Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter for Bombs and Bullets, Chapter #22: Partisan in Death. Last chapter, #21, was, well, longgggg and I still have no idea whether or not to be sorry about it, seeing POV's from Satin, Aris, Seth, Jason, Vivian, and Amaris which had me sobbing into my hands uncontrollably a lot. This chapter has the last six POVs I haven't covered a second time since their introduction, they being, in this order: Magdalena, Roanoke, Bloom, Jules, Ciphra, and Vanya, and then moving on past that, and I'm so excited. Okay, I'll be honest here, I have no idea where this word count will land as Bloom-Vanya have a lot of ground I really need to cover in their POVs especially with what I have planned, so I apologize prehumously (it's not even a word lol) and I hope you enjoy Chapter #22: Partisan in Death.
~ And so sayeth the Lord, always be prepared to be summoned for battle; your spear should be by your side at all times, or otherwise you have failed as a solider of Heaven.
Magdalena Bertha: District 8 Female P.O.V (18)
It is a souring experience, to know that this time the Peacekeepers have caught her and this time she might not be escaping their clutches with just scars lining her arms and her back. She realizes this, like a lightning bolt to the forehead, whilst sitting on the couch, nibbling on yet again another straw. Magdalena teethes around the edge of it, biting away at the bits her teeth can snag onto. She spits out some of the pieces that get stuck in her teeth into a white soup bowl sitting next to her. The moment she and Cambric return back into their floor after waiting so long for their interview, it is the first place she rushes too, taking off her stupid heels, but she's yet to slink out of the velvet dress she's wearing, which sparkles underneath the mood lighting they've set. Cambric is lying on the other couch, distended like one of the logs they currently have resting in the fire place, head propped up on a pillow. Occasionally his eyes will shut, and then he opens them again, this generally happening at the sound of another straw wrapper falling to the floor, already in a snowstorm pile of paper.
"Why are you biting up straws?" he asks her, with his eyes closed, exhaustion creeping in his voice.
Magdalena shrugs. "It's that or my nails." She has no idea where the habit arose from, she having been a chronic nail biter - a lack of nails means being unable to pick locks if the key she has doesn't work, or if she is not willing to use a vase and smash open the windows - from the age of four, before the concept of thievery is known to her. A pack of the straws from one of the drawers next to the silverware sits against her other leg, stuck in a canteen, about thirty to forty over them, and she has no idea how much plastic she might swallow down her throat while the hours of the night creep along.
Cambric accepts the answer, shrugging to himself, before closing his eyes once more, cradling the pillow like it is his last lifeline. Magdalena smiles to herself, looking at her district partner. She knows that everyone is paying attention to them now - she absentmindedly runs a finger over one of the scars that is at her navel, a piercing one that she can still feel the knife that created it vibrate at times - with their brave or stupid, depending on who Magdalena asks, decisions on stage. A chill runs through her when Cambric gets in Pollux's face, but it is a chill that disappears as soon as it arrives. She has never really thought too much about being in the Capitol, or what the Capitol is like in relation to the treating of the districts. Sure, she's never killed anyone before, and she isn't what she'd call dirt poor anymore, but it confuses her all the same, where Cambric is coming from. He's seen worse than her, he's seen far worse.
She's felt worse, though, so she has him beat.
Her leg still slightly hurts just below where she had scrapped her knee really badly, just yesterday in fact, the sting sometimes causing her to pause. A panicked thought laces her mind momentarily, her face flushing, but Cambric does not see the lapse of confidence, with his eyes closed and all. Will the injury diminish her running capabilities? It is a possibility, one she has tried to not cross out in her head, but it's there in the back of her mind, fresh, now, when looking at her exposed legs, her dark skin glowing under the lights. Magdalena looks back at Cambric again, smiling to herself once more. She genuinely likes him, and she knows he genuinely likes her, although their first few interactions might have been a bit frosty. There may be some remnants of disdain hiding in his gaze, especially as he knows she doesn't give what she steals to the poor, taking from both sides alike, but Magdalena knows nothing other than it being survival of the fittest, survival of the smartest, and certainly not survival of the bravest.
Magdalena scoffs to herself, discarding the straw currently in her mouth, taking another one out of the pile, holding it in her hands like a cigarette. "You know what's funny?" she asks, aloud, and Cambric's eyes open immediately. Perhaps he hadn't actually been falling asleep, a thought that startles her suddenly. She writes him off to quickly, she supposes, but she knows that he knows he isn't a fighter and scoring a twelve had been some genius act of the heavens, not due to lethality or skill. He doesn't say anything, but he does nod, prompting her further. "I actually wanted to be a part of the Careers," Magdalena laughs to herself and the ridiculousness of the idea. Cambric sits up to one elbow, raising an eyebrow, they matched in feelings on this. "I thought I was going to make my way through into the alliance and become something."
"You, a Career?" Cambric repeats, in disbelief, and there's a humor glinting in his eyes.
She shakes her head too, letting out a raucous peal of joy. "I know, I know how stupid it sounds!" Magdalena rips off the wrapper of the straw, letting it fall to her feet. "I thought I was going to get such an exceptionally high score that they'd have to take me in and well..." her voice trails off, eyes doing so too, Cambric nodding lightly, shrugging his shoulders once more, and closing his eyes, falling back against the pillow. That had been her thought process, genuinely, but when Ms. Fallorne raises an eyebrow at her, skepticism marking her face, Magdalena's hopes shatter like a falling star. It seemed to her though, being on the outside looking in, that the Careers were not allowing outsiders from other districts into their ranks after both tributes from Six refused the advance, and instead, the kid from Four decides it to be best to kick people out of the alliance.
Magdalena has never laughed harder in her life, it causing her to giggle now.
Her gaze passes over to Cambric. He had not been her first choice as an ally, she looking at the gilded, immortalized Careers as something to aspire for, the thing to aspire for, to be, and she's dropped down in disappointment instead. However, the moment she falls from the Gauntlet, bleeding profusely, he rushes over to her, and she's not so sure any other district partners would've done it for their counterparts had they taken a tumble. They know about there being Capitol medics on stand-by, should, lord forbid, something happen, yet he comes riding to her aid regardless. Magdalena can't hate him, she really can't.
But she can kill him.
All of a sudden, feeling the odd crunch of plastic underneath her teeth does not warm her body anymore, nor does it calm the nerves. She spits out the last few bites into the bowl, almost like a collection of sunflower seeds, setting them aside from her onto the coffee table, putting the other collection of straws there as well. Magdalena tucks her legs in underneath her, looking down at the mess she's made. She'd clean them up, but she doesn't want to move. She'd rather stay seated forever, stay seated in this moment of hearing Cambric, who has actually fallen asleep now, by seeing his body rise and fall under his soft breaths, and not have to look head on at the horror trying to grab her by the face. The reality of what she had just thought is the one she's trying to evade, but him snoring and breathing lightly keeps ebbing her attention back towards him, a tide she is unable to outswim.
She likes him, she genuinely likes him, and she'd do anything for him that he'd do for her as partners in the arena. Magdalena is unsure if it is because she has no other choice, or this is exactly what she wants. Back home, there's been a few scrapes and bruises here and there, trying to escape the hands of justice - in Panem, that is the stark black leather of Peacekeeper gloves, their commandeering and booming voices echoing against brick walls while chasing criminals through the smog covered streets of Eight - but it has never been anything lethal. She has yet to be caught since that first whipping, those scars a badge of honor, a medal given to her by her parents for her dealing in the absolute truth that she has only herself out there looking for her in the world. The reaping bowl has caught up to her first, however.
