Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Sheep Led to Slaughter, Chapter #21: Visions of Glory. (Cannot believe we're in the 20's ya'll...). Last chapter was #20: Pollux's Showdown, the Interview chapter, and we saw from eight different POVs, and goodness we reached 12k word count for that story which is quite insane, and I know that opinions of tributes have gone all haywire, haven't they? This chapter, alongside the next, is the last normal time we see them... because Bloodbath is coming up ya'll. This chapter will show us six POVs, and 22 will as well. Something to keep in mind for pretty much all of these is that they're not shown in chronological order, except for ones that are linking and explanatory. Hope you guys enjoy Chapter #21: Visions of Glory.
Valencia Shale: District 1 Female P.O.V (18)
The night has been a disaster. Valencia has no other word to describe it. All she can think about is the way that Pollux manhandles her on stage. Well, she isn't actually manhandled, but she sure as hell feels like it. Pollux's smile is disarming, his voice easy and she falls apart. Here Valencia is, supposed to be the leader of the Career pack, five turned seven, and she's being ripped apart at the seams. The audience seems to enjoy her interview, she's certain, but she's also first in a round of twenty-three after her. It looks like there's an odds tie between Milor and Linden for current victor. She sees promise in her fellow Career, after all he's the second highest scorer, only one to receive a ten, which is often reserved only for them anyways, and he's charming. Valencia senses his sexuality from first glance, and also because Marcus mentions it to her as a way to get under the guy's skin.
Speaking of her district partner, the latter word being quite loose in this sense, he is sitting up against one of the stone columns next to the window, eyes looking out at the Capitol skyline. They need to get to bed soon, but they haven't yet, and she's for some reason still sitting in the living room next to the disease that is Marcus Pharadane. She is still trying to understand his angle. He wants fame, he wants fortune, and he knows that the only real way to achieve it is by becoming a victor of the Hunger Games. His archery skills, while they aren't terrible, aren't the best. He's the best one out of the group of tributes, Valencia never liking that she has to be far away to have a vantage point. She wants to up close and personal, to watch as she drives the sharp end of her sword into the other tribute's gut, but there's a certain madness behind her thinking that jars her to back to the present.
She doesn't want to see Marcus die alone from the pack. District 1 and 2 always, always outlive the others, and it is usually them four in the Careers at the end to fight off the rest. He is still ticked off at only scoring a nine - Valencia cannot believe she just thought about only - as he could've scored a lot worse. He's still, with Victoria, the third or fourth highest scoring tribute. That is quite the accolade.
Valencia likes Victoria and Hero. There's a certain brashness to them that she appreciates, a teamwork in their fighting ability that has clearly been rehearsed. While she knows Marcus well, being alongside him for several years, there's no physical fighting chemistry or symmetry in their movements. From further prompting on Milor's end when he asked them to join, it is evident that they're the only tribute from Ten to be receiving this treatment. Their victors, Arizona and Hector, have a sudden smash of brilliance, with the intent of having them join the Careers. The plan is a bit rushed, now, but there's the drive behind their eyes.
Marcus is still leaning up against the column, looking out, Valencia on the couch, she stirring in her own fumes of anger and frustration. However, something draws her upwards from her seat. She has no idea what it is perhaps except that there's a sense of loneliness in her district partner. One he might've placed there himself, but there nonetheless. Valencia is a team player, to her chagrin, and it is indeed, giving it some thought, why she gets up from the couch.
When she reaches the distant column, Marcus inhales and exhales. The Capitol skyline is beautiful, lit up in a constellation of light and buildings, a plethora of scarlets and golden rays dotting the horizon. There's laughter, cheering, even jeering, they can hear it due to being so close to the ground in proximity to the others. All this excitement in a world that never sleeps. Valencia feels perturbed by it, a strange chill washing over her skin.
"It's nearly midnight and they're still partying..." Marcus whispers, almost out of disgust. "Just listen to them. It makes me sick."
She looks over at her fellow Career - ex-Career? - and frowns. "I thought you wanted this kind of life?"
"Not this kind," he emphasizes, motioning his hands outwards to it. "Their every waking thought is dedicated to these Games."
"Ours were too," and then that doesn't right. "Are too," Valencia corrects.
"I think for a whole different reason though," Marcus disagrees, shaking his head. He's still dressed in his handsome Interview outfit, suave red and black suit, hair dolled up, a bit of eyeshadow around the eyes. It is a stylistic choice, he claims. "We're doing it for survival. They- it is all entertainment for them. The reapings, the revealing of tribute scores, watching the Interviews, watching us all die..." his voice cracks at the end, a real part of him that he probably didn't want to expose then. Valencia steps back a bit, eyeing him peculiarly. He coughs, readjusting his tie. "If I win, I won't partake in this like they do."
