A/N: Major thanks to symphorophilia for helping me beta this chapter! :D
Chrys Gerhart. District 1.
He cycles to the Academy every day.
It's his mother's old bicycle that he mounts; he'd take it, in its usual place right beside his house's ditch. He'll whiz through the slums; the rankle of the jostling chains louder than the squelch of the tires itself. He'll pass by his neighbour's rotten-down houses, all pruning in that familiar dirty-coal stench; it's the most tolerable part of his ride. Unfortunately the shortest, too.
(There are barely any poor in District One.)
The next part of his ride's where Chrys takes a stab at ignorance. It's the picket-fence houses; it's the refined apartments, slabs of them stacked on each other, smoke spewing from the top, windows flickering to life with electricity. His sight shifts with every minute, and it's as if he watches a transformation: houses become double-deckers and then triple up into buildings; apartments flourish in distinct low-blue-green colours and multiply like Outer District families creating children.
This part's longer: ten minutes. And sure, Larimar's not half as irritating as the prim-and-proper rich kids; but maybe they'd be more decent if they'd just stop acting like they were oh-so-prim-and-proper like they were making out a performance for all.
(There were decent ones from Larimar, of course. Like Nemesis. And Clay. He'd usually be less irritated, if today wasn't… today.)
He slams harder on the pedal. Whizzes through Larimar. But, unfortunately, that means that he'll just get there quicker. All lined up for his eyes.
Nothing good comes out of Opulence. The fact that their buildings were fortified with marble and quartz should've been a dead giveaway. Or the fact that all of their mansions were ten times the size of the largest house back at Coal. Or even, maybe, that they were so desperately trying to live up to their sector name; milky-sparkling refractions against the early morning, like they wanted to blind any and all plebeian trespassers to their aristocratic land.
Unlike Coal or Larimar; he slows near Opulence. He eyes them, in long looks—at the sheer audacity of their constructions, glinting like polished crystals. At their lives; luxurious, comfortable, pampered. At the kids in there. And Chrys scoffs at himself.
He'll see them again today. For the thousandth time?
But it'll be worth it.
And so Chrys turns away from the gleaming constructions of Opulence; and directs his bicycle towards the Training Academy. Remember what you're here for. Remember who you're doing this for.
Rememeber what day today is.
He presses so hard upon the pedal that it lets out an unholy screech, the noise of a tortured demon: and he pushes through.
He has to.
Dior Marini. District 1.
"Are you ready?"
She closes her eyes. Feels her fists tighten, her nerves go taut, and then she relaxes herself. Opens her eyes. The girl in the mirror is cold, now. That man that stares at her from the stairwell considers her.
Dior waits. He'll leave soon, now. He has to. He always does. Dozens of appointments a day. He'll go soon.
He strolls into her room. Dior focuses on the mirror. His features are far clearer, now. She doesn't recognise his beard. It's shaven. But scabby. It practically pricks her. And his scent. Animal-leather pervades her skin. It envelops her. It's practically too much. Like a garotte around her neck.
Like the Games before that.
(A pull. A scream. A cannon blow, no, no, not—not that.)
"That was a question, daughter."
She opens her eyes. Stills herself. She doesn't realise that she'd closed them. Her fingers are shaking. She forces them down.
(His snarl. Stop whining. Nothing bad's going to happen to you. Don't be a brat.)
Leonard considers her in the mirror. Sees how her fingers shake, probably. She seethes.
She wants to snap.
"I am," she tells him. She is. Does he not see her? Clothed in black; shimmering, there, because of the silver studs that crest the waves of her dress. Leonard's eyes narrow as he takes it in; and good, it should.
She's still surprised herself, that it still fits. For a thing that had been bought two years ago. But nothing really changes.
Nothing has changed. She is perfect. She is ready. The Games are ten months early. But she is ready.
Like she was the Games before that.
(A blow, a roar, a laugh. Tighter, Lorine, come on, finish her off with a snap.)
She fixes the opal necklace on her neck. Looks at the girl in the mirror. Cold. Uncompromising. Powerful. That girl is ready for the Games.
That girl should have existed two years ago, you fucking brat.
"Is there anything else?"
His eyes stay on her. Finally, Leonard tilts his head up. "I like your dress," he says, finally. "I'm glad that you're able to use it today."
As if they hadn't spent years preening over her. Watching her. Leonard and Verica. Frowning. Your throw is off-mark. You'll need a better stance. What do you think you're doing with that blade? Don't be an idiot. Don't hold it like that.
As if it had not all been for this moment.
Dior cocks her head sideways. She looks at herself in the mirror: grand, as grand as the best Victors of one were; strong, nights and days of training and her results showed; confident; like Madison Saros last Games, but without being so pitifully pathetic; powerful; like the District Fours, able; unlike…
Two years ago, she would not have recognised this her.
So: she does not say anything back to him.
She had been waiting for this moment, too.
Chrys Gerhart. District 1.
There's a sort of envious patheticness that exudes through the room. It's there in whispers, pathetic attempts at derisive language; why did they choose him? It's present in glares, in ones they shoot from the shadows to where he's busy demolishing the training dummy in front of him; those ones that speak of jealousy, of desire, but all too wrenched-up in their stuffy glory to admit otherwise.
(Aside from the Games, which is in a day; that is why he came to train. There is something about seeing those that are lesser-than; those that work less, those that try less, those that think that they'll be victorious just because they're from Opulence; oh, upstaged by poor Coal. There's something about that which he relishes.)
They eye him, like ravenous, bitter wolves, and he pretends not to see them. He spots Nemesis in the ring of the training arena; she's fighting against Clay. She wields her dual-blades and Chrys takes a break to watch.
(Clay, poor guy, he's being beaten into an absolute pulp.)
A smile eats as the corner of his lips. Which he quickly eases away from his face when he approaches her. Clay's shouting his mercies, and Nemesis tilts his chin up with the tip of her blade; she's heaving quiet breaths, but there's a brilliant smile that dashes across her face like she'd just won the Games herself.
His heart swells.
(Which he quells.)
"Was Clay really that emasculating to you?"
Nemesis's grin stays on her face. "Was it that easy to see?"
A moan from their friend emits from the ring. Nemesis' eyes go wide.
"No! Clay, I'm kidding!"
Chrys laughs. "You're seriously taking that back?"
"Chrysaor, shut up."
Nemesis, bless her soul, actually ducks back into the training ring to check up on Clay's welfare. It's funny as it is adorable, and his heart pushes upwards. He forces it down with a grin and a call: "You're the one who fucked him up like that, not me!"
But Nemesis doesn't call him a name, like she usually does, or fake a scoff like she could actually scoff, or do anything like that. Instead, Nemesis's head whips towards him; and her blonde hair spills over her shoulders, like a golden mane.
"You're the one volunteering."
A quiet blanket falls over them. It's a little suffocating. He knows that the eyes of the rest of the kids are on him. Nemesis's eyes are on him. Solemner; sadder; colder; that brink of light that had always danced in her eyes, a warp of candent candles, gone.
"I'll come back. You know I'll," and it's supposed to be I would, but the words are thick in his throat.
(He will come back. He is stronger than the rest of them; he is the best of the best. The Capitol had picked him themselves; he will triumph. He'll come back in riches and in glory; bring back something worthy for his family, bring something for Nemesis and Clay, too, because even though they're both Larimars they're not too well off; and he'll show up those staring at him now, yeah, a kid from Coal can upstage you.)
He'll win it all.
Nemesis smiles. Is it pained; or his he projecting?
"Yeah, I do," she says, softly. She climbs out of the ring; strolls towards him. Until she's cocking her head up at him; so close he can feel her breath on his skin. She jabs a finger in his chest. "I know every kid from One does a gazillion of promises like this, but. You're gonna win. I know it."
His heart swells again. He looks at Nemesis and forces an easy grin on. It's needed, to get the next words out of his mouth.
"Hey; anything happens; look after my siblings, yeah?"
Nemesis's eyebrows raise. "Didn't know you were that kinda guy."
Chrys thinks about his family; his siblings, Melissa and Emilio and Juno and Julius and Laurel; all five of them, who need him. He thinks about how long he'd spent battling against the dummies, against trainers, against previous Victors. Thinks about his father; always cragged, sunken-eyes, so tired from the mines.
He thinks about the jealous wolves behind him. Thinks about how they'd quite like to buy their way into his spot, like how they bought their ways in the Academy themselves. Thinks about how he was chosen.
(For his glory; for his victory; for riches the rest of them could never have; riches they could only dream of.)
He laughs. "You're right. I'm not. See you after the Games!"
(It's a joke, laced in that too-smug smirk of his, the one that Nemesis always laughs at.
But he believes it. He must.)
Dior Marini. District 1.
"You're not training today?"
Dior straightens her back. Shifts her position on her bed. She keeps her eyes on the window. The Reaping square leers back at her. It is without the harsh celebratory lights that force the luxuriant gleam into the pillars. It is without the Capitol and citizen life that forces the stage into life. It is dreary. A pale corpse, almost, bleach-bone white. A ghost that makes a joke of itself.
Hasn't this stage been what you'd seen? Same stage, same people. Same Dior. Now and before. You're no different, are you?
"You're not answering me, Dior."
Carefully, she curtails the words in her lips; strips them of feeling, of any sort of care. "I've trained."
Her sister scoffs from the doorway. She does not go away. "What, like you did two years ago?"
Aline's words string round the room. Dior's throat extricates her words. "I'm better now."
"And you're sure," Aline says. It is less dubious than it is a drawl. Dior's chest tightens. She is sure. She is beyond certain. Aline had seen her train; just as Leonard had seen her train; just as Verica had seen her train.
Mattie never saw you train.
"I'm sure." Her jaw unclenches. "They chose me."
Aline's eyes narrow. That haughty light flashes in her eyes. Always in the moment before she pounces on her prey.
"Oh, again? I'm surprised they gave you a second chance."
Dior's throat is wet. She clenches her fists. Balls them into the bed. As if Aline wouldn't see. If she sinks them deep enough. She won't see how it clenches.
Because Aline's fucking with her now. It isn't as if she doesn't know.
Dior closes her eyes. Heaves a quiet breath. She opens them. The Reaping square leers. She turns away. She fixes her eyes on Aline.
"Aren't you supposed to be at the Academy today? Training the new batch of fifteens?"
Aline takes her hand off the door. Aline draws near. Aline cocks her head at Dior. "Some kid's taking my place. I'm free for today."
Dior flicks her eyes over Aline, approaching. Grips a bit of the bed. It's as tight as a vice, the words in her throat. "How come?"
Aline shrugs. "Guess. It's obvious, really."
Dior's eyes, unconsciously, flick away from Aline's. She looks back at the square. "I don't know."
It's a laugh that strokes Aline's throat. "Oh, come on, Dior."
Finally, Dior turns her eyes back on Aline. "Just tell me."
Aline bounces down on Dior's bed. She tilts her head sideways. There's a haunted smirk that tinges her eyes. "My sister is volunteering."
It's bitter, it's caustic, it's humorous, and something overtakes her; the pent-up frustration from the months of training, the lasting ghosts that linger sideways, the word that forms on Dior's lips are not hers. "Again?"
Aline laughs. "Now you're getting it."
(I'm not ready, please, not yet.)
Verica's voice. Stabbing at her from the foyer. You've been chosen, Dior. What an honour! At seventeen, no less!
Leonard. Cocking his head. This is our chance, Verica. Dior will be a good little girl, and she'll win, won't she? Won't you be a good girl for us and win for the family?
(I'm not ready, please, not yet.)
What do you mean, you're not ready? Of course you're volunteering. Verica's voice, shrill-peaked. Stop it, Dior, you'll make me laugh. Leonard, half a growl. I'll have a chat with that brat.
(Low deep breaths. Steady, no, you're ready. Don't make your throat crack.)
Verica. Fanning her hands round. As if swatting nonexistent flies. Eyes never meeting Dior's. Not enough training, that's no excuse to fear! One girls aren't the best trained. They win anyway.
Leonard. Fixing his scraggly face at Dior. A lion's maw. A lion's sneer. Don't second-guess. There's no one to take your place if you don't say yes.
(Deep breaths. No, you're ready. Deep breaths. You're ready. Deep breaths. No, no, you're not ready.)
Steps. Several. Clopping out from the door to their house. Mattie, earnest-faced, bow muddied from shooting in the moors. Tilting down, pooling out on the worn-wood floor. A tick of a grin swirling upon her lips.
I'll take Dior's place.
Verica. You can't, Mattie darling. You're barely sixteen. Eyes over to Leonard. Concerned. Leonard. Eyes-up, turning towards his wife.
But Mattie. Mattie is magnetic. Mattie has Leonard's charm and none of his coldness. Mattie has Verica's alluring smile and none of her ditziness. Mattie has winning blue eyes and a carelessness that unshackles her when the Marinis are so bound.
Mattie always draws all eyes back at her.
And her head's tilting sideways, her eyes sweeping around, her casual smile playing her lips when she tells her father and mother, It's okay. I'm ready.
I've trained, Mother. I'll be able to do it, Father.
Leonard. Gnawing his lips. At his child that has his strength. That is the spitting image of himself. Are you sure, Mattie? You don't have to. Dior will volunteer.
Verica. Biting her lips. Nodding vigorously. At her child that has her vigour. That is the spitting image of her glory. Yes, yes, Mattie. It doesn't matter. Dior will volunteer.
Mattie. Shaking her head. Something playing on her lips. Dior's scared. She doesn't want to go. It's no problem. I'll bring you glory, Daddy. I'll win for the family. I'll be back before you know it, Mom. Don't worry about me.
She repeats Mattie's litany in her head. She'll be back before she knows it, Dior tells herself, then. She'll bring glory. She'll bring a flurry of red behind her. She'll bring a smile and a cavalcade behind.
Don't worry. Don't be teary. I'll win for you, Di.
Her sister's coming back. She'll come back with a faerie smile. She'll come back with a bloodied blade and an array of accolades and in a cascade of nightshade. With a cavalcade behind.
Mattie comes with a ruby choker around her neck, a precious slit throat that pries the smile from her lips. And she is drenched in a dress of red.
Chrys Gerhart. District 1.
"You're gonna die like that girl last Games. That One girl. Remember her?"
Chrys lets out a rancorous laugh. Seriously? Out of all people Dad could've compared him to—her?
"Dad, everyone remembers Saros. She killed herself."
"She didn't. That other girl—tricked her into…"
He scoffs. "Oh, come on, it was obvious. She'd been wanting to die for a while. You don't know her; I'd seen her lurch round the Academy, lucid all the while. It was clear early on that Saros wasn't gonna be a Victor. Besides—do I look suicidal to you?"
His Dad presses his palms in his eyes. Which was always the precursor to a groan. "Chrysaor!"
Chrys lets out a breath. This conversation shouldn't even be happening. They'd talked this through weeks ago.
His Dad gets up and paces. "Do you know what this means? Volunteering? Emilio is scared for you, Chrys."
"Tell him he doesn't have to be. I'll be perfectly fine."
"That's what you think. That's what they all think, Chrys. How many District Ones have died the last few years?"
"That's because they weren't ready. Not as ready as I am. And you know I'm ready. You know that."
His Dad opens his mouth—to retaliate. And Chrys prepares himself; prepares the evidence of his training, of his dedication, of all else he could use to refute.
Dad doesn't retaliate. He crumples. It's ashen, his face: of wrinkles and tired lines and streaks of yet-to-be-cleared dust, and then he is only a creature, a pitiful one, that the mines have moulded him into.
"Don't do this to me, son. I don't want to lose you too."
Chrys's words are sharp as they are fast. "You won't."
"No. Don't say that. You know what day it is."
Heavy silence encases them. It's thicker than mine-dust than the clouts of smog that swallow Coal. It's heavy in his chest like ember-smoke, gathering, swelling, settling in his lungs.
(His mother, smiling, the brightest in Coal, they'd said, you'd think that nothing bad could ever happen to her.)
Chrys exhales. "I know. I'm sorry. But—" and his eyes flick out to their dirty windows, and he strains his sight, and there's a little bit of Opulence that he makes out.
"—I'm gonna win, Dad. You're gonna get out of that shitty gem-mining job, Melissa's gonna get the dresses she needs for her projects, we'll buy Juno new books, we'll find Julius a new hobby, we'll get Laurel new toys, and then we'll all be better off from it. You don't have to worry."
"I don't want you to do this, Chrys."
(His father, sooted in the same worn miner's outfit he'd used for ten years. His father, struggling to put food on the table. His father, coughing like the Black Death, because of what's gotten into his lungs.)
"I'm not doing this because you can't," Chrys says, gently, as he keeps his eyes on Opulence. "It's because you're trying and I want to help."
"It's not that," Dad says, quietly, behind him. But Chrys's eyes are rivet on Opulence: and he does not break away.
(On his mother's deathbed, he had promised her: he would enrol into the Academy like she wanted him to. He would train for the Games.
On the anniversary of his mother's death, he volunteers for the Games.)
Dior Marini. District 1.
Mattie. Strangled by a garrotte. Tenth place. Dead in a ditch. In the Games that Dior was supposed to be in. Two years ago. She's eighteen; almost nineteen, now, she was cut from volunteering last year, and they thought that would be the last they heard from the Marinis. But oh, no. Now the rule-change meant she could.
And she was chosen. For being the best. They'd forgotten what had happened before. Because nobody cared about the dead.
She's in Mattie's spot, now. Mattie would've been eighteen, this year. She'd have won the Games, this year: Mattie would have trained. Mattie would have been able to do it. Mattie would have been ready. Mattie would have been their Victor; Mattie would have lived, and Dior would be dead.
(I've trained, Mother. I'll be able to do it, Father.)
Oh. She'll make them remember.
A/N: Let me know what you thought about the D1s - of Dior and Chrys! What did you think of their personalities? Of how they'll interact with each other and with your tributes? I've tried to make the narration/writing style fit the character; so let me know what you thought about that! I had a blast writing these two; their headspaces were so much fun to inhabit and to prod around with!
Fun fact: You can probably find references to Sadie by Courtney Summers and to Angela Carter for this chapter! :)
We also have a Discord server - for SYOTs in general, and for this fic! Here's a link, if you'd like to join! :D discord .gg/ N9PDGUS
Next Update: Aiming for the 29th! We'll be meeting the D2s next, Hera and Kiernan. :D