Chapter Text
ACT II. v. "this is the start of how it all ever ends."
'yellow flicker beat' lorde
The water is cold around his skin and his hair and his feet, and he freezes for a second when his toes do not brush the bottom and the light becomes a dim memory of something that he knows how to obtain. In hindsight, it is almost humorous that he paused when he needed to take action the most—when he was sinking like a stone in a pond. He does not even think that his dive off of his pedestal would have caused ripples in the water.
He throws a hand over his head and pulls himself forward, feet kicking underneath him. The sweater that covers his arms is anything but breathable , the fabric shrinking when wet and restricting the amount of movement he has with every breaststroke of his upper body.
Jimmy cannot, will not, let that stop him. He grits his teeth as he pulls himself forward once more.
For the briefest moment, he thinks of Danny.
A memory flashes through his head; one built only days prior. He sees a smile built from anger and can hear words that only have one meaning ( hope ) and can smell the faint scent of sausage cooking in the kitchens. He remembers Danny’s anger, lips wrapped tight like string around the word ‘ swim ’, like it was a new curse word the Capital had announced and he was testing it on his tongue. Jimmy knows that Danny had told him the curse swim with the comfort that he can , despite being from the latter districts; but Jimmy does not know if it was a lie told with the intentions of being white, or something true . A sign that he will see him there with Spongebob and Timmy as they trade weapons.
He reaches the Cornucopia after a few seconds too long ( every twist of tight clothing let’s someone else get to the middle first. He may feel a dagger to his head right now from somebody who’s just a little bit faster than he ) and runs a hand along the concrete base of it, curling his fingers around the edge of the dry surface. He prays that there is not a victor waiting for him to pull out of the water with a grin and a hammer thrown over their shoulder. It is the thought alone that makes him hesitate as his other hand curls around the grooves of the concrete floor ( a few seconds too long ).
Before he can even pull his head out of the now murky brown lake, something smooth and long wraps around his wrist, lacking any sense of careful tenderness. It pulls him away from the comfort of the anonymity of the water, and Jimmy can feel his heartbeat spike in his chest as his torso is pulled out of the water.
He pushes himself into a plank position almost immediately, trying his best to see if he will need to dodge an incoming attack from a potential foe.
He thinks he is as surprised as Timmy Turner when their eyes lock.
Jimmy’s body relaxes almost immediately, and he rests his forehead against the cool concrete as he spits up water that tastes a little bit like blood. Timmy sits in front of him ( he is not as strong as Danny; his strength lies in precise and perfect aim ) with his chest heaving from exertion. One of his hands is a light brown from where he reached in to grab Jimmy, and the other hand is wrapped around the dotted fur of a white and orange cat.
“Spongebob’s,” he says, lifting the hand carrying the cat slightly. Jimmy nods slightly, as if that is explanation enough ( it’s not ) and the subtle movement and calm comment during such a stressful time makes him laugh as he wastes another second to catch his breath.
Jimmy stands up, gaze flickering to where Danny’s hands are along the wooden end of a spear. He has the luxury of watching as the metal point goes through the hand of somebody who was pulling themselves out of the water ( like he had done only moments earlier ). Danny’s foot meets their head as they scream in pain, and Jimmy watches as they go back further and further and further until they are back under the water. Their hand goes with them, but there is the flesh of two fingers still on the dry landing that the spear has torn off of their body.
There is a moment's hesitation.
Then, a canon goes off in the distance.
Jimmy watches with a shaky breath as Danny pulls the spear out of the newly formed dent in the floor, placing it against a concrete pillar as he grabs a piece of fabric that gleams in the afternoon sun. He throws it around his neck before reaching for his spear once more.
Spongebob passes him in a rush, and Jimmy’s gaze follows him, grateful for the excuse to turn away from the blood and gore that the Phantom brings in action. He is glad that Danny had approached him a few days earlier; glad that he does not have to suffer through the embarrassment of being the first death.
Spongebob wraps a hand around Timmy’s wrist, pulling the brunet to his feet as he stumbles a few feet backwards. Jimmy watches as he disposes of the cat in Spongebob’s open arms without saying anything, nodding once before making a run for the weapons near the edge of the Cornucopia. It is a mad dash for anything he can snake precise fingers around, for they’re power in the center will only be so limited. Jimmy makes an example of him, heeding to the same spot as he grabs two backpacks that lie in front of him. He prays that one of them contains wire—that is all he can hope to do.
The one in his right hand is heavier than the one in his left, and he throws the latter one over his shoulder. He prays that he is not wrong when he makes the assumption that the heavier one holds food—something that can become lethal if mixed with saltwater. Something light can be plastic, wires. Things that do not mind the liquid embrace if Jimmy needs to dive into the surrounding pool.
When he looks up, his eyes meet Timmy’s over a concrete stand. It holds a few weapons, but most notable of them all is the large hammer lying on its side. Timmy meets his gaze, eyes following down with Jimmy’s. They both stare at the weapon that neither of them can hold (but can kill both of them) (but will kill both of them, when held in a red-headed grip) and when Jimmy looks back up Timmy is smiling. Jimmy musters a grin in response too, fingers tightening around the strap of the backpack (he can pretend it’s a spool of string if he tries hard enough, flitting around his fingers) .
Timmy wears a sash over his shoulder that glints silver, and carries a bow and arrow in his right hand that he holds improperly—fingers wrapped too high along the bow, almost like a hook on the wall. He does not break eye contact as he grabs a nearby quiver of arrows, holding it awkwardly in his hands like he’s not aware it belongs on his shoulders. It takes Jimmy a moment to realize that Timmy is not grabbing the spear for himself, but rather for Danny. It takes Jimmy a moment longer to realize that this means Timmy trusts Danny.
The sound of wind in Jimmy’s ear makes his gaze snap elsewhere, cheeks red from the heat and nothing else.
His eyes instantly find Danny’s amongst the chaos, and the boy’s hand is outstretched, forefinger curled around his thumb as he squints ever-so slightly. His chest heaves with something that is not quite fear, but his brows are raised high along his head like it could have been, and Jimmy knows what has happened. He does not even have to turn around to know that the inevitable sound of a thump against concrete will ring across the stadium, and he does not even have to look twice to know that he does not know the name of the girl who’s death is marked by the echoing cannon.
Danny holds his pose for less than a moment, eyes wide.
Then, his posture folds—poised, practice. Every bit of that careful and dangerous man the capital has trained him to be. He eyes Jimmy for a moment more, eyes sparkling with some kind of consideration (and it only occurs to Jimmy, then, that Danny Fenton had just saved his life. That girl would have killed him, if given the chance) before turning away; nothing more to say.
Jimmy has the weirdest feeling he’s done something wrong.
“Let’s get out of here,” Danny tells Spongebob, who stands on the opposite end of the Cornucopia, stepping on the other tribute’s fingers. At the comment, Spongebob glances up with a tilt of his head. He does not fight Danny, dashing to the white-haired boy’s side, cat underneath his arm. They both turn to look at Jimmy and Timmy, and Timmy’s gaze flicks to Timmy’s before returning to Danny’s.
He gestures for them to follow. Jimmy does, blindly.
He jumps into the water only a few feet behind Danny, his heart pounding and pounding and pounding as he uses his arms to make wide strides underneath the water. His lungs burn with something that is more familiar as fear, and he wants to open his mouth in order to scream; to laugh. To make a noise that means he survived.
The silence of the water and the red-tint of the salt curates a certain image of purgatory that makes Jimmy’s blood run cold. This is not how he dies, he reminds himself, breath heavy in the back of his throat. He dies a victor; a member of the final four.
But there is the what if that lives in the back of his mind, omnipresent. They have left the Cornucopia unguarded—they have taken what is necessary to survive the first night and have ran with their tails between their legs—and there are still weapons that lie against the concrete, soaking in the sun. There are spears and daggers in bags and scythes. There is the threat of a spear piercing Jimmy’s back while he swims, dying the water an even darker shade of red.
And Jimmy does not normally panic, but the prominent side of death has been ever so loudly ringing in his ear since the timer ended. It rings like the shrill whistle of the reaper; like the whistle of a God, all might stuck between two fingers.
He reaches the shallow end of the lake, legs finding a sandy shore. He finds himself standing upwards on instinct, running out of the water in big strings of waves. He presses a hand (the one holding the bag. The one holding the food that is now spoilt) against his heart, forcing pressure against his ribs as he tries to relearn how to breathe.
The other hand flies to his side, where the scar lies heavy.
He is still in one piece, he thinks to himself, gaze trailing against the shells that collect at the water’s end. He is still running, following the backs of shoes in front of him, but he does not know where. You are still alive.
A dagger flies from somewhere behind him, piercing the bark of a birch tree a few feet to his left.
He stumbles at the movement, tripping over his own two feet. He runs a finger along the outline of the scar in his ribs (he wonders if he could tear open the stitches to find string to tie together) and throws the bag around his other shoulder. All of the movements come at once, instinctual. Everything comes together at once; the running and the shortness of breath and the panic.
He has grown up, but some things have not changed in the slightest. He still runs from the Cornucopia like it is a curse. Like he knows that it is going to kill him.
And he knows.
A moment longer, and the Cornucopia would have killed any of them.
He runs his forefinger against the outline of the scar for a fourth time, inhaling as he lifts his left leg.
You cannot feel the point of a spear through the scar, he reminds himself, not daring to look over his shoulder to see if Timmy is still following them. He is coward enough to not brave seeing who holds a collection of daggers in the cornucopia. You are not pierced through the heart. He does not stumble any longer, gaze traveling from the floor to the two boys he follows. Danny’s ponytail twirls in the wind and Spongebob Squarepants holds his cat out in front of him like he is not running for his life. You are still alive. Ninety-six. Four percent.
He laughs to himself, because this distracts him from the idea of weapons left behind. They are like Gretel and Hansel with their trail of breadcrumbs, leaving behind lethal tools that will inevitably stab them in the liver.
It is not four percent anymore, he thinks.
(A cannon goes off in the distance; the girl who’s death is marked by the echoing cannon)
Five percent , he does the calculation in his head. There is a five percent chance you’ll run out of this stadium with your skin intact.
And it is such a miniscule change—something that would not even matter if he had not carried the hundredth and made peace with the tenth. It is almost laughable, he thinks: that such a small difference can be made out of two very important people. Danny Fenton has killed two people—people with lives and families and friends and cats—and it does not even raise Jimmy’s chances by two.
Five percent , he thinks. There is a ninety-five percent chance you will not come out of this alive.
They stop when the sun is at an angle and the light filters through the leaves of trees, orange. The forest is silent with anticipation for once, and there is something in each tremor of their chests and heaving lungs that is mistakable with relief. Confusable for safety.
(Jimmy thinks that their bodies scream that they have reached a haven previously unthought of, but there is no emotion displayed on their face that matches happiness. Jimmy does not even feel apathetic; he is scared. Terrified. It runs through his veins and pumps his blood red and makes his skin tan.)
They stand in a small clearing in the middle of the woods, where the branches above their heads are optimal for Jimmy to climb; wide where they connect with the trunk of the tree, load-bearing and unbreakable, and high enough from the ground that he can remember girls dangling upside down and daggers through skulls. The trees are optimal in the way where they are perfect for the games, and therefore everything Jimmy has ever learned to despise.
The grass does not flatten underneath the soles of their feet like mud. It is dry and Jimmy can sit on it without worrying about trivial things like whether or not his clothes will get wet. It is dry, and that means that there is usable firewood and less birds but more small rodents.
It truly is the optimal arena.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Timmy pants, pressing his hands against his knees as he leans over, catching his breath. Jimmy presses his elbow against a tree, faint and light-headed. “Maybe that’s what I should have been training for in that training center.”
Danny falls to the ground, knees bent as he presses his forehead against his skin. Jimmy wants to laugh (he needs to breathe like a man; god’s do not need to let their blood run) . It is a vulnerability that he has never seen from the Phantom. “What the fuck did you spend your time doing, then?”
“I think the longest—” Timmy inhales, sharply. “The longest amount of time I spent in there was when I sparred with you.”
“Did the air feel nice in your fur, Gary-Wary?” Spongebob coos, completely unaffected by the hour-long run. It makes Jimmy furrow a brow (and if he was capable of speech, then he would have asked. Unfortunately, the Capital has stolen his breath away with the air of the arena like it is poisonous within itself) (Maybe it is, knowing the Syndicate. Jimmy does not think that would make for a very interesting Quarter Quell, thought). “Was that a good run?”
Danny must notice the confusion etched into the wrinkles of his face, because he mouths ‘ swimmer’ before pressing his head against his knees once more. Jimmy supposes that makes sense (and there is this sting at the idea that the Phantom put it together faster than the Capital coined boy-genius. He is as smart as the legends say, and he does not even consider the fact that Spongebob Squarepant’s lungs are built to move) , for he is the one that sees black dots in the distance and a lack of weight in his knees, and he is the one that has spent the past few days tying and untying ropes in a training center that is so far away.
Here, in the middle of the woods, upon an open plateau, they can catch their breath.
Here, together, so far away from the Cornucopia and the tributes and the start of the games, they can breathe in the luxury of peace.
They will not have this luxury of being so secure for much longer. They will not have the luxury of knowing exactly where the other tributes are for much longer.
“Neutron, remind me to do a shit - ton of more cardo the next time I get reaped,” Timmy says. Jimmy rolls his eyes, breathing finally coming easy. For somebody who is panting like he has had a dagger thrown to his lungs, he certainly cannot keep quiet.
(And for a second of a moment, Jimmy wonders what it would take to get the ever talkative Timmy Turner quiet. Would he have to drag a dagger along the outside of his lungs? Would he have to cover his mouth with a hand? Something more? There is something dangerous in the idea—in both blood and love.)
“You’re not getting reaped again,” Danny responds, throwing his head back. His stomach does not rise and fall with quick short breaths anymore, and while his voice is strained, the deathly pale color is starting to return to his face. Jimmy does not know if it is a reassurance of a boy with blood running through his body, or the threat of a mask relayered.
“Oh, yeah,” Timmy says, still panting. Jimmy examines the way that his arm is bent around his stomach and the way that he is still struggling to breathe, and he assumes that Timmy is either acting for sympathy, or there is a motive within the lens of the cameras. “I’ll be dead.”
Danny rolls his eyes in response, frustration evident on his face. Jimmy (who does not know why Danny is frustrated at Timmy’s behavior; at his willingness to be a martyr. Jimmy told him that Timmy was only joining their alliance to die, and Danny had told him that that was okay, seldom reluctantly) can see the way Timmy’s brows arch in curiosity, and he has spent the past two days sitting in the lobby of a far away hotel with the creases and bumps on Timmy’s face. He knows that through the rods of Timmy’s eyes, there is a tease in Danny’s response. Jimmy knows that neither of the two careers are afraid of confrontation; Timmy with a laugh, and Danny with a bow.
“You named your cat Gary?” Jimmy says, albeit a bit breathy. Timmy and Danny both look at him with arms crossed over their chests, and Jimmy knows that his attempt to change the conversation was not as subtle as he claims to be. He also knows that he would prefer the lingering feeling of anger in the back of their minds over an argument this early in the games. “What—Why would you?”
“Well, I thought he looked like a Gary when I got him,” Spongebob says, like it’s as simple as that. “C’mon—” he holds the poor cat out in front of him, and Jimmy watches as it meows weakly. “—look at this face and tell me he’s not a Gary.”
“He looks more like a Kevin,” Timmy manages, breath coming easier. Spongebob laughs at the comment.
For a passing moment, Jimmy wonders how long they have known each other.
Jimmy feels this lingering sense of guilt, building up against the walls of his stomach like bile. A week ago, he was not aware of the existence of either of them. A week ago, he would have been none the riser as to whether or not they shared private conversation behind cupped hands (now, he is still none the riser) . A week ago, now, he would have seen them laughing in the games and he would have tied a rope around their feet like they are nothing more than mice.
Now, he has seen the two of them talk from across the breakfast table, laughing like it is not the end of the world. Now, he has heard stories from Timmy’s own lips about raising throwing stars against plush white targets, joking about aim and weapons and things that should not be treated with a sparkle in either of their eyes. Now, he does not know more than the tales he has been told, as much a boy-genius as a dependent dog.
Now, he sees the way they laugh like old friends and joke like brothers, and Jimmy has the feeling of solitude run down his spine.
He wonders if this bond between Spongebob and Timmy will hurt him. He wonders if their relationship will make it harder for them to stab each other tomorrow evening. He wonders if they know that they will both be dead in the games.
In the games. He thinks, a repetitance in his head that he cannot seem to rid. In the games and in the games and in the games.
Danny grabs the strap of the backpack he had thrown over his shoulder, placing it on the grass in front of him. Nothing matters to you more than what matters in the game; you do not care about cats named Gary or playful jokes. They watch in silence as Danny unzips the bag. Jimmy wonders if they are all thinking the same thing.
It is all about death; about killing them all.
Danny flinches as he reaches his hand into the bag, pulling out with a glint of silver. He places the weapon (the throwing star, Jimmy recognizes. A second later than the boy to his right) in his other hand, between his forefinger and his thumb, and places the crease of his hand into his mouth. He swears when he pulls away, shaking the blood away from where it is starting to collect against his skin.
“You just cut flesh on the edge of a ninja star,” Timmy comments like it is a question, eyes sparkling with mirth. There is a sly tease hidden behind the syllables of his words, and Danny rolls his eyes (again) (except it’s not again. Except this time Danny rolls his eyes with a lack of frustration. Danny rolls his eyes with amusement, humor) .
“I was trying to do that.”
Timmy grins even wider at this, gesturing towards the blood that collects at the crease of Danny’s hand with an elevated brow. “I have to give you credit, I suppose. I mean, you did succeed in your goal.”
“Are there only throwing stars in that bag, Danny?” Jimmy asks, pushing away from the tree he rests against with a considered tilt of his head. Danny glances up at him before looking down at the bag, now treating its contents with a newfound sense of caution as he digs for any loose items that have fallen to the bottom.
“No, yeah,” Danny hums, foraging around the bag (and the metal objects within the fabric clink when they run together, like something hung. A woodchime or a pinwheel or a dreamcatcher. Something with its foot caught in the sky) with his tongue between his teeth. “It seems like there only lies throwing stars.”
“How many?” Timmy asks, dropping to his knees besides Danny.
“I do not familiarize myself with projectiles,” Danny says, handing the bag to Timmy. Timmy Turner takes it with a sense of eagerity that only Jimmy has seen on the other boy; he digs through the bag like it is his birthday, and he examines a particularly bent throwing star like it is Christmas Eve. Jimmy wonders when the last time Timmy Turner celebrated Christmas was; if it is something he has lost in the games, with the memories of blood against pine and snow falling like blood—or if it is an asylum from even the worst of it all. “If I had to assume? Perhaps twenty, thirty.”
“I can work with that,” Timmy says. A glint in his eyes that makes Jimmy think he’s worked with less for more.
“It seems as if a little birdy got a present for me as well,” Danny says, nodding at the bow in Timmy’s right hand. They do not speak to each other within the presence of the third party hostility anymore, trading exasperation and teasing remarks for gifts and the love of a victor; a necessity for presents.
Jimmy watches as Timmy shrugs off the quiver of arrows on his shoulder, handing both the bag and the bow to the boy sitting opposite him. He barely looks away from the weight in his hands, examining the metal with a practiced ease. Jimmy watches as he mimics a faux throw at a nearby tree, feeling the weight of the star in his hand.
Danny, likewise, examines the bow in his hand. As somebody who has neither held a weapon (besides a dagger a dagger a dagger) and does not wish to hold one ever again, Jimmy does not know what benefits lie in familiarizing yourself with the wood, as if it will be easier to use if you greet it like an old friend. Danny shifts the weight down and up and down again like it is a sleeping child, and he curves a finger around the string (he curves a finger around the string. He curves a finger around the string) to test how the bow pulls taut.
It does. It pulls taut enough to make Jimmy stare.
“This will work,” he murmurs to himself, running the end of his index finger along the outside of the bow. “Where did you find this?”
“He found it at the Cornucopia!” Spongebob adds helpfully, and Timmy nods, finally looking away from his unzipped bag to mask a facade Jimmy knows is true; familliar—teasing and snappish jokes. Things that come easier than truthful words and life stories.
“That’s true,” Timmy pairs with a nod. “I did.”
Danny scoffs— amused, Jimmy realizes. It is almost like a puzzle, now. There are bits and pieces of Danny Fenton that have been trained out of him by the Capital that he considers normal. He is as much a teenage boy as any of them— as he turns the bow over in his hands. “That is not what I meant. I searched the Cornucopia myself and could not find a bow—where did you find this?”
If this is a surprise to Timmy, he does not show it. Jimmy wonders if perhaps he had the bow the entire time. Timmy responds with a grin and a wink and the wrinkle of skin around his mouth that are not quite laughter lines (none of them have laughed enough for that; to have indents in their skin that are considered permanent elation. To be happy). “Okay, so you know how a magician never reveals their secret? And, well. Magicians are magic , aren’t they? So logically—”
“Fairy,” Danny Fenton responds, curt.
Jimmy does not know the joke, standing around them like he is nothing more than a spectating citizen of the Capital. He watches them discuss conversations they have already had like he has always been there, like he was never missing. He wonders if in a different scenario, under different circumstances, they would be willing to create new conversations with him.
But Timmy Turner offers Danny Fenton a shit-eatting grin, and Danny Fenton closes his eyes like Timmy Turner is more physical hangover than boy.
“A fairy never reveals their secrets,” Timmy says with a finger pressed against the side of his nose. Jimmy wonders how this conversation of heilographs and illogical words was comprehensible by either party; he knows no humility of magicians and fairies that deserve to be spoken of in the game.
Danny turns away from him with a sneer on his lips and his bow forgotten in his lap. Spongebob has sat down next to the two of them, making a semicircle on the open plateau (inviting, welcoming. Waiting for Jimmy to sit down) (Jimmy has dealt with plenty of inviting circles in his life; it is how the rope of his snare shapes out to be. It is the beat in which his heart runs on a monitor. It is how he lives through the same games, over and over and over again). He places his cat on the ground, and Timmy Turner leans over and coos at it excitedly.
It is hard to believe that these are the victors that Jimmy has decided to take to the final four.
It is hard to believe that they will final in anything at all.
“What is in your bag, boy-genius?” Danny asks, and Spongebob gestures to the spot across from him with a light rapt of his knuckles against the grass. Danny leans back and Timmy leans forward and it seems like they are staring at him, all at once. In the back of his mind, Jimmy thinks that there is a camera staring at him too. “Anything sharp?”
Jimmy takes a step forward, careful and cautious and all good things that start with ‘c’. The rest of his alliance gleams back at him with molears that are free from cavities. He thinks that this would be the time for him to run. This would be the time for Jimmy Neutron to be the boy-genius he is and grab the two bags he already has and run as far as he can, back towards safety, back towards death.
He thinks the Grim Reaper would cradle him gently, if only once.
Jimmy Neutron sits down across from Spongebob.
He does not look at the two boys that sit on either end of him, choosing to blindly reach out one hand for the soft white fur of Gary’s head. Spongebob’s eyes crinkle upwards when he smiles, and Jimmy wonders if there are other expressions he makes that Jimmy will have to learn (he does not think he would mind. It is easy for him to learn when he is already learning the different scoffs of Danny and the grins of Timmy) . The cat climbs into his lap and rubs his ear against Jimmy’s bare skin and for a moment, Jimmy finds himself forgetting about the games.
But then it comes back. It always does.
(Like a circle.)
“I don’t know,” Jimmy says, reaching for the two bags on either of his shoulders. He grabs the lighter one first, thrown over his left shoulder like a shield. “I would hope for something edible, but anything that could be spoiled has gone through the depths of the saltwater lake.”
“That’s okay!” Spongebob exclaims, leaning forward like a giddy little kid. “You could just catch some food in those snares of yours.”
“Do you know if the bags have any rope?” Danny asks, because in order for Jimmy Neutron to be a valuable member to his team (in order for Jimmy Neutron to give the others a reason not to kill him when he sleeps) he needs a rope in his bag (in order for Jimmy Neutron to raise his hands above his heads and shout to the Capital: ‘Look! Look what I can do!’). In order for Jimmy Neutron to be a boy-genius, he needs to wrap his fingers around the calming sensation of twine (tie and untie, knot and unknot. That is how he knows he is safe).
“I don’t know ,” Jimmy responds, with a snap that was not there before. Danny does not respond, but Jimmy thinks that the unreadable way he folds his face says more than Jimmy will ever be able to comprehend.
Jimmy unzips the front pocket of the bag, arching a brow at the white plastic bag that grows with the fresh air. He runs a hand along the plastic, listening to the sound of it crinkling underneath the scratching of his fingertips. It is something that is normally used in the games for warmth during the nights; Jimmy thinks that he will be able to sleep with it the same as he would be able to sleep without it.
“I can use this,” he says, even if he does not know if he can. He needs to sound confident—needs to sound important—so he looks at Danny for the first time since he’s sat down and nods once. “If I do not carry any rope. I cut the plastic with a stick and use it as yarn.”
Danny looks at him through furrowed brows, a moment of hesitation. Jimmy hopes that he cannot see the way his hand is shaking behind the fabric of the backpack straps, fingers coiling and uncoiling around strands of string that aren’t even really there.
Danny returns his nod, once. “I trust you.”
Jimmy nods, pursing shaking lips as he reaches his hand back inside the bag to take out the plastic. He places it out in front of him, where Spongebob’s cat claws at a loose tied end that blows in the wind. Spongebob laughs at the futile attempt for a creature to sink flesh into anything ; to be above anything at all, a skill that will keep the cat alive in an arena such as this. Danny rolls his eyes and Jimmy reaches for the other bag he carries as Timmy extends an arm towards the looped white tail, orange at the ends.
“What’s in the other bag?” Spongebob asks, and Jimmy shrugs his shoulder’s half-heartedly as he reaches for the zipper. “Even if the food is moldy, I really hope it’s a Krabby Patty—no offense, of course, Jimmy! I’m sure your snare-catched creatures are just as delicious! It’s just—nothing really hits the spot like a Krabby Patty.”
“Do you think the Gamemakers are going to give you hamburgers, Spongebob?” Timmy asks, and there is something high in his tone that suggests a light-hearted form of ridicule. Spongebob scoffs, more of an exhale of laughter then exasperation, and pulls his cat closer to him as Timmy continues. “We’d be lucky to get a roll of bread.”
“I would not doubt our combined prowess, Timmy,” Danny says. Jimmy watches him over the top of a bag. His eyes twinkle with a sick combination of amusement and boredom, like Turner is a mouse running through the eye of the needle that Danny’s claws curate (and Danny Fenton will wrap sharp ends around Timmy Turner’s tail again and again, pulling him closer and closer to his futile death. It is fated to happen; without purpose, without reason) (It is a circle. It is a circle. It is a circle) . “We have three careers on our team, after all. Perhaps the Gamemakers will consider us fortunate.”
“ Plus, the Gamemakers could give us a Krabby Patty and not a hamburger ,” Spongebob says, struggling with his wiggling cat. Jimmy does not know why his fingers linger on the zipper as he watches the conversation, fully adamant on letting piercing eyes trail every action and smile and back-stabbing facade. “Because a Krabby Patty is not a hamburger; it’s pescatarian friendly.”
Jimmy watches as Timmy opens his mouth to respond, retort staining his saliva white, like a dog that bites.
Danny rolls his eyes before Timmy Turner can say anything, amusement fading in favor of exasperation.
He turns to look at Jimmy with a bored, half-lidded expression. Like there is something more amusing to him than their certain deaths. Like there is something more amusing to him than participating in the games.
His eyes land on the bag in Jimmy’s hands, sharp irises trained on brown fabric. “Is there food in that bag?”
The plastic bag in front of them wrinkles in the wind. They will have to either cut it against a sharp end of bark (or the sharp end of Danny’s nails, gleaming white) (or the sharp end of Timmy Turner’s teeth, slick with foam) or store it in a bag, in hopes that the sound does not attract anyone who favors the smell of nickel, prominently incarnadine.
There is a beetle crawling along the underside, visible when it flaps in the wind.
Jimmy Neutron wonders if the beetle remembers that it is a part of the game. That it will live and die with the arena.
Jimmy Neutron, fated like a beetle, as smart as the most loyal dog, opens the backpack with another futile shrug of his shoulders.
(It feels like a curse not to know anything. It feels like he has only ever been a boy-genius, and without the title—without the knowledge, the brains, the smarts, the Capital’s well-earned fame—he is nothing more than a little kid that deserved to die. He is nothing more than a little kid that is dead.)
“There’s barely anything in here,” Jimmy responds. Danny hums, more trusting than Jimmy Neutron has ever deserved (he does not really know what to do with the trust. It is something he places on a shelf and closes the door to, like fine China. Something he does not know how to use properly; something that goes to waste in his hands) . He places a hand inside the bag, fingers grasping a small round vial.
He pulls the vial out with an attentive hum. It is barely bigger than the length of his hand, fingers extended. Jimmy has seen enough footage of the games to take an educated guess as to what is inside the vial, and when he unscrews the lid and squints an eye inside it, he is not surprised by what he sees.
He almost presses it to his lips. He almost takes a sip, letting the smooth velocity run down his throat, to see if it is water or milk or something deadlier.
But that is a waste. It is a waste of water and a waste of milk and a waste of poison.
(Jimmy will die, anyways).
“It’s a vial of water,” Jimmy says, and he screws the cap back on tight (tighter than he needs to. Tighter, like the tight ends of a string, looped and knotted. Tight and tight and tight) and places it delicately in front of him. With his luck, the Gamemakers have put their only source of water in a glass container, breakable and blameable.
With his luck, the Gamemakers will make Jimmy Neutron’s allies hate him by the time the fallen are displayed tonight.
“Oh, joy!” Timmy Turner explains, almost curt.
They all know what he is going to say before he says it; it is a problem in a stadium where fire is more smoke and sparks then embers, and where venturing towards food is a martyr’s journey. Food is something they can only hold off for so long when running through the woods, cawing like birds. Jimmy Neutron’s fingers twitch around strings that are not there.
Timmy Turner simply says what they are all thinking.
“Who wants to be the first on hunting duty?” Timmy asks, leaning back where he sits. The palms of his hands dig into the ground, and he grins lazily at the three of them. Gaze flickering between them, one by one.
Jimmy does not know whether to compare the quick eye-contact to a prey or a predator. He does not know if he is hunting or being hunted.
What an odd dissonance.
“Not it, by the way.”