Valencia raises an eyebrow. Marcus didn't say 'when we wins', he said, 'if I win...' and his voice trails off slightly. In the span of a training session, a split decision to leave, an interview, and the evening, she sees her district partner go through a loose transformation. Perhaps not permanent, perhaps not even happening where he realizes it himself, what he is going through, but it is all coming out just the same. "Are you still thinking about splitting from us?" She closes her eyes, pleading to herself, "Say no. Just say no and all is right with the world..."
"I don't know," he looks over at her for the first time all evening, and she has to remind herself that they're the same age, still teenagers, not even young adults, learning to grow up in this bizarre world. He gives her a slight return to character smile, teeth-filled and all. "Depends on what my grace period is to be let back in."
She hasn't given this too much of a thought. It should be that if he leaves he's out, but she is simply unable to grant that request for the others. The rage is palpable between the others, Milor being the only one that is keeping his head level, trying to assess the situation. Maisey and Carrion especially seem to thirst for Marcus's blood the most, but she is going to have to quell that somewhat. However, the Careers were all meant to be together, from 1, 2, and 4, outsiders or not. If he ends up killing any of them - Milor, Persephone, Maisey, Carrion, Victoria, or Hero - in the bloodbath, the immediate reprieve is gone and he'll never be able to join again. "If you spare us during the bloodbath, I give you until the 3rd day to find us. I'll let you rejoin then, no matter how many of us there are."
He straightens himself from the column, rubbing his nose with his knuckle. "Deal."
"Deal of what, exactly?" Valencia furrows her eyebrows.
"I'll go solo until then," Marcus says. "As a test to see if I can survive on my own when the inevitable break up of the Careers happens. If I die before I rejoin you, then know it wasn't mean to be. If I do rejoin you, you'll hopefully have an eight man strong Career pack, and we'll run over everyone else in our paths."
She doesn't quite like that idea, but Valencia wants to try and extend her grace as far as she can without becoming obsolete, or a pushover. Valencia can easily kill Marcus, she knows this. If anyone else in the alliance has a problem with it, she's sure they'd love to walk off a bite from her sword. He begins to walk back over to his room, undoing his tie, undoing everything about him that seems to work, unwinding and unknotting the bits he no longer wants or needs.
"Good night, Marcus," she says, voice barely rising above a hushed whisper.
He doesn't respond back.
Deacon Fincher: District 3 Male P.O.V (13)
He has a headache. He doesn't even know to describe it all too much except that there's a sharp, stinging pain in his head caused by madam truly sitting on the couch in front of him, as he paces the room, brow bent in frustration, Rochelle sitting down and hugging a pillow for protection from his insensible rage. He thinks he's making leeway, that he's able to forgive her for the rudeness she exhibits on the train. She even apologizes, hell, on just yesterday she apologizes for her terrible behavior, but then when Pollux allows her to have the stage, she lets him have it.
A disappointment?
Deacon is pretty sure Rochelle could've said any other word; she could've called him a homosexual - not that there's anything wrong with it, of course - or weak, or frightened, or unimpressive... but a disappointment? She does it before he goes on anyways, to ruin whatever little piece of credibility he might've had and now it is ruined, ripped to shreds. His interview is spent him babbling over words, he trying to recover from whatever preconceived notion the audience now has of him. That he's a disappointment. Any other descriptor would've worked, as he'd be somehow able to even defend it. If he's weak, Deacon proves that he is but he makes it up in mental intellect. Frightened? He's thirteen. Everyone has common fears. Unimpressive? He is able to lie and say that there are standards he just hasn't reached. Disappointment?
That covers a wide variety of areas. Not only does it seem like he is a disappointment to himself, his district partner all of a sudden feels the same sentiment.
He pauses, squeezing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The headache is starting to become a problem, and he never receives them. He never receives them; he's always calm and collected and doing okay, not whatever... not whatever this is. "You have no idea how badly I want to punch you in the face." That might be a bit uncalled for, Deacon realizes, but he's pretty sure his district partner, who is usually supposed to be on his side and not with the enemies, regardless of one victor surviving or not, and she's thrown him into the wolves. She's prepared his empty grave.
Rochelle hugs the pillow to her chest. "I'm sorry! I was just being honest!"
Her saying that ticks a switch in his head, and a few bolts come loose. "Honest?" he screeches. "You actually feel that way about me? Rochelle!" Deacon throws his hands up in the air. "You're supposed to be on my side and instead you made me look like a damn joke!" the male hangs his head low, chuckling to himself. "And to think I wanted to become allies with you."
"You scored a four," she says, and it is as if it is supposed to hurt. What is with her being against him like this? He does not anticipate this sort of friction between them. He knows that not every district partner pair becomes the best of friends, but this is taking things to a whole new level.
