Sacrificial

Chapter 16: A Sacrifice's Training

"You really know how to shine, don't you, doll?" Harlin says, walking into the room. I look at him from my seat but don't say anything. "That photo of you talking to Dobbs is out."

I stand. "He thought I was the Angel of Death," I answer, barely looking at Harlin. Harlin tells me I am. I close my eyes and sigh. "He thought I would come and take him from his mortal coil."

"That much power is impressive even for you," he says, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the bar.

"I can't rescue anyone." I can't even rescue myself; just ask anyone. Harlin reminds me, Survivor Dobbs didn't think that. "He's an old man whose memories are going. He has no idea what happened. He only knows what everyone told him happened."

Harlin pours his drink. "That isn't the only photo they printed." I turn to look at him. I tilt my head, but I refuse to speak. "They took a photo of you with Merik." I turn my attention back to the window. "People are going to eat that up." I bite my fingernail but don't say anything. "A lot of people wanted to see what would happen with you two if you had lived. And now they got that glimpse." I still don't say anything. "It was a perfect glimpse into a world that could have been for them." My eyes stay on the window. "We could play that up if you wanted." I flip a glance to him but don't say anything. "It can't hurt your chances. And it wasn't like you two weren't getting quite close the last time. I am sure there are things you both want to say, and the people would eat that up. Just a little show for them."

"I don't care if I would get a hundred percent survival rate if I talked to him," I state, standing up from my windowsill. I glare at Harlin. "Seriously?" I look away from him. "What the fuck is your problem?"

Miria walks into the room. "That is not very ladylike, nor is it a very Sacrifice type of language." She stares at me for a few more seconds before she says, "For that matter, it is not very Champion language.

I look down toward the ground. "I'm sorry." I try to force a smile to my face as I turn my attention to her. "I know better than to use crude language."

"Thank you," Miria says. She looks between the two of us. "Now, what are you arguing about?" She even starts getting in between us, as if the two of us will start throwing punches as if I could ever win a fight against him. He might be an alcoholic with a failing liver, but he was and will always be a Survivor. He was an actual Survivor. He might be missing his arm, but he is an actual Survivor. But more to the point, what is she going to do even if we were fighting? It's not like she could actually take a punch. Maybe it is the fact that we both respect her too much. If Harlin respects anything other than the bottle.

"Nothing," I say, walking toward my room. "We were having a simple disagreement." She tries to push me to say more. "I let it slip. I am sorry. I will do better to keep my language in check. If you will excuse me." I walk out of the room. I punch the wall as I get closer to my room.

"What did the wall do to you?" Attikus asks, walking up toward me. I don't say anything and just keep walking away from him. "Are you alright?"

"Perfect," I tell him.

"Are you sure?" he asks, taking a few steps closer to me. I nod, walking toward the door. "You seem upset."

I force a smile to my lips. "I'm just fine. I have to get changed so we can get to training."

I change. I don't plan on having breakfast, but everyone else is already sitting there. I can't say no as they usher me to the table, even the designers who have made this apartment their home. They disappear during the day to work on all the fantastic designs but then are back for dinner. The designers I had last time never did that. I heard them use every excuse they could think of to explain why. We stifled their creativity. It was too loud. It was too quiet. It was too smelly. They never said what they meant. I would have preferred if they would have given me an honest answer, not that Leonel seemed to care. He was so wrapped around himself that he didn't even notice what they said about him, me, everything. But not Myka and Cleo. They are at least kind enough not to tell us they don't directly to our faces. Though it makes it harder. I wonder if they know that. I wonder if they know how much their caring makes it harder. We have to know that when we leave, there is no going back. No returning home. Most of us never will. And now we have to know they care. That's honestly the hardest part in all of this. Knowing they care.