i. social climb
defend your factions, cut the lines, leagues of social climbers are abound
oh, but be advised, no restitution comes tonight, lest we lay unconscious in the ground
Foxy. That's what her name is supposed to mean. Goddess of trickery, queen of clever lies. But Eris Balthazar is nothing like a fox. Foxes are cunning, mischievous, slippery and hovering just on the edge of an autumn glen like a dream. She isn't coy or alluring. Nothing russet about the way she cries at night, silent tears in the bathroom as she clutches her knees to her chest.
("You're too pale, dearest," her mother would say disapprovingly, tutting as she pinches Eris's arm between her fingers. Eris can't hide her wince, and her mother clicks her tongue again, shaking her head.)
(She knows she'll never be enough.)
(Look at yourself, Eris. You're a disgrace.)
(Daughter of a whore, you'll never amount to anything, your half-sister is so much better compared to you. Why can't you be more like Danika, why can't you be more like your family, your true lineage must always be kept a secret and you're lucky you look just like your father.)
Eris curls her fingers around the arms of her chair, pressing her shoulders back into wood that bites into her spine. No one else at the table spares her much of a glance. Doesn't matter if she sits alongside Asmodeus Balthazar at its head. They only have eyes for the President. Besides, It's not like she didn't hear the whispers as they came in.
What's she doing here?
Is that the President's second daughter?
First. It's said that somethin' happened to 'er, years ago.
Hasn't been seen in public since. Only attends this here meeting.
Really?
She looks just like Madame Danika.
Heard they're supposedly twins. She popped out early though.
Maybe that's what messed her up.
Her father raises a single, unadorned hand, and the room falls silent. That is the kind of power he holds. In a den full of lions, one motion from Asmodeus and the beasts are tamed.
Every year, there is a meeting of the twelve districts and Capitol quadrants - a gathering consisting of the head of each district or their respective sects, where political delicacies come to a head, and the tension between districts and Capitol strings ever tighter. There are meetings, dinners, exchanges of information both overt and subtle. Politics and deals and the elaborate bestowal of gifts.
Eris Balthazar is in her element.
In the time it takes for her father to lower his hand and an avox to scurry forward with the day's agenda, Eris catalogues the names and faces of those present. The meeting hall is large by anyone's standards, but always finds itself packed to maximum capacity during the time of the annual gathering of the districts. Each representative brings their own convoy to sit in on the meetings, and as such, attempting to fit well over two-hundred people into a single meeting hall can become… claustrophobic.
She picks out the mayors first. They are easy to spot, in their painstakingly color-coordinated clothes and shifting gazes. Smaller districts are only in need of one presiding power. Larger ones, such as Ten and Seven, have councils, consisting of up to three people. The wealthier districts, most notably One, are divided into sects, much like the Capitol's quadrants. Four consists of three sects. District One has Five.
Closest to her is Yuan Zichen, the youngest sect leader to date and perhaps one of the most ineffective. He spends the majority of the day whispering with those on either side of him like an unruly schoolkid, eating peanuts from a small bag, or tapping his painted fan against the edge of the table in a rhythm erratic enough to grind against the nerves.
Her subsequent headache peaks near the end of the meeting, when she finds herself staring across the room at, by the looks of it, a young apprentice from District Nine, who has taken it upon himself to launch into a condescending speech outlining a new way that the Financial Quadrant might want to manage this year's seasonal flooding and its ever-so beneficial effects on the economy everywhere west of District Eight.
The plan has seven parts. Every part is more infuriatingly incorrect than the last.
Politeness holds the assembly frozen through every interminable rambling minute, because it is the etiquette of these meetings that everyone should be listened to in full. At the end of the thing, silence falls like the mercy stroke of a sword.
The Head of the Financial Quadrant clears his throat. "I don't think we have the time to consider and respond to such a… detailed suggestion today," he says. "We will set it aside from the afternoon's schedule."
Which means it will be dragged back onto the schedule on the last day, which is, without fail, stuffed full of all the awkward topics and niggling disagreements that nobody had the resolution to deal with as they arose. Just thinking about it makes Eris want to scream. This conference is her triumph, the singular place she has been able to prove her worth and, frankly, avoid a not-so-public execution, designed to look like an unfortunate accident. She will not have it dragged into inefficiency by some amateur with less backbone than an invertebrate.
Oh, for fuck's sake, she thinks. She discovers that she is on her feet. "I do have a response to this suggestion," she says, shifting her weight onto her heels and inclining her head. "If I might beg the room's patience. This won't take long."
It does not. She holds the piece of hand-crafted idiocy up by its corners and shreds it, point by point.
When she is finished, she feels as though she has eaten a dish flavored with the opulent spices of District One. Her tongue is seared with the clean taste of ignoring diplomacy in favor of what will actually get things done. The satisfaction is fulfilling.
"Well argued, I suppose," says her father. (Says the hypocrite, says the liar. How she would love to see him burn…) "Although I fail to see why we had to hear every counter-argument in such detail." Expressed so ruthlessly, he means. Eris was exactly as concise as she'd promised.
She's come to expect his undermining commentary. Despite this, her first instinct is still to duck her heart and murmur a conciliating apology. She takes the feeling firmly in both hands and examines it. What comes out of her mouth is: "The Financial Quadrant always appreciates the wise council of those who contribute to our country. Would anyone else care to proffer advice about the management of Panem's agricultural assets?"
No one does.
Eris sets her gloves aside for the rest of the meeting. She works the blade of her mind in the light. It is both odd and exhilarating at once, the feeling of letting light gleam off the weapon that one carries after so much time in the shadows. It gives any potential threats pause before it dares build in the first place, and there is a certain sense of elegance to that power. An efficiency.
At the end of the session, her father gestures to the door. "Today's meeting is adjourned. Leave us." A flurry of papers and hurried footsteps arise in the wake of his words. It takes time for everybody to siphon out. Pleasantries and goodbyes are exchanged, short conversations are held. But eventually, the meeting hall empties, and Asmodeus leans forward, pinning Eris with a single glance. Her throat bobs as he simply looks at her. Scrutinizes her. Picking out each of her flaws and deeming her a fucking mess, probably.
Finally, he speaks. "You are aware of the… situation, shall we say, with your sister, are you not?"
Is she not? Is she not? He speaks as if it's some stranger in a jail cell, not Eris's twin. Not the same person who Eris fell asleep with as a child, who she shared all her secrets with.
"Yes, father. I'm aware."
(Her voice only minimally shakes as she says it. She counts it as a win anyway.)
"This matter is delicate. Under no circumstances can the public discover that it was their Vice President who was responsible for sponsoring the uprising." He says the word 'uprising' like it leaves a foul taste in his mouth. "We are under duress, Eris. Danika needs to be replaced."
Replaced? Replaced? How dare he. Howdarehe howdarehe howdarehe. He has no right to speak of his own daughter as if she is nothing more than a pawn on his chessboard! (Although that is all that she is, in the end. Isn't she? Just like Eris. Two more bits of power he can control and throw about at his leisure.)
She stays silent.
Asmodeus nods. Like he's come to some kind of decision. "You will take her place."
Eris almost falls out of her seat. "What?" She doesn't mean for her outburst to be as loud as it is. The word echoes against the walls, and she winces when her father glares. Righting herself and straightening out her spinning thoughts, Eris takes a breath. "Sorry. What?"
"You," he says, slowly, as if speaking to a dog, "are being offered the position of Vice President to succeed your fallen sister. Under one condition. You cannot ascend to the position as Eris. You will be Danika. The public will be none the wiser."
The silence is deafening. He wants her to do what? Something like that is… unheard of. Twins have taken their sibling's place in the Hunger Games before, but they have always been discovered by the Capitol, and most died rather… unruly deaths as a result. But for such a ploy to be implemented in the heart of the government…
"I'll do it."
The words are out of her mouth before she can process them. And while some part of her howls. beating fists against her ribcage, saying this is wrong, this is wrong, you're wrong- Eris has been left unnoticed her entire life. She's been stuck in the shadows all her life, forced to live behind the great scenes of her family. No one talks about Eris, the President's eldest daughter, the President's mistake, the President's failure.
She has been craving recognition for far too long. Even if it will come under another name, it will still belong to her, her, her. It's more than she's dared ask for.
"You understand," her father says, steepling his fingers together, "that if you accept this position, you cannot shy away from your duties."
Shy away.
Ever doubting her. Ever reluctant to offer her a cup at the Balthazar table, because gods forbid a Balthazar be anything but cruel.
Eris meets his gaze, and for once, does not quail. "I understand."
Hours later, she can't help but stare at her reflection. She's never been draped in finery like this before. Her eyebrows have been plucked into delicate, perfect arches, winging upwards towards her temples. All traces of blemish have been wiped from her face. She looks like a porcelain doll. Docile. Obedient. Perfect.
She looks like Danika.
They've shoved her feet into shoes that make her arches positively ache, and she's balanced on her toes so precariously she thinks she might topple over at any moment. Glittering pins have been snapped into her hair. They hold the heavy locks in place - all of it piled on top of her head, with only a few strands brushing her bare collarbones and shoulders.
She looks pinned-butterfly beautiful.
Her first official appearance as Danika is rather mundane at best. All Eris has to do is sit by her parents' sides, smiling prettily and waving to the crowd as they ogle her cleavage and make salacious comments to one another in the crowd. Play the part. Be your sister.
You owe her this much, at least.
She shuts her eyes, the memory painful. Danika, smiling, spinning 'round in a new dress, holding her arms out as the fabric twirls about. Danika, laughing as she throws blueberries across the table and Eris tries to catch them in her mouth. Danika, looking at her through a cage of wrought iron, begging her to "stay safe, sister." Begging Eris to stay safe for her.
When her eyes open, Eris is ready. Her role in this narrative has been sidelined for far too long. She will no longer go speechless. She will get the recognition she deserves.
Oh, yes, she thinks, meeting her reflection's eyes. You think you are sending a frail lamb to slaughter. Instead, you send an anaconda. The Games are on, father.
Be deceived… or be destroyed.
A/N. Social Climb by I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME
hi! it's me, ant, the resident gender goblin who's now writing an syot! things like the tribute form/rules & other fun things can be found in my bio. this isn't first come first serve, so feel free to sub wherever as many times as you want. i'll be accepting a maximum of like… 14 tributes, i think, at least this time around. happy to have everyone here, and if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading!
artificially seasoned,
~ant