"And you got a three!" he snaps sharply. "You scored less than me, therefore I am better than you." Rochelle's lip falters, and for a split second he's worried that she's going to burst into tears. That only adds fuel to the fire, oxygen for the flames to grab at, and he points a finger at her, all accusatory. "Oh no you don't. You do not get to turn on the water works and all of a sudden that makes me forgive you. What you did was unforgivable."
Despite her entire body seeming to convulse with sadness, Rochelle jerks her head to the side, glaring up at Deacon. "It isn't my fault that you're pathetic."
It is almost like a sucker punch to the gut. In fact, that is what it is exactly feels like. Deacon stumbles back onto the floor, the action more violent than he anticipates. Her sobs go a bit silent, she looking over the pillow. Deacon does not have it in him to even stand back up, he laying on his back looking up at the ceiling, her words taking all the life out of him. Because, it then occurs to him.
What if she's right?
What if Rochelle is right? What if Deacon Fincher extraordinaire, at thirteen years old, is pathetic?
She gets up off the couch, going to lie down next to him, in a strange sudden sense of bonding. He doesn't have the energy to tell her to go away, or to even tell her off. It is almost as if he doesn't want her to. Deacon isn't so sure he knows what he wants anymore, he isn't sure what anyone will want. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to be in the arena alone. However, as the seconds stretch into minutes and the minutes into hours and the hours into days, it is starting to look like that very ominous future, bones snapped, head twisted the wrong way, a Career looming over him... and that is a future he is terrified about.
Rochelle is still hugging the pillow. "I'm sorry," but does she mean it? "I shouldn't have called you pathetic. You aren't pathetic, Deacon," his district partner looks down at her body, and he looks over at her, hands at his stomach. "I think most of what I say is just me projecting it onto others. I- I have really bad self-confidence issues. I thought everyone in the audience tonight was laughing at me, calling me ugly and a whore and-"
"You aren't any of those things," Deacon interrupts her. "You aren't ugly Rochelle. The audience really liked you." He doesn't know why he even says that to her. She's been rude to him ever since they met.
"Thank you."
Deacon swallows heavily. "Despite that... I don't think it'd be best for us to become allies in the arena. I think we need to stay our separate ways. We just... we wouldn't work," it is painful for him to admit that, as it is him giving a bit of himself out to be criticized, to come forth and say that he is not blameless in this realization. Deacon does not reveal himself like that often, and with a honest person like Rochelle, it is like he has circled a part of his side for her to just take a spear and jab it at him.
She doesn't respond at first. He's sure she's dozen off after a few seconds, but then, "I agree."
He stays silent, keeping his mouth closed. Neither one of them do anything else, talking or otherwise, they just laying down in the middle of the living room, they looking at the ceiling together, Deacon imagining what the arena is going to look like, what a possible avenue of teaming up with Rochelle despite all their flaws... and what he sees for both answers is nothing. A murky black sea, a cloud of intrigue and confusion with nothing to blow it away.
That scares him, slightly.
Is he a disappointment?
Only time tomorrow will tell.
Lowelle Sable: District 6 Female P.O.V (17)
Insomnia does not run in her family. It is the truth. Yet, for some reason, Lowelle Sable is unable to sleep. She looks up at the plaster ceilings, having turned the speakers on in the corner of the bedroom to play the sound of rain falling, on the background of a rainforest. There's all these primitive calls in the night, from tigers and lions, beasts with fangs that are as long as her forearm, black eyes bearing out from a peal of darkness, lustrous fur of a puma that stalks its prey... and these creatures fill her mind. She's spent nearly all evening scrutinizing her notebook.
It is a new ballfield, now, though, as she has to incorporate Corvus into the picture. Again, she writes him off as someone she can easily get to her side, and even easily kill if it comes to that, but she's still not all too competent with the blade as she'd like. She's probably going to have to do hunting in the night, whereas the Careers usually tend to do theirs in the day. A blade across the throat, whether done by an untrained or trained hand is still a blade slit across the throat. No one is surviving that.
She's surprised to hear Corvus open up like that, and a bit more surprised at the display of clear affection for Pollux on stage earlier. She gets a hint at it, watching his face study the other guys in the training center, where the eyes seem to linger a bit longer on the derriere than what normal circumstances allot for, which she finds humorous. However, she's a girl, and she isn't sure it'd be entirely too ethical to even use Corvus's sexuality as a means to get back at him and disarm him, to use it as an advantage.
Unethical? Her mind taunts her. Using Corvus's sexuality against him would be unethical? What isn't unethical? Killing him?
Lowelle flinches at that, sitting upright and throwing off the covers, breaking out into a cold sweat. Where did that thought come from? Everything is hitting her at once, now that she is unable to go to bed. She doesn't get nightmares, they aren't an occurrence with her, but she's pretty sure that if she tries to sleep, her inner consciousness will try to conjure up some phantom to torment her thoughts.
It is an element she has to confront at some point. Killing. She looks over at the night stand where her journal is, all the mechanisms of her brain vomited out onto those pages, written in cerulean ink out of a ballpoint fountain pen. Every tribute's weakness that she can conjure up speaking of weapons wise, tribute scores, and when the interviews are over, Corvus heading straight to his room to crash for the night, she goes and writes down about every interview she watches, some blurring together, but there are evident pictures between all of them, evident links that she only needs to think long and hard about in finding a common element.
A few arena suggestions run around, as Lowelle, before getting under the covers spends about ten minutes scrolling through the ambient sounds playlist, stopping between 'crowded downtown', which she is sure would be audio of Capitol citizens walking around and chattering to each other, the other 'rainforest', and she's pretty sure the sounds she is hearing, with tigers and lions and other fantastical monsters is not exactly fitting for a rainforest, but the rain is indeed there. These two choices are what she's narrowed it to. Either it'll be a rainforest, but not quite a jungle, or some sort of tourist attraction that people flocked to. Halfway through sleep, as every tribute has to be up by nine in the morning, the ambience will change, and there will be the dumb voices of Capitol citizens filling her head.
She isn't confident for tomorrow, unlike whatever the rest say. Lowelle is scared shitless; she's scared to die, she's terrified to kill someone, and she's desperate for home. Getting reaped, no matter with how much prepping she feels like she does is enough, nor does it prepare her for the minimum ten days she'll be spending in getting back to District 6, surviving.
Lowelle plops back onto her pillows, comforting and luxurious, wrapped up in silver and ivory and silk. She squeezes her eyes shut, wanting them to stay closed forever. She could try and hide from the Peacekeepers in the morning, couldn't she?
Her eyes pop back open.
Screw this.
Screw this.
Lowelle throws the covers off, getting to her feet, stretching and sighing. It is really late, nearly one in the morning, and she is unable to sleep. She can say it now, the Sable family must have insomnia or something.
She opens the door to her bedroom, going across the hall to Corvus's room. It is a daring attempt, she knows that her district partner likes his so-called beauty sleep, in which she knows that there are days where Lowelle requires every single second slumber affords her, as wrinkles do not just go away because she prays for them too. If he isn't up and she awakes him, she'll simply go back to bed. Lifting her knuckle to the closed door, Lowelle raps against it. It seems like the echo is deafening, clattering on and on and awakening the entire building, but that is just her being in her own head.
It is opened just a few seconds later, rather quick timing. She jumps, and then recomposes herself. Corvus stands in the doorway, his hair all scattered to the wind, but he doesn't look like he's gotten a lick of sleep.
"Hey..." he says.
"Hey," she nods back.
"Couldn't sleep?" Corvus asks. She gives another nod. Lowelle must admit that her district partner is cute - if he wasn't gay, oh the horror! - "Me either."
"Can I join you?" Lowelle really hopes that didn't just come across as desperate. It then takes her a second to realize that Corvus isn't wearing a shirt. His body is jacked. Though his frame isn't as large as Carrion's or Milor's due to his age, there are muscles that Lowelle knows even the Careers couldn't even touch. It is almost comical that the end of her sentence, the 'you', seems to trail off into oblivion.
Corvus looks back into his room, then back at her, which since then she's recovered from the temporary female teenage dream. "Sure," he agrees, widening his door and Lowelle steps in, he still having his lights on, bed still made nice and neat... as if he's been up and waiting for her to come in the first place.
He closes the door, and Lowelle doesn't return to her room for the remainder of the evening.
When the Avoxes find them the next day to wake her up to get ready, the two of them are sleeping together, locked arm in arm, almost romantically.
Alexandra Quinn: District 11 Female P.O.V (17)
"I'm in," she says. She doesn't even have to hear that much. Alexandra doesn't have to hear his entire life story to already agree with the proposition brought forward. She's standing on District 12's floor, arms crossed over her chest, the Capitol night sky just a blur of lights on the horizon, and she's starting to get to the point where her positive façade is beginning to break. She needs sleep. She doesn't expect to be on another District's floor for much longer. "I'll join the alliance."
Colt blinks in surprise, the District 12 male standing up against the counter. Gaia is over on the other side of it in the kitchen, teaching an Avox how to write their name; it is almost adorable, after the sudden rise in Gaia's determination. Alexandra doesn't return to her own floor for long, as there's Caiden on her floor, and she doesn't want to sit with someone who might have tried to poison her. "But I haven't fully explained-"
"Doesn't matter," Alexandra shakes her head. "You've already got Gaia, Marissa, and Rochelle on board, so clearly you're doing something right," she shrugs. "Besides, I need a group myself. Caiden and I aren't going to be working together, but that wasn't much of a surprise."
She's so certain that her district partner's nice act is just that, an act. There is no way someone can smile at her like that, give her food which he takes from the buffet table, which may be a reason to exact punishment, she isn't sure, and then drop a bomb on her like that. Alexandra screams, scurrying away from the toilet as fast as she can, skin still on fire, her throat burning, the Avox's hands trying to hold her back so she doesn't trip. Whatever is stuck in the toilet bowl, that black core of purple... whatever it is, that isn't normal, and it certainly didn't come from the Capitol.
However, despite after retching up the apple, Alexandra doesn't flee from the room. She walks back over to the apple that had burned her skin, the one that was sitting on Caiden's dresser, looking all pretty, and at the stain on the wall. It is black, like cinders from a burnt down house, or ashes falling after a volcanic eruption. When she presses a finger up against the wall, gingerly expecting it to agonize her flesh again, nothing happens except that the dark powder smears. There's a strange odor to it, almost like urine. She nearly retches again at the thought of Caiden pissing all over the apple, but it is odd, if that is even the case, that it didn't smell of urine. The apple didn't smell like anything at all, yet when she threw it at the wall, the blackness appeared.
Alexandra is so shaken up about it that she locks herself in her room, not coming out for dinner when prompted by her mentor, or even by Caiden's voice. A sweet voice, a siren of death, as she's certain he's certain that she's been injured or has an encounter with the apples he left behind. The demonic piece of vomit that came from her throat is from the apple he gave her, and the burning agony her hand endures is due to the one resting on the counter. She throws a pillow at her closed door, screaming at him to leave her alone.
Despite all of this, Alexandra is unable to bring herself to get into his face. It is a power play. A mighty damn good one at that, as Alexandra is now looking behind herself all the time, constantly, consistently expecting him to pop out at any corner and throw another piece of fruit at her. Not only is she pretty sure Caiden tried to poison her, he uses her favorite fruit, which she's also sure she never told him... so how would he know?
It is immediately confirmed, Caiden is a psychopath.
The tension in Colt's shoulders seem to disappear immediately. "Thank you for saying yes. I'm glad you agreed."
"No problem," she says almost absentmindedly, her head turned to the side, she not even looking at Colt or giving him the time of day. She almost expects that it is going to be a victor who wins by going alone sort of situation. She's eager to get back at Caiden now, and having an alliance only makes things fifty thousand times easier. Alexandra has no idea what her district partner is up to right now, but she's pretty confused as to how Caiden, if poison is indeed his main weapon, is going to be able to smuggle something like that into the arena, or to even use it.
Her skin goes cold when it occurs to her that he managed to poison her all the same, outside of the arena, and she has no idea about it... but it almost feels different, the vibe of him doing that to her.
"Why did you say yes, though?" Colt asks her, he breaking her from the prison that is the mind. One wanders in, they might not be able to get back out.
There's no point in hiding the reason why she agrees. Alexandra knows that the best way to get out of the arena alive is to make as many friends as you can and hope that they could save your skin when the time is right, to then abandon them when that time is suitable. However, Alexandra isn't a monster like her district partner; she'd give them fair warning, and try to prep them the best she could.
"I'm pretty sure that my district partner, Caiden, tried to poison me yesterday in a play to show his power," she says, quite coldly. Her words cause Gaia to stop her exercise with the Avox, and Colt's eyes widen.
"Is that who you were talking about in your interview?" Gaia asks.
"The very one," Alexandra nods.
"And..." Colt trails off. There's a connective piece of reasoning behind it, behind why she'd want to join. It might not be written on the wall as easily as she'd prefer, but it is there.
"Me joining an alliance is going to help me get back at him," Alexandra says with resolve, setting her shoulders back. "Caiden pissed off the wrong district partner. I'm going to kill him," her eyes glow with the fires of retribution, a blazing black flame. "And you guys are going to help me."
Alexandra Quinn is no wilting flower.
She's a rose prepped with thorns.
Persephone Castor: District 2 Female P.O.V (18)
What Milor did on stage tonight inspires Persephone. She's best friends with the guy after all, but she's never known his secret. She's seen it play out some, like earlier before the interviews took place, the way he is transfixed by Carrion, but Persephone narrows it down to the fact that she's been so focused on training that nothing about his sexuality occurs to her. In place of it, she rudimentarily figures that he simply doesn't go for anyone romantically, focused like her, as more often than not, the guys who are working on becoming victors in the Hunger Games also take their own side flings. It is not uncommon for the occasional male volunteer for District 2 to have some other girl in the district be expecting a child soon before they go off into the arena, and then tragically die and do not come home, leaving that newborn infant fatherless.
However, as she looks at him, as she looks at Milor, all she feels is pride. Like her, with her insecurities at probably not being good enough, at not having enough to what it takes - not like she can quit now, unfortunately, a thought that hits her a bit too late - Milor has the same problem. They aren't the typical Career pair. They both like each other, as she's seen it for years when a pair is at each other's throats, like Valencia and Marcus, or Maisey and Carrion who weren't even supposed to be here in the Capitol, due to the Academy skipping them entirely, the two tributes from Four were total strangers beforehand.
The two of them are sitting on chairs at the counter of the kitchen, in the living room, Hale and the other victor asleep, it nearly midnight, and neither one of them have decided to go to sleep yet. They aren't laughing and goofing out, they're simply talking. Persephone cannot think of the last time she just had a normal conversation. Hours before the reaping, her mother gives her all of those sexual tips to try and get into Milor's head, but clearly, now with it being admitted openly by him of his sexuality, it is clear that there's no hope for her in that avenue. Persephone isn't even sure if her mother told her that she's loved when they say goodbye. Any conversation with anyone here in the Capitol has been inspired by the Games, be it Valencia or Maisey, or with Hale on being coached on how to kick ass and take names.
This is entirely unlike her at all.
She's sipping something called ginger ale, appreciating the different, sweet taste that hits her tongue. He's opted for water, ever so the prepared one, ever so the guy who is trying to make sure he's on top of everything. Persephone wonders why she is so unconfident in her abilities, which are clearly there, but then she looks at Valencia scoring an eleven, or the guys who just exude muscular weight. Even the new joiners of Hero and Victoria are amazing in their own fighting ability. While Maisey is a point lower than her training score wise, Maisey is incredibly strong. Put a weapon in her hands, something that can be thrown: knife or spear... damage is going to be done.
Persephone stops stirring her glass, looking at Milor who prefers to chug out of it by holding it to his lips. Then, out of the blue, "I think you're one of the bravest people I've ever met."
He stops drinking, setting the glass down, wiping at the back of his mouth. "I don't believe that, Persephone."
"No, you are," she scoots her chair over closer to him. "For how long I've known you, I wouldn't have even guessed that about yourself," Persephone grabs Milor's hand, bringing it closer to her body. Her hand is warm, his shockingly cold, and he looks up at her, electric blue eyes firing off information at a thousand miles a second. "You told that to every single person in Panem. You told the truth about your father, which I am certain he now has people knocking down his door trying to get at him for being a terrible parent. That takes bravery, Milor. Bravery you have."
Milor doesn't know what to say, except that he doesn't know why she grabs his hand. It is a kind gesture, most certainly, but he doesn't need it. There's nothing to him that requires all this love. Persephone knows it is one of her fatal flaws. She cares too much for people. Why volunteer for the Hunger Games, which most certainly requires her to kill people she may get close to... she isn't certain of that. If it is anyone else besides Milor as her district partner, she wouldn't be able to admit if she'd feel the same way, pride wise, about them. There's a humanness to him that she appreciates.
A humanness that she wishes to find one day in herself.
Persephone has to remind herself, at which she's trying every day to do but is unable to, that she's enough. She may not be enough for Hale, or up to Valencia's standards, or enough for the society of the world around her that they expect a Career from District 2 to be, but that doesn't matter. Persephone Castor is enough for Persephone Castor, and whenever she starts to disbelief this universal truth, she bites down on her lip as she hard as she can.
She sometimes draws blood, but this is so she is prepared for it. There's going to be carnage in the arena tomorrow. Nothing pretty. Nothing pretty at all.
Milor drops his hand from hers, looking down at the floor. "Thank you, Persephone," he says.
"Was it bad?" she asks. "With your father?"
There is a fear behind his eyes, an unspeakable one, a type of emotion and look in his eyes that sends chills racing all up and down Persephone's spine. Her interview is right before his, and he more than likely stole the thunder from everyone on that stage, and when she's listening to his stories, the truth he says and reveals, it causes her to bring a hand to her mouth out of terror, out of fright. The way Milor describes his father beating him with whatever the man could find: shoes, fists, even a stick, once... or how he locks Milor in a five by five room and doesn't let him out for two days, and to even be sent away to some sort of school to get him 'straight'... it bowls Persephone over with nausea. How her best friend could be treated so coldly, and she had no idea about it.
"Yeah," Milor swallows heavily, his eyes glassy, teary-eyed. "Yeah... it was bad, Seph." She's never heard that nickname from him before, but it works. He wipes at his eyes, pushing back his chair, finishing his glass of water. "I'm going to go to the roof."
Persephone takes another sip of her ginger ale, moving a bit faster than what her body might allow. "Do you want me to go with you?"
"I'd prefer to be alone," he says.
She stops in her tracks, slightly wounded if she is to be honest. However, she knows why... Persephone is having him draw some unrequited piece of his past out of him for the second time, perhaps where he shouldn't be under fire to tell the truth about it again. Milor walks off into the elevator, the doors opening and closing, leaving Persephone Castor as the only person awake on District 2's floor.
It is time for her to retire and go sleep... it's a big day tomorrow and every warrior needs sleep.
As she wanders off, leaving her glass of ginger ale on the counter, wetness slides down her cheeks. It isn't droplets of condensation from the glass... they're tears.
It has finally hit her, right now, right then in the living room at the bar that to get home, to get back to her mother, to make herself good enough to be loved... to become victor of the 100th Hunger Games, the 4th Quarter Quell, Persephone is going to have to come home over Milor Drusus's dead body. Problem is...
She's willing to do it, too.
Edwin Bishop: District 5 Male P.O.V (15)
This is meant to be a learning exercise. Well, he hopes it is. Edwin hasn't left Annabellina's side all night, he sitting with her on the carpeted floor in the living room. She is still dressed all beautifully in her interview outfit, he changing back to a more relaxed pair of shorts and simple shirt, but the fact that Annabellina hasn't gotten off the floor is starting to make him nervous.
Everything about her spells a disaster waiting to happen. Even from the first day of training, from when she switches her name all the time when talking to him, to the line about there being fire in which she's born out of, like Athena coming from Zeus's skull sort of mythos, Edwin's skin crawls whenever he is near her. Something about her perplexes him, it nicking at the scientific aspect of his brain, but there's nothing else about her that is fascinating.
He's terrified, just hours ago, when there's a sudden slam against one of the walls in his room, coming from hers, enough to have him stir awake out of the current novel he is engrossed in, as there's nothing worse than sitting around and allowing him to get psyched out of performing well in the arena. When he runs in, Annabellina's hands wrapped around her own throat, her own face starting to turn blue, his blood turns to ice, and everything becomes all about saving her, saving Annabellina, making sure she's okay. When she sobs in his arms, hugging him, Edwin isn't necessarily flooded with relief like he expects. There's a boundary all of a sudden drawn, as he didn't take her recovery to be celebratory. He is holding her out at arm's distance.
It is an unwritten rule somewhere, in some room, on some shelf, in a dusty book, a code. District partners take care of district partners, they try to find common ground... district partners don't kill district partners. Part of that is why Edwin is compelled to her, despite the clear showings of some mental instability. His mind pokes at a few thoughts, but behind it, there's a certain jealousy that rears its ugly head in.
Comparing himself to Annabellina, she's exactly what the Hunger Games would want. The Games, the Capitol, more specifically, want someone entertaining, and what is his district partner if not that? Edwin can often look down at his own body, where the only thing that sticks out is his glasses, but then he looks at her, cannon fire going off even when every soldier has gone home, and there's a sadness that fills the moat in his heart. He's nothing with Annabellina on the rise. He isn't entertaining. He isn't victor material. The fact that someone as smart as he has become is even thinking of that means that Edwin Bishop has fallen far.
Everything builds to earlier, with the training scores. He's jealous that she's scored higher than him, already drawing the attention of people in Panem everywhere, putting him at a disadvantage. What did this girl from District 5 do to score just one level behind a Career?
He is sitting across from her, trying to get past all of that, trying to bridge an alliance now, trying to forge on ahead and make sure she's okay. He almost doesn't want to leave her alone, terrified he'll wake up and find her dead in the corner.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
Nothing awry has happened for the last few hours. Annabellina seems to be Annabellina, refreshing as that can be. "I- I think so."
"Are you still in pain?" he doesn't have to mention why, that is evident enough from his tone.
"Well, I punched myself in the gut," she cracks a light smile, almost uncharacteristic of her to do so. "Hard to not still feel that."
Edwin shifts closer, their knees touching together in the spaces provided, as both are sitting on the carpet with their legs crossed together. "Annabellina, I am going to need you to be honest with me. What happened earlier today, in your room?"
His district partner closes her eyes, sighing. He is almost expecting, when she opens them again, for her eyes to be a different color. Her body trembles, he feeling it along the connectivity at the knees. "I- I have MPD."
"Multiple personality disorder," Edwin repeats back to her, and then it clicks. His hunch is right. "Schizophrenia..." he trails off.
She nods. "Yeah. That," Annabellina looks down at her hands. "I touched an electrical wire when I was very young. Part of me was born with fire, like I said two days ago." The way his district partner looks at her skin is almost as if Annabellina is anticipating the wounds to reappear, for the burns on her hand to all of a sudden come out and scar her flesh once more.
"How- how many are inside of you?" he really hopes that didn't come across as insulting. He's scared of her, scared of what she'll do, what she'll say. If it will even be Annabellina doing it in the end.
"Five," she replies.
"Five..." Edwin echoes, his heart hammering in his chest. Oh... oh shit. That certainly isn't good. He's pretty certain he's seen two of them already, maybe a third.
"There's Anna, which is most like me now," his district partner counts on her fingers. It is almost disconcerting how easily she just says this. "Smart, logical, tries to be the leader. Then there's Elli, who is completely book smart, but also a bit egotistical," her eyes get a bit glossy at the next. "Belle is flirtatious, artsy... she's who I was tonight on stage. The dancing. Lina is full of sadness," and then it is as if the room drops twenty degrees in a second. "Lastly there's Abe," her voice is ominous. "Full of rage. Angry all the time. Violent. Combatant."
"I've seen Abe, Lina, and Belle, then," Edwin comments. What gives it away, besides the traits, if he's remembered correctly, is that Annabellina has flat out turned into them, saying their names and everything. A bit easy, he supposes. "Can you control them at all?"
Annabellina bites down on her lower lip, nearly hard enough where the skin could go completely off. "Usually one will take the wheel for an extended period of time. I know what I am doing, but more often than not I'm Anna. Controlled. Calm. Collected," she shakes her head. "I've been switching so much recently that I don't know what to do. It's never been bad like this before."
"What happened in your bedroom?"
"They were fighting with each other. Abe tried taking the wheel..." she shudders. "I choked myself because he was choking Belle, and-" she breaks off, closing her eyes. "I didn't know what to do. I couldn't stop him, the others couldn't hold him off."
"I heard you cry out in pain," Edwin slowly moves his hand closer and closer to Annabellina's leg, almost as a gesture to keep her grounded, to keep her centered, to keep her as Annabellina.
"I tried fighting back," she locks eyes with him. Annabellina's stare is haunting, not just hers, but Lina's, Anna's, Elli's, Abe's, and Belle's all caught with her. "They all were going at one another. Even Elli, and that's when I am the least combative. If one of them got punched, I physically felt the punch. I got thrown forward because Abe chucked Anna across a room..."
Alarms are ringing in his head, but he's going to say it anyways. Code red, code blue, code all of the damn colors in the rainbow! "I'll be honest with you, Annabellina... you scare me. I'm terrified of what you'll say, of what you'll do, of who you might be? You say that you can't control it? That you're at war with yourself in your head? Jesus! How am I supposed to help you with that?"
"I think you keep me grounded... like, that you remind me, of me..." Annabellina says, her voice perking up.
All of a sudden, and Edwin is sure he misses this, she mover forward in her dress, and his district partner is atop him. Her lips are locked with his in a kiss, Annabellina pressing him further into the ground. A croak of surprise catches in his throat, it dissipating away at the action, and he wraps one hand around the small of her back. Her hands are gentle against his chest, a daintiness to her touch, and then everything breaks. Edwin closes his eyes for a second, almost dreamily, before opening them in a flash. Annabellina lifts up off of him, placing a cold hand against the side of his face. Even with all the beauty, even with her kissing him... what's real?
He's terrified of her. Nothing she does will change that.
Edwin swallows heavily. That's his first kiss, maybe even hers too, but he's moving over that fact. He shifts her off of him, Annabellina's face twisting into a myriad of unreadable emotions, but it seems that she stays herself, no other personality taking the wheel so to speak. Edwin's tongue feels heavy in his mouth.
"That isn't you, Annabellina," he whispers, his heart breaking in two. "That's just one of your other you's…" Edwin licks his lips. "You don't care for me like that..."
He pushes past her, dotting at his eyes, getting rid of the tears. Edwin is certain that Annabellina stands up after him, perhaps to follow, but he runs away from her. There are visions of glory on his horizon, and unfortunately she and the rest of her isn't in the picture.
Edwin can't do this anymore.
Well, I wrote this in entirely one sitting and I can't believe it. I am exhausted haha, from like 9:00 PM to 1:00 AM I just churned out this chapter, with maybe an hour break total at different times. Well, ladies and gents, that was Chapter #21: Visions of Glory, with points of view from Valencia, Deacon, Rochelle, Alexandra, Persephone, and Edwin. Which one was your favorite to read? Which pairing of tributes (not romantically, guys *looks at Romeo pointedly*) was your favorite?
There's only six more points of view left to reach double wise, in a manner just like this chapter, and I am super excited to start writing it. We're almost there guys, at the Bloodbath, and the start of the Games, and I can't believe we're nearly there, almost to the point where thinking about it is bringing tears to my eyes. Make sure, while you guys wait for updates, to go read LongingForRomeo's SYOT, Tempestas the 189th Games. At the point of me writing this, we're down to the final ten, and my tribute Jerry Kapper from District 6 is still alive. I know I've plugged it a lot in this story already, but seriously, it's good, so give it a read while you wait for my updates.
Next chapter is going to be #22: Speaking in the Silence (also the name of a dance solo I created for myself; just love the title), which is the last chapter before the hammer stroke will fall. Please review, as I know there's been a lot of juicy content on the horizon. I love you guys so much! Have an amazing day! Bye!
~ Paradigm