XXIV. Stairway To Heaven
Within that heaven which most his light receives
Was I, and things beheld which to repeat
Nor knows, nor can, who from above descends.
Bud Bancroft. 12.
District Nine Male.
With one leg tucked underneath the other and a nervous expression on his face, he contemplates, I'm not going to be okay, isn't that right? It's not a particularly astute observation given the fact Bud's mere hours away from being the youngest in a crowd of twenty-four adolescents, all far too eager to slaughter one another, but it's not the Games that he's thinking about.
No, Bud realized the moment his name was pulled back in Nine that he was entering the last week of his life, but in all honesty, that's several more months of life than he was expecting. He doesn't want to outright say he's accepting death, but when it comes, Bud's unsure that he'll even be afraid. Such fear was reserved for before, and now that Bud's made it to after, there's not much for him to be afraid of.
Well… not much to be afraid of save for his mind. The past few days have been consumed by headaches, pressure building inside his skull in a simmering rage that's left him nearly positive he's bound to eventually explode. What's worst is that with every throb of his brain against his bones, fragmented memories flow in place, yet Bud's unable to piece them together.
He's alone when the fire starts, alone when he hears Wheelan call out to him, "They're getting me!" but Bud's knees lock and he can't move a muscle.
He's alone when Wheelan again screams for mercy, smoke in the air and ashes falling in his hair. He can't do anything. Bud Bancroft's useless unless Mr. Avion grants him purpose, which he … hasn't.
Bud tries to find the older man and tell him, "Wheelan's… I think… he's burning. I hear his voice," but he's nowhere to be seen.
There's another scream and then––
He doesn't remember.
"Everything alright?" Bud's ally Claude asks from across the breakfast table, noticing the confused expression on the young boy's face, "Or are you just thinking?"
"Just thinking," he nods in response, head still throbbing, "It's a big day, y'know?"
Bud's quite appreciative of Claude for all he's done this week. He's far too familiar with being alone, so much so that it's become his default, but the older boy makes him feel ever so slightly capable. Capable of what exactly, is the main question, but regardless Bud doesn't feel like half the hopeless case he should be feeling like when his almost-friend's at his side.
"A big day, for sure," Claude drops his cutlery on his plate with a resounding clink, "that means you should really eat more, don't you think?"
The chicken nuggets on Bud's plate remain untouched. He's always considered the food to be one that consistently brings him great comfort, but as of this morning, the thought of eating one makes him feel practically nauseous. He tried to bring one golden morsel to his teeth, but immediately his brain shot off warnings from a cannon that deemed him unable to finish.
The bird is loud, even when Bud's hands are closing in on its throat. It's like its reprimanding him for what he's about to do, punishing him the same way Mr. Avion would if he found out.
"Shhh, it'll be okay," Bud hushes the animal, as if that'll do anything before fumbling around in his pocket, his hand sweating as soon as his fingers wrap around the knife he shouldn't have stolen.
Again, the chicken clucks, begging Bud to spare him, but the young boy has no choice but to ignore it, closing his eyes as the blade digs into its throat and several bloodied feathers fall to the ground. He dislodges the weapon and drops the bird to the ground, shades of red staining the grass beneath his toes.
The all-too-familiar staunch of death fills the air, and Bud feels on the urge of throwing up, but he knows he mustn't so he puts one hand over his nose and the other over the chicken's fatal incision. Eyes nearly shut, Bud wipes his skin with his bloodied hand, applying crimson like it's makeup until there's hardly any normal-colored flesh that remains.
His eyes dart to the tree behind him, the rope behind him, and Bud sighs.
He's not sure what happens next, but he does remember more screams.
"I suppose you're right," Bud glances down to his meal, one he's not naive enough to realize could be his last, "It just… doesn't feel right."
"What'd'ya mean?" Claude asks with a face far too optimistic for somebody who's possibly hours away from death, "You're allowed to say that you're not hungry."
"Well then I'm not hungry," he says, even though his stomach's growling like a pack of wolves. He just can't with the chicken, it isn't right anymore. He unfolds his napkin from the side of the plate and drapes it over the food, "Don't really want to look at it either."
"I understand," Claude affirms him though Bud knows for a fact that there's no way on earth Claude Neumann could ever possibly understand what he's been though. He doesn't even understand what he's been through himself.
"Thank you," Bud offers a half-smile before looking at the clock behind him and realizing it's almost nine in the morning, "You should go back to your own room, though. I'm sure your mentors are getting worried."
He shrugs, "I told Beetee that I was paying you a visit and he seemed understanding, but I guess you're right." Claude steps out of his chair, yawns and then drapes his coat over his shoulders, "Thank you for sharing this meal with me, Bud. Even if you didn't really eat."
"It was a pleasure," the boy stands on top of his own seat, nearly tall enough that he can now make direct eye contact with Claude, "I'll see you later, right?"
"Of course," Claude extends his hand over his head, like he's going for a high five, but instead Bud wraps his arms around the taller boy's shoulders, "We're going to be just fine, I'll make sure of it."
Bud lets go then watches as Claude steps through the door, wondering if maybe this'll be the last time he ever sees his ally. He certainly hopes not, that's for sure. After a few moments, Fennella, his District partner emerges from her own room, her face far more nervous than it typically is.
Her interview gave Bud a lot to ponder, 'cause the idea that Nine's government would ever lie and do the wrong thing is foreign to him. His father always told him that the District only enforced the law for the sake of ensuring everybody's safety, but Fennella seems far from somebody who needs to be litigated against. She seems sweet, sort of like Claude even if she's hiding it.
"Good morning," Bud decides to wave to her, in case she's plotting his death because he's the son of somebody who could've potentially led to her being sent to the Capitol, "I hope you rested well."
Fennella steps back in disbelief, "I did… thank you?"
"I'm being serious," he intones, noting her shocked expression, "just because we haven't really talked much, doesn't mean I don't want you to take care of yourself."
"That's sweet," she nods, "I hope you slept well too."
Bud had what was perhaps the worst night of sleep in his recent life, but for the sake of not starting unnecessary bickering, he says, "I did. Good luck out there."
"Thanks," Fennella mutters, then looks down at Bud's plate covered with the napkin, "What's this?"
"Chicken nuggets, you can have them," he answers, taking away the cloth, "I just wasn't hungry."
Before Fennella can say anything more, Bud runs to his room and collapses on his bed. He really doesn't want to have a repeat of his conversation with Claude regarding the chicken. There's so much more that Bud should be worrying about anyhow.
In less than an hour, he'll be whisked off to get ready for the Games, another unknown that he logistically shouldn't survive in. He'll once again be forced to dance with death until he grows tired, hoping and praying that his sheer persistence is enough, even if he knows there's a darn good chance it won't be.
But maybe death is a good thing if it means he won't remember anything else.
Maybe death is a good thing if it means Bud Bancroft won't have to think about the sound of Mr. Avion digging his grave, the sprinkles of dirt on his face as he felt his world growing darker and darker, his lungs struggling more and more to catch a single breath of air.
His mentor Cody knocks on his door, calls out, "It's time to go," yet Bud still isn't nervous.
The unknown has always been his biggest mystery, and this'll be nothing new. Or at least that's what he'll pretend.
Icarus Schuyler St. Augustine. 18.
District One Male.
Some of Icarus St. Augustine's earliest memories involve a man in a buttoned-up white shirt and crisp white pants masquerading around his living room. The man would go on for hours, lecturing Icarus on how he mustn't put up with the nonsensically bullshit of the people around him, 'cause, "We're St. Augustines, my son. Nobody messes with our lineage, you understand?"
"Right on, father," young Icarus would mutter, his voice unusually high, even for a mere child, "I'll make you proud."
But no matter how hard he tried, it was proven time and time again that nothing would be enough for Ezra St. Augustine. If he got an A on an assignment in school, then it was, "Why didn't you get an A plus?" If he worked out in the yard for an hour, it was, "Why didn't you work out for two?"
He likes to say that his father's words didn't affect him the way they did, that he was never shaken when he was called a failure, a disappointment, unworthy of his own last name because, "You don't even look like me, Icarus. How am I supposed to see you as worthy when you don't even look like my son?"
His blonde hair and blue eyes didn't match Ezra's features, instead he's taken after his mother in terms of appearance, and perhaps that's for the better, because Icarus has never wanted any trace of his father present at face value.
The things they say to others… they're far too similar than Icarus would like to admit, as he's Aelia's son first, and Ezra will always remain an afterthought.
He still carries memories of the worried phone-call from his mother, "Your father, he was murdered." Even though his hands weren't the ones stained by his blood, really Icarus had no influence in the slaughter, he couldn't help but feel relief at the fact his harshest critic was no longer an issue.
Maybe Aelia's grief subsided a bit too quickly for an "innocent widow," but Icarus doesn't have it in him to judge her for that.
The newspaper showed Ezra in his typical outfit, blood painted against his chest and a carefree expression on his face.
It's one Icarus recognizes in himself as he examines his reflection in the mirror of his launching room. The shirt and the pants are far too familiar, and he knows that soon he'll be decorated in similar vermillion splatters. The only difference is that Icarus won't be the one who bleeds.
His mothers praises from his childhood ring in his ears as he picks at the ingrown hair on his chin:
"Icarus, I swear to Snow you are the most perfect son I could ever have."
"Icarus, there's truly no other kid in that daycare who's got the same godly potential as you."
"Icarus, I'm the luckiest mother alive to be raising you as my son. I can't wait for you to grow up in my footsteps, and one day run far far ahead of me."
With a sharp pull, he retracts the follicle and then mutters to himself, "She's right."
The near melodic tone of his mother's compliments is far in the past, so perhaps the only reason Icarus holds onto them is for his own safety, but who would he be if he admitted that? Aelia St. Augustine eased her son into a machiavellian lifestyle, pulling back from praise like an addict with a drug, and he can't fully pity her for teaching him that praise is earned, and he must work hard if he wants to earn it.
She taught him to walk with his head held high, playing his cards subtly enough that people would never be able to see his knives before they were plummeted beneath their skin, and that the world was created in Icarus' image, but he had to fight hard if he wanted to claim him. Aelia raised him to fly as close as possible to the sun without letting his wings melt, to do whatever it takes to get whatever he wants, and that no would never be a sufficient answer.
It's a shame she… oh never mind.
Holding onto only his mother's most positive assets is necessary if Icarus wants to stay afloat. He was raised a patchwork quilt of Ezra and Aelia's vices, but it's one he refuses to use for warmth. Icarus St. Augustine is his own man, and the world is his own palace. It's just a matter of getting there, and oh how he loathes Lethia for attempting to be a roadblock.
He's got to give her effort for being so persistent in her efforts to take him down, really her drive reminds him why he was so drawn to her in the first place, but not like this, never like this. Her interview was bullshit, just like every single word that's left her mouth ever since he broke her hand. Icarus always told her that he was destined for gold and she would have to settle for silver, and really that should've been good enough for a wretched creature like Lethia Aphelion.
At least he acknowledges his own hypocrisy when reflecting on his disscontempt with his predicted placement. Second. It sears into his mind the same way he swears his father's words didn't. And what's worse is that Atlantis is first, promised the sort of greatness that Icarus has worked his whole life for.
She's shaping up to be a repeat of Lethia, Icarus fears, only the difference is that he's had no hand in bringing her up to the top, instead she got good on her own, and he can't help but be jealous. At least she doesn't match Lethia's persistence, that's a positive. He couldn't help but notice the new maroon scabs peaking out from under her blouse earlier that day. Girl's clearly unstable, and that just may be her most valuable asset.
Though she did seem off, when she told Icarus, "Maybe we should focus more on killing Lethia than on Calsin. She's worse, I think."
"But I thought you wanted him dead," he had responded in confusion.
"You're right. And everyone has to die at some point in the arena, you know. I suspect Ellie's going to get him killed at some point. He's not that much of a worry, is what I'm saying, whereas Lethia has Vancouver and Beowulf."
Icarus didn't particularly want to argue with her. He'd heard enough about her misbehavior to know that she's abysmal when upset, so instead Icarus just planted a kiss on her hand and said, "Whatever you say, I trust you."
It made Atlantis' cheeks turn a peachy shade of red, so Icarus mentally noted, she wants affection. Don't be afraid to give it to her.
She left him in a frenzied state, but Icarus remains certain they'll free the demons from hell once they claim the arena as their own.
He nearly shakes when his stylist puts her hand on Icarus' shoulder and asks, "Are you ready?"
I was born ready, he muses. Though that's far from the truth, Aelia crafted him to be ready with every beat of her heart, every pulse that ran through her veins.
And at times, Icarus wonders why? His journey to the top was his mother's hyper-fixation long before he turned it into his own, and the sacrifices she made for this moment could surely be perceived as ridiculous. He remembers her saying on a few occasions that she was born and raised poor and unsuccessful, and that she just "doesn't want the same" for her son, but he figures her rationale goes far beyond just that.
"I certainly am," he replies to the stylist, trying his best to sound humble, "Thank you for helping me this week-––" Icarus realizes he doesn't remember her name, "…ma'am."
"Pleasure's all mine," she proclaims, voice obnoxious and light like a whistle, "Best of luck in the arena, Mr. St. Augustine, though I imagine you won't need it."
"You're right," Icarus smirks, then extends his hand to imply he wishes to shake hers. Her grip is quite firm, even for a Capitolite, and it reminds him of how Lethia's hand felt in his right before he shattered her bones and her dreams, or so he thought.
With a sigh, he looks up at the clock which reads eleven fifty-five, then watches as the glass doors to his launching tube open. Icarus steps onto the platform without hesitation, then turns around to bid adieu to his stylist, knowing he'll see her in a week or so if all goes to plan.
The interior of the tube is dark, yet Icarus is far from frightened. After all, he's just moments away from reaching the clouds and finally slaying Lethia on his own territory. He was forged and grown for this very moment, and he'd be a fool to let it go to waste.
He mumbles to himself, "game on," and then all he sees is infinity.
Liana Taylor. 41.
Head Gamemaker.
To say she hasn't been coping well would be a dramatic understatement. Maybe it's pathetic for Liana to be experiencing greater grief over a literal cat than her two former bosses, but she can't exactly control her emotions. She's missed her past two scheduled press appearances and rumors are already spiraling, but for once Liana doesn't fucking care.
She just wants Minerva back, because the twenty-six year old feline was the only remnant of her life before she moved to the Capitol and let herself get fucked in the head, and now that she's gone, Liana doesn't know who she sees when she looks in the mirror.
Physically, she's the same: long red hair and a devious grin, but mentally, there's something different. It's similar to how she felt when she left the arena for the Twenty-Sixth Games, physically the same but with a mind dropped somewhere in a trench of darkness to the point where her soul's no longer recognizable. Back then, Liana was filled with guilt, loathing for the monster she became when she was enclosed in a faux oasis, but now, she's just pissed.
And to think, it's all because a cat died. She's just a cat, is what Liana's been forced to remind herself time and time again, but it's no use, the lady's a wreck.
But tut–tut, she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she leans back on her couch, no time to have feelings, I've got Games to run.
Right. Games. Her Games. She refuses to let her own misery ruin the biggest moment of her entire career.
"They're starting soon," Plutarch crouches down beside her, "do you want to go to the main room?"
"Like I have a choice." Liana mumbles, closing her eyes and letting darkness consume her vision, "Give me a minute. I'll be out before the official start time."
He points to his watch with concern on his face, "They start in three minutes, Liana. Look, I understand… you're upset. Minerva was a good cat, a great cat even, but you need to pull yourself together––"
"Minerva wasn't just a cat, Plutarch," she jumps up from her seat, pressing her palm against his lips, "not that I'd expect you to understand." Her tone is perhaps more hostile than she'd like it to be, but she deems it necessary given, "I'm just… not in a good place right now."
"No shit," Plutarch chuckles, seemingly unfazed by her, "I'm heading across the hall to get this show on the road…" he takes a few steps out of the door, "whether or not you join me is your––"
"Wait!" Liana's shoes skid against the linoleum tile floor, "I'll come with you."
"That's what I thought you'd say," he turns around to reveal a cocksure smirk on his face.
She rolls her eyes then forces herself to fake a smile as soon as she walks through the door. I've got this, she mentally reassures herself before addressing the room as a whole, "Alright everybody, the Fifty-Second Hunger Games are in just," she glances at the clock, "––two minutes!" They applaud her, yet Liana still feels somewhat empty. As if she'd ever feel whole again.
But no, it's not time for dread, right? She plants herself in the swivel chair in the center of the room, admiring all the buttons and screens in front of her as she pulls up a map of the arena. She cocks her head to get a look at the Tributes, their platforms ascending slowly in a circle inside the cathedral she watched be built. Twenty-four of them, dressed in white and positively terrified. It's funny to think that she was in that same situation just twenty-six pitiful years ago. Oh how things have changed, she muses with a laugh, because now everybody knows Liana Taylor's above a mere Tribute, above a victor too.
She's built a whole universe behind the arena walls, and she'll do it year after year as long as they'll have her. It's her country now, her Games, and if she plays pretend, her swivel chair can be a throne.
If she plays pretend, her whole world will finally be enough. That's not true, she thinks as the clock clicks down from just a single minute, it'll never be enough.
Because now she's fully alone. Sure there's other cats, but they're not Minerva and they'll never be her. She's just as alone as she was when she left the arena, only now she's not a kid and quite frankly she's more terrified then she has any right to be.
She can't be scared. She can't admit that she's slowly losing control of herself and she's petrified that Minerva's death was the straw that broke the camel's back and now she doesn't know what she's going to become.
"Let's do this," she pushes her thoughts aside as the clock hits fifteen, then ten.
Again, applause that just makes Liana feel more empty.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath as Caesar's voice resounds through the loudspeaker, "Let the Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games begin!"
Her eyes open. There's a sharp exhale, and with that it's finally begun. Twenty-four unfortunates in the paradise of Liana's mind, and oh how she doesn't envy the poor soul that'll live to see life outside.
LETS FUCKING GO! WE REALLY DO BE DONE WITH CHAPITOLS THO! Um… yeah so that's pretty poggers champion of me, I'm not even going to lie. The blog's been updated with a sexy arena pic, and I'll give more specific details along with the bloodbath itself which is coming out *drumroll please* ON DECEMBER 2ND 2021 AT 11AM PST! Lol it's like 1/3 written and I'm not even going to lie, this shit slaps.
I'm hoping to move into biweekly updates as the Games arrive, but we will see how that works out. I'm thinking Mondays and Thursdays xx but like college is a thing I have to do. Good news is the girl I was talking to ghosted me when I asked what her favorite cheese is so I no longer have to worry about the potential of a lover interrupting my precious writing time. That and… like thanksgiving break and winter break equal big writing time so like… I will do this I'm so fucking valid and sexy and hot.
I just wanna give myself a gigantic pat on the back for maintaining this consistent update schedule for a whole ass 24 chapters and like… I hope it continues. There's 20 arena chapters so that's fun. I hope I write them all this time instead of being a pussy and stopping after 9 like last time (I WAS SAD THATS A GOOD EXCUSE OKAY) gahh I'm just so happy to be here again and this story is legit so much fun and I'm so glad I have the best readers ever period.
Right… so assigned the alliances vines instead of names because I'm quirky, so I'm going to deposit those now:
Chris, is that a weed? - Sin, Ellie
Why you always lyin'? - Atlantis, Icarus
Welcome to Bible Study. We're all children of Jesus… Kumbaya my looordd. - Mal, Mozi, Judas
There is only one thing worse than a rapist. A child. - Ascot, Simeon
What's better than this? Guys bein dudes. - Fenn, Noel
OOOO He needs some milk - Bud, Claude
Anything for you, Beyonce - Vancouver, Lethia, Wulfie
Honey, you've got a big storm coming - Hedy, Verdi
I know, I'm so fucking funny!
It would be so hot and sexy if you all gave me predictions and shit because just... THESE GAMES GONNA GO OFF SO HARD MMKAY give me ur thots okayyy plsss i will kiss u on the clavicle and boop ur nose!
Okay… um yeah that just about covers everything I had to say, I am continuing A/Ns in the Games because I'm done being a prick and I like talking
FUCK THIS SHIT IM OUT,
LINDSAY FUCKING QUEERFOOT