VI. Inheritance

We would say anything just to hear what we want
Right or wrong
Then we lie to be forgiven
We would sell anything just to buy who we're not
Any cost
We kill our way to heaven

Icarus Schuyler St. Augustine. 18.
District One Male.

Ignatius Monroe's Third Concerto in C minor… easy enough. With his mahogany-wood violin in hand, Icarus really can't say he's nervous for the recital, he's practiced long and hard.

And even if he didn't practice, well… he'd succeed anyway. It's hard for Icarus to recall a time where he didn't do just that… succeed… well, there were those times… back in the day when— never mind. The point is, as of late— which is what's important— Icarus St. Augustine hasn't done anything besides being a complete and utter success.

Tonight's no different.

Sure, it's his last violin showcase before the Games, but it's not his last showcase overall, he'll be back eventually, but it's also… his last showcase with her…

Lethia Aphelion, the only person who could possibly match him's standing beside him, "You ready?"

Icarus bites his lip, "When haven't I been?"

He wishes he could say he regrets what happens next…

But to backtrack for a second, it wasn't always like this. Icarus wasn't always so fed up with the fact Lethia's sharing his spotlight after everything he did for her. There was a time where yes, Icarus even considered her his equal, but that was back when he didn't have to worry about her threatening his crown, his legacy, the one thing that could prove him to be worthy of his mother's love, his mother who worked so hard to give him his life.

At first, yes, Icarus didn't mind when everybody knew her name instead of his, it was easier to get away with shit like that, but then again, it's better to be feared than to be ignored, and it's better to be loved than either… or at least that's what he thought until he realized Lethia was Valhalla's darling and he was just… a rat, a productive rat, but ultimately still something that needed to be poisoned.

Yet I gave her everything…

Icarus remembers the day he connected with Lethia well, the two of them nearly sixteen, sitting on a bench after a long day of training…

"You played at the showcase, didn't you?" She'd asked him, stars in her eyes because yes, back then Icarus was so loved… so successful. Everybody wanted to be him and well… of course he couldn't blame them, "I loved your solo."

As haughty as ever, Icarus had simply smirked, "I loved it too," and he was expecting her to get fed up with him since well, he's quite easy to get fed up with, but instead—

She laughed, "You're funny," and Icarus felt himself trying to smile, "Lethia, by the way."

He'd seen her around several times before, yet never in his classes at Valhalla, never up to his level. At least not until now. He'd figured, She was probably just playing low… now's a good a time as ever to show out once and for all… and for the most part, Icarus was right.

Lethia blocked him with an "I know," before he could go ahead and give his boisterous introduction as, "Icarus Schuyler St. Augustine, Future Victor," and for once he'd had the feeling that he'd actually met his match.

A few weeks after they'd got to talking, Icarus had a proposition for her. To be frank, it was getting hard for him to manage all his operations by himself, he needed a second-in-command, because fuck, that's what she was supposed to be… she wasn't supposed to rise above.

"What'd'ya mean?" Lethia's smiles always given Icarus this warm feeling inside, he'd call it love if that's what it was… but it was opportunity and potential for greatness that he always saw on her lips, "…Like hurting people?"

Please… if anyone's ever gotten hurt by one of Icarus' little games, well— that's there own fault, and more the reason they deserved what he'd do to them. They weren't strong enough to survive and be chosen to volunteer anyways, he was just accelerating the process of eventual disappointment for them.

"Not necessarily," Icarus winked as if he was in front of an audience, "Just… pointing out weaknesses, sometimes forcefully."

The first example he can think of's Onyx from a few months back… silly old Onyx, really isn't a secret that the only reason he's ranked as high as he is is because he's spent his nighttimes with trainer L'dora doing well, anything but training. Or at least, it's not a secret anymore.

Icarus knew they'd get caught eventually, and maybe he was being a smidge impatient, but at the same time, well it wouldn't look very good if the fine establishment of Valhalla had a trainer who was sleeping with her students, now would it? He's saving the Academy from a potential media scandal, everybody should be thanking him.

Yet Icarus went ignored when he left his camera on a windowsill by her office and rigged a wireless trigger for the lens, taking a few images and dashing out of there, acting all shocked when they were scattered across the training floors the next morning as if he hadn't told somebody to sneak in at night to put them there. And then just like that… Onyx Riviera was gone and that was one less boy who could get his Volunteer spot.

At the time, Icarus didn't mind the lack of attention it brought to him because he'd figured it was better to be hated than ignored… though he thought wrong.

"So… that's how all of that happened?" Lethia raised her eyebrow, somewhat with confusion, "And you did it… to benefit yourself?"

"Precisely," He licked his lips, "You know… there's only one female Volunteer spot, and if you want it, well…" Icarus thought back to everything personal Lethia had told him about her life, "I'd do anything to guarantee I'm in a position to win a tournament that'll give me the money and status to pay for my father's treatment, but that's just me."

Lethia was distraught, as if she was actually questioning the best opportunity she had ever and would ever be presented with, a chance to work with the Icarus St. Augustine, self-proclaimed innocent violinist who somehow always comes out on top, "Think it over, don't you want a life where nothing can hurt you? Haven't you ever wondered what it's like to feel invincible?"

He's already got his little circle of followers— friends at this point, but he needs to do something bigger. If all of Valhalla's going to fall at their feet for him, Icarus doesn't just need a small circle of people doing his bidding, hell, he needs an army if he wants to be the last one standing, or at least the last competent one standing… the weak can wither away on their own.

Lethia became his eyes and ears over the next year or so, and that was more helpful then he could've ever imagined. He knew his second-in-command had to be good, but Lethia was just… nearly too good to be true… And she was, because now she's outmatched me…

A few months before the 51st Games, Lethia approached him with a smile on his face, "So I went on a date with the lesser Svárovský as you'd suggested I do…"

"And?" Icarus was eager because he'd heard the whisperings about how Hesson was jealous of his twin, so jealous he'd become desperate to outrank him and Volunteer, "Was he?"

"Just as desperate as we'd hoped?" Lethia cackled, "Yes. Which is why I proposed he… well I gave him the number of a steroid dealer, so don't be surprised if they wind up in Alaban's bag."

He shook her hand, "Pleasure doing business with you, as always." And just like that, another success from the two of them. Alaban was prevented from volunteering and that meant there wasn't a chance in hell that Icarus could be upstaged when it came to be his turn the following year, "Do you want to do anything for yourself? Are you not nervous about your chances?"

The Callarosa girl was miserable enough that she didn't really need anything to happen to her for Lethia to upstage her, as she'd said to him, and well… it was irritating that she didn't need Icarus' help to succeed the way he somewhat needed her's, not that he'd admit that, of course.

He'd worked so hard to get to the top yet Lethia just seemed to float on by, only messing with some people every now and again. This wasn't the life his mother had worked so hard for, now was it? This was an abomination, the fact somebody Icarus had trained to get far was now further then he was, and he was just struggling… seen as a troublemaker who's only saving grace was the fact he did actually have what it took to fight and kill, and now… she's… I taught her everything I know, I taught her how to be a winner and ensure that she gets what she wants and yet… she's too much of a coward to take me down herself, I know it… she was the enemy all along.

With every passing violin showcase, they'd duet, and Icarus couldn't help but feel the spotlight slowly centering on her, and not the person to rose her to her holy lights.

Which brings the two of them to tonight.

"You ready?"

"When haven't I been?"

Which actually… is different.

Icarus leans against the wall next to the stage, "Lethia?"

She turns over to him immediately, and he wants to puke at the fact her dress just makes her stand out even more, "Yes?"

"Come closer," He gestures, his eyes tracing the curves of Lethia's right hand, the one she uses to press at the frets on the violin, uses to throw knives and hold her staff, uses to be better than him, time and time again, "I want to see your nails."

Does he care what they look like? Of course not… but like the naive little puppy she is, Lethia falls for it immediately, "They're a new color!"

Icarus holds her index finger in his hand, and it's not very hard to… crack!

"What are you doing?" Lethia says through gritted teeth, tears watering in her eyes, tears she surely can't wipe away with her right hand because again, crack… she can hear the sound of her own pinky snapping, and Icarus' eyes don't move, his face doesn't change… he's as cold as his mother was when she… never mind.

He doesn't feel a thing, doesn't say a word when… crack… crack… crack… and then her palm itself shattering when he presses it against the wall with a … crack… crack… and then he lets go.

Icarus lets go and watches Lethia as she tries to make sense of what's just happened, muttering to herself over and over, "I should've known better," and "Fuck you," but in that moment, he's invincible.

The audience is cheering, awaiting their show, awaiting the two best violinists of District One yet they'll only get one, they'll only get the best, and not the second-in-command… in her place, just the way she should be.

One needs a new star, they need a new golden angel to sweep in from the sun and bless down upon them, and Icarus can't be that star with Lethia trailing so close behind him, Lethia left in the dust now, left to ashes… Lethia who he never should have spoken to in the first place… yet it doesn't matter because now she's out of the race and whoever it is that they find to replace her won't be nearly up to par with.

With his head held high, Icarus walks on the stage to grace the audience with his presence, "Unfortunately, my good friend Lethia Aphelion can't be here today, but I hope I'll be enough for you tonight."

They cheer louder than Icarus has ever been cheered for before, And the best part is, it's all for me… This is something he could get used to.

I'm a warning sign for your kind, so don't get me wrong
Now you see me as 'the bad type', but what do you know?
I'm not asking for your love, I'm not asking for compassion
I can end your imperfection, I give you my word

Beowulf Haleot. 18.
District Two Male.
TW: Child abuse.

If only Glinda Haleot had the audacity to just swallow her pride for even thirty seconds and tell her son Beowulf, "I'm proud of you," maybe then, everything would be different. If she'd just told him, "You don't need to be like your father or like me, I'll love you no matter what," or if she said "There's no need to overwork yourself, son," maybe then, everything would be different.

And maybe if Leon Riggs had good intentions and didn't push Beowulf the same way his mother did, he wouldn't feel so stuck. If Leon had told Beowulf to rest before the second tournament when they were seventeen instead capitalizing on his stress fracture in his ankle to win in a sparring contest, maybe then Beowulf wouldn't feel like a slave to Raleburgh Academy, just another cog in the system who needs to win even if it's just to spite everyone, or more accurately prove himself to people who probably hate him if he's being honest.

Maybe then, Beowulf wouldn't have to rely on Illa Wimbledon, a nurse of all people to be his only source of comfort and support, not that she's all too pleased with him at the current moment.

"What did I tell you?" She sits at a table in her office, frantically writing notes on a piece of paper.

Beowulf sighs, he's already disappointed so many people in his life, and the last thing he wants to do is disappoint her too, yet it seems that's already happened, "That I shouldn't have competed last month in the tournament."

"Yes, precisely," Illa nods her head, a concerned look on your face, "While your ankle was bad before, it appears to have only gotten worse, Mr. Haleot."

"I've already told you, it's Beowulf… I don't need to associate with that name," He smiles, trying to ignore the clear problems that are occurring, "You can even call me Wulfie if that's something you want to do."

It's the nickname his mother gave him when he was just a boy, and while for the most part, Beowulf's grown out of it, there comes times where he wishes to share it with those who'll treat him kindly no matter what. If only he'd not told that to Leon, who now mocks him in the halls, "Oh Wulfie!" But maybe that's stupid, maybe he's too old for such a childish nickname.

And what Illa doesn't know is that Beowulf had no choice but to compete in the tournament, because if he didn't, well then he'd be screwed in terms of being chosen to volunteer for the 52nd Annual Hunger Games in just nine months, and if that happened, then… oh he doesn't even want to think about what Glinda would do if that was the case. Whatever it was, it sure wouldn't be good.

It seems his whole future is riding on the training he puts in at Raleburgh Academy, and if he isn't the very best, isn't one of the boys they send to the final tournament in July, then well… all of his hard work, his sleepless nights and struggle to block tears when his mother gets into a bad mood, it would all go to waste, and then he'd no longer be able to call himself Glinda Haleot's son.

"Well… Wulfie," Hearing the nickname in a non-condescending tone is odd, but not necessarily a bad kind of odd, "I know that you really wanted to go to that tournament, but you should have valued your own physical and as a result mental well-being first. I care about you, which is the only reason I say this, but the Games aren't everything there is to life."

As much as he hates to disagree with Illa, she's wrong here, because to Beowulf Haleot, the Games are just about all he has. If he wins the Hunger Games, then everything will be fixed and he won't have to rely on a medic for support, because then and only then, he'll be able to proudly say that his mother loves him.

Besides, winning's been practically ingrained in his head since his youth, which is rather ironic considering the fact he was born in a situation that was fundamentally based on losing. His father –wait, that seems too formal for him– Valerian was the exact opposite of the sort of winner Beowulf aspires to be. Because Valerian lost hard, volunteering for the 34th Hunger Games, only to be a colossal disappointment to District Two and place twentieth. It was the last time a kid from Raleburgh was chosen to volunteer, and while it sucks, it truly does, Beowulf can't even blame the District selection committee for the bias they seem to have against 'Burgh. They're clearly not good enough if their previous volunteer placed the worst anyone from Two ever has since the 26th Games.

Which leads to another "if only" that Beowulf constantly ponders… If only Glinda hadn't gotten pregnant with him in the first place, been forced out of Raleburgh and deemed unfit to volunteer due to her condition, which is in all honesty a funny way of saying "very pregnant," then maybe she would have won those Games instead of Jersey Hempstein, but more importantly, Beowulf would have never been born, and he wouldn't have to deal with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Because more than anything, Beowulf just wants to make his mother proud. If she couldn't volunteer for her Games, then he's mighty determined to volunteer for his, getting revenge for the fact she was robbed of her victory, and bringing glory to Two in the name of Raleburgh (not in the name of himself, Beowulf hardly knows what that means, what he means).

And it's seeming likely too, with the accident at Shindy's taking them out of the race and the fact Beowulf was able to win the second tournament, even with a screwed-up leg. Almost as if it's destiny, as if it's fate that Beowulf Haleot volunteers for the 52nd Games, and comes out on top when it really matters.

All those horrible memories wouldn't matter anymore. Glinda telling him he's worthless, forcing him to train even when he'd gone home for the day after having enough. She told him everything terrible about himself, pinpointed every flaw in both his body and his mind, yet she made points. If Beowulf was to volunteer, he needed to be perfect, and that meant not crying or having fat hanging from his biceps. It meant standing tall with a straight face and lifting weights, throwing knives and spears like it was what he was born to do. Because he wasn't born to just be another relapse of Valerian's failures. Glinda's right in everything she says about him, she only wants the best for her son, and Beowulf's the worst. But he'll get better so he can win not just the Games, but his love.

He asked her once, "What happens if I don't win, Mother. Or if I don't even get chosen to volunteer?"

And she'd just scoffed at him, "Then you're no longer my son."

Beowulf has to prove himself worthy, even if it's the last thing he does.

So when Illa tells him that the Games (his everything) aren't actually everything, he just points his nose upwards and says, "That's not what you're supposed to say, you know that? You're supposed to be all gung-ho about the Games like everybody else here is, like I am."

"I'm not going to apologize for telling the truth," Her words are soft, even if what Beowulf said could be interpreted as hurtful, "I care about you and your well-being. You're not as boisterous as the other boys your age. I can tell you're sincere in your intentions of winning, but I don't think the Games are the right path for you if you want to be fully successful."

Of course, her words fall on deaf ears since winning the Games is the only version of success that Beowulf knows. If only he'd listened to her, accepted that Illa's advice is better that anything Glinda will ever tell him. Accepted that maybe there's merit to her words, maybe it's true that there's more to life than the Games, but that's not who Beowulf was trained to be, after all.

"The Games are my success," Beowulf's stern with Illa, "I've trained my whole life for them, and I'm not going to let this injury get in the way."

Nor is he going to tell Glinda about said injury, because he doesn't need a repeat of what happened the last time he got hurt. He doesn't need a repeat of the one time she dared get physical with him, though he never hit her back, because that would be rude. Dealing with Illa's frustration over the injury is enough misery anyways, and he's already miserable over the fact he's let her down. No need to get his mother involved and add salt to the wound.

"Okay…" Illa sighs, her arms folded neatly in her lap, "Can I ask you this? Why are you so hellbent on winning the Games?"

Beowulf sighs, because he knows deep down what he should tell her, which is that his mother doesn't love him, only cares about the idea of getting revenge on Valerian somehow by raising a Victor. He doesn't need to think of that either, such negative emotions and thoughts will just get in the way of him becoming the perfect son his mother needs him to be. Because as much as the Games are all he has left, he's selfish to not think that he's all she has left, and that means he can't disappoint her. The Games are more than just a title to Beowulf, they're his rebirth as the son Glinda Haleot always deserved and shouldn't have had to train him into.

But that's not what he tells Illa, because vulnerability is an addiction he can't afford to suffer from, instead he tells her, "Because I have to bring glory to Two, no matter what it takes."

"That's what everybody in this Academy says," She rolls her eyes, like she knows that isn't the whole truth, "And I fail to see how the rationale of making District Two look better is worth the trauma the Games inflicts on people. It's only been a few months since Ludovicus won and he's already a husk of himself, is that what you really want?"

It isn't, obviously, but he's not Ludovicus, and that means Beowulf's not going to get plagued by grief the same way he has. If Beowulf has anybody to grieve when the Games are through, it's just his former self, inferior, deficient, never good enough for his mother's love. When he wins, he doesn't have to be that boy again, doesn't have to be that brainless loser. When Beowulf wins, he'll be worthy, no longer unloved but instead untouchable. So why would the prospect of losing himself be so jaunting if he doesn't even like that?

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," Beowulf shrugs, Illa clearly frustrated with his response, "I love Raleburgh and I love District Two. I'll honor them with my dying breath even if I don't win."

He knows it's not the best mindset for himself to have but again, he can't help it, and he can't risk falling victim to his own feelings the way so many people have before him. And sure, it's been hard, he has no friends since those are just distractions or obstacles, nothing to do besides train and rest for the next day of training, but he knows it'll all be worth it when he sits on the stage with Caesar Flickerman, telling the story of how he won the 52nd Annual Hunger Games.

Kill Our Way to Heaven, Michl / Beast, Ocean Jet

Aha! Welcome to the first set of intros for ACD featuring Icarus and Beowulf, aka the two polar opposites of the Career boy spectrum! If you for some reason didn't think that this Career pack would be awful and miserable just from looking at the blog, consider this your official declaration that things are a mess. Thank you to Laney for cursing this SYOT with Icarus who will only get worse and thank you to Nell for… actually, no thank you, why are you sending Wulfie to the Games?

These two were a blast to write and as per usual, any thoughts you have on these boys would be much appreciated. You may have noticed I've temporarily done away with the Divine Comedy madness in exchange for song lyrics, but my pretentiousness will be back after intros, I promise.

See y'all next week with more chaos!

Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds