Helloooooooooo! We've reached our last chapter before the bloodbath! Gosh, only took us, what, two years? Phew, what a ride it's been so far. I've got some notes at the end of the chapter as well as our usual QQ, so enjoy in the meantime!
32 - Ultimatum
Calico Hemingway, 17, District 8
He can't help how much he paces once he and Luxor return to their floor. He can't help how tightly his clenches his fists, nails digging red half-moons into his palms and threatening to draw blood. He can't help the nagging paranoia and distrust in the back of his mind as the realisation of what he's done tonight sets in.
Tonight was a mistake. Calico has never been more certain of that than he is now. He should've played it all off as Cham knowing exactly what happened—she probably really does, who is he kidding?—and empathising with him. How many other people knew about the fire? About Atlas and Delaine dying right in front of Calico? About Calico repressing the mere sight of his best friends—
He inhales sharply and wrings his hands tightly together. Keep your cool, Callie. You're better than this—better than a hair trigger breakdown. This is fine. This is all going to be fine.
Except it's not. God, it's so far from fine. Did Lola bring it up because she wanted to expose Calico on live TV? Calico picks at his nails on his left hand. How long has Lola known? She can't have gathered the information about the fire in just a few hours. Before the private sessions? Did Ulysses lie to him after the Parade and tell her? Highly likely. Calico clicks his tongue and scrapes a bit too harshly at his middle nail. Never should've trusted Ulysses's word. Never should've given up so quickly.
Should've lied through his teeth. Should've bullshitted something about Chambray being trans—closeted—and dealt with that mess instead of this.
Should've volunteered in the first place.
Of their entire team, Greve is the only one unaware by this point. Charlotte was the first in on it, uncannily able to tell apart the twins despite only knowing them for an hour. Then there was Ulysses—untrustworthy, lying Ulysses—and now it's Luxor's turn. The model in question, who'd been so attentive of "Chambray" and her reluctance to get close to other tributes, sabotaging his own shots at alliances, sits across the room from Calico's ever pacing form. He doesn't look bothered in the least by Calico's anxiety; if anything his focus is on his jacket, beyond saving with even the cheapest and quickest of stain removal methods.
Luxor lets out a soft sigh and gives up on his jacket quicker than Calico expects him to. He rises from the chair by his desk, fixes a levelled gaze on Calico, and offers the weakest smile Calico has ever seen in his life. Calico playing the part of a pleasant person looks more genuine than Luxor's attempt at being positive.
"Finn took the news well," Luxor tries. Calico can only stare at him, utterly exhausted, without so much as a word of reply. "And your plan was really good. I think we'll have a chance."
It's really not a good plan. It's basic, at best, and it all relies too much on sentiment than logic. Calico can do better to get himself back home to Cham. Calico just can't bring himself to after everything Finn's done for him during training. And with Delaine and Atlas flooding his mind whenever he lets his guard down… Well, Calico doesn't like the idea of another face staring blankly up at him as bones break and snap in all but a second.
There's also the matter of Cham being disappointed if he doesn't try to help his ally. He doesn't know if he can live with her seeing him as cold-hearted like most other people who've been privy to his true self. Cham is the last person he has to treat him like normal. Their parents try—God, they try so hard—but with Delaine and Atlas gone, there's only Cham…
Luxor notices the silence, notices the disbelief and possibly even the doubts. But he doesn't move. He looks at Calico, hesitant, before asking, "Would you be comfortable if I hugged you?"
Calico bristles immediately. "No," he deflects. "I don't— Touching isn't my thing."
And Luxor Aricunai, despite being refused, just nods. "Okay," he says. He points to the couch behind them. "Are you comfortable just sitting for a while? No touching," he adds quickly as Calico tries to argue.
He chews his lip. His nails hurt from how hard he'd scraped at them. Calico just wants to get out of this damn dress that Croix felt the need to spill pudding all over.
"Okay," he says quietly.
Calico sinks down onto the couch. He doesn't let out a tired sigh like he wants to, nor does he entertain Luxor's desire to make sure he's "okay". Calico just sits there. Calico just thinks. Calico just exists.
It feels almost normal if he blocks everything but himself out.
Luxor talks. Of course he talks, he's so damned concerned about Calico. He should be angry at him. He should be cursing Calico's existence. He should be wanting him dead. But instead it's all, "I would've done the same if I had a sister," and, "I still think you're pretty cool, doing that out of sheer love for your sister." It's reassurance that Calico doesn't deserve. It's a comfort only Chambray is supposed to give him.
He cuts off Luxor mid-sentence by this train of thought. "Why don't you hate me?" he says, loud and clear. Luxor freezes. His expression falls—it's closer to what Calico had wanted him to regard the blond with this whole time—but his soft tone doesn't fade.
"I don't think you deserve it," Luxor admits. He chews his lip, almost as though debating what's best to say. Calico doesn't understand why he needs to think it over. Capitolites never really care about hurting little District kids' feelings. "I don't love or hate the Games. I won't lie about my opinion over it because I know you won't appreciate it. But I do know that people…" Luxor sucks in a deep breath, hands waving about in an attempt to help him find his words. "People do what they feel is necessary in the Games. Lie. Cheat. Manipulate." He dares a sidelong glance at Calico. "Protect. Sacrifice themselves. Necessity is subjective, y'know?"
Calico simply nods. He doesn't jump in with a reply—the way Luxor shifts on the couch awkwardly is as good a sign as any that there's more to come with his speech.
"I don't hate you," Luxor says slowly, "because I believe you acted out of necessity. You didn't pretend to be your sister so you could make someone suffer—so you could make me suffer. You did it to protect her, right?"
"I could've vol—"
"But you didn't." Calico flinches at the truth. He tears his gaze from Luxor. "No, sorry. I—I mean… You couldn't. I know how it feels, wanting to say or do something and having everything—your body, your voice, sometimes even your own mind—rebel against you. It's like— Uh—shit—"
Now Luxor sounds frustrated. He clenches and unclenches his fists in his lap.
"Fight or fli— No," Luxor cuts himself off. He lets out a dismayed sigh, agitated by his struggle to find the word. Calico thinks he knows what the older boy is getting at. Maybe.
"Self preservation," he mumbles. Luxor startles. "You're telling me self preservation kept me from volunteering. Basic instinct overrode logic and desire."
When Calico looks up at him for confirmation, he finds Luxor back to chewing his lip and nodding frantically in agreement. There's relief in his otherwise anxious expression, like he'd glad his intention came through in the end. Calico just stares up at him. He doesn't know if he feels all that better, hearing Luxor's thought process over the whole thing.
He's not sure he believes him, either.
"Your dad wants me dead," Calico tries.
Luxor shrugs. "He'll have to get through me first. If he can kill the children of twenty-three families every year, he's a hypocrite to think I don't deserve it either. The real Chambray Hemingway doesn't deserve to win back her life by killing her peers, and you don't deserve my hate for protecting her from that fate."
"You're stubborn," Calico growls. It'd be so much easier to process this if he just hated him. If he'd just abandon him like logic would demand.
But Luxor just gives him a half-smile. A hand reaches up, ever so slowly and always within Calico's sight, until finally it drops softly on his scalp and strokes his hair. The sheer level of affection and kindness in the gesture overwhelms Calico. Cham's the only one who's shown this much care with him whilst foregoing caution.
"I'm also on your side," Luxor says proudly. "And so's Finn. When the timer goes off tomorrow I'm gonna stick to you like glue. Have to kill me to get rid of me," he adds with a grin. Calico can't help noting the hitch to his voice towards the end, the anxiety returning over his words.
"Apparently," Calico concedes anyway. He heaves out a sigh and closes his eyes. Luxor's hand still pets his hair, never once losing its rhythm as the seconds tick by.
It feels nice. Somewhere in the back of his mind it feels familiar. Not everything regarding Delaine and Atlas is back, safe in his memory where it should be, but bits and pieces are there. Atlas teaching him about the stars and Delaine sneaking him flowers she came across. He doesn't know if it was Delaine or Atlas or even just Cham, but fingers carding through his hair brings him a sort of ease that not even his daily living had granted him back in Eight.
Yes. This is good, he thinks. This is nice. This is the kind of peace Calico yearns for every day.
And then the speaker in the corner of the room crackles to life, a chime ringing out into the silent space.
"Chambray Hemingway to floor five, meeting room eight. Chambray Hemingway—"
"Fuck," Calico hisses. Now everything's coming back to him: The interview, the dinner, his private session, Ulysses telling him he's safe.
Luxor heaves himself off the couch with a sigh. He stretches and turns to Calico, making sure to tell him, "You don't have to go immediately. They can't fault you for wanting to change, unless you, uh…" He gestures to the pink- and brown-stained dress. "I mean, I hear food fights are big in the fashion scene lately."
If he's not joking, Calico's distaste for fashion has increased threefold with that particular revelation.
It takes little time to just change into the pyjamas the Capitol provided for his stay. Dull and grey, but more muted—more his style—compared to the vibrant things he's been dressed in so far. He's only glad no one's brought up the Godawful Elizabethan collar he'd been stuffed into. The dresses and accessories and makeup? Calico can deal with that. But looking like a dog that just came out of surgery and perpetually stuck staring up at the sky? That is, in fact, a line Calico would not like to cross again in his lifetime.
He leaves a good half an hour after the announcement. Whoever wants to see him is bound to be even more mad than they were before. Calico takes a small victory in making them wait for him as long as he deems necessary.
And necessary, in this case, is spite.
The elevator leaves him some semblance of silence to ponder over how he'll be executed. Will they arrest him and send a mutt in his place, killing him in the Games and making him watch Chambray mourn him? Or will they execute him on the spot and automatically assign his placement, launching only twenty-three children tomorrow? Whatever he's been called for will more than likely end in a death sentence for Calico Hemingway—it makes him almost wish he'd left a will with Luxor or Charlotte, were it not for the fact that his belongings were little and shared with Cham.
The elevator suddenly comes to a slow at floor thirteen. The District Three flour, Calico realises with a frown. If Croix Farrington sets foot in this enclosed space with Calico, he'll probably leave the Gamemakers with only twenty-two children to launch. Damn bastard, staining his mother's—his sister's, his family's—choker. He may not like fashion but damn it, that was an heirloom. An heirloom Croix single handedly tainted with strawberry- and caramel-flavoured pudding cups.
But it's not Croix he sees when the doors part. But the person who smiles knowingly at him is certainly involved with him.
"Chambray," Gossamer greets with an airy voice. "I believe you're running a little late."
Gossamer presses the button for the seventh floor. Calico's brows furrow at the number. What's on the seventh floor that Gossamer needs? That's where the Gamemakers operate, last he checked.
"But then again," Gossamer goes on, "with the night you've had, they probably can't blame you. How's the choker?"
His fingers twitch at his sides. So that was it, was it? Gossamer and Croix planned the spillage together? Calico's not used to being so angry so often in one day, but he's more than willing to learn if he has to put up with this asshole for more than a single elevator ride.
"Stained," he growls through his teeth. "Thank you."
"N'aw, muffet."
And then, as soon as the number above the doors turns into a ten, Gossamer hits the emergency stop.
Calico immediately backs to the window, eyes wide and trained on Gossamer. That's a move to assert power, if he ever saw one. He's on high alert as the lights dull and the PA system softly informs them that engineers will assist them in five minutes. Gossamer is casual about the whole situation, examining his nails in the low, red lighting while Calico presses himself to the glass. He dares a glance over his shoulder.
Will a fall from this height kill him? Surely. If he grabs a rail on his way down? Probably dislocate or even rip off his arms entirely, but his fall will break somewhat. Still lethal, though—just a lot more agonising.
Calico takes extra note of the walkway that criss-crosses the centre of the eighth floor. If he's forceful enough, he can maneuver his falling body into its path. Calico swallows the lump in his throat as the sweat beads along his brow. Non-lethal. Most extensive damage will be bone-deep, but non-lethal if he lands on his side—put the weight on one of his shoulders and hips.
He looks back at Gossamer. Behind the taller boy is utter darkness, the outline of the elevator doors barely visible as the light above them casts a spotlight over a crown of golden hair. Calico presses himself harder against the glass. For a moment he's blinking hard at the flash of light that reflects off of Gossamer's obnoxiously large earrings—and in that moment Gossamer makes his move, closing the distance between them and removing the dulled glow from Calico's sight.
All he can see are pearly whites grinning down at him and blue eyes dulled by the shadows cast over Gossamer's face. Despite the circular shape of the elevator, Calico is effectively herded into the corner. The corner of a circular elevator, he thinks in astonishment.
Just like with Cham's name being called out on live television, too, his voice refuses to claw its way out of his throat. Calico just stares with more terror than he used to believe himself incapable of. This is not how Chambray Hemingway would react to a confrontation, he scolds himself. This is not how his sister, who he's seamlessly pretended to be for these people, would react.
Chambray Hemingway would punch Gossamer Wormwood right in the nose and climb up out of the elevator, where the engineers would probably meet her.
Calico Hemingway, on the other hand, is not strong enough to punch Gossamer Wormwood in any sense. Nor is he strong enough to pull himself through a roof he has no hope of reaching in the first place.
"Twelve is quite the score," Gossamer says, and Calico wishes so much that the silence and the foreboding and anything else at all could keep Gossamer from talking. "Do you know how a tribute gets a twelve in the Hunger Games, Chambray?"
Calico sucks in a shaky breath. He lifts his chin—Chambray isn't afraid of someone like Gossamer Wormwood, damn it—and curtly replies, "How?"
Gossamer lunges at him. Calico flinches, but otherwise doesn't make a move to run. It's the reaping all over again, his legs turning to jelly and his hands frozen at his sides. He can't even scream in surprise, settling only to inhale sharply through his nose to keep from flat-out passing out. The reaction would've been for nothing, he finds; Gossamer stops short of actually making contact with him, faking the boy out with a smug grin directed at him.
"Gamemakers give twelves to threats," Gossamer whispers. "And I already know what made Octavia a threat."
And then he's backing away. He's keeping his eyes on Calico as he rests against the far wall. He's smiling as he reaches for the emergency phone and lifts it from the hook.
"Sorry about that," Gossamer says, and the shame in his voice is so fake. So Calico-like, the blond realises with dawning horror. "I bumped the button and didn't notice till now. I thought there was a lockdown but we just realised nowhere else is sealed off."
He pauses as the voice on the other line replies. An expertly manicured hand is raised to his face, a single finger hovering over his lips. Calico can't feel his heartbeat. Should he feel his heartbeat? He's never noticed till this very moment. Should he need to notice?
"Alright. No, no problem. Much appreciated."
There's a thump of feet above them.
"I hear 'em now. Sorry for the misunderstanding. I'll be more careful from now on."
Two openings appear in the elevator then: Above them, where a panel is pulled away and a scruffy face peeks in to ask what the problem is, and behind Gossamer, where another engineer has successfully opened the doors via the control panel. Gossamer greets them with a pleased smile, commending them for coming to their rescue. Calico remains rooted to the spot, even as he's offered the chance to take the stairs with Gossamer rather than chance the elevator again.
Their voices are so far away. Calico isn't even listening as they talk on, assuming he's fine with remaining within the elevator.
He sinks to the floor before the doors even close fully. He misses Gossamer's self-satisfied smirk. He misses the concerned expressions of the engineers. He misses everything. One minute he's on the cold metal floor, the next he's standing outside of meeting room eight.
Floor five, he presumes. Was he supposed to notice arriving? That should be concerning. How much time did he just lose? Ten minutes? Calico runs a hand through his hair, squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to shake off the disorientation in the back of his mind.
He can only hope, as he opens the door to the meeting room, that he doesn't potentially black out again in the bloodbath. If he makes it that far.
Malvolia Nero awaits him on the other side. Celestia Snow, dressed in her delicate night clothes and cotton dressing gown, hovers by a coffee jug and hums softly to herself. Both women look his way when he shuts the door behind him. Neither looks unimpressed by his delay.
It isn't until Calico sits down as far away from them as possible that they actually address him. There are no Peacekeepers in the room with them. Not even Luxor's father. But Calico still feels as though he's in more danger here than he will be in any arena they conjure up tomorrow.
A threat, Gossamer called him. A tribute the Games staff see as a threat. They'd be fools not to nip the problem that is Calico in the bud any longer.
"Mr. Hemingway," Celestia greets. She takes a sip of her coffee and sits opposite him, all the way on the other end of the room. "Care for a drink?"
Calico shakes his head. If Luxor and Finn truly trust him to go through with his terrible plan, he'll need all the sleep he can get.
"Alright. Do you know why you're here, Mr. Hemingway?"
"Because I was never supposed to be here to begin with," Calico says flatly. Not the way he'd like to phrase it, but from the broadcasts and information he's gleaned this week it's the most "pleasing" way Celestia would put it.
And she nods, smiling almost approvingly at him.
"It is quite the predicament for all of us involved. Even you, I imagine." She shrugs. "I'll cut to the chase, Calico, because you have a long day ahead of you in the morning. There's only two ways you'll come out of the arena, and they are non-negotiable."
So he's not dying tonight. Not the most reassuring of news—now he has to guess and wait for the actual moment it happens.
"Your first choice," Celestia lists, and she raises a finger up in the air. "You die in the Games. Chambray Hemingway ceases to exist, going down in history as another statistic of the Games, while your sister assumes life under your name. We'll even sweeten the pot and make sure your own name never appears in the reapings until she's nineteen."
Calico digs his fingers into his knees. Chambray is safe—Chambray lives on as him—as long as Calico dies. That's everything he's aspired for in this endeavour, everything he wanted when he traded places with her back in the Justice Building.
He feels himself smiling before he can stop himself. Calico smacks his palm over his mouth, eyes darting back up to Celestia. She looks happy with the reaction, at least.
A second finger rises. "If you don't die," she tells him, and he swears her tone takes a lighter turn, "then you will leave me no choice but to punish you. Calico Hemingway, if you go on to be the District victor of the Quell, I will make it my personal mission to ensure you and your sister never see each other, let alone speak to each other again. She will be detained during your tour in Eight, and you will be given a home in the Capitol along with whoever wins with you. Peacekeepers following your every move, fans always keeping you occupied, tributes always needing your guidance."
Malvolia yawns loudly behind Celestia.
"You win, you never see your sister again," she sums up. "You die, you at least give her the stability of never being reaped again."
He blinks at the two women. He opens his mouth. Shuts it. His stomach churns and the emotions he'd just gotten back into the basement of his mind are demanding acknowledgement. Are his hands shaking? Calico can't tell. He can't feel his hands and he can't feel his feet and he can't feel anything why can't he feel anything?
"What?"
It's so soft and weak that he's sure he imagined saying it.
"I'm sure you might need time to think it over," Celestia tells him sweetly. She downs the rest of her coffee in two swift gulps. She rises from her chair and nods for Malvolia to follow her. They take their time walking by Calico and towards the door, and they don't even bother to wait for him to stand as well. They probably don't expect him to. "You don't have to let us know before the launch. In the end it's all about the results, right?"
They don't shut the door behind them. Calico is left all by himself in meeting room eight. Left only to the wave of panic washing over him and cutting off his air supply. Left only with the realisation that, in both scenarios, there will be no reunion with Chambray waiting for him. Left only with the wish that Celestia had just killed him right there and then instead of… that.
Calico hiccups. He tries to stand, but his legs feel so weak that they just collapse under him. Calico doesn't feel pain when he tumbles to the floor. If anything, he only registers just how scared he is in this moment.
He'll die for Chambray. Calico can say that without a shadow of a doubt. He wants to die for Chambray. As long as she's safe and happy, he's content with that fate. But it's so selfish. So selfish, because he can't imagine Cham doing the same for him. He can't allow her to. She's his whole reason for existing—to simply let her make that sacrifice would be like suicide to Calico. It would go wasted, and then where will they be? Separated in another life?
He curls up into a ball and lets himself cry on the floor. This is the last time he'll let the emotions take over so strongly. He will have more control. He will approach this with logic.
It was sweet of Luxor to comfort him tonight, but he's not sure he can agree with what he's been told. He wipes at his cheeks with the heels of his hands, throat raw as he begins to wail uncontrollably.
Calico Hemingway should be despised. Calico Hemingway should never have allies.
Calico Hemingway deserves everything he gets for sending someone else's child to their unnecessary death.
QQ #27: What do you think Calico will do? Will Luxor convince him to live, or will he embrace death for Cham's sake?
Whoo! Thirty-two chapters! This is MASSIVE compared to my usual stuff - the last SYOC I finished was only twenty-odd chapters long, so this is honestly pretty new for me! Thank you all so much for sticking around this long, and I hope the Games live up to the unspoken hype we've all built up these past couple of years lol
Quick notes! The first is that, due to the POV used in the bloodbath (it's not the Gamemakers! Oooooh!), the bloodbath will not come out until AFTER all of the Ad Aeturnum introductions are done. As of right now we only have three more chapters of intros left, with two Districts per chapter. Until then I'm super excited to hear what placements you guys predict so far!
The second note is that, with the lovely guidance of my beta readers, I started a discord server to chat about the Ad Verse as a whole and have some fun in between chapters! There's categories for each upcoming fic in my universe, and it's a pretty convenient way to keep in touch with me while I'm in school and working on the fic between homework! We've also got some sketches of characters floating around courtesy of Henry and Andy, with Henry occasionally taking requests when he finds expression memes! (Henry also writes "Viewed in Parallax", which you should all totally check out btw.)
I think that's everything? You can find the link for my server on my profile for easy copy-pasting, and other than that there's not much more to add! Hopefully I can come back to Mortem with a birthday update (June 12, start the counter) but any time in June will be rad! Till then, guys! :)