pre-reapings, part two: trip the darkness
Seconds, minutes and hours spill over; there's no time here in space -
I see beauty in everything, but the world is still fading away.
maevyn voydanoi, district four female
…
She's goin' to the river.
The sun is burning bright in the sky today, all shiny yellow with bursting rays of light that Maevyn's almost transfixed by. She can see it flickering out from between willow branches when she slips off the side of the road and into the grove, a gentle breeze causing the world around her to tilt and sway in time with her footsteps.
She makes it halfway down the beaten river path before she stops, her brow lined with sweat and her hands shaking. There's something dark in the air here, and despite the golden warmth of the sun, shadows cling to her skin, wrapping themselves tight about her wrists and her ankles, their grip tightening the closer she gets to the bank. Her chest feels hollow, the pulse of her heart thudding away in her throat instead, filling her windpipe to the point of bursting. A part of her knows she shouldn't be here - not in the day and not so soon. People are watchin'. They got their eyes everywhere, followin' her when they think she's too unbalanced to look around - she caught a few of them behind the bar last week, boys she knows from the Academy, looking at her like they think she's bad news, but not in the way she used to be.
They used to have fun together. Maevyn and the other cadets, 'specially the lot that hung down in the shanties chattin' drunk 'til midnight. She'd fool around with some of 'em - only the cute, adventurous ones of course, the others weren't entertaining enough, didn't even know how to use their junk half the time she wanted 'em to. The exception being Bolivar, because when wasn't he the exception; stupid fuckin' rich boys always get what they want, don't they? Good scores, good rep, good ale, good girls...
… and they're so ungrateful, chewin' us little people up and spittin' us out, using the best of their sort for kicks, usin' girls for kicks without givin' a shit what it does to them.
It's his fault, Maevyn thinks, her smile morphing into a grimace - then a scowl. She can feel her skin tightening over her bones, her fingers curling tight into her palms, hands balled into fists tight and tough enough to rage if she really wants to.
(And she does. Really want to, that is. Bolivar Zalei is a disgusting, scum-suckin' piece of shit that should've been killed before he even left the crib. All he's ever done is ruin things - ruin the highs, ruin the sex, ruin her name and ruin Madora, who as far as Maevyn's concerned is the only good thing that ever came out of Four. She was the most beautiful girl in the whole District, maybe the whole of Panem for that matter - always so nice, lettin' Maevyn take her out to the beach to twirl circles in the sand late in the night, holding her hand as they wandered around collecting seashells for her homemade crowns. Even when it was dark, she had a way of lightin' up the skies just by existing, and her smile… oh, her smile… her soft skin, her raven hair, her pretty black eyes framed with those cobweb-lashes…)
Dead, Maevyn reminds herself, tears spilling loose over her own cheeks as she tries to pull herself back into reality, figure out where she's at. Somewhere in the process of thinkin', her feet got all turned around like they're wont to do and carried her right back to the road! It's funny enough to make her laugh, even with the bleary eyes and the cacophony of voices pounding in her skull - crazy, Voydanoi, why - how - why did you - stay away from me - you're the one, not me, you did this to her! I would've - talked to her dammit, didn't you know she was sick of you hanging around all the time, trailing after her like some moonstruck animal? Madora never wanted you -
- never liked you -
- never cared about you -
- just didn't know how to make you stop -
"No!" Maevyn shouts as the riverbank fades from her mind, along with Bolivar's twisted, smirking face. "Monster. Monster! He did it! He killed my Madora, he did! It wasn't suicide, it was him!"
Her hands creep upward into her blonde hair, nails scrabbling at her scalp and fingers tugging on too-long locks while she wails. It was never supposed to be like this. The pregnancy - she'd heard the rumors, but she never believed them, not until she'd seen the curve of Madora's stomach for herself, the tiny bulge behind lithe muscle and well-formed abs.
(Is it really his? She asked, and Madora nodded, her cheeks red, her hair messy.)
(You can't tell him, Maevyn, she'd said, clutching Maevyn's hands tight in her own, keeping them still before she could reach for another handful of sours in the bag sitting between them. His father would be furious, and Bolivar - well, I don't know what he'd do. I just want to handle it discreetly. Take care of everything on my own terms.)
(Maevyn nodded. What else could she do? It was Madora's decision, after all - not hers. Not Bolivar's. She knew Mads would do what was best for herself, because Madora was resourceful. Witty, intelligent, conscious of everything she did and everything she was. It was something Maevyn loved about her - on top of everything else, that is, because when it came right down to it, Maevyn just loved her. Loved -)
(I love you, she whispered, kissing away the crystals on Madora's cheeks. Maevyn's arms slipped around her back, drawing Madora close to her own body, wanting nothing more than to shield her in whatever ways she could. Whatever happens, I love ya, Mads. An' I'll protect ya if it comes to it. Y'know that, right?)
Maevyn looks around. People're staring again. Always starin'. Always watchin'.
She turns around and runs back towards home.
At least they can't see her there.
ansel zillah, district eight male
…
The graveyard's always coldest in the evenings.
Ansel doesn't mind, though; the frigid temperature of the rocky ground beside the gravestones is like a balm to his too-hot flesh, the feverishness of exhaustion alike devouring him from the inside. Summers in Eight, even for as mild as they are, seem unbearably long. Longer still, Ansel thinks, since Xay's passing; the loss of their livelihood had drained a certain amount of luster from the days here… though granted, Ansel's days held little in the way of luster to begin with. Still, there had been enough. With Xay at his side, he found it easier to exist in the world's atmosphere; their presence had subdued the fatigue that so often threatened to drown him.
… well. Fatigue is perhaps not the best word to describe Ansel's… particular brand of misery, but alas, it was likely the simplest means by which he could describe the ailment that plagued him. His fatigue was bred by melancholy, his melancholy bred by misfortune… and his misfortune bred by the utter lack of decency in his younger life. He remembers little of his parents - for the best, really, with what information he'd managed to divine of them from his brother, and what understanding he'd gleaned regarding their untimely ends - but he remembers plenty about his brother, and about his youth. Sleeping in brick cellars amidst dirt and morphling caches has a certain effect on the psyche - and it's not one any would be inclined to call pleasant. When he wasn't begging for coins or peddling drugs, he'd been fervidly searching for opportunities to elevate himself from the bowels of Knocktown and into the limelight of Eight's elite.
His brother had scoffed at him often about his lofty ambitions, but Ansel had rarely listened. He had long possessed more intellectual prowess than his elder sibling - evidenced by the fact that Andre's currently sitting pretty in a prison cell, while Ansel's still wandering about the streets, carting all sorts of interesting cargo in and out of Synthcorp warehouses, illegally-kept packing stations, mortuaries and, yes, graveyards. The trick with the dead ones is to keep tabs on when they go into the ground; bodies usually have a decent three days or so before any liquefaction starts. In other words: the newer the grave, the better preserved the body will be. Typically most of the organs are still in good shape with the fresh ones, and certainly easy enough to carve out from beneath their formaldehyde-drenched skin (so long as you're careful about where you put the scalpel). There's good money to be had in it, too, with the surge of alcoholism in these parts. Livers and kidneys are always in high demand…
But he didn't get into organ trafficking for the money. It was for Xay - his beautiful, lovely Xay, so vibrant even on their deathbed, with sheets pulled up to their chin and their eyes sunk into their face, their jaundiced skin looking unnaturally yellowed against the white of their bedroom. He'd stayed with them until the very end; held their hand as he sat beside them on their small bed, reading pages from one of their gaudy fantasy books. Ansel had never much enjoyed the prose, but Xay was so enamored with them he'd found it impossible to turn them down when they asked him to read. They always said he had a singer's voice - something Ansel can't speak to the veracity of, given he's never exactly been much of a singer. But he'd played along.
Everything happened so suddenly. It was as if an infection cropped up from nowhere, and seized utter control of Xay's body in the span of a day. They'd had only a fortnight together before…
Well, before it was over.
(They were supposed to have more time than this. Neither of them had even reached adulthood when the illness set in and Xay's organs started shutting down - one of the reasons it had been such a shock, so… unbearable to watch, because Ansel had always prided himself on his planning, and yet he hadn't an inkling of how to save their body until it was already too late. He'd done his best, of course - found a "donor" suitable enough to produce quality goods, and close enough to Xay's size and body type to seem like a solid match - and yet it hadn't been enough.)
(Ansel hadn't been enough.)
(No. No, that's wrong - Ansel had… he had done everything. He had gotten the tools, gotten the drugs, gotten the organs. He could've done a transplant if he'd had even a few hours more… could've worked on Xay, could've saved them. The only reason he hadn't was because the sickness had been too potent. The poison rotting their body was stronger than anything he could fix.)
It was the painkillers. Ansel's gone over the events time and time again, and yet it always comes back to the fucking painkillers. Those little white pills he bought off Kanessa that were supposed to treat musculo-skeletal pain and common afflictions. He rarely used them himself, but he figured it would be best to keep some around on the off chance he ever suffered a migraine; he did, occasionally, have splitting headaches, in no small part from insomnia. The bottle he'd opened for Xay had been new; the seal-stamp over the lid hadn't even been breached, and yet the contents must have been tainted, for it was only a few hours after taking them that Xay's condition truly began to decline. Ansel hadn't realized it at the time, but it's the only thing that makes sense.
Kanessa's drugs had been the thing to kill Xay. Either she'd laced them, or one of the other dealers… hells, it could've even been a plot she made with the help of Ruthie and Jonathan. Had the lot of them gotten fed up with Ansel's abrasiveness, or lost their faith in his ability to run their goods? Did they intend to murder him?
It doesn't matter, Ansel thinks, gritting his teeth as he kneels in the dirt beside Xay's dug-up coffin, stretching out across the muddy ground, dirt thrown haphazardly every which-way from the hole that's been set into the ground. He reaches an arm up, places his hand on the dark wood of their casket, craving the proximity of their body, even in its current state. Perhaps I was late to save you, but I won't be late to avenge you. That, my love, is a promise.
Ansel's fingers creep toward the bolts holding the casket lid closed. They're soft metal, the fasteners delicate enough to ply backward and free from the casket's water-stained wood with enough elbow grease. Ansel knows that it'll only take a little work to loosen them entirely. And then…
He and Xay will be together again - just as they are meant to be.
You are my moon, my stars, my love, my heart… darling, there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. Even now.
(I love you.)
maevyn voydanoi, district four female
…
When Maevyn sleeps, she dreams of dancing.
She's in the basement of her parent's house. Turning 'round and 'round in circles, her arms thrown wide and flowers falling from cracks in the ceiling overhead. Water is pouring in from the window under the veranda, crashing hard and loud against the cement floor under her feet. She can feel it lapping at her ankles, submerging her feet under tides too murky to see through. But she doesn't stop twirling. She can't.
(It's compulsive, she remembers her father telling her mother, on the verge of breaking from yet another of her fits. You know she can't help it, Vasya. She's just a kid.)
(She's already twelve, her mother snaps back. When are we going to stop babying her? These fits of hers - the tantrums, the exhibitionism… everything that comes afterwards - it's abnormal. You know as well as I do that there's something wrong with her.)
(So we take her to someone. Get her to talk about it. Maybe she's a bit wild, but they all go through phases like that, don't they? Sure, she can be a bit crazy, but she's been getting better marks in school, and she's keeping up with her training -)
(You don't understand. She's a freak.)
Maevyn's ankles twist as she whirls about, springing up from the floor before touching her feet back down, foot-over-foot-over-foot-again. The flood becomes a whirlpool, and she's at the midst of it, pirouetting right into the drain. There's a noose hanging open over her head. If she looks at it close enough, she can see the body that's supposed to be there - the mother who never loved her, skin grey as stone and cold as it too.
(Maevyn's the one who found her. And she's the one who caused it. Sure, nobody said it outright, but she'd heard the arguments - heard Vasya calling her a freak, saying she was demented, retarded, too fucked in the head to make for a proper child. She remembers her screaming at her father, saying she's too much, I can't do it, I can't take this anymore. I'm suffocating, Nikolai. Between the pair of you, I might as well be dead. You're as fucked as she is, that's why you defend her. Isn't it? Asshole. You're an asshole. Get out! Leave me alone and get out! GET OUT!)
(Is mama mad at me? She asked her father one morning as he was getting ready for work, all smiles even when she wanted to scream. I heard 'er cryin' last night.)
(She's tired, Maevyn. Don't worry too much about it. You've got swords training today, better to focus on that.)
Maevyn's feet get caught on the storm drain. The soles are bloody, raw and covered in cuts that are leaking everywhere, turning the water from deep blue to raging red. For some reason, it looks better this way - looks like the river where she found Madora, the bank where she'd crawled out after Bolivar pushed them in, hair matted and clinging to her face, blood leaking from deep scratches on her wrists and chest.
Mads, she choked out, so hoarse she could scarcely speak. Mads, where are ya? He's gone now, he's left us alone. It's okay to come out now, we'll be okay. C'mon, Madora, where are ya? We were talkin' names, weren't we?
It was never supposed to turn out like this. They were gonna get a little cottage on the beach, have the kid and raise it together. Maevyn was gonna get a job and she was gonna take care of her, because Madora was her one. They were soulmates. They were…
(Maevyn, what the fuck did you do to her? Bolivar screams, and Maevyn does her best not to listen, just staring at the fluttering rapids where Madora's body disappeared, a silent wraith upon the banks.)
No. That's not what happened. That's not how she -
"Maevyn?" A voice asks from beside her bed, and Maevyn shoots up, nearly knocking her head against Daria's bunk just over her own. The sheets beneath her body are soaked - with water or her sweat she isn't sure.
"Sorry," Ria says, her lips moving around words Maevyn can only half process. "Didn't mean to scare you, it's just… you were screaming in your sleep, and I thought -"
"It's 'kay," Maevyn grins, shrugging one shoulder up to show she doesn't mind. "Just a nightmare. Probably jus' drank a li'l too much this afternoon."
"You know you can talk to me, right?" Ria asks, her brow creasing in worry. Maevyn's smile drops.
"I'm not Cel, Daria," she emphasizes, knowing full well what is being insinuated. "Not gonna hide my feelin's if ya really wanna know. I trust ya with 'em. Alright?"
"... alright," her roomie murmurs, still looking too sad for Maevyn's liking. Maevyn blinks, and shakes her head. She shifts over a little, patting the bed next to her.
"C'mere. Let's sleep together tonight."
"Are you sure? I don't want to int-"
"I'm sure." Maevyn grasps hold of her hand, tugging Ria closer before she can protest again. "Now get in here 'fore I freeze to death."
ansel zillah, district eight male
…
The guards come while he is asleep.
They tear Xay from his arms, haul him to his feet with his arms bound behind his back and his shoulders rigid. Ansel knows even before his mind catches up to the reality of his circumstances that he ought to have expected it.
He is not a risk taker, let that be clear. Certainly, there are perils that come with his line of work; arrest is one of them. Betrayal is another, and the reason why for all the connections he'd had to cultivate, none are without suspicion or mistrust. He knows full well that vulnerability in the midst of wolves will lead to being devoured - the risk of weakness has always outweighed the desire for connection that used to plague him. He's learned that it's best to prize logic over sentiment, to be cold-hearted rather than compassionate, because it is the very nature of humanity - emotion - that has driven people better than himself into ruin. And Ansel knows that. He does. Which is why…
He was a fool. He was a fool to believe that he could have Xay, a fool to believe that his transgressions would not be discovered, when his own desperation led himself to so openly put everything at risk. He could have lost everything - could still lose…
The sack of ransacked organs dangles from one of the Peacekeeper's hands, like some sort of wicked grave ornament intended to taunt. Ansel's teeth sink into his tongue, deep enough to pierce through the flesh of it, and beyond deep enough to sting. Blood floods the chasm of his throat, clinging to his tongue as he parts his lips, fruitlessly trying to - explain? No, not explain. Distract. Divert their suspicions. Talk my way out of a bad situation that's rapidly growing even worse.
"I needed the work," he pleads, knowing that denial is no longer an option available to him. He'll have to roll with this… have to figure out a means of convincing the peacekeepers that he's not a threat, just some poor sod down on his luck, conned into a life of crime by people willing to throw away coin.
He slackens in his cuffs, leaning slightly against the guard restraining him. He lets his shoulders slump and his body go lax. He tries not to look at Xay, so exposed in their open casket, utterly bare to the eyes of philistines who do not deserve to look at them.
"Please," Ansel tries, even though the word is poison to his tongue, "I got nothin' to my name. I owe debts - been losin' at the card table, lost me whole savings, I did. I know it's wrong, but organs are good business - people pay a lot of money, you know? I just - I just wan' to live, you have to understand!"
(As if these ingrates could ever hope to understand me.)
(As if any of them could possibly fathom what I've been through - what I've lost. As if they could ever feel what I've felt - the sorrow, the rage, the exhaustion, the…
The exaltation.)
(It's true that Xay's the reason Ansel turned to this business, but they aren't the reason he stayed in it. The fact of the matter is that no matter the vileness of his work - the disgust that his trade seems to evoke on principle from those who can't stomach it - Ansel enjoys graverobbing. He enjoys harvesting.)
(And he enjoys killing, too. Death is a sort of divine artistry spun like a tapestry on the wheel of fate for the enjoyment of the enlightened. It is not something to be feared, even for the ire and pain that it stokes in him, but something to marvel at - to revere and to cherish as part of the creator's cycle. Not that Ansel would ever say such a thing openly… to do so would invite unwelcome remarks.)
The guards are looking at him. Sizing him up. One of them raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Ansel does his best to appear properly guilty and contrite. They have to let him off. They have to. He promised vengeance to his beloved, and he can hardly attain it behind bars.
The Peacekeeper holding the bag nods, and the one at his back starts undoing the chain on his arms. He exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding, the energy sapped from his bones at the very notion of release.
"You're a pathetic wretch, boy," the guard says. "All you Knockers are. Do yourself a favor and stay out of the gambling dens for awhile. Save your coin."
Ansel nods quickly. "'Yes. 'Course, sir, I - I understand."
The guard shakes his head in disbelief, waiting for him to turn away. Ansel can hear the burlap sack hit the ground as the man drops it with disgust, a clear tsk echoing from the din of the graveyard when he does. He speaks again, this time more seriously.
"Don't assume you're off the hook just yet. There may be consequences further down the line - graverobbing is no small crime, Mister Zillah. And neither is necrophilia."
"I'm not a necrophile," Ansel snaps, unable to keep to his role with the mockery of his insinuation. Xay is his lover. His partner. His. What they have is pure, not fetishistic or predatory or… depraved as the term necrophilia would imply. To even think…
"Maybe not," the Peacekeeper laughs this time, not even trying to hide his judgment. "But I think the District oughta decide for themselves."
A/N: Trip the Darkness by Lacuna Coil.
And there's another intro down! A huge thank you to Dawn for Maevyn, and to Plat and Rune for Ansel - I had a lot of fun writing these two and I hope you're happy with my portrayals. Very lucky to have them in this story!
Next chapter we'll be moving into the reapings, which are sure to be more interesting than normal… I can't wait to see what y'all think about the setup. Hope everyone's doing well and staying safe with this new covid variant about - keeping you all in my thoughts that's for sure.
As always, thank you for reading. Until the next!