Just a few epilogues and then Mortem is done! Whew, almost get to check the little "complete" box
46 - Phase One
Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10
Victor of the 4th Quarter Quell
Two weeks later
"Well fuck me sideways," he mutters at the sight of her. He closes the door behind him, careful not to let it hit his other shoulder. The doctor doesn't want it aggravated too soon, despite how long he's had to heal. "This is the last place I thought I'd see you."
Lola crosses one leg over the other and adjusts the clipboard. "Pleasure to see you again, too, Mr. Wormwood."
"Change of career after you interviewed us onstage last week?" He shuffles over to the couch, hospital slippers too comfy to properly walk in. Morganite's already been discharged, her face showing no signs of broken bones and her hands merely needing antibiotics.
"I wish," Lola scoffs. She clicks open her pen and flicks through her papers. Gossamer sits down on the couch and sinks into it. "No, I'm here because a wonderful man named Horace Becskei noticed how much attention I paid to your mental health throughout my observations. 'Who better than someone who called it for what it is?' Ridiculous."
Right, she'd done that, hadn't see? Just to shut up Velour and educate him and his parents. She never did say what it was he had, though.
"What do I have, by the way?"
Lola doesn't glance up at him. "It's called Narcissistic Personality Disorder. And before you ask," she sighs, "no, it doesn't mean you're just really fucking full of yourself."
"Language, Ms. Amos." He feigns horror. "I'm still a child."
She rolls her eyes.
"All pleasantries aside," Lola sighs. "How are you, Gossamer?"
He raises his brows at her. How is he? No one's even asked him that yet. Not a single person. Funny that it's Lola, of all people, who gets the honour of being the first.
Gossamer blinks and looks down at his sling. How is he, now that he thinks about it? He's been cooped up in the hospital for all of two weeks, save for the one visit to the Games building for Lola's victory interview. Barely anyone's been to see him, especially his co-victor and mentor, and he doubts he'll have anyone come for the rest of his stay. More than that…
"I don't know," he admits. Lola nods, lets him go on. "I have dreams, but I don't lose sleep over them. No one's visited me, but I don't really want them to. And there's still the matter of—well, of Calico."
"Which part?" Lola prompts him. She even goes on to joke, "There was a lot going on with him, y'know."
Gossamer shrugs his good shoulder. "There's firing a cannon early, like they did with Octavia," he says, "and then there's never firing it at all, yet still announcing him dead on the scene.
"Why collect his body and put it on a stretcher if he's dead? Why keep his status a secret until after the victory interview? Why all the secrecy in general?"
She looks up from her notes and watches him for a second. Then, she clicks her pen closed and sets it down. "Gossamer, I'm going to ask you something extremely blunt. You may not like it, but sometimes cutting straight to the point can help you realise things without dissuading yourself. Did you feel a sort of attachment with Calico, back when you thought he was Chambray?"
Gossamer scoffs a laugh. "Attachment?" he says. "To me, Calico before the Games was a threat. Almost no one else was save for Wystan, but he was an obvious one. And how would I even form an attachment to someone I barely even spoke to before the arena launch? Even then we had, what, one conversation?"
Lola leans forward. She's got an expectant look on her face.
"I," Gossamer says matter-of-factly, "just respected the idea of Chambray I built."
She looks like him like he's said the most moronic thing in the world. "Respecting a person is a solid start to bonding with them, Gossamer."
I respect my parents, he almost says. But he stops himself. No, he doesn't respect his parents. By this point he's come to want nothing to do with them. And he's fairly certain his parents don't respect him, either.
Huh. Maybe that's why there was never a bond between them. Only cold professionalism and strict rules.
"Shit," Gossamer wheezes. He runs his hand down his face and groans. "Shit. What am I even supposed to do with it?"
And Lola scoffs a laugh back at him. She looks sufficiently satisfied with his revelation, almost smug at his loss of sense.
"You grow as a human being, smartass."
Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6
Victor of the 4th Quarter Quell
She looks up at the mansion and chews her lip. It's… big. Different. Not what she'd expected when she found out Capitolite victors got the same benefits as District victors.
Just a whole plot of land set aside for herself—and of course Gossamer, whose own mansion is right across the road from her own. A large garden, the flowers so shiny and smooth she almost swears they're made of gemstones or had something dusted onto them. A statue of Morganite in the middle of it all, dressed in clothing she'd expect to see in the chariots of District Two tributes and posing regally, one hand holding a knife while the other rests over her heart. The statue itself is made of rose quartz, attempting to mimic marble while still paying homage to her pink hair.
Morganite scowls. It's so gaudy. Gossamer has one too, and it's made of pyrite—she thinks—and he stands with his feet at shoulders' width and dressed similarly to Morganite; his statue has a sword in both hands, the blade buried in the ground in front of him while he looks up with pride at the sky.
Beside her, Barbara lets out a low whistle. She hasn't bothered keeping her sunglasses on, leaving her scarred eye to get some sun for once.
"They don't give us statues," she teases. "Pride of the Capitol, you two are."
Morganite gives her a dry glare. Barbara smirks and raises her hands, backing off. The woman knows how tough this is. She knows how hard it is to go back to normal after all of… this.
"They'll send your first allowance after the victory tour," Barbara tells her. Morganite tucks her hands in her pockets, her gaze moving back to the house. As gaudy as it is, she does admire the bay windows on each floor. "After that you'll get it monthly, and it'll be enough to support three people. That being said," she goes on, jabbing a thumb in the other mansion's direction, "it doesn't mean you'll live with two others if you don't want to. We all know Wormwood won't."
She's not sure. She hasn't had a good conversation with her parents since coming back, even while she was in hospital. It's just been two weeks of chaos, and she knows it'll get worse no matter what she decides to do. Only invite Alexandrite? Jourisme will blow a gasket. Invite both? Morganite will be nagged endlessly for her actions in the Games and what she wants to do in life. Invite neither? She's subject to countless phone calls and occasional visits that will break the peace and quiet she desperately wants right now.
"I'll think about it," she tells Barbara. The woman nods.
"And if you ever need something to help if you get, I don't know, phantom aches—" Barbara reaches into the pocket of her jacket, pushing a slip of paper into Morganite's hand. It has a phone number on it, as well as an address in District Six's Victors' Village. "—I'll lend you some of the stuff I use so you don't have to rely on morphling."
Morganite thanks Barbara. The woman begins her long walk out of the Capitol's first, and probably only, completed neighbourhood in their own Victors' Village. Morganite watches with a blank stare, buying herself just a little more time before she has to look at her new home.
She stalls enough to make herself zone out. It isn't until there's a car driving into the Victors' Village that Morganite turns back to the house and steels herself to enter. The car comes to a stop at Gossamer's mansion, and he bursts out of the car before she can even reach for the handle of her home.
Gossamer jogs over to her doorstep as fast as he can, and he's wheezing as he tries not to let the arm stuck in the sling thump against his chest. Looks like they finally let him out, she thinks, which means she'll probably have to deal with seeing him every day now.
She just wants to forget she even went through all this.
He looks down at her, and for a moment he looks uncertain of what he wants to say. Gossamer reaches into the sling, pulls out an envelope, but stops before he can hand it to her.
"I…" Gossamer sucks in a deep breath. Morganite grabs the door knob while still watching him. "I know I'm difficult. I know you have every right to hate me, even if I myself think my actions were justified."
He looks at her door, then back at her. She just wants him to spit it out, but she doesn't have the energy anymore to be angry. Being angry feels so exhausting lately.
"There's a long way to go and everything, but I wanted to—to try and put one foot through the door—"
"I'm not some morality pet catered to your recovery, Gossamer," she blurts out, voice low and tired. His brows rise, then furrow.
"Ah," he mutters. "It does sound like that, doesn't it?"
He purses his lips—a poor attempt at a smile, but it looks to pitiful compared to all the others she'd seen—and holds the envelope out for her.
"Horace asked me to give you this. I already read my own—they gave me Lola's job. I assume they'll have a similar offer for you."
She grabs the envelope and swings open the door.
"Morganite, I—"
Morganite walks inside and shuts the door without a word. Whatever he has to say outside of official business, she doesn't want to hear it. Not right now. Probably not ever.
She barely takes in the stunning appearance of the indoors. Morganite drops to the floor and draws her knees to her chest, listening as Gossamer walks off of her property.
To Miss Morganite Gariderre
I would like to congratulate you on your victory in the 4th Quarter Quell, first and foremost. A regular Hunger Games is difficult for most to win, Quells even more so. At least, that's what my nibling tells me.
This letter is not just to sing your praises, however. As you may be aware now that you're back in the Capitol, tragedy has struck and left the Head Gamemaker and President Snow in critical condition. Malvolia Nero has shown signs of a swift recovery, possibly even a release by the next Games, but unfortunately President Snow has been put in a medically induced coma for the time being. This leaves the Capitol without a president, and the Games without a Gamemaker to lead the show.
Miss Gardierre, I watched you talk about the Games being about someone deserving victory. I watched the look on your face when Mr. Wormwood told you his own view. As much as I would love to pick a side, I must admit I agree with you both. While the victor isn't who deserves to win, I do believe those who go into the Games should be those who deserve the punishment. It is with this viewpoint that I want to change the Games for the better and perhaps even reward those who shouldn't be in the reapings any longer. Rumours are spreading of rebel activity rising, almost every District afflicted by this dangerous ideal. In order to prevent such travesties from happening again at the hands of these people, I implore you to assist me and the remaining council in changing Panem's way of life for the first time in a century. We will conduct this in phases, with this letter and offer, as well as your successful recovery from physical injuries, serving as Phase One.
For your cooperation, I offer you the position of escort that I heard you desired since learning of your own mother's previous affiliation with the Games. Should that not be a present desire, however, I will be more than willing to negotiate. The Games change people, I understand, and you are still only human.
Please contact me at your convenience,
CM Horace Becskei
Alright, time for a QQ!
QQ #41: If you had a statue of yourself made, what would you want it to be made of?
I'll see you in Phase Two/epilogue two!