Magdalena likes him enough, surely, he having opened his heart and exuding a grace that no one would give to her back home if they saw her in need, but the bitter taste in her mouth comes back, the same kind she tastes on her tongue when Cambric leans into Pollux's personal space, talking of dead bodies and the blood all Panemians share... he's just a stepping stone for her survival. She slinks off of the couch, going over to the opposite corner of the one he's currently laying on, there being a blanket placed on top of rim of the couch. Magdalena picks it up, it being heavier than she expects, before draping it over Cambric, slowly, slowly but surely. She wants him to remember, to know, that the same soothing feeling as the blanket is the cold embrace that Death will kiss him with, when the plastic sheet goes over his body signifying his end.
The girl from Eight stands over her partner, chewing on the inside of her lip. She can picture it now, as clear as day, without any interruptions, the concept of his final moments. Magdalena knows that when the time is right for them to part ways, as she'll do it in the night, a thief always traveling under the lone company of the stars, that the blade will dive down into his temple, and back out. Just once, only once, for she's not sure if the contents of her stomach will survive a second dipping into the pot of life. With the blade stained in Cambric's blood, she'll stash away, the cannon will fire, tears will be shed, and Magdalena Bertha will be one step closer to home.
She leans down closer to him, brushing one of his curls out of his eyes, now this time her smile turning into a frown. Damn the Capitol. Damn the Games, damn all of it to hell; he doesn't deserve to die, but neither does she, and because of that, he does deserve it.
"Sweet dreams, Cambric," Magdalena whispers to him, but whether or not she's actually heard, no idea. "I'll see you in the morning."
Without taking a second look behind herself, she turns away from the couch, heading to the bedrooms to slink off her velvet dress.
She does not cry, as the reality sets in, the frizzling of the lightning bolt that strikes her in the head dissipating outwards in bands of knowledge that glow a luscious emerald green.
Her tears have been dried up long ago, from her whipping, and Magdalena Bertha cries no more.
Cambric Vogel's demise will, unfortunately, not be the cause to bring it back, either.
Roanoke Arkus: District 7 Male P.O.V (13)
He can still feel her hand on his shoulder, she towering over his tiny frame, having been sitting on the ground, Roanoke looking up at Sage with expectant eyes, and then when her hand leaves his shoulder, there's nothing else radiating in his heart expect hatred. Roanoke didn't know he could feel the emotion of hate. There are no tears in her eyes as she says this, as she does her heinous deed, and Roanoke feels the sting still, no matter how hard he tries to fight it. He rests his head down on the counter of the bathroom sink, the chilled granite slowly sending waves into his forehead, pulsating motions of coolness and relaxation, but the rest of his body is engulfed in flames, on fire, scalding hot, and the tears he cries, the tears Sage swears she does not know how to expel, they are hotter than the core of the sun.
Roanoke wonders if it is because he's scored higher than her, from her stupid mistake at throwing an axe at the Head Gamemaker. He does not dare say it aloud, afraid she'd slap him silly across the face, but it is the truth... jealousy of a thirteen year-old, could you believe it? He looks at himself in the mirror, skin tanned and browning, his tears a saline drip through the fade, amber eyes blinking through the murky haze of melancholy. His calloused hands grip the edge of the counter so hard he's sure he'd break it, but what would he do with the broken piece? What could he do with the broken piece? The door to the bathroom is locked, and he's shut his bedroom door, going to bed far earlier than what he is originally anticipating, the traitorous district partner - "Not district partner," he thinks to himself, "The district dead meat," Roanoke sneers to himself in the mirror, shocked by the ugly expression combing his features - practicing her axe swings with a lone candlestick. He wishes she'd fall on it and impale herself.
"No you don't," he thinks to himself again. "You wouldn't want her harmed in the slightest."
"Not true!" Roanoke growls to himself.
It is the people in life that are good, the people in life that are wonderful that pay the price. His mother, with her arm taken clean off by the sawblade, too lost in the thaw of shock to even scream; he's too lost in the thaw of rage to even scream, to try and shatter the mirror, but it'd only show his brokenness back. He thought that Sage would be different, just from how he sees her, that sweet smile, her melodious voice, and that temper where he needs it to come in handy, but even the sweetest sap from a tree can sour one day, and it turns out she's soured too early, and yet it blindsides him, a choking feeling building in his throat. She wastes no time in cutting the cord, either, moments after they come back from the Interviews. He thinks they'd sit together on the couch like they did the two days after training, but instead, she propels him to the kitchen counter, gives him a glass of water, and then shatters his heart by holding it in her hands.
"We'd be good together," Roanoke gaffs, smiling before taking a sip of the water. He ponders, briefly, why she is not drinking anything either. Instead, Sage rolls her knuckles with the thumb of her right hand, as if she is massaging the poison of a water moccasin to her fingertips.
She shakes her head, trying to hide her own grin, but there's a sense of disappointment hiding in her eyes. "I'm with others back home, Roanoke. Besides, you're too young for me."
That has him giggling, and Roanoke sets the water glass down. "Not like that, silly," and he decides to take a massive leap of faith. "Besides, I'm not into girls like that." Sage's eyes glisten with approval. When did she know? When did she know she hadn't been like all the others? And the concept of two partners? Roanoke knows that if he tries coming home with a boy on his arm, there'd be the sawed off barrel of a shotgun pressed up to his forehead, and he to pray to the leaves that his blood doesn't soak the ground too badly, let alone the concept of multiple lovers. He only has two hands... it sounds like a lot of busy work. "No, Sage, I meant allies."
"Oh," Sage nods, but then that look of disappointment digs deeper, and her brow furrows together, she picking at a loose strand of hair curling around her hair.
Roanoke pounds the counter with his fists, closing his eyes, exhaling heavily. He knew he'd been excavating too far beneath the surface with her, that something is wrong before it shows its face, mangled up, scarred, blistered and bleeding, like his own hands gripping the controls of the woodcutting machine. It is him holding on the controls while his mother works at pushing the logs through. He's the one who severs his mother's hand free, and then the arm follows, and he's never felt more revulsion in his throat than then. However, this moment, just hours ago in the kitchen, it is a close runner-up, and he'd turn the controls back on again if it meant Sage's hand is the one going into the whirling blade. He can picture her finally breaking, screaming in agony and-
"What is wrong with you?" he asks himself, gasping, stepping away from the mirror. He hates the look in his eyes, the burning anger that radiates from within, looking like the smoke that comes from the razing of several square miles of the nearby forest. District 7 is swamped with them, but this is different, when the Peacekeepers intentionally set ablaze the land around them to grow some sort of tree that provides specific wood to build trellises and the like in the Capitol. Roanoke hears the agonizing moans of the land beneath his feet, the disturbances of time that shift when the ash finally settles over freshly made graves. His parents, besides their strange apprehension of homosexuality and some other types of sins, from their faith, are good parents, and it is father that speaks up for the trees, and that sends his father to the gravy line, fired for speaking up - luckily he is not whipped - and then, his mother...
Roanoke shudders, hands going to his temples, gripping the sides of his head harshly. "This isn't you, Arkus, snap out of it!"
The silence passes over them for a moment as Roanoke finishes his glass of water, setting the cup in the sink. Sage runs her hands down along the counter, and occasionally she'll look up at the ceiling, sighing heavily to herself, before continuing the running of her fingers on the countertop, nails digging into the granite, making slight squeaking noises. He returns back to sitting on the other side of the counter, on one of the barstools so he can kick his legs, which he knows is incredibly childish, but regardless, he does it still.
"Roanoke," Sage says, without preamble, filling the silence, in which all he hears is the slow dripping tap of the sink into the basin below, and consistent drip, drip, drip stuffing the void of her awkward pause. "We can't be allies."
He's glad he just finished his drink, for Roanoke chokes on air, nearly falling off of the barstool. It would be quite the way to die, from falling back and breaking your neck. "What?" Roanoke asks, after gathering his bearings.
"Allies," she repeats, but Sage is unable to bring eye contact to him. Coward. Liar. Thief in the night. Traitor. Vigilante. Roanoke can go through a laundry list of names. "I can't be allies with you."
