train rides, part one: the reflecting god
Let's jump upon the sharp swords and cut away our smiles;
Without the threat of death, there's no reason to live at all.
kellen akos, district two male
…
Kellen Akos does not fancy himself a strong person.
Vicious, yes. Destructive, yes. Fully capable of causing severe bodily harm to others and stabbing them in the back for his own gain, yes. But not strong - not like he'll need to be if he wants to survive.
Not like he'll need to be if he wants to win.
Because, he'll be honest, the Hunger Games aren't something he's prepared for. Not like most of the kids from his District, feeding money into an elitist system in pursuit of their own self-betterment. And while training in Two is often a mark of wealth more than one of worth, Kellen's not blind to the benefits that come with Academy recognition. Being a tribute is considered an honor because it's a title that Two associates with success; it demonstrates self-improvement, physical mastery, a willingness to push oneself to a breaking point in the pursuit of a greater goal. In some ways, trained tributes are the embodiment of Two's survivalist culture… and although Kellen would like to believe he's got enough skills to find even footing with a Career, he's not willing to bet his life on an assumption.
He's not really willing to bet his life at all.
Maybe some people would see that as selfish; it's not as if Kellen's life is exactly a good one, or even a half-decent one. There's probably a dozen tributes that are more deserving of victory than he is, and more than that who Panem'd prefer to see make it out of a deathmatch. Kellen's the sort that this country likes to consider trash; he's poor, he's weak, he's a criminal, and he's honorless. He's spent the last five years of his life running around in the streets and beating people down for money, even slashing throats now and again when such a thing proved necessary. Two voted him into the Games for a reason, and even Vaclav would probably be fine seeing him dead, even if it means he's got to train up another enforcer down the line. And if that whole list of things wasn't proof enough of his worthlessness, it's not like Kellen's got anyone to miss him if he doesn't make it back.
(Kayla, a little voice in the back of his head cuts in, apparently oblivious to the fact that its logic is unwanted. Kaden. Daxton. Like it or not, they'd miss you if you didn't go home. And you'd miss -)
"Shut the fuck up," Kellen snaps, mere seconds before his arm slams against the wall above "his" bed, hard enough to make the closed door rattle. They won't miss me, and I don't miss them. Why should I? A couple of sentimental fools mourning the loss of their long-dead brother and a half-rival whose allegiance means nothing so long as we're stuck in Vaclav's service. Even if I die - not that I plan to, not that I want to - why the fuck would they care? Why the fuck would anyone care?
He grits his teeth, irritation souring his tongue as much as his mood. There's blood coating his teeth from where he's bitten the inside of his cheek and the tang of it only makes him feel worse. It's the anger that makes him weak, after all, far more than anything else. And he should - he needs to - he can't -
He's got a legacy waiting for him in Two; plans to be completed, goals to be fulfilled. And that's why he can't afford to let down his guard, why he can't afford to take any risks once he's stuck in that arena. Killing is child's play for him, but he's not dealing with random peds or backalley junkies anymore. He's dealing with tributes, most of whom want to survive just as badly as he does. It's impossible to say how far they'll be willing to go to save their own hides. Which is why he's not going to hold back. No, it's more that he...
Refuses to hold back.
(Two's going to regret sending him here.)
With a frustrated sigh, Kellen rises to his feet, stepping away from the bed he's been assigned and moving in the direction of the hall door. He knows exactly why his District wanted him gone. and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't expected them to throw him to the wolves the second an opportunity struck. So many of the bastards that inhabited Two were the same: greedy fools and egotistical pigs, thinking themselves impervious because they have authority, because they have money. But authority and money aren't
the same as strength. Two's officials have spent so long growing fat off their self-importance that they've gotten complacent in their power. Instead of dealing with Kellen's defiant behavior and egregious offences properly, they figured they could simply throw him into the Games and let a bunch of random kids do their dirty work for them...
Fuck them. Fuck all of them. That entitlement, that Stone-be-damned entitlement… those cocksucking megalomaniacs, thinking they're entitled to get rid of me…
It pisses me off!
Kellen throws open the door of the train car, nearly fuming as he trudges into the main cabin, where his mentor and District partner are sitting perched on shiny stools, next to a long counter before the television. He doesn't bother saying anything as he storms past them, sparing a single glance to the recaps playing out across the aforementioned TV screen. If he were a little less bitter, he might be inclined to join them, but as it is -
"Done sulking? Because it'd be to your benefit to get over here and start talking strategy-"
To my benefit? Really? That's rich, coming from Two's Hotshot Career Bitch. Even if she knows a thing or two about the Games, she's a sellout. A rich, government-sponsored loyalist who has no idea what it's like on the other side of the tracks. She doesn't know him. She doesn't know anything.
Kellen raises his hand to her and flips up his middle finger. He's not going to turn his head down and defer to the authority of Geneva fucking Stone. There are plenty of ways for him to set himself apart in training, in the interviews, with potential allies or better-equipped tributes he might be able to swing to his cause. Sure, mentorship would be helpful, but look where having a mentor got him last time? It's Vaclav's fault he's even in this mess!
Kellen's never done well with authority. The best option he's got is to make a game plan and forge his own path forward. It's what he's always done…
And it's what he's going to do now.
argenta brandt, district five female
…
She's not supposed to be here.
That's a fact - regardless of what Five says, of what the Mayor says. Yes, there's a few people back home that have a reason to hate Argenta, and even more with a reason to hate Bruin and the Ring, but hate alone's not enough to put someone in the Hunger Games.
The reason Argenta got reaped was purely political; the enactment of a grudge perpetrated by dear old Mayor Gale. Because Parker was supposed to be here, not Argenta. Parker was supposed to be the tribute, was supposed to die, and even though she did, people were upset enough to claim she didn't die in the right way.
Argenta can't say she blames 'em for being salty. Lots of people probably wanted to see some carnage in exchange for the Gales' actions, and she denied them all the chance by doing Parker in herself. (Jerome too, although Jerome isn't dead, not like she'd intended him to be. Brat just got lucky; if Argenta makes it home she fully intends to finish the job, no matter what Bruin says or how much he tries to discourage her from reacting.)
(...)
(For as much as Argenta likes the guy, she'll be the first to admit that sometimes he can be incredibly dull.)
Oh well, she thinks, grinning as she kicks her legs back and forth against the edge of the couch. You snooze, you lose. They're just sorry they didn't try an' go after 'em themselves.
Even if it got her in the Games, she doesn't regret what she did. She doesn't regret anything.
… other than going behind Bruin's back to take a hit at the Gales. Other than disappointing him, the man who's made her what she is, the closest thing to a father Argenta's ever had. Oh, sure, he's not her real dad - she still has one of those, a quiet and spineless old man that works blue-collar in a power plant. But Bruin's much more interesting than him. He's smart, defiant, calculating, ruthless…
… and she'd do anything for him. Including fight in the Hunger Games.
(Yes. She'll fight, she'll kill, she'll paint the ground red and dirty her hands as much as she needs in order to make it out alive. She'll win, and she'll do it for Bruin, to make him proud of her, to absolve herself of the failures that got her here.)
(He'll forgive her if she makes it back. Won't he?)
Hunger Games. Hunger Games, Hunger Games, Hunger Games.
Argenta twirls a small length of piano wire between her fingers, toying idly with her makeshift garrote. Her legs don't stop kicking, even as the TV on the wall flashes black and District Five appears in a shower of sparks. The boy she got reaped with is sitting in a chair off to the right, fixing her with a funny gaze, but she doesn't care enough to mind it. She just keeps spinning her wire, grinning at the thought of what's to come.
Demented child, she recalls people in Five saying. Little demon. Monster. Wretch. They'd probably love to be rid of her, but even if they wrote her in to write her off, Argenta has no fear of death. She's killed more people than the majority of her fellow contestants combined, and she's got no trouble with doing it again. In fact, she's rather looking forward to the raucous display of bloodshed soon to arrive. Sure, maybe she didn't want to be in the Games this year, but since the choice has been made for her, she's not going to mope about it. Just thinking about all the chaos she can cause…
It puts a smile on her lips.
"Well, well, don't you look happy with yourself," the boy says. Argenta chances a glance at him and isn't surprised to see he's smiling too. Though his is more of a smirk, the same type Bruin wears when he's thinking up something especially dastardly… or when he tries to joke with her, it's not an uncommon expression.
Argenta bares her teeth and waves the garrote at him, not even bothering to hide her elation.
"Maybe I am," she taunts her partner. "What about you, Solar King? Happy with yourself?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," the boy answers. From where she's perched on the leathery couch, Argenta can just make out the imprint of a welt on his neck where the peacekeepers decided to stick him. Big bastards must've gotten real mad when they realized their tributes weren't going to... what is it they always like to say… come quietly? She reaches up to rub at her own swollen puncture wound, her brow furrowing at the thought of the mark it's left on her skin. Velezen's is ugly, and she doesn't really care for the thought that hers might look the same.
"The fuck is a Solar King anyway?" Argenta asks to keep herself from dwelling on it. Her district partner cackles, clearly bemused by the question.
"It's me, that's what." Zen throws her a look, like she's supposed to be impressed, and she scowls.
"Pretty stupid name if you ask me."
"Big talk coming from the girl named Argenta."
"Oh yeah? 'Cause your name makes you sound like a stripper." She presses her lips together, makes a point of sounding it out. "Vel-e-zen Vil-ar-ys. The two-bit pole dancer that's into some culty shit."
Velezen mock-gasps and presses his hands to his chest. "You're killing me, Brandt. Just roast me over a bonfire why don't you."
"Bonfires are nice." She beams, then turns her head back to the TV.
It's still them. Being shoved right out onto the stage, trussed up like a couple of criminals. She sees her cocky grin, Velezen's mirrored crazy, but she doesn't see much more before the camera cuts off. There's no evidence of the fighting. No evidence of what really went down when their names were called, the vandalism, the burning and smashing and screaming and hitting of everyone and anything. She didn't even get to laugh.
"They censored us," Zen remarks, seeming to find it funny.
"They better not do it in the Games," Argenta hisses before she can help herself. "Blood and screaming's the best parts!"
"Aren't you a vicious little thing."
"I try my best."
The escort's just called the names for the kids from Six when Argenta stands up, piano wire still firmly clasped in her hand even though it's left a tiny cut on the inside of her palm.
"I'm bored. Wanna go see if we can figure out where Theron keeps the drinks?"
"Oh, you're on." Zen hops up too, falling into step beside her as she wanders over toward the refreshment car. "But only because you're little enough that I can't, in good faith, allow you to imbibe alcohol. I mean, that'd just be irresponsible."
"Bet I could still hold a drink better than you."
Argenta reaches out to jab Velezen in the side, only recoiling when he reaches back and tries to pull her into a headlock. Overly familiar. Too close. It'd be so easy to hurt him like this, so easy to…
… to what? Kill him? She could do it… knock of a member of the competition right here and now, make sure he died before he could turn into a threat. But a part of Argenta's reluctant to think about that. Zen's absurd, but he's useful too; bigger than her, older than her, and apparently capable of garnering respect when he really needs to. Maybe she should try something else... deputize him like Bruin did with her, turn him into a partner-in-crime rather than just a District partner. Maybe. But could she? Would she dare?
A partner in crime. It's something to think about.
Maybe Zen's not the guy she wants with her in the arena, but honestly? He might be the closest thing she's going to get.
kellen akos, district two male
…
The first kill he made was messy.
Kellen doesn't remember everything, but he remembers that - how the blood spurted like a geyser out of the man's throat when he cut it, the crimson spray painting across the brick walls of the surrounding businesses and the filth of the alley street. He'd watched with narrowed eyes as the worker fell to his knees in the dirt, his corpse a heap of dusty clothes and bloody meat with no substance in its head, wondering why the knife in his hands still looked so clean when everything about murder was chaos, wondering if the work of harvesting coin was really worth the price of reaping death, filthy hands or not.
He wondered if it was strong to maim the weak. He wondered if it was strong, to steal prizes from the twitching bodies of people so downtrodden that defiance over pocket change was their only mark of resilience. He wondered if the world was just and if Vaclav's words were true, that killing people with fight in them would make him powerful. He wondered if by killing the defiant, he could save himself from the weakness that was still inherent in his person, the cowardice that he had demonstrated through his lack of resolve. The first killing hadn't come until the sixty-seventh mugging, long after he'd corrected his failures of the earlier ones.
When Kellen first started running with Vaclav and his gang, he'd been reluctant to shed blood. He'd given the marks extra chances to surrender,hopeful that the wise would be willing to submit before they got torn open, even when it was stupid to believe that they'd do so. Vaclav had to work to purge him of his idealism, because at thirteen, Kellen was too ignorant to understand how the world worked.
He hadn't wanted to be strong, back then. He'd just wanted to survive.
Vaclav was the one who taught him that survival and strength were one-in-the-same.
He flicks the notch on his switchblade, watching the sharp metal gleam beneath the dull glow of the train lamps. They won't let him take the knife into the Games with him - he's got no doubt about that - but he'd brought it along all the same, not as a token so much as a reminder.
He shouldn't take the Games as a punishment. He should see them as an opportunity.
Competitions like this are designed to weed out the weak; if Kellen truly plans to return to Two and carve out a space for himself amongst the criminal hierarchy, there's no better way for him to prove himself. It's not an easy thing to build yourself up from a wasted foundation, to gain reverence when you enter the world with nothing. To inspire loyalty, he needs to show competence; to show competence, he needs to demonstrate that he can handle power...
(Better than Vaclav, he tacks on mentally. Better than the guy who taught me to kill. Because his hierarchy doesn't leave room for the rest of us. It's him, and then everyone else - doesn't matter what their skills are or what they're capable of, anyone can be excised under the right circumstances because we're his pawns. Me, Daxton, all those kids from Hanging Dog and Rat's Hollow that we've recruited over the years. I mean, shit, I lived with him, spent every waking day with him for the last seven years, and yet when my name winds up on that slip, he doesn't even bother coming to say goodbye? )
(I thought we were brothers! I thought he had my back! But he was just using me, wasn't he? He never really gave a shit who I was or what I wanted. I was a tool meant to serve him. No better than this fucking knife. Kayla was right about him… still overly sentimental, but not without a point. Maybe I should've listened to her. Maybe I should've…)
Kellen twists his blade around and stabs it into the couch. That's not a safe line of thinking for him to be going down, everything else considered. He can't be getting emotional about things he's long since lost the ability to change. What matters is the Games. The future. The here-and-now, and possibly the after. Not Vaclav, not Kayla, not dead men whose names he never bothered to learn, just Kellen Akos and the twenty-three kids who want him dead.
… one of whom is watching him right now.
"It's Kellen, right?" She asks, neither smiling nor avoiding his gaze. His District partner's face remains an implacable mask, no different than it was earlier that morning, when they'd stood next to each other out behind the Justice Building, waiting for a train to come and spirit them away.
"Yeah," Kellen answers, his voice mirroring the distant timber of her own. "And you're Ailith. The rebel..."
The girl's eyes drop. Her fingers slip towards a bracelet on her wrist, half-hidden under the fabric of her dress' sleeves.
"I am," she responds. "Ailith, that is. And apparently I'm a dissident, not a rebel. Didn't you hear the escort?"
"Nah, I was doing my best to tune her out. Airheads like that aren't worth listening to." He presses his lips together, glancing toward the hallway where Stone disappeared no more than an hour before. "Same goes for Capitol sellouts, if you want my two cents."
"Is that why you flipped her off?" Ailith asks. Kellen shrugs.
"Maybe. Never much cared for being told what to do."
His fingers move to his knife, still embedded in the overly-soft cushion by his hip. Kellen slides the blade in and pockets it, then leans back in his seat. He can't get a clear enough read on Ailith to tell if she'd be a good ally. She's a bit rough around the edges, sure, but if she really is a rebel, she's a problem. Rebels are always too idealistic to really get their hands dirty. They're stubborn, passionate, and worst of all, they've got morals.
They don't kill little kids from the outer Districts just because their life's stuck on the line. All they want to do is rage against the machine and push back against the big man.
Kellen's not interested in toppling governments. Only people that are standing between him and success.
argenta brandt, district five female
…
Argenta Brandt has been killing for a long time.
Well, most people wouldn't consider it long; three years isn't really a lot of time for someone to have a job. But what those people don't realize is that three years is a quarter of Argenta's life. Long enough to overwhelm her. Long enough to consume her. And while she can't imagine herself doing anything else (not really, not when Bruin and his teachings have been her everything), she sometimes wonders about how different things might be if she hadn't decided to take up with Bruin and his crew as a hitman.
Hitman. It sounds weird when she thinks of it like that, but that's what she was, isn't it? A mercenary, hired to beat some sense into people who hadn't paid their dues in the Ring, and kill off the ones that were too much trouble to keep breathing. The right hand of Five's most notorious drug lord, his weapon, his child, his enforcer. How many times had she broken someone's fingers for blabbing about Bruin's dealings, or stood beside him as he pulled out some dumb junkie's teeth? How many people has she brutalized, hurt, tortured, blackmailed, murdered all for the simple cause of making her boss proud, even when his pride so often came at a cost?
"Night, pipsqueak," Velezen says from behind her, and Argenta pauses, her hand still on the edge of the half-open door that separates the hallway from her assigned room. She doesn't bother turning, but she listens for her partner as he slips away into his own quarters, his footsteps rapid and uneven, so much like her own that it's unnerving.
"Nighty-night. Hope you don't get any sleep," Argenta responds instinctively, far more used to being caustic than she is to playing nice. If Zen hears her, though, he doesn't reply; just slips away to a place she can't quite reach, closing the door with no more sound than a soft rattle of the knob as it swings shut.
She sighs, and pushes her own door open. The interior of the space is dark; sparsely furnished and impossibly cold, barely different from her room at Bruin's place back home, or the ones she frequents during her murder nights - open even when they shouldn't be, silent and empty as the dead.
She closes her eyes.
The piano wire's tucked away in her pocket now, hidden between layers of worn black fabric. She didn't want Theron seeing it when he sat down with her and Zen for dinner; knew he'd take it away without even having to ask, because tokens can't be weapons or some shit like that. Not that a little piece of piano wire, made halfway into a garrote or not, really is a weapon, but Argenta knows better than to try and argue that. 'sides, it's not like she doesn't have the whole spool of it hidden away on the train elsewhere, which is a whole different bag of bones. Because she could kill with that, if she really wanted to.
She could kill with a lot of things.
Hands.
(Jerome and Parker Gale fucked up. The little weasels hadn't paid their dues, so Argenta decided to whack 'em. She'd snuck into their house during the night and caught them unawares, broken bones, bruised and bloodied them with hit after hit from her brass-covered fists. Their muffled screams hadn't been enough to slow her down.)
Knife.
(He was a mouse, a wannabe Peacekeeper who wound up on the outs with Five's academy due to his severe anxiety. Argenta took a blade to each of his heels, severed his Achilles tendons and let his feet hang half off his legs, worthless and unfixable. Windsor Foreman never walked again.)
Lighter.
(She was a bear, a mother, wild-eyed and overprotective, willing to fight 'til the bitter end. Even when the walls around her were burning she did everything she could to save her baby - everything she could to help her child, the same child that Argenta left in a flaming crib, the flames from Greta Umber's fireplace having spun out of control long before she even noticed.)
Rope.
(The fluttering bird had been one of the first victims of her ire; a worn-out addict with skin so thin it was easy to see the track marks down their arms. Argenta hung them from the rafters and watched their feet dance on the floorboards as they tried to keep from suffocating. Bruin hadn't told her their name, but he clapped her shoulder when the air drained out of them. Satisfaction. Approval. She was the daughter he always wanted.)
Something sour curdles her tongue as she blinks back the haze of too-many-memories, still too distant to process. Argenta shuts the cabin door and begins to walk towards her bed, looking down at the tucked sheets and dull grey blanket, so thin she can't imagine it'd keep anyone warm.
Whatever. It's summer anyway, she reminds herself, biting down on her lower lip as she untucks the cover, sitting gingerly on the mattress' edge. Should be glad the prissy Capitol fucks even gave me a bed.
She eases herself down on the cot, until her back's pressed flat and her head's resting on the single, overly-fluffy pillow resting against the headboard. At least the Capitol will be good for entertainment. She'll get some kicks while she's there - make some waves during the parade, make some waves before the real ones hit later. People there are gonna love her, just like they loved Padma Youssef and Ardelis Nerolia. They'll watch her force the other tributes to dance and take pleasure in the abuses she'll make them endure, and maybe it's not as good as Bruin's approval, but Argenta will enjoy their admiration nonetheless.
Maybe she and Bruin can move up there once she wins. The Ring of Fire could set the streets ablaze with suffering, and Argenta could revel in every second of the chaos.
(After all, reveling in chaos is what she does best.)
A/N: The Reflecting God by Marilyn Manson.
And there's another intro down! Sorry this wasn't out on the weekend; ya boy got a job interview and wound up having a messy start to the week so writing sadly fell on the backburner for a minute. Next one ideally will be less than 9 days from now.
A huge thank you to Watcher for Kellen and Para for Argenta. I had a lot of fun with these two and they're pretty unique to the rest of the cast in terms of temperament and history… definitely worth keeping an eye on.
Catch you next time with Rhys and Pangaea, and we'll round off the interview chapters with Patron and Tatiana. Just four kids to go! Can't wait to hit the pregames. Until the next.