(This connection to 36 was brought to you by Legend. Thanks Legend!)
“Eight, you’re kinda scaring me here…when was the last time you slept?”
“Sleep is for the weak,” he snarled, his usual cool composure nowhere to be found. “Get out, Red.”
Agent Red swallowed. His coworker’s sanity had been…well in tatters may have been generous. Ever since the 127th Games had started, he just hadn’t been himself at all. At first Red chalked it up as concern for someone who had been a dead lead in Eight’s investigation, but as time went on the man was losing his grip on himself and reality. On Eight’s messy desk was folders upon binders upon loose documents, and a glass box with a broken silver pocket watch encased within it. A variety of jackets hung across one wall of the office, and a massive cork board spanned the back wall. The cork board seemed unable to converge on any one point and instead was a confusing mess of lines and pictures from a few years ago to upwards of a hundred years ago. Eight was currently frantically digging through one of his many filing cabinets and snatched a folder with “36” written on it in bright, red ink. The folder was full to bursting.
He flipped through documents with the speed of someone who knew exactly what he was looking for. “I fucking knew it,” he hissed.
“Knew what?” Red knew he probably shouldn’t ask, but his concern was too great at this point not to. Eight slammed the paper down for Red to read. It was a breakdown of all weapons used and who used them in the 36th Games.
“Atticus fucking Hollow used a butcher’s cleaver in his games!” Eight laughed, borderline hysterical. What was it about studying this stuff drove him to madness? Red wondered. “Lady Luck sure loves to toy with me,” he spat.
“I’m sure that’s a feeling the other tributes can relate to, you know,” Red offered mildly. Even more so than Eight’s mental state, Red was worried that Eight ran out so close to the finale. The games were compulsory viewing, and if it came out he missed the finale to do…whatever it was he was piecing together, Red was worried for his friend’s job security. They were agents of the Capitol, but they were subject to the same laws as everyone else. “Um…don’t you think watching the finale will help your investigation?”
“If I’m right about what I’m thinking, I need to get it to the Capitol immediately that Owen O’Connor is an enemy of the state and cannot walk out of that Arena alive,” Agent Eight affixed Agent Red in his gaze, his already bright eyes manic. His 5 o’clock shadow that did not suit his face at all was suddenly much more pronounced. “Here, I’ll explain it to you,” he said quickly before Red had a chance to say: “But we need to get back to the finale, Eight.”
“My predecessors and I have identified three of the members of the Ace of Spades.” Eight pulled out a folder with a lot of pictures, clearly meant to summarize his findings neatly. “Atticus Hollow, 36th Games. Ezekiel Bond, 42nd Games. Katarina Icaria, their ringleader, Head Gamemaker for the 100th Games. But I found they each had a coded title. Atticus, the Ace of Spades. Ezekiel, the Ace of Clubs. Katarina, the Ace of Hearts.” He whipped his hand to the corkboard behind him. “But there are four card suites! So where is the Ace of Diamonds?” There was a series of pictures with names and Games labels underneath, but nothing looked too concrete. “We don’t know!”
“But wasn’t their project about going to the past, not the future? Why would it make sense to target now?” Red couldn’t help but ask. He mentally kicked himself. Why was he encouraging him?
“That’s what we thought. But then Owen comes along.” The crazy started creeping back into his voice. “He looks like the spitting image to be Hollow’s kid. His eyes are just like his, like all those time travelling scumwads,” Red remembered an explanation before about time travelling interacting with some kind of substance in their eyes they found records of in the ashes of Katarina’s research files. “Owen said he never knew his dad. Fine enough. Maybe it was just a coincidence. But Owen also has a trampstamp of all four card suites.”
“Um,” Red coughed to mask the snorting laugh. He simultaneously wanted to know how Eight managed to find that one out and didn’t. “Why…is that relevant-“
Eight pulled another folder off his desk and this one was filled to the brim with pictures. “Atticus had a spade tattoo on his right shoulder. Ezekiel on the left. Katarina on her ankle. They all had one. It isn’t that farfetched to think Owen might have added the other suites to mask it.”
Red sighed. His friend really was losing it. “Alright but surely there’s records Owen’s existed here for however long he’s been alive.”
“Yes, but the official government forms and paperwork are dubious at best. They look forged.” Again, another folder, again, more document copies.
Red squinted at them. “I…it looks like a kid made these. You remember his mom had dementia right? He probably was trying to stay out of foster care.”
Eight groaned. “I’m too many cups of coffee in and running on too few hours of sleep for that to make sense, man. Just let me explain and you can decide yourself.” Red could only groan.
“Didn’t you see how naturally Owen was swinging that cleaver? Another commonality: all the Spades are extremely proficient in a variety of weapon and martial arts. I thought Owen had about average weapon skills for an outer district tribute, but then he swings that cleaver around like he’s always used one!” Eight was definitely running on too much caffeine and too little sleep. Owen’s experimental swings weren’t exactly the pinnacle of good career form.
“Eight, I think you need to just rest.”
“I’m not done yet!” he said fiercely. “You don’t understand Red. It’s been mandated that someone have a full understanding of this organization at all times for a reason. This is the prime time for them to strike! The country is on the edge of war. The civil unrest is unreal. All it would take is a little push! Come on, Red, even you would acknowledge that much.” Red knew all too well, as everyone in the complex was working overtime trying to squash that civil unrest. Technically Eight was supposed to as well, but they gave him desk work so he could watch the games and help sponsor if he wanted to given the circumstances.
“I’m not even sure this organization of yours was ever real, Eight.” Especially since earlier in the Games Eight was on a kick about Tempest La Rossa’s Barbara Manatee doll having a Spade’s pocketwatch inside. For whatever reason. “Come on, maybe the finale will help ease your fears. If Owen dies there’ll be no need for all of…this.” He gestured vaguely at the entire room.
“It was-is-real. Don’t you forget that, Red.” Eight growled, but the edge in his voice was gone and his shoulders slumped.
“Eight,” Red tried to ask as gently as possible, “If you’re so worried about Owen being a danger, why did you pull so many strings to sponsor him?”
He put his head in his hands. His voice came out in a broken whisper. “Because I so desperately want to prove myself wrong. I want him to come home and live the life he deserves. I don’t want him to be caught up in any of this. I just want to be wrong. I’ll do anything to prove it.” Red was struck by the contrast of how deeply Eight had researched everything and how honestly he wanted to prove the kid’s innocence. “Anything.”
“I don’t think anyone else knows this stuff as well as you do, Eight. I’ll trust your judgement…but only after you’ve had a full night’s rest. And you don’t want to miss the finale.” With Eight looking less crazed, only nervousness and sadness lingered. It had been a very long time since someone in their workplace personally knew someone in the Games. Even longer since they had been personally invested in them. But Eight looked ready to snap in two now.
“I don’t know what to do, Red,” Eight’s voice broke into a whisper. “It’s never been like this before. I don’t say something because I can’t be sure, Owen seems to die but gets away like the rest of the Spades and the turmoil only increases. I don’t say something, Owen lives, and he does something to topple the whole Capitol. I say something, Owen dies, and the country still stands but a sweet guy who deserves so much better than that dies by my hand. I don’t want this choice. I don’t want to kill him on a hunch. But if my inaction means the end of the Capitol…I…I don’t have a choice. It would be all my fault. I can’t take chances.”
“What about Owen lives, and he’s normal and gets to enjoy his life?” Red suggested. “Why isn’t that an option?”
“Because life isn’t fucking fair and that arena thrives on chance,” Eight snapped. His eyes were red. Whether it was from lack of sleep or tears or both, Red had no idea. “Tell me what those odds are that it turns out like that, Red.”
“According to the Games Betting HQ, it’s not that far fetched.” Red didn’t actually know what the odds looked like at the moment but wasn’t about to plunge Eight into further desperation.
“If I could get inside one of these fucking Spades’ heads I would know just how likely that is.” Red couldn’t tell if Eight was bitter or wistful or curious or a little bit of all three. “I can’t handle this pressure, Red. Do I tell them to kill him or not?”
“I can’t tell you that, Eight.” Despair surged into his eyes. Eight really was trying to shoulder the whole country. He was barely 20.
“It’s not fair. But it could happen. He could live and it wouldn’t cause the country to fall apart. Anything’s possible,” Red took a step towards Eight and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re stressed and exhausted, Eight. I don’t think it would hurt you or the country to wait before going to the central government. But as someone who cares about him, don’t you want to see his Games through, for better or worse?”
“I…yeah. You’re right.” Eight wobbled to his feet and turned off his desk lamp. “I’ll see it through, then make a decision.”
“After you sleep.”
“After I sleep.”
“…you coming, Eight?”
“I…I need a minute. I need to prepare myself so I don’t…so I don’t look like a complete fool in a few minutes,” Eight’s voice cracked.
“Hey, hey, Red hurry it up with Eight, the finale’s about to start!!” Agent V called from down the hallway.
“I don’t think you’re gonna get that chance, Eight. Wipe your tears up and let’s go.”
“I wasn’t crying!” he sniffled.
“Yeah, yeah, it was just raining in your office, right over your head,” Eight sighed. “Or no, was it a pipe leak over the doorway? Should I call maintenance?”
“Shut up,” Eight laughed weakly and stepped into the light. Sure enough, he just looked sleep deprived at the moment. “If…if he dies will you-“
“Yes, I’ll buy you ice cream and be your emotional support, let’s go already you big wuss.”
Eight started walking alongside him down the hallway, shaking like a leaf. “That’s not what I was going to say but I won’t refuse free ice cream.” Red walked into the employee lounge. Eight froze in the doorway, eyes glued to the TV. Owen covered in blood.
Agent V turned around on the couch to look at their stricken, younger coworker. “Relax, it’s not his blood, it was Lonan’s. He’s not hurt.”
Eight let go of the breath he was holding and sat down next to V. They glanced back to Red. “It’s gonna be a long night, huh?”
“It’s gonna be a long night,” Red sighed heavily. “No matter how this goes.”
“I brought a tissue box and snacks,” V offered.
Eight wordlessly took the box of tissues and clutched it like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.
“Sleep is for the weak,” he snarled, his usual cool composure nowhere to be found. “Get out, Red.”
Agent Red swallowed. His coworker’s sanity had been…well in tatters may have been generous. Ever since the 127th Games had started, he just hadn’t been himself at all. At first Red chalked it up as concern for someone who had been a dead lead in Eight’s investigation, but as time went on the man was losing his grip on himself and reality. On Eight’s messy desk was folders upon binders upon loose documents, and a glass box with a broken silver pocket watch encased within it. A variety of jackets hung across one wall of the office, and a massive cork board spanned the back wall. The cork board seemed unable to converge on any one point and instead was a confusing mess of lines and pictures from a few years ago to upwards of a hundred years ago. Eight was currently frantically digging through one of his many filing cabinets and snatched a folder with “36” written on it in bright, red ink. The folder was full to bursting.
He flipped through documents with the speed of someone who knew exactly what he was looking for. “I fucking knew it,” he hissed.
“Knew what?” Red knew he probably shouldn’t ask, but his concern was too great at this point not to. Eight slammed the paper down for Red to read. It was a breakdown of all weapons used and who used them in the 36th Games.
“Atticus fucking Hollow used a butcher’s cleaver in his games!” Eight laughed, borderline hysterical. What was it about studying this stuff drove him to madness? Red wondered. “Lady Luck sure loves to toy with me,” he spat.
“I’m sure that’s a feeling the other tributes can relate to, you know,” Red offered mildly. Even more so than Eight’s mental state, Red was worried that Eight ran out so close to the finale. The games were compulsory viewing, and if it came out he missed the finale to do…whatever it was he was piecing together, Red was worried for his friend’s job security. They were agents of the Capitol, but they were subject to the same laws as everyone else. “Um…don’t you think watching the finale will help your investigation?”
“If I’m right about what I’m thinking, I need to get it to the Capitol immediately that Owen O’Connor is an enemy of the state and cannot walk out of that Arena alive,” Agent Eight affixed Agent Red in his gaze, his already bright eyes manic. His 5 o’clock shadow that did not suit his face at all was suddenly much more pronounced. “Here, I’ll explain it to you,” he said quickly before Red had a chance to say: “But we need to get back to the finale, Eight.”
“My predecessors and I have identified three of the members of the Ace of Spades.” Eight pulled out a folder with a lot of pictures, clearly meant to summarize his findings neatly. “Atticus Hollow, 36th Games. Ezekiel Bond, 42nd Games. Katarina Icaria, their ringleader, Head Gamemaker for the 100th Games. But I found they each had a coded title. Atticus, the Ace of Spades. Ezekiel, the Ace of Clubs. Katarina, the Ace of Hearts.” He whipped his hand to the corkboard behind him. “But there are four card suites! So where is the Ace of Diamonds?” There was a series of pictures with names and Games labels underneath, but nothing looked too concrete. “We don’t know!”
“But wasn’t their project about going to the past, not the future? Why would it make sense to target now?” Red couldn’t help but ask. He mentally kicked himself. Why was he encouraging him?
“That’s what we thought. But then Owen comes along.” The crazy started creeping back into his voice. “He looks like the spitting image to be Hollow’s kid. His eyes are just like his, like all those time travelling scumwads,” Red remembered an explanation before about time travelling interacting with some kind of substance in their eyes they found records of in the ashes of Katarina’s research files. “Owen said he never knew his dad. Fine enough. Maybe it was just a coincidence. But Owen also has a trampstamp of all four card suites.”
“Um,” Red coughed to mask the snorting laugh. He simultaneously wanted to know how Eight managed to find that one out and didn’t. “Why…is that relevant-“
Eight pulled another folder off his desk and this one was filled to the brim with pictures. “Atticus had a spade tattoo on his right shoulder. Ezekiel on the left. Katarina on her ankle. They all had one. It isn’t that farfetched to think Owen might have added the other suites to mask it.”
Red sighed. His friend really was losing it. “Alright but surely there’s records Owen’s existed here for however long he’s been alive.”
“Yes, but the official government forms and paperwork are dubious at best. They look forged.” Again, another folder, again, more document copies.
Red squinted at them. “I…it looks like a kid made these. You remember his mom had dementia right? He probably was trying to stay out of foster care.”
Eight groaned. “I’m too many cups of coffee in and running on too few hours of sleep for that to make sense, man. Just let me explain and you can decide yourself.” Red could only groan.
“Didn’t you see how naturally Owen was swinging that cleaver? Another commonality: all the Spades are extremely proficient in a variety of weapon and martial arts. I thought Owen had about average weapon skills for an outer district tribute, but then he swings that cleaver around like he’s always used one!” Eight was definitely running on too much caffeine and too little sleep. Owen’s experimental swings weren’t exactly the pinnacle of good career form.
“Eight, I think you need to just rest.”
“I’m not done yet!” he said fiercely. “You don’t understand Red. It’s been mandated that someone have a full understanding of this organization at all times for a reason. This is the prime time for them to strike! The country is on the edge of war. The civil unrest is unreal. All it would take is a little push! Come on, Red, even you would acknowledge that much.” Red knew all too well, as everyone in the complex was working overtime trying to squash that civil unrest. Technically Eight was supposed to as well, but they gave him desk work so he could watch the games and help sponsor if he wanted to given the circumstances.
“I’m not even sure this organization of yours was ever real, Eight.” Especially since earlier in the Games Eight was on a kick about Tempest La Rossa’s Barbara Manatee doll having a Spade’s pocketwatch inside. For whatever reason. “Come on, maybe the finale will help ease your fears. If Owen dies there’ll be no need for all of…this.” He gestured vaguely at the entire room.
“It was-is-real. Don’t you forget that, Red.” Eight growled, but the edge in his voice was gone and his shoulders slumped.
“Eight,” Red tried to ask as gently as possible, “If you’re so worried about Owen being a danger, why did you pull so many strings to sponsor him?”
He put his head in his hands. His voice came out in a broken whisper. “Because I so desperately want to prove myself wrong. I want him to come home and live the life he deserves. I don’t want him to be caught up in any of this. I just want to be wrong. I’ll do anything to prove it.” Red was struck by the contrast of how deeply Eight had researched everything and how honestly he wanted to prove the kid’s innocence. “Anything.”
“I don’t think anyone else knows this stuff as well as you do, Eight. I’ll trust your judgement…but only after you’ve had a full night’s rest. And you don’t want to miss the finale.” With Eight looking less crazed, only nervousness and sadness lingered. It had been a very long time since someone in their workplace personally knew someone in the Games. Even longer since they had been personally invested in them. But Eight looked ready to snap in two now.
“I don’t know what to do, Red,” Eight’s voice broke into a whisper. “It’s never been like this before. I don’t say something because I can’t be sure, Owen seems to die but gets away like the rest of the Spades and the turmoil only increases. I don’t say something, Owen lives, and he does something to topple the whole Capitol. I say something, Owen dies, and the country still stands but a sweet guy who deserves so much better than that dies by my hand. I don’t want this choice. I don’t want to kill him on a hunch. But if my inaction means the end of the Capitol…I…I don’t have a choice. It would be all my fault. I can’t take chances.”
“What about Owen lives, and he’s normal and gets to enjoy his life?” Red suggested. “Why isn’t that an option?”
“Because life isn’t fucking fair and that arena thrives on chance,” Eight snapped. His eyes were red. Whether it was from lack of sleep or tears or both, Red had no idea. “Tell me what those odds are that it turns out like that, Red.”
“According to the Games Betting HQ, it’s not that far fetched.” Red didn’t actually know what the odds looked like at the moment but wasn’t about to plunge Eight into further desperation.
“If I could get inside one of these fucking Spades’ heads I would know just how likely that is.” Red couldn’t tell if Eight was bitter or wistful or curious or a little bit of all three. “I can’t handle this pressure, Red. Do I tell them to kill him or not?”
“I can’t tell you that, Eight.” Despair surged into his eyes. Eight really was trying to shoulder the whole country. He was barely 20.
“It’s not fair. But it could happen. He could live and it wouldn’t cause the country to fall apart. Anything’s possible,” Red took a step towards Eight and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re stressed and exhausted, Eight. I don’t think it would hurt you or the country to wait before going to the central government. But as someone who cares about him, don’t you want to see his Games through, for better or worse?”
“I…yeah. You’re right.” Eight wobbled to his feet and turned off his desk lamp. “I’ll see it through, then make a decision.”
“After you sleep.”
“After I sleep.”
“…you coming, Eight?”
“I…I need a minute. I need to prepare myself so I don’t…so I don’t look like a complete fool in a few minutes,” Eight’s voice cracked.
“Hey, hey, Red hurry it up with Eight, the finale’s about to start!!” Agent V called from down the hallway.
“I don’t think you’re gonna get that chance, Eight. Wipe your tears up and let’s go.”
“I wasn’t crying!” he sniffled.
“Yeah, yeah, it was just raining in your office, right over your head,” Eight sighed. “Or no, was it a pipe leak over the doorway? Should I call maintenance?”
“Shut up,” Eight laughed weakly and stepped into the light. Sure enough, he just looked sleep deprived at the moment. “If…if he dies will you-“
“Yes, I’ll buy you ice cream and be your emotional support, let’s go already you big wuss.”
Eight started walking alongside him down the hallway, shaking like a leaf. “That’s not what I was going to say but I won’t refuse free ice cream.” Red walked into the employee lounge. Eight froze in the doorway, eyes glued to the TV. Owen covered in blood.
Agent V turned around on the couch to look at their stricken, younger coworker. “Relax, it’s not his blood, it was Lonan’s. He’s not hurt.”
Eight let go of the breath he was holding and sat down next to V. They glanced back to Red. “It’s gonna be a long night, huh?”
“It’s gonna be a long night,” Red sighed heavily. “No matter how this goes.”
“I brought a tissue box and snacks,” V offered.
Eight wordlessly took the box of tissues and clutched it like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.
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