training: perfect insanity
Deprivating, isolating all that I feel, leaving me with images I know are not real.
Are those words of condemnation that I hear?
elysia ansaldi, district one female
…
On her final day of training, Elysia Ansaldi wakes at precisely six o'clock to a chilly bedroom devoid of sentiment and color. She rises from bed at six-oh-one, enters the shower at six-oh-five, and dons her training uniform at six-twenty-six, mere seconds before tying her hair back into a severe bun atop her weary head.
Ambrosia and Venice do not greet her when she leaves her bedroom, nor do they appear when she cracks open the door to their suite, the dismal hallway entirely too empty, too silent to seem real. Elysia's boots echo against the tile, each step impossibly loud as she makes her way down the corridor, and when her finger touches the button to summon the elevator, the ding! it emits seems cacophonous enough to wake the dead.
Her stomach is coiled into knots as she enters the elevator box. She doesn't want to admit that she's nervous, but she is, nonetheless. Today is her last attempt to make a solid impression on the Gamemakers, before the Games truly begin. If she disappoints them - or, rather, if she disappoints herself - the odds will no longer be in her favor.
That is, if they ever were to begin with.
Elysia's done her best not to cause too much of a stir since training started. She didn't take part in the rioting that occurred during the chariots, didn't associate with any of the tributes who seemed more inclined toward breaking the rules, even if they dared to approach her. She made small talk with the trainers, kept her head down and minded her own business as the days ticked by. She even built an alliance that was intended to be both effective and relatively inoffensive, so far as the Capitol should be concerned.
Although…
"Morning, partner," the Six girl says with a manic tone as she exposes her teeth, pushing away from a nearby wall as Elysia steps out of the elevator. "You're just the girl I was hoping to see!"
"Get out of my way," Elysia hisses as Tatiana's smirk widens, looking absolutely pernicious (and admittedly, somewhat out of place given her desire to play the fool). She scowls, and the Six girl throws her hands up as Elysia strides forward, passing her by without a second glance.
"Someone's touchy today," Tatiana comments at her passing back. "You know, you've got the rest of your life to be a jerk, Miss Priss. How 'bout you take a day off? Get to know your future allies…"
"You're not my ally," Elysia responds without turning her head. And with that, she heads off into the training room, keen to make the most of her day before assessments begin.
The day flies by quickly. She sorts plants, ties off knots, climbs on nets and scales walls before heading over to the training mats when the Twos finally deign to begin their day. She invites them both to spar, and bests both Ailith and Kellen handily, though the latter's dirty tricks keep her on the defensive far longer than she desires to be. By the time Venice finally appears, Six and Nine trailing around behind him like a pair of yapping dogs, the trainers have already issued a five minute warning. Elysia takes off before her District partner even has a chance to speak with her.
The trainers file them off by Districts once they've entered the dining hall, sectioning Districts Seven through Twelve off at the back tables, and leaving One through Six to find their seats near the front. Elysia chooses a bench closer to the doors, sitting with her elbows atop her knees and her hands steepled, a headache slowly building behind her aching temples.
There's a lot of anger swirling about her head. A lot of resentment that she needs to get rid of, but doesn't have anywhere to put. She can feel it clawing away at the inside of her ribcage, wicked spines protruding through her organs, draining away her energy and making her seethe. Her hands are desperate to rage against the walls, her throat eager to curse and scream as she rips into her own body and tears herself apart, skewers dummies and tributes and trainers alike with metal swords and barbed arrows, her heart demanding violence even as her mind tries to keep it contained.
You don't belong here, something inside her mind says, only to be silenced by the voice of rage, splitting her brain so severely that it overrides every other thought she may have had.
No, this is exactly where you belong. Caged in a room with twenty-three other monsters, made to wait and yearn for death, just like your District wanted. Anka's going to be so joyful watching you die, watching you lose, can you even imagine what a relief it will be? To see the girl who broke her heart and body finally pay for the weight of her crimes, oh, think of how glad she'll be to see you rot. Her brother'll probably spit on your grave before you've even been interred in the dirt. And you know what? That's justice, Elysia. That's justice, and it's what you deserve, to suffer, to hurt, all the while knowing exactly what you did -
"Good luck, Elysia."
Ailith's voice pipes up from the other side of the bench and Elysia startles, sizing up the Two girl before allowing her gaze to drop. There's a smile on her lips, demure and unassuming, but kind all the same - kinder than Elysia really deserves, not that she'd openly admit it.
Something in her chest stirs in response to the words, a sort of… trepidation, coiled amidst a mess of anger and misplaced hope. She doesn't need luck to perform well in a training session; she needs self-awareness. A good performance requires both instinct and skill; the Academy trainers all said as much, and though Elysia was often reluctant to listen to their advice, she won't deny that bits of it have served her well over the last few days. She needs to weigh her options, gauge the mood of the room, and make sure to demonstrate the tasks which best suit her abilities - and the Gamemaker's expectations. Coming from One, she knows they'll expect her to be proficient with weapons. That might be the best place to start. Except…
What if I'm overthinking it? Elysia wonders, her brow creasing as the thought strikes her. This wouldn't be the first time she's let her need for control override her common sense; perhaps the Gamemakers aren't looking for a perfect Career, perhaps they'd prefer that she be straightforward and brusque instead of trying to formulate a step-by-step plan of how to use her ten minutes wisely. Elysia's aware that sometimes the best fruits are borne from improvisation, not from rigidity.
"Elysia?" Ailith asks, a touch of concern seeping into her voice, likely in response to her previous lack of reply. Elysia quickly forces herself to relax, her typically stern expression slipping into a mask of false brevity, with a touch of what she hopes will come across as gratitude. Regardless of what she thinks of the Two girl as a person, the warmth of Ailith's sentiment isn't lost on her.
"Thanks," she says, mere seconds before the door to the training room swings open to reveal her District partner. The look on his face is smug, though if Elysia had to warrant a guess, his aplomb has nothing to do with his private session and everything to do with his apparent bedguests, whose incessantly loud moans had beleaguered her for three hours the previous night. Given Venice's reputation, Elysia can't say she was surprised by the situation… but she won't deny that she finds his lugubrious attitude extremely frustrating.
"Good luck to you, too," she says, clapping Ailith on the shoulder, unsurprised when the other girl flinches in response to her touch, her eyes blown wide from surprise and… fear?
No, not fear - it's just surprise, only surprise, Elysia thinks as she withdraws her hand. Her fingers curl tightly into the flesh of her palm, eager to carve away at the calloused skin that lines it. After a moment, she stands to her feet, zipping up her uniform jacket before reaching down to check the laces on her boots.
(Ailith reminds her of Anka; genial, well-meaning, passionate and sensible - or, at least, sensible enough for a supposed rebel. Elysia would be remiss to try and ignore the sense of familiarity the Two girl stokes in her. Whether it's wise or not, she almost wishes that she could…)
"District One female. Please report for your evaluation," a man's voice booms from the other side of a loudspeaker, affixed to the ceiling above her head. Elysia squares her shoulders and lifts her chin as she proceeds to the entryway, unwilling to risk a poor first impression before she even begins her trial. She doesn't bother to acknowledge Venice as she passes him, her pride still burnished by his defiance of her leadership the day before.
(The whole reason she'd turned away the Fours was to maintain stability within an alliance that's become notorious for splitting earlier than they really should. One and Two are the strongest Districts, and a force to be reckoned with so long as there's cohesion among their ranks. But inviting too many people into a single group upends the balance of power; the more Careers there are, the easier it is for the alliance to fracture. Not to mention, even if she had been keen to recreate the typical Pack sextet, the Four girl is too unstable for Elysia's comfort. They need order if they want to keep control inside the arena. Not recklessness and insubordination.)
(Kellen's temper is enough of a liability, but Six and Nine? Venice has fucked them all by inviting that pair of… irreverent libertines… into the fold.)
I'll just have to make sure that if worse comes to worst, the outliers are the first to go. They're too much of a threat to allow lenience.
Elysia crosses the door's threshold, and almost immediately it snaps closed behind her, the metal lock turning with a click to disbar any unauthorized entry. She swallows thickly, trying to dispel the growing lump inside her trachea, her footfalls measured as she approaches the center of the room, raising her head to watch the Gamemakers as they mill about their box.
"Elysia Ansaldi," she asserts herself. "District One."
One of the few attentive heads in the box - a slim man with dark features and a flourishing moustache - nods at her introduction, then claps his hands once to gain the others' focus. The chatter at the edges of her periphery immediately cease, and Elysia stands with her hands clasped behind her back as the man responds:
"Thank you for your attendance, Miss Ansaldi. You may begin."
argenta brandt, district five female
…
Argenta Brandt has always had a penchant for causing problems.
Part of the issue, according to Bruin, is that she enjoys chaos too much to simply sit on the sidelines. Argenta can't really bring herself to disagree with that assessment, 'cuz one: it's from Bruin, and two: she does enjoy wreaking havoc on unsuspecting victims, even more so when there's blood and guts involved. And naturally, the Ring of Fire was pretty big on blood and guts, even if they didn't like to advertise it. It's one of the reasons she fit in so well with 'em, without getting into the drug stuff because that was a whole 'nother issue of its own.
But case in point: chaos. She likes it, always has, and Bruin thought it was good for business, so their arrangement had been sort of a win-win. He peddled the goods and kept shit running smoothly, and when issues came up, Argenta went to shake people down, all wide-eyed innocence and tears when Bruin's customers found her outside their door, baiting them with her age and sweet looks until the moment came for her to strike. People always wanted to believe children were harmless, and between Argenta's crocodile tears and practiced pleas, her marks never suspected a thing. Not until it was already too late.
The key to success in our line of work, Bruin had told her one day as they sat out on his porch step, sun high in the sky and garden flowers in full bloom, is to temper your strength with your smarts. Most of these people… they ain't smart. They're junkies. Got lots of problems, can be distractible, scatterbrained…
He'd slid a switchblade from his pocket and flipped it open, the gleam of the metal a stark contrast against the dark fabric of his clothes - a contrast that Argenta remembers she liked, silver-on-black, so jarringly lovely. She'd been surprised when Bruin reached for her hand, unfurling her fingers to push the blade's hilt in between them, her fist tight around the base of the knife as she held it up to the light, watched it gleam and shimmer under golden rays.
Look for weaknesses to exploit, then attack with all you've got. Don't be afraid of getting your hands dirty. Violence can be a useful tool, so long as you know when to use it.
Is that why you killed Porky? Argenta had asked, and Bruin had just smiled, nudged her arm playfully. Even though his expression was cold, she'd felt safe sitting next to him. Protected, appreciated, even cared for. She remembers grinning at him, spinning his blade between her fingers, more carefree than she'd ever been before.
Bruin had laughed and ruffled her hair, responding to her quip with near-affection. You catch on quick, kid.
Argenta thinks she might have beamed.
She wasn't used to praise.
Not before the Ring. Not before Bruin.
(Things had been so much simpler, at the beginning. Sure, she hadn't known exactly what she was getting into, but Bruin had been so much more attentive, devoting all of his focus and energy to making Argenta her best self, the most brutal and dangerous thing to ever walk Five's streets. A child with a mind like a soldier's, a grin of full-teeth and a barbed tongue, every thing she said, every thing she did capable of cutting like a sharpened knife. She was his masterpiece, his work of art. His daughter, cut away from her old life and baptized in blood. Sculpted in the image of the man she'd adored, the father she'd loved, for his cruelty as much as anything else. They were a perfect team, a well-oiled guillotine made to slice the heads off any competition or nay-sayers that crossed their path.)
Her parents always wanted her to keep her head down and mind her own business, be a good little lapdog like the majority of jackasses in Five. But Argenta wasn't meant for a quiet life, wasn't meant to wither away in silence and submission.
She was made to cause trouble.
Which is why the private sessions are making her giddy, so giddy she hasn't been able to dispel the joy from her face. Even with the Peacekeepers trailing along at her back, she'd all but skipped down the stairwell they dragged her through, letting her mania guide her footsteps right up to the cafeteria doors.
"Mind your manners," they growled, just before pushing her and Velezen into a sea of curious eyes, all eager to get a peek at the troublemakers. Argenta just grins at their attention, wasting little time before she plops down in front of the girl from Four, who instantly brightens and starts to speak.
"Hiii!" She says, frantically waving. "Ohmygosh, I was jus' tellin' Cordy we needed some more friends, and then y'all come in right outta the blue! I think it's fate, dontcha agree?"
Argenta blinks and turns to Velezen, who seems almost perplexed as the girl sticks her arm out.
"I'm Maevyn, but you can call me Vyn if ya like! Haven't seen Fives for days. Almost seems like they're tryna keep you away from us!"
"Probably because they are," Velezen laughs, grasping the girl's hand as Argenta gives him a side eye. "I'm Velezen. Oh, and the demon child is Argenta." He points a thumb in her direction, then lowers his voice to a whisper. "Be careful, she likes to bite."
"Only if you get on my bad side," Argenta tacks on, elbowing Zen in the ribs as he withdraws his hand. Then she turns to Maevyn, grinning as she kicks her feet. "Really, though, don't listen to him. I'm a perfect angel."
"Angel, my ass." Zen says, rolling his eyes. Argenta covers her mouth to stifle a giggle.
"Please, I've literally never done a bad thing in my life! You, on the other hand…"
"Those thirty corpses you were bragging about say otherwise," her partner retorts. Argenta waves a hand.
"Details."
"What the fuck, you guys are precious!" Maevyn chirps, her eyes wide as she bites her lip, looking at the set of Fives like she thinks they're the most precious thing in the world."Okay, so like, I know this is really short notice-"
"District Five male! Please report for evaluation." A voice booms from the overhead speaker, interrupting the Four girl mid sentence.
"Aw, c'mon! They're taking you first?" Maevyn asks, reaching down to pull off her shoe. As Velezen stands to his feet, she chucks it up at the loudspeaker, and Argenta watches as the boot flies past it, missing the offending object entirely as it heads straight for a barren table where the boys from Six and Twelve are sitting in silence.
Velezen's just slipped into the training room when it hits the Twelve boy in the back of his head, and an inhuman hiss emits from his throat.
"Who dares?!" He snaps, whirling around. Maevyn's eyes go wide and she ducks her head, slipping down in her seat so far she's almost under the table. Twelve sniffs, turning his nose up, and the sight is almost enough to pull another cackle from Argenta, though she manages to conceal it as an awkward cough. She's not risking a brawl with a guy that's twice her size, at least not before her training session. It would completely derail her plans!
"Fine." Twelve finally says. "If nobody wishes to voice their guilt, 'tis no difficulty to seek the offender out. Mind you, speaking would have been far quicker."
"Hollister," the Six boy says as his ally starts to rise, gaze wholly unsympathetic. His eyes narrow as he points to the bench. "Sit down now."
"You would simply allow such a -"
"'Grievous crime upon your person,' yes, I would. There is a time and a place for murder, and this is not it."
"... what fun are you." Twelve says in an oddly normal voice, sitting despite his clear desire to do otherwise. The door to the training room opens again, and Zen strides out with a wide grin, only to be intercepted by an incoming Peacekeeper.
"Back upstairs, Five. You know the rules."
"If I go upstairs, will you finally let me have a cup of coffee? Because I've been waiting for a response on that for like, three days now, and I sort of feel like you made the whole administrator thing up just to get a kick out of watching me suffer -"
"Start. Walking."
Argenta raises an eyebrow as Zen is dragged out of the room, the still-pristine loudspeaker finally returning to life to call for her presence.
"District Five female, please report for evaluation."
"Good luck!" Maevyn calls up from under the table. Argenta doesn't bother responding before she heads off in the same direction as her partner, only just making it inside before the doors slam shut at her back.
She looks around the room, briefly flitting her gaze up to the box where a group of figures sit around a table, many of them red in the face from whatever it was Zen had likely pulled. Argenta gives a mocking salute, then simply turns her back, surveying the open stations thoughtfully.
Now… where to begin?
Her eyes settle on the weapons racks. Striding over to the swords, she hefts one up before turning around, waving it idly at the Gamemakers. Then, she glances sideways and tosses it at the spear rack, a yelp of glee emitting from her voicebox as the weapon connects, followed right after by Argenta's body.
"Just so you know," she shouts as the rack topples over and her form sprawls head-over-heels onto the floor, only for her to bounce back up and side-check the bows. "I hate being locked in my room!"
Another rack goes down, and Argenta whoops, skipping over to a station she vaguely thinks might be camouflage. Picking up some of the red berries and a jar of paint, she starts to hurl the objects at the wall, then goes for the next one. Black. White. Blue. More red. Red, red, red, red.
"I fucking hate this stupid place! When can I start killing people? I thought I was here to fucking kill people, so why don't I have any fucking bodies to cut up and eviscerate?!"
She throws an empty jar down on the mats, stomping on it with her boot for good measure. Shooting the Gamemakers a bitter glare, she starts to make for the fire station, just as the doors to the other room burst open.
"I'm not done!" Argenta screams. "Get the fuck out, I got five more minutes!"
She strikes the flint in her hands together once, twice, thrice as the Peacekeeper near the exit starts toward her. Once she's got a spark, she throws them both his way, then reaches down to grab two more, dragging them along the wall in hopes of getting a -
"Fire!" One of the Gamemakers screams and Argenta starts to clap, just as a hand affixes itself to her wrist.
"Get your ass moving," the Peacekeeper hisses, and Argenta doesn't even bother to protest.
"Gimme a high score!" She calls back as she's ushered away. "I think it's really the least you could do!"
oriana elissir, assistant gamemaker
…
Clearly, Oberon hadn't expected this.
Oriana cannot help the slight smile that crosses her face as she ducks her head, trying her best to keep her satisfaction from the other Gamemakers. It's not every day that a tribute has the guts to disrespect the Capitol so openly, and yet the pair from Five - the boy, just as much as the girl - have done exactly that, spitting on their executors with little concern for the repercussions.
Admittedly, they have good reason. Nobody enjoys being confined to their room - much less for hours at a time, day after day, with no method or means of distraction to give them even a hint of solace. Oriana would know; she's more experienced when it comes to house arrest than almost anyone, having endured nearly a year of it after the culmination of Valentin's meddling during the Twenty-Third. Though Maryse and Snow had eventually pardoned her, they'd intentionally chosen to take their time in doing it, preferring to let their scapegoat struggle through months of endless gossip and vilification before finally removing the headman's axe from where it hung over her throat. It had taken Valentin's death to truly free her - a fact that Oriana is keenly aware of, no matter how much she smiles and nods her head during her weekly check-ins with Coriolanus. Were his rebellious efforts not quashed, she has no doubt she'd still be sitting alone inside her apartment, waiting through months of slander and litigation for a trial that she shouldn't have even been made to endure.
But I suppose that's my reward for involving myself with politics, the young woman thinks, frowning in dismay as her eyes begin to water. Her mother had always told her she wasn't cut out for work with the government. You're too soft, she'd said, too naive, too idealistic. If you follow your sister into the industry, it will be your undoing, Oriana. Mark my words.
(She hadn't wanted to listen. At the time, choosing a career in entertainment had just seemed so validating, so promising! She'd loved watching the Games broadcast as a little girl - barring the murder, and the fear, and the pain, which she'd never really recognized when she was a child, she always found something to smile about when it came to seasonal revelry. The tributes' costumes, the theatricality of the interviews, the old promos they used to make to try and "capture" each of the tributes before the competition, like they were contestants on a game show, each vying to get their name up in lights. She remembers how she used to giggle with Tal in front of the TV, rambling on about the glamour of the pre-Games; I like the Four girl, she's so very pretty! And look at the way Mister Trian holds himself through the discussions, so collected, and always with those shiny suits! I wonder who's in charge of costuming? Do you think they're looking for an apprentice?)
Mom was right in the end, though. Whatever joy Oriana once found in the Capitol's culture of vogue violence, it's long since dissipated. Maryse Delacroix's scheming erased any traces of love Oriana might have held for the Capitol… or, at least, its leadership, corrupt and terrible as it is. While before she'd have been inclined to dismiss the flaws of her homeland, wave them away with a giggle and a spritz of cheer, her eyes have been opened in a way that is as damning as it was necessary. She's not a child anymore. She's not blind to the ills of her peers, or the toxic environment that poisoned her own family, her beloved sister in particular. They'd been so close once, but now…
Now, Oriana can hardly spend five minutes in a room with Tal before she starts to grow nauseous. The conniving, ruthless Master of Ceremonies is not the sister that practically raised her. Tal had been Oriana's constant companion and mentor as she made her way through school, helping her practice before her job interviews, and keeping her in good cheer through her studies. When she began her apprenticeship with the previous Minister of Revelry, Pasiphae Selwyn, it was Tal who had thrown her a party, showered her in compliments to celebrate her success. To think what she's become since then...
They'd been so close once. How did it reach this point, with the sisters who were once thick as thieves so estranged they can barely stomach the other's presence?
Oriana supposes that's half the pain of growing up. Eventually, people reveal their true colors.
Tal isn't the person I thought she was. Neither was Theodred. Or Maryse. Or Snow.
(They say you should never meet your heroes - that doing so will only result in disappointment. In Oriana's experience… such a sentiment has proved more than accurate.)
She sighs, and turns her head to survey the training room. All of the dummies are busted, the wall covered with a mess of splattered paint, bits of singed cotton and broken weapons littering the central floor. Two of the mats have been charred, the smell of burning rubber pungent even through the glass of the Gamemakers' box, and as Oriana's eyes drift to the door, she can see that an axe has been embedded into it (when did that happen?), the Five girl clearly not keen to leave her job half-finished. She wanted this place destroyed. Ransacked, dismantled, practically unsalvageable. And she's succeeded. Oriana has no idea how they're going to clean this mess up before they have to call in the Four girl and the pair from Six.
"A twelve for Miss Brandt," Oberon speaks suddenly, his voice a rather sharp disturbance to the silence that has overtaken the panel. Oriana turns her head to find her brother-in-law looking thoughtful, one hand braced on his chin as he taps his pen against his clipboard. Whatever he's thinking, it seems to be almost vexing him.
"But sir, we've already given two twelves -" One of the other Gamemakers pipes up, only to be cut off as Oberon raises a manicured hand, his black nails just serving to add more insult to the injury of his dismissal.
"Five twelves," he says. "The girl from Two, the boy from Four, the pair from Five and the boy from Twelve. The President's cabinet will back my decision, I promise."
"But sir," another panel member says, and Oriana sinks back into her seat, trying to make herself as unworthy of notice as humanly possible, "I'm sorry - and I mean this respectfully - but there's no precedent for such a thing. How are the sponsors going to respond if we simply hand out five twelves?"
"He's right, sir! That's like suggesting we're expecting to have five victors! Not to mention… we haven't even seen the boy from Twelve, and for the most clear-cut rebels to score so high…"
"Your opinion is noted, Wendell, Alverson, but I've made my decision." Oberon says firmly. "Twelves for the lot, and we'll have ourselves some obvious targets. I'll see to it that sponsors are deterred from betting on our assembly of rebels."
He's got a list, Oriana realizes as Oberon tucks a note into the sheaf of papers on his clipboard, not sparing her - or the other silent Gamemakers - a single glance. From Newmahr? Or is it…
"Sir. I really don't think -"
"No more protests, for Capitol's sake!" Oberon snaps. "I have orders from our benefactor to run interference regarding these particular tributes, and I've decided that this," he throws his clipboard onto the table, rising to his feet and raising a hand to point at it, "is the best course of action! If anybody has qualms with my decision, you may take your concerns up with Vice President Snow!"
"Snow?" Oriana blurts out, recoiling as Oberon's glare turns on her, his jaw tense and his teeth gritted.
"Yes, Elissir. Do you have a problem with that?"
"No, sir," she quickly rushes to say, shaking her head as her eyes go wide. "I just… I thought the President was in charge of Gamemaker oversight… that's all."
Oberon sighs, running a hand through his messy black hair, slowly returning to his seated position.
"You know as well as I do that the President is… often incapacitated." He pauses, biting down on his lower lip. "It's for the best that Snow oversees festivities."
Even if I don't like the man, the look on her brother's face says. Even if I don't trust him.
He raises his eyes to meet Oriana's, and she can't help but wonder just how much of her Oberon can see, gazing into their depths.
"I understand," she says. Snow's gaining more power than we can try and challenge. If we don't play by his rules, he'll make our lives a living hell. It looks like Oberon's starting to realize that, too.
"Good." The Head Gamemaker replies, gracing her with a nod. "Now, does anyone else wish to bombard me with their irrelevant questions, or can we proceed with tribute evaluations?"
"Proceed," one Gamemaker says.
"Proceed," a second follows, until one by one, the whole room is finally ready to assent.
"Fantastic," Oberon quips, then nods toward the intern sitting in the corner. "Rosen, call for two of the Avoxes to come clean up. We're going to take a small interim before we bring in Miss Voydanoi."
ambrosia salazar, district one mentor
…
It feels strange to be back.
Ambrosia's not sure whether that's more to do with the nervous energy surrounding the Capitol, or the fact that it's only been two years since her own Games - a Games that have haunted her every day since she sat foot in that arena, the courtroom benches jutting out from the floorboards like tombstones. She can still remember the first moments of bloodshed, time standing still even as bodies crumpled around her, six tributes slain at the hands of her allies and two by the hands of others, the smell of death omnipresent wherever she turned.
The only solace she'd had in the courthouse was Angelo - a friend she'd never asked for, yet desperately needed, without whom Ambrosia knows she wouldn't be standing here. It was Angelo who made her feel seen, for the first time in her life, as a person worthy of autonomy, rather than simply a tool at her mother's disposal, forever defined by her family name. It was Angelo who made Ambrosia strong, who encouraged her to express her thoughts and feelings, who held her after she first killed (the boy, the poor, poor boy from Eight, who never saw her sword headed for his chest, never even had a chance to run) and let her speak from the heart, her hopes and dreams and desperation bared to the world for the first time in a lifetime.
It's been two years and counting since Angelo's death.
(It's been two years and counting since Ambrosia's rebirth.)
The anniversary is next week, she muses as she uncorks a bottle of wine, pouring only a small portion of the contents into a glass goblet. Might as well make a toast.
"To another year," she declares as she recorks the bottle, then lifts the glass up before bringing it to her lips. "To District One."
The gesture is almost as fruitful as it is meaningless.
Her tribute hasn't stopped pacing. Whereas Venice is content to sit atop the cushions on the couch, his legs stretched out and his shirt discarded to expose the mass of hickies covering his neck, Elysia is still clad in her training uniform, her spine and shoulders rigid as she walks the length of the kitchen, back-forth-back-forth, likely to continue into oblivion. Ambrosia takes a seat at one of the kitchen stools, her arm slung over the back of the seat as she watches the girl, unsure if it's better for her to reach out or keep silent, her tribute's calm expression and unhinged posture leaving her at wit's end.
She takes a sip of her wine, frowning a tad at just how dry it is before she sets the glass down on the table. Then she sighs.
The trouble with being a mentor, Ambrosia thinks, is that no matter what feelings you may have about your charges, you're still responsible for giving them advice and bringing them home. Elysia's my ward until the Games finish, so I suppose it's my duty to look after her… regardless of the consequences.
"Elysia, take a seat," she says finally, gesturing to the open chair across from her with one perfectly manicured hand. "Drink some water, grab a snack if you feel like it, but for the love of the Capitol, stop pacing. You're only going to stress yourself out."
"I'm fine," Elysia snaps in response, but for all her bite, she makes her way over toward Ambrosia anyhow, taking up residence in the proffered seat. Her arms cross over her chest as she glances up toward the clock hanging above the refrigerator. Ambrosia follows her tribute's gaze, and is unsurprised to find the time reading at 18:05.
"They're late," Elysia says, exasperated, but all Ambrosia offers is a shrug and a little laugh.
"I can't say I'm surprised. Honestly, I think Tal likes keeping people in suspense - it's part of her brand."
"Were they this insufferable when you were in the Games?"
"Oh, no. They were much worse," Ambrosia responds, a faint smile on her lips as she raises her wine glass once more. She takes another sip, then another. Eventually, the glass is drained, and the television remains on mute, not a trace of Tal's bright blue head to be seen on the shimmering screen.
"Are you nervous about the Games?" Ambrosia asks, but Elysia doesn't answer, simply averting her eyes as her gaze stays fixed on the clock, apparently not inclined to try and divest her feelings. That's fine with me. The Victor hums, and glances back toward Venice, whose eyes seem to have slipped closed in an approximation of rest. A part of her is thankful that the boy is Anatase's tribute to work with; after the mess he'd gotten into yesterday evening…
"Is it… bad to say that I'm not sure?"
Ambrosia perks up at the quiet - unusually quiet, if she's being honest - voice, returning her attention to Elysia with a knowing smile.
"No, it's not." She pauses, her fingers still curled around the stem of her goblet, the texture cool against the pads of her fingers. "I felt the same way on my last night here."
"This isn't my last night," Elysia says firmly, and Ambrosia inclines her head.
"Confidence is useful to a point. Just be careful that it doesn't become arrogance."
(It's not arrogance - just confidence, Ambrosia recalls another tribute saying, their blasé attitude reminiscent of every trainee that volunteered in District One. Ambrosia had never been quite so dismissive after her own reaping, but she'd had an attitude, too, of a different sort. Theirs is a prideful District, home to the most vain and haughty people in all the Districts, so many of them wealthy and vying to get their names put in lights. Ambrosia's mother had been one of them, relishing in selfishness and splendor, demanding attention wherever she went by sheer virtue of her personal fame. Varsen Santana was another, though their fame was rather short lived - they left the Games dead by their own hand, and as far as Ambrosia knows, there was almost nobody back in One to mourn them.)
(She wonders, sometimes, if perhaps that's how they'd wanted it. There's a new face she's seen this year, down in the mentor's lounge, always clad in half a mask, curly fuchsia locks a mess upon their head. Senn Velasquez, the Capitol called them, claiming them to be Tal's half-sibling, a young person from which she was estranged at birth by proxy of her parents' divorce. The story is so well rehearsed that Ambrosia would have believed it, had she not met the individual for herself, heard that taunting lilt underlying their voice, seen the gleam in their eye, so familiar that it couldn't be displaced even by color contacts.)
(She wonders what they gave up to attain the Capitol's favor, and what they've done to keep their livelihood secure, given all the drama surrounding the Twenty-Fourth. If Varsen is alive, there must be a reason for it. Ambrosia doesn't have the faintest idea what it is, but maybe that's for the best. She spent her whole life embroiled in politics; she's more than happy to wash her hands of them now that she finally can.)
"Excuse me," she says, and stands from the table, turning to head in the direction of her quarters, slipping into them quickly and drawing the door closed behind her. She pivots on her heel and strides into the bathroom, reaching the sink and turning on the faucet, allowing the water to warm slightly before cupping her hands and leaning over the basin.
The water soothes her as it hits her face, washing the sweat from her brow along with her worries. She can't say why the idea of Varsen surviving the twenty-fourth's death trap unsettles her so deeply - perhaps because it insinuates that the Capitol knew what Valentin Verduin was attempting to do, and allowed him to go through with it anyway. But what reason would any Capitolite have to incite rebellion? Last year's finale left Panem on the verge of another uprising… the government's hands would have been tied and full at once. Unless…
Unless it was an individual who perpetrated Varsen's escape and Verduin's success, without the government's backing. Could it have been Delacroix? Is that why she shot herself?
… it doesn't matter. It's not my affair to get involved with.
Ambrosia sighs as she straightens up, reaching for a towel to blot her face dry. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she rubs gingerly at her eyes, the dark circles that ring them evident even in the dim light of her washroom. There's no question that she's exhausted. Between her mentorship, the lingering trauma from her own Games, and the effective conclusion of her relationship with Galen, the last year has been… difficult. Even with Regina officially out of her life and the budding romance she's found in the arms of an old Academy-days acquaintance, Lynn, Ambrosia's had more trouble coping than she cares to admit. She can hardly sleep through the nights anymore. Really, she hasn't slept right since…
Her hand moves down the side of her face, fingers pressing at the scar that mars her cheek, cut so deep into her olive flesh that the mark itself will never naturally heal. Ambrosia doesn't mind, though. The scar is a reminder - of the people she lost, the lives that she took, and all the dead that were made on her path to victory.
Her name was Maddy, Ambrosia reminds herself. Maddy. Maddy, Maddy. And he was Kahlan. And they were Aitana, Lazaro, Sylvain and Ardelis. And the boy at the end, that was Cal. And of course, there was Angelo. Scrim and Madigan. Elowyn and Anani. Kellie, Virian, Henrietta, Rowan, Celesto, Amelie…
"How dare she?!"
Ambrosia jolts upward at the sound of the scream, turning the faucet off and rushing back to the door. When she flings it open, she finds the television blaring music, Tal's eerily cheery face grinning as she reads off scores for the tributes, the silver numbers glimmering beneath their photographed faces.
"What's going on?" Ambrosia asks, but nobody responds to her. Elysia is holding the base of her wine glass, the core of which has shattered beneath her fingers. Blood drips from her mangled palm, shards sticking out from her pale flesh. Elysia's upper lip is curled, her teeth bared in a snarl as she watches the television change from District Two to Three, her visage stormy and inimitable.
"Oh, boo-hoo," Venice says from the couch, caustic as ever. "So Ailith got a better score than you. What does it matter? We're all on the same side -"
"Are we, though?" Elysia laughs coldly. "I mean, if you really cared about our cohesion as an alliance, you wouldn't have besmirched it by inviting Six and Nine into our ranks."
"Besmirched it? Elysia, you're the one who turned the Fours away without so much as -"
"I turned the Fours away because they couldn't be trusted! You saw the look in that girl's eyes, same as me - she was unhinged, she was -"
"Oh, yes," Venice rolls his eyes, "and you are clearly the definition of stability -"
"I don't need chaos, I need order!" Elysia shouts with a straining, half mad voice, her eyes bloodshot as she swings her bloody hand out, bits of glass dropping onto the floor. "And I nearly had it before you invited those junkies into the group!"
"Nearly?" Venice asks, arms crossing as he scoffs. Elysia's eyes narrow.
"Ailith," she clarifies, gritting her teeth. "She's hiding something from me. And until I have an understanding of what exactly she's kept under wraps, she's a detriment to us all."
"Elysia," Ambrosia finally speaks, voicing caution. The younger girl's hand balls into a tight fist. "Don't do anything reckless."
Elysia's mouth purses, her stance tightening further.
"I'm not the reckless one here," she says simply.
With one very pointed glare to Venice, Elysia turns her back, walking in the direction of the suite door.
Ambrosia doesn't even have time to call out to her before she's pulling it shut, leaving only a mess of glittering, blood-stained shards in her wake.
A/N: Perfect Insanity by Disturbed.
Before I say anything else: Bon anniversaire, petite soeur! Lindsay, thank you so much for being one of the most amazing people I've had the chance to call my friend; you are such a beautiful soul, amazingly creative and sweet, and you've literally never failed to make me laugh. I cherish you so much as a person and am ever thankful that this community allowed us to meet and forge a friendship, both a small one in the past, and a rekindled one in the present! You're a light in my life, as well as a welcoming presence to everyone who sets foot in the HG/SYOT community and I'm simply in awe of your writing and everything you do. I hope this chapter finds you well this morning, and that your birthday is a fantastic one, full of things to be enjoyed, and hopefully not a tonne of schoolwork! Happy 19! (And I really hope you enjoyed the easter egg... :P)
That's a wrap for training... if you don't mind dropping a little chart with this chapter, I'm curious to see how opinions have shifted in regards to the tributes; knowing who people haven't connected with as much is a good cue for me to work on building them a little better. Also, curious about predictions, if y'all have any at this stage! Thanks as always for all your love and support, and I'll hopefully have the first interviews chapter up next week!