PART I: RISE.
3
Cel Ivory - The Gryphon.
To Manipulate.
"My first suspect is Cel Ivory. Now, their position as a mole of The Vultures is… arguably questionable. While they are our mole, they could very well be a double agent working for The Capitol or The Vivisector. Don't you ever have concerns about your lover?"
"... I don't know if I do, Cynane. I just… I just know that Cel would never betray me like that."
"How certain of that are you?"
"Very! They wouldn't do that... they wouldn't do anything like that to hurt me."
3 MONTHS BEFORE THE 53RD GAMES.
It's dark and damp and too fucking stormy when he strolls up to the Academy.
Chaos hasn't changed. It's not like his sight helps anyhow.
Celestino sighs. That ever-present buzz's still there, still multiplying, but…
He exhales. Wetness slaps against his skin and his wrist, and the wet rivulets of water pour right down. He forces his hands in his pockets tighter, forces his flimsy coat tighter against his skin. Not that it's really, at all, any help - it's black and it's worn and it might as well not have been there.
It's fine: it's sufficient, it's enough. Too big for his body and he might as well be a shapeless blob - better for that. They'll look at him, sure, but better they see him run-down like he's wearing a trash bag rather than a form-fitting uniform. He doesn't want to deal with that today.
A climb up the stairs. And then he's at the Head Trainer's office. Two raps of his knuckles against the door; and immediately it yearns open. Cel steps in.
"Cel," Anahita says. Her eyes flick up and down his body, like she's assessing him. He'd stiffen, before, but now he forces himself to relax. Let them. They can't judge you like this.
"Anahita," he responds. "Why did you call me up here?"
They have just about three months before the Reapings. Celestino's gone through procedure: the volunteer process in Four's as simple as before. He's on the top of the Academy. There's nothing else that he has to care about.
Supposedly, at least.
But Anahita won't meet his eyes, and Celestino's throat constricts. Because Anahita would always meet his eyes before: Train better, Cel. Do better, Cel. It didn't matter what it was: the Head Trainer looked away from nobody.
But now she does.
The static that obscures his vision suddenly becomes far more pronounced. It dances across Anahita's figure, like a tornado. Celestino shuts his eyes.
What if they know?
No. No. She can't fucking know. Nobody knows.
Finally, Anahita lifts her head up to him. An exhale lingers in her breath.
"Look, Cel. I'm sorry to be the bringer of bad news, but you've lost your spot as volunteer."
It seizes his heart. It's a knowledge that's so cold, insidious in his bones. He grits his teeth, and forces his eyes back open again. It doesn't matter that a mess's what makes of his sight. It doesn't matter if he can't even see Anahita anymore. All he needs—all he needs—
"Why can't I volunteer?" Celestino blinks. "Your other alternative's Talon Ivory who's arrogance knows the seven heavens, and I've broken his ass every time I train—"
"You're not going up against Talon Ivory," Anahita corrects. "You're going up against Ilyda Nagini."
He blinks.
It shouldn't… shouldn't sting, as much as it does. That reminder that he isn't seen as who he is today by the rest of them. Because the name they know him as just isn't right, isn't him, not in the moment. He isn't her. Not now, at least.
It's not as if he isn't used to it. You're inured to discomfort in the Academy. Procedure is what it is: he knows Cecilia Ivory's who they always see, he knows the designated volunteer spot would bear that name. It's fine - in fact, he'll be glad for it when he's Cecilia, but...
But it stings now.
Celestino's mouth is dry. "Right."
"Right is right," repeats Anahita. "Against The Serpent? You don't stand a chance."
That odd silence swirls between the both of them. It's as wet and slick as it is heavy.
Finally, Anahita sighs. "Look, Cel, I… sympathise. I understand being surpassed. I understand being replaced. After all, you were the designated volunteer, until Ilyda…"
"Sowed District Four in flames?"
Anahita bites her lip. "Until Ilyda blew the rebel casket open. But… that too."
"Is there nothing I can do about it?"
"There is nothing you can do," Anahita repeats. "I'm sorry, Cel."
Cel lets out a half-breath.
"Fucking— whatever," he mutters. His fingers reach for the door before he knows it - and he's out of the office before he knows it, down the stairs and out into the cold fucking air again before he realises it. He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps moving.
In the Games, at least, he could've had a chance. Yeah, Celestino's betted more on himself dying in there, and he could care less for the fact, because that's better than living like a corpse-alive back in Four. But there's also the slimmer of victory, and really, he sees the appeal of getting his throat slit like a necklace and the appeal of getting a few silver laurels on his head and a cure held up to his eyes. Priorities, priorities: neither matter to him, but either would give him an answer he needs.
He has none of that now.
Celestino scoffs. Okay, fine, if fate's taken both of his choices out of his hands. Then he can take a bottle or two into his own.
The Hove's a drinking spot for merchants. He shouldn't really be here: he doesn't visit, all too often, but when he does he gets wasted beyond repair. It's a vice Celestino's working on, except when he isn't, and so he's… here now.
It's not where he'd want to go, typically. Sure, a few years ago, maybe, but the Hove's a shell of its former self. It's as if Alithyia Essetella stole its vitality and had let it perish alongside her in the Arena last year, in the 52nd Games. Neither does Celestino want to be the next person to comfort Riocesse Hovendale, either. It wasn't so long ago when Cel'd learnt that his people skills were… lacking, and a few awkward mentions of how he'd known Alithyia… when he'd handed her ass in training… turned out to make far from amicable conversation with Ricoesse.
But he's here. The bonus is that Riocesse seems to be taking a break, no doubt because of The Lustration and their members. They've taken to Havenside, lately, and the destruction and fireslaid upon their wake was… unsightly.
So. The only person that's manning the bar is a pretty girl in a floral dress. And it's only him too in the night, which is a bonus. He knows that Talquin Seasbane frequents the Hove, and Celestino isn't quite ready to confront him about the Games. They've been acquaintances in the Academy in sparring, before. Tal would try to strike up a chat with him. From one volunteer to a prospective one. And then there'll be a reveal, an admissionof failure, which Cel isn't ready to make.
Instead, he turns his attention up to the bartender serving.
"Can I have a sangria?"
The girl's eyes snap up. Her eyes are apologetic - he isn't sure why - and she immediately nods before fetching the bottle from the shelves.
"Here," she says, quietly, smiling as she slides it towards Cel. "I hope that's alright."
Cel blinks, again, as the drink's passed over to him. He turns the bottle around, and squints at the label.
"It's, um, Rosé," The girl says, her voice cheerful. "Imported from District 8."
"Thank you." Cel says. "I don't think I've caught your name."
Is it just him, or does the girl flush?
"I'm Daria. Daria Makrain."
It's a pretty name, he finds himself musing. But quickly, he shakes his thoughts away from that. Bad time to be admiring bartenders. Especially not when you're trying to get wasted…
"I'm Celestino," he finds himself adding. "Celestino Ivory. But call me Cel."
Daria giggles, and she lifts her knuckles to her mouth as if to stifle them. It doesn't, but it doesn't have to - her voice is lilt and soft, songlike and beautiful.
"That's a really pretty name."
"Yours is too," Cel says, quietly. He gazes away from the girl, because, gosh - is that a blush already working on his cheeks? That is… unusual. He shouldn't be affectedso easily. That's not him.
And yet. There's something about this girl which makes him want to open up. It's magnified even more when the girl's blush deepens somehow. Something quirks up Cel's lips. It's cute.
"Thank you," Daria says. "You're, um, the first that's said that to me."
"I'm sure it won't be the last," Cel says. He takes his drink, and swivels it a little, before downing the cup. Through the glass, he notices Daria - still blushing, still smiling - though she's trying not to show it.
"What brings you here?"
Cel shrugs. "I… " his mouth dries. He's about to go into half a spiel - some sort of made-up story about how he's just here for the hell of it, can't I just drink a few times for time's sake? - but those lies shrivel up on his tongue.
Besides, Daria's… attentive. In a way Cel feels means that she'll listen to him, and though he despises, absolutely despises sharing his problems - they are his problems, and for others to see them means he's weak -
But maybe.
His Rosé clanks against the counter. Cel looks back up at Daria. It doesn't matter if his vision is half-there blurry; doesn't matter if he can't see Daria. Because in this moment, he can believe that his sight isn't going, that he's only dizzy and bare-seeing because of the alcohol. No matter how little he's drunk.
And he convinces himself, too, that the drinks have gotten his tongue loose because the first words disentangle from his tongue.
"I was supposed to be this year's volunteer," Celestino mumbles, turning his head away from Daria. "Until… well, until I wasn't."
"Oh," Daria says, quietly. She bites down her lips. "That must be really hard. I know I haven't known you for long, but… you've been really nice to me. I know that you deserve better than that."
She gazes up at him with a hopeful smile, and in that smile, Cel realises that he feels a little better already.
"It's okay," Cel says, a rueful smile quirking his lips. "Thank you for that. I appreciate it. Can you… get me another drink?"
"Yeah! Of course!"
Daria beams, and she does just that. She sets one more bottle on the counter and pours it into his glass. Cel takes another sip, and exhales. His head's buzzing, but not just because of the drink.
Daria Makrain is…
"Say," Cel murmurs. This time it's really the drink that's overtaking him, because under no other circumstance would he entertain thoughts like that now, and besides, he chides himself, she's nice to him only because of etiquette. But…
"Are you single?"
Daria's eyes widen, clearly not expecting that question. Then, her blush deepens. "No, I, uh, have a boyfriend."
Boyfriend. Cel tries not to feel the disappointment sinking down within his stomach. He didn't think he would have a chance, not really, at this girl too-sweet for the world.
"He's a lucky man," Cel offers, trying for a slight smile. "I'm glad that you have him."
Daria nods, once, twice, and her eyes are far away - like she's just drifted into a dream. "Yeah," she says, softly, and here her blush reddens more than before. "Talquin's… really nice to me. Nicer than I deserve, really, but he just insists on being really good to me, and he's so good to everyone too. I, um, I love him so much."
But Cel hasn't been listening - not since the name Talquin's exited Daria's lips.
His eyes widen. "Talquin? As in Talquin Seasbane? The Victor of the last Games?"
"That's him!" Daria says, nodding, her flush deepening more than before. "I got, uh, really lucky."
An oh curves Cel's lips. So much for ignoring him. A certain sense of bitter malaise overtakes him, mixes with the apathy in his chest, and turns over the needles poking in his heart. He doesn't know why he feels, but he does, thinking about a victory that he could've had, but doesn't have, and fuck…
"Are you okay?" Daria asks, concern laden in her voice. "You seem very..."
Cel scoffs. "Drunk?"
"... I was going to say sad, but… that, too."
Cel twirls their drink again. They exhale a breath, before placing it down. "I'll be okay," he says. "I mean— no, I won't. What the fuck am I saying? I won't get to volunteer. I won't get to fight, won't be able to prove myself to them all. The Ivory's didn't believe in me, they fucking shunned me— well, fuck them. I'll show them what I can do, or so I thought," and here, a sneer perks his lips, "But I can't now. Can I?"
Something's glistening in Daria's eyes. "I'm sorry," Daria says. "And—and please forgive me, but I don't think… I don't think that volunteering's the be-all and end-all. I don't know. You just remind me of… someone."
Someone. There couldn't be so many someones which Cel could remind Daria of. A newspaper headline, TRAGEDY IN HAVENSIDE, flashes before his eyes. Perhaps it should be an insult, to be connected to Atlantis Seasbane, but it… isn't.
Not really. Because, to some extent, Cel does identify with Atlantis, whether he likes it or not: the instability and insatiability, the fluidity which arrests his soul on any given day. And maybe he wasn't like her at all, but he can still sympathise with some of what she'd gone through.
"I guess," Cel finally murmurs, quietly. "I guess you might be right. Volunteering isn't the end of the world."
Relief's over Daria's eyes. "Yeah," she says. "It isn't." There's a moment, where Daria hesitates, and Cel raises an eyebrow.
"You know…" Daria begins. "There's someone that I think you might want to meet. If you want to come! It's just… a thought. You guys could be friends."
Cel's eyebrow quirks. "Who?"
Daria's blush deepens. "My boyfriend."
Cel doesn't really know how the next events unfold, as they do. All they know is this. They meet Talquin, after Ria introduces them to him, and one thing leads to another, in the wildest series of domino effects manageable. They've lamented the fact that Daria wasn't single, but never quite thought…
Truth to be told, Cel's never thought that they'd wind up in a relationship with anyone - much less two people, because people are liabilities. Because they can see Cel weak, see them vulnerable, and god, that fact is hated as it hurts.
But soon, Cel finds their thoughts changing. They realise that they're confiding in Daria, and confiding in Talquin, more than they'd thought they would. They realise that it's okay, to be less than okay. Not volunteering is not the end of any world, because they canstill achieve so much as they are.
Before they know it, they're by the beach, upon the night before the 53rd Games, watching as the waves of the sea which Atlantis had stepped in laps up against their toes. They're comforting Talquin, alongside Daria, as he mourns the loss of his sister. Cel thinks of what they've lost: the chance to volunteer, the chance for a cure, the chance to perish if not.
And Cel realises, then, that what they'd once strove for doesn't quite matter - at least, not as much as they'd thought.
One day after the 53rd Games begins, Cel catches a symbol on Daria's wrist.
It's not a symbol that she's realised was tattooed upon Daria before. Cel finds herself mesmerised, caught by the sight, as Daria lounges on the bed, intently focused on her book.
"What's that in your hand?" Cel questions, before she can stop herself.
"This?" Daria lifts her book. "It's, um, ah, a book about birds! Do you wanna read it? You can have it if you want."
"Oh, no," Cel shakes her head. Even if she didwant to read, that would be… unsightly. Not in the least because she won't be able to see it. "I didn't mean the book— I mean, what's on your wrist?"
Daria blushes and shakes her head. Instinctively, her fingers fly to the symbol upon her skin. "Oh, it's just a tattoo! Talquin has it too."
Daria hides the symbol with her fingers, but Cel catches the image of a bird. Huh. That is a choice.
(A very interesting choice, given that Cel would believe that she was a Vulture otherwise. The enemy smoked out by Ilyda's flames. The rebels bringing Four and the Capitol to ruin. But how could Daria, sweet as she was, and Talquin, kind as he was, be any of that? It must've been just aesthetic.)
"It's nothing," Daria continues. "Don't worry about it! I've had that tattoo since I was fifteen."
"Oh," Cel murmurs. "I must've been… unobservant."
Daria smiles, and she presses her lips together as if to hide a small giggle turning up her lips. "Maybe. But it's easy to miss. Don't blame yourself."
Cel feels a slight blush tinge her cheeks. An unnatural effect that has become more frequent, as of late. Oh, Daria. You are far too sweet.
"Anyway," and here, Daria looks across to the pier. "Um, do you want to go for a walk? I could use a little fresh air."
It was upon that same day, when Cel Ivory was approached by two certain individuals, upon Havenside. All she was doing was minding her business, in the alleyways by The Hove, because Talquin's yet to finish bartending work (and Daria's left early from their walk to finish off her book). It was then that two figures had approached her.
Cel Ivory? Of the Ivory family?
"Yes," she'd replied, even as her muscles tensed, as she prepared herself for what exactly was to come. "That's me. What do you want?" I'm not in the mood to fight today.
But then… a step back, hands held, as if in reassurance. We've heard, they'd said, that you were rejected by the Academy to volunteer. Your cousin took the place that was rightfully yours, and so had Ilyda. Is this true?
Despite herself, an old flame - whether it was anger, or gratification, or any else - rises.
"It is," Cel says. She grits her teeth together, to stop any more emotion from flowing out of her mouth, because fuck. It's been so many months already, so fucking hell, he shouldn't be so affected by what she'd failed to do. But she is.
Perfect, they'd said. We've heard about your competence. And we find your support of the Capitol - quiet it may be, but present it is - admirable. We have a question for you.
"What is it?"
Would you like to join The Lustration?
The Lustration. The movement that was birthed out of Ilyda's roar, as she'd thrust her torch up into the skies, and proclaimed two words: Vultures burn! Out of her mouth and out through the streets her cry swept, and Four's puritans had listened. They'd marched out of their shantytowns and their apartments, and followed her stead. Taking every Vulture they could find. Imprisoning every Vulture they could find. Scorching alive every Vulture they could find.
It's an obsessive movement, certainly. One built on fanaticism, order and disorder. Truthfully, it is a movement that Cel's thought some about, though her feelings were conflicted, at best. Before, The Lustration would be appreciable. Their support for the Capitol (and their damning of rebels) could only serve to enhance Four's order. However, ever since her rejection from volunteering because of the same movement's leader, she could not look at them the same way again.
But this is curious. Why'd they'd go out of their way to recruit her? Their leader's still in the 53rd Games, still persisting, still pissed as ever: surelyCel isn't to replace Ilyda.
(And she isn't. She can see the loyalties in the eyes of the Lustrators: they don't want her as leader. But maybe… a leader.)
Cel doesn't have a clue. But… she'll listen to what they have to say.
They want her for The Lustration.
And, well.
Who is she to refuse?
Her family's never seen her for what she was worth. Gender freak, they'd scoffed at Cel, for they couldn't take Althea Ivory's femalenessor her lesbianism either, and of course they would damn any-fucking-body that wasn't their ideal Ivory. And so Cel had struck out on her own, went to the Academy upon her own scholarship and merit, and fought for the volunteering spot and its prestige. And when she didn't get it, and lostit to the Ivory's ideal boy - well, wasn't that just a slap to the fucking face?
Her sole comfort was that Talon Ivory is dead in the Games, at 20th place, and he'd become the laughingstock of Panem. One dead kid, another ignored… did nothing to urge the Ivory's to reconnect with her? But what can Cel say, really? They've got their damn priorities.
She has Daria and she has Talquin. But by the end of the day, they are her lovers, not her life's purpose. Cel still needsmore.
The Lustration's knocking at her door, ready to preach. But Cel Ivory's already converted long before.
DAY 1.
Cecilia Ivory stares at the waste laid before her and lets a thin smile level her lips.
"Well done," she tells the Lustrators, who salute her, as she turns back towards them. "Would anyone care to give me the brief?"
"I shall, Serpent Ivory," says the leader of their operation. And so he explains. The first part Cel knows of; they'd sent in the Lustrators after Cel had disclosed the coordinates of a Vulture's base. They'd rashed the place, and gained valuable intel. Intel that would inform them about the Vultures' future activities - and that is more than precious, given the current state of Panem.
The second part is what she's curious about.
"When we'd arrived at the base, all were dead," he says. "We had to pick through the corpses. It seems to me that The Vivisector and their operatives have arrived and razed the base to the ground, before we even had the chance."
Cel scoffs. "Good, then." When the leader shoots her a look, she shoots back one just as withering. "Tone down your bloodlust, Ronan. We're on the same side as The Vivisector. They're doing the dirty work for us: all the better for us! The only good Vulture is a dead Vulture."
Ronan bows his head. "I understand, ma'am."
"You should," Cel mutters. "You're all dismissed. Return to the base. I'd like to stay for a little while longer."
They bow, and they leave.
Cel exhales a breath, as she turns to the ruins of what-has-been. It was once a beautiful base: Cel had actually heard of the construction of the Vultures' base in Moriarty Bay, in no small part thanks to her lovers. But soon, apparently, the base had proved itself to be insufficient, in location and in operation, and so the Vultures had moved their dealings towards another base.
Mostly.
Cel shuts her eyes. It's disturbing to think about The Vivisector. More disturbing than she'd like to admit. Ever since their emergence in Four - after the 55th Games - everything has been… disorderly. Not disorderly, necessarily, as in that they've thrown everything in chaos: no, far from. Quite the contrary, actually: ever since The Vivisector's arrival, they've been doing nothing but sweeping the streets clean, by annihilating all and every Vulture they see.
That isn't the issue, really, that Cel takes from them. The Vivisector tramples upon her operations. Upon her busts, of the Vultures' operations; upon her base breaks, upon her kills. Control she does not have, not in Four, no, not anymore: because The Vivisector has taken over.
Cel had risen quickly in the rankings of The Lustration. Her work ethic served her well, and so promotion came with too after Ilyda's death. Cel, their very best, would lead The Lustration, and bring the most vocal Capitol's supporters in their crusade against rebellion. It was decided. It was easy.
But that was before The Vivisector had arrived. A force of its unholy own, decimating Vulture base after Vulture base, in a speed inhuman. And of course, that came with their own spunky squad, people or machine, clad in black and armour and impossible strength, there to execute The Vivisector's vision of Four.
Control of Four, certainly, is not hers. And Cel…
Oh, Cel does resent that. No matter how many good words she tosses to Ronan about The Vivisector, all bullshit and Capitol cocksucking, nothing can change the fact that she doesn't have control.
Fucking hell.
Upon one of the nights, where they're out of assignments for the Lustration, Cel returns to their apartment.
"Cel!" Daria says, and her eyes light up in so much glee that it is… beyond heartwarming to see. "Where have you been, lately? I and Tal've missed you so much!"
"Oh, I…" Cel stops. They haven't been anywhere, exactly: aside from The Lustration, and visiting them, and… thinking about them. But Daria and Talquin don't have to know the specifics of that.
"I've just been at my new job," Cel says, because that, technically, is not a lie.
Daria hugs them. Cel stiffens, a little, but accepts the hug further.
"I'm really glad to hear that," Daria murmurs into their shoulder, quietly. "I've been really worried about you."
"You don't have to be," Cel says, and despite themselves they tense. "I know how to handle myself."
"I didn't mean to imply that you didn't— I know you do," Daria says, and she clutches them even tighter. "But you know me. I just… overthink things."
Cel brushes a lock of Daria's hair by her ear, and kisses her forehead. "Sometimes, maybe," they say, a hint of amusement twitching on their lips. "That's what I love about you."
Daria blushes even deeper.
"What've you been doing lately, at your mysterious job?"
Cel hesitates. They're not too sure what to say, to be honest. The 54th Games are incoming, just in a few months' time. As was given, The Lustration doesn't want any Vulture to infiltrate these Games, from their District to the next. And it doesn't look like they'll get any - this year's Phaedra Xianrith's year. The daughter of The Forges, the best of the best, the most modified being of them all, and the greatest, too. Even if there were Vultures from other Districts, nobody had any doubts about Phaedra's ruthlessness when it came to dealing with them. It was a guaranteed win, all things considered. A win for The Lustration, a win for The Forges, a win for Four.
"Nothing of importance," Cel tells her. "How about you? Has bartending at The Hove been keeping you busy?"
"A little," Daria admits. "We've got more reb— uh, patrons than ever before, which is… crazy. But it's so lively and energised nowadays! And we're, um, undergoing renovation and construction for The Hove, to build it even better than before. It's going to be the best."
"That sounds like an admirable project," Cel replies, as they leave another kiss on Daria's nose. "Where has Talquin been?"
"He's the one in charge of renovating The Hove again! I'm helping him figure out the schematics and all, even though I don't think I'm really qualified for it. Oh! He told me to tell you that he misses you, because it's been a week since you've last seen each other."
"What a sap," Cel says, but even they can't keep the smile from forming over their lips. "Tell him that I miss him, too."
"I will!" Daria says. Then, she wavers for a moment. "Um, Cel, if you have the time tomorrow… do you want to go on a date night with me and Talquin? Please don't worry if you can't, that's totally okay! I just wanted to ask."
Cel pauses, for a moment. It has been a while since they'd had a date night with Talquin and Daria. They have missed them - lots - but they have an assignment, tomorrow night. The Lustration needs them more than their lovers do.
So, they shake their head. "That would be lovely, but I can't. Maybe another time?"
"Sure!" Daria giggles, as her eyes shine in happiness. "I can figure that out! I can't wait."
They never did find another date.
Cel isn't sure why, exactly, the thought surfaces. At all times, now would likely be the worst of them all to remember. To think about Talquin, and to think about Daria, especially… does hurt. It hurts, more than they'd care to admit.
Especially during wartime.
They exhale, though. Thinking about them won't help them or help Cel. What they have to focus on is work. That's the best way they can help them.
Just like in the fallout of the 54th Games, after the dissent and the chaos broke out with Phaedra Xianrith's death, The Lustration's in charge of damage was a hellish day for them: subduing upset is never easy, and it was only after considerable difficulty that they were able to meditate Four's denizens about Xianrith's death.
They'd really thought that they had gone through the worst damage control scenario that was ever had in the history of Panem. After Ilyda and Xianrith. Too bad the 55th Games came next.
Cel sighs. God, all of what they're doing is just… unreal. Quelling dissent, from one Games to the next. For Muriel Coltrane had died in the bloodbath, for all that he was worth, and that sent uncertainty throughout Four. For Quinn Marlowe was a weak contender after Xianrith's run the year before, and her death without even reaching Top 5 cemented that. But, perhaps, most of all, because Brynn Sanchez decided upon a finale of a double-suicide, and Madison Saros had decided that her best policy was to die. And that choice from a Career, of course, totally didn'thave shockwaves across Career Districts.
And now with the 56th Games and the escapees that ran out alive…
They press their fingers in their hair and let out a breath. To deal with the uncertainty, the anger, and the question rising in Four is a job not even fitfor a governor, much less somebody like them. The Lustration's trying their best to help combat the surge of rebellious sentiment: but it's half-impossible, solely because people were converting too fast, changing too fast, declaring their loyalties with tears in their eyes.
"Serpent Ivory?"
That breaks Cel away from their thoughts. They look up. Ronan's staring right back at them.
"What is it?" Cel asks.
Ronan licks his lips. It's as if he isn't sure whether to speak, or not to speak in his hesitance. Until finally, he clears his throat. "We have reason to believe that the Victors of Four are involved with The Vultures. In particular, we think that Talquin Seasbane is involved in the current rebellion. Of course, we don't know anything concrete, but we think it's a… possibility."
Cel raises an eyebrow. "You realise this is a serious accusation."
"I do," Ronan says, lifting his chin, as if reporting the presence of a supposed rebel gave him the right to be in Cel's tent.
How unimpressive. How unrepentant.
It's near enough to bring a twinge on his lips. "Well. Observe him, then. Put your spies on him. Make sure that he isn't doing anything suspicious. That's the best which we can do." His eyes flick away. "But your accusation gives you no reason to abstain from your duties. Leave."
"Don't you understand the weight of this, Serpent?" Ronan exasperates. "We should track them and stamp them out to outshine the metal-infused gang freaks. We want the Capitol's eyes on us. Not… whatever The Vivisector's doing to win their favour."
"No," Cel snarls. Their heart's beating hard but they quell it down. "Don't you think that it's better to search for the escapees of the 56th Games instead? That would bring out more Capitol recognition, don't you think?"
Ronan muses for a moment. "I suppose you're right on that."
"Thank you. And, Ronin - don't ever speak to me like that again, unless you'd enjoy being gutted like a fish."
Ronan dips his head in what Cel supposes is an imitation of a nod, before he takes his leave from the tent.
Finally, Cel exhales. They shut their eyes, because fuck, that was a close one.
Before the 54th Games are all said and done, Cel mulls in the living room, with Talquin's arm over their shoulder. It's a quieter day, today: and whilst Cel usually would detest such days, because it would mean doing nothing, he has to admit that it isn't… exactly unwanted, today.
It's relaxing, to take a day off with their lovers. Even though they would not usually admit it. And today's special, for it's the day of the finale, and hence, today's the mandatory holiday of celebration. But all three of them aren't too interested in watching any of it, really.
The explosions and pre-eminent celebrations outside, though, are… distracting.
"Can we turn that noise off?" Talquin mutters. His annoyance's clear in his eyes, from the way he gazes out at the rest of Havenside: already giddy with prospective victory.
"I wish," Cel mutters. "Who wins… it means nothing. Certainly, it would be preferable for Four to take the crown, but does it really matter?"
Sure, Xianrith is Four's best chance at winning, and she'll do well to suppress the Vultures and the dissent happening in their District. But Cel can't help but be bitter about their inability to volunteer. Seeing anybody in Four volunteer, and win, after her attempt… is just grating.
With that thought, Cel adds: "I have no love for Xianrith, either. She's powerful, and keeps dissidents in line, but I could also care less for that fact."
Daria and Talquin exchange a look.
"Um, so… we've been thinking for a while, and we want to tell you something." Daria whispers to them. She's fidgeting with her fingers: worry is apparent all over her face. Cel's first instinct is to comfort her - to ask her what's wrong, to tell her everything's fine.
"What is it?"
Daria clears her throat. Nervousness is shining in her eyes. "So… um, can you promise not to freak out?"
"When do I ever freak out?"
"Good point," Talquin says. He squeezes Daria's hand, and turns to lock on Cel's eyes. "I'm… sorry that we haven't really disclosed this earlier, but this is… well, it's a secret that's hard to trust anyone with."
"What are you talking about."
"We're Vultures," Talquin exhales. "There."
Cel's eyes widened. "What?"
Neither Talquin nor Daria look like they're joking.
"No. You both—" Then, Cel closes their eyes, because this can't be true, for fuck's sake. "You both are not Vultures. You can't be. I don't—I don't believe in that."
"Why not?" Talquin says. There's apparent hurt in his eyes, even though Cel doesn't know how, or why.
They're Vultures? What?
It just doesn't make any sort of fucking sense.
"Why are you?" Cel scoffs, disbelief turning in their eyes, as they look between Talquin and Daria. "You're involved in rebellion? For what reason? For how long?"
Daria bites her lip. "I've been involved since I was fifteen. Talquin joined after he won the Games."
Cel blinks. They can't… they can't believe this.
"And you're only telling me now? Why now?"
"There was never a good time to tell you," Talquin says. "I… I wish we'd told you from the beginning, but that was… hard, for us. Because if you weren't with us, then we'd have been totally compromised."
"Burned at the stake," Cel echoes.
Talquin doesn't quite meet their eyes. "Yes," he exhales. "Burned by The Lustration. Because of Ilyda."
Cel's lips quirk, slightly. They don't know if it's bitterness, or pain, or something else which leaps at their throat. "I have something to confess as well," they say.
"What… what is it?"
Cel laughs. It's rueful. "There's no good time to say this, so I might as well say it now. I'm part of The Lustration."
"You're part of the Lustration..." Talquin's face drops, and Daria looks scared, nearly, and Cel is…
Cel doesn't know what to say. In all of Cel's life, they've never seen Daria nor Talquin look more terrified.
For good reason. They… did just admit to being part of The Lustration. The organisation infamous for gobbling Vultures up alive. And for a moment, they aren't lovers; but Lustrators and Vultures, staring at each other, uncertain and unsure of what next to do.
If Cel were to be a good Leader, then they would turn them in. But… they can't. Why… would they? And with that, comes another realisation - they don't want to. Why sacrifice their lovers to the Lustration, a cause which… is important to Cel, yes, but barely loves them? Why thrust their lovers towards the face of death, of an awful fate by fire? Why would Daria and Talquin be deserving of death, when they have been nothing but kind?
(That thought is troubling.)
"Are… you gonna do anything?" Daria whispers. Fear's turning in her eyes.
Cel shakes their head. "No," they say. "I won't. And I don't plan on, either."
That relieves tension from the room, like an exhale of withheld breath.
"Why didn't you tell us that you were The Lustration?"
"Because I'm—" Cel exhales. "Because," and when he speaks again, his tone's devoid of emotion. "Yes, I'm part of The Lustration, but I consider it a job. Just as you've never specified what exactly you do in The Hove, I never thought it was important to discuss about… work. It doesn't matter."
"So," Talquin murmurs, his eyebrows quirking. "Do you believe in The Lustration's ideals?"
Cel falters, for a moment. Do they believe in what The Lustration espouses? For a flash of a moment, memories of his volunteering resurface: of the Capitol's refusal to let them volunteer. Do they support the Capitol? They should. But...
They shake their head. "They're keeping order," Cel says, quietly, but even that they barely believe. "That's what I can say about them."
"Do they keep order?" Asks Talquin. "Aren't they destroying everything?"
Cel pauses. Because Talquin isn't wrong. The Lustration's rise was born out of destruction, and flames, and burning. It was vigilantism, mob justice, and lynchings at its finest. Cel has no love for chaotic institutions, and The Lustration is perhaps the definition of "people's justice".
Whether they work, though, is another thing.
"They are," Cel admits. "But less so, nowadays. I've been attempting to regulate The Lustration, how I'm able to.
Talquin hesitates, for a moment. "So, what I'm getting at is… you don't believe in them."
Do they believe in them?
The thought is… troubling. Because they don't, not really, not quite. They're not as fanatical as the rest, and wouldn't want to be, either. The Lustration has been quelling dissent, yes, but sowing more with it as well. That is not order, and Cel knows that for fact.
"I mean... " Cel exhales. "I have my doubts about The Lustration. But I'm too far in to get out."
"Who says you are?" Talquin says. There's a light in his eyes: burning with vivacity, with belief, with conviction. "You know... the Vultures could use a mole."
And so, as the 54th Games end, Cel Ivory finds themselves with a new loyalty to keep.
DAY 2.
Ronan gives him news on the second day of rebellion.
"Serpent Ivory. We believe that you would be happy to know that we have captured two incredibly important rebels of the Vultures' cause."
Celestino raises his eyebrow. That is… new information, indeed. Whether it is good information is another thing entirely. Especially after his encouragement about hunting down the 56th's escapees… could they actually…?
That is curious, to say the very least. It is worrisome, as well, but Celestino will not focus on that now. He'll first figure out what it is that The Lustration have. He'll worry about the rest later.
"Oh? Bring me to them."
Ronan dips his head in a salute. He brings Cel towards the cages of their encampments. And Cel steps in, his breath in his throat, expecting the worse—
And he's proven right.
It can't be. But it is them, no matter what Cel wants it to be: Rhodos and Althea, in The Lustration's cages.
Holy fuck. What the hell? How'd you even get captured? What the fuck are you two doing in District Four? This is— what the actual fuck?!
Celestino schools his expression. Even when all he wants to be is anything but normal, when his cousin's gazing back at him with an increasingly pissed-off expression. But he can't seem anything but normal, especially in front of one of his minions, and even more so, he should seem pleased. Pleased, delighted, and proud.
And so he rests that upon his face. A smile twists upon his lips, as he clasps his hands behind his back. "Good job," he tells Ronan. "Now leave," he orders. "The Lustration needs you."
Ronan does just that. Cel waits until he knows that he's long left, before turning back towards his cousin and her friend. Before turning back toward his prisoners.
"This isn't how I envisioned meeting you again, Cel."
Cel shuts his eyes. "God, you're one to speak. Just... what the fuck are you doing here? Why the hell did you let yourself—fuck, never mind."
He exhales. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Being this emotional was not what he wanted to be.
Cel opens his eyes again. "Okay. I apologise. Let's just… try that again. Althea. It's been… long."
"Oh, long would be impossibly correct. You're ridiculous, brother." Althea scoffs. "It is brother, now, right?"
Celestino cocks his head. Despite himself, amusement turns up his lips. "I'm so glad you've noticed. I wouldn't know what gave it away."
"So nice to see that your sarcasm hasn't changed."
Cel scoffs. "Nice to see that you haven't changed any either."
"We have a war to contend with."
"So I've noticed. But 'we'?" Cel murmurs. "I'm sure you've noticed, but you've been captured by my side."
Althea rolls her eyes. "Your side, my side. Come on, Cel. We're Ivory's. We don't stand on any side but our own."
"Am I not standing on my side?"
"I don't think you are," Althea murmurs. "Fighting for a cause? After you've left home to fight for yourself? Come on."
Cel rolls his eyes. "When have you become so incorrigible?"
"And I thought I was the robotic one."
"Shut up."
Rhodos looks incredibly lost at their talk not-quite. At his confusion, Cel clears his throat. "I'm sorry. Introductions. You can call me Celestino— and, yes, I'm an Ivory. I'm the Lustration's Serpent."
Rhodos blinks. He still doesn't look like he quite believes Cel. Or understands the weight of what's going on, which is fair. He has, after all, been captured. Shock is a given. This brings him to his next question…
"How did you both get captured?"
Althea smiles thinly. "It's a long story. But the simplified version is that: I'm herewith Rhodos to save Kani. But our operation was compromised before we'd even landed, because once we'd touched District Four sand, we were surrounded by Lustrators. And so here we are. Delivered to your rotten cages."
Her head thumps against the back of the wall, as she tilts her head as if waiting for Cel's response. In response, Cel just looks over at Rhodos.
He seems uncomfortable under Cel's gaze but clears his throat, anyway. "It's… yeah, what Althea said. We were sent here by the rebellion— the Vultures— on a mission. To save..."
Suddenly, Rhodos trails off.
"Wait, Althea—" Rhodos falters. Disbelief's turning in his gaze, as he turns to Althea. "How—why are we telling everything to him? He's part of The Lustration."
"Cel's an Ivory," Althea says, easily. Then, her eyes lock upon Cel's. "And our brood looks after our own skin."
"Looks out for our own skin, you mean," mutters Cel.
"I'm glad you recognise that."
Cel shuts his eyes and lets a sigh uptake his lips. When the day had begun, he didn't imagine that he'd end up being involved in a conversation with Althea Ivory, out of everyone. To have her and Rhodos here, at his base, as a literal war raged on. This… is a situation that he doesn't want.
This is a situation he doesn't know what to feel about.
The Ivory household is known to be one of the coldest in Four.
Unsurprisingly so. The Ivory clan always had too many expectations for their children: well, for their children that were 'normal'. Their criteria immediately knocked Cel and Althea both from the equation.
It didn't matter that Cel wasn't technically one of them - they were a cousin, who the Ivory's had begrudgingly given shelter to, because their parents were more or less permanently deployed to the Capitol, for a stylist's job and to a Gamemaker post. High aspirations, and even better successes: and Cel knew that they would join them, too, after they became the Victor of the 53rd Games.
But their training had been… stifled, of late… thanks to the remaining Ivory's less-than-progressiveness. They'd piled almost all of their resources and their thought to their eldest son - Talon Ivory's - training. And Cel's Academy training was left uncared for, despite the generous sums which Cel's parents had reimbursed to their host family.
It wasn't as if living there was any better. Talon Ivory was… ridiculous. Cel hadn't attempted to converse with him beyond the basics, because it didn't take a sentence to reveal that he was a brainless idiot, who thought that brutishness and brawn was what made a successful Career.
Althea Ivory, at least, was more pleasant company. "Pleasant" may not be the best word for it, because to describe Althea as anything but intense would be doing her a disservice. But she was single-minded in her pursuit for victory, to prove the family that'd thought she was worthless wrong, and Cel found that an admirable goal. They'd empathised with the sentiment.
They would train together, in the woods of Four, however they could. Didn't matter that they were young - ferocity, drive, and raw need was broken in their bones. For Althea, it was to prove her family wrong: she was a girl, but no less than Talon. For Cel, it was to prove the world wrong: their eyes were deteriorating, but the Games will save them.
But that could only last for so long.
"I have to leave," Cel says to Althea, as they recover their breaths from their final training session of the night. Their back's slumped against bark, and so is Althea leaning against a tree.
Althea's eyes flick up. "Why?"
Cel casts their eyes out, into the woodlands beyond them. It stretches for miles, beyond what their sight enables them to see, but even that comes to an eventual end.
"I can't train like this," Cel exhales. "Not if I want to get into the Games. How is training in the forests supposed to allow me to compete with those training at the Academy? These wilds are suffocating. The mansion we live in is stocked with weapons that we can never claim nor wield. I'm done living under your parents' bullshit."
"What are you going to do?"
Cel chuckles. "Easy. I'm staking out on my own, for the Academy. They might not want me at first, but I'll do my best to earn a scholarship. I'll convince Hezediah. Or maybe my parents can say something on my behalf. Just— anything but here."
Althea's quiet. Mulling over what they'd said. There is nothing betrayed in her eyes, but Althea's always been impossibly unreadable. Until her eyes turn up to meet Cel's, and then—
"Can you bring me with you?"
Out of everything, Cel was not expecting that.
But it should've come expected. Althea had made no secret about her displeasure about living under her parents' ridiculous rules, and her rebellions in her self-taught training and her firey desire to prove them wrong could've practically been shouted from rooftops. To escape from their clutches would be the next logical step.
But Cel hesitates. They do enjoy Althea's company, yes, but to bring her along would be to compromise their goal. The Ivory's wouldn't even blink if Cel left— less money for them to spend, more for them to keep, one less mouth to feed— but they would balk at their daughter disappearing. They'd search and scour for Althea Ivory, and that would mean the end of Cel's trip, before it even had the chance to truly begin.
So they shake their head.
"I can't," they say. "If I did, then they'll look for you, and that would be the end of… this. I hope you understand."
Althea's expression doesn't change. Her expression never changes easily. But after Cel speaks, she seems more guarded. More wary, her fingers tensing against her legs, when before they were relaxed.
"I understand," she says, and leaves it there. Althea's eyes meet Cel's, and they burn with such an intensity that Cel isn't sure if they can look away.
"Thank you," Cel says. That is the last time they stay in the woods together. Upon the next day, Cel leaves the Ivory's mansion, their bags packed and their goal tunnelling in their heart.
They don't look back once.
"So?" Althea says.
The tension in the encampment's cages is cold. Cold, because even though nobody's spoken a word since, what's passing through the air is clear. They're waiting for him to decide.
Cel closes his eyes. Their eyes betray their desires. But he'll let them spit it out first.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Free us," Althea says. Her eyes are unreadable, but they grow a tinge harder, a moment darker, the longer they stare into Cel's own. "You know what I want. I need to save her. And you won't stop me, Cel. I don't think you can."
"Bold worlds," Cel scoffs. "You're the one negotiating from a cage. Not me."
"For now." Althea drawls.
If the atmosphere in the air could grow any thicker, it does.
"What makes you think that I'll rescue you?" Cel finally says. "That I'll compromise my position for you? My status, as The Lustration's Serpent, to help a cousin that resents me?"
(Why would I compromise my status as a mole for The Vultures to save you? Why would I throw away all I have— risk my life, risk my lovers, risk everything I have for I have everything to lose— to save you?)
"Oh, I think you won't." Althea says. "Because you're still the same as before. Are you gonna abandon me again, Cel? Leave me behind to rot? It is what you do best."
His heart's lurch is troubling. Because whether he'd say it, or not: leaving Althea behind was wrong. Sure, he'd justified it on pragmaticism, but should that truly come over kin? Should that come over people that he cares for, that he'll do whatever he can to help, and save?
If Althea were Daria or Tal - would they have done the same?
No, because being with them taught Cel how to be better than that. This would be a mistake their lovers would've told them to fix.
This is your chance.
Cel shuts his eyes. He opens them again, and despite the static that buzzes within the confines of his sight, their hard faces stare back at him, determined beyond measure.
This is to right your wrongs.
He reaches over and unlocks their cage. This… this will compromise his position with The Lustration. If not now, then soon, because they'll run down the list of people sanctioned to enter their encampment's holdings, and there aren't enough names on that page.
Surprise lights up in Althea's face, as the cage door yearns open. But just as quick as they come, they shift; and then her eyes look back at him, with the roar and the rages of an inferno dancing in the wake of destruction. It's madness, beyond what he'd ever seen from her before.
That is when Celestino Ivory realises that Althea would burn the world down if it meant getting Kani Fairchild back.
"Don't make me regret this." Cel murmurs. He wonders if it's already too late to say that.
Their escape is inconspicuous, which is truly all Cel can ask for. It turns out that a simple disguise can work wonders, if employed well enough. Being fast was what they needed, next: they'd be fine as long as they got out of their encampment under ten minutes.
They were fast. But not fast enough.
As they round past another tent's corner, a male voice barks through the air.
"Cel!" Ronan yells out. "Hey, Cel!"
Fuck. Of-fucking-course it's now.
"Get out," Cel hisses at Rhodos and Althea. "Go to Devonport. You'll find one of my contacts there— you'll know them when you see them. Don't get caught again, or I swear to god, I'm going to strangle something. I'll catch up."
Rhodos looks at her with wide eyes; Althea's are determined. But Cel doesn't get more than a moment before he shoves them down, and stands, above the tents and directly in Ronan's line of sight.
He maintains his composure. Maintains his imperviousness. Fake it till you make it. There's a reason he's here. Even if there is none, he will act like there is. And maybe then Ronan'll drop his suspicions, Cel'll continue their charade, and everything will be fine.
Everything will be.
As the man approaches, Cel clears his throat. "What is it, Ronan?"
And then Cel blinks. Ronan's face… isn't like what Cel had expected. Where he thought his features would be accusatory, there was… exhaustion. Breathiness, as if he'd just run laps around their encampment. Ronan's eyes aren't even on Cel's: instead, they're darting around the encampment, like he's expecting something to jump out at them.
Until finally, they meet Cel's eyes.
"We need you back at camp. Some—something's happening. You need to be there."
When Cel returns to their camp, they hear whispers.
So many whispers. Whispers that dart through their camp, that swarm through every person, that sting every ear. It's enough talk to make her uncomfortable. Because rumours that spread in The Lustration inevitably end in hunts, in lynches and in deaths, if so the time proved right.
Which is why it's uncomfortable. Cel doesn't like it… not at all. Not what's being said, not what's happening, none in the least because they can't control any of it.
"What's happening?" Cel asks one of the Lustrators.
They don't respond; only gesture toward the main encampment. Towards Cel's tent. Where an individual's standing, alone, darkness and filigree secured upon their body, a mask drawn over their lips, a bull-horned helmet over their head, and what seems to be animal guts hanging off their belt.
Oh, fuck. That's when Cel realises. The Vivisector's paying her camp a visit.
Does The Vivisector smirk at Cel's wide eyes?
When they arrive at their own tent, The Vivisector's sitting upon their seat. On their seat: where they'd plotted assaults on empty Vulture bases, where they'd washed false intel with the real, where they'd issued commands to the rest of their followers.
What… what is The Vivisector doing?
"I have reason to believe that there is a mole within The Lustration," announces The Vivisector. They're grinning— at least, that's what it feels like under the mask, and Cel feels themselves stiffen.
Because The Vivisector's staring right at them.
Right at them, and they don't have a clue how to feel.
Does The Vivisector know? They can't know. Can't possibly know. That wouldn't… that wouldn't make sense. They aren't even involved with The Lustration, and the only thing they're known for is being a brutish Vulture-buster. Emphasis on brutish. They wouldn't possibly know anything about the intricacies of Cel's Vulture-related operations.
But what if? What if they do? What then?
That is…
That is a thought that Cel does not want to entertain, under any circumstance.
They shut their eyes.
Breathe. Focus. You can get through this. Remember: The Vivisector knows nothing. You'll be fine, as long as you give away nothing. And you know how to do that well.
Cel opens their eyes.
"That is a serious accusation, Vivisector," Cel drawls, cocking their head ever so slightly at the being on their throne. "What brings you to say that?"
The Vivisector cackles. "Oh, nothing, really. You could say that it's a gut feeling."
"Then you are not welcome here. We don't do gut feelings here at The Lustration."
"Oh, really? I could've sworn that you'd encouraged mobs to sow vigilante justice not so long ago. Fires on the streets. Lynches on the spot. Based on instinct, about what or who could be a Vulture. What's up with that? Isn't that gut feeling?"
Cel grits their teeth. "That's different. We have reason to believe. We have a process. We—"
"Different? Different how? Do you have special dogs? Do the Vultures have a special scent on them that only The Lustration can smell? C'mon. Spill your secrets." The Vivisector leans back. "Besides, what's this 'process' that I'm hearing about? Because I'm pretty sure that the only 'process' you have involves roasting human flesh on spit & barbeque."
Cel scoffs. "We are under no obligation to entertain you, Vivisector. Not your mockery nor your slander. If that's all you have to bring to my base, then I suggest you leave."
"Shame. Could've sworn we were on the same side." Then, a grin spreads across The Vivisector's lips. "Or are we?"
"This is not funny."
The Vivisector laughs. "Sure. I'm having fun, though. Say," and here, The Vivisector's eyes turn upon Cel's eyes. "Anyone want to confess to their traitorisms? An info leak here or there? Come now. Don't be shy."
Cel locks their eyes with The Vivisector.
The Vivisector's smile gleams. They hold Cel's gaze - for a torturous moment, for another torturous moment more.
Cel's fingers tighten upon the gun hanging from their belt. They'll get The Vivisector's leg first. Rush up. Thrust the mask up. Leave a shot buried between The Vivisector's eyes. If they can evade their minions before that. Who are staring at Cel, now, their fingers resting upon the triggers of their AK-47's.
A moment. Another moment.
The Vivisector glances at the rest of the Lustrators. "Anyone?"
Nothing. Silence, stone-dead, presses through their encampment.
The Vivisector laughs. They stand, dusting off Cel's seat, as they gesture at their minions. "Thought not. It's been fun with you puritanical bunch. I'll see you all very soon." Then, their eyes meet Cel's once again, and their teeth gleam in their grin. "Enjoy keeping them in line, Ivory. You have fun."
And just like that, The Vivisector's gone.
"So that was terrifying," Cel mutters. Their legs knock softly against the black boxes which they sit upon, as their eyes turn up to Talquin, who's been listening with rapture to their tale.
They're safe, now - in The Vultures' base at Havenside. It was a fast journey to arrive: their contact was solid, and so here they are.
Here they all are.
Rhodos and Althea still seem a little disoriented, as they stumble through Havenside's base, taking in all of the machinery, the soldiers, and the sheer scope of the bunker. Which Cel can't blame them for. The past 24 hours which had passed would leave anyone reeling. First captured by The Lustration, then freed by its Serpent, then brought to one of The Vultures' most elite bases. Not many could have that experience.
"Beyond terrifying," Talquin comments. He shakes his head. "You know, when you'd told me that you met The Vivisector, after you'd arrived… I didn't think that it would turn out like this."
"Neither did I," admits Cel. "But I'm alive. Not many can claim that mantle."
"Yeah. They're nicknamed The Vivisector for a reason." Talquin exhales. "Are we any closer to knowing who they are, though? Other than the fact that they were sent by The Capitol? Face, age, features— gender, even?"
Cel shrugs. "Couldn't tell. Let's just call them an asshole and leave it at that."
"That's more than fine by me."
A companionable silence lingers in the air. Till finally, Cel turns back at their lover.
"You've been quiet. What are you thinking about?"
Talquin shrugs. "I don't know. I guess… I'm just wondering about how The Vivisector gets their minions, is all."
That does take Cel aback a little. Out of all the questions Talquin could've asked, Cel certainly wasn't expecting this. "Does that have to be a question? Fanatic Capitol recruits, Peacekeepers-on-steroids. Madmen plucked from Districts, even. Does it matter?"
Talquin sighs. "I know, but… what I'm stuck on, I guess, is that they seem inhuman. Just like how The Vivisector feels inhuman."
Cel shrugs. "There could be a lot of reasons. Steroids, paralytic agents. Mods. District Four knows that best, don't we?"
Something troubled turns up in Talquin's eyes. But it only stays for a moment, before the cloud dissipates away from his gaze. "I guess you're right."
"You know I am."
Talquin chuckles. "Yeah. Cel Ivory's never wrong."
"Oh, I'm glad you know it."
An amiable silence passes between the both of them.
"So… Althea Ivory's here."
Cel cocks their head at Talquin. "What about her?"
"Nothing. Just— you know, you guys don't look alike in the slightest."
"Might be the genderfuckery," Cel quips. But their eyes flick towards Althea, who's still standing stock-still, as a statue. Althea, whose burning eyes haven't left Cel's memory. And which won't leave their memory… not for a while.
"Maybe it's that." Talquin says. There's humour in his voice: but then, it quiets. "I don't know. I guess it's… nice, to have someone by your side. Someone that you care about."
Wistfulness is entombed in his tone, and Cel doesn't need to think to know what their lover's thinking about. "Daria'll get on you for that," Cel says, with rue. "You have us, remember?"
"I do," Talquin says, softly. "You're right, I do. I guess— it's just hard, sometimes, when you're over in The Lustration, and Daria's running Vulture campaigns left and right."
"True. But you also have Four's Victors with you. Isn't that right? Heze the mother hen, Juno the annoying brat. Kani the placating sister. You're the dumbass brother."
Talquin laughs. "Fine. Maybe that's true. Not sure if I'd call us anything but dysfunction, though."
Cel raises an eyebrow. "Tal. All the fucked-up found families here are dysfunctional. Did you think that I and Althea have a functioning relationship?"
Talquin chuckles. "Bold of you to presume that I assumed that. I know you."
Cel scoffs. "Brave words, Seasbane."
"But right words?"
"Doesn't mean you have to say it."
Talquin smiles. He dips his head to rest it against Cel's shoulder, and Cel lets him. They stare out at their base, as people buzz across, hanging weapons upon their racks and running from person to person. As noise crackles through their base: a radio call here, a message there. And it's different, certainly - so far removed from their apartment, and the muted roar of the seas, and the stampedes of The Lustration.
But it's home.
This is how the Vulture Rebellion begins, for Cel Ivory.
They leave The Lustration still in their wake. They steal Rhodos and Ivory away, into The Vulture's communications at Havenside. They wait, now, as they listen to the plan-that-is-to-come: the plan to infiltrate the Capitol's camp at Four, and to take back the hostages claimed, of the survivors' families.
They know that their job is a pivotal one: they may have left The Lustration, but they still believe Cel to be their Leader. That knowledge is necessary, if they are to even stand a chance at getting into the Capitol's camp.
This is how the Vulture Rebellion begins, for Cel Ivory. For once, for all of what they've done: they don't evade, don't abandon, don't pretend. They've spent too much time pretending already, long before - pretending that their sight's fine, pretending to fit binaries, pretending that they're the embodiment of values that they are not.
But they've long ditched those principles, when they first agreed to join The Vultures' cause. They've long stopped pretending that they were something they were not.
The world didn't get the memo.
But they do now.
(All in all, manipulator was never a word that fit Cel at all.)
There's an envelop that flutters under The Vivisector's paperweight.
They take aside the intricately-carved stone image of Donovan being buried alive. Thumb their finger over the rim of the envelope. Their sharp steel knuckles slice it open with a rip. "... What's this?"
A letter. Okay, a little old-fashioned of Veneri Vonsettos. Gosh, didn't they teach him how to use radioes and shit? It took an entire day and sucked their whole soul out of their skin! Puh-leeze.
Wait…
The Vivisector licks their lips. Not quite.
"To Viscount. I think that you'd like what I found."
"Daddy! Oh, you didn't." They laugh to themself. "Holy shit, okay."
"Dear Cel. I've found myself really missing you… Oh my god," The Vivisector cackles. "The frigid bitch has a lover?"
Their eyes scan across the letter. Sappy shit after next, now this is high-quality entertainment! And that was all before they even reach the last line.
"... With love, your Vulture."
They pause. Their eyes widen.
They laugh.
"Oh my god. Serpent Ivory, you are so, so fucked!"
Chapter 4: Coming 16th April 2022.