(2,464 words—i don't know what i wrote, so please excuse my awkward logic—read over once, and once only, so please excuse mistakes, too.)

Jongin notices her for the first time when her hair trails across the woodlands and her arms represent gore. Her clothes were tattered, and her bare feet showcased past and present abrasions. Her shrill was not pleasant for his ears when a throwing knife is pinpointed right above her bruised knee. (She had managed to dodge it and he was glad—so, so glad.) She had an arrow with her—slightly broken near the end, a splinter taunting to happen. She was flailing in a straight, dominant line.

(He wonders how it’s possible—when it really wasn’t—but living proof was just in his view.)

His glimpse of her doesn’t last for long, before he realized she was running at such a momentum of speed. She’s out of his sight in a few seconds flat. An arrow is shot out of the middle of nowhere and her perpetrator is wounded—straight in the heart. Jongin thinks he probably died a long, painful death.

He reminds himself that he should stay cautious. This was someone, with an improbable aim, that he shouldn’t mess with nor be messed with.

He doesn’t remember any sought of memory in the past week. Everything is a blur—lines of knowledge smudged between nonsensical things. He suffers a shaking heart—maybe too shaking for him to handle. His breath lodges in his throat, his mouth mutters profanities, his body is failing him. Someone fellow had sneered and made a remark that he was poisoned or just deemed unfit. He realizes that they’re just fragments of millions—billions even—and their opinions didn’t matter. Not to him, at least.

His mother had always said he had a weird mindset—where was she when he needed her?

Soojung catches glimpses of an acquaintance whose hair is always neat and body so composed—no matter what comes his way. She contemplates if he smuggled a container of hair gel in or some black magic, but then again, he would have been caught. She quietly bickers with herself—more like yelling—to think of such things.

The world is in standstill as her head pounds and her chest heaves. It’s a reoccurring cycle—something that she wants gone with (the head pounding moreover than the latter).

It didn’t help when she had found out her partner from her district had been killed because of a forest fire. It also didn’t help when the announcer’s voice was rather a hundred times louder than before. They were oblivious and deaf, Soojung had concluded—or maybe that was just her.

It was definitely the announcer.

The boy’s a bit slow for her eyes—but she couldn’t deduct points because she was considered the speediest runner of the whole group of barely teenagers and beyond. Or, at least, the President had said so in training.

“What’s your name?”

A group of aimless teenagers find themselves stuck inside a desolate cave while raindrops splatter themselves onto pavements of concrete and artificial grass.

“How about this,” one manages to say. “Let’s form a circle and say our names and district. It’d be easier that way.”

“I’ll start! Hello, everyone, my name is Choi Jinri and I’m from district eight. It’s nice to meet you all! You can also call me Sulli if you wish.”

(“How does it feel being the only girl?”

“It’s totally unfair.” She pouts.)

“Oh Sehun, district four—and yes, my family specializes in fishing.” The young, lank boy gives looks of glaciers.

(“So, you can be our food source, right?”

“Have any nets?”

“Yes for both.”)

“I’m Kim Jongin, but you can call me Kai. District seven—lumber—is where I’m at.”

(“Can you chop wood?”

“Is that an axe?”

“Pretty much and it’s a throwing axe. I’m not afraid to test it out on you.” His eyes crinkle, and he grins—a mischievous grin.)

“My name is Do Kyungsoo,” the last boy stutters—his words seemingly failing him. “I’m from district ten.”

(“Are you a farm boy?”

“Yes.” He flushes.)

“I guess that’s all of u—“

Soojung is wet, cold, and alone.  Her trainer had not warned her of heavy rains—any precipitation for that matter. She had planned to sit below a large tree, but didn’t put any thought into it. The branches were thin—too thin, to be precise—and heavy dew fell right through.

She could have been delusional after all the walking she had done, but Soojung could have sworn, on her heart, that she had seen the glow of fire. She’s at crossroads when she has to decide whether or not to go. What if—whoever was in there was going to attack or the like?

She takes the chance—because she had nothing to go home to, anyway.

“I guess that’s all of u—“

“Hello?” And here comes Soojung—drenched from head to toe, from every arrow on her back to the strings on her bow. Her hair is still ravenous black, flat and dull because of weight, and her skin is pale (maybe too pale, but it gets slid out of minds).

She quickly makes out four people—and one of them, she’s known, and another she’s been acquainted with— Choi Jinri and Kim Jongin.

“Krystal!”

She sees the former’s eyes crinkle and her teeth shone in the negative space. There is only a dim-lit fire starting in the middle of the circle the group had formed and weapons and supplies all were scattered madly on the ground. Soojung would be lucky—so lucky—if she didn’t step on one.

“Is it possible for me to join you guys?” Soojung mutters, just audible enough for all to hear.

“So, what about it guys?” Jinri begins to say. “Can she join?”

“I can’t see why not,” Kyungsoo says.

“I second,” Jongin adds.

“How can we trust her?” Sehun asks. “For all I know, she could betray us all.”

“I’m the quickest runner and I have the best aim,” Soojung retorts—a little too quickly.

“I still don’t trust you.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

Sehun can’t help but throw his arms up in defense, muttering a few insulting phrases or two. Soojung glares at him—sending daggers to everyone else. The ice is broken when the fire dies out, and they have to manage without one. Soojung carried a flashlight, and the group had thanked the people above (or the people behind their television screens) that she had arrived.

They would have gone mad.

The five spend the next few days—or was it weeks?—scouring the lands and skies. They were lucky—luckier than most—that they had tree climbers, and fast runners, and the best navigators. Their team was well-rounded, and the citizens surely took notice behind the vivid screen of wild colors and hues.

Soojung thinks they’re all a little crazy—but she’s okay with crazy.

(Kyungsoo is the first to fall—abruptly and loudly.

All Jongin sees is blood—blood flowing from his chest, blood on his hands, blood—blood everywhere. He talks badly about the mysterious person with the disgustingly good aim and all his words are hushed as Soojung grooms his back.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” she said. Sehun and Jinri join and add condolences soon after for someone who was his best friend—someone so dear to his life.

It’s a shame, really. Kyungsoo was such a bright boy—so calm and endearing—so caring and thoughtful.)

(Flowers are laid aside his favorite tree—the one that grew bright green apples and leaves that shone in the distant sunlight.

Jongin thought it was oddly beautiful—captivating. His friend had the best taste.)

Soojung can’t help but hate herself—hate all of the things she does and says and everything. She thinks she’s absurdly stupid, absurdly nonsensical. She is made out of vanilla, insecurities, honey, and sarcasm—with a hint of things in between. She thinks of herself as nothing more, nothing less, and nothing in the middle.

Jongin begs to differ—because, she’s the most full of life character he’s ever met. He had hoped he met her earlier, though.

One of them has to die—will die, to be precise—and Jongin is scared.

Jongin is afraid of death—but he won’t, or will not, say that aloud or in subtext. Maybe it’s the idea of staying between purgatory—between heaven and hell—or maybe it’s because he doesn’t like the idea of not living—becoming nothing but a lifeless body with a spirited soul.

He strives himself not to put in much thought, because he will only helplessly fear.

“You’re a hopeless case,” Soojung says, mud smudged on her face.

Sehun rolls his eyes and only moves closer to his mate, Jinri. Soojung isn’t sure if they have a thing going on—or not—but something’s fishy (and it’s just not Sehun’s body odor that she has to put up with).

“You’re one too, dimwit!” he yells, slightly preparing himself for a punch on the shoulder.

It’s doesn’t go for his shoulder, but rather his guts. He finds out that it’s only a rock—the size of an egg tart—and that that thing hurt like hell and below. Soojung laughs, Jinri laughs, but Sehun doesn’t. He, instead, gives a scowl and continues back to his work.

It was going to be a long day of catching fish—and he knew it.

And then there were three.

(Jinri’s death is to be drowned and she was a little reluctant, but the flowing stream had done its job. She is pushed by the wind out of Sehun’s handmade raft, and Sehun was beside her, eyes widening in shock as her long body is engulfed by water.

He blames himself—and this time around, Soojung doesn’t comfort him. She only throws daisies in the water and walks off.

Jongin had to do her job for her.

It takes time, hard work, countless of hours of effort and sweat, but Sehun is finally back to his senses—not fully, but enough for him to continue the day without weeping.)

(They don’t know about where her body is, but they’re sure—absolutely—that the people have found it. The notification had shown up three hours later.

It took three hours—Soojung thinks. Sehun only lays with burden in his heart and imagines how her body is—drained and drowned of color, life—everything. Jongin is the one patting his back, patting every part of his back.)

One night, when the sun is low and the skies are beautifully dark, the three share a meal. They have not shared a meal in days—or weeks—or months (too much mourning, too many casualties to keep count). There is nothing but the sound of chewing, the sound of breathing, and the sound of anything distant. They share small talks—two—and there is nothing exchanged in between again.

To Sehun, it’s calming to his senses. He knows his friends are with him—that they’re guiding his every move.

To Jongin, it’s relief. He knows Sehun’s okay and he knows he won’t have to walk on an empty stomach anymore.

To Soojung, it’s only another meal—another hour wasted until walking, but she’s glad, nonetheless. (Just not as glad and happy as the other two.)

(“Do you miss them?” Jongin asks Soojung when they’re out on patrol.

“I miss Jinri,” she answers. “I didn’t know Kyungsoo as much, but he seemed like a nice guy.”

He laughs. “I miss Kyungsoo more than Jinri, but she’s one to be missed, nonetheless.”

“I bet Sehun misses them both.”

They stay a little silent—but silent was better than nothing.)

They mourn Sehun’s death by not by flowers, but by covering his favorite grounds in fish nets and engraving, ‘For Sehun,’ on a random piece of wood. It hangs proudly by a tree branch, but it soon demolishes the next day. The two don’t know how, but they guess that it’s of another competitor’s doing or the Capital’s workers.

They continue doing the same thing over and over—they will stop not until the day ends and they get tired, but when the grief starts to wash away.

Soojung is wearing her hair in long, messy braids, and Jongin takes notice. He thinks that her hair looked best when styled, and that was the truth. He dives for a kiss and she doesn’t back away. Her lips are bland, empty, meaningless, but he still feels a spark and it’s better than any kiss he’s gotten. He can see her flush, and he flushes a little, too.

He thinks times like these are perfect—perfect in every aspect.

They only last moments, but he doesn’t seem to mind. With deaths and faults and accidents, he can’t spare to lose a minute without Soojung.

Jongin learns that she is his everything—from her head to her toes. He thinks it’s genuinely creepy at first, but he gets use to the idea.

She gets to, too.

(“If you win, what are you going to do?”

“Celebrate with my family.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“I’m just curious.”

“You seem to be always curious, Soojung.”)

(“I’m kind of curious, too. Tell me about your family.”

“I don’t have a family.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know, just curious.”

“You’re an idiot.”)

“Hey,” Soojung says one evening. “Jongin. Do you want to die together?”

“Yeah,” Jongin replies without an ounce with reluctance in his voice.

(He knows he’s a bit selfish, a bit greedy, but he wants nothing more to be with his lover until the end. The idea is a bit impossible, but he’d like to try and her, too. Death is not too much of a problem, now, because he has someone to end his life with.

He knows he isn’t alone, and that he won’t suffer alone.)

“Mrs. Kim,” a stranger says. “Isn’t that your son on the screen?”

Kim Jongin’s mother, not a day over forty, earned just enough money to gain her a seat in the Capital, watching the games. By word of mouth, she has heard her son was in the final three—and she had never been so proud.

“That’s my son,” she stutters.

(Two kids, Krystal Jung, or Jung Soojung, and Kim Jongin, or Kai, were found on the bottom of a deep cliff. Their bodies are now being inspected and cleaned for shipment to their desired places. We do not know why they did this, and we could not find any injuries or wounds. Our workers believe that they did this out of a hype—an unknown hype. We share our condolences for their parents and family.)