"Why- why not?" Roanoke sits up, actually jumping off of the counter, but then he realizes the height difference is quite astronomical, she at least an extra seven to eight inches on him, making it to six feet. Perhaps he should've stayed seated. "Did the Careers offer you a spot? I know they saw you throw and-"
"The Careers did not offer me a spot," she interrupts him. "Besides, after I scored a zero, they wouldn't even look at me, you know that." Sage shakes her head, and although he hears the sadness riding her voice, it is not the same thing as physically seeing the tears in her eyes, the tears he expects to be there. When they lock gazes, he's shocked. She's as rigid as the famous pine tree standing against the Justice Building, at least forty years old now, a pinecone swamp middling around the base of the tree, and there's nothing but a stark winter looking back at him. "I am four years older than you, Roanoke. I know you'd protect me and would defend me, and you know I would protect you and defend you too," she pauses for a second, Sage looking down at the counter. "But could you? Could you physically do it if that monster from Two or the girl from Six or that giant from Twelve came rushing at me and I was preoccupied with something else? Could you jump in and save me?"
Roanoke knows the answer to that already. No. "Yes, I would," he insists, leaning close to her, almost falling off the counter. "You know I would."
"They'd snap you like a twig," Sage says, her voice harsh, but there's a light shining in her eyes, a truth to it. Roanoke doesn't know what he believes in, perhaps not the faith his parents do, but something up above, something having to exist, and he's not sure if Sage is speaking like a prophet to him or not.
"I may surprise you..." his voice has lost all the fight in it.
She brings her mouth together in a light frown, eyes downcast. "You're not strong enough to survive out there, Roanoke, and I can't be there for you forever to protect you," her hand goes back to touch the loose strand of her dancing around her ear. "Besides, think about last year. Linden and Peri," the water in the boy's mouth dries up instantaneously, he trying to spend all his time in the Capitol to not think about the previous results. "If we were in the final two, or three, as allies..." Sage shakes her head, and this is the closest to a real expression of sadness that he feels from her. "I'd do it in a heartbeat, to make it out, and I don't know if you would be able to," she hiccups, but no tears stream down her cheeks. "I don't want to kill you, Roanoke, and I never want to be in a situation where that might happen, so I'm cutting you loose..." she sets a hand on his shoulder. "Please try to understand me."
Out loud, in the present, Roanoke now having his forehead rest against the mirror, dark hair covering his reflection in waves of an ever moving abyss, he sighs, as he didn't have an answer for her then, the words stuck in his throat and unable to come free. "Oh, I understand, Sage," he whispers to himself, but he knows that she knows he's answering her now, for the movement out in the living room ceases, as if they're tethered together. "I understand it well enough. I hope you're dead before our paths ever cross."
Even saying so does not make him feel better, but it's a start.
The 101st Hunger Games can corrupt even the sweetest of souls.
Bloom Estrada: District 12 Female P.O.V (18)
It's out in the open now. There's no hiding it, and Bloom is incapable of hiding the sadness that creeps up in the back of her throat. Mirek hates her. He hates her and everything to do with any sort of cause concerning it ever, because his father did something in the middle of the night that got him killed. She doesn't want to say anything that'll piss him off, as Mirek is a brewing storm just waiting to crack its first thunderbolt down from the heavens, Bloom feeling his rage emanate off of him the same way an egg-shaped timer vibrates its shell off when the time's up. Is her time up? It's a rather depressing thought, but she has to ask it to herself, hearing him shout on stage. The concept of them being allies hadn't been entirely lost to the wind, but she's starting to think it isn't something she should do, and Mirek admitting he wants to see every sort of freedom fighter dead has her blood chilled to ice.
She's not safe with him. Had she ever been, though?
The night is quiet, the hours getting late, but both he and her practically float around the space, traveling from room to room on their floor, but never wanting to go to sleep. There's the light passage of conversation sometimes, mainly about her father which she has no problem divulging tales over, but he's more withdrawn when talking about his mother and sister, two people in his life he seldom gets to see due to well, she knows why. Saying it out loud will not make the puzzle pieces come together clearer any longer.
Bloom sits down on the partitioned step up from the living room into the main bedroom hallways, her diamond dress billowing around her in a puddle of light blue cloth and a blizzard white foam to the edges. She absolutely loves the dress, running her fingers through the fabric, but her gaze goes back over to Mirek, he sitting at the counter, eating a bowl of grapes that their escort had wanted, but he's taken them for himself. He's commanded a lot for himself, Bloom supposes, looking at him with admiration. It's a shame, what he feels. And then, without preamble, for Bloom never does think about her decisions a hundred and ten percent of time, jumps the shark.
"You're in pain."
Mirek freezes into eating from the bowl of grapes, one halfway devoured in his mouth. Her district partner swallows the bite he's taken, the other half hanging between his index finger and thumb, he rolling the piece of fruit around. "Aren't you just a purveyor of the obvious?"
"Mirek, I-" Bloom gets to her feet, bringing the rest of the dress with her.
"I know what you mean." he cuts her off, swallowing the other half of the grape, before pushing the bowl aside. There aren't many left, and Bloom is debating going over and taking some, but she'd rather not lose her hand if you catch her drift. "And for the record, I am."
She takes a few steps closer to him, eyebrows raised. He seems like one to be entirely cut off from the world, entirely unchecked in expressing his emotions and that this is the first time he's ever expressed any sort of permanent or deep amount of feeling, to let alone agree with her. Two days ago she's glaring at him for badmouthing her to the Careers, people who'd surely feel pissed off at her for her motivations. "I had no idea that-"
Mirek waves a hand back and forth, shaking his head. "Spare me the melodrama," he locks his jaw, sighing exasperatedly, before looking at her. "You don't give a shit about me or my father, Bloom." She doesn't break eye contact with him, liquidous chocolate bearing right back at her, but this stare undoes her to the core. It strips her of everything she's ever known, everything she's ever owned. He undresses her with that one stare, and she's never felt more exposed or naked than in this moment despite being dressed, but it is not a sexual look he gives her. It is one of loathing.
Of hatred.
"We're not all like that, you know." She doesn't think he's stupid, but some of the things he thinks about and expresses, she's finding it hard pressed to argue that statement. "We're not all heartless shrews focused on overthrowing the system." Bloom swallows her fear, approaching him finally at the counter, and standing on the other side of it, he focused right there on the tiled kitchen, and he reaches for the bowl of grapes again. Bloom covers that hand with her left, and as if a jolt of electricity had passed between the two of them, he locks eyes with her, mouth falling open slightly. "I'm sorry, Mirek. I'm sorry about your father, and I would do anything I could to bring him back for you, but I don't have that kind of power."
He likewise swallows disconcertingly, it seeming difficult for him to actually swallow, the action causing him great pain. "Bloom-" Mirek turns his face away for a second, taking in a sharp breath.
"And I don't believe that you hate me. I don't believe that you hate everyone who ever stands up against the Capitol," she decides to test her luck even farther. For living in District 12, she and he would know more than anyone, more than any other tribute reaped or volunteered for the Games about the history of the Capitol's punishments. The lackadaisical quality to their touch has gone out of style, and it brings forth the whips and the stockades and the firing squads. The curfews are numerous, choking the populace tighter. She knows that Mirek is not walking around with his eyes closed.
He's not blind, and he cannot deny it any longer.
"Maybe I do. Maybe I don't," Mirek removes his hand from underneath hers, returning it back to her side, but he has yet to take his eyes off of her. It is as if the hatred deepens, and she can feel a piercing stare go through the bones on her arms. "What's it to you?"
"Because I am sure Mirek Bosco hates being called a liar."
