He hadnât expected the amount of strength Hunter seemed to still have in his body. Perhaps the poison was weaker than theyâd anticipated, or Hunter stronger. A combination of the two. He tried to wrestle the knife from Hunterâs hand, managing to do so only as Hunter stood up and spoke, at which point he stepped back, a little afraid, glancing at Indy, sensing through her surprise, her speaking of his name, that perhaps sheâd changed her mind.
âYou killed our fucking father,â he spat at Hunter even as he retreated slightly, needing a new plan but knowing that they could not communicate one.
Indy forced herself to try to recall her own righteous anger, the one that had burned in her belly for five years now, making Hunter Twill the object of her obsession. She had to do this. There were no other choices.
She drew her own knife now, heart slamming against her ribcage. She couldnât look Shiloh in the eye. Was she a coward or not?Â
He doesnât regret it, she reminded herself. Shiloh had recounted his conversation to her, and he wouldnât lie about it. She had no need to regret bringing justice to her father either.Â
She raised the knife, addressing Hunter now, trying to steel herself against what had to be done. âTell us again how our fatherâs death was nothing to you.â
Unable to keep his grasp on the blade, he sent Shiloh out of his reach with a push meant to destabilize him. It destabilized the mentor instead, though he regained his balance -- not enough to keep standing (but he wouldnât just collapse on the couch now). The remark about the father was met with properly rolled eyes, but whether that was the poison or irritation, Hunter could not properly tell. Both, surely.Â
Breathing heavily, he watched the girlâs knife, and suddenly, he understood. There had been some talk during the interviews, and he picked that up without imagining itâd come to this. Even in that state, his mind linked his state of dizziness to them. Drugged. Fuck. Heâd been drugged or worse, and they, as some sort of freakish cult, came for blood, for revenge for a crime heâd done as the Capitol cheered.Â
This was not a time to get smart. Maybe if he could keep his eyes on the girl talking to him for more than a couple of seconds, maybe then he would be able to deliver usual Hunter Twill snark, but not like this. They were armed, set to draw blood at the price of their very lives, stupid as they were, and he couldnât just explain natural selection. He needed to emote and make it convincing.
Immediately, he raised his hands to throat level, part a shield in case of any sudden moves, part to show good intentions. He took a seat on the couch, alert but all weak knuckles. Now all he needed to do was fucking remember the fatherâs fucking name. Fuck. âDonât kill me so that your fatherâs death means even less,â he cocked his head to a side, to reason with them with squinted eyes. This wasnât even manipulation -- it was factual.Â
âSome guy killed my sister, Addison, in 108. I didnât hate him for it. Same with my other sister, but letâs draw the line before that, it no longer fucking applies.â The words were quick to tangle into each other, but Hunter had always made a point out of clarity. He still tried to avoid mumbling. âItâs not nothing to me. None of this is nothing. Itâs just a dumb game that we all play, that youâll understand very soon, regardless of if you kill me or not. Well--âÂ
He gave Indiana a skeptical look, as if counting on the fact that she was not going to. A bluff, which hid fear behind it. âYouâre not playing the game by killing me. Youâre answering with free-will violence to a very backdated conditioned violence, this... what I had to do, what I fucking did with no memories.â
Unprompted, he groaned of frustration. Were this kids fucking dumb? âI know you think it feels like fulfilling something, but the dead just pile up. Iâm sorry. And no, of course it doesnât mean much to me now -- youâll see tomorrow how it feels.â Hunter tried to shake his head, but his neck wouldnât move properly. The dizzy was taking more and more of a hold on him. âTake my word on this and if I turn out to be wrong, one of you should just come out of the arena and kill me then, after you go through what I went through, and after you underst-â The words knotted in his mouth. It was time he stopped, already too long. God, he hated it when he couldnât speak his mind to the last syllable.