prologue two: dressed in lies
So, looks like Mister Vice's done it again.
Senn chuckles, knocking back another shot of liquid suicide before slamming their glass down on the counter, the resounding clang echoing throughout the near-empty train car with startling prescience. Admittedly, it's probably a good thing that nobody else is around to see their reaction to Snow's heartwarming little victory speech - not that he's calling it a victory speech, of course, it would be in such poor taste. What with the Games, and Verduin, and Maryse…
"... the miscreants in Ten… the rioting in Six… those circus freaks milling about in Twelve of all places, and Villaintin's precious acolytes calling for the President's blood… why, I really don't think things could get any worse for Sweetheart Snow, do you?" They muse aloud, turning away from the television to fix the bartender with a broad grin.
"But then, what do I know about government affairs? Little old me, talking smack about Panem's lord and savior Coriolanus Snow? Perish the thought."
Their companion snorts, shaking his head in lieu of a response. Senn's wolfish grin only widens as they prop one elbow on the wood of the bar counter, leaning forward to rest their chin atop their upturned hand. Their lashes flutter, gaze wandering over the outline of their companion's body, giving him a once-over from head to toe. Pierced lips press against each other, the bubblegum-pink lipstick slightly smeared as a result of their overindulgence the last few hours; he's downed far more drinks than he typically would have this evening. And the worst part is it's not like Senn's had any particular desire to imbibe - no desire to drink for their own enjoyment or in toast of celebration. No, they're drinking for the sheer fact that inebriation makes them feel far less… morose… than sobriety.
(It's ironic, perhaps, given how harshly they'd judged Maxim for his vices back during the Twenty-Fourth, that Senn now finds themself in a position to empathize with their former fellow Career. How often had they prodded at his addiction to humiliate or unnerve him, seeing his vices as little more than a point for ridicule? How often had they mocked him out of earshot, finding amusement in his suffering, just as they had Isabelle's lack of charm, Grey's need for validation, Sevilin's adorable inferiority complex?)
Does it really matter? They're dead now, the whole lot of them. Not worth mourning either, actually, and what's the use in pretending otherwise?
(Honesty hurts... and not in the good way.)
Senn's eyes lazily return to the bartender's face, his grin dissolving into a smirk.
"Another shot. Stronger this time. Mm, but add the whip again. I like my pain sweet… full of cream…"
"That's an innuendo if I've ever heard one," the bartender replies, and Senn cocks their head a little, brow lilting upwards at the observation.
"And if it was?"
Their companion laughs, a bit more openly than before. He reaches for an empty glass, tossing some ice in before spilling more tequila out on the rocks. Senn kicks their leg back and forth as they wait for an answer, their fuchsia hair falling free of the pins holding it back, flopping loose over one of their eyes. They huff. The bartender sprays a dollop of whipped cream over their drink and sets the glass down on the counter.
"I'm married," he says. "You should save some of that enthusiasm for your tributes."
"Ugh. Tributes." Senn hisses, not bothering to hide their disgust. "Don't you realize I'm drinking to get my mind away from that shitstorm? I mean, what the actual fuck, after everything I've done for these people they just pack my bags for me and send me here. To mentor some pathetic seam rats!"
They snatch up their newly-made drink and immediately toss it back, savoring the burn of the tequila against their already sore throat. Their eyes are watering, but they don't have the mind to try and wipe tears from them, not at this hour. Everything's a fucking mess, and Snow's little announcement… the fucking Quell… it's just making their head spin. They know the rebels have been gaining ground lately, especially in the outer Districts, but of all the fucking things they've been asked to do… of all the fucking places they could possibly be –
"... yeah, I'm so not drunk enough for this."
(It's ten days until the start of the Games.
Ten days until Senn Velasquez - no, Varsen Santana, they're Varsen fucking Santana, dammit, and they deserve a little respect on their name after everything that's happened since the Twenty-Fourth came to an end - has to stand on a stage and read a couple names from a worthless little card before the entirety of a District they despise, a District whose tributes they killed, just one year ago. And isn't it ridiculous, how they can't stop thinking about that now? About how they'd all but thrown the snivelling boy back into the water when he tried to grab his District partner… how they dragged Nami Saroyan onto the black sands of a toxic beach and beat her helpless with sticks, tried to bruise her, cut her, hurt her in the hopes that her sorry state would be enough to invite compassion from another tribute, uncaring of anything beyond their own plans…)
Hm. Guilt. Funny.
(Does Varsen Santana feel any guilt? No. Well, they try not to. There's nothing to gain by wanting to change the past, by letting emotions eat him up inside until there's nothing left to his being but a hollowed-out husk, a worthless corpse as dead as all the rest. Perhaps they'll weep openly all night with no one to cradle; perhaps they'll drink until the bar starts spinning and all the patrons are gone; or perhaps they'll eat, eat so much their stomach cannot contain it anymore, knowing they're willingly hurting themselves just so they can feel full again…
… perhaps they'll find a fucking coalduster to bed down with, if only to not feel so alone. Like it or not, Twelve's their new home for the foreseeable future; Vice President Snow had made that perfectly clear. They'll be here during the Games, and if they don't bring back a Victor, they'll be here after. Languishing in an otherwise empty Victor's Village, their new name and post ensuring that they're left to fade into obscurity.)
(Maybe Snow really does have his reasons – all the talk of insurgents hidden amongst the masses, swarming in from Ten and Six and wherever fucking else, but right now, his accusations just feel like an excuse. The sole survivor of the Rebel Games gone for good…)
Senn shakes their head, halfway to laughing.
As far as the world is concerned, Varsen is well and dead; the Twenty-Fourth came and went, and the Capitol once again prevailed when they threw Verduin to their firing squad. Any guilt they may have about their actions – past or further past – is irrelevant.
But they aren't. Not yet.
(If there was anything left to be said about Varsen Santana, it should be that they always made good on their promises. Snow promised them a role in the spotlight; they'll get ahold of it sooner or later.)
(For better or for worse.)
District One
Elysia Ansaldi, 18 [sock-feet-and-stirring-sand]
Venice Bardineau, 17 [Filler]
District Two
Ailith Echeverry, 18 [daydreamer626]
Kellen Akos, 18 [TheWatcherofTheVoid]
District Three
Morena Lectrion, 16 [Filler]
Rhys Intarsia, 18 [rising-balloons]
District Four
Maevyn Voydanoi, 17 [Firedawn'd]
Atlanshi Bleumoon, 16 [Filler]
District Five
Argenta Brandt, 12 [Paradigm of Writing]
Velezen Vilarys, 18 [dyloccupy]
District Six
Tatiana Terranova, 17 [thorne98]
Lethe Muralai, 16 [twistedservice]
District Seven
Unnamed Female
Unnamed Male
District Eight
Cordura Faux, 18 [ladyqueerfoot]
Ansel Zillah, 18 [Platrium/Rune Whisperer]
District Nine
Thomasin Bates, 15 [Filler]
Patron Midori, 18 [kremit1000]
District Ten
Pangaea O'Shea, 17 [goldie031]
Vukasin Halvardir, 15 [Filler]
District Eleven
Unnamed Female
Unnamed Male
District Twelve
Castia Basalt, 14 [Filler]
Hollister Crowe, 18 [darthnell]
Hi, everyone - this is a rather bittersweet moment for me, as while I absolutely am excited to write the cast I have selected for this story, I have also had to reject more people than I ever have before. I received thirty-one submissions for Fail25, of which I have accepted 14; I have had to deny friends, acquaintances and strangers alike, many of whose characters I would have loved to write were the circumstances a little different. I just want to take a moment to say that the characters I received for this fic in particular were some of the most complex, creative, amazingly designed tributes I've ever had submitted to me, and it made the competition incredibly stiff and very fierce. I am grateful for every single character I received, and for all the support that Floccinaucinihilipilification has garnered, and I appreciate that y'all have put so much faith in me as a writer, both here and in previous stories. Truly, I cannot express how much I love this community and the lovely people in it!
The blog for this fic can be found at: theworthoflivingdead . blogspot . com. I'm incredibly excited to know what you guys think of the cast this time around as the blog formatting is... unique, to say the least. Hopefully you all enjoyed the chapter, as it has been awhile since I've written, and hopefully this early morning (on me end at least!) update finds you well and good this lovely day. For now, I'll bid you adieu, readers...
Welcome to the first Quarter Quell.