tw: this chapter contains themes related to and regarding past dismissal, parental neglect, parental abuse, classism, abuse of power and authority, death and grievance, domestic violence, dysfunctional family units, verbally and emotionally abusive comments, maligned trust and bullying.
iv. calamity
To the brave and the petrified, we all fall down.
To the slave and the civilised, we all fall down.
To the lovers we left behind –
the bad days, the good nights…
In the great shipwreck of life, we all fall down.
Delphi Dupont - District Two
…
It still isn't good enough.
After all of her efforts - academics, training, putting forth her all to be the best of the best - Delphi Dupont feels stagnant. With the Games just around the corner, it feels as if the weight of the world's been lumped on her back. Her peers, her trainers... her scornful crush and her own fucking family... everyone's gaze is resting on her. And while the typical Two might see that as a good thing, Delphi's jaded enough to know better.
They're all just waiting to watch her fall.
(That's not going to happen. She's come too far to let a few insults get her down, especially when the ones making them are spineless. Sure, she's had her share of missteps over the years, but so have the rest of the Academy cadets. Spending your days clashing metal means accidents are just part of the job. And with how long Delphi's been at this…)
She's been bunking in the training center for the last few days, every waking moment she has devoted to running simulations. Her energy's been running low, but her motivation has never been higher, with the tribute mantle emblazoned on her as a result of their final exams. There's not a chance in hell she's going to sit back and throw away her opportunity at becoming a victor, upstaging her comrades and her dismissive father, who has only ever lived to insult her efforts.
He thinks I'm going to fail? Well I'll fucking show him. Him, Thalia, that upstart Tyrannus Rex – I'll show one and I'll show them all. If anyone's going to make Two proud this year, it's me.
(Besides, if I throw in the towel now, Dad will never let me live it down. My lack of certainty would only be proving him right – and I know that's what he's wanted. What he's always wanted…)
(Anyone else would rather enjoy their last breath of freedom, but not her. Delphi has something to prove.)
Her teeth grit as she throws herself forward, skewering one of the holograms through the stomach. Anger pumps through her skin, hitting a fever pitch as she draws her sword back, readies herself for another strike – another, another, ANOTHER!
Her family never wanted to see her succeed. Yet here she is, finally making something of herself. Despite their doubts and despite the odds; despite the rejection, year-after-year-after-year until she came of age, her father decrying her lust for the Games and her brother dismissing her fruitless ambition, turning his head when he should have been singing her praises.
(Sometimes Delphi wonders if training was worth it. If it was something she truly wanted or just another way for her to smother her insecurities. She's their latest champion, and yet what does she have to show for it? Dismissal? Heartbreak?)
Delphi shakes her head, a bolt of pain lancing through her chest. Even Thalia hadn't believed in her, not really. Friends for years, and all she'd seen her as was a fucking joke…
"Look at all the stars from up here," Thalia comments, dropping down next to her with a caustic grin, as devil-may-care as ever. Instinctively, Delphi smiles at her, suppressing a shiver as a hand hooks around her arm, a head full of stunning gold nudging hard against her shoulder.
"They're beautiful," she agrees, her gaze settling on the far horizon, where sunset crashes hard into the spiralling earth, fading from purple-blue into an ocean of dark. Alone and surrounded by nothing but stars, the landscape seems to fall out of sight around her, obscured by both sentiment and mounting desire, unvoiced confessions clogging her throat. Thalia chuckles, leaning in closer, and her breath tickles where it hits Delphi's neck.
"Kind of makes you feel small, doesn't it?" She asks, and Delphi hums in agreement, forcing herself to reply even as her mind wishes to do anything but.
"Yeah," she says simply, doing her best to disguise the flush that's settled over her cheeks, dusky even in the cool night air. "Small's right…"
(They could've been something.)
(Could've, in another world, one that wasn't so fucked up, so set on trying to break people down. Delphi and Thalia, Thalia and Delphi – best friends who should've been forever, who could've been more, if only she weren't so – )
The Career-to-be blinks in an attempt to hold back her tears, rivulets acrid as they leak from her eyes. She feels so lost anymore – unmoored and alone, without an anchor left to ground her. It's strange to think that she'd never realized just how stifling solitude can be, but without her family… without Thalia…
…
…
She can't do this.
…
…
(Fuck.)
A quiet falls over the rooftop, settling in her gut like a heavy stone. Delphi swallows, her heart speeding within her chest, pulse rocketing so high it feels arrhythmic.
(Thalia, please.)
(I need you to know…)
(… no, I want you to – )
(I want you to know?)
(I want you. I –)
(…)
(…)
"Can I tell you something?" she asks, barely able to disguise the tremor in her voice. "Thalia, I – before I leave next week, I just – I need to say –"
(Weakness.)
(Weakness in her arms, in her skin, in her cheeks –
she's blushing and she's a fucking mess,
would curse herself for it if she knew how to control;
control her feelings,
control her fear,
it shouldn't seem so daunting
just to string some words together,
but Thalia's looking at her, and there's realization settling in –
realization written on her face,
her surprise fading away,
she's staring and all there is to be heard is laughter,
cutting and sharp and shrill…
... mocking. She's MOCKING her, and Delphi takes a step back -
tries to pull away, but it's too late, it's too LATE, there's nowhere to go, nobody to back her, it's just...
Her.
Her and fucking Thalia,
and she can't hear anything but... !
"By the stone… oh, Delphi. Delphi, please."
Laughter.
Gales of it.
It's flowing out of her now,
making her crack and double over,
tears in her eyes and she won't stop,
why won't she just stop, why can't she –
"Come on, Phi, seriously? You and me? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I wouldn't be caught dead in a closet with you. You're fucking insane."
(Weak.)
(I'm so fucking weak.)
Delphi closes her eyes, her racing pulse circling about her head. Curling her hand tight around the grip of the sword, she takes a moment to quiet herself, nurturing her rage within her chest. The tears on her cheeks feel scalding, but it only takes a few seconds for them to dry, cast off as easily as she'd cast off her feelings, just a few, short days ago.
(There's an anger living in her blood.
Sooner or later, she'll have to unleash it.)
Lunging at the first of the display dummies, she ducks the blow of the simulated spear, swinging her sword up to cut through its glitching head. Her body doesn't waver as she strikes it down, doesn't falter when she pivots, turning back to the second hologram to counter – counter-counter-strike, counter-counter-strike – and bring it down to its sorry knees.
One by one, her opponents fall; skewered through their stomach, gutted on the end of her blade, throats slit, sternums splintered, a couple of them even decapitated, all for the sake of the game. She knows what she's doing, always has, knows, and why don't they see it, why doesn't he fucking see it, her father, her brother, her mother, her – !
The simulation comes to a stop, display crackling out in a shower of sparks. Delphi's rage becomes a whimper.
She draws herself up, steps away from the mats.
Then, with a heavy heart, she collapses.
Her breath begins to slow as she sinks – down, down, down to the linoleum floor, the brick of the wall steady at her back. Cool air whips across her face, finally loose from the hold of the vent, and it's almost enough to quell the fiery burn she feels inside her muscles; back bent, shoulders tense, she's falling to pieces and there's nothing she can do, not a damn thing, not a damn, fucking thing…!
Slowly, her fingers begin to uncurl, the hilt of her sword slipping free of her palm. Her eyes slip closed as the weapon falls, clattering hard against the floor, and while Delphi thinks that she should care, she can't even find the strength to look.
It's disappointing, isn't it? To realize that even after all these years, nobody has any faith in you?
Her lips part around a breathless laugh, the mirth that fills her utterly humorless. And so the insecurity emerges. Absolutely fucking classic.
She shakes her head, letting her posture start to slump, skull lolling to the side as she reaches for her canteen. It doesn't take long for her to unscrew the cap, raise it to her lips for a swig; her body's desperate for a moment of reprieve, every bit of her parched from invalidation.
It isn't fair. But that doesn't matter.
With weary, bloodshot eyes, Delphi Dupont looks up at the clock, fixed in place atop the northern wall. Ten minutes are left until midnight. Only ten minutes…
I'll sleep in the barracks, she decides. If the reaping's two days out, there's no sense in me going home. I've got to keep my eye on the ball – so I'm staying here. Father can manage his affairs just fine without me.
Her brow pinches tighter. A slew of doubts continue to rush through her brain, jumbled together like bits of wire string. Thalia's voice echoes from amidst the web, louder than any of the others – what makes you think I would be interested in you? Angry little Delphi Dupont, the girl with the world's biggest chip taken out of her shoulder? You've done everything in your power to avoid falling into your father's shadow, yet what do you actually have to show for it?
(At least as a Dupont you could be someone.)
Her teeth sink into the split on her lip, fingers curling tight into the flesh of her palm. Forget her. It doesn't matter what she thinks – what she says, how she feels, just forget her. Forget her. Fucking FORGET!
Delphi takes a deep breath in, nails carving crescents into her shaking hands.
It's alright if the world wants to doubt her.
She'll just have to prove them all wrong.
Ramsay Cortado - District Ten
…
The last thing Ramsay needs tonight is to get drunk.
His company would say otherwise; they've been chiding him, even, for the last few hours. Going on tangents about madness and misfortune, usually in the shape of women that have little to do with the badge sitting on their chest. Peacekeepers make poor company at the best of times, and yet tonight's mark is especially dull, his foolhardy nature shining through each word that leaves his mouth, leaving Ramsay's ears to ring loud in protest.
" — and then she threw it on me. A fuckin' bottle of red, all… hic… expensive an' shite, an' I'd just been mindin' my own business in th'yard…"
The man sitting across from Ramsay laughs, smacking a hand down on the bar table. Ramsay smiles, the fake brevity plastered to his lips with all the comfort of sanded tape, and resists the urge to roll his eyes.
He doesn't know what, exactly, he's still doing here, but with any luck, he'll be gone shortly. Vanish into the night, along with every trace of his existence, bearing documents filled with names and notes and mockery of a different kind – scorn, venom, hateful words. In his reports, the Capitol can have them all, every slight and naysay known to man, simply for the virtue of their existence.
(Amazingly enough, their enforcers are deserving of even worse. Imagine that.)
"Hey, ya wanna see my 'ton? Could show you a few… hhh… a few tricks, yeah?"
Ramsay ignores the comment, taking a sip from his cup of water. Unbelievable.
"Ramram, c'mon, it'd be fun." His companion continues to enthuse, boorish as ever, and this time, he does roll his eyes.
?Not that it matters – Blondie's too washed to even notice. And the rest of them… well, truth be told, they're not all that different. Seems the profession attracts a certain type of personality, and really, who'd have bloody thought?)
He's never been a fan of Peacekeepers; they're all pompous, as full of shit as they are of themselves. All the armored denizens Ramsay's been unfortunate enough to meet, and not one of them's cared to focus on the real problems besetting their country. But then, why would they? Oppression doesn't affect the oppressors.
The Capitol doesn't care.
Ramsay grimaces, curling fingers into the sleeve of his shirt, worrying it between them with a soft exhale. He was ten years old the day they'd stormed Sector Sixteen, setting fire to fences, farmyards and open fields. Just ten. But even now, he can remember what it felt like when the helmets kicked down the doors of his neighbors, tearing apart homes and families alike in their quest to satisfy their overlords' whimsy.
(He was ten years old when his life was first upended, and who did he have to blame but them?
Peacekeepers.
Loyalists.
They torched his childhood and smiled as it went up in flames. Worse still, the Capitol allowed it – allowed for their crusades and interrogations to continue, sponsored the soldiers as they mocked and stepped on the poor, thinking them less, inferior, insignificant. Justice never caught up to them, nor the extent of their crimes.)
(And so the story went.)
(Ramsay grew up without a parent, and his mother went on without a husband. Resurgence came and resurgence went, but nothing changed beyond the number of headstones in the graveyard. Any hopes that their family may have held for a future beyond the Capitol's banner were dashed on the day his father vanished, the vibrant red of a peacekeeping brand a chilling indicator to his untimely fate.)
In Ten, injustice has always reigned supreme. For that reason alone, Ramsay Cortado never forgave.
(He also never forgot.)
"How about that mess last week? Sounds like City Square got rowdy," he comments offhandedly, taking another swig from the glass he's filled out with water. As much as he'd prefer otherwise, the nature of his dealings requires him to be alert – inebriation is better left for the interrogated, and not their inquisitors.
"Yea, yea. We've got a whole mess of shite happenin' these days. All those fucks from down in the 'Lotus…"
The officer knocks back another mug, liquid dribbling from the corners of his mouth as he gulps the ale down, greedy as bloody ever. Then, setting the glass back down with a thud, he wipes his face with his navy sleeve, careless for the stains that cling upon his uniform. Ramsay raises an eyebrow, and in all of a moment, his peacekeeper friend slumps forward, leaning halfway over the table with an arm outstretched.
"Y'ever thought about… hic… joinin' up, Ramram?" The man slurs, offering up a washed-out smile, all teeth and fucking sleaze. "Be a good gig… charming guy like you. Girls love a – a guy in armor, y'know?"
Inexplicably, he begins to giggle, his flushed cheeks growing redder from the sudden mirth that fills him. Ramsay has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.
"You're a mess, man." He shakes his head, pushing his own water glass forward into the place of the guy's beer. "Try and sober up before you leave, okay? Your buddies'll have my hide otherwise."
The blonde waves him off, more than likely deaf to the words that fall from his lips. Not that his ineptitude especially matters – Ramsay's had his fill of stupid tonight. He's ready to get back.
(Some would think it crazy that this is how he chooses to spend his free time, and truth be told, he wouldn't fault them. Nothing about what he does is glamorous.)
(… but it is necessary.)
The bartender glances over as he stands to his feet, a dishtowel still clutched between their calloused hands. Ramsay grins, giving them a one-handed salute as he grabs his jacket, pulls the first sleeve up his arm and then slings it over his back to do the other. The leather's nothing special, but in here it feels like armor; an extra layer between his flesh and the bullets that'd want to pierce it, if anyone were to realize his role in their game.
"He's got the tab." Ramsay calls, pointing to the knackered Peacekeeper, who merely laughs in turn. The man's cheeks are flushed red, buttons of his shirt undone in an attempt to cool down from his alcohol-induced fever dream. Two hands reach out as Ramsay turns to leave, but all he does is clap the other's back, the spirit of camaraderie faded with the approach of midnight.
The tavern door clicks shut behind him, cutting off the clamor of drunken feet and rowdy patrons desperately clinging to the last call of their tab. Ramsay steps out into the evening air, the scent of rainwater strong in his nostrils. Even in the night, he can hear the clouds roil.
Storm's going to be a big one; of that, he has little doubt.
He gives a nod to the couple standing by the gate, the boy trying desperately to click on his lighter, some old, rusted thing that seems to be half-melted. The girl offers him a smile as he slips past – stupid piece of shit, the boy curses, just my luck – while her partner never raises his head. Too distracted.
It's a shame I wasn't marking him, Ramsay considers as he steps out into the road, the glint of a baton at the older boy's waist unmistakable under the glowing lantern. Frustrated, single-minded, easy to rile up… he'd be a one-and-done, no doubt.
A smile's ghost flickers over his visage. It's a shame the hour's so late; he's limited in what he can do on the best of days, but lately? After they'd cracked the Dawn and the Lotus?
He sighs.
Dissidence is on the outs in Ten, and the reaping frenzy of July hasn't been helping. Plying peacekeepers with cheap alcohol and talking them up over a round of drinks is all good fun, but at the end of the day, it's a lot of effort for a little gain. And now with these fucking curfews…
But that's a problem for tomorrow.
His hands burrow deep into the cotton of his pockets, fingers passing over coins and a metal case full of cigarettes. Ramsey's knuckles ache as he curls them into the fabric, and with all the strength he can summon, he grips it tight, the denim flexing against his thighs as raindrops begin to blanket his back.
On and on the road goes, and on and on his legs stride, black shoes kicking away bits of gravel, stray rocks strewn through the dirt. The wind begins to whistle as lightning flashes, white-hot and electric in the nearby distance. More droplets come, but he hardly notices; it's been a longer day than he'd expected. A longer week, really…
Sigh.
One step after another, he makes his way down the winding path – past the open field where he rode his first horse, eleven long years ago, past the trees he used to sit in when his parents were having a spat, things were so much easier when the world was just a storybook.
He reaches the covered bridge and comes to a stop, hair prickling at the back of his neck. With bloodshot eyes, Ramsay turns his head to glance over the moonwashed dirt, gaze raking over pebbles, water and twisting shadows, seeking a monster he can't name.
As always, the path is empty.
(As always, he's alone.)
They'll find you, his mind whispers, turning up images of his father, dead from a gunshot wound in his head. Nobody ever found his body, but Ramsay's dreamt of it often enough; dead in the woods, dead in a ditch, disappeared's-just-a-fancy-word-for-gone fuck-the-Capitol and fuck-the-rest.
He sighs, shoulders slumping as he finally tears one hand from his trousers, running it through his messy hair.
I knew the risks, he reminds himself, taking a deep breath in. I wanted this.
… I wanted justice.
Ramsay tugs his hood back over his head, blocking out the summer air that swirls cold around him. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but he knows better.
To be defiant is to scorch the earth.
To be a rebel is to burn.
Jun Percaline - District Eight
…
He can hear his mother screaming.
The sound of her cries echo through the hallway, cast about between shattered pictures and smashed-up glass, strewn about over the floorboards. Jun's hand is fisted in his brother's shirt, clinging to the worn, gray fabric as Jaco stands in front of him, a sentinel against their father's horrors. From in the kitchen, he can hear a crash – the snap of a bottle in a pair of brazen hands, accompanied by the enraged ramblings of a man lost to reality, blinded by the monster his addiction has turned him into.
"SHUT UP!"
Jaco's feet stumble back as he tries to ease Jun away, into the safety of their shared bedroom, the darkness providing a promise of security in shadow.
"Jun, go," his voice hisses, rough with the ache of desperation. "You need to hide."
His eyes are wide as he looks up to his brother; the concerned mirrors of his soulful eyes, spilling over with sorrow as tears leak down his cheeks. The crystals on his flesh look like the rain outside their window; clear-yet-misty, glistening downpour. Jun swallows as he nods, his white-knuckled grip relaxing for a moment, hand untangling from his protector's clothes, and in a voice too small to feel his own, he stammers out a question.
"Wh… what about you?"
Jaco smiles, but his smile is saddened. Shaky, as if it's trying to obscure the nerves that keep him in their grip, forcing strength for the sake of reassurance. Jun's not old enough to understand everything, but even now, he understands this – facades made of empathy, and falsely-composed faces, stay-safe-I-need-you-safe, everything-I-do-I-do-for-you.
"Jun, please."
Jaco's voice is resolute.
So when his father rounds the corner, he runs.
(What else is he meant to do?)
(Outside the window, lightning flashes. The walls of the house begin to shake, memories pitching back-and-forth, back-and-forth, their hypnotic rhythm disconcerting. His mother's body lays upon the floor, and above her, a man is screaming. Jaco says: "run."
Jun grabs his hand instead.)
The streets of Knocktown are buried. Rainwater spills over the gutters, flooding the unkempt dirt. A sharp wind whistles in Jun's ears as he tugs his hood back over his head, coins jangling from inside his satchel. Jaco's hand is still in his, allowing Jun to drag him along, away from their parents and the stench of death, outwards and on towards freedom.
They have nothing to their name but five in change… a stuffed bear, some playing cards, clothes and a dash of hope. But even in their hardship, those few belongings are enough.
As long as they're together, they can handle anything.
As long as they're together…
(The earthquakes begin anew.
He can feel them under his feet – no, his back, his arms, his hands and his face, shaky, jarring movements that course through his spine with the force of thunder. Amidst the ocean of downtrodden gray, Jun can hear someone shouting – crying, anguished, like his father as he'd stood over his mother's body, her skull dented in and blooming roses on dirty wood.
"Jun,"
he hears,
and it's so familiar –
a patch of starlight
cut from night's abyss,
drawing him from the streets
and away into the ether,
where dented walls become paper
and paper becomes dream.
"Jun,"
a voice repeats,
chiding him with the tone
of a disgruntled parent –
a brother savior,
whose life and light saw him through
the misery of bruised knees
and bloodied backs –
never his, but always theirs.
His mother, his brother...
His father's disease...
Alcohol swarmed Mercer Percaline's veins
and replaced his blood with anger,
caustic and aggressive
as it gnawed on his heart.)
(Jun's father is the reason he dreams. Despite the pain, despite the fear. He raged and screamed in a fit of hate, and inebriated, he lost himself – ruined his life with his own bloodied hands and damned his children to be orphans, his love for the drink outweighing whatever love he still held for his family…)
Jun's feet stay planted on the splitting ground, his brother's hands steady on his back.
"No matter what happens," the older Percaline whispers in his ear, spinning him around and crouching to look Jun straight in the eye. "Promise me you won't give up."
(Promise me you won't lose yourself. Not like Dad. Not like…)
"Jun."
A hand forcefully shakes his shoulder. Bleary-eyed, Jun bats at it, easing himself up from the studio desk, his skin aching from where the rings on his sketchbook got pressed into his face. Krystina's standing next to him, her arms crossed over her chest, and when Jun finally manages to right himself, he greets her with a sheepish smile.
"Um… hey," he says, voice tapering off as his mentor stares at him, stoic and seemingly unamused. "Early morning?"
"Fuck's sake, boy." Krystina shakes her head. Jun's sheepish smile morphs into a sheepish laugh, quiet in comparison to its usual verse. "What am I going to do with you?"
"Keep me?" He asks, and Krystina's brow raises, her gaze never breaking from his own.
Ten seconds pass, then twenty. Her mom-glare never wavers.
Jun, smiling, reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck. "Okay, so maybe I got a little carried away last night…"
"Jun Percaline, this is the third time in a week I've walked in to find you asleep in my studio! You're going to run yourself ragged."
Jun's smile drops, halfway to a frown as he averts his eyes, glancing back to the clock perched just over the work bench. 05:15. Wow, it is early…
He ponders the thought for a moment, then turns his gaze back to Krystina, ready to make his case.
"... okay, I know I should have gone home…"
"I sense a 'but' coming."
"... but I had this idea for Rose's sleeve last night, and I just couldn't get it out of my head? I thought we could do a patterning on the forearm, with her constellations overlaid by the flower petals –"
Jun grabs his sketchpad and holds it up, flipping the paper around so Krystina can give it a once-over. His mentor steps closer to peer at it, arms still crossed in that 'no-nonsense' pose, and after a moment, she sighs, pursing her lips.
"That's all well and good, boy, but you and I both know that you shouldn't be inking when you've got insomnia."
Jun sets his pad back down in his lap, ink-smudged hands folding atop the paper.
"Yeah… I know," he relents, sighing as his brow pinches. "Sorry, Krys."
His mentor sighs, posture relaxing before her arms drop back to her side.
He's not sure if it's the tone of his voice, or something half-hidden in his expression, but when she responds this time, her words are less abrupt, full of the concern that she's always harbored, and yet so rarely chooses to show.
"You know, Jun…" she begins to say, empathic, though not pitying. "There's a perfectly good cot set up in the back, if you're having trouble going home right now."
Jun's fingers trail down the inside of his wrist, his body resisting the urge to curl in on itself, hide away from the negativity like he's so used to doing. Avoidance is always easier than acknowledgment; even most of his clients in the shop would agree with that. Still, if this is enough to worry Krystina…
"It's not that I'm having trouble," he replies, shrugging. "It's just… things have been tense recently. This month…"
"Ah," his mentor nods. "It's the anniversary."
"Yeah," Jun replies with a frown, returning his attention back to his book, black lines over a canvas of snowy paper. "It is."
He pauses, running his tongue across his lower lip. Krystina says nothing.
The silence ticks on.
After a moment, Jun glances down at his hands, the olive tone stained by the hemorrhaging ink of his pen.
"Jaco's having a rough time," he says finally, the back of his throat feeling parched for air. "He's been working longer hours. Picked up smoking again, too. I know it's not the worst of habits, but I just…"
"Worry about him?"
"Yeah," Jun agrees, setting his sketchbook back upon the shop desk, the grief from last night's dreams washing over him. "I wish there was more I could do for him."
Krystina moves to sit in the chair beside the door, her joints cracking as she eases herself down atop the cushions. Crossing one leg over the other, she leans back in the seat, her visage clouded in thought. Jun waits as she mulls his words over, one hand braced against her chin, the pad of her thumb brushing over her lips.
"You should design for him."
"Design for him?" Jun's voice is disbelieving. "Krystina, I know it's been awhile since you've met my brother, but Jaco's a bit… well, it's more that he's –"
"'Less an artist and more a critic'?" The woman gives him a look, gaze sharp enough to prick at his skin. "Give me some credit, boy, I'm not that old."
"That's not what I –"
"The tattoo itself is less important than the fact it came from your head." Krystina taps her own skull, as if to further her point, then gestures down at his arms. "And your hands."
Turning his palms over, Jun frowns, staring at the lines that run across the beige skin, his scraped knuckles and calloused fingers bearing hues of black and purple. An artist's mark, he remembers his brother musing the day after he had them done. Now you've made it official.
"Life is rarely kind to our sort," his mentor's voice filters in from the periphery, calm as ever. "Knocktown is a fucking shithole. People here lose more than their lot. But you, Jun…"
She rises from the chair on shaky legs, the myriad of colors on her painted skin illuminated by the sunlight dancing across the window.
"You still have hope."
Krystina's hand wraps around the doorknob, jiggling it a couple times before she pulls it out of place. The hinges creak as its shadow glides over the floor, and Jun watches it go, only blinking once her foot moves to fit the jamb into place.
"You know as well as I do that what your brother wants most is to see you prosper. So be kind to yourself, boy."
(In the eye of the storm, the thunder calms.
Jaco's hands rest firm on his shoulders,
dark gaze awash with all the sorrows of the rain,
a broken legacy strung about his throat.)
(Promise me, he whispers, and Jun forces himself to swallow,
bitterness and blood inside his mouth, the sting of grief all that he can taste.
Jun, please. I need you to say it.)
"Alright," Jun whispers as his mentor leaves the room, her words bleeding over into the memory that lingers. "I promise."
(Jaco, don't worry.
I won't give up.)
Vignette Celle - District One
…
After eighteen years, she's finally made it.
The ballroom is alive with the sound of music, flurries of dancing feet and swishing gowns heralding a tune of the wealthy… a tune that she's been raised to sing. Though this isn't her usual crowd, it's a crowd she's come to understand, both through her patronage and her father's performance, tailor-made to please One's elite. She may not be one of them, but she's as close as an outsider could possibly get; a shining star bearing the last name Celle, cloaked in the gold of a Salazar's shadow. This stage is where she belongs. And tonight…
Tonight is a night for the ages.
Tonight, Vignette is all the ages she has ever been – a dreaming child with starry eyes, a preteen in the throes of grief. A soon-to-be tribute, made in her District's image to be the glory they've always sought.
(A bittersweet teenager, colored red. Crimson roses and velvet-lace, she washed herself with blood and wore the ghost of her mother's crown. Her father couldn't let go, but she's grown old enough to stomach his regrets; old enough to fill the shoes left behind by the last Celle woman to hold a bow, violin verses playing in her head.)
In just a few days, they'll be the ones singing; trilling her praises while they weave tales of grandeur. Vignette Celle is this year's lotus; music may guide her, but violence is what she was made for, and soon enough, One will see it.
They'll see her in her own image. Without a guise… without her mask…
But the reaping is a matter to discuss later. Tonight, she's meant to be mingling.
(Tonight, she's meant to play for them.)
"Vignette!" Regina Salazar greets her with a subtle smile, refined in her display of acknowledgment as she is in all things. "It's been a blue moon since I've seen you, dear. How's your father?"
"Well, thank you," Vignette answers, greeting her patron with a curtsy, before righting herself. "We've been touring in Eastcliffe the last couple months; between the ice wine and the concertos, it's difficult not to enjoy yourself."
"I can only imagine!" Regina exclaims, her laugh spinning the tune of a wind chime. "Tell me, Miss Celle, will the pair of you be attending my Songbird Soirée? I have so many friends who would be delighted to dine with our future Victor."
"The Songbird? Miss Salazar, it would be an honor!"
Vignette agrees, more readily than she probably should. A thrill runs down the length of her spine at the offer, and instinctively her fingers twitch, inching toward the bow that's been secured at her right hip. A token made to be drawn and played – soon, it'll be all I have. All that remains of my scarlet name… oh, mother, I wish I had more time…
"I'll have to speak with my father, but I'm certain he'll agree."
"He will, if he knows what's good for him," Regina laughs, elegant fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass in a hold similar to the one Vignette uses on her bow. "Only the most reputable of our District attend functions at La Serre. Your presence would stand to elevate you."
Taking another sip of her drink, the woman swallows with averted eyes, leaning back in her chair. Then, after a moment, a melancholy expression settles over her, shrouding her aura with an air of disappointment.
Her hand moves to set the wine glass back down upon the pristine linen covering the table, a small stain lining its rim. She doesn't raise her head.
"I have no issue with playing benefactor, but you must promise me, Vignette," she murmurs, her eyes darkening with regret. "That you will not make the same errors as my daughter should I throw my support behind you. My reputation cannot handle another stain."
Vignette's eyes widen. "Miss Salazar, I could never!"
"Hm."
Regina's eyes flit sideways, her dark gaze unyielding as she watches Vignette, appraising her every move. Vignette, undeterred, continues:
"Truly, I'm grateful for what you've given me. These opportunities… my patronage at the training centre… and you've done so much for my father, ever since mother passed. If discretion is the way I can best repay you, then with all assurance, my silence is yours!"
"Silence?" Her benefactor's head turns then, the barest hint of a smile flickering across her lips. Approval that shines through her teeth, setting Vignette's fluttering heart at ease; her case has been acknowledged. She isn't going to lose.
(A Celle can never lose.)
"Darling, we both know I prefer your song. We'll have no issue so long as it follows the tune I've set."
Vignette forces a smile. "That's kind of you, Miss Salazar."
Regina turns back to the table, her smile ebbing away until all that remains is stone. She squares her shoulders, the silver bracelets on her wrists clinking as she steeples her hands on the table, the conversation falling dead.
"Enjoy your evening, Vignette. Tell your father I said hello."
"Regina?"
A pair of clipped heels sound against the tile, toes tapping incessantly in demand for attention. Vignette steps back and offers them a smile, readjusting the purse slung over her hip, the fabric of her leggings clinging to her skin uncomfortably. I guess that's my cue to leave.
With a nod and an apology, she turns to make her leave, accepting the dismissal in stride. Her boots are silent as she crosses the ballroom, eyes set upon the open door leading out from the vestibule. She's never disliked social functions, but they can be a bit stuffy – fresh air sounds like a nice reprieve.
"Good evening," the attendant posted next to the exit greets her, his buttoned-down appearance a bit too stiff for Vignette's liking. But she nods back all the same – there's no sense in being rude, especially when his effort is hospitable.
"Evening," she greets him in kind. Her lips quirk up, the cherry-red coating a far cry from the amount of makeup she usually wears, and though it's strange to say, the exposure makes her feel bare.
Vulnerable.
She steels her shoulders as she crosses the threshold, stepping out into the evening air. A sea of bodies surrounds her, mingling with clandestine whispers and dangling jewels, but she ignores them all, edging toward the balcony with deadset eyes.
It's only when she reaches the railing that she remembers they exist – the audience of her fortune, her great displeasure. Marquis taught her to socialize, but it's never exactly been her forte. Not like Mother, at least. She was always the star.
Vignette shakes her head, laughter escaping her in the form of a tiny snort. She's good enough at spinning words, but her tongue can't hold a candle to Valenna's. Neither can her playing, as much as her father would try to insist otherwise; there's a hole in her heart that throbs every time she takes hold of that bow, something that no amount of practice can truly mend. Heartache, maybe? The feeling of missing something, a thing that can't be brought back?
But that's… not a subject she cares to dwell on. Too bleak. Especially for tonight.
My name up in lights, yet a-fucking-gain. One concert to the next, and the enthusiasm never gets old. I hope Father's had a chance to appreciate it – classically, that is, and not in the way he usually does. Wine and closeted sex are better saved for after the performance…
… not that I'm exactly one to judge.
Vignette smiles to herself as she leans out over the balcony, looking down at the array of flowers, dotting the green-tinged garden. A fountain stands tall in the center, half hidden amidst the tall hedges and expanse of ivory walkways, and when she narrows her eyes in an attempt to examine it, she can swear that the water runs a little bit red. How pretty!
(Her foot edges upward onto the lower bracket of the rail, almost subconscious. What would the others do if she tried to jump? Would they stop her or just watch her plummet, another broken angel of One's failing legacy, the starlet-who-thought-she-could, could win the Games, could be a sensation, could fill the shoes left behind by a woman so much more than herself, whose image haunts her father's gaze and dogs her every waking step? If she looks long enough, she can see herself amongst the thorns, a corpse half-caught in a rosebush, scarlet leaking from her split skull and trailing a bloody halo into the pavement… red-tinting-ivory, alabaster-blooms, she'd just close her eyes and in an instant, the white would all bleed red…)
She thinks of the bow strung from the loop of her belt. Of her violin, the bane and legacy of a Celle's inheritance, locked away in a metal case and nestled between sheets of velveteen. She's done her best to carry it; if it should find another keeper, she knows they'll do the same.
There's a lot of blood on that wood; fears, hopes, unrealized dreams…
(One day, the instrument that wears her mother's stain will be painted over again, restrung by the hands of her grieving father; if he still lives, then so too will their history.)
Her symphony.
His melody.
They are one and they are the same; Marquis, Valenna and Vignette Celle, the bearers of a memory forever tinged with red. So long as the father has a daughter, then the mother will persevere; dead or alive, she's still here, echoing through every note struck by the chords of Vignette's heart, pitter-patter pity-patter inside her sunken chest.
The clouds in the sky begin to darken. A single droplet falls upon the metal banister, rebounding from the slick surface to dribble down over the edge. Vignette's eyes turn skyward as another plinks from the rooftop, a third finding a home upon her pallid skin.
It never rains, but it pours, she muses, the reaping song on high behind her ears. Three droplets become a dozen, become a hundred. Her father calls out to her from the ballroom, and as she turns, the sky cries, a drowning sea of hidden shine.
"Are you ready?" Marquis asks, and like always, Vignette smiles.
"Always, father."
Their arms link at the elbow when he leads her away, back into the crowd of painted faces, their path to the golden stage made free and clear. Vignette greets the crowd with a wave and a kiss, her mirth so great it could be meretricious.
In a week's time, her name will be on everyone's lips. And while her blood is darker than her mother's, she has no doubt it will make an excellent lacquer.
Edgar Balthazar - District One
…
Edgar has never been a fan of noise.
Yet this morning, it seems noise is the only thing to be found. The mess hall today is packed to the nines, every wannabe-tribute and aspiring victor doing their best to put in overtime before the trainers narrow down selection. Food is scarce, the water line's long, and the fighting mats are overflowing. Everywhere he turns, he can hear chaos; metal clanging against metal, barbs traded with other barbs, a dozen voices chattering in turn:
" – wait 'til tomorrow, I'll make you eat those words."
"You really think Celle is going to take it? She's not even here!"
"If I had a coin for every time they've said the name Balthazar…"
"... she's got their backing, you know. The Salazars."
"Fucking ridiculous! I don't understand why everyone just assumes that I'm on the outs –"
"You know what they say about money…"
"Personally, I'm betting on Montes."
"Please, it's going to be Cotheran!"
"Rhodochrosite!"
"DeLeon. For sure."
But amidst all the chatter, only one comment really manages to pull his ear.
" – could care less if I get the nom. All I want is to beat out Balthazar. I mean, can you imagine how we would look to the Capitol if he was our volunteer?"
… well. A comment like that just can't go without rebuttal. Can it?
(Perhaps if he was someone else, he'd be more willing to let it drop. Perhaps if he was someone who wasn't reliant on an outside name, a calling card, a footed bill to keep his Academy slot, he could allow the insults to roll off his back and fall like water into a broken bucket, his hopes and dreams secured with money, the force that makes Panem keep moving. Perhaps if Edgar wasn't a Balthazar, someone from the Silver Sector and left on the barest fringes of reaching greatness, he could let his reputation slip, without fear that he would lose it. Everything he's worked so hard to keep, his titling and his benefactor…)
No. No, he can't risk looking weak.
(He can't risk failure.)
Slowly, Edgar stands to his feet, turning around with a cat's smile – vicious, shifty, and full of malicious intent.
"Well," he says, turning to face the group of his fellow trainees, "if you ask me, I think they'd be quite pleased."
His gaze turns toward the speaker, standing at the edge of the assembly with his shoulders drawn up, self-important in his posturing. Cashel DeLeon. What a surprise. Edgar's smile widens as he takes a step forward, bemused when one of the other trainees - Low-mark Lex Edevane, he's going to finish bottom of our class this year, and good riddance to that - flinches, back lain flush to the wall as he continues to stalk closer.
"Now," he says, once he's gotten close enough to stare the other cadets down, his detractor so close he's practically in punching distance, "is there a reason my name was in your mouth, or did you just feel like spouting off shit?"
"'A reason?'" Cashel repeats, halfway to laughing. "Do I really need to say it? You're a – "
Static.
Static, ringing in his ears. DeLeon's lips are moving, but no words leave his mouth, all noise drowned out by the rush of blood, pumping through his head with the intensity of flame. Edgar's eye twitches as his skull begins to throb, bone splintering from brain and brain tearing apart, veins churning in time…
… thuthud …
… thuthudthuthud …
… thuthud…
Edgar's teeth grit.
It would be so easy to take him down a peg. So easy to –
Kill him?
(If he were bolder, perhaps he'd do it - lash out in murderous frenzy and rend his competitors limb from limb. Would that be proof enough of his superiority? Proof that he deserves, nay, is meant to be here, One's future champion and Victor of the ages? Sadism's never been a trait his District cared to prize, but in the Games, it's more than an asset. What Cashel scorns is what the Capitol will prize; violent tendencies and animosity in all things…)
(And if it breaks him, what does it matter? A weapon is always made to bear the wielder's mark. If loyalty is what will secure Edgar's legacy… if his aggression is the thing that will earn sponsors, as his father has so often said…)
(Trying to pull loose from his existing mold isn't worth the credit he would lose.)
" – a reason so many of your friends flunked out before they had a chance to beat the mark. Your sort are a disgrace to the Academy halls; you know it, I know it. Why should we pretend –"
DeLeon is still rambling.
Edgar crosses his arms, waiting for the loudmouth to wind himself down. There's no question that the insults rankle him – he really thinks he has the right to speak ill of me? – but he's had enough discipline for self-restraint to come easy. Unlike the majority of his fellow trainees, most of whom have proven to be nothing more than brats forged as the product of arrogance and nepotism. Unbelievable…
They have no place to be discussing merit. No place to be slinging insults, when they've been granted admittance at the end of a silver spoon, made to think themselves powerful for the sole distinction of possessing a name. How delusional do you have to be to fall in with this crowd?
His fellow trainee leans closer, his lips curled back in an open sneer, tongue spewing repetitive vitriol. "Besides, who even asked you? You're no part of this conversation, Balthazar. Why not take your reek and bother the Academy trainers – "
(... keep talking, Cashel. Keep talking.)
"– don't think I haven't noticed the way you make your cuts. You're not a Career, you're a brute. Just like Ansaldi from the twenty-fifth –"
A hand wraps around his throat.
Edgar's grip tightens as he turns, shoving his classmate back against the wall with his knuckles white and his veins pulsing, anger crashing through him like a storm. He leans in, forcing up the other boy's head with a snarl, no small amount of hatred pronounced in his face.
"Shut up," he hisses, waiting until DeLeon's eyes meet his (and how much better they look like this, blown open by the force of his fear, dark, despondent, glistening with tears…) before he leans forward, leveraging his weight against the other boy's and withdrawing just enough to lay his arm flat across the shitstain's heaving throat. His teeth bare as he gives Cashel a look, brow raising just a touch as the quiver in his features, the bewilderment that marks them, and if it wasn't obvious before, it's obvious now. He can't survive the Tributary. Five minutes in and there'd be a dagger spilling his guts out, tossing them across the fucking ground. To think he actually had the gall to call himself a contender…
Edgar begins to shake his head, expression caught in a space between rueful and admonishing. He's nothing but prey. Another wannabe-victor too wasted to make the cut.
… it's fucking pathetic.
"We're here to train," he reminds the other cadet, his tone unabashedly castigating. "Or did you somehow forget that in the span of selection week? This place only exists because One's in need of fitting weapons. A tribute has to be able to intimidate – has to be able to kill. What about that is so hard for you to understand?"
Edgar releases Cashel's collar, leaving his classmate to fall to the floor, shaken and bruised in his shame.
"Nobody cares how I make my cuts," he reiterates, looking at the others. "Because at least I can fucking make them."
Spinning around on his heel, Edgar storms past the audience of his fellow trainees, not sparing one of them a glance as he crosses the Academy main. Throwing open one door, he rounds a corner into the hallway, heading straight for the room that houses the trainee lockers –
In the haze of his upset, he barely even hears the door slam shut behind him, the chattering of his fellow trainees washed away by the sound of a whirring fan.
…
Silence.
At last.
He strips off his gloves, tossing them down in a gear bin by the corner. Then, without missing a beat, he heads into the lavatory, intent on reaching the row full of spotless sinks, his head so hot in the aftermath of his ire that he's unsure of how else to cool it.
(Edgar's been at the Academy long enough to realize that there's no point wasting time on self-pity, or gods forbid, brooding. But still…)
(... right now, he could stand to spend some time alone.)
His hands slam down against each side of the basin, nearly white-knuckled from his demanding grip. With the weight of his temper still on his back, he leans forward to peer at himself in the mirror, his face shadowed by six years' worth of unyielding stress, carved into his memory with a slew of blood, sweat and tears. Dark circles rim his eyes, carrying down to the lines of his face as he blinks, pulling back to stare himself down.
He's better than this.
(He's worse than this.)
(He's meant to be fucking more than this, and he will be, soon enough. It doesn't matter what the rest of them think – what they say, what they believe, because their anger is just a product of their fear, and they fear because they see the truth.)
(He's cut out for the Games. They're not.)
I deserve to be here, he tells himself, ripping his focus away from his reflection as he turns on the water tap, leaning forward to splash water across his face. His eyelids flutter as they're spattered with droplets, the coolness of the water a balm on his flesh. I deserve the Victor's mantle.
I deserve it, and who the fuck is DeLeon to be judging me? I've given my life in order to realize One's glory, and that's something to be smiled upon, not looked at with condescension or disdain! Don't they even realize what I've done? How much of myself I've given to be here? How hard I've worked for this moment, this single, bloody moment – ?!
It's hard for him to hide his anger – his frustration at being undermined, especially by someone who's grown up with a silver-spoon. After all the years he's put into this… the trials he's faced and the friends he's cut loose for the sake of keeping his spot, becoming something more than his benefactor, or his family's last name… and people think it's fine to just fucking degrade him? To mock his tenacity and spit on his efforts, when their own successes have been the product of nepotism?
His apathy is an insult. No, his very admission here is an insult.
(The thought of anyone being brazen enough to squander their time gossiping, especially before selection day, is enough to make Edgar feel irate.)
Whatever, he decides, running a hand through his hair to push the sweat-soaked locks back out of his face. I don't have a reason to pity the failures. Only to crush them beneath my heel.
(If I crush them… then they won't be able to crush me.)
The Games are the culmination of his life; they are the event that will prove to everyone that has ever doubted him - his trainers, his peers, even himself - that he is capable. And not just capable, but strong, diligent, valourous – everything that one can and should see as the ideal, a contender more than worthy of bringing One their seventh golden crown.
He may not be the tribute his District wants, but there's no question that he's the best they've got. Twenty-Eight is his year to win. And with that in mind…
Edgar smiles.
For better or for worse, he'll give One the king that they deserve. Ad gloriam vel ad mortem.
To victory, or to death.
A/N: The Great Shipwreck of Life by IAMX.
Cameo cast, part one! A huge thank you to RB, Arryn, Erik, Para and Iomhar for allowing me to work with your lovely kids; I hope their intro features were satisfactory, and I look forward to working more with them in the future, albeit in perhaps different perspective. The blog page for "the five" will be up soon, ideally sometime this evening.
I appreciate your patience with my updating speed, and look forward to introducing our mentors and escorts soon. :) Next update should be near August's end. Love you all.