CW: Abuse, body modification.

PREQUEL, PART 1: They That Are Shattered Storms.

They want Hezediah to place second.

(Their biases were obvious when she made top seven. For monkeys had slunk down from the tree-tops, buffeting and howling, had scrambled upon her body, clucking and jumping, had dragged their claws across her skin, slugging and shouting, had razed her lips apart, singing and screeching. She'd ran with armageddon upon her ass— Hezediah Zenkovah, without a weapon, deadened of aggression, left to the Arena's reckoning.)

And they would be wise, perhaps; if only Hezediah Zenkovah had died.

Cutting, perhaps, of the Gamemakers, to treat her like any type of fucking outlier. But she has to thank them, really; blooding her face with the dozen mutts she slew had never been more pleasant, and Hezediah Zenkovah's rise from their thudding ashes had been a goddamn present.

And that face, perhaps, was one that the Capitol had relished in. Like she'd stepped out of a storm; frenzied red hair, too-wild eyes, struck down from the heavens, transformed by hell, Hezediah Zenkovah, born again.

(Borne a villain for a District rat to slaughter.)

It is unusual, perhaps, that the Capitol roots for an outer District Victor. But Eight boy is just that: their dark-horse contender, their charming-sardonic little shit, adored by the entirety of the Districts and citizens alike, little fucking bitch—

By no virtue of his own but the cause he wrought. Because he's a shittalker, a dissident, a revolutionary, and they need him to quell the discontent in Eight.

(And she is District Four. And she is not who they want a victory from.)

So dissonant, from the Capitol's ideals. Eight Victor? That notion in itself was contradictory. And Hezediah's not bitter, she does have a fucking cause for complaint, just 'cause her District's been loyal to the fucking ends and Eight's been nothing but rebellious—

And now they're here.

Eight boy glances at her, from the vestiges of cliffs, like he has the fucking right, cocks his head, a glint of a glare in his sneering eyes.

"Hezediah Zenkovah," he drawls. "How nice it is to meet you here."

"Course it is," Hezediah scoffs, even if it is the last thing she wants to say, even if all she wants to do is claw his neck open, snarling and screaming, wants to rupture his skin, stabbing and shredding, wants to tear him asunder, (laughing and gasping), but no, they need their banter.

So Hezediah grits her words out. "'Cause wow, I didn't expect to see you here either."

(Who are you, child? Why are you here?)

(And fifteen-year old Hezediah had tilted her head at the metallurgists, as the smouldering heat swirled in her nose, a half-smile on her lips. I'm Hezediah Zenkovah. Here on a mission to be the best Career I can be. Well, and also 'cause I don't got any other place to go to, but anyhow. The Xianrith's, right? You work for em?)

(Get their names out of your mouth. And get out of here. The Forges aren't for you.)

(And Hezediah Zenkovah had brought a wild grin onto her face, tilted her head: Oh, how come? You 'fraid of me? You want me away? Think I'm a mistake? Why d'ya wanna barricade me from that place? You think I'm indomitable, emotional, uncontrollable? Think I'm unchained, uncontained, arcane? Am I a hurricane?)

"Sure you haven't," Eight boy laughs. And despite his lanky frame and his lack of blade, he's like a Career. And it is profane, really, it is insane, it's so in vain. For his body is shrouded by the recrudescent skies, for the world's dim, dark-blue, waiting for a victory to project into the writhing lights, and it is not hers that will blight the fucking night.

"Hezediah Zenkovah," Eight boy says, smiles, and it's so damn incessant - and she wants to wring him alive, she'll break him with her knives, she'll light him up, and he'll ignite, and that's all he'll be to the night.

"Don't look so murderous, will you, now? I know we're the final two, but let's talk this through. Let's see what we've been through these Games. And we'll come to a judgement call. Then we'll decide who gets to live, and who gets to… die."

Oh, fucking sure, okay.

All Hezediah Zenkovah wants is to strangle him. She wants him to suffer, to die; she wants to see his cheeks pulsate in flush-red fruit and she wants to watch him suffocate, wants the fluid under his skin turn in psychedelic colours and she wants him obliterated. She can, under her fingers: she can crush him, like a machine, so easily.

(And, if she's being just that more daring, Hezediah Zenkovah wants to eat him alive with an earthquake and she wants to swallow him in a tidal wave and she wants him to suffocate she wants his bloodstained body under her feet and she wants him to gasp for breath in the whirlpool of the lives she'd taken and she wants him to die, fucking hell, she wants to watch him be swept away in a hurricane and she wants the sea to make a mockery of his body, she wants to see his corpse fucking paraded by the waves, oh, Hezediah wants death upon him, is that so hard an ask?)

But Eight boy's still smug in front of her and he grins still and says, just so cheekily for the fucking lenses, "Hezediah, I mean, don't look so angry. Still salty over your pack's betrayal? Thought District Four's gotten you all used to that saline."

They've tried to murder her. The Ones. Narcissus Rochlan, a glowering boy with so much to prove, yet he spent too much time jerking off to prove any of it. And Shine Starriya: really, when Hezediah thought that District One couldn't produce names any more ridiculous. So ditzy, so broken, another one more in the Stolvania family curse: was it a surprise that she had to turn to conspiring to find even a smidgen of a chance at victory?

And Hezediah wouldn't even have realised, really, if she hadn't been so astute. Her District partner had always wrinkled his nose when he'd got his sponsor gifts— jerky-ration packs, bottled water, morsels of food.

("I don't eat. More than I should." he'd confided to her, one night. "I don't like… the vitality it gives me.")

His nose had not wrinkled the night when they sat around the crackling fire, when they'd clinked their drinks together. Brewed by District One, yours truly. Hezediah did not drink.

Three of them dropped dead, the moment she pulled out her sword and thrust the blade into Narcissus's neck. Two boy yelled obscenities as he choked on poison. Six boy's eyes widened in fear, so unprepared to slip into death's caress. She'd watched her District partner die, bleary-eyed, broken smile taking his lips.

"Some betrayed me. Not all," Hezediah replies, lifting her chin up, letting pricks of fire raze down her body and her lungs.

(And then there was Starriya— Narcissus's compatriot, struck down by Two's bayonet. And Avansika Arivani, Two, had looked at her, a glint in their eyes, had whispered - no, purred, really - "you're so smart, Heze," and tasted Hezediah's lips so languidly like they were toasting them by a pyre.)

Eight boy laughs harder. "Oh? Not all? Makes it even better. 'Cause she isn't here with you right now, isn't she?" and oh his voice grates on her skin, grates on her soul, especially with the way his voice pivots on she and you and here, and Hezediah grits her teeth and controls herself.

And Eight boy's either daft or idiotic or maybe she's got a two-for-one-deal, because he continues his affront, twists his head and smirks and says, "What was her end?"

(They'd ventured through the arena together. To the high rise cliffs. Avansika whispered, that must be where they all are. Hezediah nodded, but her jaw was set-firm, I don't think it's safe. And Avansika had cocked their head, thoughtfully, and an impish grin formed by their lips. A goodbye kiss, then, just in case? And Avansika's dark locks descended down their neck, and Hezediah had pushed their hair aside, had pulled them closer, kissed them closer—)

"Shut up," Hezediah growls, the burnish of a flame stoking her throat. "They aren't of your concern. Avansika's not of your concern."

("And now that that's that," Avansika said, "to the cliffs, then?". Hezediah's repines died upon her lips. And then there were rustles amid bushes, and Hezediah was tugging at Avansika, Ave, Ave, we've gotta get out of here—)

"Sure, sure, they aren't of my concern. Seems like they're very much your concern, though, aren't they?"

(—and a dozen bodies had pounced upon them, like a storm, feverous, frenzied, mad, and Avansika had screamed and they were engulfed in that sea of madness, swallowed, sunken-in like in a chute, and Hezediah had torn through the bodies, cut through them with her metal blade. And then seven bodies were strewn under her feet but it wasn't enough for Avansika's among the dead ripped flesh and frayed skin and bulging eyes and pressed-out tongue and—)

"Hezediah? You even there?"

(—and Avansika had died, gargling in their own pain. Hezediah would be lying if she said tears pricked her eyes. And the cameras liked that shot of her, standing over her lover's body, panning away, like she'd slain Avansika, look at them, look at Hezediah, their brutal miracle, their murderous marauder, their fiendish wanderer, metal and metal made flesh, you know nothing good could've come out of it, watch our villain, watch her die in our upcoming finale—)

Eight boy stares at her.

"Fucking— oh my god," he says, finally, and a maniacal cackle falls from his lips, "Don't tell me you loved, Hezediah Zenkovah. You? Career 'droid? Fucking— you're barely even fucking human!" and he laughs, he laughs, he laughs—

And Hezediah shuts her eyes and feels Avansika's kisses on her skin, Avansika's low murmurs in her ear, Avansika's half-wild grin, Avansika, Avansika— and Eight boy's laugh resounds in her head and shut up shut up shut up bangs in her head—

"Stop laughing," she snarls, forces her eyes open, grits her teeth, grips her fists, "Stop fucking laughing, I swear to the hells, shut up, fucking shut up—"

He doesn't stop. And Eight boy sows madness in her skin, he sows a pyre in her heart, he sows a rage, undefeated, unfettered, ever-present, ever-flaring in her veins.

"Makes for a perfect end," he says, twirls his grappling hook. Eight boy cocks his head at her, creases a grin on his lips. "You're not indefatigable," he says. "Hezediah Zenkovah. You're a Career, you're so brilliant, shone-up to the stars of the world. You've gotten your training, your drugs, your body mods to make you all better. Everyone kisses your feet. But you've learnt of the truth of the Games, now. You're so broken, now. You're made a monster by the Arena. More than you already were before. And it's my time to shine. My turn to finish this all. My turn."

(My turn to kiss you, Avansika had grinned, after all the Career boys and girls had put their wet lips on hers after that stupid round of spin the bottle for the cameras, and Hezediah had rolled her eyes, shook her head, but a smile pruned by her lips, okay, whatever you fuckin' say, and they'd kissed her, and surprise ricocheted through her heart, and she'd kissed back, and delight rushed to her gut, and—)

Eight boy snarls, so damn vitriolic it's near ridiculous. "And this is what you are, Hezediah Zenkovah. You're dead. And nothing, absolutely nothing will stop me from killing you. For the justice of the Districts, machine," he says, spreads his hands, wide. His rope dangles from his left hand, and his back is struck by the light, and his face so dark, he's tethering at the edge of the cliffs, it's like he's some sort of cacodemon, so ready to reap.

"Don't be so fucking stupid," Hezediah scoffs back. "You killed. We killed. There isn't some moral philosophy behind this shit."

And that is all Hezediah can say, really, if she's to keep the rage in her chest contained, cause Avansika's screams are still in her head, and she's not, she's not, she's not about to listen to someone philosophise about the justice in Avansika's death, she's not about to listen to someone moralise about hers, and she's not about to fucking die in the finale, and she's not about to leave Avansika fucking unavenged—

"Justify it if you want," Hezediah says. "Fuckin' say whatever shit you want if you wanna ingrain yourself as hero so bad, if you wanna give the Capitol the underdog-fuckin'-contender narrative so bad, if you want to make me the big-bad fucking villain so bad, because I'm so unnatural, right? But it's as simple as this. I want to live, you want to live. We fight for it."

Eight boy shakes his head, lifts his chin, lips poised to spit some moralizing bullshit again.

"No. No, it's not as simple as that. You volunteered for the Games. You chose this. You chose everything that's happened to you: what you've done with training, what you've done with volunteering, what you've done with your... body. I didn't. And so you've chosen everything that's coming at you. Not me. You." and he shakes his head, throws it back, laughs again. "How's that, huh, Hezediah Zenkovah? Are you enjoying knowing that you've brought the fall of everything around you? That it's your fault that your pack's dead, your fault that your little lover's dead, your fault that you'll be dead, too, soon? How's it knowing that you chose this?"

That answer comes easy. It slips from her lips, choked in sardonicism, and it takes all of the strength in her veins to not to kill him there and then. "Who says I chose?"

And then the metallurgists are in her head, their gloves choking her neck, and they'd dragged her, as her legs swung and kicked air. Oh, if you want it so badly. The Forges it is, then. She didn't scream, she'd gritted her teeth— control, control, I asked for this, I want this, I want this, I do!

But they'd squeezed her throat so tight, and that'd made her think twice, and they'd strapped her down against a chair, and that made her think thrice, and they'd jagged a bit into her mouth and then she was thinking again four times. No help was the hammer slams and the metal clangs and the smell of singed flesh and synthflesh.

For this was Four's Underground she was in: where illegal trade proliferated, where children were trafficked, where organs and cybernetics were sold like fruits in a market, and she came for—for what, just to get the best fucking chance, what is she doing here?

And Hezediah's regretting, and she's yelling, but they're closing on her throat tighter. Oh, shut up, don't protest. You think you're uncontrollable? You're a hurricane? We'll see how much you like pain.

A flurry of metal: first strike. A screech breaks from her throat.

A slice of her arm: and that's bloodflesh left of herself.

Second strike. Insert the cybernetics.

Metal, cold, writhing around her bones.

Another slice. More metal snaking into her body: so much metal, metal fused in her skin and metallic-blood in her mouth, and the smoulder of her own flesh burns her nostrils open.

Third strike.

Another.

Heat in her mouth. Ice in her skin.

Fourth. Fifth. Sixth...

…

…

And by the end of it tears had streaked by her eyes, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to, I don't want this—! And the metallurgists made no sign of hearing, but they'd grabbed her by the wrist and pressed her right hand on the fires, till it singed, till it sang.

A hurricane? No, no Hezediah. You wish. You're just another little experiment for The Forges. You're branded. You're ours now.

She was Hezediah Zenkovah, stolen into the brick forges, letting shuddery smog-made breaths from her lungs. And if tears made out, then there'd be hot-iron by her eyes, Hezediah, you won't cry again, that's weakness—

(— Don't you cry if I die, Heze. We both know that only one of us's gonna live. And that bein' said, I'm not about to cede to you, Heze. 'Cause the victory crown's mine.)

(And Avansika's fingers pressed upon her lips before Hezediah could protest, scoff, contend. But I thought you might've wanted to know. That I chose to be here, and Avansika's whispering, and there's something glittering in their eyes, but you didn't, did you, Heze?)

(So if I die here, and they're grinning, but it's so sunken in despondency, it's no one's fault but mine.)

—and Hezediah's choking, but she forces it under her breaths, and Eight boy responds with violence. He throws a grappling hook at her left eye. She cocks her head (it's so easy a dodge, his aim is so off, it's like he's never used the weapon at all), and the metal claw whizzes by her head. And before the rope falls she snatches it outta midair and yanks.

He trips and he slams hard against the rocks, like the sea's crashing shrieks against the cliffs, and blood already trickles from his skin's pores, and who told him it was a good idea to tie his weapon to himself? Because she wreathes the ends of rope round her arm and gives it a tug, and his back's bumping across rock, and he's next to her before she even knows it.

Hezediah yanks him up by the ropes.

"You want to die," she says, smiling. "You want to die, Eight boy, don't you?"

And he struggles, barely any light in his eyes, frenzied, wild, no, please, don't— and he's rendered a blubbering mess underneath her and her hand and his own rope, and Hezediah doesn't care, she doesn't care, she doesn't fucking fucking care—

"What've you done all these Games? This finale? You've just repeated my name. Again. And again. And again. Already a damn echo. Cause that's all you'll be. A ghost to my victory."

And Hezediah's laughing, now, harder than ever, and she doesn't fucking care that she is, and all that she is's the litany that spills from her lips—

"Eight boy, Eight boy, Eight boy. Don't delude yourself. You've killed. Maybe I chose to be here. But you chose to kill, haven't you? And by your fuckin' fallacious logic, you've killed everyone, too. You've killed Avansika. Is that what you're claimin'? Is that what you're claiming?"

And he's screaming, now, he's trying to, if not for the rope necklace she's drawn around his throat, and she's tugging it against his flesh, she's making him choke, and oh she takes pleasure in hearing those little noises exit his lips, oh, please, it's so nice, it's almost like—

(—watching Avansika die again, chokes by their lips, suffocating, going under in frenzied limbs and savaged skin and ravaged in claret and dying, dying, dying—)

—fucking shut upshutupshutupUP and she doesn't realise that she's screaming doesn't realise what she's saying until the form under her stops struggling until she lets go of the rope necklace she's drawn around his throat until the cannon blasts under the ridges of the cliffs and rolls off into the sea—

—and Hezediah is still screaming when they scream her name into the loudspeakers and she's still screaming when they proclaim her the Victor of the 48th Games and she's still screaming when they drag her into the hovercraft and drag her over the shimmering dark-blue skylines and she's still screaming and screaming and screaming—

Emote all you want, Hezediah Zenkovah. It doesn't help. It doesn't change a thing about you at all.

You're always made of metal.

?

In the forges where Hezediah Zenkovah was made, thirteen-year old Phaedra looks on, something dark in her eyes, watching, waiting, watching.

That fifteen-year old girl's screams are intriguing. So hoarse: so anguished; so loud. Like she doesn't enjoy the process of being made better. She should, really: she's supposed to be this year's volunteer. Kani Fairchild should know better than to yell.

Phaedra looks to her arm: so fleshy, so organic, so humane. She looks at the parts of herself that she has not yet replaced.

She looks at Soneillon: so quiet, so solemn, utterly obedient to every word she says. Her servant that knows his worth.

She looks at metallurgists - her family's, they say, yet she knows they are truly hers, for they will bend to her every whim - and looks at the Games.

Phaedra Xianrith is not of age yet. She is merely thirteen, tethering on fourteen, and the 49th Games are yet to commence. But soon - oh, soon she shall be. When she becomes eighteen.

The 54th Games will find that a reckoning awaits them.

A/N: Victor files? Victor files!

Thank you for reading! I hope you guys liked this little bit of a oneshot, as a small celebration for the DISRverse's one year anniversary! Happy birthday, it's been a year since your existence… kind of crazy, honestly. On that note, I'd like to thank everyone who's supported me and who's read my fics: it really does mean the world to me, that you care. You all know who you are! (:

This was mostly done in order to flesh out DISRverse some more, in preparation for my next fic: They That Are Buried In The Dark, which chronicles the 54th Games, in TTABBTN-style. So… a little teaser. (: Yes, there are sapphics, and yes, you can probably expect angst (I hope!)

And yes I love Hezediah, yes I love Avansika. I hope you've liked them too, as I have. I appreciate everyone so much, and would straight-up die if you decide to leave your thoughts and review.

You'll be seeing Hezediah again in No Rest For The Dead, coming to you in July 2021.

Love, Dawn.