XXII. A Ticking Timebomb
But since we have digressed abundantly,
Turn back thine eyes forthwith to the right path,
So that the way be shortened with the time.
Judas Nazario. 18.
District Seven Male.
With dirt on his thighs and dust on his face, it's safe to say that he's fucking miserable. He's always been a classy fellow, well-dressed and hygienic no matter the occasion, and sitting in a pile of filth wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt has never been something on Judas' agenda.
Fuckin' stupid, he muses, digging his finger through the dirt in front of him for the umpteenth time as if it'll prove to be any sort of entertainment, it's not like I even hurt anybody, I don't deserve to be here, rotting just hours before he's launched into his actual future grave, or, hopefully not.
It's not like his lighter actually had enough fuel to fully incinerate the rollercoaster, it was a pretty small device after all, but of course the Peacekeeper's intervened, decided to throw a bitch fit and lock Judas up like he was some sort of acrimonious animal, as if the Games aren't punishment enough. It was a stunt meant to get him some much needed attention, but this wasn't exactly the kind he was hoping for.
At least he had his interview; he's definitely grateful that he was able to address the Capitol, his future subjects even if it were just for a brief period of time. He's lucky they ate his words like they were candy, not that he expected anything else, because hell if he can get a semi-decent training score while barely wearing clothing, he can do anything, and lord knows I will.
His allies are in the other corner of the cell, drawing patterns in the dirt and laughing at themselves far more than whatever their art is actually worth, and Judas could theoretically go over to them, because that would make sense considering they're all allies, but he can't help but feel inherently excluded by them, which is bullshit. I'm probably getting in my head too much, still the Sixes seem to have an inseparable bond, attached at the hip whenever possible, while Judas is the odd one out, never fully able to enjoy their jokes or relate to them.
It's a familiar feeling though, Judas seldom remembers a time where he wasn't out of place, growing up in Julius' shadow even if he was only three minutes younger, being told by his father that he ought to "mind his business" like his sister Jules, good lord, I never had a chance now did I? The lack of connection between him and Julius has always been most bothersome, they're identical twins, supposed to be two peas in a pod, yet whenever Judas spoke to him, he'd be dismissed with a gruff expression and somehow gaslit into thinking that his lack of relevance in his own family was his fault.
It was always, "Put down the magic trick Judas. Go make yourself useful like your brother."
"You can't just live in a fantasy forever, Judas. Mom's dead, and no trick's going to bring her back to life."
"Are you just going to sit around and feel sorry for yourself all day? Grow a spine!"
Sometimes he wishes they perished in the fire too, then there wouldn't be a chance in hell that Judas ever had to see them again, 'cause he knows that if he makes it out of the arena with a pulse, his father'll be waiting at the train station with open arms, "There's my little victor!"
And Judas won't be able to knock him down, because really he hates to admit that his desperation for love and acceptance has grown so dire, he'd go back to his abuser in a heartbeat. That's not a dilemma he wishes to have.
Maybe Wesley would take me back though, Judas laughs at that thought, dating a victor's sure to boost his ego, which is all he ever cared about anyway. He can't lie and say he isn't the same, but it's not my fault that not everybody knows who I am. Soon they will though, soon they will.
Deciding to make good use of his evening, Judas hollers at the Sixes, "Maybe we should do something besides drawing penises in the dirt?"
"We actually were drawing stars, you degenerate," Mozi looks up and glares, her intentions clearly well-meaning, "is there something else you think we should do?"
"Um, actually yes," he coughs into his arm and gestures for the two of them to come closer to him, "I was sort of thinking we could maybe possibly discuss our plans for the death pageant we're entering in less than a day."
Judas watches Malin's as they mouth something to Mozi, the lighting too dim for him to make out what he's saying. When she laughs in response, Judas wishes that he knew what Malin had said, but I'll never know. And it doesn't matter anyway. He should just accept that he's not important to them, split off while he has the chance. But he won't, because all that would do is isolate him, make him so lonely when all he wants is to have some sort of connection with the people around him, and it would make him vulnerable too. Maybe the Sixes will like him more if he can make a good plan though. Or maybe they do already like him and Judas is just being stupid and paranoid. That would definitely track.
"Seems smart," Mozi cocks her brow as she walks alongside Malin to Judas' wall, "you have anything in mind?"
That's something he's thought long and hard about, strategy, and it's proven to be somewhat difficult. Much like poker, the Hunger Games are as equally a contest of luck as they are one of skill, an array of unknown variables that could easily flop due to circumstances beyond his control. It's all about the setup, making sure that you have a sustainable way to survive without needing to go out looking for supplies, because that's pretty much asking to fold. If they don't line up their cards in the proper order, they'll never be able to see through the bluff's of the other Tributes, and the best they can hope for is simply breaking even, which isn't enough for Judas. If he's going to win the Games, he'll do it in a glorious way, laying low until he's ready to make his grand entrance and dazzle everyone else.
But he's not sure his allies will agree. All three of them are undeniably flashy and flamboyant, so he isn't sure they can both stay put long enough that the competition can truly dwindle. Surely they'll want a few bloodbath kills to assert their dominance, which directly goes against Judas' idea of laying low, though he figures he'll ask anyway––
"We lay low until there's ten or so people left," he begins, the confidence in his voice already wavering, "grab a few things from the Cornucopia at the beginning without causing trouble, and then we just hunker down until the moment is right."
A look of confusion instantly springs on Malin's face, their lips moving to form the shape of the words, "I don't think we can just grab a few things from the Cornucopia unscathed."
"I see your logic Judas, but they make a good point," Mozi nods her head in agreement with her District partner, "Hunkering down does seem wise, but I don't think we can just walk in and out of the cornucopia like we're grocery shopping. We have to be ready to get our hands dirty."
