XL. AVARICE
But as I should have burned and baked myself,
My terror overmastered my good will,
No Which made me greedy of embracing them.
Avarice and prodigality, more commonly known as greed and it's consequences.
Pretty important around these parts, huh? You saw what happened during yesterday's gluttonous shenanigans, and it's about time they pay for it.
Yet they'll bite off more than they can chew because of course they will, why wouldn't they?
Greed tends to be more consuming than gluttony in that regard, and it's forms are far more bountiful.
If you just keep taking more and more than you're guilty of the worst in life, you're worthy of suffering at the universe's nimble fingers.
Everybody knows that if you're greedy, you're doomed eventually.
Lucien Snow. 25.
First Son of Panem.
Cardew Family Cabin. 6:35.
Never in a million years did Lucien think he'd be pitying himself for being anything besides the President's son. And that isn't to say that there's not a myriad of flaws he can be pitied for— emotional, quixotic, skinnier that appears to be healthy, occasionally flamboyant, ginger— yet none of those aforementioned weaknesses (ones a Snow man should know better than to posses) are quite as bad as his newest. Yes, it's barely been a week, yet Lucien doubts he'll ever be able to cope with the fact he's now an invalid.
The only good side to his tirades in the forrest with his mother was the fact it prohibited Lucien from thinking too much about the fact that he'd never be able to talk again, quite the problem since he enjoys and always has enjoyed talking quite a bit. Not only that, but he still finds himself unable to chew due to his missing teeth, not that it even matters since he can hardly taste anything due to the whole no tongue situation. If his father needed him to be forbidden of talking that badly he could have just severed a nerve or something, removing Lucien's ability to taste is just cruel, which was probably the whole point… shit.
Regardless, he's having trouble dealing with his newfound disability because again, he's a Snow, he's supposed to be the peak of physical perfection, flawless, yet he's now… a catastrophe, funny given the origins of this injury, which makes me doubt that fucker ever cared about my figure, he just thought everyone wants the Presidents son to be physically perfect. Now if only he'd taken some of that concern for me and had it for his own body because… anyways. Still, its undebatable that the fact he can think whatever he wants about his father without worrying about it coming out of his own mouth is a benefit.
But still, that freedom doesn't topple the fact that Lucien feels so terribly useless. He's been raised to be dutiful, lend many a helping hand when necessary, yet he's unable to.
He hears the words of his uncle, aunt, and mother in the kitchen during breakfast time:
"Livia dear, can you please get some salt for the eggs?"
"This bacon's divine, Xandros, just look at it sizzling on the stove."
"Oh you two are too kind for having me here and treating me so graciously."
"Please Livia, we're just glad you're safe."
"Right, we're just glad you felt you could trust us."
And he's left alone with the baby, and sure Fluvia can be entertaining at times, but she's also not even three months old and at times Lucien wishes his father took away his smell too since for the love of Panem, babies do not smell great.
(That's a joke… please, he is fine being able to smell even if Fluvia shits herself what seems like every hour.)
Lucien wants to help though, so he strolls into the kitchen with the closest thing he can make to a smile on his face only to be rejected by his aunt Zinnea immediately, "Just sit down at the table sweetie, you don't need to worry about anything, we'll take care of you."
She's echoed by her husband Xandros, "You're going through enough already Lulu," He's been trying his best to enjoy his uncle's nicknames for him, "We could never ask you to make food."
It doesn't change the fact that Lucien wants to help still. He sees the chickens, cows, and pigs in their yard and wants to do something, anything, that could be considered useful even if it's just cleaning up feces and scooping eggs, but that's forbidden. He's to stay inside, no ifs, ands, or buts, and he has to "rest and recover" from the events of last week.
A bit of Lucien understands the whole no going outside rule as he can only assume (or hope, rather) that his whereabouts are being investigated which would mean somebody cares in a fucked up way at least, even if it's just his father and he wants to make Lucien suffer more from his own hands.
It's obsessive, honestly, the way Coriolanus is probably stalking his every move and for what, his legacy? How would Lucien being alive have any impact on such a thing. If anything his adamant hatred for the man and recently developed refusal to put up with his bullshit should be enough of an indicator that Lucien Snow is so utterly… done.
They have to keep moving but he doesn't know where, he just knows that he can't be found, can't be caught because the worst is yet to come… he can just feel it even if his mother is so dreadfully optimistic that the humps are behind then. But who would he be to tell her otherwise? For one, he quite literally can't do that, but also, where else would they go? The woods are scary yet being stationary is possibly worse. They'll have to catch up with them eventually, it's just logic.
But Lucien can't worry his mother.
He's already caused Livia enough grief for her entire life just by being born and even if that's her fault, it doesn't mean she needs to repeatedly suffer as a consequence. Not that, Lucien also needs to suffer, he should be able to embrace being free… lord Lucien just wants to be free.
He just isn't too sure what there is for him to be free of.
Ludovicus "Ludo" Jornmark. 18.
District Two Male.
Where Reality Becomes A Dream, North. 7:07.
He's not sure if anything's real anymore.
Wherever Ludo turns he's somewhere new, back home in Two, on set with Roscius, in the Capitol again, but never here, wherever here even is anymore, this arena's knocked him out of his senses. The only constant is that wherever his mind takes him as he looks around this fantasyland he's likely making up whilst the Gamemakers fuck with him is that Cyra and Saia are always still besides him.
"You're seeing this shit, right?" Ludo asks as the world around him shifts to the set of Terrible Treks once more.
"You mean the way I feel like im in Four?" Saia laughs, his legs crossed on the ground, "Yeah… I see you and Cy but I also see my dog in my room. But then I also see the bathhouses and the Capitol pier, lord okay I don't know what I see."
Ludo sighs, thoughts of his dog Gunner entering his mind, I miss that old but good boy, gosh, then he asks his friend with a concerned expression on her face, "Cyra?"
She shakes, "I'm fine," but Ludo knows he isn't so he walks closer to her in hopes the abyss around her won't change only to see her mouth something he can't quite make out.
"Pardon?" He asks her to repeat herself, "What do you see?"
Cyra's more clear this time, "Auretta" being the shape her lips choose to form.
Immediately, Ludo understands, "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"
He know's he can't do anything to combat Cyra's most vicious reoccurring nightmare but that doesn't stop him, even if it's just a casualty at this point.
"You know you can't," Cyra nods, Ludo shrugging, "But I appreciate the offer, I promise, I do."
His eyes dart to a rather confused Saia who asks, "What are you guys talking about?"
Ludo doesn't want to answer, "Nothing important, I promise." There's a time and place for everything, it's true, but he's pretty damn sure no such time and place exists for divulging generations of family drama on national television. He'll leave that to Aquila provided Cyra makes it to the final eight, which is looking likely. Just as likely is the fact Ludo's folks are there too and there's a whole District Two feud on television which he has no desire to see.
"But there's something important that we do need to discuss." They already have early that day but that doesn't change the fact that Ludo feels the weight of the world pounding down on his shoulders, just about ready to crush him to a pulp, "I trust you know where I'm going with this—"
"For sure, where is she?" Saia asks in regards to Magnificence, "Like it's pretty obvious that she's with Eleven but… where are they?"
Ludo has no clue. He has no clue about anything that happened the previous evening but the most important detail he's maintained is that he feels like absolute shit. Not because Hesson left them, that was bound to happen at this rate, but because of Magnificence… who he left to them, and he doesn't get how.
The five of them —shit, that's a big difference from three— of them were just walking along the dirt under the premonition that the grounds would move again and they'd be forced into a different area. Fair assumption on their part, though neither Ludo nor anybody for that matter assumed they'd be face to face with District Eleven…
And shit they were just as horrific as Hesson described, the girl wearing a sinister grin on her fave, an aura of anger in the way she walked and the boy with a smirk just as malicious. He wanted to do something, Ludo should have been able to do something… yet alas…
He saw the girl charge for Hesson and he was eager to somehow put and end to it… yet he couldn't. Ludo looked down to feel cold white hands wrapped around his foot, and he writhed and shook in attempts to get out yet it was no use, he was trapped. And he looked to the side and saw Saia and Cyra too, also locked to the ground by fingers that grew from the dirt.
Ludo tried to call for help as he saw Hesson dive and grab Magnificence but his voice was gone and he still couldn't fucking move and… that's all it took. It was so quick, Hesson running away and Magnificence being captured, yet he couldn't do anything. Ludo couldn't attack either of the Elevens, he could just feel the tight grips on his ankles as he slowly fell down into the dirt, his chest brushed against the soil and his ribs beginning to ache.
His fingers tried to crawl his body up and away yet he kept being dragged along the floor, a burn in his chest as he brushed his vest against his skin, screaming and crying for mercy yet he was still skidding down the hill. Sliding in pain and fury with Saia and Magnificence besides him, all of them wondering what went wrong and how they could have prevented it and all of them being disappointed as they realized there was no way to escape as the smell of fire filled the air and they found themselves in a whole new place.
"Fuck if I know," He answers Saia's question sarcastically, "No seriously, I wish I knew but last night was just… disorienting."
"You don't say," Saia laughs and picks at a booger in his eye, "I just… feel so terrible."
And Ludo feels terrible too. He's supposed to be the almighty leader, the semblance of what's right and what's wrong amongst the group yet he's unable to have that pride. He failed… fuck Ludovicus Jornmark failed so fucking hard and he wishes he could have prevented it but he couldn't have and that's what's even worse. He wanted to save her yet he kept sliding down to despair and disgust and the feeling that he's a horrible, horrible person… the feeling that he might as well have been the one kidnapped since this is all his fucking fault. She's probably dead or at least she will be soon, and it's Ludo's fault, it's all on him, all the guilt and grief now rests atop his shoulders.
"Same…" Ludo sighs, stretching his legs that are locked to his chest, "We have to go after her, I'm just… unsure what the best method to approaching this is."
Cyra speaks, a tone just as fearful in her voice too, "Well we won't find them if we don't start looking."
Calathea Matheny. 18.
District Eleven Female.
False Hope. 8:43.
TW: Graphic depiction of torture.
She's not necessarily the patient Calathea was hoping for but she supposes the One girl will do the trick anyways. Strapped and nailed to a heaping pile of golden coins underneath an ever-black sky, she's kicking her feet, trying to fight as if she thinks it'll do any help.
He can tell she's getting annoyed so Chandler says, "Her Partner would have been louder, you and I both know this."
Calathea nods, her eyes still on the girl who's trying to loosen herself from the ropes despite the fact they've been tied in such a way that it would be impossible by all means, "Doesn't mean I can't get frustrated."
How she got in her hands instead of the boy is still a bit of a mystery to Calathea. She thought she'd finally caught him, her fingers around his joints but the next thing she knew he was running far away and the girl was in Chandler's arms while the other Careers slid downwards over the ground, burrowed hands cuffed on their legs.
Was she bitter? Of course Calathea was. She didn't spend an entire day looking for the boy only to get stuck with somebody else, afterall. But she would have to make do with the girl who she'd watched writhe and squirm for nearly eight hours now.
But that was the beauty of torture, how hesitation could be just as brutal as ripped nerves and flesh, because it left the girl wondering what would happen once Calathea finally got her hands on her.
(That, and the fact heat makes skin all the more tender to remove.)
It's what her father taught her during all those years of being his apprentice, watching as he cut eyes from sockets and intestines from stomachs, he taught Calathea, "Masterpieces take time," and that "A true virtuoso of torture knows the beauty in testing their victim's patience for as long as possible."
So once they arrived at the golden pile, Calathea did exactly that, ensured the girl wouldn't move and then sat with her legs crossed and head held high next to Chandler while they watched her struggle helplessly.
There were a few times where she knew Chandler wanted to speak to her, but she was eager to remind him that he wasn't to speak unless One did first.
And eventually she did, she asked them, "What are you going to do to me? What did I do to deserve this?"
Before Chandler could answer, Calathea said with pride, "The same thing we wanted to do to your dear partner, doll. Don't move if you don't want it to hurt."
"It's going to hurt no matter what," She heard Chandler mutter under his breath, but she chose to ignore it.
Though it did leave Calathea with the question, what exactly did this girl do to deserve her volition? But she found her answer soon enough once the girl got to talking.
Simply put, One has a child at home. A child she left so that she could fight in the Games as if that would somehow fix her life.
"I'm already dead," One had whispered as she tried to sleep only to be interrupted by Chandler's kicks to the shins, "What does it even matter?"
Calathea scoffed then, already dead? As if that wasn't the laziest excuse she had ever heard for anything in her entire eighteen years. This girl had no problem leaving her child to grow up without a mother because in her mind she considers herself to be dead it seems.
(If only Calathea had been allowed a mother herself… Maybe that was why she has such a problem with the One girl, the opportunity to raise a child, ensure it doesn't grow up into a monster, and she just threw it away for the sake of proving herself.)
One's failure to acknowledge the responsibility she's been so blessed with was enough for Calathea to lose all pity she had on her.
(Though, that does make her closer to Marake when he took away ––nevermind, this is different. The child probably doesn't deserve such a foolhardy mother anyways, but at least he had the chance to have a mother… A shame she took that from him.)
So now Calathea just stands over her with a knife spinning in her hand and taunting the girl, "You said you were part of such an amazing alliance, didn't you? How come they haven't come here to rescue you? They probably never cared about you to begin with."
"They did––" She tries to speak.
"Are you sure?" Calathea scoffs, masquerading around her.
To her left is Chandler, a hesitant expression on his face, "Do you have a problem with this?"
He pulls her aside, "You said we'd go after him, not her. She's a mother, Calathea. Her kid's going to be motherless because of us."
"It would be motherless eventually," Calathea rationalizes with him, "We're just accelerating the process."
Still dubious, Chandler whispers, "But do we have to go so hard on her?"
"Well, we did promise the Capitol a show, did we not?" Calathea winks and goes back to One. Ever since her private session where she took out the dummy's eye, she's been certain that everybody watching the Games was waiting for her to use said skills on a real human being. This was quite possibly her only chance and she'd be an idiot to throw it away just because her victim wasn't the person she'd been targeting from the beginning.
The girl's spot in the Pack was just as pestering as his anyways, the lowest training score and the second most disconnected member. Calathea's slightly doubtful the rest even come to find her anyways, though if they do, she's prepared to cut them down.
She's still flailing under the bounds when Calathea returns, "Have you not realized that these aren't going to break yet?"
Her weapons and belongings were removed from her body the second they got a chance so she's quite literally got nothing to help her. Yet she's still trying, her hands thrusting in the air, stubborn fool…
"Let me try," One says through gritted teeth. Embarrassing how she hasn't given up yet.
Calathea glances in Chandler's direction with an eerie grin, "I think it's time we begin."
He's already done the busywork for her, laid out the ten knives she's collected over the past few days on a pile of coins by One's pelvis, three skinning blades, a pair of longclips, a wharncliffe, a stiletto, a classic bowie and three drop points. It's not a terrible range, good even considering it was close to the assortment she had back in Eleven. Calathea turns the handles so they're facing her for ease of access. He's at her feet, his face timid as she grabs the bowie and spins it between her fingertips.
The vest's got to go first, Calathea lifts the thick fabric with her spare hand and wiggles at the zipper until it slides down One's torso, a process made all the more difficult as the girl tries to pinch at her with her teeth. Not that it makes her flinch, of course, instead Calathea just moves her way over to the girl's sleeves, rope still suspending her hands above her head when she tears through her left sleeve and then her right. She pulls the garment out from under her body, a small grunt leaving One's mouth as she thuds against the coins.
"What?" Calathea notices the uncomfortable expression on her face as she uses her fingernails to cut through and remove her netted undershirt, exposing her bare chest, "Are you cold?"
Again, the One girl squirms, though Chandler ends that when he steps on her kneecaps, "She already said it'll hurt less if you don't move."
Calathea lets the blade dance on top of One's chest, goosebumps on her skin as the knife's cool touch sends visible shivers down her spine, "Now, are you going to listen to me and not move."
But she puts her hand on the girl's mouth before she can even get a response out of her, "Good, that's what I thought."
She then moves down to her lower half, unbuttoning the top of her pants and then cutting down the sides until she's fully exposed save for her underwear.
Calathea swaps her bowie for a skinning knife and positions herself above One's face. It's like father always said, getting the face first is a surefire way to maximize the pain a victim feels. But of course she's still screaming, still thrusting her feet and begging for mercy. And Calathea wants to ask her to shut up but she knows One won't.
So she takes a quick break to fix that issue while Chandler continues to press her to the floor. Calathea feels the side of One's quivering face, looking for the spot Marake told her near the ear and along the jaw. There's a light marking on her skin that again indicates she's in the right place so she delicately presses down the blade, and points it underneath the top layer of flesh.
One grits her teeth making a jarring screeching sound but Calathea doesn't let it or the steadily increasing trickle of blood stop her from achieving her goal. She peels back the skin and uses her free hand to force One's jaw open so that she can steadily cut through the nerve, a shriek escaping her mouth once it's severed.
But it's the last sound she makes for a while, her tongue draping over her lips and landing sideways and crooked. In all honesty, Calathea could cut it out right about now, but she's not really the sort to repeat something twice within a few days, especially when everybody's likely watching her.
She murmurs just loud enough that One can hear her, "So now the real fun can begin."
And her eyes have that universal flicker of fear in them that Calathea knows all too well as she cuts crosses against her face, her forehead and cheeks and jaw, scoring the surface to make the removal easier.
She decides to play dirty, too, her fingernails scraping against One's fresh cuts, skin piling atop the tips of her fingers as crimson stains flesh. There's tears in her eyes and half-assed husky groans from the back of her throat but Calathea ignores them. She has work to do after all.
The long series of gashes down the left side of her face gives her an inexplicable sense of joy, the euphoria of having all the power her father always wanted for her. She uses fabric from One's clothing to wipe away the blood so she can see her masterpiece, the raw exposed muscles and nerves glistening in pink and maroon and pus leaking from several small holes.
But her eyes dart to the right and she knows there's still so much of One's pretty little face that's left to ruin.
Calathea's quicker this time, using her freckles as a guide as her knife digs from one cheek to the other over the bridge of her nose. It's then a light tug to free her face of the skin and leave more meat exposed, more pus and blood clotting amongst nerves.
She throws the fleshly removed skin onto the ground with a splat and admires her handiwork, the bone of One's nose nearly visible so she scrapes her thumb against the nerves to expose her upper cartilage.
Of course there's still the rest of her face to go, but the knife makes severing flesh a breeze, leaving piles on the ground with every thrust.
Yet throughout this, One's still smiling, still so determined even as she goes from a person to a cadaver, skin drenched in blood and gore. Calathea debates taking out the eyes, but it's much more horrific if she's forced to watch everything happen to her. In fact, it's just two small incisions to remove the lids of her eyes and ensure there's no way for her to escape this glorious sight.
Because the rest of her body is next, and Calathea prepares it the same way she did the face, only these initial cross-sections are longer than their predecessors. She pinches against the skin to test elasticity before again dragging her blade through meat and tendons, her eyes pointed downwards towards the gore already beginning to form along her stomach and chest. The skin's thin enough by her sternum that Calathea can nearly touch the bone, but she's patient and continues to strip One of her skin bit by bit.
On occasion she turns her head around to see Chandler still minding his own business with a queasy expression, so she asks him, "Do you want to help?"
Calathea can tell he wants to say no but has come to the proper conclusion that nobody says no to her and therefore he's forced to help with a second skinning blade that he drags down her legs, exposing the caps of her knees.
"I don't get why you think this is fun," Chandler finally admits while pulling flesh from bone, his hand coated in blood.
He's not entirely right though. Sure, it's objectively a good time, but this torture, this gore and pain is Calathea's duty, her obligation to her father and to Eleven to paint the arena red before she burns it down to ashes and dust. If she stops now (which she won't), then it'll say she's weak. She's weak and lazy just like all those people her father detests, weak and lazy like…
(She can't end up that way, a hole in her brain because she wasn't good enough for him.)
"Please Chandler," She smirks as she rips aside the skin by One's collarbone to leave behind an array of musculature and nerves. For a split second she considers talking to Chandler, telling him why she has to do this even if she's not quite sure she remembers the whole story, but she can't, "Are you not also enjoying this?"
That false sense of pride she has disgusts her, makes her feel sicker than the way One must feel with her flesh exposed to the world for everyone to see, for her child to eventually see and be haunted by when he's of age.
"I just…" Chandler bites against his lip, "Why can't we just take her out? Has she not suffered too much already?"
She knows he's right but Calathea won't admit it, "She'll die when I want her too, understood?"
He nods, "Yes ma'am."
Calathea flexes and cracks her fingers above her head, once again admiring her work, the way One's nearly shedded save for a few small spots on her legs and of course her neck, the most delicate spot and what she was saving for last.
Lightly, she peels up the skin at the base of her neck, veins exposing themselves in muddied shades of white. It's far too easy for her to reveal every last bit of One's neck, her larynx and cartilage fresh with crimson gore, ringlets on her thyroid swelling with pus. Her breathing gets slower and slower as Calathea finishes her job.
She presses the knife deep into her throat until she's cut through into the hollow parts of her neck and she puts her hand in One's mouth to loop the tongue through the hole she's created.
A cannon finally fires despite the fact her body's still leaking blood but that doesn't mean Calathea's finished.
Her feet brush against the flesh on the ground so that she has more room for her next endeavor, stripping One to the bone, If she told me that she's a walking skeleton then she might as well look the part!
It's easier to tear away her muscles and flesh now that she's not alive to resist it, her knives nearly touching the bone before she tilts them back and lets the chunks hit the ground. Her hands work quickly from her thighs to her chest and once she pierces through those muscles she's able to see her organs slowly shriveling up, especially her heart which is fading to gray.
Calathea's hand weaves through her ribcage as she goes to remove the organ and wiggle away at the nerves and veins until it's finally free. She examines the heart in her hand, not strong enough to survive her horror and not loving enough to care about a child before throwing it to the ground.
It's not too impressive, but then again, neither was she, and neither are her intestines which are able to be removed with just one pull. Her lungs and kidneys remain attached to the corpse as Calathea continues to remove everything else important. She'd get the brain One clearly wasn't using too but she doesn't want to damage the skull she's worked so hard to clean.
She still uses the spare clothing as a towel as she attempts to get rid of the muscles and veins on her face, pulling back against her scalp to get rid of that skin behind her skull too.
And she's almost done, Calathea's almost free when she hears footsteps followed by a deafening roar, "Get your hands off of her!"
Your Time is Gonna Come by Led Zeppelin
13th Place: Magnificence Grandeura Callarosa, District One - Killed by Calathea Matheny