The Replacement
AN: This fic is dedicated to Irish Luck 19, who has managed to start and finish two completely amazing stories while studying for MCAT all in the time it has taken me to not even come close. Read, admire, and emulate her, all of you!
"MOYA PET'RENKA!" Klerkov roars for all of Panem to hear. "BRAVISIMA!"
"Er, what?" I manage to gasp around his bear-like grasp, his breastplate cold and crushing.
"Just smile," he hisses, his embrace lifting me off my feet. "WELL DONE, WELL DONE!" Bright flashes of light leave my eyes dry and sore. Applause breaks out, even here on the hospital floor. Outside the windows, Game Enforcers and Peacekeepers alike keep the mounting tide at bay. Their noise is muted, but even now I know what they call: Butcher, Butcher, Butcher…
My Mentor again surprises me. He raises my hand high in his sweating palm, spins me for every camera to see, bellowing his bloodthirsty approval—and drunken, slurred curses—in every combination imaginable. Even dazed and dizzy I realize he puts on a show just as well as Tasha. Perhaps even better. When he finally relinquishes me, it's her turn.
She's resplendent and fresh, as glowing as a frozen picture from the Capitol vids.
Xavier Malcovitch cowers behind her, eyes turned to the waiting crowd outside. He's scared shitless of them, as well he should be. I still don't know what happened in the Colosseum. Shall I just say you caught their attention? Marcus refused to answer. All I know is that in the two days I've known him, this is the first time Cry-baby hasn't run to me for protection.
Klerkov prods me in the small of my back. I have no choice. The crowd—my Sponsors—are waiting."Hey," I say to him. He buries his face in Tasha's ass, pulling her dress around him to hide.
"I'm sorry you got hurt," I tell him.
"Xavier, go say hi," Tasha encourages. She ushers him forward, and I catch a glimpse of his bare back as he clings to her. I wince. Small stitches run in patches from the nape of his neck to thighs. He's been grafted, like me.
"I've got some, too." I open my hands. "See?" He traces them timidly, then flings his thin arms around my neck. Even with his added weight, I find it easy to stand.
Through the glass, the crowd's response is deafening.
"Where's Cinna?" I ask Tasha's newest wig as she finally hugs us.
"Hospital. He's fine," Tasha races in my ear over Malcovitch's mussed curls. "And Petra?" She holds me out at arm's length, beaming for all the bystanders to see.
"Yes?" I smile back, stomach sinking.
"Be nice," she hisses through her perfect teeth. "With 12's Stylist team missing the city's in an uproar. This is all I could find."
"Who-?"
…Oh, ch'yort.
They've put us in a private room for preparation. All we have to do is walk out to an armored car, perhaps 10 yards, and it requires the largest Peacekeeper presence the Capitol has seen in many years. It'll also require another Stylist, or Stylist's Apprentice, and the vacuum created by the death of 12's entire prep team has left the Capitol in short supply…of extras. All available and eligible help are currently vying for the open slots. I've been here less than a day, but with every new atrocity the Capitol is even more vicious than I'd imagined.
…and I'm not even to the Games.
"Hi, Quintina. Thank you so much for coming," Tasha Pushkina gushes to the newest addition of our prep team the moment the door shuts behind her. "As you can see, these are my Tributes-"
This Quintina lets out a shrill squeal. "Oh. My. Games!" she shouts, jumping up and down on the spot, plump body jiggling. "I can't believe I'm actually here!"
"Neither can Victor Ivan Klerkov," my Mentor states drily, "if it serves as any consolation."
"Huh?" the chubby girl blinks. She can't be much older than me. "Whatever." Her hair is cropped like a boy's, dyed a bright, eye-watering shade of…blue? as are her nails, her necklace, her shoes and endless supply of tinkling bracelets. Her dress is simple, startling white. I have to blink. Cry-baby's wide eyes are dazed.
"Oh, what an interesting ensemble!" Tasha compliments her forcefully. "The asymmetric coloring is absolutely fantastic, don't you think, Klerkov?"
"Yes, yes," my Mentor agrees, greedy eyes never leaving Quintina's chest. "Though I am particularly captivated by the breasts," he whispers to me.
My elbow finds his ribs. A raw tingle shoots down my arm from the edge of his breastplate. Pizda, I hiss as I shake my fingers out.
"I call it 'Irony in Ivory'," my new Stylist spins so to enhance the view. "Pretty cool, huh?"
"Quinta is a Stylist Apprentice for District 5," Tasha explains. "She's a friend of Octavia's, one of Cinna's classmates, and came highly recommended."
"Oh, you big liar!" Quintina pinches her. "I'm actually only a student. But I did get selected to work on the shoe design detail."
…the shoes that killed Holi. "So you're not an Apprentice?" I shouldn't push it, but I'm in no mood to be forgiving. Xavier Malcovitch, now there are fucking two of you. It's just Holi can talk. Will that make it harder, or easier, to give her mercy? Will it make any difference at all?
"Well, no," she says in a slightly smaller voice. "My sketches didn't actually get used, but people liked them!"She's not like me. Can't or won't stand and fight. She's everything I've ever hated, everything that's ever tormented me, and I could hurt her, hurt her with words if I wanted…but I wouldn't enjoy it, I realize. Couldn't savor it. It'd be as meaningless and cruel as slicing the throat of a struggling dairy calf unlucky enough to be born male.
I've done my fair share. My father's reputation, our livelihood, a village doesn't depend on it. For the first time it would be me, only me, wielding the knife and to no point or purpose. Everything in me screams to hurt her…
I don't. I won't.
"I'm sure they were lovely, Quinta," Tasha Pushkina strains. "And it's certainly impressive to be selected for such an honor while still in school, don't youthink, Klerkov?"
"Hmm?" My Mentor grumps, still particularly captivated by the breasts. "Yes, yes, Natalayia. Impressive indeed."
"Now, let's get started. Do you have everything you need?"
"Yeah, the Peacekeepers got it all," 'Quinta' sniffs, then beams at us. "So who's first?"
Cry-baby is as silent—and invisible—as ever. Her painted eyes to turn me. Blyad.
"Tsk, tsk, Butcher, what are we going to do with you?" She teases, pudgy hands pouring down the front of my tattered costume and pinching my breasts."You poor thing! You can borrow some of mine if you need to," she winks. The front of her white dress has a diamond-shaped cut out from her collar bone to her navel, and her chubby, perky breasts swing precariously with every movement. Each must be the size of my head.
I could cut you if I wanted, I seethe. Slice them off like taking a fillet. You couldn't stop me.
"Oh, naughty, naughty," she chides Klerkov as she adjusts my armor. "I caught you looking."
Unexpectedly he squeezes her and she bursts into peals of genuine laughter. "You dirty old man!" she swats him. "Want to feel the back as well?"
My Mentor whistles appreciatively.
"Well?" I hiss. "Are you happy now?"
"Alas, no." Klerkov feigns a frown. "Silicone!"
I stomp his toes. "I can't believe you just did that!"
"In front of you, my Petra?" he asks, stroking his beard amusedly.
"In front of Malcovitch!" Who, incidentally, is cowering under Tasha Pushkina's new kimono and eying Quintina's breasts as though they might swing out and eat him.
She's quicker than Cinna at dressing me, but even pissed at the Raelius brothers I miss him. She constant chatter sets my jaw on edge, and it's only Tasha's stern eyebrows over her plastered smile that keep me from biting back.
Seventeen.
I've seen Seventeen Hunger Games. Too young to remember many. But I remember enough. Quintina babbles and I replace each Tribute's face with hers. Watch her die a hundred times. Like the idea of the Colosseum crushing those Capitol citizens, I find it strangely satisfying.
As she sprays my hair back in place my mind wanders to Marcus. Would he still be so kind if he knew?
…don't be a durak, Petra. He knew. I'm a monster willing to kill children, as terrible as the Victors and Capitol I despise. He was never being kind to me. He was being kind to Malcovitch. And Holi. And everyone else like them. It hurts. The Capitol, the Games can't make me a monster. I already am.
"What's that?" I ask, interrupting her rambling about feline feminine enhancements. Anything to think of something other than Malcovitch. Or Holi…or Marcus.
"Well it's blood, silly. See?" Quintina opens a clear glass jar, but the familiar tinge of salt doesn't greet my nose. I find myself suddenly homesick, and disappointed.
"That's not blood." I think back to this morning. A butcher would know.
"Not the real stuff," she rolls her lined eyes. "That'd be so totally gross. You can get, like, all sorts of nasty diseases and stuff. I had this friend, Iridina, and she was like, totally tapping this doctor-guy and that's like all he would ever talk about. I mean, he wouldn't even have real sex with her, you know?"
Iridina. The name is familiar. With her coldness, I should have known. "What happened?" I ask,wary. "To your friend and the doctor?"
"She totally dumped his ass!" Quintina shrieks with laughter as she shucks the boots up my legs. "Now she's with this other guy who works for Sibyline Crane, you know, like the Gamemaster's brother? I mean, he's like married and all, but that's okay."
"So they're not together?" I pry, so low that Tasha can't hear me. "Your friend and the doctor?"
"Tooootally no." She giggles. "He was like, rich and all, but he was such a loser. He like, never took her to parties or anything and wouldn't let her use anything recreational while they were together, you know? And he wouldn't even write for prescriptions! Like what's the point of screwing a doctor if you can't get free stuff? So I was like, you should lose him and get a makeover or something. And she did!" Quintina squeals, reapplying my make-up in bold, harsh strokes. "She's got this awesome scale job done now. I can't wait til I pass my boards, you know, to make some real money. Jewel-scale fingertips are all the rage."
…not to mention nipples and pubic hair, I snort to myself. "My bother had something I never did," I remember Marcus' lonely confession. "Friends."
Every year we gather for the Reaping. Every year we're forced to stay in the Selo, the main village, because our own homes don't have Vids. Sometimes it's days. Sometimes it's weeks. You pack enough food and hope to Games you don't run out before the Tributes do. But every year, after every Games, there's a fair. When I was a child I thought it was to help us to celebrate…or forget. I was wrong—it's because we're all in one place. Makes it easier for the vendors to sell their smuggled goods or their Capitol delicacies, tempt parents relieved to have their own children to buy the newest, shiniest baubles advertised on the Vids they've now all watched.
One year—one glorious year—Dmitri Berezoski, the Mayor's eldest son got a Capitol motorbike, and rode around Selo for days with different girls clinging to his back. Then on the last day, he asked me. He even bought me a ribbon for my hair and stole a flower for me to wear. We rode past the shops and Vid screens, past all the vendors and the girls who'd tormented me for years. He even—very briefly—pulled into the Victor's Village to turn up ruts in the Maneater's garden. When he brought me back to the square I felt I was the prettiest, happiest girl in the District…
Then our fathers arrived. I thought we were in trouble for trespassing into the Victor's Village. I remember being terrified the Peacekeepers would take me away…the Mayor was rich enough to bribe them. Had done it frequently in the past. We weren't starving, but my own father couldn't afford to save me.
"You must never see this boy again," he scolded me. "Not ever again, my Petra."
"We won't get into trouble," I promised him, holding the ribbon in my hair. "Dmitri wouldn't let them take me away. Besides, the Maneater can't be as terrifying as you say he is. If he was, our Tributes would win."
"Don't be vapid, girl." The Mayor snapped. "Your father's right. The boys in this village have gotten together and created a Victor's pot, with the prize going to the first to win the Hunger Games going on between your legs."
I was fourteen. Even then I knew from the look on Dmitri's face it was truth. My father's arms had never held me tighter.
"Ordinarily I wouldn't care. Let the young men be men, da? But the betting has grown so large and your cunt so frigid it is only a matter of time before someone gets smart enough—or drunk enough—to rape you. I don't want my son caught in the crossfire…and Games forbid my bastard grandchildren be that ugly." The Mayor spat. "Go back to your village, Petra Angelovna. There is no place for you here."
"I'll still tell everyone I fucked you," was my first love's leering farewell.
I forgot my place. Told him no one would believe him. Broke loose from my father and kicked him so hard in the testicles he retched. Then I kicked. And I kicked. And I kicked.
Let the young men be men, da? I still remember my father stating, laying his hands on my shoulders. The Mayor never said another word.
"You are young, and unloved. And now you are far from home," even Klerkov had the heart to warn me. I'm guessing no one ever said the same to him. Iridina was an Escort, bold, confident, beautiful and hunting for a man to whore out to. I don't have the heart to judge him. Marcus Raelius never stood a chance.
"Quintina, what's in that stuff?" I ask as the blood spatters dry against my skin.
"Why?" She frowns.
"Because Malcovitch is eating it."
"Shit!" Tasha pulls his fist out of his small mouth, wiping the corners as he protests shrilly. "Quinta, mind your products!" She reprimands sternly.
"It won't hurt him," Quintina pouts. "It's just crappy corn syrup from District 9 and a little coloring. Here, sweetie," she holds out a candy, pinching his cheeks and cooing. "You're so cute I could just eat you up!"
His eyes light up, greedy fingers tugging her dress for more. Quintina laughs.
"What's in that?" I ask, suspicious. I haven't seen Cry-baby so excited since he guzzled that pitcher of cream.
"That's dried chocolate-wine," she shrugs. "Keeps the kids happy. I like use it all the time when I babysit my nieces."
"What?" She asks, indignant at my disgust. "A girl's got to study! I can't help my sister keeps popping out the little brats. I keep telling them I'm in school, you know, and they should like hire a babysitter. I mean, a basic-level Avox doesn't cost all that much, and it's not like they eat much, either," she pouts. "Everyone has one but us!"Quintina is a self-entitled suka, but she's not entirely useless. She left Malcovitch in hospital clothes to gain some sympathy. She even had the thought to dip both my nails and hands into that congealing syrup, and have me drink some to dribble it down my lips. It's too bright to be dried blood, but the effect is still shocking.
And for the finale, she removes Cry-baby's collar and slides it around my neck."There!" She proclaims proudly. " 'The Taming of the Beast!'"
"This is good," Klerkov rushes, curling his beard. "Yes. I like this. Yes."
"Quinta, thank you." Tasha says sincerely, giving the chubby girl an intimate hug. "I don't know how I'll ever repay you." Then my Escort's fingers slide through her short-cropped blue hair and Tasha kisses her full on her plump, heart-shaped mouth.
I gape. Malcovitch blinks. Klerkov scratches his chin, intrigued.
'Quinta' giggles, a girlish blush going across her cheeks. "Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something later," she winks and pinches Tasha's ass playfully before sashaying away, giving her not one but two backwards glances as she goes.
The door shuts behind her. Our stunned silence explodes.
"FUCK!" I shout, sending Malcovitch scampering. "What the fuck was that-!"
"Petra-" Tasha begins.
"What was that!" I demand. "What the fuck was that!"
She puts a hand on my arm. "Let me explain-"
"Don't touch me!"
"Petra, I'm an Escort who dresses modestly," she states. "And I work for District 6. If I never did anything scandalous I would've been replaced ages ago."
"But you just kissed-" I sputter.
"Yes. I did. And a little public kissing and groping can go a long way in creating an image," she explains. "In order to get Sponsors you need to grab as much media attention as you can, even if only the tabloids. You wear your costume, let me wear mine."
"Which is what, exactly?" I demand.
"…it's obvious, isn't it?" Tasha says evenly, her painted eyes never blinking. "I'm playing the part of a bisexual to earn some extra popularity since that's what the public seems to want."
"Are you going to-" fuck her later, I nearly ask, but can't begin to imagine how that would even work.
"If I have to," she continues, reading my thoughts. "People are going to question your motives for crashing that Chariot. There's only so long it can be played on the Vids before someone starts to doubt it wasn't just a publicity stunt. Tiberia won't distract them for long, so right now you need a scandal on your prep team and you need it badly," she places a hand on my arm. I don't jerk away. "I'm an Escort. Quintina's still in school and she'll run straight away to sell her story to the highest bidder. You said you wanted my help, Petra Angelovna, the best damn chance there is. Here it is."
I remember her words on the train. I realized then what lay in store for me. Here in the Capitol, beautiful women are forced to be seen. An Escort, a Consort, a Mistress, a Dancer…or even a Vid performer.
…So you chose the Games. I can't look her in the eye. It might be part of a long-term career scheme, but right now, she's doing this for me.
"Personally, moya Pet'renka, Victor Ivan Klerkov does not see what all this fuss is for. He rather likes this new development," my Mentor strokes his beard excitedly.
I want to blame him, him and his mad Resistance schemes…want to blame Cinna Raelius for his stupid stunt…but as I see that awful reflection again I know it's me. Me. I am the only one to blame, and now the only woman in the world who was ever kind to me is whoring herself out to save me.
I can't even bear to look at her.
"One more word, Klerkov, and I will slap you." Tasha threatens emotionlessly.
Far from cowed, he claps his bearish hands in excitement. "Ah! Invite your friend back, Natalaylia. You can both slap me."
She raises one ferocious eyebrow. Klerkov clears his throat, instantly meek. "Then again, Natalaylia, perhaps one would suffice."