"But that risks making enemies," Judas pleads, beginning to wonder why he even bothered making such a suggestion to them, "if we fight people, I mean. Obviously we're all here to kill one another, but I'd personally like to avoid pissing people off for as long as possible. If we spill any blood, it just puts bigger targets on our back."
"So we just kill those without alliances," Malin mouths, a giddy expression on their face, "that way we prove our prowess and get sponsors, without making too many people mad at us."
"You really think that people are going to sponsor the three lunatics who got themselves locked up in a prison within a prison, right off the bat?" He grunts and lays back flat on the ground, immersed completely in his own frustration, "The best we can do is grab a few things and run, so we avoid becoming targets. You think the Careers are going to play nice with us if they see us killing right away? Hell no, they'll hunt after us and we'll be dead day two."
"Not unless we kill more than them," Mozi chimes in, clearly disturbed with what Judas is saying, "If we win the Cornucopia, nobody messes with us. If we win the Cornucopia, we've instantly got a better chance of winning it all."
"I agree with Mozi," as if it wasn't already obvious, Malin mouths.
"We'll see then," Judas scoffs and then shuts his eyes, wishing that he could either disappear or go back home where he wouldn't have to worry about whether or not he can kill someone. Because even if he tries to act tough, Malin and Mozi are more hardened than him. They've killed up close with their hands while Judas had to let the fire do the job, and he's not sure he can emulate them in that sense.
He's once again the fifty-third card in a deck of thirty-two, which means he'll do anything to not be shoved in the trash. All bets are off, he sighs, hoping that the silence will lull him off to sleep, fuck the odds, I can make my own luck.
Everything in Judas' heart is telling him that it's time to split off, become his own soldier, yet he knows there's strength in numbers, so that's what keeps him anchored to their boat. He just needs to make it known that he's the main player in his game, and the other two are just backup. Soon the cards of life will turn over, and it'll be a royal flush of Judas' face in the spotlight.
Verdigris Ahane-Voclain. 16.
District Five Tribute.
Tw. child abuse, domestic abuse, drugs, prostitution
"Are you fucking kidding me?" they roll their eyes when their mentor Porter hands them a cream-colored envelopewith their name on it, "What the fuck is this?"
"Language," Porter says, furrowing her brows, "and I have no idea what it is, it was just left here on the doorstep. If you're so curious, you open it."
Verdigris grunts as they tear through the parchment , a folded up piece of paper inside with eloquent lettering which reads:
Please meet me upstairs on the rooftop at approximately 10:30pm.
There are many things I wish to discuss, and the situation is dire.
I hope to see you there, if you know what's best for you.
Cheers,
You know who.
The fuck does Hedy want with me? They wonder, not particularly wanting to speak with their ally at the current moment, or any moment for that matter. As soon as she walked into the greenroom after her interview, Verdigris had wanted to scream at her, "You fucking liar!" after she went on a rant onstage about how she killed her own father, and she liked it too, fucking disgusting.
They'd cared for Hedy, opened up to her about Viridian and his alcoholism in an attempt to sympathize with her, and for what? Their situations couldn't have been further from the same, because Hedy fuckin' killed her father instead of being a decent human being and helping him to get better, the same way they had been helping Viridian. And oh how Verdigris now loathes themself for believing Hedy's bullshit, spilling some of their secrets after Hedy spilled hers, and probably lied to me even more in the process, because they should've been smarter, shouldn't have been so trusting when Hedy never really gave them a reason to trust her. Or, she did, but it was just a trap that I was too stupid to avoid, they muse in discontent.
And now Hedy wants to speak to them, because she probably feels the need to, "talk through this like civil people," or some bullshit of that nature. They're preemptively disgusted by the look Hedy will wear on her face as she begs, "Please forgive me for being a murderer!"
I should have never given her a chance, the more Verdigris thinks about it, the more they hate themself, why the hell did I give her a chance?
"I'm not going," they decide, dropping the letter to the ground and folding their arms.
"Well that's not wise of you," Porter scolds them, the same way she's been doing all week whenever they exhibit a bad attitude, "if you don't go to this meeting, I doubt Hedy will be very forgiving of you tomorrow."
"Shi—" Verdigris quickly stops themself from cursing again, "Darn, you're right."
Though they do have a sinking feeling that Hedy's probably out to get them anyways, just… perhaps it would be best for Verdigris to prolong said incident for as long as possible, they just keep wondering, why would somebody kill their own family?
Even if Hedy said that her father abused her and tried to kill her first, Verdigris doesn't understand. And it's not even because they've been sheltered or anything, they certainly haven't, just… Viorel always taught them to forgive, but at the same time maybe some things truly are unforgivable.
"See you later then," Porter waves, but Verdigris doesn't do the same, instead taking deep breaths as they walk to the elevator, pushing down on the call button again and again until the vessel arrives and then grabbing on to the rail and pressing the letter "R" for rooftop. It's deadly quiet, and Verdigris hears the machine clank against the exit point for every floor, the number growing higher until they pass Floor 12 and arrive at the rooftop.
"Here goes nothing," they mutter to themself as they step onto the concrete.
A sense of dread fills their stomach with every step, practically consuming them from the inside out along with irrational thoughts that maybe Hedy did this for the sake of killing them now and getting it over with. A shadow approaches from the distance, lurking closer and closer to them until they realize who it is. Instead of Hedy, there's a well dressed woman with long black hair and a tight-fitting red dress standing in front of them, a devious grin on her face that Verdigris could never forget, no matter how hard they tried.
