True Vengeance: The 151st Hunger Games Chapter 43: Gutpunch, a hunger games fanfic

Chapter 43: Gutpunch

TW: Discussions of forced prostitution (last section)

Jezephel still hadn't gotten used to this.

The limelight, the glamor, the attention…

The heavy responsibility she now carried in the form of two more dead teenagers.

She couldn't even bear to look at the screen after they'd been killed, and the guilt of it wormed its way deep into her stomach. There was nothing she could've done to save them; nothing she could've done to help that she hadn't already done. Jezephel knew this.

The knowledge didn't help.

Her breath seized in her chest as her prep team swarmed around her, her thoughts still lingering on her hapless, hopeless tributes. They dusted tan powder on her face, fiddling needlessly with her hair in preparation for the post-Bloodbath interviews, but she barely registered it amidst the suffocating weight. Back when she'd first been told she'd be mentoring, Iris had cautioned her about making promises she couldn't keep, but that hadn't prepared her for Paprika's fear, for Starling's bitter hopelessness, both so tangible they continued to leak from Jezephel's eyes despite her attempts to staunch the flow.

Perhaps the bigger mistake had been believing her own promise.

"Darling, I know it's a bit sad, but you're ruining your makeup."

Jezephel blinked. Another wave spilled out, pooling silently with the hollowness in her chest.

Impatiently, the Capitolite dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue. "Come on now. Just suck it up, be a big girl."

Bold words for someone who couldn't even look her in the eye. For a heartbeat, she understood why some people preferred anger to grief.

She sucked in a breath, shooting him a rare glare of unappreciation. Her shoulders remained tense, skin bristling as they finished her preparation. But as callous as the sentiment was, the Capitolite was right. She'd be on television in a few minutes' time; she couldn't exactly appear like this.

Jezephel wasn't the only one backstage here either. Unlike the tribute interviews, they didn't bother giving each Victor the privacy of their own prep area nor a specific wardrobe.

Unfortunately for her, that meant enduring a wealth of unpleasant company.

"You look like shit, Oberon," a dry Capitolite voice said from nearby.

Sure enough, the daunting Two Victor was present, though thankfully enough people separated them that Jezephel didn't come under his immediate attention. "Thanks, Stefania," came the tired yet sarcastic reply.

That was as good a reason as any to pull herself together.

If it was any consolation, his stylist had been correct; he looked about as harried and drained as she felt, an air of restlessness emanating from him despite his tribute being very much alive. Considering she'd last seen him being physically dragged from the mentoring room by his wife, Jezephel couldn't really say she expected much else.

She'd left herself shortly afterwards, not eager to watch the on-screen Careers hunt down more helpless tributes any more than she wanted the company of the retired ones. Faced with another year of failure, Iris and Janus had come with her, though the latter's compatriot had stayed behind to watch over her wet dog of a tribute. Janus even offered to let Jezephel tag along as he showed his district's newest Victor around the city, helping him "get familiar with something other than the back of a bar." Barnabas Flink, who'd won only three years ago, shot him a disgruntled look, though he didn't protest too strongly.

Jezephel couldn't think of anything she wanted less.

Nothing against the Eight Victors; she appreciated their kindness, but the thought of enjoying the Capitol seemed so wrong it made her stomach churn.

She'd book it back to Eleven if she could, but like the rest of the Victors, she'd have to remain in the Capitol until the end of the Games. The notification for the evening's interview had thankfully called her away from the city excursion.

At least it wasn't solely herself and Oberon Pyke being interviewed tonight; the Capitol apparently wanted to hear from a few of the other mentoring Victors deemed "interesting" enough following the Bloodbath. As Jezephel's prep team put the finishing touches on her appearance, the stagehands began to call them onstage in seemingly random order; the pair from One first, the other Two mentor, then Coraline of Eight (she'd finally torn herself from her mentoring screen at her cellular's insistence); Paschen from Five and old Reishi from Thirteen. Onstage, Bethia Apheleot's undulating tones pried into the groups of Victors, unearthing the tales of alliances and betrayals that had resulted in the arena's current standing.

An uncomfortable feeling began to swim in Jezephel's stomach as she began to piece things together, exacerbated by the fact that the dwindling numbers of her fellows seemed to be leaving her alone with the remaining Two Victor.

He hadn't seemed to realize this yet, glancing periodically towards the exit as if he couldn't wait for this to be over. Jezephel found herself wishing the same.

Even more so, she couldn't keep her thoughts from winding back towards the deaths of her tributes, the fact that she couldn't help but feel like they were her fault. You did everything you could, she told herself again, echoing Iris's words, but it struck her then that she hadn't.

In fact, thinking back to her Victory Tour — what she'd said during her speech in District Two, and what the Pykes had promised as a result — she'd only cemented their fate. Perhaps the Capitol had given her the speech card, but those words had come from her mouth.

She'd never wanted to hurt anyone, yet here she was, blood on her hands and guilt curdling in her stomach. She'd never had a choice.

The least she could do was try and make it right.

Half-subconsciously, Jezephel found herself approaching the other Victor. She almost stopped short when he finally looked at her, a mask of resting irritation clouding his features, but she'd learned bravery long ago. "Um. Excuse me, Mr. Pyke." She willed her voice to remain steady. "I would like to apologize to you. And-and your family."

The irritation dissipated into an expression of bewilderment. In any other circumstance, it might've been amusing. "Apologize…?" His tone appeared utterly flummoxed. "For what?"

"For what I said during my Tour," she clarified. "I didn't mean… The Capitol switched my speech card at the last minute."

Oberon only blinked before waving a dismissive hand. "Forget about it, kid."

Forget about it? Jezephel chewed at the inside of her cheek, unsure what to say next. How could she forget when it had been her words — the Capitol's words — that fueled the conflict between them? When the fallout had cost the lives of two innocent people?

"They pull this kind of shit— ah, stuff— all the time," he continued awkwardly. "I should probably be the one apologizing. I could've handled that way better— actually, y'know what? Let me handle this interview." Jezephel followed his gaze to the stagehand now waving frantically for the pair of them to hurry onstage. "These things are especially cruel after you lose a tribute."

No doubt he was speaking from experience. Jezephel only nodded, ignoring her twisting stomach as she followed him onto the stage.

Just in time, she remembered to plaster on a fake smile; the sharpness of her surroundings — the blinding light, Bethia's high-pitched greeting — kept her shoulders straight. Her companion, on the other hand, looked suspiciously at ease as he shook Bethia's hand, something she assumed came with years of practice. "Ms Apheleot, it's been far too long."

"Oh, I agree," the interviewer said, her smile glittering with predatory anticipation. "I've been just dying to get the chance to speak with both of you. What an opening your tributes gave us! Four Bloodbath kills for our Venatrix… now that's more than you, my dear Oberon, and certainly more than you!"

Jezephel smiled uncomfortably at Bethia's pointed words, ignoring her cackle.

True to his word, Oberon shouldered the majority of the interview; to his credit, he didn't join in with the Capitolite's laughter. "Venatrix knows exactly what she's doing," he said with impressive certainty.

"Of course, of course…" Bethia's expression, however, said otherwise. "Though given the history between the pair of you here, I'm sure many of us had expected a little something more from her at the end, as is fairly typical for tributes from your district…"

"I'd hardly call Venatrix a typical tribute," Oberon countered with a too-pleasant smile.

"But you were expecting that too, no?"

His face remained totally neutral, enhanced by his seemingly-relaxed posture, the casual ankle crossed over his knee. "Sometimes, she tends to know what she needs to do more than I do. And this… District Eleven certainly brought a unique pair of tributes to the table, and I think for Venatrix, they were able to provide the closure she needed—"

A sudden flash of anger wrenched Jezephel's mouth open. "Don't you know how important they are?" she said, cutting him off. Startled by the interruption, both the older Victor and the host turned to look at her. Jezephel continued before she could lose the nerve. "For as long as she lives, your daughter will remember them. Don't you know that?"

Oberon pressed his lips together. "I do, yes."

His tone carried a devastating neutrality that Jezephel didn't know how to respond to. Bethia took over then, seemingly delighted at the turn of events. "Fascinating. How do you think she'll handle this kind of pressure?"

"Well, for now," Oberon continued, "I think she's ready to move on and show the Capitol what she really came here for."

"Oh?" Bethia leaned forward eagerly. "And what's that?"

"To win, Ms Apheleot."

The host acknowledged him with an appreciative hum, echoed by the audience. "Wonderful. And what do you think of that, my dear little Jezephel? This is your first year mentoring; how does it feel to be out of the running so early?"

Shifting under the continued attention, Jezephel took a second to replay the question. "Um. Bad."

Bethia barked out a sharp laugh at that, and Jezephel felt her shoulders curve in on themselves, sinking back into her chair in embarrassment. How do you think it feels? In her mind, the sword bloomed again from Paprika's chest, arced down towards Starling's neck— except now, a live audience was watching with bated breath for her to fall apart. She belatedly noticed the interviewer's pink-coated lips moving to say something, but she couldn't find the words to ask her to repeat it.

"It's a bit overwhelming, especially for new Victors." Oberon's voice soaked up the dragging silence like a sponge. "It's an entirely different experience than being here as a tribute. Quite incredible to see the Capitol from this perspective, isn't it?" He looked at her expectantly, and Jezephel nodded.

It was all she could do to keep the fake smile on her lips.

"Well, I must say that it is lovely to see you two finally warming up to each other after last year's drama," Bethia trilled, shooting Oberon a rapacious grin. "As cute as your other one was, I wouldn't trade Jezephel here for the world!"

Jezephel's heart sank straight to her gut. Even the older Victor couldn't quite hide the hint of quiet fury that flickered across his face, and Jezephel was glad his cold gaze remained fixed on the host.

As if sensing the limit to which she could push the two Victors, the candy-colored Capitolite only dragged them through a few more questions before releasing them to the freedom of their own devices. Jezephel couldn't help the wave of relief that came with the closed curtains; it only increased when she spotted Iris's staunch figure waiting for her backstage. Not too far behind, her co-interviewee already appeared in a rush to make his exit.

Before leaving, he paused. "Keep your head up kid. First year's always the hardest."

The sun lingered in the sky longer than Venatrix would've expected. Even as it began to dip below the mountains, it seemed almost reluctant to leave them in darkness.

Upon returning, Venatrix's party had quickly relit their campfire. Percy's group had taken longer to return, having more territory to explore; Venatrix's news of the nearby boundary drew raised eyebrows and confused frowns from the other four.

"That could explain the boat," Percy said once Venatrix explained her theory.

"Boat?"

"Yeah, we think we saw a boat," Mariposa explained. "It didn't look like it was moving, but it was too far down the river for us to get a good look at."

"We'll have to investigate tomorrow, then," Venatrix decided. The rest of the pack easily agreed, though Viper raised an eyebrow as if to say no shit. At least he didn't say it out loud.

They settled now around the fire, passing out a meal of fresh meat and bread. "These are just so neat," Percy said again, holding up one of the metal containers that housed their sponsorship gifts. Strange runes and designs etched across its oddly rustic-looking surface, glinting in the falling sunlight. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"No one fucking cares, Silverhorn," Patience growled.

Venatrix shot her a side glare. For all they knew, Percy could be on to something. "Last years were pretty fancy too, no?" The gifts her father had sent Bellara had arrived in shiny jewel-encrusted boxes that had lit her sister's eyes with excitement even though they'd only contained things like food and water. Better than the passive aggressive handwritten note Venatrix had gotten. The reminder brought a scowl to her face.

"Still nothing from your daddy yet?" Viper sneered, catching her expression.

Venatrix ignored him as Percy nudged her shoulder, wordlessly offering her a slice of flat-cooked bread and smoked meat from his previous gift. She accepted with a smile of thanks, eternally grateful for the fact that he didn't use the opportunity to relegate her to Cornucopia rations; a lesser district partner might have.

But this was Percy. He'd never leave her to the dogs, and the converse was equally true.

She wasn't the only one that hadn't received sponsorship gifts, at least. Percy passed another bread-and-meat slice to Mariposa, who'd settled down on the supply crate next to Venatrix; she folded it daintily into a sandwich before taking a bite.

In total, they'd been gifted more than enough food to share. Hoarding would only cause unnecessary problems.

Venatrix squinted at the sun as she polished off the rest of her meal; it still danced along the edge of the mountain's teeth, a slow descent into the horizon. Its rays brushed the undersides of the nearby clouds, painting them in vibrant orange and pink hues. Despite the light in the sky, Venatrix was starting to feel the events of the day catching up with her, a slight throbbing behind her eyes that heralded a need for sleep.

Shoving it down, Venatrix announced that she'd take the first watch of the evening. It's what a good leader would do. Now more than ever, she needed to cement her position.

Still, she couldn't deny the relief that filled her chest when Mariposa volunteered to stay up with her.

"What time do you think it is?" Venatrix asked her. "Feels later than sunset."

"No idea," Mariposa said, fiddling with the pair of ties that bound her hair back; despite the day's woes, the majority of her facepaint managed to remain intact. "Hey, do you think you could help me with this? They got kind of messed up today."

"Hm? Oh, sure."

"You're right," Percy said, fluffing his cloak against the evening chill. "They should be showing us the dead soon."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the pack as Mariposa passed her the pair of leather ties, combing out the braids from her flaxen hair. She sat cross-legged in front of the other girl's crate, and Venatrix took over from there, running her fingers through the remaining snarls; it was softer than she expected. Is it normally this soft, or is this just the Capitol shampoos?

"Same style?" she asked once she realized she had no idea what she was doing.

The One girl shrugged, and Venatrix took that as a yes. The pair of plaits had kept the flyaways from her face, but they'd stopped gathering hair halfway down her scalp, leaving the underside free. Venatrix had never been a pro at braiding her hair (or, more often, Bellara's), but she figured she could handle this.

They sat in silence while she worked and the others quietly debated the hour. The conversation washed over Venatrix's ears as she gently parted Mariposa's hair into two even sections, tying one back as she started on the other. Venatrix half expected the other girl to ask again about her starting platform, but she didn't. Instead, a quiet sigh escaped her lips; when Venatrix leaned down over her shoulder, she saw that Mariposa's eyes had fallen closed. "Hey, don't fall asleep on me now, Posy," she said, nudging her with a knee. "Sun's only just set."

"I'm not. It's just relaxing."

Fair enough. Soon, though, there wouldn't be enough light to finish her task. Venatrix's hands worked quickly, tying off the first plait. As she parted the remaining section, Venatrix noticed the tiniest hint of dark brown sprouting from her scalp, barely visible in the twilight. When she finished the last braid, she patted Mariposa on the shoulders to let her know; the girl's head tilted backwards, flashing Venatrix an upside-down grin of thanks.

She scooted out of the way, and Venatrix only now registered the warmth of the fire, and in turn, the chill of the encroaching night. The cold seemed to silence the others' conversation as well, and she shivered.

"At least it's pretty," Mariposa said, perching herself on the edge of Venatrix's seat; the latter scooched over to make room. "The arena," she clarified at Venatrix's hum of question. "It would suck to die in an ugly arena," she said, tugging Venatrix's cloak over her shoulders and pressing against her body to combat the chill. Venatrix let her; the warmth was welcome.

"Don't worry, you'll get your wish," Viper piped up from the opposite side of the campfire. "You should do it sooner rather than later; save us all the trouble."

"Why would you ever think I was talking to you?"

Venatrix pressed her lips together, holding back a snicker at the nasty expression on Viper's face. She had half a mind to speak up and prevent another inter-district squabble — judging by the faces of the others, they didn't have the energy for it either — but a strange shape hovering over the horizon got there first.

The cloud-like object seemed to shimmer in the darkness, one minute white-grey, the next an increasingly-vibrant green, blue, even hints of purple. "What is that?" Percy murmured.

Venatrix didn't have the chance to respond before it exploded in waves of dancing light.

She sprang to her feet in an instant, sword in hand; overhead, the tendrils of light spilled out into the sky, stretching their colorful arms from beyond the distant mountains. Neck craned upwards, it took a minute for Venatrix to realize her mouth had fallen open in awe. As she watched, a low drumbeat seemed to permeate the arena, slower than the one that had kicked off the countdown; overhead, the aurora swirled in time to the beat, curling around itself as a haunting flute tone began to play what Venatrix belatedly recognized as the nation's anthem.

She blinked again, and the shimmering, undulating light seemed to take on the appearance of a bronze-colored eagle, wings spread, feathers rustling.

Hints of green and red bloomed across the skyscape; before Venatrix's eyes, the light effortlessly rearranged itself into the scintillating form of what looked like the small girl from Five. Venatrix's breath caught in her throat. The flute-song picked up in intensity, a chorus of instruments she didn't recognize joining in the familiar fanfare that resonated within her chest. 'Portrait' was an inaccurate term for the image that twirled above; she seemed alive, as if the sky had captured the leftover bits of life that couldn't be destroyed by the blade of a knife.

A quiet, choking noise nearby caught her attention; Venatrix briefly turned her head to see Grethel — the girl's killer — standing with a hand over her mouth, tear tracks glistening down her cheeks.

Overhead, the anthem played; the aurora danced and shifted.

The Six girl's uncertain smile took on a new radiance, the light contorting her graceful, sweeping motions that Venatrix recognized from their training days; in turn, it twisted her district partner's ferocious scowl into the face of a warrior hailed in luminescence. When the swooping light morphed into the shape of the Seven girl — Heather — Venatrix couldn't help the warmth that pricked at her eyes; her breath came through clenched teeth as she did everything in her power to keep the telltale droplets from falling. Caitlin's face replaced Six's in a blaze of violet, celestial determination echoing through her features, soon followed by the boy from Nine.

Again, the music swelled, surging in time with the light. It was easy to forget that this was the Capitol's doing, that the masterminds behind the display were mere humans and not gods themselves. Here, they might as well be.

The sweet, high notes of a flute whistled through the air as the colors distorted again, reshaping into little Paprika of Eleven. Venatrix's fist clenched around the handle of her sword, her free hand squeezed tight enough to sting with pain as her fingernails dug into her palm. Now, at least, the girl finally seemed free of her fear; in the Capitol, even her attempts at smiles had been tinged with it.

Venatrix sucked in a rattling breath. I can't watch this.

I have to.

The aurora swirled gracefully into Starling's visage, and Venatrix couldn't breathe. At the same time, nausea swam in her gut; if she managed to suck in air, she knew she'd throw it up right there.

Something touched her hand, and Venatrix flinched. It was only Mariposa; the gentle pressure of her fingers slowly unclenched Venatrix's fist, slipping between the cracks. Instinctively, Venatrix squeezed her hand before relaxing her jaw to inhale a slow breath, to calm her roiling stomach. The flickering glow transformed into the Twelve girl's face, and Mariposa returned the gesture.

Hues of azure and vermillion warped her face into Zavian's, a chaos of color that matched the motion of his twirling warhammer, a chorus of fast-paced drums and flute tones rounding out the anthem.

And just like that, it stopped.

The sudden lack of music left a void in Venatrix's chest; Zavian's form dissolved into thin air, the rest of the light disappearing with him. Darkness settled over the Careers, a thick, heavy cloud that even the firelight couldn't permeate.

To speak would be to break it; nothing had ever felt more taboo.

Across the faces of her allies, a mixture of emptiness and silent tears resided. Even Viper's typical sneer had melted beneath the ethereal display as the truth of what they'd done — what they'd signed up for — blasted at full force across the sky. Venatrix's fingers still wrapped tightly around Mariposa's, the only thing keeping down the simmering nausea.

These lives are not meaningless, the light seemed to say. That is the price.

In the midst of a sea of writhing, chattering Capitolites, Oberon stood out like a sore thumb.

Even in the clothes he's worn for his interview, he couldn't compare to their glittering majesty. But that's always been part of his charm, or so they'd insisted. He'd only found himself here of all places after scouring the whole training center, but the minister hadn't been loitering around the sponsor's den as he often did; he hadn't even bothered to pick up his phone. Asshole. Oberon had been on his way out into the city to continue his search when Stefania cornered him in the lobby of the Training Center, dragging him away for interview preparation so he could at least look like he'd slept last night.

Now, he shoved between a silver-sequined couple, eyes scanning for the owner of this particular lavish manor. It was probably common sense to assume that Isador Karkarros would be attending the annual party he and his wife so kindly hosted, but if Dagmara hadn't already stated it clearly enough, Oberon's head had gotten stuck so far up his ass that he'd somehow forgotten. It should've been second nature by now, but keeping track of this shit never ceased to be exhausting.

People recognized him easily as he squeezed by, offering drunken congratulations and fingers that tried to cling to his shirt. Oberon brushed them off with as much discretion as he could muster. The furrow in his brow set him apart as a man on a mission; no polite smiles granted in return could diminish that.

He caught glimpses of his wife floating around the ballroom too — of course Karkarros would want her here; when doesn't he? — but he'd be damned if he didn't heed her words. This was one of those parties, which meant Oberon probably knew most of the guests more closely than he ever wanted to, though right now all of them mattered less to him than the dirt on his shoes.

Well, everyone except… Oberon craned his neck, but Isador was nowhere to be seen. He did spot the man's son tagging along behind Arjun Valorius; no doubt the pair of teenagers were too young to be at this kind of event, but that was hardly Oberon's call to make. On the other side of the room, Magna Karkarros lingered by the beverages with a sour look on her face; Oberon could only pray she hadn't caught sight of him as he slipped out the door of the main floor to catch his breath. Where the fuck is he?

The Karkarros's manor may be a maze — certainly more gaudy and opulent than his own back in Two — but Oberon was more familiar with it than he'd like to admit. Numerous balconies lined the back of the building, granting a pleasant waterside view, and that's where Oberon headed now; it might be just about the only place where he could catch a breath of fresh air, collect his thoughts.

He didn't get far; a familiar haughty tone drifted through the hall, halting him in his tracks. Eyes narrowed, Oberon pushed open a set of french doors to find the man in question in quiet conversation with another. "Excuse me," he said gruffly.

Both turned to look at him; the younger man's smile curved downward at the intrusion, though Isador's only widened. "Oberon, my friend; so glad you decided to come—"

"I need to speak with you. Alone." He shot the other Capitolite a pointed glare.

Karkarros let out a dramatic sigh. "If you must."

Oberon didn't recognize the other man, but he left them to their peace — if that was such a thing in the current company. Isador leaned casually against the balcony, his appraising eyes tracing over Oberon in a way that never failed to make his skin crawl.

As put-together as he always appeared to be — platinum hair gelled back to his scalp, not a single speck of dirt coloring his tailored white suit — nothing could hide the fact that his presence was a wound, merely left to fester in the off-season of the Games. Every year, he never failed to twist the knife. "What do you want from me this time, old friend?"

Oberon didn't bother hiding his scowl. "You know why I'm here."

"You're so boring sometimes, you know?" Isador shifted so both elbows rested against the balustrade, chin thrown back to gaze at the starless sky. "Predictable."

It wouldn't take much effort to toss him over, wiry as the Capitolite was. Oberon's hands clenched into fists; he folded them beneath his arms so the other man wouldn't notice. "Isador," he said, straining to keep the bite from his tone; god, it nearly hurt to be polite sometimes. "Why haven't you transferred the money you owe?"

"Mm, see, here's the thing. I have a better deal for you—"

"I already said no."

(Like that's ever stopped him before.)

The Capitolite huffed a sharp laugh, folding his hands. "So dismissive! You didn't even let me get to the good part!" He shook his head in mock disappointment. "I've decided I'm willing to triple your fund if you—"

"I don't fucking care—"

"Language."

Oberon ground his teeth. "That was not part of our deal," he continued tersely. "I'm only asking for what you owe us."

"And I'm asking for more."

"Isador…"

"It really is such a shame." He shook his head again. "Surely you know you don't make all the decisions around here… but I suppose the One girl wouldn't be too bad either. She's certainly pretty," Isador said, fiddling idly with the cuffs of his sleeves. Oberon squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could be having any conversation but this one. "It's a pity they can't both win, no? One may look delicate, but I'm betting she can handle more than your girl—"

"My daughter is not delicate."

Isador's lips curled into a smirk. "I won't have to be gentle with her then, will I?"

It took a second for the words to register in Oberon's mind. In that time, the Capitolite had broken into more callous laughter; or at least that's what it looked like. His mouth kept moving, presumably leeching more heinous sounds into the air, but none of them seemed to make it through the ringing in Oberon's ears.

He'd cut out his own tongue before he let this man near his daughter. For now, though, he'd have to settle for Isador's.

Nothing so effectively wiped a smirk from someone's face as a fist to the jaw.

The Capitolite wasn't laughing now, eyes stretched wide with shock. If his mind were capable of processing even half a thought right now, Oberon might take that as a sign to halt and apologize, but he could only watch as his fist connected with Isador's face again, again, again, as if he could somehow force the words back into his mouth.

It only drew shouts of pain from the weaker man as he squirmed in Oberon's grip; somehow, they ended up on the ground, Isador's skull cracking against the marble. Pity he's still fucking moving, though there was a sick satisfaction in the way bright red spouted from the other man's pallid features.

Still, it wasn't enough; not while he had the gall to keep breathing.

The blinding haze of fury turned all thought to a single instinct, one that relished in the impulse, the familiar scrape of knuckles against teeth. He was lucky Oberon only had his fists; otherwise, he'd cut him up so sweetly they'd call it fucking art.

A shout rang through the air then, sharp enough that it couldn't be Isador. Oberon tore his eyes from the man cowering beneath hands, from the mess of red now staining them both; he barely got a glimpse of pointed shoes before a weight slammed into him, shoving his face to the floor. Cold marble kissed his cheek and a sharp knee pressed into his spine; an even sharper pain lanced up his arm as it was twisted behind his back. He snarled in pain, but the words hissed directly into his ear were even colder. "What the fuck, Oberon!"

Dagmara.

"What have you done?"

The note of sheer hysteria in her voice was far worse than any scream. "Dagmara, I— he said…" What had he said? Oberon blinked, the red slowly clearing from his vision. "Venatrix— he said—"

"Don't you dare," she cut him off. "Don't you dare."

Rage and panic fought a losing battle in his chest; as the heat of the impulse dissipated, the full weight of his actions threatened to crush him.

Not just him. Venatrix.

The thought sent a new wave of dizziness through his head, and it was all he could do not to throw up. When Dagmara's weight lifted, he slowly hauled himself to his knees.

Above him, someone had helped Isador into a nearby chair. In retrospect, it was probably a good sign that the man was still capable of barking orders at his servants, but the sight of Dagmara at his shoulder, gently dabbing a towel at the blood on his face, washed away any sense of relief. Oberon blinked, but the scene didn't fade.

He expected to feel something — some sort of revulsion, anger — at that, but there was nothing. Nothing but the strange sense of numbness now spreading through his limbs, slow like molasses.

Isador sneered down at him, brushing off an Avox holding a first aid kit and instructing the servant to meet him in his quarters. "I hope they kill your daughter for this, Dagmara," he snapped, grabbing her harshly by the wrist. "I want you to watch her die. Slowly." Dagmara didn't say a word as the Capitolite began to drag her away.

When she could finally bear to look at her husband — a mere fleeting glance over her shoulder — nothing could prepare him for her dead, dead eyes.

This was his fault.

Undeniably, and irreversibly so.

Oberon didn't have the strength to protest when two burly Avoxes escorted him roughly from the manor, and he stood absently at the front gates before remembering to call a cab. Switching the cellular to the ever-present livestream of the Games, a visceral wave of relief swept over him when he found that despite this, despite his actions, Venatrix was still alive, a vigilant sentinel watching over her allies.

That in itself was unnerving; nobody worked as quickly as Venera Valorius.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, his cellular spasmed with the familiar notification; a message.

'Summons from the Office of the President:

V. Valorius kindly requests your presence tomorrow, 10h00. Compliance is mandatory.'

The rest of the message provided more information, but Oberon couldn't continue. He blinked numbly, but even that didn't feel real. For all he knew, Venatrix could be dead already, the live feed of the Games set on a loop.

No. They'd make a show of killing her.

Right now, the very least he could do while he waited was send her something — anything — to show that he was still watching over her. He selected an item at random, a pair of thick-furred socks.

An unfamiliar pop-up appeared when he clicked 'send'.