Mirek straightens himself, standing up normally against the counter rather than his leaning pose where his elbows had been resting on the counter. He pushes the bowl of grapes over to her, nearly shoving it into her hands, a couple spilling out onto the counter and rolling onto the floor. Bloom still doesn't break her eye contact, for he has yet to break his. "How'd you get involved?"
What? No, he's not... is he really asking? "What do you mean?"
He scoffs, and then goes back to leaning on the counter, elbows pressing into the granite, he an inch away from her nose. "Don't play stupid with me," Bloom can feel his breath, hot and muggy, like a soiled wine, passing over her face, she squeezing her eyes, but she's not going to back away. It is almost like a challenge. Almost. "How'd you get involved with the rebellion? With the freedom fighters?"
"I wouldn't exactly call myself a freedom fighter, but..." Bloom bites on her lower lip, breaking a bulb. She's never told a soul, and he hasn't struck her as one being interested. If she closes her eyes, Bloom can still hear the girl's laugh, see the girl's smile, the memory of her sweet singing voice over the dandelions and daffodils, and Bloom can remember her heart wrenching scream as she watches the little girl on screen get beheaded by Maisey Rovneay in last year's Games. "Gaia Whisp."
Mirek brings his eyebrows together with a frown. "Who?"
"Gaia Whisp, the girl from Twelve who was reaped last year for the Quell. Her," Bloom says, exhaling shakily. She hasn't talked about her in a long time, maybe just a few days after her body is shipped back to Twelve in its typical crate, body flushed out of fluids, and Bloom's tears drying on her face as she looks down at Gaia's corpse, as pale as the sheer crystal nights above, and the stars have stopped their twinkling.
"How does a little orphan girl turn you into someone wanting to burn the Capitol down?"
Bloom locks her jaw, and she finally breaks the eye contact. No one has forced her to talk about Gaia, but she's walked into the conversation on her pure motivation, and the way out has been shut. "I'm pretty well off, but I'm not the upper class," It's the truth. An engineering job to help design mining mechanisms is a handsome paying job, but it is not enough for the grand lifestyle, not nearly enough. "My father told me that I needed to go and do something besides lounge around the house or go to school or hang out with my friends. I needed to do something, to be somebody." The weather is warm on her back, one August evening shortly after the end of the 99th Games, the building tall and impervious against the coal stained shacks, the building falling apart itself, quite unspectacularly. "I came across the orphanage, and that's where I met Gaia." Alone, sitting by herself, tears spilling down her face, eating a cold bowl of oatmeal, and Bloom is the golden goddess coming to rescue her. "Her parents died in a mining accident, and her brother, just two weeks earlier, had been reaped for the Games and she saw him die during the bloodbath."
Mirek hisses to himself, clenching onto the counter. "That's... that's rough..."
"She was the nicest girl you could ever meet, despite all the terrible things that happened to her." Bloom still has no idea why that is the little kid that she decides to hang out with, three times a week every week, telling her all about the life of Twelve, she just about to turn thirteen and her name would go up in the reaping jar... Bloom closes her eyes, the memory running off like a chastened lighting bolt. "I kinda saw her as a little sister I guess, since I didn't have any siblings." Her mother only ever had her, the daughter that they turn all their attention to. Bloom likes to think her parents are proud of who she has become. She likes to think it, at least. "One afternoon we laid in my backyard and she put flowers in my hair... it was one of the best times of my life."
"If you cared for her as much as you did, why didn't your family adopt her?" her district partner crosses his arms over the other, raising an eyebrow.
She tries to not have it bother her, but it does. The tone. Accusatory. It is not just curious, it's full of accusation and venom.
"We couldn't afford an extra person in the house," Bloom says. Trying to have kids is an expensive procedure when it cannot happen naturally, Bloom watching the way her parents dissolve at the seams when it turns out her father is a blank shooter. Her shoulders fall sagely back into place from their raised position at Mirek's rather disappointing gaze in his eyes. "Don't act like I didn't try, Mirek. I begged and I pleaded and I tried everything I could to get Gaia out of poverty and out of that sadness."
"And then she was-"
"And then she was reaped," the finality of the statement stabs her in the heart. "I wanted to volunteer for her, I definitely thought about it, but fear kept me paralyzed." She's too shocked to scream. Bloom is too shocked to call the girl out. She tries scraping money together for a sponsor gift, but the money falls back into her own coffers five minutes into the Bloodbath when the girl from Four takes her head clean off with a spiked club. "The Capitol and the world took her family from her at such a young age, and they decided that it wasn't enough so they stole her away too." Bloom sets her hands on the counter, turning them into fists. "I have never felt more angry at anything in my entire life than in that moment. I knew, from that point forward, I couldn't let them do this to another soul in the world." Her voice is icy cold, locking her jaw. "Yet here I am, unable to change anything."
"Bloom, I-"
"So, Mirek, the same thing your father was fighting for? It's the same thing I'm fighting for," she snaps, locking eyes with him again, and this time he breaks the staring contest. "I am sorry he left you at a young age, but he knew the risks, and you shouldn't try to hold it against him, cause all your father wanted to do was have a better life for you and your sister, the same I'm trying to do, if you'll let me." Bloom has raised her voice now, probably waking up the entire training center, but she doesn't care. She's hounded for caring on about the future, and if she is to stand her and not say anything on Mirek being fatherless, she knows she'll be hounded for that too. There's no victory.
"He abandoned me and-" Mirek starts up, but she's heard this a million times now, for his interview has been playing in her head over and over again.
Bloom holds a hand up, interrupting him. "He loved you. He did it because he loved you," she dares the Tarot card reading again, grabbing both of his hands in hers. "I don't know you very well and I didn't know your father, but I know that, Mirek."
He is unable to look her in the eyes. "How? How can you know that?"
"I just do." A lone tear falls down her face, she choking on air, voice cracking. "I just do."
"I'm sorry for telling the Careers what you did. I could only see my rage and anger and-" he looks down at his hands, but there's no way she's going to let him go. He's in pain, and she does not let a single sparrow try and fly away when it has a broken wing.
"You don't need to apologize, Mirek. You actually protected me from Aris and stood between us," she smirks to herself at the memory, as if it is correct, he steps in between them, even with Cyril pulling at the other teen's back. "There was no way in hell he was getting through you."
Mirek smirks to himself, smiling lightly. She's not sure he's smiled once since being in the Capitol. Not like he has an occasion to be smiling, of course, but still. "Only I get to try and hurt my district partner."
Well, okay, she can't change his sense of humor. Bloom winces inwardly at the statement, but he's learning. "Okay, that didn't work, but-" she shakes her head back and forth, inhaling, tightening her grip on his hands, leaning forward. "We have a Hunger Games to win, Mirek. I don't know how or where or even when, but I know something's coming. Something's changing, and we're gonna be a part of it." Bloom has felt it, she's felt it like a cold chill encompassing her entire body as she rests. She's seen her in a part of something more than fighting for their lives in an arena. She's seen Mirek picking up the banner and screaming for allies, and the raucous sound of metal singing in the air. The question is, what's the change? What's coming? She has no idea.
However, she does know this. Mirek is not falling through her fingers. She looks him straight in the eye, the tears drying, Gaia a distant memory, Bloom focused entirely on who is in front of her, for he matters the most. "We're all gonna be a part of it. The question is, will you try to run from your destiny?"
Jules Harper: District 4 Male P.O.V (17)
The board has been laid out, the pieces positioned in their correct spots, and there's no walking back. Jules and Anahita are lying side to side on the floor on their apartment floor, backs gently pressed into the carpet, he ever so slightly adjusting his body to scratch an itch that'd break free and crawl up his spine. They haven't switched out of their interview outfits, but Jules isn't sure he'd ever switch out of it if given the chance. He hasn't gotten the chance to wear a suit like the one he's donned in currently in his entire life, having to always resort to some sort of in-between that is trapping, a cage with solid gold bars keeping him in, keeping Jules in the rage and the anger and the stewing hatred at the disgusting body he's found himself placed in.
His family didn't have enough money to successfully afford a transitional surgery, but there is enough money to pay off the Academy Trainer, who is not one of the victors from Four regulating the trainees, which is a solid plus as they're more easy to be manipulated, the Capitol not breathing down their necks and demanding signed documentation and all that jazz. Jules knows that this would never fly in One and Two, he and his parents would be heads on spikes hanging outside the city's gates, the fresh blood from the beheadings dripping onto the cobblestone pathways as a reminder. Even in the more hands off of District 4 it is a dangerous system, Jules unable to stop his heart from beating as fast as it is while going to get his blood checked into the system. It is some sort of file alteration, done by the Academic Trainer who has connections to the Mayor's office, and for a good sum of $4000 Panemian dollars, the change will happily be instated. Once the alterations are reversed, for surely someone will know there's been a change to the system, Jules will have already won.
"Over the girl lying next to me," he thinks to himself, darkly, frowning slightly. He's grown attached of Anahita, and clearly he's sacrificed much for bringing her back to the fold. He's frustrated with the entire thing to begin with, truthfully, starting from the moment he volunteers for the Games. It had been decreed by the Academy that there'd be no competing volunteers for either spot, the male or female tribute, and that the volunteering Careers would wait entirely until the escort calls out the name of the reaped tribute, wait for the escort to then ask for any volunteers, and they'd take the leap. It is Jules's window of opportunity, when Anahita has already ran like a fast she-devil to the front of the stage that he must make his move, for everyone is still lax in the decision that some dude named Coral - who the hell names their son that? Drug addicts? - to jump for his spot of glory.
The glory tastes like strawberry champagne, if anyone is asking, as Jules helps himself to a bottle of it on the train. That ride is an odd one, for he knows he's sort of, kind of, entirely broke the law, and volunteered a year early, but Jules has pushed himself farther than anyone else in the Academy the last couple of years when the idealism of his true self comes forth, riding a golden chariot in the dawn of a new day. If things were normal or typical, which is a never happening occurrence in the Harper household, Jules would take his place as the 102nd Hunger Games District Four female volunteer, but that is not him, and he cannot wait any longer to take his stance as the male volunteer of the district. So that is why his hand soars up, and he gets out of line before the escort has even called the name on the slip of paper she pulls from the pile, and the glares are a bit weird and perhaps somewhat annoying, but he's moving past feeling accused. No one is stealing this away from him. The Capitol and District Four has taken enough.
They've taken Carrion, and that's a motion he'll never forgive them for.
Anahita's hair smells like strawberries, neither one of them talking all that often, just passing comments here or there, but enjoying their company while the ceiling fan above them drones on and on in its circles. Thinking back to the train rides, he feels Anahita's stare on him wherever he goes, she following him like a dejected puppy, for he is simply indulging in the delights offered per car and does not feel like he's babysitting her. However, in those moments, a bond grows, and he feels proud of her bravery to volunteer - slightly stupid, maybe, with a hint of insanity too, but he'll never say that out loud - that she deserves a spot in the Careers, for he can already hear the dissenting opinions coming from those who feel they could strongarm themselves into a leading position on who belongs or not simply due to age and size. Her seven is nothing to scoff at, and neither's his eleven.
"Jules?" Anahita asks, disturbing the tranquil silence that has encompassed the two of them, a bubble of serenity popping the moment she speaks. She shifts over so she's looking down at him from above, balanced on one of her arms, the other still horizontal to the carpet. Jules moves his head over some so he's looking directly at her, blinking for her to continue. "Why did you kick Aris and Satin out of the alliance?" Her cheeks are flushed pink at the center, out of her tanned complexion, and that has him frown, combined with the question. "I mean, I'm honored and all that you fought for me so hard, but they're good and you just kinda-"
"Are you questioning my decisions?" Jules asks. He doesn't try to be threatening in his tone, but it spills out that way.
His district partner swallows heavily, and her hands go to dig into several curls of hair. It's something he's seen her do whenever she gets nervous, a tick of hers to play with her hair constantly, unable to stop, unable to keep her hands to herself. "No, of course not, Jules. I was just wondering why-"
He shouldn't have to explain himself to anyone. A leader doesn't need to be questioned by his lesser compatriots. If a peon is to question someone's decisions and their leadership skills, the entire pie crumbles in their hands so they're covered in pastry and the filling and a discarded pan clattering onto the kitchen floor. It is the end for them all, if the little twats who think they know what to do start wanting to have their voices heard too. Jules has never thought of the Careers as a democracy, it never has become one. Someone, and it is always the strongest physically, with the highest score, snags up the mantle, wears the medal around their neck, is always making the decisions. It's not a democracy. It's a dictatorship, and Jules knows that he's the only one who has the balls and the guts to lead, not out of some sort of selfish desire to be the best, but so they're not all slaughtered by one another. A dosage of irony, he smirks to himself.
"Would you want to be allies with Aris and Satin?" he forges the question, now righting himself too. "You know neither one of them supported you being in the alliance. Would you have been able to fight side by side with them knowing full and well they wanted you out?" Jules raises an eyebrow, Anahita's face flushing slightly before she ducks her head.
"Neither did Cyril or Maren and-"
"That's because they assumed it'd be Aris or Satin and we're going to follow whoever led them, cause they aren't leaders," Jules brings his legs closer together, and the air between them has chilled another few degrees cooler, as if the conversation has caused the blades to spin faster. "I hadn't revealed to them what I could do, cause they saw my height, saw my age, even though Aris is the same age as I am, and wrote me out of the picture," he smiles smugly to himself. "I couldn't wait to prove them wrong."
"They counted you out because they knew you were a girl," Anahita interrupts him.
Jules pauses in mid-sentence, eyebrow still raised, lips pursed, and the record has stopped playing. What did she just say? What did she just say? "Anahita, what did you just tell me?" He must have wax stuffed in his ears, or that second bottle of strawberry champagne has caused his senses to deteriorate more than he'd like, because there is no way she just-
"You're a girl, Jules," his district partner repeats, and he's snapped awake immediately. His entire body seizes itself in a full body chill, Jules inhaling sharply, moving away from her for a second. "I've seen you around before, in the other female training classes, and one day you're all of a sudden switching from the female to male side," and then it is as if he's knocked in the head with a brick. "You're transgender."
He's not sure if he should be happy or upset that she's aired his dirty laundry out onto the floor. Jules scoots back closer to Anahita, legs generating static electricity against the fabric of the carpet. "How long have you known this, Anahita? How could you tell?"
"It's not hard to realize," she says, he trying to read the expression on her face, but it is unreadable. "Satin and Aris knew you had cheated the system or something to be the male from Four, when clearly you aren't. Why the Capitol didn't notice the discrepancy, I'm not sure," Anahita shakes her head immediately after that, holding her hands out. "Not like it matters, either, but you know what I mean," and then she smiles, his entire body feeling warm. "But I know that you aren't really a girl, Jules. You're a guy, and you're our leader, and I'm okay with that."
"You- you aren't against my identity?" Jules asks, fearful. Not everyone he's met has been thinking on the same wavelength as he has, about the gilded cage, the emotions wanting to break free. His parents did not understand it at first in the slightest, but Jules doesn't let them stop him from furthering the subject, making it sure so his parents have no other reason but to see his perspective and support him, as the money for the bribe did not come from him; it came out of the collective Harper fund.
Anahita frowns to herself at the question, lips downturned slightly into a frown, but it is a childish type of expression, almost one riddled with disappointment. "Jules, why would I have a problem with it at all? You wanting to be who you believe you are doesn't affect me negatively in the slightest, and I support you in what you believe you are."
He throws his arms around her in a hug. Jules has been dying to hear those words, and he's heard them from the last person he'd ever expect to hear them from. A lightning bolt from the sky hits him in the forehead, a rivet of shock rippling through him from the spinal cord out to the tendons in his fingers and the ligaments holding him together. He moves away out of the hug, gripping Anahita by the shoulders. She looks at him in a slight confusion, eyes searching his face, her lips parted to ask a question, but nothing comes out. Satin and Aris are expendable, caught up in their egos to really be a threat, and they'd be a nuisance trapped in the Careers with him.
Cyril and Maren are good tributes, he surmises, seeing their talents with weapons, but they're also expendable. Cyril is unable to stand up for himself, following whoever is in charge like a little lap dog, barking when the bell goes off, or rolling over, and when the pets will come from good behavior, the boy cranes his neck into the affection; Jules loves pulling the strings, the hands on the back as he gives support for the exercises. Maren, sweet Maren, she's a canoe without a rower or an oar to steer herself with, lost in the muddle of air, needing validation, and wherever the validation comes from is where she goes off to pasture.
He doesn't need any of them. They're all sheep, and sheep only are able to walk into the slaughter. Anahita, however? He sees a light in her, a brightness that'll protect him from the other four, and he's found the way to tug her strings too. A dictatorship, remember?
Jules shakes his head back and forth, slowly making a grin. "Anahita, let's ditch Cyril and Maren," he says, excitement creeping up in his voice.
"What?" Anahita's voice stutters slightly, a burst of static.
"C'mon," he says, hands still at her shoulders, with a slight shake, a rattle to the rationalization of thought, "Think about it. Aris and Satin teaming up together will be hilarious, as they'd be tearing each other apart, trying to outdo the other. Sure, I imagine they're upset with me for kicking them out of the alliance, but I don't know how they didn't see it coming with their brat like attitudes," but he sees she's not as convinced. "Of course, Cyril and Maren, I'd hate to do it to them, but we don't need them. Besides, can you imagine their surprise when we turn on them?" The excitement bubbles in his veins, his arms buzzing with the joy of the future, where his blade will enter Cyril's chest without warning, the scarlet will splatter, and it will be glorious. "We'd leave them anyways, Anahita, you know we would. It's the Hunger Games, right? Everyone for themselves?"
"But-" she starts, bringing her lower lip into her mouth, suckling on the skin.
He shakes her a bit more firmly, increasing the pressure on her shoulders, leaning closer to her. "Do you trust me, Anahita?" She doesn't respond immediately, eyes still searching his face. He's not sure what she's expecting to find, for he's kept himself devoid of the truth creeping up in his brain. "Do you trust me?"
Anahita shakes her head slowly. Of course she'd trust him. She's the only one fighting for her the entire time while everyone else throws her to the side, unable to see the potential that rests inside the fiery soul, as if someone by now hasn't learned by the years of the Games existing that you do not write someone off at first glance. "I trust you, Jules, I trust you."
Disassembling the Careers has proved easier than he expects, and he's placed the final nail in the coffin. The Capitol wants a show? He'll give them a show alright, a show that has him doing a solo tap routine underneath a blood rain, umbrella in hand, a dark leathered suit smelling of the fresh corpses littering the ground.
He's got a Hunger Games to win, and a future he sees on the horizon to take, and Jules Harper is not going to let anyone get in his way. Not an upstart from One, or a petulant child from Two, and unfortunately, this registering with a bitter taste of acid in the back of his throat, not the sweetheart from Four, no matter how nice her hair smells or how accepting she is of his identity.
A dictatorship led by Jules Harper is a surviving political system, it'll last longer than the other empires that have fallen before him.
Ciphra Longsdale: District 3 Female P.O.V (18)
It has been awhile since the last chatter of the streets has vanished into the air, and the dying lights of a city partying slowly fades into the wave of ominous rain clouds spilling over the surrounding mountains, choking the Capitol valley in a circle of calm wind, the calm before the storm. Ciphra is resting against one of the pillars erected on their floor, looking out over the glimmering city, her hair down and long against her back, blowing freely in the wind. She's freezing cold, but she can't sleep; she doesn't want to sleep. Whenever she tries closing her eyes, all she sees is that one single image that has paralyzed her with fear ever since the morning of the reaping. Tach's face, covered in blood, part of his skull ruptured, neck torn open by Veracity's claws, and the worst part is that she's ordered the execution, dressed in some sort of flowing robe decorated in diamonds, the look of madness in her eyes.
Ciphra shudders into the column some, breathing to herself. It's around one in the morning, and the tributes are to be awoken at ten in the morning sharp, so just nine hours to go, but she cannot go back to sleep. Tach's question burns in her mind, at why she'll look at him fondly for a moment, and then stare as if she's seen a horrible future. "That's just it," she tells herself in the silent moments where no other sound is around her, "I've seen all of their horrible futures." She's not sure how to explain it, but Ciphra looks at any of the tributes, including herself at some points, and there's that fate that is among most of them, head smashed in, throat torn open, but it is like the corpse is still smiling, despite the vermillion leaking out of them. She's never been more terrified of anything in her life, but she has no idea how to explain what it means either.
Some brushing noise off to her right causes her to look out from where the disturbance came from, a pair of eyes staring at her from the darkness of the hallway. After the interviews, in which Ciphra is feeling a thousand times better from than when her disappointing training score comes flashing across the screen under her portrait, Tach says he's going to bed, dark circles bearing around his eyes, Ciphra having a million and one questions about the tachyons he talks about, but she sees the connection immediately with his name and the concept, but it seems the dredging call of bedsheets and a feather pillow is more powerful than the eager discovery of knowledge, so he slips out of her grasp. Or so she thought, she supposes, as she recognizes the eye color peering out from the bleak blackness.
"Tach?" she asks, shuffling slightly against the pillar. Ciphra has switched out of her interview outfit, a glimmering copper dress, like frazzled wires out of a motherboard system that clings to her figure perfectly, putting on something more light, a more open bodice, a pink fringed cotton nightgown that is not near warm enough for her sitting outside, and when Tach does indeed step into the light, he's dressed entirely in white - Ciphra can already imagine the cardinal on his hands staining the unblemished outfit, a shudder ripping through her, and it is not the air from the city doing so - he crossing over to her.
"Hey," he greets her warmly, before taking a seat by the other pillar. "Couldn't sleep," he asks.
Ciphra shakes her head in agreement. "Yeah. You too?"
"My head is spinning," Tach motions to his skull, waving his hands about erratically in a circle. Ciphra is unable to keep eye contact with him, doing so briefly, ever so briefly, but she does not maintain her gaze lest he break out into a fountain of forever spilling blood. "I was going to get a glass of water but then I saw you out here and I thought you'd want the company."
She smiles, but the happiness that Ciphra wants to feel alongside it does not come following after like normally. He wants more than company, she can tell, for it is ever present on his voice, a slight edge to it. At first she assumes it is just the Tach Andon expectancy at this point, he being a bit jumpy like a live wire emanating sparks on the ground or into a bog, but there are levels to his razor-sharp edge of his voice. She heard it earlier, before the scores, where she refuses to respond to his question, some of the same level as before returning, but it is not as loud as last time, nor as clamorous; it no longer overrides her own thoughts.
"Thanks, Tach," she shrugs in the outfit, looking out over the silent, dark city. "I was just about to head to bed."
"You did a great interview tonight," he tells her, looking at her, she seeing so out of the corner of her eye, but she keeps her gaze intently on the stark buildings in the night, or the reflected silver crescent of moon on the window, some silver waves spilling out into the fountain down below in the courtyard, they not being that high up above the Capitol after all, the training center being a floor below ground, then a lobby, Floor One for District 1, and so on and so forth. "The audience ate up the talk about Veracity," he smiles to himself. "You should've heard Sophiana's reactions to your story," his voice is light, losing that razor touch momentarily. "She thought Veracity was a real person."
Veracity is a real person, Ciphra is hard pressed to argue, but she keeps her opinions to herself. Her parents have told her that more often than not her opinions are what gets her into trouble, and then she couples them with her imagination that never wishes to take a break, and she's got a weapon inside her own head, inflicting damage without seeing color or bias, and programmed in is also a self-destruct button, a button Ciphra has thought about pressing once before. "Thanks," she responds. "I thought your interview was good too."
"A lot of it went over their heads," her district partner waves away the compliment. "I could see their confused expressions."
She nods her head, before looking back over the gilded landscape, a congruous continent of platinum sheathed in the shadows. It is a wonderful city, beautifully designed, and she's always desired wanting to live here among the franchised, among the elite. She's seen firsthand, from the work her parents have done, the types of systems that the Capitol run on, seeing the fragility of some of those systems as if someone pushed a domino over and caused a chain reaction. Ciphra knows she's lived a more privileged life, as has Tach, who is going to agree with her on that, but it has not blinded her to the sadness that runs in her veins at the truth that she could very well die tomorrow, her privileged upbringing being unable to teach her how to survive, she impairing herself in an event she is unable to see.
"I-" she goes to say, Ciphra not quite sure what she's going to say, but Tach overrides that for her.
"I want to apologize," he says, quite abruptly, taking a seat directly across from her on the other column, stretching out his long legs so they're resting up near her side, they about a foot apart from one another, where she cannot quite fully see him in the dark of night, "About earlier," Tach finishes, having fully positioned himself correctly. "You were upset and I was demanding answers to something I know you didn't want to share." Her district partner shakes his head, frowning. "You didn't deserve that treatment from me, since you've always been nice," he looks up at her, but still, she won't. She can't physically bring herself to do it anymore. It has been a sickness brewing in her stomach, a volatile puking reaction that threatens to undo all of her work.
Ciphra squeezes her eyes shut, absorbing the silence into her head.
There's no reason not to tell him, or at least, a fraction of the truth.
"I keep... seeing things, Tach," she exhales shakily, and this time she looks at him. Ciphra is unsure if it is the shadows that cause this, but she no longer sees his ghastly fate all over him, just her district partner sitting forward some, bringing himself into the column of moonbeam with a raised eyebrow. "I don't have to look at someone for very long for it to happen."
"See... what, Ciphra?" he eggs her on, gently. The razor sharp tone is gone, dropped for a sweet one, a disarming tone, she latching onto it like a honey bee sniffing out a spot to pollinate. A smell of rosemary, a blueberry hint to the sweetness, and something harsher than that riding slowly behind it, like nutmeg and cinnamon.
Ciphra locks eyes with Tach, and he visibly shakes in the fraction of moonlight at her look. "I see Death, Tach."
"What- what do you mean?" There's not a pause when he asks the question, as Tach has now moved closer to her. Ciphra's skin bristles with electricity as he comes closer to her. Perhaps this has all been a mistake. Perhaps she can conjure a bird to fly from the heavens and pluck his eyes and tongue out or perhaps Veracity can close his metallic hand around his throat and rip everything free, all the guts and flesh holding Tach Andon as Tach Andon alive. She'd very much like to see it happen, a twisting part of her writing it down and chanting it to the clouds for them to hear her incantation.
She shakes her head, frowning. "I don't know how to put it without terrifying you, but-"
"Too late," he interrupts, genuinely, eyes wide, but he's not breaking that moment of gravitas. Ciphra looks at him alarmedly, he smiling sheepishly. "Sorry, Ciphra, but that's not something to take lightly."
Ciphra bites down on her tongue. "I don't- I can't say anything else, Tach," Part of her knows that if she stays her tongue, then what she's seen will never come to light. It is Tach's nature, his uncompromising nature to dissect and demand and divide, but she knows herself well enough to not spill it all out, just to feed bits of it to him, for enough of it will scare him off.
He sighs to himself, resignedly, falling back against the other column, Ciphra keeping her gaze out towards the Capitol.
She can't force herself to divulge further, a feeling of bile building in the back of her throat. It's back, the blood pouring down his face as she looks at him, skull battered open, throat ripped apart, but this time the blood isn't the glimmering copper of her dress that she expects.
It's black, the darkest color of the deepest abyss on the planet.
It takes her entire willpower to hold in her scream.
Vanya Vasiliev: District 11 Male P.O.V (18)
He has no idea why he picks up the ring, truth be told. Vanya is fighting back the tears as Zola spills her heart out on the stage, out to the audience, for he's never seen this side of her in the slightest. The ring is heavy in his hand as he gives his interview, and although this has not been the first time ever interviewed for a Capitol program, or certainly the first time he's sat in Pollux's other chair and spoken with the man, Vanya is unable to bring himself to speak any more than a few words at a time, instead staring at the halcyon band encaged by his fingers, or the way Zola's voice breaks over the microphone. He has no idea why, but he knows he blew the interview harder than Ponty - that has him rolling in line, laughing so hard he's crying - when he exits the stage, so Bloom Estrada can take his place.
Neither one of them speak to each other after the interviews are over, taking the elevator together, he pressing the button to take them back to their floor. They do not go up right away, rather milling around on the lobby floor, not talking still, until several Peacekeepers chase them away with batons in hand. Vanya holds out his hand for to take when stepping into the elevator, but she does not reciprocate the gesture. A thousand thoughts sit in his brain as they take the ride up, it seeming to last an eternity before they land on the designated spot, their arrival chimed with a little bell. Zola has stopped crying at this point, although her eyes are burning still with the bloodshot effects slowly starting to fade away. When they arrive, she steps out first, it now being around one in the morning, it slowly crossing into quarter after the hour.
Vanya stays, however, in his spot. The elevator is specifically for them, so it won't close on him until he gets out, or unless he directs it to go somewhere. The ring is still in his hands, vibrating along the underside of his knuckles. Zola pauses halfway into her walk, before looking back at him, frowning. "Vanya? Aren't you coming?"
He keeps the frown on his face, his head in a dance of confusion and thoughts all trying to be overheard by one another. District 11 has never felt like home to him, he always wanting to be in the Capitol, he always trying to take center stage, but he knows the argument has been made before that the spotlight found him rather, that center stage picks him out, and that he's built some sort of ego around his talent. It is the Capitolistic way, to prove how someone sinks or swims, and Vanya has been swimming in the shark tank since he gained a dorsal fin of his own to cut through the water, but this is different, being in the Games. Being forced to be with someone else who has gripped him by the sides of the face, forcing him into view to yell at him all the horrible things he's done, the horrible things he's said... his station is not meant for a place of abuse.
"You dance?" he asks. That hadn't been something he expects out of her mouth, but he's been looking at his own reflection too long to notice that the signs have always been there. The way she turns her feet out, the hips are properly aligned, and she's never slacking in her posture. Vanya rolls on the balls of his toes, going en pointe briefly, but his head brushes against the roof of the elevator car so he stops. He'd much appreciate not being bald by the time the Games roll around. Somehow, that, in his hours of brewing, is what he comes up with. He's never been good with spontaneity.
Zola smirks slightly, it being the happiest facial expression he's seen on her face all evening. "Yeah, Vanya, I do. The same studio as you."
"Really?" Vanya raises his eyebrows, stepping out of the elevator. That- is that a coincidence? A thermodynamic miracle? He knows that the last six years of his life have been fully devoted to making sure the point of his foot is as sharp as a blade's edge, or that he can leap as high as an eagle nest that is out of reach for a mere mortal, but how blind has it turned him to everything else that's moved?
"Vanya, there's only one studio in Eleven to go to," she points out, walking halfway from her spot in the living room to meet him directly, the elevator closing behind him as Vanya steps into the apartment. He takes his dress shoes off, finding them to be entirely suffocating, he needing his body to breathe, to be limber. He considers, very briefly, for he knows Zola might love seeing him bare chested, about taking off his shirt, a suave cream colored dress shirt tucked into a pair of dark pants, but he keeps his upper body clothed. "Besides, there's only my back yard and-" she stops short, turning her head in to her neck, smiling hesitantly. "Well, you get the picture."
"How come I didn't notice you?" Vanya goes to grab a water bottle from the fridge, ripping the cap off, fountaining the steady stream, it cooling his throat.
Zola balances herself on the counter with a piqued eyebrow. "Really, Vanya? You're asking how you didn't notice me? Did you notice anyone at the studio?"
"Fair point," he agrees, having taken half of the water bottle. He's sweating, and he has yet to even exert a single move, and it requires a lot for Vanya to sweat. He tugs at his collar absentmindedly, closing the water bottle. At one point, Vanya is surprised that there's even other students in the school, foolishly believing that it is only his tuition keeping the coffers afloat, that this is why he's being poured into the vat of attention and love his teachers give him, or the chocolate and flowers and handwoven blankets. He appreciates the attention, no matter how he seeks it.
His district partner nods briefly, before yawning. It is late, extremely late, and Vanya doesn't normally stay awake this long. His entire body is in a full buzz, like he's had caffeine or something - Vanya cannot imagine consuming any other worse type of beverage or inhalant into his system, thinking of the damage it would do to his physique - and is unable to find the off switch. "Well, good night, Vanya. I'll see you in the morning," Zola says, breaking the lull where neither one of them knew what to say.
He blinks in surprise, having broken off into a tangent about ballet barres and the like.
"Wait, Zola, wait," and she does pause, not having even gone anywhere for his outburst is urgent, full of vitality and need. He digs into his pocket, pulling out the wedding ring. He knew practically nothing about Zola, besides her dreadlocks, which are now dyed amaranthine at the tips, and that she's mean-spirited with a basket - the hit had been wonderful, Vanya amazed at the dexterity and grace with how she operates - but he knows a lot of it is his fault. The sponsors need him to be amazing, and he's been losing the stakes nearly every step of the way. Although the numbers have him as the 2nd highest betting odds, Amaris being the clear-cut Capitol perspective on a victor, Vanya feels off. It churns in his soul, that his alignment is off. It is Zola's interview that has him wipe a single tear away, off his face, but that is before the ring falls. He slams it onto the counter, and Zola inhales sharply.
"I dropped that for a reason, Vanya," she tells him, shaking her head, brown eyes laced with a tinge of upsetedness.
Vanya has seen a lot in his life, and for not even knowing anything about his district partner, consumed with the spotlight that feels warm on his arms, he does know this. He's never seen such an expression of love before, out of anyone in his entire life, including himself and the love he has for dance, an ideal he'd marry if he could. She deserves the happiness that has been taken away from her, for the chance that she might not be able to see. "This is yours, Zola," he urges, pushing it in her direction.
"I don't want it, Vanya. I can't have it anymore," her voice is rigid, unmoving.
"Zola, please, I-"
She pushes it back at him, his voice croaking off in surprise. Why? Why would she not want it? Why would he want it? Freshly formed tears glisten in her eyes, she sucking in her left cheek to chew on, before walking around the counter, picking the ring up in her hand, before placing it in Vanya's, closing his fist on the object. He looks at her, lost for words. The sound of the elevator churns in the background, but he's unable to take his eyes off of his district partner, who he is towering over height wise, but here, she's the larger person, she's enraptured him from a first glance.
"You found it; I want you to have it," she insists, an edge to her voice that has Vanya lower his hand to his side.
"I- I can't keep it!" he babbles, probably waking up District 12 above them. "Zola, this is a ring for you and Narcissa and you were to give it to her for love and-" he's ranting now, his words brushing together, whatever semblance of composure that kept him together unraveling like a pointed toe flexing slightly.
Zola steps back away from Vanya, she forcing a smile. "She's gone, Vanya. I can't be in love with a corpse, or someone that isn't here any longer."
"Zola, you cannot be serious, I-" he starts, taking another step forward, before turning his head to the right, hearing the elevator door open and close as if someone had arrived on the floor. Why would anyone be...? "Can- can I help you?" he asks, all of a sudden, out of the blue, the rabid hurry of protest and melancholy coming to a complete stop at the stranger standing on their floor. Both tributes from Eleven have a look of confusion on their face, staring at their visitor.
An Avox, though Vanya is not sure of their name, is standing just on the foyer away from the elevator, basked entirely in red from head to toe, as if his entire body is bleeding. In the Avox's hands is an envelope, and Vanya can briefly make out the writing on it underneath the servant's ghostly pale hand, an eerie likewise shade to his own alabaster skin tone. It's his name, in a very fancy calligraphy, as if a machine had made the handwriting. The Avox simply puts the letter on the counter, making a haste and quick getaway back out the way he came, as if he had never even been on their floor in the first place.
The two them lock eyes with each other, before Vanya reaches for the letter, prying it open with his fingers. He curses to himself, a papercut splitting open the center of his thumb, but this is certainly not his first papercut or injury. He suckles his finger into his mouth, a folded up piece of paper falling out of the envelope, the blood tart on his tongue. Zola peers over his shoulder wordlessly, breathing alongside him without a sound, and he's all but forgotten about the ring he's now placed back into his pocket.
He scans the contents of it first, before furrowing his eyebrows together. No, that can't be right. He sets the letter down, frowning to himself. This is why he does not stay up later than he's supposed to.
"Vanya?" Zola asks, but there's no hint of apprehension on her voice. "Vanya, what is it?"
"It's a letter," he says, picking it back up and holding the top part of it in his left hand, brushing his thumb over one of the corners. "Addressed to me."
"And what does it say?"
This feels like some sort of prank. It has to be.
He reads it again once more, but his eyes are not deceiving him. "It's an order for me," Vanya locks eyes with Zola, a haunted gaze flashing behind his diamond stare. "I am ordered to gather all twenty-four tributes in our training uniforms down to the training center floor in half an hour, and to wait there for further instruction."
"Who's it from?"
Vanya has heard of the name once, just once, and President Bonnie spoke about it briefly during the Tribute Parade, but he's more focused on the devastating affect of not being the most sought out tribute in the circle without listening to what is being said. A name, an Avox who shall not be named.
His mouth has gone entirely dry, and his body shakes as he speaks.
"It's from someone named The Phoenix."
Ta-da! Ladies and gentlemen, that was Chapter #22: Partisan in Death, the 2nd half of the Interview aftermath, pre-Games stuff and we've covered the last of the second round of POV's between Magdalena, Roanoke, Bloom, Jules, Ciphra, and Vanya, another group I was really, really excited for. I didn't cry near as many times as I did - still shed some tears with Bloom and Vanya, ya'll, it's the family/love dynamics that hit me the hardest - but I knew eventually I'd be landing back in this 14k zone, and still, no apology.
So, as you can see, there are many things plotted afoot here, such as Magdalena knowing what she must do someday, Roanoke has been kicked to the curb by Sage, Bloom has made a bridge with Mirek, Jules is the sneaky freaking bastard, Ciphra is from the Sixth Sense (if you know that movie, you're amazing) and Vanya, like Seth, has been given orders too. I am very excited for where we go from here, cause the Games are upon us ladies and gentlemen, they're upon us and some tributes are a-gonna die! What does your chart up until the Games look like? I am sure there'll be variety for except one - *looks at Jules pointedly* but that's what this is all for.
Briefly, for Chapter #23, we're gonna step into the Capitol shoes and see some more POVs, but beyond that, arena tribute time with the 101st Games. I'd very much appreciate a review, as I've been revving for all the stops with these last few chapters, and your support is greatly appreciated, as I am sure you're aware. I love you all so much, and I'll see you with Chapter #23 sometime next week, as I know I'll start writing this weekend. Have a great day! Bye!
~ Paradigm