"Mayuko?" They whisper in disbelief that the woman they haven't seen in nearly a decade is here of all places.
She walks closer to them, as if she's going to embrace them in a hug, though she stops right before they touch, "Please, you're allowed to call me mom."
"Never," Verdigris scoffs, spitting at the ground, "not after what you did to my father. What the hell are you doing here?"
Suddenly the idea of meeting with Hedy seems rather pleasant. Literally anything would be better than being faced to face with Mayuko Aoki, the woman who ruined their father's life, destroyed him until he was basically skin and bone, and then broke him even more. She's somebody Verdigris never thought that she would have to see again, not since they ran off with Viorel from the north side of Five down south, and yet…
"You know I have my ways of getting places… I had to see my favorite daughter one last time," Mayuko says, bitting her lip to mask the venom in her words, Verdigris finding themself unable to correct her regarding their gender, "I never thought I would see you again!"
That's what I was hoping, they think, but their musings are quickly cut off by a high-pitched voice in the distance––
"She's your favorite what now?" the voice, a female one shrieks.
From behind a lamppost in the distance, a younger girl with long silver hair and pale white skin emerges, standing by Mayuko and smiling, "I thought I was your favorite––"
"Enough," she puts her hand over the child's mouth, "Verdigris, I want you to meet somebody. After you and your father broke my heart, I was lucky enough to fall in love with a handsome man, back here where I belong. And Hollister and I, my lover, and I, were lucky enough to have a child together. Say hello to Violet…"
"Her name is what now?" They stammer, appalled by the similarities between this child's name and their father's, "You're ridiculous."
"Please," Mayuko again walks closer to them, hands on her hips as to assert her dominance, "I just missed you guys, that's all. It was rather rude of you to leave me like you did."
They ran from Mayuko because she'd taken everything from them. They ran from Mayuko because she'd tortured Viorel, day in and day out… pinned him to the wall and treated him like a doll, blaming him for Verdigris' birth, blaming him to every action known to mankind, treating him like a war criminal in their own home and forcing their child to watch as he slowly fell to pieces.
They still remember what Mayuko would tell them as they bound Viorel in leather, injecting his thighs with drugs to watch him stammer, "This is all going to be your world someday, Verdi. Aren't you excited?"
She'd sell him to anybody who would possibly want to brutalize him, that poor slip-up of a girly boy who would kneel on the ground in the dark, arms held up to the sky as he prayed for something, anything to take him, and make the world stop before he whispered to himself, "Maybe I deserve it. Maybe this is how she loves me."
And Verdigris would be present for it all, every yelling match that ended with skin flayed on the ground, broken glass piercing Viorel's skin. They saw everything their mother did to him, and recoiled every time she told them, "You're going to be just like me today."
The heir to the Aoki clan, their ring of sex and drugs traveling from the Capitol and beyond. It was an accident they were born, they knew it damn well yet Mayuko always would say, "I'm glad it's you following in my footsteps."
They want nothing to do with it. They've never wanted anything to do with Mayuko Aoki, the Lady of Pain and the worst excuse for a mother ever imaginable.
…But at least they thought they were safe, and they'd never see her again, and they'd never have her––
Mayuko cups Verdigris' chin in her hand, acrylic nails digging into their flesh, "It can still be all yours, you know. Violet's just a replacement, you've always been my favorite."
"That's not true!" The child screams, so Mayuko turns her head to glare at her, "Why are you even here?"
I don't know, they think, but their knees are buckled and they can't find their way to safety, aren't even sure what safety would mean now that Mayuko's reestablished herself as the ghost in their head, haunting them until, "I'm going to die. If you actually did care about me, you would've relocated my father and I to the Capitol so this wouldn't happen."
"But maybe I wanted to raise a victor," she winks, "maybe that's what I needed for our business to thrive."
"I don't give a fuck about your stupid business," Verdigris thrashes their arms, slamming at Mayuko's ribs though she doesn't even flinch, "and Violet, how dare you let her treat your father like that."
They remember all the times they tried (and failed) to intervene in Viorel's torture, never enough to rid Mayuko of her madness.
"My mother and my father get along great," the child beams, eyes somehow innocent and sinister at the same time.
"It's true," Mayuko finally lets go of them, yet they can't find it in themself to run, "Hollister is my equal, but that doesn't mean I don't miss my doll."
"You'll never see him again," Verdigris screams, looking off at the shining lights in the distance, their mothers hidden empire of schadenfreude and trickery, "you'll never see me again either!"
They stomp off to the elevator, but it's not before Mayuko grabs their wrist once more and says, "Remember Verdigris; no matter how hard you try to hide it, I'll always be your mother. I'll always be a part of you. Good luck tomorrow."
"Fuck you," they mutter, stepping through the metal door and crossing their arms.
The vessel returns to Five's floor and Porter immediately notices their bitter expression, "So you and Hedy weren't able to come to an agreement then?"
"Oh no," Verdigris licks their lips and smiles oh-so-slightly, "I actually understand her a lot better now."
Maybe I should've killed my own family just the same… no, they don't mean that. They could never stoop so low as to hurt Mayuko the same way she hurt their father, or maybe I could.
When all's said and done, Verdigris is determined to never be like their mother, and they could see the logic in Hedy spilling blood to never be her father.
It took them long enough, but they finally get it, and with tears dripping down their face they look into the mirror and swear, If I come out of the arena alive, Mayuko better be prepared for a taste of her own venom.
Beowulf Haleot. 18.
District Two Male.
He doesn't want to die.
And Beowulf doesn't think he's going to die, at least… he doesn't think he's going to die yet, but that doesn't explain the feeling of his chest tightening and the walls closing in on him as he sits against a leather cushion in the dining hall of Two's apartment. His palms are sweating and the slice of chocolate cake his escort brought for him has hardly been touched.
Ellie, Ludovicus, and Milan left about twenty minutes ago, all finishing their dessert within ten minutes while Beowulf just had one bite, nodded and said, "very delicious, thanks," then remained silent as the three of them bantered. To be fair, he's never been too gung-ho for chocolate cake in particular; it's usually far too rich for him, and because this specific cake was made in the Capitol, naturally it's even more saturnine than the cake back in Two.
But back to the feeling of dread consuming him whole; Beowulf isn't particularly sure of it's catalyst. He's had three meals every day since getting here (a rarity Glinda would seldom allow, she'd say it's "bad for his health") and he's done his best to avoid overly exhausting himself during training, so that means there's only one explanation for why he feels himself slowly fading from existence. He's nervous.
Anxiety is a feeling he's far too familiar with, from the way he would shake before his yearly kill tests at Raleburgh to the jitters whenever his mother was near. It's become the norm for him, but that doesn't explain why he's anxious now of all times, because it's the night before the Hunger Games, his Hunger Games, and Beowulf knows that all the cards have now been locked in place and there's nothing he can do to change his odds. If he were one of the lower scoring kids from an outer District, now would be the time where he'd be damned if he didn't accept his death, but that's not something he can do as of now.
Because he has a chance, or at least that's what he's been consistently reminding himself in a last-ditch attempt to not feel like shit. But really though, Beowulf Haleot does have more than just a chance in the Games. He's trained for this next week or so, spent all of his life working for this opportunity that he's now been so graciously blessed with, so of course he refuses to let himself give up before it even begins. Really, he's done the best he could possibly do during his time in the Capitol. The alliance between One, Two, and Four didn't work out the way it usually does, but at least Beowulf isn't completely without allies. He has Lethia, and while her performance in training was a bit dubious, she seems to actually genuinely care for his well-being, and Vancouver too has done enough to prove she can pull her own weight, so really all of that should say that the three of them have the best chances out of everyone there.
Except… there's still Icarus and Atlantis with their strong words and scores higher than his, oh and the fact they'll surely be targeting Lethia, all things that don't bode well for him. But he shouldn't worry about it, Beowulf can't worry about that even if the prospect of a nightmare where he wakes up headless draws near, he can't succumb to his own nerves, especially not now.
He's a bit dizzy as he stands from the table to take his barely-eaten cake to the sink, the walls sinking into the ground and the hanging laps spinning in circles with every step he takes. The wooden floorboards melt into a squiggly pattern and his hands begin to shake as he nears the kitchen only for crash! Beowulf looks down to see the plate shattered in a hundred pieces at his feet, the cake now smushed into crumbs on the floor, damnit. I don't envy whoever has to clean that…
His mother's always taught him to be helpful, so he decides to chip in, kneeling on the ground and pushing the white ceramic fragments into a small pile, humming to himself and nearly losing himself in the moment. For a bit, Beowulf is in the sky, playing with clouds instead of a mess made by his own mistakes and the stars are celebrating him in spite of the fact he's doing the bare minimum. In his head, he's celebrated and he's loved, all that he's ever wanted his entire life, though this brief blissful fantasy ends before it can truly begin when––
"Wulfie!" He turns around to see Ludovicus standing over him with a concerned look on his face, "Are you okay?"
Beowulf sighs. He's much too shy to tell Panem's latest and greatest victor that he's never been the sort of person who enjoys having a nickname, but also it sounds nice coming from him instead of one of the bastards back home. "I'll be fine," he nods, continuing to lump the pieces together.
"You know, people can clean that for you," Ludovicus crouches on the ground to get on his level, though he's still much taller than him, "Nice of you to help out though."
"Thanks," Beowulf mumbles, afraid he's embarrassed himself somehow, "I just was trying to feel helpful since it's not like I have much else to do. I'm sorry."
Ludovicus smirks and laughs a bit, "No need to apologize for anything, my man." He offers Beowulf his hand, which he accepts and is then pulled up from the ground, "I was actually planning on reaching out to talk with you at some point tonight. It's been a while since we had a chat, so I was just about to go find you before I heard the plate fall… and well here we are!"
Beowulf really doesn't need Ludovicus worrying for him. He's strong, he's well-trained just like him, and he can do well in the arena on his own. Sure, Ludovicus probably has heaps of good advice, and Beowulf has listened to some of it, but the two of them couldn't be further from the same person. Ludovicus has always been a leader, all-mighty and valiant like the roles in his movie, but Beowulf naturally gravitates to the shadows, and he's fine with that, or at least he thinks he is. Really, he does wish he could slightly emulate Ludovicus and all his charisma, it just feels unlikely and even impossible at this stage in his life.
"I appreciate that," Beowulf nods, now trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible, "you've been so helpful this week." Refusing somebody who so enthusiastically wants to help him is a mistake he'd be an idiot to make, "Want to sit on the couch?"
"Right on," Ludovicus nods with an enthusiastic gesture towards the sofa, silent as they walk over and take seats on opposite sides, "I just wanted to check in on you, I guess. It's been a crazy week, so I want to ask how you're feeling."
Beowulf straightens his posture and shrugs, "I think the Games will be fine."
"No, no, I'm not talking about the Games," Ludovicus says, a confused look forming on Beowulf's face, "I want to know about you. Mentally, how are you feeling?"
And that's all it takes for Beowulf to break.
It's almost embarrassing, how quickly the near-confident expression on his face fades in front of Ludovicus, bewildered by the fact somebody has expressed even the slightest bit of care for him. The nervous feeling Beowulf had minutes ago's returned in full force, this time even worse as the dread of his reality sinks further into his mind.
"I'm fine," he bites his tongue when he lies, but it's obvious Ludovicus doesn't believe him, his brows furrowing which prompts Beowulf to continue, "I'm not, I'm really… I'm not, but it's fine I can get over myself."
He tries to run off the couch, run far away into his room because he's made a mistake, but Ludovicus springs up and grabs his shoulders, "We can talk about it. It's okay if you're not okay, I promise, whatever you tell me, I won't think less of you."
"Okay," Beowulf grunts, closing his eyes because he doesn't want to see Ludovicus' face of possible judgement when he speaks, "I'm afraid. Not of the Games, I've accepted them for what they are, I just… I don't want to be a disappointment."
"To who?" Ludovicus inquires, his voice quiet and soft.
"District Two, Raleburgh, you, my mother," he opens his eyes only to shut them again when he realizes tears have begun to form, "Mainly my mother though."
"Can I ask why?" Still patient with him, Ludovicus sits Beowulf down on the couch, "You're a good kid, but trust me when I say I know some mothers in Two aren't all that great."
"Mine isn't," Beowulf opens his eyes to tears dripping down his cheeks, but it's too late for him to hide them now, "She said… before I left. She said if I died, then she… s––she… she might as well not have a son."
The admission is enough to send him into hysterics. He grabs his stomach and tucks his head into his chest. When he asked his mother what she'd think if for some reason he died, Beowulf was expecting her to say something reassuring, because then he'd know he's on the path meant for him… but instead all he gave him was more to grieve, and really he should've expected it.
Why would she have coddled him now? Why should he have expected it?
Hell, does it even matter? She's probably already disowned him for not scoring the best in training.
He feels Ludovicus hand on his back, lightly patting him and saying, "I'm so sorry Beowulf. You shouldn't have a mother who says those things to you."
"She's… just, I don't… like her. She wants me to be you probably," Beowulf blinks yet his tears continue to fall, "And that's ridiculous. I could never be you."
"And you don't have to be. You have your own assets that I'll never relate to," Ludovicus removes his hands from him, putting them in his lap and grabbing Beowulf's chin, "Look at me and promise me this. The only person you need to prove yourself to is yourself, alright?"
"I'll try," Beowulf wipes at his eyes; he's had enough crying for the day.
Ludovicus extends his pinky finger, "Promise?"
"I promise," he intertwines his finer with Ludovicus and nods, but still, Beowulf is unsure if he can actually push through and defeat his demons.
He sure hopes he does though, not because it'll make his mother happy, but because maybe it'll make him happy.
Atlantis Seasbane. 18.
District Four Female.
Tw. depiction of self-harm, suicidal ideation, child abuse
One hand on wrapped around the vanity's counter and the other in a fist, tears dripping down her face and the ghost of eight years of lies look back at her in the mirror. They scorn Atlantis, tell her she's a fool for believing that a random man who she met on the beach, swept her in from the shores and made her a queen, would actually have good intentions. They laugh at her and the desperate innocence she let herself be consumed with, 'cause oh how she's so fucked in the head, she'd actually think she's special.
"Idiot," Atlantis bites her lip, teeth sinking into skin enough for blood to trickle off her gum and into her mouth, "you're a fucking idiot."
It's been over a day since Calsin revealed the truth, Atlantis was never special, just a means to Shane Odeen's ends, yet she still loathes herself for believing. It didn't make any sense in retrospect, it really was too good to be true, yet she trusted Shane, trusted him in spite of everything she'd ever been told, and all for it to end like this; one hand wrapped around the vanity and the other colliding with the mirror, shattering her wretched facade in jagged pieces on the ground.
It's funny, she thinks, that somebody, something so beautiful could be fragmented so quickly. She was supposed to be that beautiful thing, that extravagant victress with a crown of silver wealth gracing her head, and yet… Atlantis doesn't know if she could possibly attribute any victory to herself, because I've always belonged to Shane.
Her whole life she's been shoehorned to be something she's not, born in misery and raised in dread with her parents shouting until she could practically feel her eardrums rupturing, bursting at the seams like the little morality she was born with.
Nerio never wanted her, said he'd leave her with her mother, the drunk, the wench, because Atlantis' visage was a reflection of hers, and he couldn't have a daughter who looked like his abuser. Instead decided it would be better to leave her to Abenahir's torture and rage.
Leather belts on her back and hot rocks on her palm, Atlantis would always be told, "you're just like your father. You're destined to turn into him."
A demon in her mother's eyes and a monster in her father's, Atlantis Seasbane never really had a chance, never should've believed she did… and yet yet yet, she's so dumb, so braindead she believed that Shane would somehow be different, that he'd see her as herself and not the fractured identity of his previous savior.
She's never claimed to be a messiah, never wanted to be anything special. All she's ever wanted was to be happy, to be enough for somebody, but it seems that's far too much for her to ask.
Atlantis never should've asked for anything at all.
The scars on her arm have hardly healed from her last incident, her last breakdown that was bound to be repeated 'cause she's a monster, a fuckin' plague, she's just like Calsin sees her. Sure, he never said that she's too much of a coward to kill herself which is why she projects her pain onto everyone else, which is why she turns a blind eye when the people around her suffer, says "they were bound to do that anyway, all I did was help." She hurts people because she's too self-important to hurt herself worse, what a fucking coward. She's actually scum, and she doesn't deserve to be here…
All the other trainees in Four did nothing wrong, yet Atlantis wore them to the bone 'cause she was convinced that was what she had to do to prove her worth as flotsam dug up from the ground on a scholarship, she was so determined to prove that the Academy was where she belonged, and it was all for the sake of nothing because she was doomed to stay there forever as Shane's false god.
She feels at home with a shard of the mirror digging through her skin, nearly feels comfortable as she bleeds in retribution for all she's done wrong. Atlantis deserves this; she deserves to feel pain because of all the sins she's racked up on a scoreboard, she deserves the worst of pain and then some. She sure as hell doesn't deserve the Games. She sure as hell doesn't deserve to win either.
Crimson drips on the metallic tiles of the bathroom floor but Atlantis doesn't bother to clean it up. Instead she cuts further, tears lines in her flesh that puff up and ooze a yellow pus. A soul-piercing scream leaves her lips as she falls to the ground, cradling her maimed arm with the other one but still not stopping there.
She can't stop at all, Atlantis can't stop until she's dead. And even if she does die, she can't stop either, 'cause she deserves to go through hell's nine rings before being frozen solid and tossed into the flames. And then she deserves to come back and experience it all over again, and again and again and again.
Her other arm tingles in anticipation for her pain, so she grabs another shard, a sharper one that'll hurt even more and grazes the edge over her clean wrist until there's a knock at the door. A knock followed by a kick, followed by the door swinging over, it's metal handle resounding with a bang against the wall and her mentor Crista Cray stepping through the door.
Great, that's just about the last person I needed to see, Atlantis scoffs then begins to slice her skin, only to be forced back onto the ground, the shard dropping to the ground and Crista's face hanging over hers, get away from me. Get away from me. Get away from me.
She doesn't need Crista, that pitiful mentor who's known all along that Shane never meant anything good yet never had the audacity to tell her. She's just as bad as him for all Atlantis is concerned. Anyone who's known yet not said a word is just as bad as him.
"What do you want?" She hisses, trying to find another shard to sever herself with on the ground, "Leave me alone."
Crista's hand squeezes her wrist, Atlantis' blood coating her fingertips, "I'm sorry, but I'm not doing that."
"Why not?" Atlantis tears herself always from her, slamming her own hand against the ground, "Because you rather I die in the arena instead of here alone? Because you want my death to be a spectacle? You never told me about Shane because you secretly want me dead, don't you."
She grabs onto Atlantis with both hands this time, trying to lift her off the ground despite her stomping and wordless screams, "I don't want you dead, Atlantis. I just want to talk to you. I've been trying to find time to all day, please just let me talk to you."
As if she wants anything to do with me, she thinks, trying to run away from Crista's grip but finding herself unable to with her ankle on her foot, she was just waiting until I was on the road to death 'cause that'll ruin her laughter as I die in front of the entire country.
Maybe that's what Atlantis deserves. Death in private is far too personal, and when she's harmed the public she deserves to die in their presence. Lord, she's so spoiled for thinking she'd get the privilege to die alone the same way she lived.
"Make it quick," she slams the bathroom door behind her and lets herself bleed onto the carpet of her bedroom, not caring of the stains some lowly avox will surely be forced to clean. Which is another thing she did for Shane, killed an innocent criminal because he said a "sacrifice" was the best way to get the Gamemaker's attention, best way to prove her worthy of the crown. Yet she never stopped to wonder what exactly the sacrifice was for, because I'm a fucking idiot, okay?
"Right," Crista sits down beside her, trying her best to maintain the neutral expression on her face, "Do you mind if I get you something to wipe yourself off?" She doesn't wait for Atlantis' response, instead quickly grabbing a white towel from the bathroom and throwing it at her lap. After a few drops of blood taint the linen, Atlantis gives in and presses it to her self-inflicted wound.
"Can I tell you a bit about myself, before I moved to District One, before the Games?" Atlantis rolls her eyes at the prospect of Crista going on a tangent, but nods her head to spare another argument, because at this point she's so fucking tired. "Much like how Shane found you on the beach, he found me once upon a time. My parents had recently died and I was collapsed on the sands, praying for something that could change my life. He told me that he had a solution. Does that sound somewhat familiar?"
Atlantis sighs, "He told me that I had some sort of potential." She wants to erase her first meeting with Shane from her mind, hell she wants to erase everything from her mind still.
"I was told something similar," she reaches to further press the towel against Atlantis' skin. "Shane told me that he'd found a savior in the form of a girl with pale skin and dark hair and eyes. Her name was Lana Lotus, like the Academy— but that's a completely different story. He told me that Lana could help me, and Lana told me the exact same thing."
The name's familiar to her, Lana Lotus of the Twenty-Sixth Games who cut down most of her own alliance only to fall victim to the vices of her past in the end. Shane and the other trainers spoke highly of her, made it seem like she was the best Four ever had, but it never fully clicked in Atlantis' mind that the two of them were supposed to be similar.
"I've heard of her," Atlantis peels back the towel and notices she's no longer bleeding, and though she wishes to bleed more she speaks, "What was she like? All I've heard was that she was a bitch, but a powerful one."
"That's somewhat accurate," Crista chuckles briefly, "I was actually a bit in love with her, and she knew it and took advantage of it—"
"The way I did with everyone else?" Atlantis crosses her arms, lord I can see why Shane would liken me to her. I really didn't do myself any favors, fuckin' wench.
"Well, sure," she shrugs her shoulders and furrows her brow, "but I think that Shane probably encouraged you in some way, no? Did he ever tell you to hurt other people at the Academy?"
Not directly, Atlantis recalls, remembering the times where she'd overhear him complain about some of the other trainees, saying that he wished somebody could show them what their problems were, and that was just… because he wanted me to be her and I was too weak to refuse him, even if I didn't know it. She simply nods.
"As I expected," Crista tilts her head back and sighs in defeat, disturbed that her sick hypothesis is somewhat correct, "I should've talked to you sooner… I just didn't know what to say. And I'm sure you realize by now that Shane made sure you'd volunteer to do what Lana didn't, win and become his new goddess."
"Ironic considering…" Her voice trails off and she lets Crista fill in the blanks, "Thank you for sharing with me, but I still, I'm a bit lost if you couldn't tell."
"I'm sorry," Crista pulls away the towel and takes a look at Atlantis' wounds, "I've thought of doing the same thing, you know? Life sucks, Atlantis. I wish I could say otherwise. Just… if you decide you want to fight in the Games, don't do it for him."
"Wasn't planning on it," she sighs, examining her cuts herself, "Whether I mean fighting for him or fighting at all is something you can interpret yourself."
Crista grabs Atlantis' hand and pulls her up until they're both standing, "Try and get some rest regardless, and please don't go and hurt yourself again. You can sleep in the living room if you think that being near the bathroom's too tempting for you. I can have someone turn the sofa into a bed."
"I'll be fine," Atlantis walks back and gently sits on the edge, "I'll see you tomorrow Crista, okay?"
Crista nods, about to run off but quickly turning back to Atlantis, "One more thing… please, just try to take it easy on Calsin. He'll explain if and when he's ready, but if you hurt him, that'll just help Shane."
"Provided he doesn't try to kill me first," she laughs, then falls back on the bed. When she comes up to the surface, Crista's left and Atlantis Seasbane is once again alone.
But that won't be for long, because when she closes her eyes next, she'll open them on the day of the Games. She'll open her eyes reborn, no longer Shane Odeen's savior, no longer his submissive pet but instead just herself.
She'll open her own eyes as her own god, and she won't let herself fall this time. Her rage is her best weapon, her envy is her venom, and if there's ever been a time to let it all on the floor, this is it. With Icarus at her side and the whole world beneath her feet, Atlantis is ready to bring Panem to their knees.
And if they have a problem with that, they better start praying.
Noel Alighieri. 18.
District Twelve Male.
Tw. drugs, alcohol
He's almost a hundred percent certain that he's now reaching the end of his last night alive, lying back on an overly mushy bed with covers far too silky and slippery covering his frigid body, completely and entirely alone. It wasn't supposed to be this way, Noel muses, counting the crème molded stripes on the ceiling since he's without anything better to do, I shouldn't be alone right now.
Just a few yards away behind two sturdy doors, Haymitch is likely having the time of his life, dust in his nose and venom in his throat, laughing at his own delirium and not even giving a shit about the man he loves, the man who not so pleased he's probably dying for him and how his heart continues to break with every second they spend apart. Does Noel want to talk to Haymitch? Well, not necessarily, but he was expecting that he'd have at least tried to talk to him by now, which is stupid of me… to think he cared. He's always been so stubborn, it's a vice the two of them share, though Haymitch possesses it mores, still Noel has been hoping for even the slightest apology by now.
It seems to be too much for him to ask. He's thought of many reasons for why Haymitch's chosen to ignore him for the better part of the week, the main reason probably being that Noel told him not to speak to him, but again Haymitch is too stubborn to submit to a command this easily, which is why he believes there's ulterior motives. Maybe he's just easing into life without him? That's well… disheartening, but at the same time it does make sense considering the lack of effort Noel's made to improve his chances of survival. Really, he's been more focused on helping his ally Fennella learn as many skills as she can, because Noel knows that the Gamemaker's probably have ways to take him out if by some stroke of luck he survives the bloodbath. He'll focus on getting Fenn supplies there, it's the last good deed he can ever do.
So many people chose the Games for the purpose of living, yet the Games chose Noel for the purpose of ensuring his death, and the more he thinks about it, the more he hates how absolutely fucked it is. The Games already took his lover from him, because really he's never been the same since he came out of the arena, yet it wasn't enough and now they're taking his own life too, and to punish a man that I've lately grown to resent. What awful timing.
Noel's used to being terribly unlucky, but this is by far the worst of it. Dying knowing that at least he was in love up until the very end's the only thing that could've saved this miserable scenario, yet instead he'll die alone. His parents aren't alive to grieve him, and all of Twelve only cares for Vancouver Easton, their diamond dust prison, their savior. All of Twelve, including Haymitch, doesn't give a shit about him.
The more he thinks about that, about Vancouver, the more miserable Noel feels. She took advantage of his lover and turned him into an addict, yet she doesn't even give a fuck about how it's broken him down, not even trying to make amends. Hell, she probably thinks she's going to win, which'll just grow her egotistical savior complex further, which Haymitch would probably enjoy since he's always hated the spotlight. As much as Noel loathes her, Vancouver's objectively better than him in every single way, so maybe it's a good thing he'll be dead when everyone in Twelve immortalizes her name while forgetting his.
Really, Noel should be asleep at this late hour, less than eight hours until the Games, until his unwilling sacrifice for the man he can't trust, yet darkness refuses to fill his mind, which is honestly just unfair at this point. The world refuses to let him rest, even now when it's the last time slumber will ever be temporary.
Or maybe… his mind didn't let him sleep because it knew that––
"Can I come in?" There's a voice at the door followed by two knocks, "It's me."
Of course now of all times is when he decides to appear. How convenient, Noel nearly laughs but can't find actual joy anywhere inside him. His eyes flick up to the door, the brass handle slightly turned down and a slight silhouette of two dark shoes underneath the frame.
Two more knocks, then the voice again, "Are you awake?"
"Just come in," Noel scoffs, because he already knows who it is, hence why he can hardly look at Haymitch once he steps into the room, instead smushing his face into one of the pillows behind him.
He hears sturdy footsteps then feels his weight on the bed shift due to the fact he's sitting on the edge of it, but Noel refuses to say anything. And so, he waits a minute, and then another, before Haymitch sighs then says, "Look, I don't even know where to begin at this point?"
"Maybe with an apology?" Noel remarks, his words muffled by the pillow.
He turns around and lifts the pillow from his eyes to see Haymitch hunched over and disheveled, bags under his eyes 'cause he probably hasn't slept tonight either. He rubs his hands over his eyes and grunts, "I feel like I'm beyond an apology at this point."
"You're probably right," Noel leans against the headboard, still bitter, "I just… thought I could trust you. You told me you'd stop drinking and yet… okay well maybe you did actually stop drinking but worse drugs aren't exactly an improvement."
"I know," he mumbles, tears forming in his eyes like there's nothing he can say to make Noel forgive him, which is probably right save for how pitifully desperate he is, "I have no explanation that'll make me sound like a decent person besides the fact that the drugs helped me forget you'd be leaving. Bullshit, I know that's what you think, and you're right to think that because I should've just talked to you about it."
"I imagine that wouldn't help much though," Noel says in an attempt to rationalize, "talking to your soon to be dead boyfriend about the fact he's soon to be dead isn't exactly therapeutic."
Haymitch vigorously nods his head, "No, not particularly. I'm sorry it got so bad, really it's nobody's fault but my own. I was the one who kept going to Vancouver for more, because I'm an addict, which is unfortunate. You deserve a better lover, one that wouldn't give you an ending like this."
I do, fuck I do deserve better, yet Haymitch is all he has and all Noel ever will have, in all his patheticness and melancholy. There were some good times, many of them in fact, yet nowadays they don't mean a thing. If it's any compensation, Haymitch is probably the only person who would've stayed with him after winning the Games and becoming a national celebrity, but still.
Noel should say something, he really should, yet he can't find the right words anywhere in his brain, so Haymitch continues, "By the way, I've been sober all day. I could tell you that this streak will continue, but that would be lying and I've done way too much of that already."
"That's true," is all Noel can muster. He closes his eyes and imagines him and Haymitch's glory days when nothing could've gone wrong, but it all feels so fake, so bittersweet because all he knows now is hurt, "I don't expect you to be sober after I die. I mean, I'd like that, but at the same time I can't fault you. You've truly lost everything."
"Not an excuse," he cracks his knuckles, "You've lost a lot too, yet you never tried anything like I did. I remember you telling me on several occasions that you felt like death after your parents passed, and I feel that way now, and what's fucked is, well the drugs don't even help?"
"Then why did you go back to them again and again?" Noel sighs, unsure if his opinion of Haymitch has changed throughout this conversation. He's been good to him, and it's true that everyone makes mistakes but at the same time this is way more than just a mistake. This is Haymitch throwing his life away just to feel nothing and Noel being collateral damage.
"Because it's gotten to a point where I feel like shit without anything in my system, so I take 'em to just feel almost alright," Haymitch's crying intensifies so he uses the corner of his shirt to blot his eyes.
"You said you're sober now," Noel notes, "do you feel like shit?"
"Very much so," Haymitch turns around, the two of them sustaining eye contact for the first time in five days, "But it's not because I'm sober. It's because the love of my life is about to die, and I fucked up so bad that he's got no right to forgive me before he goes."
"I know I don't," Noel looks away and fiddles with the comforter in his hands, "I've missed you these past few days, honestly and truly I have. I don't think I can forgive you either, but at the same time… I really don't want to die hating you."
Haymitch extends his hand, Noel firmly grasping it then bringing his lips to the tips of his fingers, "I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore."
"I wouldn't either," Haymitch scoots closer on the bed to him, "I'm happy I finally had the courage to talk to you."
"I'm happy you did too," he cups Haymitch's head in his hands and slightly turns to press his lips against his. It's a brief kiss, which is warranted for the situation, but Noel can't deny it didn't feel him with a sensation he truly missed, "If it would be alright, could you just… hold me tonight?"
Haymitch wraps his arms around Noel's neck and offers a smitten smile, "it would be my honor."
And so, after another kiss or two, Noel nestles his head on Haymitch's chest and closes his eyes. With their arms intertwined, it's almost as if they're sixteen again and it's them with the world instead of against it. It's almost as if Noel's once again at home, and while he can't say he's entirely happy still, at least he does truly feel so loved.
In the end, that nearly makes his life worth living.
First of all, happy 19th birthday to me because it is my 19th birthday when I am posting this! 18 has truly been an Experience ™ and not necessarily a good one the whole time but I did get closer to some amazing people this year which made all the misery worth it and then some. I could get really stupid and emotional but I'll save my dreadful feelings for the end of this story. Just know that if I met you this year, or if we got close, I'm probably kind of in love with you so thank you for the memories.
Gay shit aside, I hope you enjoyed my little special gift to you of sustained misery for 9,500 words! I laughed when I looked at my calendar and realized the saddest pre-Games chapter would drop on my birthday and then made every effort I could to make it as sad as possible. From the bottom of my heart, I hope you cried.
We're less than a month away from the bloodbath which is fucking exhilarating and I have nearly all of the Games planned at this point which is literally so hot of me. I promise, y'all are in for a good and miserable time. As of now, 14/16 tributes have had their two Capitol POVs, so I would love to hear where y'all's heads are at right now in terms of our beautiful cast. Next week's update is an interlude from some dear friends of mine, but the week after that we'll be hearing from our last two Tributes as well as someone else, and then pre-Games are finally over!
Thank you so much for A HUNDRED REVIEWS WAHHHHHH, and I hope you think of me and how great and talented and sexy I am all day long because I deserve it.
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds