It had, for a brief moment, been going so well.

There had, for a short few days, been less fear. He'd had a tongue, and vocal cords, and he had used them to tell Carlos so many important things, which had been interrupted with kisses, and long moments spent saying nothing at all. He'd felt safe, more or less-- or, safer, anyway. He'd slept, and there had been almost no pain.

It had all gone to hell quickly, when it had gone. First, Carlos had begun speaking strangely, and pointing toy scientific devices at hazards that did not appear to exist. Cecil had left to find help; found nothing; returned to find that Carlos was gone. There was only his blood-splattered labcoat lying in a pile in the middle of the shop floor, and Darwin the roomba, with nothing left to guard, had wandered away.

Cecil had stood for long minutes, overwhelmed with guilt and fear, because he could see well enough what had happened: They'd killed Carlos because of what he'd done for him. They'd killed Carlos to punish him. He'd been waiting for it to happen, for someone watching to realize just how great his transgression had been; and finally, it had happened.

He hadn't taken a weapon with him when he'd left to find Terezi. It had been his next thought, finding her - her, or whoever would kill him on his way to her. Preferably her, but he didn't feel he had the luxury to be picky. It's with mixed relief, and sadness, and fear, that he sees her silhouette at the front of the bookstore.

He doesn't want to use his new voice. It frightens him again, like it did when he first realized he had it - it shouldn't even be his. But, well. He has proven himself the most useless Avox the Capitol has ever seen well enough already; how much deeper can he really dig this pit?

And so he clears his throat as he comes up behind the troll; swallows hard against the roiling anxiety in his stomach at the thought of how directly he is about to address her (of what he is about to address her for); and says, with Punchy's voice, soft but clear: "...Terezi. It's-- Cecil."

Cecil hesitates. He's planning how to say this, as briefly as possible. All the eloquence has been scared out of him.

"Carlos," he says. His voice almost breaks on the guilt that floods him when he says the name. "Carlos did it. While I was unconscious. With... with Punchy's..." Ugh. That's still not something he likes to contemplate, and so he lets it hang there, hoping she'll understand what he means.

Another pause, and then: "...Carlos is dead," he finishes.

He steps closer as he speaks, cautiously, looking over his shoulder for anyone else who might be nearby. It's odd - now that he's chosen how he wants to die, he's reluctant to accept a death from just anyone. He doesn't want to be sprung on out of the shadows, or stabbed in the back, or struck down by Gamemakers' lightning. He's prepared himself for this, and nothing else.

Cecil feels his heartbeat picking up, his breath coming faster. He's become intimately acquainted with many kinds of fear in the past few weeks, and months; he knows both the stabbing terror of an instant's unseen danger, and the slower-burning, stomach-churning anxiety burned into him with his conditioning. But this - the adrenaline suddenly pounding through every vein, the light and detached feeling in all his limbs, the sound of his heartbeat in his bones - this is more immediate than any fear he's ever felt.

He no longer wants to be alive in this Arena. But it is impossible to convince his body that he doesn't want to die. This is a phenomenon he has seen before, having watched many, many people die on screens over the years. He knows what it looks like, what feats of strength are possible, when a Tribute who seems to have given up suddenly realizes just how badly the most primitive part of them objects to dying.

The conditioning helps. Cecil's body is screaming for him to run, but as he drops to his knees, the conditioning makes the impact feel like a release. He turns around, slow (dropping his white backpack on the ground beside him), and the sharp, immediate fear is still there, but the slow-burning anxiety, for a moment, quiets. Obedience is still obedience.

"If you'd like," he says, glancing over his shoulder at Terezi (Please, don't do it yet--), "You can... can have that. And what's in it."

A water bottle, a single food ration, ten red balloons, a t-shirt that reads "I'M WITH STUPID SCIENCE." Not a good trade, but-- well, what else does he have, really?

Cecil forces his throat to work; his mouth to move. "...I'm done."

His hands feel cold. He tries to think of-- of anything else that he could say. That he should say. It's probably better, probably safer, if he says nothing, but-- but if this turns out to be the last thing he ever says--

"Thank you," he says. It's quiet, practically a murmur. His new voice sounds so young, even to his own ears.

He faces forward. His eyes flick to one side, again and again, desperate to look, to see what will come-- but it is better, probably, if he doesn't see.

Please, please, let this be over quickly.

No one is going to see what led up to this, back in the Capitol. The cameras aren't interested in mercy killings, in suicides, and they certainly won't be interested in hearing Cecil talk. He knows this-- or guesses it, anyway-- based on long experience, on the hundreds of deaths he's watched over the years, based on every animated critique of someone's final moments he's ever made (and he has made many).

They will see this last silent moment, though. This is what he's thinking of as Terezi hesitates, as he feels the brush of the wire over his hair, the brief, gentle touch of it on the skin of his neck - this is the part that will make it onto the cameras, if anything does. They'll fill in a narrative around it, and make this the close, savage focus.

His hands are balled into fists at his sides, nails cutting into the palms, and his breaths are coming short and sharp and shaking. He can feel the pounding of blood through his jugular like he's never felt it before. He wishes, crazily, dizzily, that his conditioning hadn't slipped quite so far - that he could face this dead-eyed and obedient, that every second of life left in him did not feel quite so long.

He thinks of Carlos ("I need you to make sure you don't win this Arena"). He thinks of going back to the Capitol and being what he was when he left. He thinks, in a vague, hopeless way, of District Thirteen, and Carlos' promise. He wonders if he will see Terezi again, and if he will be himself to see her.

Then, the wire bites into his throat, and he stops thinking of anything but the pain - and then the panic, as he reaches for breath that does not come. Punchy's speech organs are severed, so soon after Carlos put them in-- a waste, isn't it?-- and his vision swims alarmingly, and he has the faint, distant impression of wet warmth at his collar, over his chest--

When Terezi lets go, Cecil will fall forward. He will try, two or three times, to breathe. He will not succeed. After a confused moment-- after a terrible sound-- he will give up, and lie still, and be silent.