Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death, Chapter #35: Gift of the Gods, focusing on Arena Day 10... and oh boy am I excited for this one. There is a lot coming, so much that I am excited for, and after this we are just *three*, yes, three chapters left from having a crowned victor, and just four more epilogues after that where I'll be starting up the story's sequel, Declaration of Death, and from the planning I have done, hype doesn't begin to cover it. Last chapter, #34, the final eight was reduced down to a final seven with Magnus betraying Diana in a gory spectacle, plus Camilla received a weapon upgrade, an uncommon trio of Catalus, Poem, and Porscha ending up bringing the fire god, Surt down. This chapter only has four povs (the three remaining tributes who haven't gotten their fifth arena POV, as well as a check-in with Lydia, since things are really happening behind the scenes. Your support has meant the world to me, so let's keep it up into the endgame. Hope you guys enjoy Chapter #35: Gift of the Gods.
"It's better to be hanged for loyalty, than to be rewarded for betrayal," ~ Vladimir Putin
Poem Cavalli: District 8 Female P.O.V (16)
Her entire body aches from the wounds suffered in yesterday's fight, Poem realizing that even being sixteen years-old doesn't make her spry like it is when she's eight. Swinging her weapons at something, running and vaulting over boulders, diving out of the way of weapons that should not be on fire… that is out of her league, and should be saved for the action stars. That should be something the people of a bygone era do, not her, not the girl who sews and dances around in paisley patterned dresses. Yet, however, here she is, waking up to her tenth consecutive day in hell, staring at the same dry grass and dead tree environment that has been her home for the last four.
She clutches her head, frowning, throat feeling parched. It is hotter than usual, Poem noticing the sweat bands spilling down her forearms. She digs into her backpack, anything to smear the sweat off, for she has never liked the feeling of being doused in any sort of substance, whether it be sweat or oil or-
"Relax, Poem," Catalus's voice breaks over her labored breathing, she sitting upright as quickly as she can, her hands stilling in the bag. "It isn't hotter in the arena. You were having night terrors."
Poem turns around to face her ally, heart skipping a beat at his appearance. His good looks remain, as well as his charm that sits at the top of his scalp and drips down to his ankles, but beyond that, she can see the damage done to him by the arena. He's taken his shirt off, which makes Poem blush – Niklaus is a handsome looking man, through the drugs, but there hadn't been any definition to him, whereas Catalus looks like he works out in a gym decorated in platinum glossing – the burns appearing in a smolder over his taut, smoky skin.
She focuses on his words, causing her to keep the frown. "You knew I was having nightmares and you didn't wake me up?"
Catalus shrugs, his face relatively at impasse. She sees it in his eyes, however. A glisten, a fervor, a likening that settles on her own face, another blush rising to her cheeks. He isn't exactly subtle. "I usually let people knock them out in their own ways," he says. "Besides, I wasn't trying to listen to whatever you were saying in your sleep."
Poem feels nauseous, she fishing for her canteen. They haven't moved away from the brooklet, and if it is all the same to Catalus, despite not having voiced her opinion, she'd much rather not move from a constant water source. "I was speaking?" she asks, horrified.
Back home in District 8, with the ever clouded sky, and her mother constantly working in her own laboratory of fabrics and needles that Poem is never allowed to see, it is her father that gives her the world advice that Poem tries to keep close to her heart. She knows she'll never see her parents again, that there is an end to her somewhere left in the final seven tributes, but before she goes to rest in the ground, she'll keep Dion's words close.
"Never let the world see your sweat and tears, Poem," her father tells her, as he nurses a cup of coffee that is three shades too dark for her. He runs a hand through her hair, Poem trying to latch onto it, but he's back to holding the mug, leaving Poem alone without affection.
She has no idea what he really means, since of course the world will see her sweat when she walks outside. "I- what do you mean?" Poem never refers to Anya and Dion as mom and dad… they're too professional for that kindness, for that peasantry and normalcy.
"You're a Cavalli," her father cuts a sharp gaze in her direction, making Poem jump in her seat where her feet won't touch the ground. "I don't have to spell things out for you twice. You're smarter than that."
She still doesn't exactly understand what he meant, even now, and she'll never get the chance to find out, will she?
Poem wipes a tear out of her eye, having turned away from Catalus to do so, he craning his head around to get a better look at her. "What was I saying, Catalus?"
"I told you," his voice is on edge, which puzzles Poem, since the two of them slept close to each other last night after Porscha runs off, and she's saved his life, killing an actual Gamemaker creation. "I don't listen to what people utter in their sleep. It isn't for me to know," Catalus sets his head aside, locking his jaw.
The appraisal is still there, that glint, but there's an anger that Poem seldom sees. She knows it is not because of Diana's passing, the girl from Four's face shining in the sky. Catalus has stories of her rage and his cowardice in the face of the blonde haired storm that hails from gray skies and sandy beaches, and Poem is hard pressed to agree. The girl terrified her, and it's another threat left to just shine in the sky, the last memory one will ever have of her.
She knows what the anger is for. She can still feel his hand on her scalp.
She wants it there, but-
"You don't know how much you mean to me," Catalus whispers in her ear, then, after the anthem finishes and they let the dead rest in peace for a solitary moment. There's some talk here and there of Magnus, his old ally, but even then Catalus seems wholly in the present as Poem lays nestled near him for warmth. "I- I'll just leave it at that." Her ally shudders in place.
She turns to face him, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean, Catalus? You just can't say that and not expect me-"
Poem has to say she expects it, for she really does know what will be coming out of the boy from One's mouth. Sweet syllables that she'll have no need for, tantalizing words that'll be used as comfort food later on in life if she were to make it there, but that's all it is. Calories. Calories she'll consume, but like all food, it is passed out of the body.
She's had her fair share of suitors, fair share of men – and a lady – that her parents examine over and over and question and grill, but they're not good enough for their little girl, their little seamstress that isn't even told 'I love you' at cold nights in District 8. Her parents wouldn't approve of Catalus, and they certainly wouldn't have approved of Niklaus.
"You have someone back home? Someone you care for besides your parents?" Catalus asks, abruptly changing the subject. "Someone who is rooting for you?"
"Only person rooting for me is myself," Poem thinks to herself, and then aloud. "Catalus, stop being such a typical boy." She remembers wanting this when she's younger. A cat and mouse chase, where there are new roses every night somewhere by her bed, or when he's at her window around three in the morning and throwing pebbles since she just finished a dusty copy of Romeo and Juliet and suggests it be his next move. "Just say it. You're the one who told me that when you hesitate, it gets you in trouble."
When Poem doesn't hesitate, it gets her in trouble, as she immediately regrets the words coming out of her mouth at the way Catalus's eyes darken, and his brow furrows, and a seed of bitterness blooms in Poem's stomach. Shit. He hesitated, and he's in the Games, and she's reckless, and she's stuck in the Games… and he's her only hope for survival-
"I like you, Poem," Catalus blurts out, and she almost laughs, because this is not ideal. Not her ideal fantasy of being cornered into a tree with a kiss. Niklaus is not ideal, as she rips a needle out of his arm and watches the white slush form into foam that mixes with his tears, or how his hands rest along the curvature of her shoulder blades, and that she's the prettiest thing he's ever seen next to the orange opioids- "And I want to know. Even if you don't really care for me like that, I can't get over how you saved my life today. And-"
Poem has to stop him there, since they're on live television, and everyone is watching, and as whimsical and silly as she can be, Poem still knows in her heart when she wants something, and that is not Catalus Drachma. She sets a hand against his chest, still keeping the blush over the tone in his body. "I'm sorry, Catalus, but I can't," and she sees the sorrow in Catalus's eyes. "Niklaus was my first. He- I can't dishonor him like that."
"I understand," and Catalus's response is immediate, as he turns over, away from her, and Poem cannot stop beating herself upside the head over it.
She rubs a hand down her face, jolted to the present as she continues drinking from her canteen, refilling it in the brooklet. Catalus has gone to put his clothes back on, hissing ever so slightly as he does it. In his backpack, as he just has the sword now strapped to his body, lies the grappling claw, and the x-ray glasses. Poem has no need for them, really, even though they're hers.
It is something she owns, and she knows it cannot be taken from her in a raise of blades and splatters of scarlet.
She did that. Poem can't say she isn't proud of herself, and if Niklaus is out there somewhere watching her from a beyond that she'll one day reach, she can picture his flimsy body shaking with much surprise and excitement. Wherever he is, all Poem wishes is that she has his head back.
She will never get that out of her head, her dreams filled with watching lookalikes of Niklaus, and every other person she's ever known – even Catalus, now – losing their heads, and Poem's stomach sloshes back and forth with nausea.
Catalus glances over at her, she catching his gaze, and he can't hold onto it, looking back to his backpack, fiddling with one of the zippers.
Poem balls her tongue against the side of her mouth, breathing heavily through her nose. This is ridiculous. "Catalus!" she shouts his name, and her ally seems to stir in place, but doesn't look back. "Dammit, Catalus, look at me!" she exclaims.
The boy from One rights his head, he pulling out the x-ray glasses from the closest pocket. "What?" he asks, derision riding his tone. "It'd be best not to shout, Poem."
Her nose flares, Poem marching straight up to him and poking him as hard as she can in the chest, especially on top of one of his bandaged burns. He hisses in pain, smacking her hand away, but Poem keeps her finger primed over the injured spot.
"You are a lot of things, Catalus Drachma," she says, keeping her eye contact locked with him. "But petty and scornful are not your traits," Poem sees his gaze waver, and they haven't been holding contact for that long. "You said you liked me, and I shot you down. I am sorry I don't feel that way for you, but I am not going to let my last days alive be spent with you moping about!" she shouts.
"I really was serious about you keeping your voice down…" Catalus trails off, eyes darting from side to side.
Poem doesn't care. "I don't care!" she shouts, making a face at her outburst matching her thoughts. There aren't enough of them left for her to worry right now. She's survived the arena for nine days; she can handle another hour on the tenth. People her entire life have doubted her, she herself doubts where she can go, and when she finds someone she cares about on a level more than superficiality, or curiosity on how one would be able to skyrocket her position, she dumps their affection into a pit of acid. "I didn't save your life for you to all of a sudden become bitter towards me. We allied together for a reason, and we're going to stay allies, and cordial," she drags the word out through her teeth. "We know the Capitol audience likes us, and we know that although we may not be lethal, we aren't pushovers."
She grabs the glasses out of his hand, holding them in her grip, and in her other free hand, Poem tightens her hold on the grappling claw. Poem maintains eye contact with Catalus, the sorrow melting away to confusion. "I'm not getting your point."
"We earned these," Poem thrusts the claw back in his direction. "No one else but us. You got yours for being brave and saving your allies, and I got mine for deciding I didn't want to just be on the outside anymore…" Her mind pictures Nokomis Yanaba plummeting into the creek, her knife in her neck, Poem's blood going cold. She hasn't been on the outside for a long time now, but she needs something to push through the sleepless nights. "And I'll be damned if I let playground shit ruin what these," she pokes him in the chest again. "Stand for."
"Stop doing that," he slaps her hand away, yelping in pain. The burns had been pretty nasty, but for Poem's rewards, a small jar of burn salve sat in her lap over their dinner, she smearing it across the wounds.
"For what it is worth, I'm sorry," Poem says, she lowering herself down onto flat feet, keeping her voice level. "I'm sorry I can't be more than what you want me to be, but I do know I can be your best friend for all that it is worth," she reaches out and holds his hand in hers, smiling. "And if you're the one to make it home between us, I guarantee you there'll be someone who's just dying to get in your pants," she teases. He smiles at her, and Poem's world jumps through a rainbow. "There you go," Poem stands up on her tippy-toes, patting his face lightly.
She turns away from him, a smile still on her face. A stupid, silly grin. Poem never expects, after her curtain is torn away, when Richmond Anvil exposes her foolishness for the world to see, that she'd find love. She doesn't expect to find an ally in Catalus who understands her and lets her pain flourish. She doesn't expect to feel violence muster through her veins when Nokomis collapses, and Poem, most of all, cannot believe that there is a chance for her to make it back home.
Trying is hard, but if there is nothing Poem is not in this world, it is a quitter.
And there's nothing Poem Cavalli hates more than second place.
She will never be second place, not any more. Not with her own voice, not with her own strength, and she'll be damned if it is taken from her ever again.
There's a Hunger Games to win, and Poem is tired of hiding. She can set the needle down for a knife, the brazen warrior who decorates herself in bows, locked in combat in a dance of velvets and cashmeres and blood, sewing until the sun settles.
Poem has more masterpieces to create.
Magnus Winterthorn: District 2 Male. P.O.V (18)
Magnus can still hear, even in her typical fashion all the way up to the very end, Diana's curses that morph into screams rocketing the inside of his head. He sits up in one of the fishing village cabins, back pressed hard into the wooden surface, chewing on the inside of his cheek when the early light breaks over the dawn, sunlight spilling through emerald leaves, leaving messages of beauty down on the floor in front of him. The feeling of what he's done settles on his shoulders, but Magnus has yet to feel it in his soul.
He killed her, well, technically, he left her to die while the arena killed her, but Magnus knows what it means. He knows it doesn't paint him as the hero anymore, the man who willingly jumps into the frying pan barefoot to save a life of a stranger he's never met, when his ally, his fellow soldier is left screaming in pain as boulders crack her head open and sever her spine. Someone he would've considered a friend, and he left her behind. Someone he wouldn't have died for, but someone he would've bled for, and she's now gone.
Yet, even in the regret that Magnus can hardly taste on his tongue, all he feels is regret flooding through his body. This is his actions come to fruition, and the only thing he regrets is if he's done it too early now. The plan of shooting at the other tributes from afar certainly works, and Magnus has entertained it in his head, but a soldier gets their hands dirty to claim that they've sealed a victory for their team, for their side. Traitor Catalus and idiot Poem are an alliance together, from watching the interviews in the dimly lit cavern, Magnus's mouth sneering at the sight of the two, looking so happy and blissful, while Magnus's ally insults him at every turn.
Oaf is not a term of endearment, no matter what one will tell him; he refuses to believe it, refuses to believe that Diana ever meant it in a sweet way over their fourteen day relationship. Two weeks, starting with bets over what type of sandwich she'd want to eat for lunch if she lost a bet, to where it ends with him smashing her face in, watching teeth decorate the sunlit cave, and racing away when the world around him collapses.
It is not his plan to have her die by being crushed to death. After the reward or prize is to be reaped by finding whatever it is his escort outlines in his letter, he expects it to be simpler in just shooting Diana in the heart when she turns to face him, another insult most likely primed on her lips. However, the moment the first boulder smashes into the ground around them, the mallet heavy in his grip after banging the drum, he decides that the easiest way to absolve himself of nearly all the blame is to let it do it for him.
"She always considered herself a force of nature," Magnus reasons to himself that night, scarfing his face into a shot pigeon, where he could really use Catalus's fire starting skills – he doesn't miss him, he doesn't miss the guy who turned his back on the legion, he doesn't care if the golden boy bleeds ichor or red like the rest – when he sees Diana's face shine in the sky, every other tribute surely rejoicing at this reveal of fate. "A hurricane is only stopped over by land," he says, recalling his little bit of knowledge in science.
He never focuses on that type of schooling, more so obsessed with basketball and track-and-field, or weight lifting or… anything to keep his mind off of the bombs and bullets detonating in the sky above his head, as he watches quarries crumble into nothing. As he watches families get torn in half over their political divides, brothers turning on fathers, mothers throwing their daughters into prison over politicized napkins. He's reminded of Portia, Magnus nearly throwing up his breakfast at the sight of her blonde hair and snarling features, he very happy that she's dead, and that she never got to gut him, for she claimed it'd happen so often that he almost expects it and laughs it off.
Magnus has to admit to himself that he liked Diana's company, and he truthfully did, but he witnesses a change in her the very moment Catalus plunges her spear into Sylvan Adello's body. A rage, a rage that even though he saw the girl fight against Portia and her posse, or brawl multiple tributes during the start of the Games, that scares him, comes out. Magnus is not scared by a lot, he also having to admit this in private underneath the trenches, coughing at the tear gas that sears his throat shut, ducking under the napalm that roasts his scalp.
District 11's fields are supposed to be tainted, but Magnus still eats their harvest, since he's hungry. Perhaps he has a death wish, oranges coated in napalm and tear gas, yet it is the most delicious fruit he's ever consumed.
Watching her plunge Sylvan's shield into Ramses's skull, continuing to stab him over and over again with her spear… he doesn't react visibly, but Magnus knows in his soul he'd never be able to commit an atrocity on that level, for it truly is atrocious. He knew even then that he needs to get rid of her before her vengeance turns on him for whatever reason, whether it be he talk back at a command, since Diana never earns her support, never earns her role of leadership that she assumes, and Magnus knows in the army, in the force… that is not how the chain of command goes, and she's crapped over the entire system.
Can he really be faulted for killing her? If they were in the final two, Magnus knows no one would excuse him for shooting her dead the first chance he gets, as all is fair in love and war.
The war that stains him down to his inner linings. Magnus believes, truly, when he comes back from District Two, to be seen as a pariah. Everything has changed, since District Two is the first to denounce their support of Thirteen's rebellion, jumping ship off of a carrier that isn't even burning. He feels disgusted, for a few months, to be a citizen of Two, definitely boosted by knowing, even without truly acknowledging that there are people like Portia hidden among those who come and go daily. Yet, a check is delivered to the Winterthorn front door about four months from his return back home when the war is called off and the districts surrender.
Magnus has to trudge across Panem, far, his last post being in the thermal power plants in Five, his entire body frazzled with radiation and grenade smoke, and he doesn't expect a reward… he expects a guillotine, but he's instead given three months pay and an offer to redeem himself in the eyes of the Capitol.
He takes the money; only an idiot would leave the money behind.
This is his redemption in front of the Capitol, however. Not to be their slave, definitely not their puppet, for he is always checking for strings. He is showing everyone that he is strong, showing that the war is not over for him, and it'll never be, not for a harsh winter.
The nightmares don't leave him, either. Magnus doesn't like to focus on them, awaking up in the middle of the night, his entire body cut up and scratched to pieces, his throat raw from screaming as he watches the chloric acid get poured over the eyes of one of his lieutenants, a Peacekeeper's arm tight around his own throat that Magnus can feel choking the life out of him by the second…
They still in the Capitol, actually. They don't resurface till Fenrir snaps its ugly maw in their direction, he aiming for its head, trying to save Diana as if he actually owes her anything… and they only get worse when Diana gets in Catalus's face, and Sylvan Adello's cannon fires.
He didn't join the army to brutally murder people. Magnus joins to make a difference, to show everyone that being a jack-of-all-trades is useful in more than just sports, but there are Peacekeepers in front of him who have done awful, awful things to kids from Nine, or the elderly cooped up in Three, and Magnus has a knife, and a pistol that has been just recently cleaned.
"Kids!" he shouts in the Peacekeeper's face, but the man is blindfolded, the man definitely doesn't know what is about to happen him. "How many of them did you pile up in the streets just because you followed orders?"
"He should be executed, Magnus," his lieutenant tells him, the same man injured and blinded just weeks later in a District Eleven bunker by distant relatives of the very platoon bound at their feet. "His crimes against humanity do not deserve to taint President Coin's stage,"
Magnus doesn't hesitate in shooting the man's head off.
He wakes up at night screaming about that man, with the name he never got to know, with the family he surely left behind that Magnus can only wonder about when the sun sinks beneath the sky too slowly for his liking. There's more than that which remains, stuck to his skin in pasty patches of terror, dreams that can be cut through like blisters that leave open sores spilling carnage down his body.
Is he irredeemable in the eyes of the world?
"Some people call me a hero," Magnus's voice cracks, as he goes to take a drink of his water. "Some say I am a monster…" he pauses, letting his lips rest on the cool rim. Hero. Monster. Friend. Savage. Brute. Athlete. Soldier. Villain. Villain. Villain. Magnus knows at the core of it, it is a word that he can't pronounce, a word that the dictionary doesn't hold. He doesn't know, and he has no interest in finding out.
As he slides the water canteen back into place, a loud pinging noise perks his head back up, It is very din, for a few seconds, until it starts to rise in intensity over the landscape of jumbled trees and fishing village houses.
It sounds like a sponsor, Magnus wondering what he'd be sponsored for, as his actions have been anything but rewarding. He could have used Diana, perhaps, in targeting District 3, for he knows Vesuvia is vicious, and knows Jasper had been a soldier like him once upon a time, but now he's the sole element of nature left in the arena.
He draws an arrow into the bowstring, tightening his grip on it as he exits the safety of his cabin. If the sponsor gift isn't for him… Magnus tries recollecting where each tribute had been two days ago… everyone but District Three looked to be in the decaying forest, which means anyone from Camilla, Porscha, Catalus, or Poem could technically have this gift-
The parachute lands behind him, knocking into a tree. Magnus swivels on his heel instantly, lining up a shot and firing down the horizon. He exhales a shaky breath, running a hand down his face, as his shot ends up with nothing but air.
"Get yourself together, soldier," he mutters to himself, shaking his head. "Get it together," he hisses, slapping himself in the face.
Magnus keeps his grip on the bow, walking up to the parachute. The parachute is nothing special, the typical silver he's seen in all of their last gifts. However, attached to it, is a box. The box is cardboard in design, and about two feet long, what he'd wager to be his shoulder down to wrist.
He crouches down in the grass, making the decision to shoulder the bow along his chest, and instead gripping an arrow in his hands. Magnus throws the cover of the box off, he staring at… well, he's not sure, the soldier cocking his head to the side.
It is another sort of rectangular object covered all in black, Magnus picking it up in his hands. It is incredibly light, lighter than the bow strapped to his back, which he finds to physically be impossible. The black cube that the object is in is hollow, the boy giving it a good rattle. Whatever is inside that sounds like metal, Magnus unclasping the lock on the dark box, shucking the sides off and into the grass.
In his hands is some sort of apparatus, the apparatus as large as his hand, where most of the weight is coming from. The apparatus, or what he'd call the hilt in simplistic terms, is a solid gray, with a painted black switch in the center of the piece.
Magnus sets that down in the grass right by his knees, fishing back in the original cardboard box, his hands seizing the flimsy piece of paper he already knows will be there. Merida's message.
Well, Magnus, you better consider yourself to be one lucky ass. This had to be triple checked three times by THREE different people in the Israel administration. Cain Passionia got the suggestion from a sponsor who has taken a huge interest in your stance in the Games. Nyria Kirchner was initially given the sponsor request, unsure if it could be done, since the sponsor had it designed specifically for you. It also had to pass a test by Head Peacekeeper Lydia Wickervein to ensure that it does not break protocol… and lucky for you, it doesn't.
Magnus realizes that it is a multi-stapled note, he flipping over to the next card, brow furrowed as he continues reading.
I am told that this is of great value and is extremely expensive. Powered by electricity and photons and power and who knows what else science wise. It is what the sponsor, who I cannot divulge, called the 'ultimate weapon.' It is your last resort, and to cripple its power, it only has an hour of 'battery life' that cannot be recharged, so use it to your advantage. Find a clearing and press the black button. You are one spoiled bastard, Magnus Winterthorn.
~ Merida Ivy, Official Escort of District Two
Magnus chews on the inside of his cheek, reading through the note again. Sounds good enough, he figures.
He goes back into a sparser clearing in the village, gripping the 'hilt' with two hands. Magnus flicks the black switch up, and the device in his hands shakes to life. He jumps back in half fright, half amazement, as a tube of what he can only describe as condensed liquid energy, in a two foot column, shoots out of the apparatus, upwards into the air.
"A weapon…" Magnus says in amazement, unsure why he is whispering over the device's hum. "A weapon of what?"
He looks at a boulder, a rather large rock out in the middle of the clearing, and without much hesitation, slashes downward with all of his might. The photonic blade slices through the rock cleanly, as if it had been cut by a lazer beam.
Magnus turns the weapon off, gasping, looking at it in his grip.
A… a sword powered by a lazer beam?
What did Merida call it?
"The ultimate weapon…" Magnus whisper once more, and he turns it on once more to listen to its hum.
Magnus Winterthorn has proven fruitful in the eyes of his leaders and has been given the ultimate weapon.
The soldier has been granted the gift of the gods.
Vesuvia Vocanova: District 3 Female P.O.V (18)
The humble abode that Vesuvia Vocanova is able to call home, since she's changed spots so many times, pales in comparison to where she's been before in her life. The cabin the middle of the fishing village is certainly dreary and drab, but Vesuvia figures she could spruce it up and no one would notice its overnight change. Her prison cell is decorated in gore sometimes when the peg-leg prisoner she nicknames Petey wants to get information on where cigarettes can be bummed once the supply routes are changed without their consent. Her home with her uncle, which is never truly home, just a bachelorette pad decorated out in wires that strip from end to end of her bedroom, gadgets and gismos piled high that they block the sun.
Here, however, the cabin, Vesuvia can already feel its warmth starting to envelop her tightly in a hug. A domestic feel sits in her soul after last night, when Diana Kratovska's face shines in the sky in a teal halo, one arm wrapped around Jasper's stomach, he hugging her close. They've kissed and made-up, he questioning her about her decision to want to be on the Gamemaker team that has Vesuvia sweat so many bullets that she wakes up feeling dehydrated. She gets him some water before they go to sleep, and their slumber is well-matched.
Hers is, at least.
Some leaves blow in and about the cabin, both doors open to allow the free-flowing air in since Vesuvia swears it is two hundred degrees or so inside, also added by the fact she can the sweat dripping off of Jasper's shirtless body. She has to praise him for his success rate in being able to keep up, which she does by filling up his canteen with more water. Her pocket is empty, the tube of golden liquid discarded, and her audience sits in bated breath.
Vesuvia knows she'd make a great housewife, hardly ever needing to go outside, since all of her necessities and ways of life would be stuck inside the home. Her devices, her video games and sponsor work… her fans would send her gifts that cause her mailbox to explode in a flurry of metal and golden wrapping paper. They'd never go hungry, she could hire a butler to do all of her 'work,' and just wait for Jasper to come home. He'd come home, still having to work in one of those dumb factory jobs that Vesuvia refuses to partake in during her prison time. He'd have dropped his siblings off at some orphanage, since he is no father, and it shouldn't be his responsibility to take care of needless brats when his parents failed for him on doing their part, since they wanted to dress up and 'play' soldier.
"I was never like them," she tells Jasper, right before she hands him his drink.
He pauses in reaching for his canteen. "What do you mean, Vess?" he asks her, and his face is judging. She cannot get him to look at her any other way anymore, her pride flaring up in her chest that at one point all she saw in his eyes is unavoidable lust. Now there's envy, disdain… emotions that Vesuvia doesn't know. She only knows about being right.
"Your brother and sister. Always needing to have someone else do something for them…" Vesuvia flicks some dirt off of her nails. She's liking the switch to contacts, having had glasses before her stint in prison time, but the Gamemaker team decides she looked… "smarter" with them off. "By the time I was their age I guarantee you, I wasn't accepting handouts."
"It isn't a handout, Vesuvia," Jasper's tone is scolding.
She practically pours the drink down his throat, watching him sputter, and he apologizes. Vesuvia sleeps with her back to him.
Until she's up just a few hours later, fishing through her backpack for the latest sponsor gifts she requests for. When the cannon is fired, the one that is for Diana, Jasper rushes outside to do some scouting, in case it had been the pair from Two and Four who had gotten one of the loners out in an excursion. She finds the nearest camera that decides to make its presence known, and Vesuvia spills her request.
The girl has been following the rules, just like how following the rules back in jail is supposed to reward her with strawberry ice cream at dinner, or an extra heaping of the mush they call potatoes. Vesuvia doesn't like strawberry, but she can feel herself thinning in the uniform that it is provided and sits there like a good girl with her hands folded over the other, placed perfectly on the desk.
She decides, when she falls back asleep, after doing what it is that needs to be done so she can take herself to the next level in her video game, that tomorrow, day ten, is the first day a Vocanova will go domestic.
Become a housewife, even if it has never been in her aspirations before.
When Vesuvia awakes to sunlight pouring through the rafters, she takes a look at her home. It is drab and needed a new paintjob that has expired by around two hundred years or so. The floor is wooden, hard, with a few nails sticking out and about, her bare feet brushing up against one of them, she shivering as the cold metal tickles the underside of her skin. A staph infection is not high on her ways to go.
The ceiling is high, enough to create an echo, with a noticeable lack of furniture besides the post in the center of the room that divides the space into 'quadrants,' which can be seen by the distinct white lines that race from one side to the other. The doorways are open, the grass outside lush, where she could even pick up gardening.
Yet, it is nothing compared to the beautiful ornament in the center of the room, stuck to the pole.
Vesuvia Vocanova looks at her ally, Jasper Overheart, and smiles, the boy from Three standing upright against the pole. The sponsor gifts she pleads for in the middle of the night have gone to good use, the roll of tape stuck in a circular motion on her left arm, the bundle of rope used up to tie Jasper to the post.
His arms are behind his back, rope around the midriff, shoulders pinned back, legs taut and together… she's seen a few tricks before from Petey in ensuring the newest scapegoat of the cell block doesn't escape or wriggle free.
She walks over to him and kisses him on the nose, giggling all the while. She has been wanting to do this for so long, and now she gets her chance. The most dangerous person in the Games is dead, all the gods have been killed, and now there's just Jasper standing in her way.
Her ally rouses slowly, grunting, his body trying to twist out of its confinements, his eyes opening, and mild panic begins to flood his throat.
"What? What the hell?" Jasper grunts, his biceps twisting as he tries to squirm free, he lifting himself off of the pole as best he can, but Vesuvia has kept him pinned tighter than he realizes. His eyes scan around until they land on Vesuvia. "Vess…" he pants, mouth open, tongue out like he's some sort of damn dog. "What- what on Earth-"
"Good morning, Jasper," Vesuvia greets him coolly, walking up to him, and kissing him on the cheek. She rests one of her hands on his stomach, feeling his abs curl up under his touch. He shouldn't be cold, the outside temperature tells her it is around the mid-eighties, and in just a bit, he'll never be cold again. All he'll remember is the warmth. "Sleep well?"
"Yeah, sure I did," Jasper keeps on trying to squirm free, until he sits his back against the post, sweat starting to already form on his muscled form. Vesuvia watches his chest rise and fall, a chest she had the power to make hyperventilate… yet people doubt her. No one will doubt her when the cameras veer back to see her handiwork. Jasper tilts his head back some, a nervous laugh rising out of his chest. "So this is some sort of new thing you want to do? Cause I mean, I'm not exactly comfortable-"
"No, trust me, not that," Vesuvia cuts him off, as she goes to fish into her backpack. She pulls out her knife, strapping it to her side. How has he not noticed the tape yet? "It'll make sense soon."
"It better make sense now," Jasper says, and the jovial tone drops a few octaves into menacing. Vesuvia places his sword just out of reach, behind his hands, down by about a few inches to where she knows he can't reach it to cut himself free. "Cause I don't like this. I-"
"And when have I ever done anything with you that you liked?" Vesuvia snaps at him, getting in his face, her blood already starting to boil. All he does is complain, and while he has a nice voice that she loves getting stuck inside her head like a winding music box time and time again, hour by hour, the prattling has gotten on her last never. Everything is on her last nerve. She exhales a shaky breath, ribcage rattling as she settles her hands on his slick shoulders. "You and I need to have a talk."
Jasper scoffs. "A talk where I'm tied to a pole?"
"Of a sort," Vesuvia shrugs. For how much her uncle is the source of derision in her heart, all the scorn in that man that fills her with bitterness when her parents up and vanish, he does teach her a valuable lesson. Friends close, enemies closer, and it has taken up until now, unfortunately, for Vesuvia to realize which kind of role Jasper slots into. An enemy, disguised as a friend, to distract her and confuse her. Confound her from the truth at the matter at hand. Survival. "There are only seven tributes left now. Us, the idiot volunteer pair, Magnus, Porscha, and Camilla," she counts off on her fingers, since she knows he can't keep up. "And that means, the longer and longer you and I get to the end as a pair, the more dangerous it becomes to separate."
Her ally frowns, eyebrows raised, but Vesuvia can make out that he is still trying to wriggle free. "If you wanted to break off the alliance, you could've just said so, instead of…" Jasper grits his teeth together, shoulders yanking violently. Vesuvia figures he'd rip the post up out of the ground first before getting his arms free. "Instead of this charade…"
"I had a lot of ideas for how I'd leave you," she says, placing a finger on her chin, smudging a bead of sweat away. "But then you decided to kiss me, and I decided to kiss back, which trust me, makes this process a lot harder," Vesuvia twirls a lock of her scarlet hair. It is a gorgeous color; one Jasper will see a lot of soon. "If I just wanted to up and leave, I know how you'd stop me," the boy piques an eyebrow. "You'd try and stop me by holding onto my hand and tugging me down to where it is 'safe' and 'warm,'" she makes the air-quotes with her hands, a mockful tone filling her throat. "And you would somehow think that physicality and kisses would keep me tethered to you."
Jasper grits his teeth once more, so hard to the point Vesuvia figures they'd shatter in his mouth first. "If you're going to just go and leave, you don't have to insult me, you know."
"I just thought you liked living on the edge, being dangerous," Vesuvia hums, and then she reaches back around her for the roll of tape. "What I am going to say next requires zero interruptions, so I hope you understand…"
"What are you-" Jasper starts to babble again, but Vesuvia won't ever let him get that far. He's spoken enough, distracted her enough. She takes a bundle of his shirt, the sweaty discarded thing that is damp between her hands, and balls it up. She shoves part of it into his mouth, Jasper's eyes widening in fright as Vesuvia crams as much of it in as she can, taking up all the available space. A few silver strips of tape over that keep it nestled perfectly inside Jasper's mouth, she watching her ally turn from despondent to terrified, twisting his body in all sorts of ways to break free, protests bubbling up into nothing else but mere croaks.
"When I approached you," Vesuvia starts, once she watches Jasper give up into a lapse of relaxation, chest rising and falling, her tone sharp and level, "Back in Three, I never got to fully tell you what I was going to pay you for," she shoulders her backpack some more. "You asked me what I went to prison for, and I said murder, yet you just… never decided to ask me what kind of murder would throw me in prison while an entire rebellion was going on." Jasper's eyes follow her the whole way, and there's panic suffused in the white of his eyes. "I figured you just didn't care, and just liked sleeping with me since you never brought it up."
It is her triumph.
Someone who thinks she's one of his friends, yet he ends up in a casket, and Vesuvia's fate is never sealed by a bullet to the brain.
"I make video games, they're my passion," she tells him, a smile flitting on her face. "I had designed a virtual reality game that a stranger I was paying for testing was very interested in. At an expo in District Three, before everything erupted into chaos, I showed the final version for them all," Vesuvia places her hands together. The man's screams, the spurts of blood… all hers, her macabre version of paradise. "When you won the game, the device you were strapped into would break the player's arms, so they couldn't take off the headset…" she mimics the motions, and Jasper's mewls turn into frightful noises. "And since they couldn't take the headset, they'd be helpless to stop the needle from puncturing their eyes out…" Vesuvia leans into Jasper's face, keeping her grin.
It is not that she ever wanted to murder innocent souls, for no soul is truly innocent once someone elevates beyond the age of around three or four, but because Vesuvia knows that one shouldn't stop their art, shouldn't stop their gift at a moral level decided by the rest of society.
She will continue climbing the stairs until she reaches the king and queen creators themselves and throw them down until the heavens are empty save for her likeliness.
"That was going to be your fate, Mr. Overheart," she leans in and pats Jasper's cheek, smoothing out the creases in the tape over his mouth. His nose flares, but if he makes any noise, she can't hear it, just the rapid breathing firing from his nose. "I was going to pay you handsomely of course, your stupid brother and sister would get paid handsomely from my uncle's bank account left in my name, and then they'd waste it, and you'd be another corpse in District Three that no one cared about."
Jasper snarls an angry sound in his throat, but Vesuvia can only smile at it. This is her domain, fear and intimidation are her weapons, and everything else is a glittery façade underneath shining sunrays.
"But then we were thrown into the Hunger Games together, and I knew I needed to be smarter," she hums, tapping a finger against her chin. "I couldn't just throw you away like trash, and even though all this time I really was planning on getting rid of you the very same way Thirteen decided it didn't need you either…" Vesuvia scowls. "I didn't expect you and I to be like this, rutting like common animals, and I didn't expect myself to fall for you when you couldn't even count to twenty-one without getting naked…" she scoffs, throwing her hands up in the air.
Vesuvia heard tales from prison inmates about how their spouses were the ones to get said inmate in trouble, sending them up the river like a trout who cannot swim against the tide… and she laughs at their words, the gall that someone like a Vocanova would ever be tempted to fall into laziness and comfort… until Jasper Overheart and his dreams and his pains knock into hers, leaving echoes in her heart that she enjoys…
"But I did, and here we are," she finishes the thought with disdain, and Jasper's breathing is getting more erratic by the second, Vesuvia able to see how every syllable hits him like a sledgehammer in the side. "I thought I could've taken you to the final two with me, and I would've then sunk my blade into your neck the moment I got you to dispose of whoever else was in our way. You showed me strength, showed me courage, when all this time I just thought you were a coward…"
Jasper's nose flares, but Vesuvia knows she's on center stage. Everyone is watching her, and this is her moment. Not even the president of Panem would be able to upstage her now.
"Until Surt and Orion…" she shakes her head. Vesuvia digs into her pocket, for the golden canister of liquid, empty now. "Cole sent me this sponsor gift shortly after we came back from our fight with Orion and Ramses. A sleep aid of some kind whenever I had a night I couldn't sleep," Vesuvia frowns. "I didn't know what to do with it, since I don't ever lose sleep. I don't have nightmares…" her gaze falls on Jasper's sculpted body. "And then I knew what to do, when my eyes landed on you," she smirks. "You didn't even taste it in the water I gave you last night before you fell asleep, a golden liquid that I thought for the longest time was honey, but you just drank whatever I gave you without question."
What Jasper presents to her is undying loyalty, since he nearly did die in combat with Surt, and even then, seeing her ally's smoldering body in the dirt, she almost does care for him then, but even then, even as she drags him back to camp, all Vesuvia can think of is how he isn't up to snuff any more, and he hasn't even killed.
"And Orion…" Vesuvia chuckles, scratching her forehead. "Did you ever think it was suspicious that I got up immediately after I heard Orion's cannon? That his punch to the head, which was good I must admit, didn't knock me out?" she quirks an eyebrow, watching the gears work in his head. "I was testing you, and I really thought you were going to prove me wrong, that you were strong. But I heard what you said," Vesuvia gets in Jasper's face, his eyes never leaving her once. "That you didn't want to hurt him. You were telling him, yelling mind you, at him to stop. That you didn't want to do 'this' even after you cut off his arm!" she slaps Jasper across the face. "Weak! He was going to kill you and try to kill me, and you were playing the peacemaker!"
Vesuvia steps away from him, setting the backpack down on the ground. She ensured there to be two matches left in the box that she had been given in he few they searched in at the cornucopia.
"I wish you never told me you had a fear of fire, Jasper," she tells him, and she frowns. Watching people suffer isn't what she does; she does the deed, and she walks away. For this, Vesuvia has to bear witness to the spectacle. A Vocanova, when they erupt, to their namesake, they watch with wide eyes and let the carnage spill. "I know that Surt is dead, with what Vice President Cain told us all last night, but maybe, just maybe I can bring him back with an offering…"
Vesuvia pulls out the box of matches, digging inside for one. Jasper's eyes go wide, he howling every desperate noise Vesuvia figures he'd make. This brings her no real pleasure, not truly, not until she watches his body melt into ash and bone.
"A sacrifice to bring the fire god back, since the kill was taken from me," she says, and she strikes the match, the flame roaring to life. "I wish we didn't have to part ways like this, but I know you aren't strong enough for the road ahead, where Magnus won't hesitate to shoot you between the eyes, or when Camilla decides to rush us instead of flee…" Vesuvia keeps the match away from her face as she kisses Jasper atop his head. "You were an amazing ally, not a bad lover, and maybe had we met under different circumstances… a good friend and person."
His struggles renew, Jasper twisting, howling, screeching, screaming… name it, his voice is dying to make the sound.
"But now…" Vesuvia says, shoulders deflating. "Just another person in my way for freedom. Goodbye, Jasper," her right hand, match in left, slides down his jaw. "I love you."
Vesuvia drops the match.
She shoulders her backpack, removing her knife out of the sheath, and picks up Jasper's sword on the ground. She knows he is screaming her name, begging for mercy, as the flames start to eat away the wood beneath their feet, lines of scarlet and cardinal fear blasting towards Jasper and his post.
She can hear his struggles, hear his desperation, and Vesuvia has to keep her head on the goal, the rest of the arena, the rest of the tributes ahead that'll surely not be an easy feat to topple…
As she begins to step away back into the tree line, Vesuvia looks behind her for a split second. Any longer, and she knows she'd be turned into a pillar of salt, left to die in the flames as the cabin begins to collapse under the roar of the flame, ash and a roaring plume of smoke spiraling up into the air.
He'll die alone, he'll die in agony, but Vesuvia knows that is how the Games must be done. She's always been willing to perform, and one handsome ally will not be enough to distract her from that goal.
Vesuvia trudges on alone as the flames continue to rise, eating Jasper Overheart alive, and she is hardly more than just a few hundred yards away when the cannon fires.
Seven down to six, five more to go.
Lydia Wickervein: Head Peacekeeper P.O.V
Lydia has to excuse herself from Gamemaker viewing room the moment she sees Vesuvia Vocanova drop the match at the feet of her once-ally, and she has to cover her ears with her hands when the screams begin to multiply, the Head Peacekeeper only letting them drop once the cannon booms, the noise able to be heard around the entire city.
Her entire body is limp with exhaustion, Lydia feeling her heartbeat struggle through each step she takes, her boots colliding with the floor like mini earthquakes in her soul. All of this death and destruction, as Lydia watches it unfold in front of her, and the doubt starts to creep up her body like a brackish vine tainting a vein gone foul.
All of this, all of this, and Lydia feels no closure anywhere. She looks around the Gamemaker center, as Emrick Israel wishes to watch the remaining few days of the games play out where it all started versus the confines of his office and sees the same sort of mystic awe on everyone's faces. The president's face is more of an impasse, as is Nyria's, who has to tell other Gamemakers to prep Jasper's cannon, but everyone else's expressions causes her to stomach to curdle.
Richmond brings it into bed with them every night, when she feels his arms wrap around her as he hugs her tight before they sleep. The stench of arenas is on him, even when he is stuck in a perfumed studio decorated above and around by shining halogen lights. He reeks, and Lydia does not have the heart to tell him the truth, nor does she have the heart to stand up in the middle of the Gamemaker center and scream at the top of her lungs that this is wrong.
She's seen the pictures of what their armies did to Thirteen, of what her own orders did to an entire population of men, women, and children, and at the time, it felt right to her. It felt like what she is supposed to do in saving the nation that had risen her up, given her a home and a purpose, where Panem is all she's ever known, and mining graphite rats from thousands of miles away wished to uproot it all… she does the only thing Lydia has ever been taught to do, and that is fight back.
The weight of what she's done doesn't fully sit on her shoulders until she watches Ramses Boskov plunge his knife into his lover's side, seeing the literal love that is inside Orion Maythorpe's body bleed out into the grass and the dead leaves, that these children who have their whole life taken from them are gone.
She still goes back to examine the letter she receives, the threat that someone is willing to commit terrorism and kill all twenty-four tributes before the start of the Games, instead of having twenty-three of them die for the sake of the one victor. It causes her to toss and turn at night, Lydia spending countless hours of free time pouring over the words that are done in such a manner of speech that she's never seen before. Eloquent styling that puzzles her by the minute, yet the threat has not been enacted upon.
Seven tributes – six now, Lydia has to correct herself, hearing Jasper's dying screams echo in her head – left, and the threat has never been enacted upon, causing her to wonder if it had been a threat at all. There is also the matter of the bomb that explodes just a few days ago, or the threatening message written to Lydia in what appears to be oil on Emrick's desk. All this work in the shadows, with the Games going on, and she hasn't been able to find a connection.
She's tired, and just wants five other teenagers to die so she can get on with her life. Sitting through the final eight interviews is unbearable enough, but with Emrick's eyes always on her, always watching for that mistake ever since Cain speaks up with his disdain for the soldier he once had trust in, Lydia has to keep the fire alive in her eyes.
It has consumed Richmond since he has to cover it non-stop till the Games are over. The whole Capitol is in a buzz at how their sweetheart Poem ends up being cold-blooded with a blade or watching the love story of Ramses and Orion crash and burn… and it is nothing compared to the excitement and parties thrown over seeing Magnus abandon his principles for a droplet of glory sliding down his tongue.
Once Lydia is out of eyesight of the Gamemaker center, where all of the escorts and every important Capitolite who is worth a damn – besides her husband – have gathered, since they expect the arena to not last longer than just another couple of days, she takes off her helmet. She breathes the fresh air intensely, stopping halfway through her third deep breath when Lydia notices how hard her shoulders rise and fall. Jasper Overheart flickers in her face a moment, she having to cover her mouth with a gloved hand, stifling a cry.
Not a lot has ever felt this wrong to her before, spikes of pain blossoming in her stomach.
She'll have to cross back to the presidential mansion for her break, two Peacekeepers being sent as her replacement for the hour in Emrick's care. The walk is not very long, Lydia leaving her helmet off, exchanging her audible breaths for those through the nose, thoughts above the events that have happened in front of her making her feel like it'd be a light lunch.
Vesuvia Vocanova makes her sick, able to tell how the girl just knows that all the cameras would be on her as she drops the match, letting the flames consume her ally. There won't be anything to send home to District Three, a wooden box filled with ashes. A waste of a coffin when the Capitol should've sent home an urn.
Lydia realizes, with a pang, as she crosses up to the second level of the mansion, where her office would be for her break, just adjacent from Emrick's and Cain's, that her disgust with Vesuvia mirrors down to her complete loathsome feel of the vice president. His very name makes her shudder, she stilled in her movements, a foot perched on the top of the carpeted stairs.
The two share the same goals, the same ambitions, uncaring of who their actions hurt, where she sees the foam spill out of Cain Passionia's mouth whenever another cannon needs to be fired at the loss of another tribute.
And she notes to herself, with a raised eyebrow, had been completely absent in the Gamemaker Center this morning. "And the last three days before that too…" she whispers to herself, rubbing her cheek with a gloved hand.
The Games are his love child, she's heard Cain say that thousands of times. Why wouldn't he be in the one place, as it is his job to be there, where his love child would be executed? Lydia looks down the hall, to where Cain's office is, and then back at her office. The door to Emrick's is completely closed off, locked to the point where nothing could get in unless they were some sort of armored vehicle, like a tank.
An Avox is placed in front of Emrick's door, which causes Lydia to frown, as there should also be a Peacekeeper monitoring the halls, but they're nowhere to be seen. She hasn't seen Cain since the day of the claims of there being some sort of masked intruder running around the lower sectors of the Capitol, causing mischief and harm.
Somehow the man is 'always' out when she needs him.
Lydia bids an adieu at the Avox who stands in front of Emrick's door, expecting the Peacekeeper to be back from his other patrol soon, stepping up towards Cain's office.
One of the lights is on, the desk lamp that is the same across all of the offices, and the door is slightly ajar.
"Cain?" she calls out his name, quietly, through the door crack. She's breaking a rule here, in using his first name, but Lydia would tell him to issue a formal complaint if it bothers him so much; her purpose is to not serve the whims of lesser men. "Mr. Passionia? Vice President?" Lydia nudges the door forward, not getting a response.
It swings all the way open to reveal an empty office, his blinds shut, windows down – Cain has always liked the windows up since he smokes so many cigarettes in his spare time, Lydia remembering a faint time in soft greenlight where she'd partake, until his admiration turns to scorn, and his praises leave whip marks along her lower back – chair pushed all the way in…
Lydia frowns, stepping into the office. Nothing seems out of place, and in fact, everything is in order from the last time she's stepped into the office a few days ago, after having to make sure everything in the arena is order once Nyria tells her of how Fenrir, the wolf, strays off of its normal pathways.
She makes her way around to his chair, pressing her palm onto the center of it. It isn't warm, rather cool and prickly to the touch. He hasn't been to his office yet, which Lydia has a hard time imagining… he's usually working on something before the sun rises, unable to look at his wife before her usual makeup routines or some typical misogynistic bullshit that he reasons to be why he's prompt at 5AM.
The Head Peacekeeper rights herself, reaching across his desk for an overturned picture that is the only thing she finds different about his office. She holds it in her gloved hands, a soft cooing noise releasing from her throat.
Cain's wide smile greets her, genuine happiness on the man's face, a man she knows to be more psychotic than happy. His arms around who Lydia knows without even having to look at the picture. Raziel Passionia's grinning, freckled face, is at the bottom of the frame, the picture being just the two of them, Cain hugging his son close to his chest.
Lydia isn't around Raziel all that often, but the glimpses of a teenage boy who has always been so skinny no matter how much he eats fills with her joy. Not because of his skinniness, which Cain never finds the source of, but at how much happiness one could exuberate, and in Raziel's case, it is a boatload. Nyria is closer to the kiddo, for the few months she's on the administrative team before Nathaniel Coin ruins Panem's paradise, Raziel having an affinity for science and exploring the unexplored…
All gone with the cut of a cold knife against pasty flesh.
She sets the picture down in a haste, a low gasp ripping through her throat. Lydia turns the picture away from her, wiping at her eyes, sniffling. Cain will never forgive her, she knows, for not being there when he needed her. She allowed this, she allowed-
As Lydia goes to exit the office, her boot crunches up under something, causing her to pause. She raises an eyebrow, reaching down to pick up the item off of the floor. After she straightens it out, it being a letter done on a white background, a chill races through her spine, the Head Peacekeeper almost dropping it as if the letter is laced in poison.
It is the same… no, that's impossible.
The text style is the same as the letter Richmond gives to her just after the trains arrived in the Capitol.
To whom it concerns, for all right parties,
Ensure that the parents of Raphael Passion, as Raziel is heavily grateful, are reimbursed heavily for their sacrifice. Their pain must be silenced with whatever dollar amount that will be sufficient enough. They will save this nation with their offering.
A short order, but a necessary one if we are to beat Nathaniel Coin and his District Thirteen uprising into nothing more but that. The Capitol will spare no expense in making sure our scapegoat takes the fall.
Burn every other copy of this letter after reading.
Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.
~ Cain Passionia, Vice President of Panem
Lydia doesn't even need to look at the date, she crumbling the paper up in her hands, stuffing it in her pockets. Her heartbeat slams against her chest, fear mingling in the back of her throat. What does this mean? Why would Cain reimburse a family after their loss?
She looks over at the picture of Raziel once more, at his grand smile, at his bright eyes, at the future that is stolen from him, and Lydia exits the office faster than she's ever walked away from anything in her life.
The boy's stare follows her the entire way down the hall, Lydia feeling it squarely in the center of her back.
Who is Raphael Passion? And how does he relate to Raziel Passionia in any way?
7th: Jasper Overheart, 18, District 3 Male. Killed by Vesuvia Vocanova via being burnt alive at the stake. Submitted by ParanoidSylph. Jasper was one of those tributes I always saw hanging around for a good while, being decent on the forefront, but doing most of his work hiding in the back. Being stuck to Vesuvia I feel like I left him in a great position for growth, but sometimes relationships that actually look like they're symbiotic on the outside tend to be parasitic on the inside. He was way in over his head, and I definitely enjoyed writing him, but real contenders are making it to the semi-finals, and Jasper doesn't get to see the day.
Tribute List (Boy - Girl)
District 1: Catalus Drachma [Submitted by Manny Siliezar]
District 2: Magnus Winterthorn [Submitted by Audmirable]
District 3: Vesuvia Vocanova [Submitted by Platrium]
District 6: Porscha Watanabe [Submitted by thorne98]
District 8: Poem Cavalli [Submitted by LordShiro]
District 9: Camilla Rodriguez [Submitted by Reign of Winter]
…
ALLIANCE LIST
Privileged at Birth: Catalus Drachma (D1M), Poem Cavalli (D8F)
Loners: Magnus Winterthorn (D2M), Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F), Porscha Watanabe (D6F), Camilla Rodriguez (D9F)
…
Kill Leaderboard:
Catalus Drachma (D1M): I
Magnus Winterthorn (D2M): I
Portia Beninblade (D2F): I
Jasper Overheart (D3M): I
Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F): II
Orion Maythorpe (D4M): I
Diana Kratovska (D4F): II
Porscha Watanabe (D6F): II
Poem Cavalli (D8F): I
Gemini Lennox (D9M): I
Camilla Rodriguez (D9F): I
Nokomis Yanaba (D10F): I
Cassiopeia Grey (D11F): I
Arena/Mutts: II
Well, ladies and gentlemen! That was Chapter #35: Gift of the Gods, and you can thank Magnus and Vesuvia for having the chapter length be what it is. This... this has been a chapter I have been looking forward to for quite some time, and for those I kept this a secret from, I can only imagine what you may be thinking now. Poem and Catalus burnt and rebuilt one of their bridges, Magnus has been handsomely rewarded, Vesuvia made a sacrifice, and in the Capitol side of things, Lydia's world has been thrown for a second loop in the matter of two weeks.
Not every question will be answered, especially with Declaration of Death on the rise, but we still have an arena to finish, with three chapters left in that avenue that will come sure and soon, I promise you. Jasper's demise by Vesuvia's hand is something I have held in for seven months, and there is still so much left planned for me to unleash, and I cannot wait to share that with you guys. To the submitters of Catalus Drachma, Magnus Winterthorn, Vesuvia Vocanova, Porscha Watanabe, Poem Cavalli, and Camilla Rodriguez, let me be the first to congratulate you on making it to the semi-finals. For everyone else, stay strapped in.
Since I have done three updates essentially in the span of a week, no surprise... little tired. I won't have the next update, and probably the update after that ready until the following weekend... which ironically, the 10th-12th, will be during my birthday! Chapter #36: Calm Before the Storm, will have povs from all six remaining tributes that are alive, and as the title suggests... calm before a massive storm. I hope you guys review, I'd love your thoughts. I hope you all have a wonderful day! Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm