XX. Break A Leg, Part I
For I have seen all winter long the thorn
First show itself intractable and fierce,
And after bear the rose upon its top.
Lethia Aphelion. 18.
District One Female.
There's a woman with bronze sequins draped over her shoulders looking her in the mirror, iridescence gleams accentuating her hips and white opaque netting with specks of gold hanging underneath its bodice, barely caressing the ground. She has metallic silver pigment melting into her eyelids and wine-colored cream coating her lips, and while her smile's familiar, Lethia hardly recognizes who she's looking at.
"You look beautiful," Romeo stands behind her and pulls the hair off her shoulders and behind her back, taking a moment to admire the shimmering claw clip attached to the bun her stylist has maneuvered half her hair in, "Seriously, stunning."
She turns around and adjusts the navy blue bowtie he's wearing, smiles and says, "Why thank you," then returns to look at her own visage in bewilderment.
Lethia's never been one to often dress so extravagantly, and she's unsure if she likes being molded into the picture-perfect District One girl without much input as to what exactly that means, but she does objectively look pretty, she'll say that much. Usually dressing nice was saved for recitals with Icarus, where he'd scoff and spew a white lie about how she looks "radiant" or some crap like that. She knows now that she was an idiot to ever think he was telling the truth.
A shame, I've never dressed nice for myself, Lethia comes to that realization as Romeo grabs her wrist and escorts her down the halls, first was dressing nice for One, for Icarus' lies, and now I'm made up for the Capitol–– he stops at a turnstile, blinding lights peaking in from the left corner–– where I'm good as dead 'cuz of my fuckup of a private session.
Her heels click and she presses her hands together like an ornate doll whilst Caesar monologues on the "historical significance" of Tribute interviews in the context of the Games. Lethia can't lie and say she's not dejected by her score, especially because she knows so damn well she's capable of better, but the golden silk wrapped around her hand taut says otherwise.
She mustn't pay attention to it. She must't overthink. She's only got one shot to set the score straight for the Capitolites, for potential sponsors, and she mustn't waste it reeling in pain from a wound caused by the very prick who she's come here to slaughter.
"Now I imagine you must be excited to meet our first Tribute," she hears Caesar set forth the invitation for her entrance, "Coming from District One, it's Lethia Aphelion!"
With a slight skip in her step, visibly careful not to fall over herself, she prances across the platform, stopping centerstage to shake his hand and curtsy. Her eyes glaze over the crowd, an array of people more poised and more wealthy than she'll ever be with all the hues of the rainbows tinting their hair, clothing, and even skin. Lethia nods in their direction with a subtle smile, and then turns to sit on the edge of a white leather chair, her legs crossed and an enthusiastic expression on her face.
It's Caesar who's first to begin the conversation, his voice slightly deeper now as he proclaims, "Thank you so much for coming to speak to me tonight!"
Like I had any other choice? She muses at the humorous uselessness in his attempt at small talk, not letting such sarcasm place itself in her tone when she responds with, "Oh Caesar! The pleasure's all mine, I can guarantee it." Her eyes widen with starlit awe as she observes him preparing his questions, but it's that ten second gap of words unspoken that leads her to contemplate, was I too cheery? Did I sound too amused, too excited in spite of the fact I'm likely to die?
No. Lethia told herself she wouldn't be nervous, so she won't be.
"Tell me then," as expected when there's such a small allotment of time for every interview, Caesar cuts straight to the chase, "I'm sure you're aware that your private session score was rather low for a girl from One, so I just have to ask you Lethia, what exactly happened?" His eyes trail to her bandaged hand, lingering just a second too long, "Would it be too blunt of me to assume this injury of yours attributed to your score?"
"Not blunt at all, I promise," she nods her head whilst she speaks in a voice so delicate she hardly recognizes it as her own, "I actually received this injury back in One, if you must know. I'd be willing to divulge its origins if you're interested."
"Oh?" Caesar's eyes widen in intrigue, "Well I'm sure everybody here wouldn't mind a bit of a storytime."
The audience cheers in an act of validation of his claim, so Lethia wastes no time and decides to get onto it, "Now I'm sure you're familiar with my District Partner, Icarus."
"Right." He doesn't say anything in response, just a nod which prompts her to continue, "We were actually quite close friends back in One. And I'll be placing an emphasis on were, as in past tense, since well, as you can imagine, something happened." Lethia raises her crippled hand, a display of her misfortune with the snake of a man. Her mind wanders to the thought of him practically malding, which causes her to chuckle.
It's then that Lethia recognizes her tone. Icarus always referred to it as her "charming mode," her foolproof method of getting anything she wants, which as of now is for all of the Capitol want to burn the very ground he walks on.
"It's safe to say that the school we both attended was fairly competitive, and while I do respect Icarus' academic drive, he surely took things a bit too far," she's unsure how thoroughly she wants to divulge his wrongdoings, since she's well aware she's done the same, and even if she was never as bad, he could always expose her during his interview. "We were good friends, or at least good partners in assuring one another's actions went off without a hitch, but to put it plain and simple, Icarus not valuing the life of anyone but himself was off-putting. He told me that he cared about me and my successes, and I did take that as a compliment, even if I never supported him taking to blackmail and endangerment of others in order to be cast in his role as volunteer."
Lethia realizes the vagueness in her tone and quickly explains herself, "Really what I disliked most was when he stole one of our classmates assignments until he grew delirious to the point of suicide, and then laughed at me when I expressed concern."
"Well, that's certainly awful," a gasp echoes off the crowd so Caesar attempts to lighten the mood, "Surely he has a reason for it though? And what's the relation to that and your hand."
"I'm more than certain that his means are selfish. He saw my decaying father and absent mother and turned me into his little minion, doing as he instructed because he knew I was desperate to win, desperate for money that would heal my aching family, but then he realized that there was a chance I could actually dethrone him," Lethia smiles, knowing she's getting to the good part and now she'll be able to put him in his place. "And so, a few months before the reaping he broke my hand by force after lying to me and saying he wanted to see my nails, all because he was jealous an empowered woman could possibly outmatch him. It was clear, he didn't want me to volunteer, and while I command his efforts, and yesterday certainly wasn't a great day, I'm here now, so who's the real winner?"
It seems that her triumphance resonates with the audience, small claps sounding off the walls that soon heighten into a full round of applause, so Lethia bats her eyes and says, "I was wrong for trusting him, I know this is true. But I promise I'll be right when he's dead and gone, and you're all screaming my name once more."
"I admire the confidence, truly," Caesar says with an obvious sense of empathy for her, "And I guess that explains why the typical alliance of One, Two, and Four seems to have dissolved before the Games even began?"
"Precisely," she bites her lip, "I trust you agree with me when I say there's nothing wrong with refusing to work with my abuser, and taking along Beowulf with me so he's not Icarus' next unfortunate target."
He nods, "And then the girl from Twelve?"
"Yes Vancouver. She's quite skilled, as her performance yesterday demonstrated, and strength in numbers is always important," Lethia reflects on her audience, her tone masking her insecurity and nerves about working with the two of them. It's true, they're good enough on paper to make a formidable team, but with Icarus still trying to linger in Beowulf's head, she's begun to wonder whether or not it's worth it. Still, staying with them until she notices a major risk for her safety doesn't hurt, especially as her injury lingers, "I haven't got a clue what's going on with the other partitions of our alliance, but I promise you that my group will not be one that should be messed with."
Caesar looks down at his watch, realizing her time is nearly up then asking, "Is there anything you'd like to add, Lethia? I really appreciate all you've shared with me today."
"Father, all of this fighting is for you and I know that I'll make you proud when I come home," she looks into the audience with her most vibrant smile of the evening, "And Icarus, I'd watch that back of yours if I were you, it's about time you learn what happens when you fly too close to the sun."
Hedy Lovelace. 16.
District Three Female.
Tw. Alcoholism and child abuse
The applause is definitely a bit intimidating to her. Hedy's never been in such a situation, where there's people calling her name, clapping their hands in enthusiasm for her very presence. It's intimidating, yes, but that doesn't mean Hedy minds it, even if she's always prided herself on being rather reserved. Because positive attention is certainly foreign to her, lord knows her father never gave it to her, and whenever Monet came knocking on her door it was more out of concern than admiration. Not that she minded that, really she didn't, it's just most certainly led to a feeling of slight discomfort as Caesar's bare palm meets one of the long velvet gloves her stylist's provided her, centerstage before he leads her to a chair.
Hedy's feel are crossed in a dainty fashion, the black and white striped skirt portion of her dress elegantly hanging off her kneecaps, whilst her arms are rested on top of them. One of the few good things Hugo Lovelace ever did was teach Hedy the importance of etiquette and good posture, and such lessons don't go unused now.
Before Caesar can ask his first question, she takes the initiative to address him first and say, "How are you this evening?"
She hears a few audience members coo in admiration of her, which makes Hedy smile, Caesar blushing ever so slightly then answering, "It was rather kind of you to ask me that, thank you. I'm actually doing great this evening, and yourself?"
"Well, I'm here with you so I've decidedly never been better," there's a clear charm in her voice which he quickly catches on to, the somewhat tense look on his face softening, "if only I'd known that this place was as glorious as people say it is."
"What do you mean?" Caesar ponders, leaning forwards onto the side of his chair with slight amusement.
Hedy curls a strand of her bright auburn hair, longer now due to the stylist's temporary extensions, "People in Three, and in all the Districts I reckon, would say that the Capitol is just a lie," she realizes he doesn't quite understand what she's saying so she elaborates further, "they'd say a place this nice isn't possible. So now I'm trilled to be able to prove them wrong. Seriously, the Capitol is a dream. I can certainly see why Liana Taylor would leave Three in the dust for it."
She's not lying (for once), as Hedy does actually enjoy the Capitol quite a bit. Mainly the luxury, and the fact she no longer has to worry about feeling out of place the way she did in Three with her expensive taste and uppity dialect. These are my people, she muses with a smile on her face, this is where I'm actually supposed to be.
Really, Three was just a prison for Hedy, and now she's on her final trial, standing on death row in hopes they'll let her free. That's the one thing she clothes about the Capitol, actually— the fact it still has power over me, when she's so terribly convinced she'd be better off if she was always living here, and those sycophants in Three could rot on their own, fucking people pleasers. Hedy's never been like that; the only person she needs to please is herself.
"Did you dislike Three?" Caesar asks as if he could hear her inner monologue.
It's a difficult question for her to answer, especially when the better part of Three's watching her, and likely rooting for her too because it's not like Claude and his pint-sized ally could ever possibly be viable to win, just logistically speaking. The only person below sixteen to win was Liana herself, so the Nine boy's certainly screwed and so is Claude just by association.
––But back to the question. Hedy bites her lower lip and says with earnesty, "Three has too many old wounds which can't be healed, if I'm being frank. I've always wondered if a fresh start would be better for me."
"Oh?" She gets the feeling that Caesar wants her to elaborate but Hedy's unsure how much of her childhood trauma she needs to unpack for the entire country. The dead mom thing's easy enough to mention, though it seldom stirs any emotions in her considering she hardly remembers the lady. Hugo's "tragedy" is of course its own special case, and not one that she can easily speak of, at least not the ending…
…Though evoking sympathy does have its advantages.
"My father and I always had problems," Hedy begins her woeful tale, matter-of-fact and stern though she knows she'll have to dip into emotions later. "It all started when my mother died–– now don't pity me for that, don't cry I hardly remember her ––he basically blamed me for it, and just began to completely loathe me."
"That's not very fair," Caesar sympathizes with her, and it's a bit genuine too, "I'm sorry to hear that."
"You haven't even heard the worst of it," her face softens and he sits more upright in his seat, "I was always hard on myself growing up, but he was my worst critic. And alcohol definitely had an influence on that, which is miserable considering a glass of red wine has always seemed like it would go well with my aesthetic."
The audience slightly chucked at that, but it's reserved because even Capitolites seem to know that inebriated child abuse is no laughing matter. She counts three seconds of sustained silence in her head and then continues, "Never did I think that I would have to fight my own father."
"What do you mean?" Caesar raises a brow, and rightfully so, which Hedy doesn't mind since it gives her time to phrase the way she'll divulge the next detail of her tale.
"He tried to kill me, Caesar," it's a lie, but not much of one considering he probably would've actually tried to kill her if she'd let him abuse her any longer, "my father tried to take one of his bottles to my head and murder me, saying he wished it was me who was dead instead of my mother."
"Well then," his eyes widen, clearly concerned, "please tell me you're no longer living with him."
"Oh, well of course not," Hedy shrugs, "He missed his strike with the bottle, so I did the only thing my body would let me do, which was grab onto the bottle myself at hit him in the face," the audience gasps, somewhat in horror. "I know, it sounds disgusting, and it was, especially when I had to sit there as they declared it a suicide because I was too ashamed to admit that I had done something so horrible, and I feel guilty for it every day. Maybe he could've gotten better, but at twelve years old, all I knew was that he'd been mistreating me… and I just wanted to end all of that pain. Maybe killing myself would've been easier."
"No, no," Caesar scurries in his seat and extends his arms, "your father sounded like a horrible person––"
"––He was."
"And you shouldn't feel horrible for doing what you had to do to protect yourself. That's what the Hunger Games are all about anyways, right?" His words don't particularly bring her comfort since that was never what she needed, but she does appreciate him justifying her actions to the entirety of the Capitol so that she doesn't have to. And she knows he's done a good job too because Hedy does notice a few audience members sounding off in applause for her.
"That's an interesting way of phrasing it," Hedy pretends to think a bit before her response, "and it actually makes me feel much better, so thank you for that."
"Well thank you for being so polite to me at the beginning of our interview," he repeats extending his hand once more from his seat, which Hedy happily takes, "I wish you the best of luck."
With a nervous laugh, she rises from the leather seat and says, "I wish myself the best of luck as well," walking off the stage with a bounce in her step.
But as she walks through the red curtains, an important thought enters her mind, How do I explain this to Verdigris?
Calsin Verrillo. 18.
District Four Male.
Much like just about everything, the interview is just another thing he can't wait to get over and done with. Arms crossed backstage and a sheepish grin on his face, Calsin watches as Atlantis charms Caesar practically to death, the young man completely oblivious to how aggressively he's being played by that sorry excuse for a girl. His shoulders tense up as Caesar clamors on about how it was "an absolute pleasure and privilege," to speak to her, and he soon finds a familiar voice ringing in his ear––
"Don't worry about it," Crista Cray cups her hand around his upper arm, sincerity in her voice, "there's no need to try and be better than her, I promise. You can just be yourself, Calsin."
He rolls his eyes, "Well if she was 'being herself' or whatever, then she wouldn't have actually done well," and there's a sense of envy Calsin has for the fact Atlantis can be so charming to others, yet when he tries to do the same his embitterment simmers and burns to a crisp. He's long given up on the idea that trying to please people will ever go in his favor, but that doesn't mean he's without spite towards the sociopaths and their ability to twist others with words when his own personal words have just fucked him over time and time again.
In a way, he's even a bit jealous of her, 'cause lord knows how much easier my life would be if I could just talk people into weakening themselves for me, and I could use the fact I'm sad, poor, and don't know better as an excuse, even if it's wrong. Still, Calsin can't admit that, can't admit that there's any bit of Atlantis Seasbane he envies, because he's better than her, dammit. Not even an argument when she's left a trail of blood and lies in Four and all he has is a legacy of trying his best, but it never being enough.
...Yet of course, I'm the Verrillo who's here now, he muses, still disillusioned with the fact that he's never been enough for his family, but now he's the one who's achieved their dreams by being "chosen" for the Games. So on paper he's their best, but pshh, we all know that's not enough. If it was enough, then his parents wouldn't fucking hate him more than they ever hated Sevilin, because it turns out, that's actually possible when you're me–– the absolute lowest of the low in a family of golden spoons and fortune, and he isn't sure if his awful luck can even be considered the catalyst of his misery at this point. Surely Calsin's had to have done something wrong.
"She's going through a lot right now," Crista whispers, as if Calsin didn't remember last night. The yelling and the screaming and Atlantis running into her room like a maniac, like she'd been told she had a few months to live, like when he yelled when confronted by Shane.
I'd think a gal' like her would be happy to be told that after all this, she's the fuckin' messiah, but really Calsin's given up on trying to understand Atlantis at this point. He shakes his head at Crista, says "I get it," when he really doesn't and never will, but she keeps staring at him like she's expecting him to say something else. Tough luck, he's saving all his words for Caesar.
Sevilin had once told him when they were talking about the Games, "everyone loves a little asshole they can root for," and Calsin'll be just that tonight. That could've been Icarus, but he's far too pompous to admit he has a wooden stake wedged up crack, probably why he gets along with Atlantis so well, now that he thinks of it. The two of them are going to be a nightmare in the arena, he's already loathing that practical match made in hell.
His name is called so Calsin begins to walk onto the stage, head held high even when he passes Atlantis who hisses, "Good luck," through gritted teeth at him. After shaking Caesar's hand, he slouches back in the chair a smidge, because fuck being some perfectly poised little Capitol bootlicker with perfect posture. Calsin's a man of the people so he might as well act like one.
"Well what brought you to the Games?" Caesar asks with a sense of urgency, probably bored of the typical volunteer rationale of bringing honor to ones District tied with smidge of sentimentality that's become a common answer. Well, common save for Ellie who straight-up didn't answer the question and instead asked Caesar why he's so obsessed with her, which is just classic Ellie, the one good thing about this place.
Calsin's refreshingly honest with him though, wiping away the sweat underneath his eyelids, a result of the hot lights on the stage and saying, "You think this was my choice?"
Caesar holds back a chuckle, "Well considering you did volunteer for the Games, yes."
"Right but that wasn't my choice," he puts his head in his palms and snickers, "and it actually really fucking sucks, because I did want to be in the Games for a long long time, though of course that's changed."
"You're here now though!" Caesar tries to reason with him, which doesn't exactly work, "I don't know your situation, but maybe this means the Games are your destiny."
Good lord, he just does not fuckin' get it, though obviously Caesar wouldn't, he has the privilege of being removed from Four and all it's fuckery, "To be completely honest, a pageant where there's a significantly high chance I leave dead doesn't seem like the ideal destiny." A few people laugh at that comment, so Calsin continues before he can be interrupted, "Really, this was my parents idea, not mine. They were so convinced they needed to raise a kid to win the Hunger Games, but after my four older siblings weren't selected, for some fucking reason they didn't get the hint that maybe our wretched family isn't fit to win the Games."
"But maybe you are?" His half-assed support is getting irritating, but of course Calsin can't say that to Caesar's face, "I take it your parents 'forced' you to volunteer then? Still, that's a huge honor, representing District Four and––"
"Man, fuck District Four," Calsin stammers, a collective gasp consuming the crowd, "I have absolutely zero desire to represent that abusive, nonsensical, soul-crushing excuse of a place, Caesar."
It's true. The only thing about District Four that he's representing is the fact a rather large portion of it wants him dead, so his hypothetical victory was never for them anyway. Especially when they'd shoot him to the floor the second he returned if he didn't get the chance to tear their heads off first.
"Well, then what do you represent?" Caesar inquires, sensing Calsin's anger and clearly wanting to move the conversation elsewhere, though it does make him wonder––
I've always represented myself, even at home I was the punk, the misfit, the reject who was probably an accident because any rational parent would stop having kids after Sev— but it's beyond that because, hell I represent Adrian, don't I? He's probably the only person rooting me on back home as I make a fool out of myself without even trying. That can't be all Calsin Verrillo represents though. Representing a tall and handsome boy with golden skin that shines like magic in the sun and curly black hair that his fingers have found a home in isn't enough. Because as angry as he is, Calsin Verrillo represents peace–– Down with the Collective! Fuck them all! I'll make them squirm 'till their guts hang loose, which somehow would lead to a happy ending. District Four could be the beautiful paradise tourism magazines always call it if he could just get that fucking cult out of the way.
In a District on fire, Calsin's determined to be the waves it's supposed to be overflown with. He'll change the tides for the good, so that nobody has to do what he's doing, nobody has to hurt the way he does… because shit just, nobody deserves it. He really does envy Ellie, envy Sevilin for leaving that shithole when they got the chance, but somehow he's got to find it in himself to make everything alright, in honor of them all.
"I represent myself," he speaks soft and slow, like his previous agitation's been completely cured, "But beyond that, I represent my brother, and I represent my friend Adrian, and I represent peace too."
There's a confused look on Caesar's face, and the audience isn't quite sure if they're supposed to clap at his near-mania, but since when has Calsin ever done things to please other people anyway?
It's his stage now, and he just hopes Atlantis is ready to dance.
Mozi Hongqi. 18.
District Six Female.
Orange has never been her color.
Sure, her stylist told her that the reason she's wearing this jumpsuit is because "it goes so well with your skin, trust me," but Mozi knows that's bullshit. She's wearing orange because she's the Capitol's prisoner now, their pet, who they watch through metal bars as she kicks at the dirt in her cell, scoffs at how she's basically an animal in a zoo to them.
But no— no, Mozi should be grateful. She should be grateful that they're giving her the opportunity to have an interview, even if that's solely 'cause they don't want people to ask questions when she doesn't take the stage. Or when Mal and Judas don't take the stage either, since their dumb asses somehow wound up in this pseudo-jail with her.
Or, it wasn't "somehow." Judas told her about the two of them's little adventure in arson, which is fucking hilarious, and an actual valid reason to be thrown in a cell, unlike what she did. Because truth be told, Mozi doesn't get why she was punished for her private session. The whole point was for her to showcase her skills to the best of her ability, and so what if that meant desecrating a corpse? Surprise, surprise, she was already dead, it might as well turn into something entertaining. And clearly it was entertaining considering they gave her a high score for it, but Mozi's grown increasingly worried that's solely for the purpose of making her a target.
Not that Mozi's unfamiliar with being a target, Kadenza's death certainly made a few people point their fingers at her on the streets, but at least they were too drugged up to attempt to kill her. She's fairly certain Malin and Judas will have some switches turned at them so they're targeted just the same, but Mozi can't let that be her problem. They're good company, yes they're really good company, but she has to be an independent entity. Rangani is counting on her being her own person, not the ringleader of this little circus she's somehow got herself twisted into.
But lord, does Mozi Hongqi love herself a circus.
"You better not try anything out there," a Peacekeeper unlocks her handcuffs and gestures towards the stage, the utter disrespect in his voice enough to make her nauseous.
"I wouldn't dream of it," she says, batting her eyelashes and telling the truth because unlike her allies, she's actually taking this seriously.
That's the only way to fully set herself free, after all. As enjoyable as their chaos is, Mozi needs to make an effort to distance herself from it, especially in the Capitol's eyes since they see Mal and Judas as practical criminals while she's just "a tad fucked in the head." She knows that the two of them are fans of rebeling with warfare and flames, but Mozi's perfectly fine letting her words outperform her actions just this once.
Not that she doesn't disagree with them, the Capitol is utter trash. Fundamentally, yes the world should be dog eats dog, but too many people here are meaningless cucks coming from old money, basically her father. It's strange, she thought maybe she'd like it, but instead she sees Xunzi's face on every body she comes across.
As embarrassing as it is, Mozi acts like she was born to wear the shitty orange jumpsuit when she walks on stage, initiating the handshake with Caesar as opposed to the other way around, a quick way to establish her dominance from the get-go.
"Thank you for taking the time to interview me today," she masks the apathy in her voice when she speaks to him, tucking her hair behind her ears and winking ever so slightly.
He nods, "Thank you for joining me. You've gotten quite the reputation in just your few days here, Ms. Mozi. Such a high score, yet you've chosen to ally with the worst performing Tribute in Panemian history, who's now broken the law alongside your other ally. What's the rationale behind that?"
She's unsure how to answer such a loaded question, especially since the two of them can hear whatever she's bound to say, so she'd be an idiot to throw them under the bus. That can come later, if it ever does come, Mozi's still unsure.
"I like to help others," part of her is worried that she sounds too obvious when she lies, "like how I did back home."
It's a shitty enough answer that he somehow buys, "How did you help people?"
"I offered support to Six's underage sex worker population," Mozi sighs, hands propped up in her lap. "It's truly terrible out there, so many girls and even a few boys dying on the streets, never even having a chance to do well. I provided them resources so that they could at least have a chance at making it, and I figure it's only fair I do the same for Judas and Mal."
Hopefully the two of them get a good laugh at her answer, even if there is a semblance of truth in the fact they'd likely be nothing if it weren't for her. They'll help her survive though, she hopes at least. And if she decided to jump ship, they're easy enough to cut down. She just… isn't sure she can, which is a dilemma she never wanted in a million years. Mozi Hongqi lives for herself and for Rangani, and for the beautiful life they've created together. She can't let empathy for other people get in the way. She can't have that.
Still buying it, Caesar digs deeper, "That's actually… unexpected and beautiful of you, Mozi. Thank you."
"My girlfriend was on the streets once," tears form in Mozi's eyes, partially fake but there's also some truth, "and everything I do is for her. Rangani, baby I know you're listening, and I just want you to know that I love you, and I hope I can possibly come home to kiss you again."
It was simpler at home, when she just had Rangani to think about, and she could wake up every day with the smaller girl nestled in her arms, a smile creeping on her lips as Mozi kissed her temples to start the day. It was just them against the world, screaming in schadenfreude with every successful hustle, every bitter victory, every hard earned dollar that entered their pockets. They'd spend nights fantasizing about what they were saving for, perhaps a penthouse apartment? Or maybe someday they'd open their own club, and it would be more casual and less filled with sycophantic perverts. Hell, in some timeline, she could even see herself mothering a child with Rangani, raising her to right every wrongdoing her father committed during her childhood.
Which is why she hates the growing love she feels for Malin and Judas, feels like it's her heart playing a trick on her so she can screw herself over in the end. Opening herself up to Rangani was a feat in it of itself, and she can't soften for two more people, especially now, even if she can't help herself from wanting to.
They're supposed to be her tools, not her friends. Mozi can't let herself forget that.
"That's beautiful," Caesar says in regards to her comments on Rangani, expected since every Capitolite just loves a good love story, "I hope the two of you can be reunited too, whenever that may be."
His lack of apathy towards her grows to be confusing. She's supposed to be hated, which is why she was locked up? She's supposed to be a monster and a threat, yet Caesar seems so amicable. It's almost remnant of Six's brief avoidance of her after Kadenza. Just select assholes judging her without understanding her reasoning, without understanding how afraid she is of losing it all when she's already so far gone.
"As do I," she smiles, because once again Six's possible fantastical future returns to her head. She can't lose it, she knows in her heart she can't fuck around and do something that's going to fuck it up.
And deep down, she also knows that if she continues to string the two of them around, she's no better than her father and the way he treated her and Liezi. That's the unfathomable truth, and she isn't sure what she can possibly do to work around it.
She walks off the stage unsure of who she is, unsure of what lies ahead of her, and unsure if that even matters in the grand scheme of her. Mozi takes pride in the identity of Dr. Prettylips, Rangani's lover, but maybe now's the time where she strips that away.
Ayyo! Interviews part one down the hatch mmm I didn't hate this chapter that much, and that is a good thing because I typically hate interviews. There is a part two which you can expect next week with 4 more interviews, and hopefully that'll also be good xx let me know what you all think if you have the time to do so, we're nearly a month out from the bloodbath and I can't wait to show you all that I have planned.
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds