, because it wasn’t his battle and, if it weren’t for me, he would have never been in that square when the bomb hit-”
“If it weren’t for you, he would have died before then,” Luke’s mom interrupts, meeting my gaze almost fiercely with her own tear-stained one. “Even though Luke is... gone, I still think you did the right thing. You did everything you could to save him, and we don’t begrudge you for not being able to save him. We just have a couple questions,” his mom ends, and turns to look over her shoulder at her husband, who nods his head in grave conformation. I can see tears threatening to spill out of his eyes, and I avert my gaze respectfully back onto his mother, who doesn’t seem to care that I’m watching her break down.
“Why was Luke taken from here in the first place?” his mom questions, her eyes locked on mine, and I shrug and shake my head.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “Max told me he was ordered to take Luke by the Triple Crown committee, and the only thing I can figure is that they knew Luke loved me and wanted to make the Triple Crown even more interesting.”
“They would do that, just to make it more interesting?” his mom exclaims in amazement and horror, and she begins to cry again when I nod my head yes. I guess, even after watching the video, she doesn’t understand the true level of the Triple Crown committee’s brutality. However, I can’t really blame for that; after all, it is kind of hard to truly understand how inhuman they are unless you actually directly feel the brunt of their inhumanity.
“The Triple Crown committee doesn’t have standards, or a moral compass, or even a sense of what would hurt people and what wouldn’t,” I elaborate quietly and bitterly. “They only care about making things more fun to watch, and they are willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen.”
“But they would even tear apart people like that, just for the sake of entertainment?” his mom questions, and I nod my head sadly. I really wish that wasn’t true, that the Triple Crown committee actually did have some sort of standards, but unfortunately they’re about as far from human as you can get.
“I don’t think the Triple Crown committee truly understands the value of human life, or the value of morals,” I add quietly, and she turns to bury her head in her husband’s shoulder and cry. I meet his gaze for a moment to see tears in his eyes again, and I look away respectfully, feeling like an intruder upon their sadness. That’s almost ironic, considering I’m the one who brought them this sadness.
After a few moments of just standing there awkwardly, feeling so out of place that I don’t know what to do with myself, I turn away from them to place the bundle of Luke’s belongings that I had been holding under my arm this whole time on their kitchen countertop, cross to their front door and lay a hand on the doorknob, intending to leave and finally go home, when Luke’s dad’s voice stops me.
“Lizzie,” he begins, his tone unbearably sad, and I whip around to find him standing next to the kitchen counter with Luke’s jacket in his hands, and I meet his watery blue gaze again. “Thank you for bringing Luke home,” he tells me quietly, and I nod my head wordlessly to look him in the eye for a moment longer before turning and leaving without another word.

“Lizzie, what are you doing home from school so early?” my mom asks me as I walk through the door of my house, and I look up at her in confusion – I’ve been gone for three months; shouldn’t she be asking about where I’ve been for the last three months – when suddenly I realize what must have happened, which I’ve experienced a few times before with going to other dimensions. Me being dragged through a gateway into El Tiempo and then coming back from El Tiempo using a gateway must have disrupted the space-time continuum so much that time in this dimension essentially stopped while Jackson and Luke and I were in El Tiempo, which means that not a second has passed from the moment I was first kidnapped from here three months ago. It also means that Jackson’s and my bodies have lost all aging they gained in El Tiempo, so Jackson is still seventeen and Luke would still be sixteen.
At that moment, my hand begins twitching, which immediately draws my mother’s sharp, calculating gaze. In a half-second, she’s read my mind and figured out everything that happened to me, and she walks towards me to embrace me in a warm, gentle, wordless hug, exactly the kind that I need.
“Oh, Lizzie,” my mom murmurs in my ear gently as she holds me. “What a tough way to be introduced to love.”
Her words surprise me – after all, I thought she would have said something about me saving a country before bringing up the topic of my heartbreak – and I pull back to look her in the eye and have her give me a sad smile.
“I know what it feels like, to think the love of your life is dead,” she tells me as she guides me to have me sit down on the couch with her sitting next to me, and I nod my head in understanding. She told me this story that day in seventh grade when I told her I had my first boyfriend, and I haven’t forgotten it ever since.
She was abducted by Kuro, and held in a cave underground for almost six hundred years, the whole time believing that my dad was destroyed by Kuro because Kuro had inserted that thought into her mind just to torture my parents. This is actually the reason that the Roman Empire fell, and that the Dark Ages started – my dad was too busy frantically looking for her to combat Kuro enough to stop Kuro from mostly taking over humanity, and, even when my dad did find her, it still took almost four hundred years for my parents put together to counter all of the evil Kuro had brought into the world and take Europe out of the Dark Ages. I guess that means that she really does know what I’m feeling and going through, even if my personal depression and knowledge that Luke is dead isn’t going to cause a history-changing period of nondevelopment where evil rules the world for almost a thousand years.
“When you were in the cave, did it ever get better, or at least less painful?” I ask her, meeting her gaze, and she shakes her head no with more than bit of sadness covering her beautiful, ancient golden eyes that I was so lucky to inherit.
“The idea that your father was dead never became easier to swallow, no” she answers simply, and I nod my head in understanding.
“I guess that’s what I’m looking forward to then: forever – or at least until I die – of sadness,” I murmur, staring down at the carpet and absentmindedly petting Ike when he comes up and shoves his huge head in my lap.
My mom, thank God and her experience in the matter, doesn’t say anything to contradict me like everyone else likes to do, and merely looks at me sadly for a few moments before asking me gently, “Is there anything we can do for you, Lizzie?”
Suddenly I remember that my iPhone, with the picture of the painting Abby did of Luke and I, is in my right pocket, and I nod my head to tell her, “Paint, in lots of colors, and final exams to do at home so I don’t have to go back to school until August.”
She immediately nods her head yes and tells me, “Of course.” She then rises to her feet and crosses the room to the kitchen to pick up the home phone and call into the school saying that I won’t be returning for the rest of the school year – there’s only a week left, so it’s really not that big of a deal – and that she’ll be over to pick up my remaining work, mainly final exams that have to be taken for me to pass the class, soon.
She then, once everything has been arranged with the school, wraps an arm around my shoulders and guides me out to the huge garage, in which my Corvette – that didn’t function today, making me walk to school – her GTO, my dad’s GMC Sierra, and the family’s 1965 GTO are sitting, just waiting for someone to drive them. As my eyes pass over them, and I think about how much I’ve missed driving, my hand begins to twitch, and I instinctively forcefully close it when I notice this.
However, the cars aren’t our main attention. Our main attention is the paint, stacked in towers that reach halfway up the far wall of the garage – we keep so much paint around in case one color begins to bore us or we just decide that the house needs a different look, because, when you’re forever not-changing, change is something you always seek after.
“What colors would you like?” my mom asks me as she gestures to the hundreds of gallons of paint, and I shrug as I look them up in down, taking in their names and colors with a mental snapshot. Aquamarine – turquoise blue – oceania – stormy blue – electric – bright yellow, so many at once that my mind almost feels overloaded by my memory capacity.
“All of them,” I answer after a few moments, because I know that’s the only way I’ll be able to actually get the colors Abby used and come anywhere close to replicating that infamous painting of Luke and I.
“Alright.” My mom doesn’t sound surprised at all; if anything, she sounds knowingly amused, like she wouldn’t expect me to say anything else. “Help me carry them then,” my mom bids me, and I nod my head to step forward and pick up as many as I can in my arms. My mom and I both then create a wind current strong enough to pick up and carry the paint, and it floats behind us into the house like a little parade of colors.
It feels like my arms are about to collapse from exhaustion by the time we reach my room and set everything down in there, which worries me greatly. I wasn’t this weak before I left; I mean, I was benching three hundred before I left! What happened to me?
“Starving yourself isn’t going to help your strength at all, Lizzie,” my mom tells me quietly, and I turn in surprise to find her watching me with a sad smile on her face and I realize that she must have read my thoughts and, coupled with her observations of my slimness and depression, come to that conclusion before I even knew what was happening. As I shake my head in amazement, I think to myself, being careful to seal up my thoughts this time, “She really doesn’t miss a thing.”
“You’re not used to having someone read your thoughts, are you?” she asks me sympathetically, and I shake my head.
“It was actually kind of nice, having the privacy of my own mind for once,” I murmur quietly in reply, and a sad half-smile breaks out across her face again. “That was about the only nice thing about that place though,” I add quietly, and she nods her head in understanding.
“The different dimensions you go sometimes aren’t the greatest places to be,” my mom says quietly, and I nod my head in agreement. Even though I’ve traveled to dozens of different dimensions and would like to consider myself relatively skilled in doing so, I know I’ve got nothing on my mom. I mean, she has more than two thousand years of experience on me, and all she did before she met my dad was travel back and forth between dimensions and try to save people, which means that she has extra experience in interdimensional travel.
“Well, I probably should go pick up your final exams and clean out your locker,” she says after a half-second of silence, and I nod my head in agreement. I don’t have to tell her my combo, as she’s already searched my mind and found it, and is on her way out of my room before I can say anything.
I hear her make her way down the hallway, humming something subconsciously – you can’t be around my family without one of us humming something without knowing it – under her breath that sounds vaguely like a funeral march and, as her footsteps echo off the tile of the kitchen floor, she opens a drawer. I then hear the unmistakable sound of a lock being put in place, and I sigh.
“I was hoping to go at least an hour without her putting locks on the knives,” I mutter underneath my breath, and shake my head to turn back to the gallons of paint stacked along my wall, fetch paintbrushes from the garage and begin recreating a masterpiece.

“There,” I say, and take a step backward to look at what I just painted. I just spent eight hours straight, without food or water or rest or stoppages of any kind, locked in my room painting, but now I can see that all of my trouble was definitely worth it, because I’ve perfectly replicated the ‘always’ painting Abby did, down to every last brushstroke.
As I look upon the painting, a mix of pride and happiness and unbearable sadness runs through me, and my eyes drift over Luke’s eyes – so beautiful and blue and loving – and then onto my eyes – so happy and sincere – before finally falling to settle on the ‘always’ inscribed beneath this happy scene.
“It’s perfect,” I murmur, and I’m not talking about the painting. The love Luke and I had truly was perfect – even if our relationship and situation certainly weren’t – because he loved me with a burning passion and I grew to love him with a burning passion, and that knowledge almost makes Luke’s death harder to bear. The possibility of what Luke and I could have had if he survived – the thought that that always he promised me might actually could have happened – has haunted me ever since he died and kept me awake thinking and trying my hardest not to cry. I miss him so badly, so badly that I can barely breathe sometimes, and I only manage to keep breathing by telling myself that it’s only a matter of time before there’s not someone around to save me from myself and I succeed in killing myself, that it’s only a matter of time and circumstance before I get to see him again.
Unfortunately, no one that I had talked to up until my mom had truly understood what I was feeling, because none of them have such an intimate relationship with someone as to know what it’s like to truly not live without that person. I guess Jackson came the closest to understanding, excluding my mom from this of course, because he seemed to be able to comprehend the relationship Luke and I had developed by surviving all of the horrors of the Triple Crown together, but even Jackson can’t understand how truly broken I am now, and that there’s no possibility for me to be fixed.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about Jackson and I. Some tiny part of me still loves and needs him, and I know that, if I send him away, I will be left with no one, which would be even more painful for me than my life is now. However, the vast majority of my heart died with Luke, so I know that I can’t love Jackson as much as he deserves, or as much as he loves me now. And that’s the most bitterly ironic part: when I loved him with most of my heart, he was hung up on Alexa, and now that I’m hung up on a dead boy, Jackson loves me more than he ever did before. It almost seems like his and my whole relationship is just made of bitter ironies that haunt and hurt us even worse than we hurt each other.
It might almost have been easier, to just stay behind in El Tiempo and never come home and die in the dimension that ruined me and let Jackson go on and live his life in this dimension without me weighing him down, but, of course, Jackson wouldn’t let that happen; something about him loving me too much to let me stay in El Tiempo and kill myself alone. I guess the only good thing that came out of Jackson making me come back – besides getting to see my parents one last time – was that I got to choose who to lead the newly re-founded United States of America (the Sections decided to become the US again after me telling them stories about the democratic system of government, despite my best efforts to tell them that a dictatorship might almost be a more effective way of running a country). Of course, I chose Max, because I know him to be a competent and trustworthy leader and friend, and the people of the Sections supported me in this choice; Max, with playing a crucial part in making me the spark and with his own personal rebellion against El Nieve when he was a Triple Crown champion, has a lot of fans everywhere you go.
In fact, it seems like the only person that has more fans than he does is.. oh, right, me. It’s almost sad, the way the Sections choose to almost worship me now; it’s like they’ve gone from cowering under El Nieve to cowering behind me and my political and physical power – almost everyone in the Sections saw my stunt with the hurricane in Team Survival and then the demolition of the Champions’ Center afterwards, because Max insisted that that be filmed – neither one of which is particularly good or the mark of a good, confident, self-governing nation filled with confident people.
But I guess the Sections have never been confident in themselves or their power; after all, we could have succeeded in the rebellion much sooner against El Nieve if One and Two had thrown their full support behind the uprising, and most people in the Sections never even realized how much power they really had until I came along and showed them exactly how powerful they were. Of course, as soon as they realized this power, an ambitious leader – by the name of Caroline King – came along, manipulated everybody and used her power to kill off a thousand rebel soldiers… including Luke.
Suddenly I feel something wet trickling down my cheek, and I raise my hand in surprise to find that I’m crying over losing Luke. It then occurs to me that I haven’t really allowed myself to cry over him passing, and that now is as good a time as any, so I flop onto my bed and bury my head in my pillow, tears and sobs that can never truly express the grief I feel racking my weak, worn-out body and mind.