Chapter 44: Hunting Dogs

Day 2

TW: Brief mention of forced prostitution (last section)

Just as night seemed to settle over the arena, the sun began to color the sky with the warmth of dawn. Venatrix and Mariposa hadn't gotten too far into their watch; they passed a wordless glance between themselves, and Venatrix only shrugged. The 'Makers had been known to mess with time itself in the arena. Venatrix's internal clock would just have to deal with it.

The encroaching daylight had her allies shifting in their sleep; it wasn't long before Percy blinked himself awake. Tufts of hair stood up from where he'd slept on his side, blue paint slightly smudged over his brow, and he squinted crossly at the sky. "Already? Really?"

"Don't worry, it's definitely weird," Venatrix said, her voice low to match the hush of morning. "Fix your hair, Perce."

Percy ran a quick hand through it, shaking his head. "Are we up north or something? Doesn't it stay daytime in the summer up there?" Venatrix shrugged again; with a stretch and a yawn, Percy dusted himself off, grabbing for his nearby weapons. He glanced over the rest of their sleeping allies before carefully picking his way towards the girls. "Trix, come hunting with me?" He nudged her shoulder, jerking his chin towards the downward slope perpendicular from the river's path. "If we're lucky I can get us something for breakfast."

"You mean come watch you hunt?"

"Yeah, sure."

She snorted but stood to follow, collecting her own weapon just in case they encountered something bigger. Mariposa looked up, joining her and Percy as they began a round of quick stretches. "What's on the agenda for today?"

"Hunting." Venatrix exchanged a look with Percy. "And then hunting again. For tributes. See if anyone's on that boat you guys found yesterday."

"If it's still there," Percy added.

Mariposa shrugged in assent, returning to her watch with more alertness in her step. The pair left her in charge, and it wasn't long before they'd crested the ridge of their camp, out of sight — and earshot — of their allies. Sure enough…

"How are you holding up?" Percy asked quietly.

"Fine." The other Careers may not be able to hear them, but the rest of Panem could. "I mean it," she said, shooting him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

He nodded; hopefully he sensed what she couldn't say. She was fine, for the moment at least.

Away from the Cornucopia, the landscape stretched out before her, its solid presence reminding her that it had been here thousands of years before her, and would remain thousands of years after, blood and Games be damned. Something about her own smallness was comforting in comparison; amidst the thoughts of tributes and Victors, it reinforced the fact that above all, she, like the others, was human.

Mariposa had been right — if she were to die here, at least it was beautiful.

Together, they scanned the field in comfortable, familiar silence, letting the quiet air settle over them as they focused on their task.

And at least she'd have Percy at her side, like she always did, barring the few awkward months following their tournament. Strutting across the open hill with him, his bow strung and ready, only enhanced the feeling of contentment settling in her chest; if she squinted, she could pretend it was just another training day. And that was the goal of training, wasn't it? If anything, this little outing offered Percy the chance to show off his skills without the drawback of taking another human life.

'Is it harder with people?'

'As long as you don't think about it, no.'

Her father had been right; she wasn't sure how to feel about that. Then stop thinking about it, goddammit. Eventually, inevitably, their hunt would return to tributes.

But for now, unlike harvest bird hunting, Venatrix didn't have to wait long before she caught sight of a rabbit nosing through the heather. Percy's bow snapped straight; the arrow pinned the creature to the grass before Venatrix could open her mouth to alert him to its presence. Venatrix felt a sudden flash of relief that his injury back in April — that her actions — hadn't permanently hindered him here. Even in the dim light of dawn, it wasn't long before he'd shot down a few others as they blindly snuffled across the rocky ground, completely oblivious to the danger of his arrows.

As neither had the foresight to bring a bag, they split the load between them to carry on the return trip. Heads turned at their arrival, though Viper's suspicious glare brightened when he saw that they came bearing gifts. Someone — Mariposa, most likely — had started up a campfire; the smell roused the late risers of the pack as they settled into new morning routines.

"I could've definitely slept for a few more hours," Patience grumbled as Venatrix and Percy settled down around the fire with their bounty.

Venatrix plucked a pair of small, slightly curved knives from the Cornucopia's weapon stash, passing one to Percy. "Unfortunately, I don't control the sun," she said as she sat down next to her district partner, knife and rabbit in hand. The Four girl rolled her eyes as Venatrix slid her knife beneath the rabbit's pelt, skinning the creature with practiced ease.

"That would be Percy's job," Mariposa noted. He frowned in confusion, and she clarified, "Your chariot costume?"

"Oh, yeah. I wish." With his rabbit now skinned, Percy began carving it into strips, passing them to the One girl. Each one she speared with a skewer before divvying it amongst the pack, and the aroma of cooking meat soon joined that of burning wood. "I'd have these Games in the bag if I had sun god powers."

"Wouldn't we all," Viper huffed, unamused.

"Well, probably not, if we all had magic powers." Percy only shrugged at the One boy's glower, plucking another rabbit from their haul. As he did, the flute-tones of a parachute floated in from above them; Percy watched as it settled neatly into his lap. Wiping his hands on his tunic, he pried open the box, pulling out a pair of thick-furred socks. "Oh my god, yes." A scrap of paper came with it, though Percy barely spared it a glance before tossing it into the flames.

"Why do you guys do that?" Mariposa asked, gaze lingering on the parchment as it curled to ash in the flames.

"Hm?"

"Burn the notes." Her eyes flicked to Venatrix, still cutting up her rabbit. "I've seen your tributes do it in past years; I've always wondered why."

Venatrix shrugged stiffly.

"It's for luck, most of the time," Percy said, accepting the meat strips she passed to him. "We do it back home too, for important things. Like you burned that picture of your parents—" Venatrix nodded in confirmation— "and we'd burn our highest-marked exams and stuff every year, so we'd do better next time." He laughed, nudging Venatrix's arm. "You remember that one time I forgot to burn my math test from Fourteens and I scored so bad on the final. My moms were pissed."

Grethel quirked a brow. "You guys have math classes?"

"Yes, they do teach us how to count," Venatrix huffed in annoyance. She frowned, remembering how she'd forgotten that particular lesson during the summer mocks. No doubt it crossed Percy's mind as well, judging by their shared glance; she had a hunch that back home, Iago was thinking the same. "There are sixteen tributes left; not including us, that's eight outliers. Seven boy, the Tens, Thirteen girl, Nine girl, Twelve boy, and… Five and Eight."

Shannon shrugged. "Fair enough."

"Congratulations, you can do basic math," Viper snarked, and Venatrix didn't even bother rolling her eyes as she skewered her own portion of meat, holding it over the campfire.

"Okay, so Percy," Grethel continued. "If you shoot an arrow at forty-five degrees with an initial velocity of—"

"That's physics, not math," Shannon cut her off.

Grethel shrugged, tearing off a chunk of her rabbit. "I mean, physics is pretty much just applied mathematics, if you think about it…"

"Anyways." Finishing off the last bite of her breakfast, Mariposa dusted off her hands; she turned to Venatrix, ignoring the Threes' academic debate. "That's an interesting tradition you guys have."

"Yeah." Venatrix's gaze returned to the fire, where her own skewer still hovered. "They'll burn one of us too when we get back. Or both, depending." Tongues of flame licked slowly at the meat, scorching the remains of the rabbit to a black char. "We burned my sister, too."

The chatter petered off at her words, replaced by the crackling of fire.

A rock skittered across the campsite from the direction of Idris's outstretched foot, and Viper cleared his throat. "That's great," he chirped, digging the butt of his skewer into the gravelly dirt. "Moving right along… What else do you think they'd reward us for?" he asked, eyeing Percy's gift. "Aside from killing, obviously."

Idris fiddled absently at another small pebble with his toe. "I dunno," he said with a shrug. "If Nautila sends me a trumpet though, I'll swallow this rock."

Venatrix couldn't help her snort; laughter rippled through the group along with incredulous raised brows. "You're an idiot." Patience shot her district partner a half-hearted glare. "You know that, right?"

"Sheesh, you're always so harsh, Patty."

"Do not call me that—"

The Fours devolved into bickering, and Venatrix exchanged a raised brow with Percy. As long as their fighting didn't pose an immediate threat to the stability of the pack, she saw no problem letting them have at it. And if it did, Venatrix would make sure it stayed their problem, not hers.

The chime of another incoming gift interrupted their dispute when it landed squarely in Idris's lap. With a frown, he extracted a hollow, curved animal horn, a few holes carved into one side. Experimentally, he placed it to his lips, and Venatrix recoiled in surprise at the loud, smooth noise that erupted from the instrument; the sound itself brought to mind the rendition of the anthem that had played last night. "'Makers," Viper cursed, shooting the Four boy a glare.

"...Well, that's close enough," Percy said matter-of-factly. "You gotta do it now."

"Do what?"

In response, Viper kicked the pebble back across the campsite; it skidded to a stop in front of the Four boy. "Eat the rock."

"But…"

Venatrix's lips twitched into a grin. "Come on, you can't go back on your promise now. 'Makers wouldn't appreciate that."

"Eat the rock, Idris," Patience taunted. "Eat–the–rock."

"You said you would."

"Eat–the–rock! Eat–the–rock! Eat–the–r—"

"Fuck you guys." The Four boy flipped them a rude gesture before popping the pebble between his lips like a pill; waves of snickers danced through the pack as he visibly swallowed, brow creasing in effort before he smoothed it with a casual shrug. "Not even a big deal, see?"

"I think you might be the dumbest person I know," Patience said, shaking her head gravely, though she wore an incredulous smile.

Viper's look of bemusement mirrored hers. "That was… interesting." He glanced at Venatrix, rubbing at the sore spot on his arm where she'd nicked him at the Bloodbath; he'd already overdone it with the healing ointment. "So, Pyke, what would you do for sponsor money?" He sounded genuinely curious, but it wasn't long before his tone slipped into a sneer. "I know what Posy would do."

"Knock it off, Viper," she snapped before Mariposa could respond.

"No need to get testy," he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I can't imagine how frustrating it must be that your daddy left you all alone in here to die."

Venatrix fixed him with a glare, her expression suddenly sharp. "I don't need to rely on my parents' influence to win." Unlike you.

The One boy's eyes narrowed as if he could sense her thought, ever-so-slightly creasing the line of blue paint that marred his forehead. Unable to find a glaring fault with her statement, however, he only huffed in disbelief.

Idris took the opportunity to ramble on. "Well, clearly, I'd eat a rock for a sponsor gift," he huffed, to the amused chuckles of his allies. "It wasn't actually that bad, though, really. Like, I'd do it again." He nudged Patience. "Man, this reminds me of that one kid who ripped his own eye out, back on the islands."

Venatrix blinked. "Wha— how?"

"It was on a dare, or something…"

"Hey Idris." Patience grinned, elbowing him back. "Truth or dare—"

"Okay, we're done here," Venatrix interjected. Slapping her knees with finality, she stood, reaching again for the hilt of her sword. "Patience, Grethel, you two guard the horn. Finish cooking that rabbit, if you would. The rest of you…" She jerked her chin towards the river. "We're gonna find that boat."

"Oh, come on. Really?"

The helmeted Peacekeeper that apparently now stood guard outside the District Two suite only offered Oberon a cheeky shrug. They gestured for the Victor to continue, hounding him on the short trip to the elevator. A small, if irritating, punishment for his actions, no doubt.

But Oberon had far greater concerns.

They rode the elevator in silence, the Peacekeeper-turned-escort guiding him from the Training Center lobby to the sleek, dark-windowed government vehicle already idling by the side of the building. Oberon tried not to think about how easy it would be for him to get in that car and never see the light of day again, for them to secret him away to the same facility where his last prodigy now lived out the rest of his existence.

Instead, he let his thoughts wander elsewhere. Nowhere was particularly safe, but he couldn't pretend to be surprised that they kept returning to Dagmara.

The arena was light by the time she'd returned to the suite, though given the time on the clock, it shouldn't have been. He hadn't slept a wink, of course; how could he when at any moment, his daughter's life could be snatched away by those that turned the gears? When Dagmara returned, though, weariness lining the creases of her features and sagging her usually-rigid shoulders, the pang in his chest wouldn't let him ignore her. "Dag—"

"Don't." A long exhale rattled through her teeth. "I'm tired."

She disappeared into their quarters, and the click of the lock lingered in his ears long after the sound dissipated. He couldn't help but linger too, until Morwenna snapped at him to "leave her alone, asshole." He'd forced himself to bite back the sharp retort, settling instead for sending one of the Avoxes to check on Dagmara. Torn between his daughter, leagues away in an unreachable death trap, and his wife, who couldn't even bear to see his face, he settled on the couch in the common area, letting the daylight of the arena scorch his retinas.

But Venatrix had made it through the night, and so had he, if barely. Now, as the car pulled through the gates of the President's manor, Oberon couldn't help the fear that she might not have many more nights left.

And it would be all his fault.

The vehicle rolled to a stop within the garage beneath the manor, and an attendant in a crisp black suit pulled open the door. Oberon thanked him with a nod, relieved to be rid of the new-leather smell that wasn't doing any favors for his encroaching nausea. The Peacekeeper stepped out as well, escorting him promptly into the building. Rather than taking Oberon to the reception area, they bypassed security completely with a flash of the officer's badge; Oberon's passing glance at the plastic card revealed nothing of his escort's identity.

His mind didn't linger it for long; the familiar trek through the grandiose halls had the opposite effect of stifling Oberon's apprehension, especially given the unknown punishment that hung like the blade of a guillotine over his neck. Venatrix is still alive right now, he reiterated inwardly; his cellular would notify him immediately if anything changed. For the love of god, don't you dare make it worse. They paused at the threshold of the president's study, its mahogany shelves lined with thick books and gilded titles that Oberon couldn't spare the focus for.

"Dear, old Oberon Pyke." This time, the President's cavalier voice floated over from the cluster of plush lounge chairs; she briefly glanced up from a stack of official-looking papers. "Sleep well?"

Oberon blinked. The upward twitch in the corner of her mouth said it all.

Without waiting for his response, Venera turned her attention to his escort. "Thank you, officer. You can leave us now." With a stiff salute, the Peacekeeper obeyed, leaving Oberon alone with the tyrant. He tried not to shift under her one-eyed stare. "He's not going too far, don't worry. He'll even be accompanying you throughout your time here in the Capitol, isn't that fun?"

"Madame President, that's not…" But it was necessary, wasn't it? He'd proven that himself. "It's fine, yes." As much as it grated being babysat, Oberon would suffer this gladly if it meant nothing worse was coming.

He wasn't foolish enough to believe that.

Rather than invite him to sit, Venera leaned backwards, folding her arms and crossing her legs. "You'll be pleased to know that I already spoke with Isador; he would prefer if details of the altercation don't spread too far. Something-something men, something-something fragile pride…" She waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sure you'd know all about that."

In any other circumstance, he might've been brave enough to roll his eyes, but now, Oberon didn't dare. If Karkarros had already gotten to her…

"Well?"

Her stare was expectant, tone sharp. Oberon forced his spinning thoughts to settle, recollecting himself. "Pardon?"

"Explain yourself, Pyke. Unless you have nothing to say. I can cut straight to the rest of your punishment if that's what you want."

"No, I can—I can explain." Get yourself together, goddammit. She's giving you a chance, this is a good thing. It has to be. "Thank you," he said hastily.

Taking a deep breath, Oberon frantically searched his mind for a solution, grasping for something that could, in the very least, justify his actions in her eyes. Justified or not, life always had a way of painting him as the villain; he was so tired of leaning into it. Perhaps it was idiotic for clinging to the part of his mind that wanted to believe that if he played his cards right, he might even be able to get something out of this, but he couldn't help it. She'd given him intel about the arena mutts last time they spoke, after all.

Perhaps being the president's favorite was worth even more.

Oberon swallowed, though the dryness in his mouth remained. "Can I… speak freely?"

"Please do."

Trusting the glimmer of interest in Venera's eyes would be a mistake, but the latent anger still wound its way through Oberon's stomach. If he could drag Karkarros down with him while keeping Venatrix's head above the water, then by god he would do it. "None of this would've happened if he hadn't tried to cut corners on what he owed us," Oberon said flatly. "I'm… well aware that most of the sponsorship funds go directly to the government, so refusing to pay for our services is the equivalent of theft of government property…"

His voice withered at the slow chuckling emanating from the President. "Good lord, you can't be serious."

Unfortunately, he was. "He owes us—"

"You assaulted him in his own house. He doesn't owe you shit."

All at once, the anger he'd been trying to suppress boiled over the veneer of caution, curling his lip, sharpening his voice. Oberon jabbed a finger in her direction. "The man says — to my fucking face — that he wants to violently rape my daughter," he spat. "How the fuck do you think I'm going to react? To my face, Venera!"

The President didn't respond.

She didn't need to. The smirk had long-since dropped from her face, replaced by a stony look that sent a chill through his blood. Speak freely he did; too late he caught his tone, his words, his body language. Oberon lowered his hands, forcing them into tight fists at his sides. "Please." Now, his voice was barely audible, desperate. "I put her through hell to even get her here. I can't have that waiting for her at the end of the tunnel."

Still, Venera said nothing. She rose from her seat, solid heels clicking across the wood floor, until she came to a pause in front of the window overlooking the lawn gardens of the presidential manor. Morning light flashed from the metallic plate of her eyepatch when she turned to look at him. "A lot of people have a lot of money riding on your girl to make it farther than this," she said, uncharacteristically quiet.

Oberon didn't dare mistake it for acquiescence. "Since when does the great Venera Valorius bow to betters?" he asked cautiously.

"It's called 'I like being President'," she quipped back. "How do you think I won against Karkarros? Whining about my missing eye won't keep me in office." She sighed, trailing a light hand across the gilded windowsill. "And I love running this country," she said, a wistful softness in her tone that she never even used around her son. "She needs me far more than she needs someone like Isador."

"So get rid of him."

Venera scoffed. "It doesn't work like that."

"Sure it does. You're smart, you're president, and you don't have to worry about an election for another eleven years."

"I don't need men like you and Isador to tell me how to do my job," she snapped. "The only reason I even let you talk back to me like this is because I find you amusing, Oberon. The minute I don't, I can have your tongue just as easily."

Oberon swallowed. "I am not like Isador," he insisted quietly.

"Sure you are," she shot back, features twisted into a mocking sneer. "'Why haven't you killed the Pyke girl yet?' 'Why haven't you made my daughter Victor yet?' Give me a fucking break." A dangerous level of real irritation colored her tone, her stature. "You people ask so much of me, especially you. First your daughters, then Silverhorn; now this?"

Oberon stiffened. "Silverhorn?"

Venera's lips curled into a sickening grin. "Oh, yes, I know all about that little deal. I was willing to let it slide, but now… I think we should make it a little more fair, don't you?"

God fucking dammit, Flint. It must've been him; Dagmara wouldn't… He should've predicted this.

Instead, it was all he could do to keep the nausea from overtaking him. "Let's see…" Venera continued mercilessly. "If Silverhorn kills your girl, I'll take care of his mothers for you, for starters. And if Venatrix kills him… well, your son's still of reaping age, isn't he? And he might get a little lonely without your wife's parents to watch over him while you're here, I imagine."

The blood drained from Oberon's face; it took every bit of self-control to remain still, to keep his hands from tugging at his hair. "That's… That's not fair," he protested weakly. "Take mine instead, hers have nothing to do with this!"

"Of course they do. They're your family."

He averted his eyes from her piercing stare, though Oberon could've sworn that eyepatch gave her some sort of X-Ray vision with how easily she saw through him. "Dagmara, didn't—she didn't tell you about…"

"Actually, Head Peacekeeper Ainsley did, back in February." Motherfucker. The small, predatory smile never left the President's face, and Oberon exhaled stiffly through his nose. What a fool he'd been for throwing her name around; why had he ever thought it wouldn't get back to her? "Now, what I really don't understand—" and there it was, that dangerous hint of sarcasm— "is how you still think you have the ability to ask any sort of favor from me." The steel current in her tone made him want to shrink into his skin. "Don't get me wrong, you beg a beautiful symphony, Oberon Pyke. But you're not nearly as powerful as you think you are."

Oberon remained quiet. Not even the sound of his own breathing escaped his lips.

"As you may have noticed, from this point forward, you will remain locked out of all sponsorship funds. You understand how extremely generous of me this is, correct?" Oberon nodded; still, he held his tongue. As much as he longed to argue, he knew that would only make it worse. "I don't want people knocking on my door asking questions or begging for my generosity when they've done nothing to earn it," she said sharply.

In other words, this has to look like my choice. Oberon squeezed his eyes shut. Fucking hell, what am I going to say during interviews? Again, he nodded shakily; he didn't have another choice.

"Now," the President said, tapping her fingernails against the sill, "if your daughter can make it farther than the other one, I might consider letting you access her funds again."

Oberon sucked in a breath. "So she still has a chance, right? She can still win? Please, I'll do whatever you want—"

Venera raised a brow. "You already do."

"I'll never ask for anything again, then. Just— please, tell me she has a chance."

"Well." She waved a hand. "You know how Killian is."

As a general trend, Panem cycled through Gamemakers far more often than it did presidents; Oberon himself had seen the rise and fall of five or so different Heads. The previous one, Radovich, had been far too curious for his own good— look where that got him, Oberon thought grimly. But this was only the current bastard's second year. "...I don't, actually."

Venera let out a melodramatic sigh. "He's a sucker for an honest Game."

"So…"

"He's smart enough to do whatever I tell him, but he says he likes to 'let the arena choose her Victor,' or whatever that means."

An honest game.

(If that were true, it wasn't him who sent the hounds after Bell. If that were true, then—)

Venera smiled.

He had to get out of here. Like the dog he was, he choked out his thanks; the sound barely reached his own ears. The President seemed to get the gist; she nodded curtly, acknowledgement and dismissal all in one. The door opened, the same Peacekeeper (he assumed) waiting just outside, and Oberon took the cue, all but sprinting from her presence.

Even as it closed behind him, however, the nausea didn't fade. He doubted it would for a long, long time.

true vengeance 151 . weebly . com

A/N: Here's how Bernie can still win-

Sorry for the long absence.. predictable but alas ;-; Had a report to write, which ended up being like 9k of just science words which was. absolute hell hbvdhb. and then I moved back to the US.. got 12 hours of sleep yesterday which def made up for the ~2 that I got the day before lmaoo.. Anyways. Hopefully posts will be more frequent now ! We've got.. .a lot of ground to cover ahaha.. :eye: See y'all then (:

- Nell