Chapter 14: Mitigation
Oberon could practically feel the uneasiness emanating from Percy as he stepped into the Pykes' shared office. He blinked when Oberon clicked the door shut, almost as good as a full-on flinch.
Neither Oberon nor Dagmara made the effort to quell his trepidation — the opposite, in fact.
Dagmara had seated herself in a leather swivel chair behind the desk facing the door, nearly pinning Percy to the spot with her stare. Once he felt certain that the boy wasn't going to bolt, he gave up his position between Percy and the door, ignoring his own desk in favor of standing at his wife's shoulder.
They'd only combined their workspace after they married, otherwise Morwenna would've been relegated to a different corridor after she returned from the arena. A room in the other hall had been set up following Eridan's Victory, though Oberon tried not to think about why it currently stood empty.
Regardless, the Pyke's shared room worked fairly well considering they made a point never to mentor during the same year. For the sake of their marriage, that was a one-time affair — Morwenna had more than enough to say about that. The space itself was more transient than anything; while there was plenty of paperwork involved, Career training was hardly a desk job. The only two chairs in the room sat behind their respective desks; Percy took it in stride, standing ramrod straight with his hands clasped respectfully behind his back.
Oberon was content to let his wife do the talking. For now. "Perseus," she said, and there it was, that clipped undertone of steel. Dagmara didn't bother concealing it, not in the privacy of their office.
Again, Percy didn't flinch, though Oberon could tell he wanted to, the departure from his nickname already setting the tone of the conversation.
"We've known you for a long while," Dagmara continued, folding her hands. "Up until this point, you've been a good friend to our family, and for that reason, we had no intention of selecting you for volunteer." If anything, the words only strengthened the forming shell of conviction on the boy's face, though now was no time to dance around the truth. Dagmara's eyes narrowed. "Of course, you opened up the possibility when you fired that arrow at my son."
Now, he flinched.
If he weren't still so infuriated, Oberon might've smirked like some kind of asshole, or even laughed, but it wasn't funny. Not when this kid would be in the same arena as his daughter, nothing but district loyalty stopping him from sending his arrows straight through Venatrix's skull. Oberon's expression remained as stiff and unmoving as the mountains surrounding Two's central valley, mirroring his wife's.
"I-I wasn't going to hurt him," Percy insisted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dagmara held up a hand to silence him. "I'm sure you have no idea what it's like to watch your own child die," she continued, her voice stony, and Oberon himself almost flinched at the reminder, "but it is not an experience I intend to repeat." She rose from her chair, her shoulder lightly brushing her husband's as she stood. "I sincerely do not appreciate you taking that matter so lightly."
The boy looked properly chagrined; he opened his mouth to argue — or apologize, if he were smart — but Dagmara wasn't done.
"Don't think we don't understand why you did it; everyone wants to be selected." Swerving around the desk, she stalked dangerously closer to Percy. "But you need to understand as well: we did not validate your selection because we wish to see your Victory. We don't necessarily wish you death, but—" she exhaled, her disappointment clear— "You made a choice."
Percy only nodded, ashen-faced.
Though his wife stood noticeably shorter than the object of her ire, Dagmara had the remarkable capability to shrink people under her devastating stare, as he knew firsthand and as Percy clearly now realized. Being scolded by your own parents was certainly one thing, but by someone else's? The kid looked about to wither on the spot. His eyes flicked away from her gaze, meeting Oberon's before quickly finding home in the various posters and plaques on the wall to his left. Not quite looking over his shoulder like a caged animal, but Percy was trapped in here until the Pykes released him, and he knew it too.
Dagmara sighed in dismissal, and relief washed through Percy's features before the kid could control his mask. Respectfully, Percy stepped out of her way as she inclined her head towards the exit. "You took care of the papers, Oberon?" she said, glancing back towards her husband, who'd pushed past Percy to trail her to the door; he smiled tersely in confirmation. "Great, I'm going to get the kids."
"I'll be right behind you, Dag," he said, kissing her cheek before she disappeared down the hall. Percy made to follow her, but Oberon grabbed him by the shoulder, jerking him back into the office. "We're not done," he growled, pulling the door shut and locking it with a click.
Real fear flashed across Percy's face as Oberon shoved him against the door, pinning him in place. It wasn't entirely dissimilar from the look on Ten's face just before he—
No, the boy in front of him was a Career, a threat. A mean look and a locked door were hardly enough to send him into a panic. Still, the kid had never quite learned to control what came onto his face; Oberon might've found it endearing, watching as Percy forced his apprehension into a brave mask, if it weren't for the fact that the kid would be vying to kill his daughter in six month's time. He hadn't realized she'd had such fickle friends.
Percy swallowed nervously. "S-sir—"
"You," Oberon hissed, his voice low, "have made yourself a problem." Recoiling, Percy pressed himself into the door, but the Victor paid his reaction no mind. "See, I intend for my daughter to be the one making it out of that arena," Oberon continued, his forearm digging into Percy's windpipe, "and I won't have you getting in the way of that."
"Trix and I—made a pact—stick together until the final two," he sputtered, the other man's hold not quite enough to choke off his words.
Oberon shook his head. "I'm afraid that's not good enough."
Huffing for air, Percy's eyes narrowed. "I'm not stepping off the plate early, if that's what you're asking," he said, suddenly growing a spine.
Impertinent brat. Oberon had half a mind to smack the kid. Instead, he tightened his hold, causing Percy to squirm uncomfortably. "I'm not," he growled, unamused. "But if you think I can trust a single thing out of your mouth after that shit you pulled today, you are sadly mistaken."
"But—I didn't hurt him," he insisted, almost pleading. "And Trix, she full-on stabbed Alystra, right through the gut—"
Oberon's features twisted into a snarl. "Retaliating against an attack when your back is turned is not the same as shooting at someone when they're already down!" he barked. "Do you understand?"
"Yessir!" Percy snapped, his posture rigid.
"You may think that your selection today is a reward for your behavior, but believe me, it is not," Oberon spat, his face inches from Percy's. "Now, I want to be very, very clear," he said, taking note of the palpable fear oozing into the kid's eyes. "You think long and hard about why you want to go into that arena, because if my daughter ends up being at the business end of one of your arrows, you won't be the only one paying the price."
"I-I'm not quite sure I understand…"
Oberon's stare hardened. "If Venatrix dies by your hands," he hissed, "there will be nobody left to mourn your body. Is. That. Clear?"
The blood drained from Percy's face, as viscerally as if Oberon had slit the kid's throat himself.
Percy nodded, the "yes," barely audible.
"Good," he said stiffly, finally releasing his hold. Oberon was well aware of the cruelty of his statement. He didn't particularly enjoy preying on people's emotions like this, but by nature of their privilege to train, Two's always had a head start on the Games. And if there was anything, anything he could do to make sure there was one less person gunning for his daughter in that arena, then by god, he would do it.
In all honesty, he didn't even need to follow through with the threat. He just needed the boy to think he would.
And if said boy did decide to force his hand… Oberon didn't particularly want to think about that.
Percy exhaled in relief, unable to meet the Victor's eyes. "What… happens if I win?" he asked quietly.
"Depends on how," Oberon said testily, folding his arms. "If you win clean…" He shrugged. "I can't make any promises. But if you have to kill her to do it, I will personally ensure that your Victory is utterly worthless."
Percy nodded, his eyes blinking a little more rapidly than they should.
"You have nothing to thank for this but your own actions, Perseus," Oberon reminded him, his tone milder, almost sorrowful, though there was no denying the undercurrent of steel. "And I don't think it would be smart," he said, inclining his head pointedly, "to go running your mouth about this little conversation here, hm?"
"Yessir."
Oberon gave him a terse smile. At least he caught on quickly. "Good. Now, Silverhorn." Percy looked up at the sound of his name. "Get the fuck out of my office."
The kid didn't need to be told twice.
One down, twenty-four to go.
Venatrix was sure that there was some sort of basement tunnel connecting Fairfax to the campus hospital, but in her haste to get this over with, she'd forgotten to look. The person manning the hospital's reception desk — Venatrix recognized her as one of the trainees who aged out last year, cheated from her chance at the Games by the Quell — glanced up from a stack of papers as Venatrix pushed through the entrance, bringing a bitter gust of January air with her. With a nod, Venatrix swept past her to the non-emergency wing, an area often crowded with her peers thanks to various sprains or cuts that often resulted from training, and every once in a while the average citizen who'd gotten themselves into some sort of scrape-up.
The hall now was fairly empty, though when Venatrix poked her nose into the athletic trainer's room, she found Tyberius M. sitting on one of the benches, the trainer binding his bad knee in a thick layer of gauze and ice packs.
She waved as she helped herself to her own bag of ice, and he returned it with a grimace. The trainer paused her once he'd finished with Tyberius, running through a quick set of tests to determine that the now-dulled throbbing in the back of her head hadn't come with a concussion.
Blinking away the spots in her vision from the penlight's glare, Venatrix thanked the trainer before heading out back to the reception area. At the desk, she paused, and the receptionist glanced at her expectantly.
"Uh," Venatrix said, clearing her throat. "Which room is Alystra Drakos in?"
The receptionist pursed her lips. "Room C21," she said. Bethesda Morely, her nametag read. Venatrix vaguely recalled the hilt of her sword cracking against her skull sometime during last year's summer mocks; she wondered if the other girl remembered. "She's awake, though I'm not sure if she'll be in the mood for visitors," Bethesda said pointedly.
She definitely remembers, Venatrix thought with an internal grimace. Outwardly, she nodded in thanks and slipped down the hall. It wasn't like she'd been the one particularly responsible for snubbing the receptionist of her Volunteer career; that had been the Quell.
Though, given the chance, it would've been her fault. Should've been.
Instead, it was Alystra she ended up snubbing.
Almost hesitantly, Venatrix pushed open the door, realizing she probably should've knocked when she heard Alystra's voice snap, "I said I didn't need any more pills, Nurse Bitch, leave me alone."
Venatrix blinked.
Alystra looked up from where she sat in her cot, picking at the edge of the bandage wrapped around her stomach. Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, it's you, the other bitch. What the fuck do you want?"
Stepping inside, Venatrix clicked the door shut and leaned against the wall, content to keep some distance between herself and the other girl. She shrugged, her fingers tightening around the ice pack in her hand, the sharp cubes poking their chill through the bag. "Just wanted to make sure you're not dead," she said nonchalantly, though her presence itself inherently dispelled any notion of indifference. "I'm not supposed to start killing people yet."
"So they chose you." Alystra made no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.
"Yeah, they did," Venatrix confirmed.
Alystra scowled, her gaze drifting away from Venatrix's to land again on her hands, pulling at the wrappings. "Why wouldn't they," she muttered under her breath. Venatrix didn't respond, her feet shifting awkwardly on the tile. "Who'd they pick for the guys? Alystra asked, her dark stare suddenly boring into Venatrix's.
"Percy." His name tasted sour on her tongue.
The girl smirked at that. "Tough," she clipped, and it was Venatrix's turn to scowl.
Why had she come here at all? Oh right. "Listen, I didn't mean to stab you," Venatrix ground out, hoping to disperse the remnant feeling of guilt in her gut.
"No, you did," Alystra said surely.
Venatrix narrowed her eyes, wanting to protest, but remembering the swiftness with which she'd reacted, driving the hole through the mesh of Alystra's armor. It could've been anyone, and the outcome would be the same. "I—"
"That's just how we're wired," Alystra said with a shrug. "I definitely meant to stab you, but—" she sighed, dramatically despondent— "you got there first."
An incredulous huff fell from Venatrix's lips; folding her arms, she leaned against the wall, her eyes tracing over her nemesis. Someone had tied Alystra's hair back, her expression — stark, bitter, and challenging all rolled into one — clearly visible. Despite her injury, the girl lounged on the cot like she'd claimed it, arrogant in her own right. Venatrix wondered how many pills they'd hopped her up on; barely a hint of pain laced her features.
"Look," Alystra continued after a beat. "I'm not stupid enough not to accept defeat here. I got a sword through my stomach for fuck's sake." Her grimace seemed geared more towards the notion itself than actual effects of the injury. "Academy rules; you're the Volunteer, the rest of us have to honor that."
The fact that Venatrix couldn't tell whether or not she was being sarcastic unnerved her.
A good six months lie between now and the Games; a lot could happen since then. While retaliation from other students against the chosen volunteers wasn't permitted, it wasn't exactly unheard of either.
Of course, that itself was part of the challenge, for the Volunteers as well as the others. District loyalty versus personal interest.
Considering Alystra's conduct during their last match, Venatrix would've placed her in the latter category. It was… almost nice to know that perhaps she could be wrong.
Didn't mean that Venatrix would let her guard down so easily.
"Thanks, I guess," she said curtly, still testing the waters.
Alystra glanced away, her mouth screwed up in thought. "Whatever," she finally said. Something tacit hung in the air still, keeping Venatrix rooted in place. After a minute, Alystra spoke again, her face still turned away from Venatrix towards the one window in the room; outside, tiny snowflakes had begun to fall lightly, the aftermath of a storm. "Look, I— what I said about your sister earlier—" automatically, Venatrix tensed, and she saw Alystra notice it too— "It was uncalled for, to say the least."
Venatrix scoffed in disdain, a small fire blooming behind her throat as she remembered the girl's words. She'd certainly paid for them well over.
"Probably would've gotten the same for myself if they picked me, if today's anything to go by that," she huffed cynically. She turned to look at Venatrix again, ignorant of the latter's terse expression. "You'd better win, Pyke. I don't think I could stand being near-mortally wounded by a loser."
Venatrix quirked an eyebrow. "Are you wishing me luck?"
"Fine. Die then, if you don't want it."
A sharp laugh barked from Venatrix's throat. That sounds more like her. "Not planning on it, but thanks anyways." Pushing herself off from the wall, she drummed her fingers on the door handle to indicate her intent to take her leave. "I gotta get going, I think, so…"
Alystra chuffed. "Right, leave me here to rot." Her lips curled into their familiar smirk, and she jerked her chin towards the now half-melted ice bag in Venatrix's hand. "Aye, what's that for; did I give you a concussion or something?"
"You wish," Venatrix retorted, stepping back into the hall. She shut the door, letting out a breath as it closed.
That… hadn't gone as poorly as she'd thought. Here, she'd thought she'd been well-versed in Alystra and the extent of her dislike towards herself; she hadn't thought any sort of Academy rules could outstrip that.
Perhaps it had been the measure of her defeat, oddly enough. Venatrix pondered it as she trailed back into the waiting room, throwing Bethesda a wave over her shoulder and depositing the ice pack in a trash can as she headed outside into the cold.
She'd thought she'd known Alystra; then again, she'd thought she'd known Percy too.
The feeling of lightness she hadn't realized had overtaken her dissipated. What Alystra had said before was true; that they were wired differently; she, Percy, the others. Something that came with training for years for an explicit death match. There was a cutthroat edge to each of them, something they could either accept or protest.
The latter would be stupid at this point, in her position.
Embracing it was the only option, if she wanted to win. She wholly intended to, district partners be damned.
Prickles of snowflakes bit into her face as she jogged back to Fairfax, picking up her pace in the threat of the cold. The wind ripped through her thin, sweat-soaked shirt, and she let it, welcoming the shiver that trailed down her spine as she pushed through the side door to the auxiliary gym, intending to gather her things before meeting back with her parents.
Not bothering to slow down, she turned a corner, barely avoiding colliding with another body as they made their way past her. A flash of blond hair, a combination of posture and stride she could recognize from meters away — Venatrix met Percy's eyes as he passed, something almost stricken in his expression.
Percy didn't stop, and neither did she.
A/N: /picks Oberon's pocket and pulls out a shiny gold card from his wallet with the word 'villain' written on it/ Oh? What's this?
Percy, I am so sorry that you have to deal with Mr. Manipulate Mansplain Malewife over here, it's for character development I promise :V
Okay, real talk, was honestly not expecting to finish this chapter today but the second half just manifested, it was a great time ;-; Hopefully we can get back to weekly updates ! I've simply been vibrating with ideas, and idk how many of you know that there's gonna be a sequel to this story (it's on my profile) well, good fucking news, there's gonna be a sequel to That bad boy too because Reasons which means I should probably finish writing this fking story dontcha think? Anyways, feel free to let me know whatever the fuck you think of That right there wheeze..
Also, SYOT ad before I forget.. Go check out /checks hand/ Floccinaucinihilipilification by symphorophilia, I have sent Haiden an absolute monster of a tribute so if you want to read his intro and think differently of me, go ahead hjfdhjfd. (For real, it's gonna be an incredible fucking story go read it friends :D )
Anyways, maybe I'll post another Tour chapter this week, maybe not.. Also if anyone is craving updates on that TrV blog I mentioned at some point, it's still in progress ! But I'm v excited for it ;-; See y'all next week (I hope) !
- Nell