Chapter 40: Instincts of a Victor

Launch Day, the Capitol

Her father woke her before the sun rose.

So I managed to sleep after all, Venatrix mused half-heartedly; judging by the bags under Oberon's eyes, he hadn't. "Up, up," he said briskly, voice hushed by the morning air, by the heaviness of what that meant for her.

Venatrix complied, changing into the first thing she found before she met him in the hall. On the opposite wall, Percy's door was closed, no indication whether it remained occupied or not. The thought of her friend in conjunction with the presence of her father reminded her of a promise she didn't know if she had time to keep.

Silently, Oberon led her to one of the nearby mentoring rooms that had been designated as hers for the duration of their stay. "Feeling alright?" he asked as he pulled the door closed behind them.

"Yes," Venatrix answered bluntly.

There was no other option. She'd long-since blinked the sleep from her eyes and made as much peace as she could with where she was headed.

Last night's muted silence bled into the morning, evident in the loudness of her father's subtle movements; hands fidgeting with his cuffs, the scuff of his shoes against the floor that told her he was just as nervous, just as afraid as her.

But Venatrix wasn't nervous. She only felt numb.

Oberon dropped his hands, dispelling the only tick that gave him away. A mask of surety rested amidst his stern, seasoned features, and whether it was merely for her sake or not, Venatrix appreciated it. "These Games are yours, Trixie," her father said, placing a sturdy hand on her shoulder. "I've never seen anyone more ready than you. Except maybe your mother; that turned out well enough for her, I'd say."

She blinked up at him, ignoring the attempt at humor. "Did you think you were gonna win when you went in?"

"Hell no." He huffed a morose laugh, releasing her with a pat. "And I didn't really care. But Callithyia did; she knew. And your mother; she'd probably say the same as me, but I knew she'd make it out. Just like I know you will."

"And Bell? Did you know that she…"

Oberon broke her gaze, and Venatrix almost couldn't stomach the look on his face. "I had– I had hoped, with every part of my being that she'd make it out," he said quietly, shaking his head. "I couldn't let myself think otherwise."

"What about Eridan?"

"I…" His mouth twisted into a pensive frown. "He was more of a surprise. But listen, Venatrix, we need to focus on you right now." He cleared his throat, taking on a more businesslike tone. "When it comes to the Bloodbath, killing someone like the Six boy or the Eight girl or the Nines could get you some favor in the Capitol. Where you're at, it's not entirely necessary, as long as you're not the only Career without a kill; that's never a good place to be."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she said flatly.

"Obviously, your main targets are the Eleven pair," he continued briskly. "The girl, you can kill her quickly; the Bloodbath would probably be kindest."

His expression hardened into something that leeched any meaning from the word 'kind', and Venatrix shoved down the uneasiness at what she knew was coming next.

"As for the boy… Don't be afraid to take your time with him." His hands came again to rest at her shoulders, steady as if guiding her towards the precarious path ahead. "You know they want their show; your mother and I don't care what you do in there, as long as you stay alive." Gently, he brushed a stray hair from her face. "Do you remember how long it took for your sister to die?"

Venatrix sucked in a breath.

How could I ever forget? Her father's stare trapped her in place in its intensity, as efficient as the hands at her shoulders. The same cold green shone from her own sockets, she knew; Venatrix didn't dare look away. Why is he bringing this up now? How could he think I'd forget?

She recognized the unwavering steel in his tone, colder than the white tile that surrounded her the first time she'd heard it in person; cold as Bellara's corpse before they'd set her ablaze. "I want you to return the favor, Trixie. I want you to make the little starling sing."

It felt like an eternity before Venatrix forced her chin to nod, bones grating against each other like stone on stone.

She understood. Sometimes this sort of cruelty was necessary; they'd been expressly trained for it, after all. Venatrix's own opinion on whether or not this was one of those times didn't seem to matter.

It wasn't something she'd ever say to her father's face.

A sharp knock on the door nearly made Venatrix flinch; she caught herself in time as Dagmara's head poked into the room, a silent jerk of her chin telling them it was time to go. A chill raced beneath her skin, fear and anticipation rolled indistinguishably into one. Oberon released her, a terse smile marring his face as he held the door open for her.

In the common area, her stylist stood smoothly from an armchair as they arrived, looking uncharacteristically small without the presence of her large dog. The thought to ask didn't even make it to the forefront of Venateix's mind before they headed for the elevators. Beneath her stoic exterior, the thoughts that did matter — her father's words, her promise to Percy, the uncertainty of her allies — swirled violently through her mind, twisting and sinking and churning. She hardly reacted to her mother silently straightening out her clothes as the lift ascended.

Even when the doors slid open to the bare rooftop, Venatrix's chin remained level, gaze forwards. A shock of air buffeted straight through the thin fabric of her clothes, raising the hairs on her skin. The source lingered midair, its ladder already descended in preparation to accept the offering. An escort of Peacekeepers stood at alert; from over the horizon, cold dawn light glinted off the edges of their polished white armor.

Not like she would run.

But something seemed to glue her feet to the concrete roof, weighing down the soles of the light slippers she'd pulled on. While Oberon and Stefania pulled ahead, Venatrix found herself clutching onto her mother's wrist, an urgency in her grip that had Dagmara's eyes narrow in concern. "Mom." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I— I don't think I…"

"Venatrix, you have to go."

Venatrix couldn't help but notice the beginnings of a pained note in Dagmara's voice; immediately, her mind wondered what it must've been like for them to say goodbye to Bell before she forced it down. I don't have time for that. But she needed to— "I know, I'm not trying to— it's just… the Elevens, the boy—"

The quick squeeze from her mother's hand interrupted her. "Honey, they cannot be people to you."

"I know, and I can kill them, but…" Venatrix swallowed, ignoring the irritated body language of the waiting Peacekeepers. "They dragged out Bell's death, so Dad wants me to… well."

Her mother's eyes narrowed, hard as flint. "That's not necessary," she murmured. Gently, she placed a calloused hand on Venatrix's cheek. "Listen to me, honey. What you do in there? That's up to you. Not your father, you." Venatrix nodded. "You do what you think is right, okay? You have the instincts of a Victor, Venatrix. I know it."

The words only comforted her for a minute. "And Bell didn't?"

Dagmara sighed heavily. "If it were up to me, Bell never would've set foot in the arena. Not at twelve, and not at eighteen."

Venatrix blinked in surprise. Ahead of them, her father turned around, evidently realizing they weren't keeping up. At the questioning look on his face, Venatrix's eyes flared in panic as she remembered her unfinished promise to Percy. Her mother started forward, but Venatrix grabbed her again, insistent. "Mom… Whatever happens, I need you to make sure that Percy's family is okay."

Dagmara frowned. "Of course, honey."

"Even if he kills me, can you just make sure that—that nothing happens to them? Dad, he—he said if Percy killed me, he would—"

"Venatrix!" Oberon's voice raised above the buffeting wind. "The hovercraft's waiting!"

Dagmara flashed him a superficial smile of acknowledgment, her eyes still half-narrowed and stony. "I'll handle him," she said severely, smoothing the hair on top of Venatrix's head. "Don't worry about this, honey. You've got more important things to focus on right now."

Truth rang in her mother's words, as soundly as it had last night when Iago said the same thing. At Venatrix's nod of acquiescence — and the stern urging of the Peacekeepers — Dagmara guided her towards the hovercraft. Though the uneasiness hadn't dissipated from her gut, Venatrix strode proudly across the tarmac; not as a tribute to their death but a Victor to their rebirth.

At this point, she'd done all she could do, for Percy; for herself. It would have to be enough.

Venatrix halted at the foot of the ladder, where Stefania had already been winched up. One last time, she turned to face her parents. "Do you get to come with me for the ride?" Inwardly, she cursed herself for her inability to keep the tiny note of hopefulness from her tone.

But they shook their heads.

"We have to leave you now," Dagmara said grimly. Evidently, even her parents' privileges ended with the rising of the sun.

From here on out, Venatrix was on her own. Another chill ran through her nerves at the thought.

But this is what she trained for; what the two Victors — Victors first, parents second at this moment — standing in front of her built her into. She'd have them looking out for her on the outside, she knew. And inside, her allies; her closest friend.

"We'll be watching from the mentoring room," Oberon promised, taking her face gently in his hands. It was a beat before he spoke again; Venatrix couldn't quite place the look in his eyes, but it bled clearly into his words. "Our luck to you, Venatrix Pyke. Make us proud." He kissed her forehead, stepping back to let her mother do the same.

The words themselves sounded like they'd been passed down for decades; knowing her district, they had.

Venatrix's hand fell limply to her side as it slid from her mother's. She grabbed onto the ladder, and immediately, an unexpected current froze her in place. Finding she could still move her head, Venatrix forced a small smile to her face, hoping to reassure her parents as much as herself. Anything less would be cruel.

"We love you, Venatrix," Dagmara called up to her first — and last — daughter as she slipped away. "Always remember that."

As she ascended, Venatrix watched Dagmara lean into her husband's ear, whispering hushed words too far away for Venatrix to catch; Oberon merely brushed her off, ignorant of her subtle side-eye as he took her hand in his.

Soon, the inside of the hovercraft obscured her vision, though the current gluing Venatrix to the rungs of the ladder remained. Frozen in place, she could only watch as an attendant in white attire approached her with the largest needle she'd ever seen — the tracker, Venatrix knew. She gritted her teeth as the point slid into her skin just inside the crease of her elbow, more unpleasant than painful. "This will allow us to keep track of your location and your vitals," the woman chirped, ever-so-slightly jostling the needle. "It will also prevent you from menstruating for the time being, so no need to worry about that!"

Venatrix had, in fact, forgotten to worry about that, though she supposed it made perfect sense given that she'd never seen any of the other tributes worrying about it before. She was too busy glaring at the woman through her terse smile to care, exhaling when both the needle and the electricity released her from their grasp.

"Everything okay?"

Venatrix turned to the sound of her stylist's voice; she'd completely forgotten about the woman, though she didn't miss the hint of concern in the Capitolite's tone. "Fine," Venatrix said stiffly. Whether or not it was genuine held no importance to her now. "Where's Anita?"

"She wasn't allowed on the hovercraft," Stefania said, her long fingernails tap-tapping rapidly against the metallic table she leaned on. "Penelope's taking care of her for the morning."

A plate of light food had been laid out before them; Venatrix ate only as much as she could stomach. Unlike usual, Stefania's small-talk seemed clipped and distracted, which Venatrix attributed to the absence of the dalmatian. She found it hard to care about her stylist's attempts at professionalism with their destination looming over her, with the thoughts that swirled through her mind. The worry, the apprehension.

But the time for introspection had long-since passed.

Venatrix couldn't deny her fate now, or the fact that she'd spent her whole life working towards this moment; she was made for this, more literally than she'd once thought. She couldn't let herself get distracted by uneasiness or morals or lingering promises.

She couldn't let anyone take this from her.

She'd already killed for this. What difference would any more bodies make?

Obstacles; not tributes, not people. Like the man in the room, like her parents had taught her. Venatrix pictured herself with a sword in her grip and nothing else, letting the ghost of its heavy, familiar weight comfort her. In her mind, she swung and parried and cleaved, nameless figures falling before her.

She almost flinched when Stefania startled her out of the reverie.

"We're here." Indeed they were; the subtle buzz of churning engines no longer seeped under Venatrix's skin, indicating the hovercraft's landing. She followed the stylist swiftly, without protest. One at a time, the ladder lowered the pair into the network of launch rooms beneath the arena.

Another escort of Peacekeepers guided them to the correct room. The walk was short, but the stark white walls only reinforced what was ahead.

Chin up. It was what Venatrix knew best.

The room itself bore a near-uncanny resemblance to the one beneath Fairfax, though how much of it was in Venatrix's head, she couldn't tell. Metallic accents lined the blank, uncaring walls, and Stefania pointed her towards the shower. Venatrix quickly rinsed herself, keeping her hair out of the water's way.

When she returned, a tray of food had been laid out for her by unseen hands, along with a glass of water. Venatrix gulped down the latter while a frowning Stefania examined the outfit she'd been provided. "This is… interesting," she said, and Venatrix found herself mirroring the stylist's frown as she held up the individual pieces of clothing.

The undergarments seemed to be insulated; beige and rather nondescript. Venatrix quickly donned them. Stefania passed her a pair of loose-fitting, moveable leggings next, plain dark brown in color and lined with soft, short fur on the inside. A cold climate, then. And an odd choice of insulation, though, given the Capitol's current fashion technology.

A long tunic covered her upper half, falling to mid-thigh; grey, green, or beige, Venatrix couldn't tell. The rough fabric sat loosely on her shoulders, heavy though breathable. Stefania offered her no jacket, only a flimsy leather vest to layer overtop, thin enough that Venatrix didn't trust it to protect her from a determined sword or arrowhead. A thick leather belt cinched both pieces at her waist, sporting a holster for a future weapon on the left hip and from the other, a small fur-lined pouch. Venatrix pulled the drawstrings open to find her token sitting neatly within; the tiny, metallic figure of the first Victor.

It struck her that she'd forgotten about it until now. Her father must have remembered for her.

Lastly, Stefania held out a pair of dark leather boots; made of what looked like animal skin, they climbed all the way up her calves, decorated outside with more grey-brown fur. Venatrix had never seen boots quite like this, though she'd bet they were meant for rough terrain and rougher weather. As she silently pulled them on, Stefania tackled her hair; Venatrix kept her chin steady as the stylist worked her waves into what felt like two small braids at the sides of her head before gathering it into a thick ponytail.

When the stylist shuffled in front of her, Venatrix noticed a tube of red liquid in her hands. "Close your eyes."

Venatrix obeyed; the paint enhanced the coolness of Stefania's fingers as she dragged a deliberate line from above her left brow down past her cheek. Stefania mirrored the action on the other side, and Venatrix's eyes flicked open when she finished. The room contained no mirror, but the Capitolite pulled out a pocket compact for Venatrix to inspect her work.

She wasn't expecting the thrill that raced through her veins at the sight of her reflection.

Even more so than her interview outfit, the warpaint did the job of rendering Venatrix's natural expression even more ferocious, even more deadly. She couldn't help the grin that spread across her cheeks, almost sinister in its eagerness.

The only thing missing now was her sword.

Not for long.

Again, the itch crawled through Venatrix's fingers; another shiver passed through her body when the coolly pleasant voice overhead instructed her to step onto the pedestal.

"You can do this, Venatrix," Stefania said, stepping back as the glass tube began to lower around the tribute. "That sister of yours, she's rooting for you. And so am I."

Venatrix nodded staunchly, squaring her shoulders before turning her eyes upwards, forwards.

The only way out was up.

Slowly, the plate beneath her feet began to rise, and the darkness swallowed her whole.

_ . _ . _

Into the blackness

Your heart is darkness

Here comes the madness

Ice cold killer

Bleach bone thriller

_ . _ . _

Not Human by Elegant Slims

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