prologue i. the only way out
serenity 'ren' citadel - son of panem
There is nothing in the stairwell but darkness. Dank, cold, bitter darkness, like something has siphoned every ounce of light from the room and replaced it with unending shadows. Ren thinks he might have found the place where he truly belongs. If he stayed, no one would find him. Some musty, forgotten place, where no one ever treads. Exhaustion plagues his body with every downward step- an ache so acute that it cannot be dulled, cannot be dampened, can only be sated with the twist of rope pulled tight. Another day, another execution. If he were anyone else, Ren might find himself horrified with the crimes he's committed. Instead, he simply feels numb.
Unfeeling, unmoving, because none of it matters anymore, right? Unless it's the saw of a blade across his wrist or the flay of a whip against his back, it's all worthless.
He is worthless.
Ren still hears the whispers. Even when people don't think he does, even when they're breathed behind his back. He still hears them. He still reads between the lines of text they so desperately try to hide. Cold-hearted bastard, they say. Cruel monster. Indefatigable puppet of the President, keep him in the theater where he belongs.
They've always said that his only flaw is that he cannot feel.
But perhaps his flaw is his frailty, the too-feminine curvature of his waist. Perhaps it's his sycophancy, the nights when he awakes writhing, desperation coating the roof of his mouth.
(He is imperfection at its purest and most debased.)
Down Ren goes, around and around, the tight curve of the staircase nothing like the twisted hearts of those who reside in the building above him. If Ren has fallen so far, oh, how those who possess true political power have collapsed. At least he is something tangible. Even if his legacy is nothing more than hushed whispers, blood makes its crimson stain on history. He can take his solace in the reminder that those on the throne will be nothing more than dust on the wind. In their wickedness, their power fails. Their ambition blinds them. The Glynnwood family has run unchecked on their claim for the title of President, and in doing so, have failed to accomplish anything truly spectacular.
He wants to laugh. To think that they dream of being worshipped. The Capitol, torn apart and stripped down, is no more ordered than the streets of Twelve. No one knows how to lead. Not even now, during the supposed height of Panem's power. And they expect him to represent such chaos? Even if Ren himself is meaningless, he is more fit for a throne than any of the alternatives around him. His shoulders shake as he pushes open the door in front of him.
The light of the execution room is bright, and the son of Panem has to shut his eyes briefly against the onslaught. When he opens them, he finds three pairs staring back. The rebels are cuffed. Metal chaining the prisoners to the white-wash of wall behind them. They look terrified. Terrified and scorning and resigned. Well. Doesn't that strike a familiar chord.
When he picks up a gun from the waiting table, he swears he hears one of them sigh.
Two men and a women stare at him from across the room. Each of them on their knees. Hands behind their backs, chained like animals with nowhere to go. The monochrome metal is chill against his hand. Ren welcomes the cold into his bones like an old friend. This is his duty, after all. It cannot corrupt him anymore than his poisoned soul already has.
Their eyes all say the same thing, he reflects, loading a bullet into the chamber. They all call him fiend when they die. And perhaps he is, as titanium locks into place. He has always been guided by the melodic tune of wickedness and rage. Of impurity and transcension entwined. He's an angel of death, named by a jester on an imposter's throne.
It's like second nature when he steps up, flicking the safety off his gun. The three gaze up at him. There is nothing but hate in the eyes of the men, and normally, he would not hesitate to shoot them down without a second glance. However, the girl gives him pause. She can't be older than eighteen. Her hair falls in a loose braid down her back, and the dark brown of her eyes hold a fire that he almost regrets having to put out. Despite her face being twisted in anguish, there is still conflict burning through her veins.
She doesn't want to die.
The two beside her have given up hope, but she has still not accepted her fate. Fighting against the very weft and weave of the tapestry. A valiant effort gone in vain. Ren knows better than anyone that you cannot alter the desires of time herself. Empathy aside...
… what is one more death in the scheme of saving the world?
And yet he still sees his own duality reflected in the girl's eyes. His own torment, his own regality. The desire to serve warring with the utterly human want for power.
Ice rides down his spine, one ridge at a time. But his hand remains steady as he raises his gun and puts three shots into the figures before him.
a/n- the form and guidelines can be found in my bio. please give the rules a thorough read-through before submitting a tribute. i will be accepting a maximum of twelve tributes to write for- the other half of the cast will be filler, without povs and almost guaranteed early deaths. i would love to see you submit, but whether you send a character in or not, thank you for taking the time to read the first chapter of daughter of darkness.
stay safe out there.
