Burning Your Bridges / Introductions

"Before you judge me, take a look at you; can't you find something better to do?
Point the finger, slow to understand—arrogance and ignorance go hand in hand."
—Metallica, Holier Than Thou

Saturnus Scevola, 18. Sector 09.

All the money in the world could not have stopped Saturnus Scevola from hating this life.

From the outside looking in, things couldn't be better—they're a nuclear family, with two lovingly married parents, a strapping young son and a perfect little daughter. Saturnus keeps up with his schoolwork and his chores. Does fine in the classroom, despite not being an avid participator, and is surrounded by enough acquaintances to have some semblance of a social presence despite being forced to go to school in Los Altos nine blocks away.

On the outside, nothing seems wrong, and yet…

The dissatisfaction is a feeling he's been struggling with since the fighting finally ended and his life was turned upside-down forever. His parents will vehemently disagree, of course, believing that their fortunes will keep them relevant in this brand-new world. Both socially and in terms of status, the most important currency a Capitol citizen can have.

Saturnus scoffs, peeling himself away from the bay window in his bedroom to pick a rumpled sweatshirt off of the ground. He needs to go for a walk. Clear his mind, a little—simply existing in this house can feel like a punishment at times.

Being from one of the richest families in Bayside will do that to a person, especially with how gratingly narcissistic it makes his parents. At eighteen, he's already set for the rest of his life, provided that they don't squander the money. Saturnus will inherit their fortunes—and with them, all of their materialistic woes.

Hopefully Thirteen takes it all away from them, he seethes, lacing up a pair of shoes. There's talk around the town about the New Order imposing an increased tax to help fund restorations, especially in neighboring Bridgewater, which has been left in ruin from the recent fighting.

The thought of Veronica and Poseidon—mother and father dearest—refusing to help out is almost more than he can tolerate. Excess to such a degree is downright disgusting. The way it has afflicted his parents is shameful, beyond all else.

The way money was just a status symbol at his high school had been just as sickening. It makes people behave in a different way, when you're rich.

It's stifling, to say the least. He's just another run-of-the-mill kid, born wealthy into a life that's all too claustrophobic. Some would think of money as an agent for change, for upward mobility and a slew of open doors. For Saturnus, it's as if he's been trapped in a glass box for his entire life, ogled at for his inheritance and ignored for the person he is.

That's why people are awful, he laments, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his hair. All they want is status, not real relationships. He's heard tributes describe the Capitol as overly-fake in the past. Saturnus can wholeheartedly say it's a statement he believes in. These days, anyway.

Saturnus opens and closes his bedroom door quickly, locking it with an equally impressive speed. His parents thought it wise to retrofit every door in the house with locks, just in case. While he doubts anyone would break into the Scevola household to steal valuables, being able to maintain his own privacy is nice. Although Saturnus can't deny it would be quite entertaining to see a member of Bayside's aging population trying to break into his room.

"Are you leaving?" his sister asks, perched on a barstool at the end of the counter, her expression smug. "You know Mother and Father won't be happy about that," she adds, raising an eyebrow.

"So?" he fires back, standing still in the hallway adjacent to the kitchen. "Maybe I just wanted to get a breath of fresh air. You know they st—"

"Because your room smells like the zoo?" Seraphina asks, beating her fist against the counter in a fit of laughter. "C'mon bro, you make it too easy."

If his sister wasn't thirteen, he might say something else. Rile her up, the way she gets when anyone talks about recent events at the dinner table. She's just as delusional as his parents, really, despite only having a surface-level understanding of what's going on around her.

Though it may have been of his own volition, Saturnus was never as sheltered as his sister. He knows what it's like to believe in something, and fight for it. He knows what it's like to have a purpose, no matter how seemingly insignificant. He's experienced things in the last few years that Seraphina won't in her entire life.

Part of him envies that, maybe, but… you made this bed. Better get good at laying in it.

"Lost your tongue?" Seraphina calls, and he can hear her leg bouncing against the footrest of the barstool. "At least I didn't compare you to one of the districts! I mean come on, grow a spine. It gets boring being around here when you hide in your room reading all day."

"Then maybe try being a decent fucking person," Saturnus gripes, breezing past her. Her ignorance annoys him. Typical propaganda bullshit, about how terrible the districts are compared to the Capitol. Such a shining paradigm of excellence, aren't we?

On a human level, he has to sympathize with the districts. He may have parroted the same words as a child, but the war taught him better than that. It's something he and Seraphina will never see eye-to-eye on, at least not anymore.

Dumbfounded, Seraphina blinks a few times, turning on the stool to yell at him as he crosses the foyer. "I-I'm telling Mother you said the f-word!" she splutters, incomprehensibly searching for something she can fire back to unseat him.

"As if she'll care," Saturnus says with a shrug, fake-saluting his sister. "See you whenever I get back, you little pest."

Before Seraphina can say another word, he's closing and locking the door. Saturnus releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Annoying his little sister used to be one of his favorite activities—one of hers, too, judging by her complaint about the lack of banter.

It just doesn't feel the same anymore, though. It's different. Whenever they insult each other, Saturnus gets the impression it's less bark and more bite. It's a strange feeling to be so isolated from his own family, but it's easier. He has nothing in common with them, anyway.

He sighs heavily, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. The street stretches on in both directions. Twilight is beginning to settle in, and the air is damp with the promise of rain, storm-clouds writhing above his head. He decides to head for the piers, which he knows will be emptied out this time of day.

Some solitude would give Saturnus some much-needed relief.

Not that locking himself in his room doesn't give him that, but when he's outside of the house, surrounded by strangers and streets he knows like the back of his hand, Saturnus feels more like a person and less like a bird trapped in a gilded cage.

It isn't really a feeling he's fond of.

He stalks along the edge of the street, fists curled into balls inside the front-pocket of his hoodie. A few people pass him on the sidewalk, none stopping to talk to him. Saturnus' demeanor isn't usually the most inviting, after all. But he almost prefers it that way. The distance between them feels realer, somehow, than the relationships he's cultivated for years with his family. He can't put a finger on why, but it could be that he feels less inhibited once he's escaped from home.

Is it too much to ask that they understand me? Is it too much to want them to care?

It's impossible to ask his parents to value Saturnus for himself. All he is—and all he has ever been—is their heir. Not their son. The inheritor of their financial assets, not their child. And I know I'm better than that. Better than them—all three of them. They don't get it. Never will.

It would be easier to move on. It's what he did during the war, spending his days masquerading around as their studious heir. Spending his nights planning. Searching. Fighting.

The dark gray sky thunders, releasing torrents of rain upon the city below.

As usual, he finds solace in the rain.

Even through the fabric of his sweatshirt, Saturnus can feel it, stabbing like cold needles against his skin. The wetness of the cloth clinging to his skin doesn't bother him in the slightest, nor does the thought of the rain streaking his eyeliner.

It rains plenty in Bayside—enough that he's gotten used to it. Gotten tougher skin, waterproof mascara, and a will to enjoy the downpour. Besides, he's spent hours waiting in the freezing rain before. A little storm never hurt anyone.

It was raining on the day that Saturnus and his group of ragtag rebels delayed a supply train from Sector X. It was raining when they held up its crew, too, pointing guns at flesh-and-blood people, same as them, but on the other side. It would have been easy to pull the trigger.

In theory, anyway.

During the war, life wasn't make-believe anymore. Wasn't whimsical, or silly, in the same way they had all play-fought as children, pretending to re-enact the Hunger Games or play at knights and monsters. It was real—real and dangerous, in a way Saturnus has been since unable to shake.

He may have only been sixteen when the fighting started, but it changed him all the same. The city, too—irreparably tainted by the scars of war. Saturnus may have rebelled against the Capitol, taking a stance on this worthless war of theirs, but that doesn't mean he likes Thirteen any better.

Saturnus would never go as far as to label himself a firebrand—his actions and motives were never steep enough to attribute to anything beyond resistance. Of what, he was never sure… just that such a radical change had been exciting. It was a sentiment he shared with many of his peers, clearly, to rage against the machine that had restrained them for so long. It had been an adventure, at first, to shake the monotony of life in the Capitol.

Yet, as Thirteen encroached onto Capitol soil, their operations had fallen to the wayside. They had fought on the same side as Thirteen did, maybe not in name but in spirit. They had wanted to change the status quo, for better or for worse, because wasn't that at the heart of the war?

Would have been nice to shake the label of heir, too, Saturnus muses, wrapping his hands along the rusting railing at the side of the quay. Maybe he didn't really know what they were fighting for in the first place, only that it had thrown them all into something bigger. Less ignorable. He had hidden everything from his parents, his sister. None of them knew—why should they?

What had his family done during the war? He fought for this sector. For a cause, a reason, no matter how small. He even has a quarter-sized scar in his arm to prove it.

Was it worth getting shot, though, in the end?

Everything he can see is a symptom of a larger problem. A systematic issue, so deeply ingrained within the Capitol culture that he was glad to hear talks of it being expunged.

Shame things never turn out so simple, he muses, staring out into the water. Once the glimmering city lights fade, there is nothing but darkness beyond it. During the day, rugged mountains and hills are visible in the distance. As a child, he had once watched ships sail in from Four to dock in the quayside. As a child… he had done a lot of things, all of them inconsequential.

It seems that everything he had done during the war was too. Only time will tell if the New Order will be a better ruling government than the former Presidency had been. The re-establishment of the Hunger Games does not bode well for that. Neither does the fact that they're reaping Capitol children, he decides. What a joke this place has become.

Saturnus sighs. It has been a long year, being treated as inferiors in their own city. Why should he be regarded as inferior, after all he's done for them? Thirteen might not know him by name, but stopping that supply train had been a critical blow to the Capitol's odds of surviving the siege. He deserves recognition for that. What other teenager could claim to pioneer such a thing?

He nudges a loose chunk of concrete with his foot. Picks it up, eyeing the edges, before chucking it into the waves below him. Saturnus watches it sail through the air before splashing against the surface of the water, quickly out of sight. He glances around for more rocks, and is disappointed to find none, left alone with his thoughts in their absence.

Look how they thanked me, he thinks, feeling irritated by the whole ordeal. Look how they screwed me over. A return to the life that he can't stand, family that is beneath him, and the promise of a worse hell on the horizon.

Kimora Georgiou, 15. Sector 04.

Despite what the rest of her family thinks, Kimora Georgiou wouldn't call herself dramatic.

Her parents will fault her forever for it—their patience has been worn thin by all of the tantrums she threw as a child, raising her voice loud and stomping around upstairs loud enough to rattle her father's paintings on the walls. They couldn't handle her at her worst.

Kimora can't count the number of times she's been reprimanded on both hands and both feet. She's been ignored, screamed at, grounded, punished and locked into her room for hours just to get her to calm down, throwing enough childish fits that even the neighbors started to notice. At least it was attention, even if it got her in trouble. Nothing seemed to get her to stop, because at least her parents noticed when she lashed out.

(They didn't treat her like she was invisible if she was screaming bloody murder.)

Doesn't make me dramatic, though. At least not in that way, she ponders, sitting cross-legged at the top of the stairs.

She's dramatic in a theatrical way, when it matters. At home, Kimora used to act out because she was upset, not because she was difficult. There is a difference. Not that her parents would be able to see that, though. She hated being told 'no' more than anything else, perhaps because it was a reminder that her parents couldn't give her what she needed the most: empathy.

The house beneath her is still and quiet. Kimora's certain her mother already left for work, and her father's probably busy in his studio. Her mother, Jacqueline, works as the head chef of one of the finest restaurants in Brentwood, and she's normally gone before the rest of her family wakes up in the morning, often returning late at night complaining about her bad back and how all of the line cooks goof off too much at work.

Honestly, Kimora isn't sure she's seen her mother at all in the last three days—by the time Jacqueline gets home, she's usually already holed up in her room, trying to avoid conversation.

Her father isn't much better, for what it's worth. She decided a long time ago that neither of them is worth her time, since she clearly isn't worth theirs.

Not like I owe them anything anyway. Couple of deadbeats, that's what they are, she scoffs, dragging her legs out from underneath her. I can play the ignorance game too.

"I'm leaving to go hang out with my friends," Kimora says to no one in particular as she descends the stairs, fumbling to slip her house key into the watch pocket of her checkered capris. It might be too hot for pants, but she's never really been a skirts-and-stockings type of girl anyway, unless she's supposed to wear one on stage.

Just as she suspected, no one answers. Her father's probably locked into his studio, working on his latest oil painting of the Rockies, the mountain range that surrounds the city in a loose circle. He's been working on it for a week, fully absorbed in his project. She highly doubts that he's noticed what she's been up to this week.

Kimora sighs and throws open the door, slamming it shut. She's satisfied by the way that the house seems to rattle with the applied force. Maybe he'll know I left. Doubt it, she reminds herself, ever-so-bitter about it.

At least her friends are excited to see her. They made plans yesterday, on the last day of class before summer break. Kresta might have been absent, but the four of them are going to spend as much time as possible together this summer. School's been particularly hectic this year, and they haven't had as much time to hang out outside of their drama club projects.

In fact, joining one of Brentwood's best drama clubs has consistently been one of the better decisions she's made in her life. A natural talent for acting, Director Andronicus always told her. Ready-made for the stage. Look at the range she has! Such emotion. Bravo, Miss Georgiou!

Acting gives her a way to blow off some steam, to channel her raging emotions into something more. Nevermind that the duality of the stage with her own home life makes it feel twice as empty and unfulfilling at best. On stage, all eyes are on her. She can be whatever she wants; since everything is an act. She commands attention in a way that's commended, even if some of her teachers are slow to come around to that fact.

Her presence at school is noticed. She feels wanted for a change. All attention is good attention, even if it's negative… really anything's better than being ignored. It doesn't matter if she gets called out in class for talking during a lecture, or sent to the principal's office for bad behavior. People are going to know the name Kimora Georgiou for one thing or another—it's the same attitude that has helped her become immensely popular amongst her peers.

That's what's so exciting about drama club—everyone there loves her. She's not helpless, nor is she incompetent. She's a genius, a real star quality that's so hard to find. Earning leading roles has been practically a piece of cake, even though some of her peers have been acting since they were old enough to walk on their own.

So what if they don't like me for being better than them? She waves the thought away. Acting is a cutthroat profession, anyway. Especially in the career world. If people don't like me already, I must be doing something right.

Besides, she has plenty of friends. A little animosity is good for showbusiness.

Kimora rounds the corner of her street and starts picking up the pace, walking briskly toward the park. It doesn't do well to be late; the least she can be is punctual. She's excited to meet up with her friends, anyway. They've been meaning to try out the scones at the new bistro across from the park for ages, too, ever since it opened.

Originally, they were planning to visit one of Sector Seven's vintage-fashion markets. Kimora had planned that one for weeks, but this works better. It's closer by, and if her friends are more eager about checking out the bistro, she's happy to accompany them if it means they'll like her more for being flexible with it.

When she gets there, Jaz and Lancelot are already lounging outside. "Hey Kimmie!" Jaz calls out, positively beaming at the sight of her best friend. Kimora returns the gesture.

Lancelot opens the door for both of them, grinning good-naturedly as he follows them into the bistro. Once inside, she's immediately hit by a gust of air conditioning, which she's thankful for. The burgeoning summer heat of the morning sun is pleasant at worst, but the contrast of coolness against the heat is always better.

"Where's Kresta?" Kimora asks as they step into line, three-wide so that none of them feel left out, with herself at center stage.

"Oh! Didn't you hear what happened to her?" Jaz asks her, eyes wide as they shuffle forward. Behind her, Kimora can feel Lancelot exhale on the nape of her neck, but she chooses not to comment on it. At sixteen, Lance is a year older than the two of them, but he doesn't seem to mind. Despite the difference in grade level, it's clear that he enjoys their company well enough. They've all worked in enough productions together to form a bond, anyhow.

"No?" Kimora queries, "Is this about why she missed class yesterday?"

"Or why she couldn't make it today?" Lancelot follows, reminding Kimora that they had initially made plans for all four of them to meet, whether at the fashion market or the park.

"Sure, probably?" Jaz wonders aloud, shrugging her shoulders. "She got sent to Sector Five for medical treatment… apparently there was a razor-blade in her chocolate. Four stitches in her lip and three on her tongue. Pretty gnarly stuff."

"Oh wow," Kimora breathes, slightly surprised. Behind her, Lancelot stiffens, as if the news is a great shock to him. She wouldn't go as far as to feel concern for Kresta—she's just a classmate after all, and a bit of a suck-up at that, despite the label of friend—but the notion of having her own mouth disfigured isn't a pleasant one.

Sure, there's plenty of stage-makeup and greasepaint out there, all sorts of things to keep such a flaw covered up, but Kimora gets the impression that such scarring would still be noticeable. It might even take Kresta out of the running for the autumn play. A shame.

"Right?" Jaz mutters, finally stopping at the counter. "Three scones." A pause. "And coffees!"

"What flavors are you looking for?" the barista asks Jaz. It's clear the question has confused her, so Kimora takes the lead, stepping in to order three blueberry scones and coffee the way she remembers her friends like it. It's important to make them feel important, too, she has to remind herself, in spite of feeling left out by having to remember what they all wanted to order.

Jaz is a bit of an airhead anyway, Kimora thinks. Not her fault. It bothers her a bit that Jaz is almost as successful as she is on stage, with half of the brains, but she'll always hold her tongue. Yes, there are things Jaz does that bother Kimora, but her friend actually supports her. Genuinely. That's more credit than she can give to her entire family combined.

They wait at an adjacent table while Lancelot goes next door to rent out a picnic blanket for the three of them to sit on. They meet back outside, following Kimora across the park and over the gnarled roots of an enormous tree, searching for a good place to sit in the shade across from the bistro. Once they reach the backside of the tree. Lancelot throws the picnic blanket out across the grass and the three of them sit on it.

Kimora finds herself enjoying the shade, too. If there's one thing Brentwood is best at, it's their parks—large swaths of greenery breaking up the monotony of the surrounding residential landscape. It gives them a place to relax. Think. It's an easy place to make plans for too, if they're not staying late after school or trying to sneak into the nightclubs in Vegas.

Been a while since we've tried that, too, she muses, adding it to a mental checklist of things to do this summer. Especially once Kresta is better—going clubbing is only fun with a big group, and three technically qualifies as a trio. They've only gone a few times; not many clubs will actually let them in, since they usually serve alcohol, but there are a few for teenagers.

It's fun to meet people, fun to dance, and whirl around full of energy and laughter. It's fun to forget why she's so pissed-off in the first place, too. She's usually the last one to leave, too. It's always depressing to have to come back home to silence. The stage helps alleviate that as well. A distraction… an act. It's easy to live up to low expectations, but it's thrilling to set higher ones for herself when she can revel in all of the attention it gets her in the end.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying their food and each-other's company while the morning stretches on and the park gets busier around them. The scone was worth changing her plans for, as was coming to the park. As long as it gets her out of the house, Kimora's happy to be adaptable.

"What are we going to do this summer?" Lancelot asks, breaking the silence as he reclines against the tree. "Seems like there's a whole lot of opportunity back out there now that Thirteen's letting us move on from the war a little bit."

Kimora nods, trying to avoid thinking about the change in government too hard. Life had changed for a while, during the war—she had been stuck at home a lot more, and it was almost a blessing when schools opened back up, business and shops started running again and the drama club began hosting their weekly meetings once again. Brentwood hadn't been affected too much; not like some of the other sectors. Things returned mostly to normal, and it has been one of her prerogatives to return to pursuing the more important things.

Like keeping herself well-liked, or finally seeing her name in lights.

Jaz nods. "I think we could still check out that fashion market. Sector Seven's bound to be up to all sorts of interesting things now."

"My thoughts exactly. I've been wanting to visit Vegas again, too," Lance comments, mirroring Kimora's own thoughts. "Would be fun to get up to no good. Take a break, you know?"

"Same here," Kimora nods, offering them an agreeable smile. "We've got plenty of time, anyway. School doesn't start until September… auditions for the autumn play will start sooner than it will. I've got plenty of plans that should be fun to try this summer," she decides.

It's true—she's spent a lot of time thinking about the things she wants them to do. She always has a plan for everything, an ambition to pursue and a goal to chase. It's part of what makes her such an unstoppable force in school and on stage… she won't stop for anyone, she'll only change to fit her own whims and needs.

"Are you going to try out for the lead?" Jaz asks, nudging Kimora's shoulder and giving her a playful side-eye. "I know it's a few months away and we should be focusing on relaxing, but you seemed pretty excited about the announcement."

"Of course!" Kimora nods without missing a beat, setting her half-finished coffee down onto the blanket, glad that the conversation has gone her way. "Wouldn't miss it for anything. I think Director Cicero is already considering me for the lead role, anyway."

Jaz claps excitedly for her, making Kimora smile—a rare feat. Lancelot, on the other hand, has begun to sport a shit-eating grin from across the picnic blanket.

"You sure about that Kimmie?" he asks her, arching an eyebrow. "Last I heard, neither of them had even opened auditions. That's planned for August, unless they pulled you aside?"

"Oh shut up," Kimora groans, rolling her eyes. "I have a hunch."

Lancelot holds his hands out defensively. "Just sayin'!"

She swats him, much to her best friend's amusement. He might be the only one who ever calls her out, but Kimora finds herself appreciating Lancelot's honesty. It's a nice contrast to the rest of her friends. Keeps her grounded in reality, instead of all the fantastical plans she has for herself and the world she wishes she could make her own.

"You're not going to help me?" Lancelot asks Jaz, faking offense at her laughter.

"Of course not. Once Kim gets started, I'm not about to stop her," she says, admiration warming her tone. It's one of the things she likes best about Jaz—her unwavering support even when it's not really necessary. It isn't so easy for her to connect with others in a way that matters, but her friends seem to gel well enough with her. They might not pick up on all of her nuances, but they give her the time of day. Her friends provide her with company, and she gets a sense of connection from them. Isn't that all that matters in the end?

Sure I might be a little high-maintenance. My parents were right on that one. But why shouldn't I be? I don't have to sympathize with others so long as they sympathize with me.

She knows she's better than other people. It's the reason she's found so much success in her pursuits; Kimora actually applies herself. She has a goal, a reason for doing the things that she does. Her friends are her friends for a reason—to further those goals. To like her. The rest isn't quite as important in the grand scheme of things, so she's comfortable putting on a front to make everything work out exactly the way that it needs to.

Truth be told, she can't wait for August. It's been too long since she's been in front of an audience, soaking up all of their attention and praise. She's worked hard for her position at the top of drama club's social hierarchy. The least they can do is reward her for it.

Once she gets her next starring role, all eyes will eventually be on her once again.

Incandescence Iscariot, 18. Sector 03.

Since the day she was born, Incandescence Iscariot has gotten everything she ever wanted.

From closets of trendy in-season designer clothing to equestrian lessons with ponies imported from Ten, bucketfuls of sugary-sweet candy to an enormous ice sculpture of her likeness for her ninth birthday, it's safe to say she has had no wants left unfulfilled by such a luxurious life.

Her needs, however, might have been a different story entirely, but having the most infamous chocolatiers in all of Panem as parents does have its perks.

It's no secret that she and her sister grew up with money; more of it than what was really necessary. Enough of it that all of their wants, whims and desires had been fulfilled with a quick wave of her father's hand, and without so much as an argument. Incandescence was spoiled—so much so that it grew to affect her. She had no responsibilities, and all of her bad behaviors were often rewarded to shut her up long enough that her parents might sweep them under the rug.

"—it's a shame that glass got into that batch. Truly. I'm so sorry, we're working overtime to fix these errors—"

"I promise you, I will pay for all of these hospital bills… a razor, you say? How could that have possibly been in one of our confectionaries?"

"Godivan, a dozen people have fallen sick from the last batch. They've tested it for rat poison! How did that make it from the floor into the vats? What are you going to tell the media?"

"Mr. Iscariot, do you care to comment?"

"Sales of Godivan and Co. have been declining due to public outrage—"

"—forty disfigured. Three dead."

Incandescence drags thin fingers through her sleek hair, tired of watching the cars roll by on the street. She's early, and it's giving her too much time to think. There may not be a name attached to all of her petty misdeeds, vengeful cruelties and heinous acts, but Candy's power-plays made people talk. Just as they used to. She was the center of attention, and there wasn't a person in the world who could pin these crimes against her.

After all, she had done her best to turn a new leaf. How could such a sweet, innocent girl be capable of such things?

Her tantrums and fits used to be blamed on a lack of stimulation, and met with a plethora of new toys and sweets to keep her occupied and placated instead of investing in any real quality time with her. Why should their affection matter, when their materialism was supposed to suppress the absence of their empathy?

Her pathological tendencies had been blamed on trying to fit in, the aftereffects of her parents moving their daughters at a young age from Los Altos to Vegas to chase a lucrative new market. Nevermind that Taffeta never displayed the same symptoms, nevermind that Incandescence told all the other children lies—if her parents didn't see it, how could it be an issue?

Her behavior hadn't been considered problematic until she was twelve. When her behavior began to spiral out of control, it eventually seeped into the Iscariot household until it was no longer ignorable. On her twelfth birthday, Incandescence decided she was tired of her successful and picture-perfect older sister getting all of their parents' limited attention.

Everyone assumed that she would grow out of these things eventually. Everything could have been blamed on something else, pushed away and hidden underneath a blanket of falsehoods and hush-money. The Iscariot family had a reputation to uphold, like it or not. A business to run. How much did their dysregulated daughter matter when there were impressions to set? When there was more money to be made?

When Taffeta trashed one of her gifts—accidental or not—Candy had twisted her sister's arm behind her back until it broke, and when her sister's injury finally garnered their parents' full attention? Well. It wasn't exactly a pretty scene either, Incandescence thinks, sighing to herself as she watches shiny cars drive past on the street.

Then again, Taffy's always been the better daughter, she mopes, scrunching her nose at the thought. While her parents fawned over poor-old-Taffeta and her broken elbow, Incandescence had been shipped off to boarding school in Potomac, with hopes that the school's strict policies would help straighten out her aggression and boredom. They tossed me out and kept her in—she deserves everything that happened to her. Everything I did to her, even the real worst of it.

Boarding school hadn't been the problem—in fact, Candy took to it like a moth to a flame, a natural in several subjects and the apple of many eyes. It seemed as if the decision to send her there was working; she made friends, good grades, and for the first time in her life, she became disciplined. Just like Taffeta, she thinks with a sneer, crossing her leg underneath the picnic table she's seated at. If only mother and father dearest had actually cared? They might have seen me for who they made me.

The perfect daughter to the world, sweet and talented. Charming, saccharine, kind… all a facade.

Her parents didn't deserve that—nor did they care to look behind the mask Incandescence learned to create for herself. They didn't bother to learn that deep inside, she was still poisonous and spiteful, wrapped in layers of social confectionary and silver-tongued lies.

She became her parents' perfect little doll, speaking to them with respect, taking interest in the family business, getting closer to her sister than ever before. Nobody questioned it—it was almost as if boarding school had reformed her, rather than making her twice as unstable.

Incandescence even planned her sister's eighteenth birthday party to make up for what she had done on her own twelfth. It was perfect. Everything was, at least to everyone else. Candy was nothing short of angelic, a face that she still wears today.

The only difference, of course, being that she used to believe she could change.

She's had everything. So why did she feel so shallow with the world at her fingertips?

Why the fuck did I bother fixing myself in the first place?

Affection certainly isn't the same as attention. Making nice with others, especially her family, has proven a worthless endeavor in the long-term. Nobody notices you if you're nice. No matter how many parties I plan, it's just not the same.

Being a menace, though? Everyone notices that.

She knew now when to hold her tongue. Knew how to apologize. Knew when to lie, to cheat, steal and hurt, poised like a viper in the grass. Nobody sees her for who she really is, a truth that Incandescence has begun to exploit, chasing after the rush of power-and-control with chaotic abandon. Her name's in the news, hidden behind headlines about defective confectionaries and all sorts of tragic plant errors besmirching the good name of her father's company.

It makes her giddy—manic, even—to see all of the chaos she's wreaked unfold across the city.

If there isn't a way out of this mess of a life, not without consequences at least, why would she stop now? Everything's fine, isn't it? Everyone else likes me. Daria likes me. Violet likes me. Neiman and all the others… they revere me. My parents still want me helping with the business. Taffeta and her new husband think I'm…

She narrows her eyes, the thought of Taffy and her husband spiking anger in her gut. Candy drums her fingertips against the picnic bench she's seated on, her anger morphing into impatience. Despite being early, she's convinced herself that her girlfriend is late. Who's going to tell me I'm wrong, anyway? It's not like Daria has enough of a spine.

How anyone could look at her and see something negative is a mystery. Everyone in the whole entire sector loves me, Incandescence reminds herself, shaking away the acrid thoughts that have begun to cloud in her head. The absolute sweetest girl in Vegas… she's just so approachable, so bubbly and a total angel… isn't Candy just the best? Isn't she just so darling?

Aren't I?

Her sister believed that, for a while. Her parents, too—though they've almost always turned two blind eyes to their youngest. Everyone's always wanted to be my friend, Incandescence convinces herself, brushing away the lingering feeling of falsity stirring in her stomach.

So what if she's burnt a few bridges along the way? So what if Taffeta doesn't fully trust her after the… incident? So what if Selene St. Laurent is too good for her now? If Incandescence had a single regret, it would be alienating her truest friend.

Tch. Shame it's easier to live with twelve stitches between us than it is to deal with the consequences, Incandescence muses. Selene can go fuck herself, anyway.

The thought makes her grin. She makes sure that it stays with her when Daria finally opens the door, bright-white teeth and radiant eyes hiding her displeasure. Candy rises from her seat, adjusting her favorite mauve skirt as her girlfriend crosses the courtyard.

"Gosh, you look stunning today, Candy," her girlfriend swoons, joining their hands with a flushed smile on her face. Candy squeezes the other girl's hand just tight enough to hurt, slowly grinning back at her girlfriend. She has been dating Daria Macaron for almost a year now—and it couldn't be easier to make such an insecure, pathetic girl fall head over heels, again and again.

"I know I do, sugar," Incandescence murmurs sweetly, very aware of the feeling of Daria's bones shifting beneath her vice-like fingers. Unlike… others that Candy knows, she actually spends a great deal of time working on her appearance.

Maintaining her flawless skin, keeping it dewy and free from any kind of blemish, especially acne, takes work. Keeping her hair sleek, styled and shimmery takes work. Ensuring that her makeup—from blush to eyeliner to peach-colored eyeshadow, is nothing short of perfect? That takes work too; all of it does, no matter how painstaking.

It takes work to be appreciated, especially in all of the ways that matter.

That is to say, Incandescence knows she is perhaps one of the most beautiful beings known to humanity—does it really hurt to have that recognized every once in a while?

"It's just nice to remind you," Daria squeaks out. She bites on her lower lip, but does not plead for mercy from Candy's crushing grip.

Psh. Why would she? She knows her place, Incandescence observes. Daria is so lucky that she's pretty, or else I wouldn't waste my time with such a sorry little slut. I mean come on, her self-deprecation? She probably enjoys this.

Either that, or she's too smitten to tell the difference. Incandescence supposes it's neither here nor there that she feels the same—it's fun to treat others as if they're beneath her. She's been doing it for years, after all, ever since she left for boarding school.

"Of course!" Candy coos, her bottom lip pouting outward. "You're just the sweetest for that, aren't you?" she asks, plastering another rosy smile on her face.

Daria blushes, and Candy actually feels her smile this time. There's something so gratifying about having someone wrapped tightly around her finger, the way she has Daria. Her girlfriend twines their fingers further together, leaning against Candy's shoulder as they walk out of her apartment complex and toward the street.

"We're still going to get bubble tea, right?" Incandescence questions, arching a slim brow at her girlfriend. Daria giggles, and Candy joins in, the feeling fully insincere.

"If you want to," Daria nods.

"Good girl."

Worth checking. Every time the two of them have gone on dates, Daria's always ended up sick in the bathroom, though getting bubble tea never seemed to bother her. On the bright side, she'll never eat one of my chocolates, Candy thinks, mulling it over in her head. She knows that her other girlfriend—Violet—likes to study at the shop down the block every Sunday that she can. Violet's applying for university in Los Altos, something that Incandescence hasn't bothered thinking about. It's nearly certain that she will be there, just in time to see Candy with another girl.

It's more than likely that they both know—she hasn't exactly been secretive with it. But both are submissive to a fault, and unlikely to question her about it.

No one has questioned her, not on this or anything else. No one likely will, either. She's a skilled enough liar to avoid being caught, no matter how dangerous her lies are.

At eighteen, she sits on a throne of them. They'd started so small… little white ones told to her classmates to gain the favor and attention she so desperately craved. Larger ones to her parents, and keeping her girlfriends a secret from each-other. Spreading gossip and misinformation to anyone who followed her around, wearing a cherubic smile to fake sincerity…

Perhaps the biggest lie of all was covering up her involvement to the reporters, lying through her teeth to avoid the consequences of her most atrocious actions despite desperately wanting to see how shocked and awed they'd be if she had admitted to it.

Thoughts of that thrill are on her mind as they cross the street, watching the signal tick down seconds until they've safely made it across the road. The tea shop is just a block ahead, the thought of her favorite drink making Incandescence eager to arrive.

"I'm glad you wanted to go on another date," Daria rambles from somewhere beside her, fingers sweaty against her own under the sticky summer sun. "I was getting worried I might not be good enough for you," she frets, "and you know how much I really like you."

Candy says nothing, past meeting her gaze and offering a hesitant smile. As if she understands. As if she cares. In a world where she's the best, everyone else is just white noise—meaningless distractions in the pursuit of her own pride. Daria's feelings don't matter. It's more fun to watch her suffer and scrounge for validation, the kind she can only find in Incandescence.

Like Violet, she thinks with a wicked grin, tugging her lamb of a girlfriend along the primrose path, eagerly anticipating the look on the other girl's face when she sees them making out in line.

It's fun to create chaos, to trade secrets for trust. Lying can't be that bad as long as she gets something out of it all, right?

(It's just a matter of time before all of her lies spiral out of control.)

A/N: Huge thank you to Iomhar for submitting Saturnus, Team Shadow for submitting Kimora, and both ladyqueerfoot and symphorophilia for submitting Incandescence. It was so much fun to write your tributes, and hopefully I did my job of that okay. Feel free to let me know! I tried to take a lot of the advice I was given and use it in practice, so hopefully it kind of worked. Balance is hard! Luckily there is still plenty to learn about each of these three... :)

Many thanks to everyone for their help beta-ing and giving me suggestions on how to format, how to improve, etc. I seriously appreciate all of you! Could not have pushed out this update without such a generous amount of support... very aware that it has been a month since I wrapped up prologues! And Sprintathon helped a lot too, of course. Talk about motivation.

At the moment, I have seven submissions. There are five slots remaining, and five people have expressed interest in them, so if everyone does submit I will have a full cast of twelve! However if you're still interested in submitting and you haven't already expressed that, do let me know! Still a very open submission process on my end. There is not really a closing date for submissions anymore as I have had to keep pushing it back. It'd be really neat if I could get them all by the end of the semester, so roughly second week of December, that way I can really start planning ahead, but I'm thinking it's better for everyone to keep a rolling submission period open until the end of the year.

Thanks for reading! :)