XLIX. Collateral Damage
Thou, that it may not be a marvel to thee,
Think that on earth there is no one who governs;
Whence goes astray the human family.
Haymitch Abernathy. 18.
Victor of The 50th Hunger Games.
Tw: Drugs, alcohol, and addiction
At times, he doesn't know why he even bothers with being alive.
Maybe it's spite, or maybe it's the fact he's slowly dying from addiction anyway, but regardless, Haymitch doesn't particularly care. Everybody dies eventually, whether or not they want to; the last two years of his years have been a constant reminder of that very fact. They've also been a reminder of just how quickly something can change.
In all actuality, Noel never stood a chance against everybody else in that arena. Capitol hijinks aside, he's always been less callous than Haymitch, less willing to maim for his own survival. Not to mention, Noel seemed already resigned to his death on their last night together, and pessimism tends to be the arena's most vicious killer. Haymitch is a fucking idiot for thinking his lover would actually stand a fighting chance. He wishes he could scorn Mozi from Six for taking out Noel as if he were a mere speck of dust, but at least it was quick and painless. If Noel died any later, mercy wouldn't be guaranteed.
It's been hard for Haymitch to mourn him, mainly 'cause he doesn't know what he should be mourning at this point. Yes, they had two and a half year's worth of good memories, but the last week and a half seems to have dragged them all through the mud. Not that that's anybody's fault but Haymitch's own. He should've known that his bad habits would catch up to him eventually, should've known they'd ruin everything just like Noel warned him. He shouldn't have lied to his lover when he asked whether or not he'd actually quit.
He's broken everything, and there's no way for him to fix it since the people he's hurt most are dead, which is also his fault. A part of him feels that if he joins everyone who's dead because of his actions (which he still doesn't understand) in the afterlife, they'd scorn him, because they too have acknowledged it's all his fault. If only he realized of much of a commotion he'd be causing when the threw the butt of his axe against the arena's forcefield. If he knew it'd lead to his family and lover dead on the ground, he'd have thrown it at his own throat instead.
Ever since Ludovicus left his room, Haymitch has been sitting shellshocked on the couch. He's too weak to reach across the room into his backpack so he can get a line of dust to sprinkle on the table, magic to snort into his veins so that he doesn't have to think anything until he's collected and taken back to the Twelve. The escort won't care that he's passed out and dreary. Nobody cares about anything he does so long as it doesn't threaten the Capitol's safety, whatever the hell that even means.
Haymitch wishes that Noel's death motivated him to quit, but it's just tempted him into consuming more, even though he knows it's not right and his lover is looking down on him from up above with a frown painted on his face. Maybe if he does enough drugs, Haymitch will join him quicker.
He knows he's not right. He knows that he's just making himself more and more of a villain, even though he never wanted to be one in the first place. It's just hard for him to feel even the slightest bit alive sober when everybody who's ever meant anything to him is dead and gone.
Even Vancouver meant something to him. A good thing or a bad thing, Haymitch isn't sure, but her death put an undeniable weight on his chest that'd be rude of him to ignore. The more he ruminates, the more Haymitch has been able to clarify his feelings towards her, however. He's slowly realized that Vancouver Easton is somebody he loathes, and her being dead is ultimately a good thing. Vancouver being dead means that once he's finished with this load of supplies, he'll be permanently out of drugs, basically forced to either quit or go back to just liquor.
Haymitch is hopeful that the kingdom won't be able to run without Vancouver leading the way. After all, it's her vile manipulation tactics that got him into this mess. She was a wolf in sheep's clothing, begging Haymitch to buy more and more, claiming she was the only one who held the keys to his success until he ultimately gave in, and admittedly felt better. The worst part is how much better he felt, even if he was tearing through the world around him in the process.
Perhaps feeling joy is an act of selfishness for somebody who's accidentally slaughtered everybody they love. Perhaps, Haymitch Abernathy is no longer worthy of coping.
A part of him wonder's what'll happen to the kingdom with her gone. Will they burn out slowly, begging Haymitch to buy more, get addicted more along the way, or will it be a quick explosion that ends in their doom? He'd prefer the latter; anything to prevent him from getting his hands on the drugs he'll buy if he's offered. Going cold turkey is perhaps the only way for Haymitch to combat this utter dread and misery that's been plopped on his lap.
For the first time in an hour, he gets up off the couch and stretches. For the first time in a week, he walks over to a mirror and fixes his hair, which is sticking straight up and curling in places where it shouldn't be. He walks over to the sink and splashes water in his face, hoping that'll make their redness fade. He doesn't waste any more time after that, instead slipping on his sneakers and walking outside his apartment.
Just as he was hoping, a Peacekeeper stands armed by the elevators entrance. With an unassuming smile on his face, Haymitch greets him. "Good afternoon, officer."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Abernathy," comes his speedy reply. "What floor would you like to be taken to?"
"Actually, I'd like to have a word with you, or any of your colleagues really," Haymitch says, his eyes blazing with delight. "There's something going on back in Twelve, and I really feel unsafe returning there without talking about it."
"Oh?" The Peacekeeper responds, tilting his head to the side. "I'm going to need a few more details before I can do anything, unfortunately."
"Of course." Haymitch smirks. "I was made aware that the female Tribute I mentored, Vancouver Easton, has been selling illicit substances back in Twelve. I worry that because she lost, the ring she runs may target me."
"And do you have proof of that?"
"Most definitely." He pulls a pink pill out of his front pocket and hands it to the officer. "She left this in her room."
The Peacekeeper inspects the pill in his fingertips for a moment before saying, "Well, that certainly is interesting."
"I'm sure she had more with her that she took into the arena," Haymitch suggests. "Really, I don't know what was going on with her besides her confession to me that she sold drugs, and the fact she's dead now and claimed she had people who'd beat me in the occasion she died."
It's all lies, but Haymitch can't resist speaking them into existence. "Because I'm due to go home today, I figured it would be best if I informed an authority."
"Thank you, Mr. Abernathy." The officer puts the pill into his own pocket, then extends his arm for a handshake. "We're going to get this taken care of for you. You shouldn't have to feel unsafe in your own home District."
That's ironic, coming from somebody who works for the man who ensured Twelve would be Haymitch's definition of hell by commanding everybody he loved be killed. Maybe reporting Vancouver's kingdom will have the added benefit of putting him in good graces with the Capitol for once. It certainly won't make them worse.
Haymitch knows that there's drug rings in the Capitol (which he thankfully cannot access), so at the very least, they wouldn't be happy to know Twelve of all places is trying to become a competitor. They certainly don't care about Twelve's safety, but maybe envy will compel them to take some sort of action.
And in the meanwhile, he'll drink away his problems instead of doing worse drugs, convincing himself that his actions are better and he's finally coping. The heavens and the earth have always been in agreement that Haymitch Abernathy is a hopeless case, doomed to get sicker and sicker until one day his liver has mercy on him and takes him out of his misery.
Perhaps one day, he'll accept it too, but until then, he'll have a drink instead and toast to his own life of misery.
Karim Whittaker. 17.
Friend of Fennella Farro.
The Farros have proven to be an excellent found family.
Karim was always close with Fennella's parents, even if their visits were brief and few, but after his death, he always assumed he'd never see them again. It'd be just him again, alone on the streets without anybody to confide in, anybody to tell meaningless jokes to or play catch with. At least Karim's used to being lonely. For most of his life, it's been the only thing he knew.
His father's belt against his back, his mother's screams blaring through his ears, Karim's parents made it abundantly clear that he was no son of their's. They claimed they'd rather have no child than have a queer one before packing his belongs into a bag and forcing him to run.
He knows how to survive on his own at least. He just assumed he'd be doing that again, just this time without Fenn at his side.
For once, Karim's assumption wasn't right.
"You know, we've been thinking," Fenn's father Granary said to him one day as they sat down at the dinner table, joined in their mourning of a girl gone to soon. "How would you like to move in with us?"
"What do you mean?" Karim replied, his brows quirked upwards in surprise. "Like… permanently?"
"Yes, of course," Fenn's mother Whitta said. "You've been a great help to us during these trying times, and well… you don't have a home of your own, now do you."
"I'll be fine," he tried to reassure her, overwhelmed by their generosity.
"We insist."
It's been a week now, and Karim still doesn't entirely believe it. A part of him feels guilty that only in Fennella's death was he able to find himself a home, even though he knows she'd never want him to feel that way. She always said that if they found out who killed the mayor and she was able to go home, Karim would be more than welcome with to live with her, yet these circumstances feel wrong.
"I still miss her," he admits as the family sits in silence on the sofa, something that's become common for them. "I always catch myself wondering what she's thinking about."
"I do too," Fenn's sister Anona says. "It's really odd, not worrying about where she is and when I should get her food."
"She's in a better place," Granary reminds them both.
Whitta fires back, "One that she never should've gone to in the first place."
These arguments are common between the two Farro parents. Grief affects everybody in different ways, and Granary and Whitta's are definitely dissimilar. He seems to still be in denial, while she's practically dead as well. Karim wonders what they'd be like if he wasn't there.
"We can't argue in front of Karim," she adds. "But just know, I'm not happy this had to happen to her."
"I'm not happy either! Why would you claim that?"
"Granary, not in front of Karim."
What they're saying is true. There's no reason Fenn should've been subjected to all of the world's cruelties, but that doesn't change the fact that she was and there's not much that can be done about it now. At the very least, now neither her nor Karim have to run. At least, now they can say they've been found.
Henry Tamarind. 13.
Foster Brother of Ascot Vionet.
The screaming hasn't gotten any better.
Even without Ascot getting caught in the crossfire and Adrian running around like a maniac, the Tamarind household is something out of a nightmare. If anything, it's only gotten worse, and Henry isn't sure how much more of it he can take before he completely breaks.
Everything was better with Ascot at his side. Without her, he's back to being the most hated person in the family, no longer tolerated by anybody around him and instead treated like utter scum. How ironic is it that he was once worried about how he'd see Ascot when she got transferred to a new family, and now he'll never see her again?
He deserves better than to be basically enslaved by his own bloodline. Henry deserves better than sitting under the kitchen table, his hands over his ears to block out the sceaming.
"You can just admit to me that you're having an affair, Stefan," his mother Thyra yells from across the room.
His father screeches, "What does it matter if you're hardly here?"
"She's here more than you are," his younger older sister Vienata snaps. "You didn't even cry when Adrian died, that's how detached you are."
"At least I didn't laugh," Riora, his eldest sister chimes in. "You should be embarrassed!"
Henry curls up into a ball and attempts to will away the tears that fall down his cheeks. If any of his family member's notice he's crying, they'll speak of him the same way they're currently berating one another.
The worst thing about this mess of a family is how they've never even mentioned Ascot, not once. When she died, all four of them watched with blank stares, not seeming to give a damn about the fact she's gone. Stefan got up from the couch and went to use the bathroom as she bled out, calling "That sure took a while!" after her cannon fired.
"Why would I be embarrassed?" Vienata screams, her voice practically piercing through Henry's eardrums. "At least I saw Adrian for what he's worth; a greasy little brat!"
"That's you!" Riora fires.
Henry's mother attempts to calm them down, but it doesn't work and the girls continue to yell at one another.
"I don't know why you're even defending him. You hated Adrian too, didn't you?"
"Yeah, but not to the extent where I laughed as he died."
"Keep it up and I'll laugh when you die too."
Maybe it's better that they don't have anything to say about Ascot. Henry knows that anything they'd say would be even worse than what they say about Adrian, which seems impossible. Sure, he wasn't the best brother in the world, but he was also only twelve— how's he supposed to know any better if he's been raised by animals.
"This isn't helpful, girls!" Stefan yells, his voice somewhat strained. "Please don't make me take off my belt and—"
"Oh father dearest," Riora's tone changes instantly at the threat, "why would you do a thing like that? You know that Vienata and I love you very much."
"No we don't."
Stefan huffs and Vienata whimpers.
"I'm kidding! Of course I love you, father!"
Is Henry a coward for hiding his tears from the rest of his family? Perhaps. But at the same time, he wants to be safe, and if that means that Ascot Vionet's memory will die with him, so be it. She'd want him to be safe; she was never really safe herself.
Reina Dubois. 18.
Sister of Endellion Dubois.
She knows that an apology isn't going to do a thing, but that doesn't stop her from standing at her family's porch with a sheepish grin.
Reina isn't sure what they'll do when they see her, whether they'll smile and pull her into their arms or leave her to the night so she can think about what she's done, as if she hasn't spent the past three weeks of her life doing exactly that.
Perhaps her biggest mistake was underestimating her sister. Never in a million years did Reina think Ellie would actually keep the promise they made when they were just fifteen; never in a million years did Reina think Ellie would go against Two's strict ordinances and volunteer without expressed permission from the academies. If anything, she assumed that Kareen Kazami, who won the selection tournament in Reina's absence would be shipped off to the Games, and she wouldn't have to watch her twin sister die after making an embarrassment of herself in front of the entire nation.
Hell, Ellie made an embarrassment of the already repudiated Dubois family, but it's still Reina's fault 'cause she's the one who got cold feet at the last minute and decided to say goodbye to everything and run. The only thing that gets her through the days now is her constant self-assurances that Ellie's death is not her fault. It's not like either of them ever even mentioned the promise they made after they made it. Reina certainly didn't even remember it's existence until she saw her sister run onto the stage with a twisted smile.
She's been debating coming home for a while now. Reina first thought about it when Ellie volunteered, but she feared that her return and Ellie's departure would be too much for her parents to handle at the same time. Not that her parents are emotionally weak or anything, Reina just worried about how much would be too much for them.
Perhaps now isn't the best time ever, as they're likely still in mourning of the daughter they never should've lost, but Reina can't take being away from them for any longer.
Maybe she deserves to never see her family again after what she did. Maybe it's selfish of Reina to think that she deserves her parents after she inadvertently killed their daughter, just like it was selfish of her to grab everything and run. Still, she couldn't control the anxiety bubbling in her chest, the pressure building up between her ears and telling her that she's doomed if she volunteers. It would've been so much easier for her to mess up at the tournament, yes, but her pride prevented her from showing up just to make a fool of herself. It's much easier to be invisible than it is to be an embarrassment. Reina should've just accepted the latter.
She knocks on the front door, her hands squeezed together in a fist and waits.
After less than twenty seconds, she hears the familiar voice of her brother Aurelian calling from inside, "Who is it?"
"Rei—" Her own voice gets caught in her throat. Her cheeks feel warm, likely flush with embarrassment and dread. There's no going back now. She's already learned what happens if you're a coward. She takes a deep breath and tries talking again, her voice lower this time, "It's your sister."
"Stranger danger!" Aurelian screams, his voice caustic and sarcastic. "Mom, dad… somebody's outside pretending to be Reina."
"I'm not pretending," she shouts. If this were any other situation, she'd call him a little shit, but she owes him respect after everything she's done. "Just open the door, trust me."
Reina flinches as she hears the lock click, then watches the handle turn and the door slightly peak open to reveal Aurelian standing with a shocked expression on his face.
"Holy. Fucking. Shit." He says, his entire body trembling. "What the actual fuck are you doing here?"
"I came to apologize," Reina responds, a tear forming in her eye despite her swearing up and down that she wouldn't cry.
"Is it really her?" Her mother, Obelia yells from the hallway.
Aurelian turns around and shouts, "It sure fucking is!"
"Language!" Reina says, as is instinct.
He puts his hands on his hips and scoffs. "You can't say anything; you abandoned us for months."
She sighs. He's right.
Her mother and father's expressions are just as shocked as Aurelian's was when they see their daughter for the first time in four months, if not more so.
"Oh, Reina…" Her father, Lochran stammers. "I never thought I'd see you again…"
"Neither did I," Obelia adds.
"It's… really good to see you." Reina nods her head. "I'm so sorry for leaving, and about… Ellie."
"Yeah, you better fucking be!" Aurelian shouts.
"Aurelian, please." Lochran puts his hand around his son's wrist before he can slap Reina in the face. "I just… I don't understand."
"I don't expect you to."
Some days, Reina isn't even sure she understands herself. Is it really valid of her to be so incredibly afraid of failure to the extent that she doesn't do anything at all? She shouldn't have been so petrified of not living up to her reputation, or following in Ludovicus Jornmark's footsteps and winning it all just to not feel a thing.
She shouldn't have done any of this.
"I'm so sorry," Reina repeats. It's hard for her to tell what her family is feeling, aside from Aurelian's clear (and valid) anger. For the most part, her parents just look surprised. "If you'd like, I can leave."
"Please don't!" Her mother says, quickly. She grabs Reina's hand and lets their fingers intertwine, before looking her in the eyes and tearing up. "We've already lost one daughter. I don't think any of us want to lose another."
Obelia doesn't hug her, and Lochran doesn't either. Instead, they lead her into the house and sit her down on the couch. Reina's too afraid to go back into her and Ellie's room after all this time, even if it's late and she's getting tired, so instead she sits with a blank expression, once again pondering everything.
The only thing she's certain of is that Endellion Dubois was never a loser. It's always been her.
Dinah Coello. 19.
Sister of Simeon Coello.
It's quiet without him.
Lord knows, it's been a long long time since the Coello household has ever been quiet, and it's safe to say that they're all still adjusting. Dinah misses when it was louder, too. It's a lot easier to not think when there's noises drowning out her brain. At this point, nobody has anything to say. Words have basically lost their meaning.
A part of Dinah feels guilty for all of this. If she'd never have walked into that bar alone, she would've never gotten attacked and Simeon never would've gotten upset and killed everybody. The family would've never been on the run, and her brother would have never been compelled to sacrifice his own life for the sake of everybody around him finding peace.
She knows that Simeon wouldn't want her to feel guilty, and that if anything, he'd want her to forget he ever existed, but it's impossible when everything around Dinah reminds her of him.
The house they've recently felt safe enough to rent has framed pictures of horses in every room, and each one of them reminds Dinah of the frequent conversations she had with her brother where they'd lament over never learning to ride one. They both had plenty of opportunities, but neither took the opportunity to learn, and now they're forced to regret it. She reckons it's a small thing in the many regrets Simeon must have at this point, but as selfish as it is, she hopes one of them isn't protecting her.
While Dinah without a doubt condemns Simeon's means, she can still admit now that it was nice to be protected, to be loved, especially after a night where she was terribly convinced that all she was, and all she ever would be, is hated.
Meals in their new dining room are often without words. If Simeon were here, he'd ask everybody about their days and ensure they're well, but he isn't here. All the things people say about how people never die if they live on in your heart is bullshit. Dinah will never feel whole again unless her brother swings open the front door with gregarious laughter and a smile on his face.
"Do you need help with those?" Dinah's been trying her best to help out with family chores, if only to distract herself.
Her eldest brother, Rueben hands her a filthy plate and sighs. "I guess you can clean this if you'd like."
Before Simeon died, the boys insisted on doing everything around the house, leaving Dinah and her mother Leah to relax. Nowadays, both of them are consistently asking to help, because the tedium takes their mind off the tragedies they've suffered at life's hands.
She scrubs the plate until it's clean, then scrubs it even more until she can see her own reflection against the ceramic coating. She sets it on the counter with a sigh, leaving it to dry until the family's next meal.
As awful as it is, Dinah has to admit that she feels more safe without Simeon. When he was a part of the family, they'd always be on the run, but his loss has offered them the stability they never thought they'd get. Dinah misses the chaos though. She'd rather be in danger with Simeon than safe without him, as pathetic as that is.
But that's why he volunteered. He wanted Dinah and the rest of their family to feel safe, whether or not he lived or died. He never considered how broken she'd feel without him, but at the same time, there was never a need for him to.
Simeon got what he wanted, and it's Dinah's fault she misses the way things were.
Hopper Bancroft. 48.
Father of Bud Bancroft.
"I think we finally caught him!" He's sitting alone in his office, as per usual, when a pale woman with long brown hair barges through the doors.
"Avion?" Hopper asks, his eyes wide with hope that they've finally captured the man who he recently learned made his son's life a living hell.
The woman nods. "It would appear so, yes."
Ever since Bud's interaction with his District partner Fennella on the first day of the Games, Hopper's dedicated his time to deploying as many Peacekeepers as humanly possible in hopes of finding Oriole Avion. Granted, they've been looking for him for quite some time, but never as vigorously, and part of that is admittedly because now it's personal.
Of course, if Bud was able to identify Avion as the man who took him, Hopper would have launched his search party earlier, but the poor boy was hardly able to speak in full sentences, much less remember the details of his kidnapping. He'll never quite know what happened to his son in the many months that he was without him, and Hopper doesn't want to know either. Whatever it was, if it was on par with what the Twelve girl did to him, Hopper's quite frankly better off not knowing.
No father ever wants to see their child suffer, which is why Hopper immediately turned off the television when Twelve opened the iron maiden and threw his precious son inside. He has a feeling regarding what happened to him in there, and he knows it wasn't quick either.
There are many things that Hopper regrets these days. He shouldn't have insisted Fennella Farro was the one who killed Mayor Triticale when she spent her dying moments helping his son and proving her own innocence. He should've tried harder with getting Bud to heal, because maybe then he'd have had a better chance in the arena. At the very least, Hopper should've held his son closer when he returned home, because there was always a chance he'd be torn away from him again.
He saunters down the stairs into the reception area of Nine's town hall, and leans against the receptionist's desk. He asks her, "Did you hear the news? Is it true?"
"It's true," she confirms with a smile. "The latest search party found Oriole Avion hiding just a few miles out from here, and him alongside all his companions are now in our custody."
"Are any of them children?" Hopper keeps his excitement concealed, because there's still that extremely pressing question. "As in, the people alongside Avion?"
"There's two kids," the receptionist answers. "Why do you ask?"
"Don't arrest them. Try to see if they can identify who their parents are, and if they can, return them to them at once." He demands. As a mere trade executive, Hopper doesn't have as much control as the mayor in regard to what happens with prisoner's, but like many things, this is always worth a try. "Please."
"I'll do my best," she says, and as much as Hopper wants to believe her, he can't.
With his wife and son both dead, he has very little faith in the universe and humanity as a whole. There's no difference between "good people" and "bad people," despite what society says, because ultimately everybody is self-serving and rotten to the core. Even he is, considering he was more concerned with his own son than anything else that's been going on around Nine for the past two weeks.
Grief does weird things to people. For Hopper, it's made him a mere husk of a person, counting the hours and days on his fingertips, and secretly hoping that the tides of death reunite him with his family. With Avion captured, there's very little for him to do, anyway.
He can't fault Bud for anything he did in the arena, whether that be coming to his senses away from him or killing the boy from Ten in cold blood, because at the end of the day, he was just a kid. Bud Bancroft was just a goofy, imaginative, fun-loving kid who was wronged not once but twice by the ugliest parts of the worth in which he lived in.
Even if he died stoic and afraid, Hopper will always remember him the way he was. Or at least, he will until he finally gives up on living himself.
Whatever poison whoever used to kill Triticale will never not tempt him.
Wesley Kalmus. 18.
Ex-Boyfriend of Judas Nazario.
Once again, the Ravens Club is bright and alive.
Despite the events of the past few weeks, not much has changed. Wesley still stands behind his bar, juggling bottles with his shirt slightly unbuttoned as he makes drink after drink for customer after customer. People still lose their rent payments to gambling and hedonism, and hardly anybody notices the absence of one of the dealers.
The only reason Wes is aware of Judas' absence is because his life's become far less irritating now that he's gone.
"That's another shot!" His girlfriend Jadyn says as they rewatch the 52nd Games on one of the smaller monitors in the club. He pours tequila into her shot class and smirks as she downs it in a singular gulp, not even using her glass of lemonade to chase.
It's become a frequent game for the two of them, taking a shot every time Judas Nazario does something unbelievably stupid for the entire nation to see. The catalyst for this particular shot was his idiotic decision to ally with a psychotic sixteen-year-old, but really, the two of them will drink to anything.
Wes allows Jadyn to pour his shot directly into his mouth, laughing as he swallows before biting into a raw lemon to distract his tastebuds. He smiles as he kisses her again and again, the taste of Judas' slowly leaving his mouth with every one. Soon, the rat bastard will be completely gone, good fucking riddance!
Sure, the sex was great, but there's not even an ounce of Wesley Kalmus that misses him. After all, he's the one who admitted to cheating first. Had Wesley also been cheating? Well, yes, but at least he had the decency to not drunkenly admit it over a round of poker. It's not his fault he was growing tired of Judas being such a brat both in and out of bed. There's only so much a man can take before he's compelled to try other options.
Recently, Wes has grown fond of the the feeling of Allegra Sherwood's body pressed up against his. Yes, she's the wench Judas was cheating on her with, but Wes is mature enough to admit that that he had impeccable taste in women. And in men, because he did date Wesley for quite some time.
At times, Wes debates telling Jadyn that he's… y'know, cheating on her, but he reckons she's doing the exact same thing. After all, she's been spending a fair share of her time with Benton Tamarack, and he hasn't said a thing. Perhaps that's also because well, Wes doesn't care. Women and men fly in and out of his life like the doves Judas would pull from his hat, so there's no use in dwelling on anybody when he's going to get bored of them eventually.
As Wesley prepares another shot for Jadyn, she asks him, "Do you ever miss him? Just a little?"
He hands her the glass and laughs. "Now why would I do that? I'm with you now?"
That's a lie. Not that Wes cares.
"I'm just curious, that's all," Jadyn teases, pulling him closer to her by the shirt. "I wouldn't think any less of you if you did."
"And why's that?"
"Because I know you think about me even more," she answers, kissing him before he can get out another word.
Soon enough, he'll have to tell her he's been sleeping with Allegra, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy Jadyn for now, the same way he once enjoyed Judas. Given the amount of people who Wesley has met over the years, it's a given that some will mean less than others.
Wes would rather die than admit that Judas was one of the few people who meant more.
Glinda Haleot. 36.
Mother of Beowulf Haleot.
It's as if she no longer has a son anymore, not that Beowulf could even be considered one in the first place. No real son of Glinda's would make such an utter fool of himself in front of the entire country.
When she parted with him in the Justice Building, she had some faith that he'd return home to her as a victor, but all of it was washed out the window before the Games even started. She's an imbecil for even thinking he'd have a chance, but she still thought he'd do better than hardly making the top ten. She though Beowulf would at least survive until the feast, but the boy from One seemed to have different plans for him. Maybe if Icarus was Glinda's son, she'd be a happier person.
Hell, if anybody else (aside from the clown that is Endellion Dubois) was Glinda's child, she'd be in a much better mental state than she currently is. She's been spiraling since the day she got pregnant with Beowulf, that much is true, but at least she was able to hold onto the hope of raising a victor.
At thirty-six years old, that's a hope Glinda can still have if she so wishes. And she does, which is why she misses the funeral of her pathetic, pitiful, Beowulf, and finds herself scantily clad at a bar, eyeing all the men to see which would be best to create her next prodigy.
The first one she takes interest in is nearly seven feet tall and deep in complexion. He's dressed in a thin white tank top, his bulging muscles visible to her even from afar. She sits next to him at the bar and hands the bartender a twenty dollar bill.
"What's this for?" The bartender immediately asks.
"I'd like to get this fellow whatever he wants off the menu." She pats the strong, handsome man beside her on the back.
"I'm not interested," he quickly responds, rolling his eyes. "I know who you are, Glinda Haleot."
"Is that so?" She coos, ignoring his rejection and batting her eyes like a small puppy. "I'm not surprised, you know. I am a mother in mourning, after all."
"Yeah, you're full of shit," he says. "I was just at your son's funeral, where you very much were not present."
"Was that today?" Glinda puts her hand over her mouth, pretending to be surprised and upset.
"Sure was. If you're wondering, I used to train him." She very much was not wondering, and anybody who once knew her son is immediately less attractive to her. "I was there when he got the stress fracture, and cried in agony because he was worried you'd now hate him. Of course, you'd miss his funeral."
The bartender hands her back her money. "I'm not so sure I feel I feel comfortable serving you, ma'am."
Glinda crumples the money into a ball and shoves it into her pocket. "This bar is awful, anyway. I'm not sure why anybody would want to come here."
"Well, I'm not sure why anybody would want to treat their son like shit," Beowulf's trainer quips back. "Believe me, Glinda. We're better off without you."
"Just like how I'm better off without him."
She storms out of the bar, not even looking back once at the people she just screamed at. Just because this man wasn't willing to be the father of her future child, doesn't mean there's nobody else out there for her.
She'll get her victor no matter what the costs are. Soon, Beowulf Haleot will fade from her mind, and she'll be able to focus on her next big thing.
Beckett Fielder. 17.
Boyfriend of Vancouver Easton.
It's their sixth day of mourning Vancouver Easton, and he doesn't think it's going to ever get better.
While most of the Kingdom has grown less somber at their daily memorial services, Beckett can't say the same thing about himself. He doesn't think there'll ever be a time where he doesn't miss his muse, his queen, the only person keeping him afloat as the world around him gets darker and darker.
He knows that he's not supposed to consume any of the product that the Kingdom creates, as that was one Vancouver's biggest rules, but it tempts him every day. Customers of the Kingdom used to say that the drugs they sold made them feel alive, and that's exactly the feeling that Beckett craves now that he's without his lover, his partner in crime.
The only thing preventing him from fully indulging is the watchful eye his father keeps over him. Because Beckett is Vancouver's second in command, he's now expected to run the Kingdom in her absence. Johansson is hellbent on ensuring he doesn't let the queen down.
"We've almost made it a week without our Diamond Dust Queen," Beckett says, standing tall at the front of the Kingdom's meeting room. "I know, I know, it's hard to believe, and I too miss her dearly. I was thinking yesterday about something Vancouver told me, which is that—"
Before he can continue, sirens blare and red lights flash against the walls. The Kingdom's intercom system screeches out a warning, "Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!" and Beckett is given no choice but to duck under the first table he finds.
"What's going on?" Johansson shouts as smoke begins to fill the room. "If you refuse to answer me, I'll be given no choice but to shoot you."
"We've been sent to investigate some illegal activity in Twelve," a male voice yells through the smog. "There's more of us where we came from, so I wouldn't advise you use force, sir."
"Who even are you?" Johannson's bullet ricochets off the wall and lands on the floor.
"Delano Chateau, Peacekeeper," the man says, "If you're who I think you are, I remember firing you. How ironic that you've began running with a bunch of criminals."
The people around Beckett erupt into chaos, running aroundwith violent screams, trying to leave the room despite being barricaded by men dressed in white.
"Fuck you," Johannson scoffs, aiming his gun at the officer, only for it to bounce of his chest plate.
Without saying another word, the Peacekeeper opens fire, his colleagues behind him doing the exact same thing. Through the smoke, Beckett watches as members of the Kingdom drop to the ground like flies, one after another in rapid succession. His eyes dart to meet his father's gaze, right as a bullet pierces his skull and knocks him over. His crimson blood pools on the floor beneath him, sticking to the bottom of Beckett's feet.
He grabs the gun from beside him, and makes his ascent from underneath the table. If Vancouver Easton was able to save District Twelve, Beckett Fielder will be the one who saves her Kingdom.
Despite the smog hindering his vision, he points the weapon at the first Peacekeeper he sees and squeezes the trigger tight. A bullet flies through the air, planting itself into his wrist and causing blood to trickle down his arm.
Beckett fires again, this time hitting the officer in the thigh, though he doesn't bleed or collapse the way Beckett was expecting him too.
"Put your hands up if you want us to have mercy on you," one of the officers commands him.
Of course, Beckett doesn't listen. His savior wouldn't want him to give up this easily. She'd want him to fight for her until the very end, the same way she fought for all of Twelve.
Before Beckett can fire another bullet, he feels a sharp pain in his stomach, followed by a burning sensation in his lower leg. The cacophonous sound of gunfire makes his ears sting, bullet after bullet jutting through his flesh until he falls into a puddle of his own lifeblood.
He looks up one last time to see an officer has pointed his gun right between Beckett's eyes, then takes a deep breath.
Hopefully Vancouver won't mind the two of them reuniting so soon.
Vicente Aphelion. 52.
Father of Lethia Aphelion.
Nobody besides Neira has even tried talking to him in the past five days.
Vicente can't blame them either, as he wouldn't know what to say to somebody who just lost their child in one of the most brutal ways. There's nothing that he could hear that would possibly make him feel any better.
Even though his lungs are what's landed him in the hospital, his heart might as well be in even worse shape without Lethia.
The machine keeping him alive is hardly doing its job. It wasn't for a while, but Vicente didn't want to tell his younger daughter that, because she didn't want her to worry for him. He's well aware that one of the main reasons for Lethia volunteering was to get money to save him, but he knows his daughter well enough to know that wasn't her only reason.
Even though she denied it to him countless times, Vicente easily figured out that Icarus St. Augustine was the bastard who broke his daughter's hand, as she'd never get into an accident that severe. Lethia was always incredibly careful, nearly to a fault. He's smart enough to know that Lethia was going into the Games because she wanted him dead, and based on the hurt Icarus has caused her, he has no choice but to support her.
He's only gotten more upset at him since Lethia left for the Capitol, which makes sense considering what he did to his daughter. If Icarus had the audacity to return to One after what he did, Vicente would've used every last penny he has to pay somebody else to wipe his awful existence from this world.
It's almost embarrassing that the sun was able to do what Lethia couldn't, and all because Icarus fucking cheated by using his wings. Even if it wasn't cheated, Vicente considers it so, if only to make him feel better about Lethia's death. Really, nothing will make him feel better. Especially not in the limited amount of time he has left.
"Can I get you anything?" Neira asks for what must be the tenth time today. Vicente thinks she's realized by now that his end is near, hence her efforts to comfort him as best possible. He also thinks that his older daughter knows Lethia was always his favorite, and now that she's gone, she feels some profound urge to fill her shoes by overcompensating, even though she knows she never will.
Vicente nods before croaking out, "I'm fine, dear."
He's not fine, and the two of them know it. Not like he ever will be though.
"Are you sure?" She presses. Vicente hardly has the strength to speak a response to her, so instead, he simply nods.
She doesn't say anything else after that, because really, what else is there to say? Nothing can bring Lethia back, and even if something could, Vicente doesn't have much time left. Secretly, he's grateful for that though. He's not sure how much more he can take of life without his Lethia.
Rangani Sidhu. 18.
Girlfriend of Mozi Hongqi.
Her nights are boring without Mozi to accompany her.
Rangani stopped stripping about a year ago, as her and her lover no longer needed that income, but that leaves Rangani alone every night, brooding in the corner of her apartment that she soon won't be able to pay the rent on and fantasizing on how different everything would be, if only Mozi was by her side. Maybe it's toxic, because she knows damn well there's not a single thing on this planet that'll bring her beloved back, but reality has never stopped Rangani from dreaming.
Hell, dreams are probably the only reason she's alive. When her parents died and left her to the streets, Rangani knew they wouldn't want her to waste away to disease and addiction the same way they did. She did workouts in alleyways until her body was desirable, fighting off all the bastard men who dared to cross her. And it was all because Rangani Sidhu has always dreamed of making it big and becoming filthy rich, no matter what she has to do in order to get there. Stripping became humiliating after a while, but Rangani still stuck with it, because she knew it would give her money, and she swore she'd be able to make a living without it someday. She was able to stop, but that's only because of Mozi.
Mozi who swept her off her feet, divulged in her trauma and treated her better than any one of those narcissistic perverted scumbags at the club. Mozi who showed her what it meant to truly be loved and supported, always sharing her profits. Mozi who she spent two years with, making memory after memory together, getting in trouble again and again together, and always figuring it out, together. Mozi wasn't just her partner in crime, she was her parter in life, and now that she's dead, Rangani might as well be too.
There's not a single doubt in her mind that her lover died thinking of her. Even if she had her friendship with Malin Mardari, Mozi swore to Rangani that she'd always be the most important person in her life, a promise she quite literally took to her grave. She can't even be mad at Malin for killing her, 'cause Mozi was the one who attached first after all, and Rangani knows first hand that vile actions are necessary for survival. Instead, she's mad at the situation. She's mad that the most important person in her life was gone too soon, and now she's going to be all alone for the rest of her life.
Rangani has never been somebody who trusted easily. She's still shocked that she was able to let Mozi into her padlocked cellar of a heart, but now she doubts she'll ever give somebody else the key. If her parents and her lover both bailed out on life, anybody else Rangani decides to get close to will do the same.
And so, Rangani sits, night after night, wishing somebody would pinch her and she'd wake up in Mozi's arms. If this were a dream, it's the only one she loathes more than reality. Because for Rangani, reality is her slowly wasting away, just like her parents did, and just like she would've anyway had she never met Mozi.
She doesn't regret the actions she took to lead her to this state. She lived and she loved before her luck ran out, and that's just about the best thing a street rat from Six could ask for.
Orsino Vallen. 19.
Ex-Boyfriend of Malin Mardari.
Whenever he spills a drink on his clothing, Orsino is nearly incapable of retaining his laughter.
"I can't believe I got Malin'd," he says to his friend Jessamine in reference to the way his ex-fuckbuddy's blood splattered all over the walls in the arena.
She laughs, dumping her glass of water over Orsino's head. "No; that's more like what happened to Malin."
Ever since he's been running with the Black Hand again, Orsino Vallen's life has been nothing short of a blessing. It turns out, telling the Peacekeepers that Malin Mardari's the rat bastard who killed their colleague and watching as they get sent to prison is a pretty easy way to once again be liked by the people he once thought hated him.
Maybe laughing at the bitch's death is rude and fucked-up of him, but what else would Orsino do? Crying's definitely not an option, 'cause that would imply that he actually misses them, and lord does Orsino feel the exact opposite. Watching them rot in jail for the rest of their life was already quite exciting, but watching them willingly thrust themselves into a death match, only to die was practically a thriller. At times, Orsino wonders what was going through Malin's little pea-brain when they decided the Hunger Games was an environment where they could actually thrive, but he also knows that whatever it is, it probably didn't make a lick of sense. Or, not a lick, but a swallow of sense, since the bitch was without a tongue.
"You're right, you're right," he responds to Jessamine, a smile wide on his face. "Y'know, I keep sneaking into the Marquis' living room when he's asleep so I can rewatch their death."
"And why's that?" She asks in a sarcastic tone. "Do you still have feelings for them or do you like miss them or something? Is watching them die your fetish now?"
"Fuck no!" Orsino playfully slaps her in the wrist.
She hits him back, then giggles. "Woah there— I didn't actually mean that."
If Orsino misses anything, it's the rush Malin gave him. There's something to be said about being able to do whatever fuck shit you want, without a care in the world. Being with the Black Hand is probably better, because it's given him a place to stay and a steadier income, but he can't deny the fact he had more fun when he was with Malin, even if their presence really did bother him. Hell, a part of Orsino is still surprised that Malin didn't rat him out first. He knows that they've always prided themselves on being loyal, but loyalty out weighs the need to survive that's instilled in every human being from the moment they're born.
And that's why, he doesn't regret what he did to Malin, even if it slowly spiraled into their death. It was only a smidge personal, after all.
"Even if I did miss them, what would it matter to you?" He quips. "They're dead, aren't they?"
"Yeah no shit, we both saw their guts splatter everywhere." Jessamine says. "I just thought it was a question worth asking, that's all."
"I don't. Final answer."
But still, nothing is going to ever even come close to the thrills he had with his least-favorite rat bastard whore. Orsino Vallen's reputation in the slums of Six might be finally restored, but that tiny bit of his heart occupied by Malin Mardari never will be.
Aelia Sullivan. 45.
Mother of Icarus Schuyler St. Augustine.
It's not every day that a mother watches her own son commit suicide on national television. It's even less common for said son to have a twisted but indistinguishable smile on his face as he does it, seemingly thrilled with himself as he flies into the sun of his own volition.
Aelia Sullivan had expected no less from her Icarus.
It's been an odd few days for her, without a doubt. Obviously, she misses her darling golden boy more than just about anything, but she's equally confused, or flummoxed even, about where exactly she's supposed to go from here. She's not mad at Icarus, no, as much as she used to push him, she's never ever been mad at him, but she still wishes he was with her on earth instead of in the stars. But again, that would leave Aelia in a similar dilemma. If she got what she wanted, which is her Icarus joining Panem's elite array of victors, there wouldn't be much for her to do next.
(She did still get what she wanted, because Icarus died with the grin she knows all too well on his face, successfully wreaking havoc on the world, just as she'd taught him to do.)
Aelia's spent the vast majority of her life trying to work her way to the top, and now that she's arguably here, much like how Icarus probably felt when he killed that snake Lethia, she doesn't know what's next for her. Yes, ever since Aelia was eighteen years old, she's dreamt of being one with the heaven and the earth, the paragon of all things bountiful in this world, and the furthest possible thing from Isolde Eastley.
There's many secrets that she'll never reveal, even to her most virtuous angels and most sinful angels, and the first one is that before she was Aeila Sullivan, her name was Isolde Eastley. She was born in a shack in one of One's poorest neighborhoods, the only things in her possession being a chip on her shoulder, and dreams of one day being better than her pathetic, slothful, sorry excuse for a family.
Isolde Eastley died the same day she graduated high school. If anybody asked, her parents were dead in a fire, and she was the valiant orphan who was eager to make a difference. District One is sycophantic like that. Nobody wants to hear a story about a girl who was forced to beg on the streets, only eating two meals a day because that's all she could afford. But a tale of a hero who was able to rise to the clouds despite being born six feet under? That's the exact sort of story those aristocrats were bound to eat up.
With Isolde dead and gone, the only way for Aelia to go was up, and growing up poor and starving gave her the perfect figure to be employed as a model. She strutted down runways with a smile on her face, basking in the attention and glory she'd have never received had she stayed poor and pathetic. She made a name for herself around one, the reputation of an enchantress. Everybody knew that Aelia Sullivan practically had stars in the palms of her hands. She had two goals, becoming filthy rich, and raising a heir who could be everything she wasn't as a child.
Ezra St. Augustine was easy for her to seduce, that pathetic dim-witted playboy. What was supposed to be a one-night stand turned into biweekly meetings, turned into her wanting to lock him into a marriage so she could have access to his ginormous fortune for eternity. There's nothing that locks a man into a marriage like a child, and poor fucking Ezra was idiotic enough to believe that Aelia was carrying his, despite the fact he was rather… dysfunctional in the baby making category.
The truth is, Aelia has no idea who Icarus' father is. It was a one night stand that didn't mean a thing to her. Hell, she doesn't even remember what the bastard looked like. All that matters is that she gave him her golden boy and bound him to Ezra's fortune.
(Or at least, bound her until Ezra noticed that Icarus didn't even look slightly like him. As soon as he grew suspicious, he berated the young boy like he was a mere bug on the ground. No son of Aelia's would be forced to deal with such abuse. And oh, how easy it was for her to hire somebody that could take Ezra out.)
She raised Icarus in her image and he followed her directions to a tee. He truly was, the best son that Aelia could ask for, which is why his death has her feeling more empty than anything else. An entire life of trickery and social climbing has lead to this moment, and she can't say she regrets anything that she's done. The entirety of District One bowed down at her feet without even knowing it, turning her from a plebeian to a star without being even slightly suspicious. She made the world her own, which at the end of the day, is all she could've hoped for.
No matter what happens to the country of Panem, nobody will ever forget Icarus St. Augustine's name, the glorious angel who refused to let anybody push him too close to the world.
He died the exact way he lived, glamorously.
Maybe in due time, Aelia will take a page out of his book and do the same. After all, she taught him everything she knows, so maybe now's the time for her to learn from him.
Alithiya Essetella. 18.
Ex-Girlfriend of Atlantis Seasbane.
Her and Talquin spend every possible moment together, along the shore.
The twisting cerulean waves that lap against their feet and reduce into sea-foam are the closest thing either of them will get to consistency. And even then, each wave is slightly different. None are the exact same hue of blue, and they don't all travel the same distance on the sand before melting away, but it's close enough.
Close enough has become a theme in Alithiya's life in the past week or so. Atlantis and her weren't dating when she left for the Capitol, but Alithiya considered their breakup more of a rough patch, so she's close enough to being her girlfriend. Atlantis didn't win the Games like she swore up and down she would, but she changed for the better, and proved some sort of point to Four, so that's close enough to victory.
Even if Atlantis was far from a ray of sunshine, Four has been drearier ever since she died. Alithiya can tell there's something going on that's far bigger than her, or even Attie, but she isn't sure exactly what it is, and she assume that she's not supposed to know either. Instead, she'll stick to mourning her not-quite-lover, and everything that they could've become together.
Talquin makes it easier, as does their visits to the same waters Atlantis would spend hours upon hours dancing in. If she squints her eyes hard enough, sometimes the waves look just like her.
"I'm going to be okay," one of them seems to tell Alithiya, its arch almost like a smile. "I love you, and I'm going to be okay."
Another calls out to her, "You're a gem, Alithiya. You'll always be important to me, because you always were."
Maybe the waves are just telling Alithiya what she wishes Attie would've said to her before she went away, but she likes to think that Attie felt at least something for her. Otherwise, she wouldn't have apologized to Alithiya after every nervous breakdown, something she didn't do for anybody else. She tries not to dwell on it, because ultimately she'll never know quite how Atlantis Seasbane felt, and that's something she's just going to have to deal with.
"You remind me of her, sometimes," she admits to Talquin, her platonic soulmate and the only reason she's not completely drowning without Atlantis.
He smirks, tilting his head to the side with intrigue. "How's that?"
"Well, you've been through a lot, and you've come out of it stronger," Alithiya elaborates, flinching as the waves weave in between her toes. "I know, calling Attie strong seems like an oxymoron, but she was able to pull herself together in the end, and now that's how I'll remember her."
"You make a fair point, Ali." Talquin responds, his voice sweet like sunlight. "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm really proud of her."
"As am I." Alithiya sighs, then adjusts her head on Talquin's shoulder so that the two of them can fully take in the beauty of the ocean as the sun begins to set.
On the evenings where the skies are an especially vibrant shade of orange, Alithiya can't help but think that Attie is the catalyst. They used to relish those creamsicle sunsets with one another, dancing until they couldn't even see their shadows, then stripping off their clothing and collapsing in the pool.
Alithiya has never quite been able to say she's had a home, but those moments with Attie made it feel like she finally had one.
How cruel of the tides of the world to tear that comfort away from her.
"I think I'm going to be all right someday," she says as the sun casts its clementine reflection over the sea. "Not now, but someday. I think Attie would be upset if I wasn't okay, and I did something to join her."
"I agree with you," Talquin replies, putting his arm around Alithiya's back. "She was a miserable person so much of the time, but that doesn't necessarily mean she wanted everybody else to feel the same. She was projecting, and I think we should project her acceptance and peace with the world on ourselves."
When people die, their loved ones have the choice to either remember the good things or the bad things about them. Alithiya Essetella has the choice to remember Attie for yelling fights in the middle of the night and salty tears staining their pillows, or, she can remember her for all their picnics and nights out at the bar, the times where she truly did feel invincible.
She'll always choose to remember the moments in which she swore she was limitless.
Sevilin Verrillo. 21
Brother of Calsin Verrillo.
He knows it's ridiculous of him to bring this up to Varsen time and time again, but he's unable to get his mind off of Calsin.
"I'm thinking of him again," Sevilin tells his lover for the second time within an hour.
Varsen licks their lips and leans against the mast of the boat which they've made their home for the past three years, one hand on their hip. "Who could you possibly be thinking about? I have no idea; please do fucking tell me!"
"Fuck off," he teases them. "You know I'm talking about Sin."
"And how you're so jealous he got the edgiest name in your family because you're the biggest emo bastard of all time?" They laugh, rolling their eyes. "Or… are you thinking about how you miss him because he's dead now?"
"I don't know that!" Sevilin snaps. Him and Varsen stopped at a small town to watch the Games after they heard him volunteer through their radio. They watched him journey through the arena, drunk off their asses a good seventy percent of the time, but Sevilin was stone cold sober when the little bitch girl from Three pushed Calsin off the clouds, and he most definitely was not tripping when he saw his brother moving as he was lifted out of the arena by a hovercraft angel.
Varsen's had enough of his theorizing though. "You heard the cannon, he's dead."
They've always been incredibly blunt, and it's something Sevilin appreciates them for most of the time, because he's quite straightforwards himself. Now though, he's a smidge perturbed by them, because he swears on his miserable, pathetic, life that Calsin's still alive.
(Not that it matters, or anything. Sevilin saw his brother's desperate pleads for companionship and threw them in the trash alongside the rest of his family. He knew damn well that Calsin was without a doubt, the least dreadful person in that household, yet he ran away and didn't even think about inviting him to run with him. There's many things that Sevilin regrets in life, and lately leaving Calsin behind has been at the top of the list.)
"I'm not sure!" He pleads to Varsen. "Remember the ceremony where all of the other kids were in coffins? How come there was a urn for Sin?"
"Probably because his body went splat everywhere when he hit the ground," they reply, their smile now morphed into a look of unamusement. "Look Sev, I'm more than willing to put up with your bullshit a good seventy percent of the time, but this isn't going to be my hill to die on."
"You fucking suck!"
"And you fucking swallow," Varsen jests.
Their relationship is for the most part enjoyable, even if they're probably doomed to go up in flames some day. Sevilin used to say that he was glad he ran away from home with Varsen, and wouldn't have wanted to explore the ocean with anybody else, but he does sometimes wish that it was Calsin by his side these days.
He fucking hates himself for not being able to see how similar he was to his little brother when they lived together. They were both so clearly pissed off and spiteful at their parents and the rest of the world, but Sevilin failed to reach out to him and form the connection they so clearly could've had. At first, he was jealous even that Calsin was able to go into the arena, as it'd been his own dream for a solid bit of his life, but Sevilin was soon able to tell that his brother didn't want to be there. Maybe if he had invited him sailing, he would've never died…
No idiot, he's not fucking dead! Sevilin reminds himself, sighing as he leans onto the side of the boat. He can't be dead!
Perhaps, his guilt has driven him mad. Perhaps, the fact he was too cowardly to appreciate the new and improved version of himself, the person he could've so easily become. Perhaps, none of that even matters because Calsin's dead now.
But, for the first time in a long long time, Sevilin Verrillo wants to have hope.
Monet Haven. 38.
Caretaker of Hedy Lovelace.
The past two weeks have been the busiest of her life.
When Hedy's name was called, Monet thought she'd be sitting around for however long until either the girl dies, or she comes back and no longer needs a guardian. She's never known all that much about Hedy, but considering all of the time that she spends alone in her room doing homework, Monet reckoned she'd be smart enough to make it at least somewhat far.
She certainly wasn't expecting… that.
It all started with Hedy's interview where she announced to the entire country that Hugo Lovelace didn't kill himself, and it was instead her who caved in his skull. The very next morning, dozens of reporters were knocking on the manor's door, interrogating Monet, as if she had any previous knowledge that this had happened.
"I'm just as surprised as you are," she said maybe a thousand times that day, her throat sore by the time the reporters were gone.
Monet knows that Hedy never really liked her much, so at first she thought maybe the murder confession was a way to get revenge against her for lord-knows-what, and it wasn't really true. Despite her rambunctious tendencies and all of the vile words she said when Monet first moved in with her, she wanted to believe that Hedy wasn't capable of anything cruel. She was a quiet, subtle, kid after all, and Monet was hardly able to talk to her without her complaining and saying she wanted to go back to her room. Monet assumed that all Hedy's oddities were a byproduct of her grief from losing both of her parents, which is well… a very reasonable assumption. Nobody wants to think that the child they're watching borders on psychopathy.
Even with the Games over, reporters are still banging on the door and asking Monet about Hedy. It's clear the entire nation didn't see this coming from her, and for some reason, they assume Monet would have answers.
If there's anything Monet has, it's a profound feeling of guilt now that Hedy's gone. She wishes she'd made more of an effort to connect with her, because maybe then she could've prevented her from becoming so… unhinged. Then again, Hedy was a murderer before Monet even met her, so maybe she truly was a lost cause. Monet doesn't want to consider her one though, because no child, however damaged they may be, should ever be considered lost and unfixable.
(At times, she wonders what it would've been like if Hedy came back from the Games in one piece. She has reoccurring nightmares that end with her head separated from her body and resting in Hedy's hands.)
It seems unfair to be afraid of somebody who's still a child, no matter how intense she's proven herself to be. It's even more unfair that there quite literally was nothing Monet could do that would fix her. Even the thought that she needs to be "fixed" feels wrong, because Hedy Lovelace never should've been broken by the world in the first place.
Monet believes every word Hedy said about Hugo being abusive. She thought for a while that Hedy had been abused as a child, perhaps just as a way for her to rationalize her behavior in her head. As sad as it is, she wasn't too surprised. She's dealt with children who were abused before though, and none of them were quite like Hedy.
Maybe she too was abusive. Maybe Hedy Lovelace was always doomed to be her father's daughter.
That doesn't change the fact Monet Haven wishes she could've saved her, and doesn't think she'll be able to work another day again.
Verdigris Ahane-Voclain. 16.
Victor of The 52nd Hunger Games.
"Are you excited to see your family again?" Their escort asks them yet again, her voice just as chipper and annoying as it's always been.
Verdigris sighs. "I'm so excited."
Their voice is void of emotion because numbness is better than expressing the blatant dread they feel. They've been nervous the entire train ride back to Five, practically paralyzed with fear that their family isn't going to want them anymore after everything they've done. As they walk through the train station, nearing the big red doors Verdigris first walked through three weeks ago with a voice in their head telling them they'd be dead soon, they can hear their own heart beating out of their chest.
"They must be so proud of you," the escort utters yet another generic line at them.
This time, Verdigris doesn't even say anything to her. They just smile and hope that's enough for her.
Every step they take makes their blood pressure spike even higher and higher. They're not sure what would be worse, seeing their family for a moment before they decide to walk away from them forever, or the three of them not even showing up at all. Verdigris isn't exactly worthy of having a preference though, not after everything they've done, the blood on their hands still staining their soul. Wanting choices just makes them selfish; they can't be selfish when they've survived one of the worst things in this country.
(They wonder what Hedy would do if she was coming home to District Three. Verdigris knows that she doesn't really have anybody important to her, so obviously she wouldn't be afraid of disappointing anybody, so maybe she'd even be happy to return. Maybe, if Verdigis wasn't so loved, they'd be less nervous, because they know now that they don't deserve to be loved. Maybe Liana Taylor was right when she said Hedy should've won, because she surely wouldn't be acting so stupid and nervous and selfish.)
As they stand behind the doors, Verdigris deeply inhales. They tell themselves, this is it, and exhale sharply. Whatever happens in the next five or so minutes, there's a damn good chance they'll never be the same again. Not that… there's even a person that Verdigris feels like they are at this point. Instead, they feel like a mere fragment of a soul, a good person gone sour and now unable to find themselves, because they refuse to be evil, even if they've killed.
(Verdigris knows that they're not an evil person, but that doesn't stop them from feeling like a failure of one.)
(Every moment in their life seems to remind them that they're a failure.)
"You ready?" The escort asks.
Verdigris nods. Even if they said they weren't ready, they'd be pushed out onto the streets anyway. They know now that there's no such thing as making choices, especially as a victor. They're the Capitol's property now, for better or for worse, and if they ever dare complain, that's just being selfish.
She pushes the doors open and steps outside, her shadow casting on the steep pair of steps Verdigris never thought they'd climb again. The escort is quite tall, so Verdigris can't tell how many people are in front of her, how many people that want to see them, for some fucking reason.
Her voice booms louder than any of the cannons in the arena, "Presenting, the victor of the 52nd Annual Hunger Games… Verdigris Ahane-Voclain."
Just like how it did during their interview with Caesar a few days ago, the applause surprises them. They don't think they're worthy of being clapped for, really. They're just a survivor that shouldn't be here.
The escort steps away, revealing Verdigris to the crowd, and immediately a boy runs up to them and gives them a hug.
It's so shocking, it takes them a moment to recognize who it is. "Halcyon?"
"That's my sibling!" Their step-brother, no, their brother, proclaims with wicked enthusiasm as they hug him back.
Verdigris whispers, "What are you doing here?"
"He wanted to congratulate you," they tilt their head upwards to see Viridian standing over them. "And I did too. Welcome back, Verdi."
After hugging Halcyon for a few more minutes, Verdigris wraps themselves in Viridian's arms. They sigh and say, "I missed you. I missed you so much."
"Not as much as I missed you," they let go of him and turn around to see Viorel practically beaming at them.
"Oh my, hello!" They speak with the most enthusiasm they've spoken with since winning as soon as their eyes meet their father's. He crouches, opening his arms for Verdigris to run into them and embrace him. "Dad! I missed you so much. I'm sow happy you're here."
"Why wouldn't I be here, bun?" Viorel rubs his thumbs against Verdigris' back, his voice just as soft as they remembered it. "I've missed you so much, I could hardly sleep, because I was just so excited to finally see you again."
I could hardly sleep because I was afraid I disappointed you, they think, but don't say in fear of ruining the mood. Instead, they say, "I'm so happy that I'm able to see you."
"I'm never letting go." He laughs, tucking their head under his chin. "I know you're probably upset over everything that's happened, but I promise Verdi, I still love you. There's nothing you can do that'll ever change that."
Their mind may still be racing a million miles per hour, because there's still so much that's left for them to do, but regardless, for the first time in three weeks, Verdigris Ahane-Voclain's smile is real.
Look I realize this chapter was long and depressing as fuck, but somehow it wasn't as long as I thought it'd be so you're welcome for that. I'll admit, this chapter was fairly tedious to write, but I'm beyond happy with the finished product, so I hope you enjoyed it too. I've always wanted to do a chapter like this, so thank god for the partial SYOT format for allowing me to do this, since 16 is way less daunting and scary than 24 when it comes to lil thingies you need to write.
Also, because there's only one chapter left, and I sort of want to end it without an A/N so it is nice and pretty, I will do the whole being soft and thankful thing here.
First and foremost, I want to thank Dawn and Haiden for being the best friends I could ever possibly hope for. If it weren't for you two and your constant encouragement and positivity towards this fic, I don't know if I would be able to finish. You are both such incredible, special people, and I thank the universe every day that you're in my life.
I'd also like to thank all of the other submitters for lending me their children and allowing me to slaughter them, because without y'all, this story never could've happened. So Laney, Nate, Nell, R-B, Dyl, Trace, Z, Tia, Ben, Xavi, Joe, and Para, thank you so much for the sacrifices.
Children aside, thank you to everybody who's spoken to me about the story, and made this whole experience a blast for me. Special shoutout to Erik, Momo, Em, and Goldie, for giving me advice even if you weren't reading, and being entertaining people to shout spoilers at. I love you all so much, the same way I love this entire damn community.
The end of this fic definitely feels like the conclusion of an era of my life. When this fic started, I was still in high school, and now I'm nearly through with my first year of college. I've grown up a lot while writing this fic and learned lots of hard but ultimately valuable and important lessons, and ultimately I couldn't be happier when all is said and done. I wrote ACD everywhere from on an airplane to in a Phoebe Bridgers moshpit (before the concert started, duh), so it really does feel like a piece of me belongs to this story.
I've already spoken enough about what's next for me, so I'll end this here, but just once again, thank you. I hope you enjoy the final epilogue which should be done in the next few days.
I love this shit, but I'm out,
Linds