After he and Sierra had separated because of the fairy of plot contrivance, Cliff had continued north, or what he thought was north, wondering if the stars in the endlessly dark sky corresponded at all with the stars outside the arena or if they were inside some massive enclosure with a faulty projection the entire time--and then wondering if the star he thought had to be the north star even was that or if it was a planet. He wasnât sure if North was what would take him to Zeek or to victory but it seemed as good a direction as any and it made him feel productive to have a goal.
Food. That was where North took him, or he saw the ice flows as that, even after the first groan, even after hearing the splash and strangled roar in the distance and snapping his head around to see a polar bear slip to its death. He could keep his weight evenly divided and walk carefully. It was like balancing on a beam, all about knowing how to walk it--and this would be one smart place for agile, light Zeek to hide and he would know it. Few people could follow. He could carve himself a little hole in the ice, chipping it bit by bit with his sword even though he didnât have an auger, and...well heâd think of some kind of construction with the empty boxes his previous meals had come in and the string from the parachutes. He was still trying to figure out just how to make the dangle for the trap long enough, the next hurdle being where he would carve a hole in the ice when the sky lit up with tribute faces. Luckily, Zeek and Chey werenât among them. Luckily, Austin was, hopefully never having met back up with his sister. It was a shame about the actor, vaguely, but not a surprise.
He was about to turn his attention back to the task of trying to fish when he saw the parachute. The eerie silence of the falling box didnât occur to him until after it was in his hands. Then it started to play and he wished it would be silent.
Much of it heâd heard before, enough that he didnât doubt the truth of what he was seeing as quickly as some others might when it escalated since it started with former friends--friends of Lyssaâs that heâd fooled himself were his until they had started saying how heâd always seemed a bit whacked in the head. He just wasnât normal. Some kind of pod person, and not even a good one, pretty obvious if you thought about all the times he made light of the sad or serious or couldnât figure out why everyone else was laughing when they did--.joke was usually on him though. Â Creepy how he always hung around when he clearly wasnât wanted. Pathetic.
Heâd heard it before. No big deal.
Then it went on to his father talking about how heâd always been a disappointment. How he was weak. How he wasnât the son he deserved. How he should have died as a baby. Cliff didnât question it. Heâd known that too, deep down. He continued to hold the screen, transfixed and not even trying to turn it off. He should be crying but that would be weak just like his father had said and theyâd freeze to his cheeks.
His mother talking about how she was worried sheâd raised a monster. Repeating the schoolyard taunts about how there had always been something off about him but sounding much more sinister in doing so. Talking about how there was nothing behind his eyes. How she didnât really believe he felt emotions, just pretended to. How she knew heâd hurt those boys, how she knew heâd killed that girl. How glad she was that he was going to die in the Arena and she wouldnât have to deal with him.
He never knew she felt that way. He thought heâd taken that in calmly too but by the time the next speaker came on he realized his throat was hoarse like heâd been yelling at the screen and the ice was groaning again and the screen cracked where heâd been slamming his sword into it though somehow the video persisted in playing a fractured version of his uncle elaborating on how heâd observed Lyssa teaching Cliff , practicing with him and he realized, they werenât playing or even training--Lyssa was raising him like one of those stories you hear about the barbaric olden days where such things as fighting dogs existed. Cliff was a toy, a dog to bet on and set loose to fight other dogs. Â He saw how she talked to him and then to her real friends when they showed up. Only Cliff was too stupid to know the difference. Sheâd always planned on baiting him into the arena, making him volunteer when he was old enough--or maybe she just wanted him around to kill an ex for her one day. Only Cliff could have twisted it to see something else, to be so colossally gullible to believe she cared, that anyone cared.
There was more and more after. It all blended together. Weak. Phony. Eerie. Needy. Unlovable.
He threw it away at some point, chucked the box and all as far as he could. It still didnât break or fall through the ice. He could hear it playing, or maybe that was just in his own mind. Canât tell reality from fiction. That was something his father hated too.
Branch snuck up on him. Cliff didnât even realize he was there, barely registered him even when he was talking. He was slow to turn his head, slow even to blink, too slow to even bandy out his own taunting greeting or a warning to stay away, but then too fast, too careless, forgetting about careful balance or thin ice as the boy from Seven seemed to appear out of thin air to him, taunting him when heâd been taunted enough that day. He took a defensive stance, arms tucked close to his body with left arm crossing in front of his face and sword in the right raised, center of gravity low, nondominant leg out front. He backed up a large step quickly, avoiding a first attack that may not have come and then used momentum for a lunge forward, feet slipping a bit on the slick ice, though he now was used to it enough to compensate enough not to slide too much or trip, it still carried him forward more than intended, made the wild swing swing of his sword cross higher than intended, more easily ducked.
