TW: Mentions of gang violence and its aftereffects in the second PoV. Nothing is explicitly described aside from some canon-typical imagery.
Elida 'Eli' Orsala, 17, District Eight Female
January 19th, 19 ADD, 7:05pm - roughly five and a half months until Reaping Day
It's fascinating, really, how calming the gentle whir of the tattoo gun has become over the years. They'd often scoffed at it in the past, but for Eli Orsala, she can honestly say she gets it now - artists of all sorts can, in fact, grow to find love and stability in their work.
(Of course, they're one of the lucky ones - not everyone can say that they make their living painting ink into skin the way she can, let alone in a place like Eight where the vast majority of the kids her age have already been consigned to the factories, or worse. But if anything, that just makes her appreciate it that much more)
It'd really started three years ago, the result of pure chance more than anything. Back then, tattoo needles and permanent ink hadn't yet crossed her radar, with her weapons of choice being off-brand markers and temporary dyes. It wasn't easy to explain, really, it'd just been a Thing, capital T, to do. Doodling quieted her mind and drew her focus, especially since That Day, and if they'd taken to using their arms and legs as a canvas because the one time she'd done so on her school notes had resulted in a stern talking to, well, it was certainly preferable to what Mom did during the harder days.
(She'd tried it, a few times, and to this day she never quite understood how adults could enjoy something that tasted so bitter.)
But it'd been Mom, ironically enough, that'd seen it more as 'Eli's weird little quirk', that'd encouraged them to share those doodles with the world instead of keeping them to herself. Her words still echoed through their mind even now; "The world is such a dreary place as is. Why not do our part to make it just a bit brighter for those around us?"
(That'd been one of Mom's better days, one where she seemed more like the Mom of her childhood memories. Perhaps naively, Eli had trusted her, despite their own concerns - what was Eight if not a pit of despair where individuality was crushed against the grindstone of the Capitol's overly gaudy visions?. But, strangely enough, it'd turned out that such lofty aspirations could, in fact, be grounded by reality instead of crushed completely.)
It was on a whim that she'd finally tried it out, one day. Instead of washing the drawings off before school, instead of hiding them beneath long sleeves and mild embarrassment, she'd just…left them as is. Sure, she got strange looks from her peers and leering glares from her instructors, but they'd also gotten cautious admiration and, in a few cases, even straight up compliments.
And then of course, freaking Avron Sarsenet had to come out of nowhere, wide-eyed and wider-smiled, and gush all over them, because, quote, 'His dad did practically the same thing, and those are so cool, and can you give me some?'
(They'd simply rolled their eyes at that - of course Eli knew that his father did practically the same thing - Trilan Sarsenet's tattoo parlor was only a few blocks away from the Orsala family abode, and he was so close with both of her moms that even then she'd often joked that he was the father she'd never had.)
But not everyone had known that. And for once, Avron's request had been genuine instead of teasingly sarcastic, and so Eli had relented. That, of course, had broken a dam, and by the end of the week nearly everyone she knew at school was sporting some sort of marker doodle or another on their arms.
Of course, they'd gotten another stern talking to for, quote, 'promoting gang-like activities, but honestly? It'd been worth it.
So worth it that when Mom had gifted her a stick-and-poke tattoo set for her fifteenth birthday, she wasted no time learning how to use it. And when Trilan had approached her a few weeks later, asking if they wanted to apprentice at his shop, it was a no-brainer for her to accept without hesitation.
Few people outside of the Capitol got to do what they truly wished to do and also make money for it, after all, and luckily for Eli, she soon found out that she was as nearly a natural with the tattoo guns as she was with the markers.
It was a lucky break to be fair, and she was well aware of it - not just anyone would have hired a fifteen year old based on a few doodles and a friendship between their families, but Trilan wasn't just anyone. He'd genuinely believed in Eli's passion and innate talent, and even though they suspected that Mom and or Avron had perhaps nudged him a little into actually making the offer, it was clear he didn't regret it.
Or at least, she was pretty certain he didn't. It was hard to dispute the claim when he'd offered to be the first person they tattooed on for real, and even harder when that one tattoo had turned into two, then three, and now, with just a few more additions, four.
"Almost done, boss," she announces to the mostly empty room, as the finishing touches are put on her latest work - in this case, a simple geometric design inspired by the letter A, if the letter A had various lines, shapes, and patterns woven into its relatively simple structure. "Still not sure why you'd want a permanent reminder of Avron painted between your shoulder blades, but there's officially no coming back from that now."
"Who wouldn't want a permanent reminder of me on their skin, though?" The boy in question piped up from where he was lounging from behind Eli. "I'm nothing but a delight to all who meet me, right?"
"Your words, not mine," Eli replies with a snort. "And do you want me to really read off the list? You'll be here all day, just warning ya."
"Nah, I'm good." The sound of a chair scraping against the floor gives them enough warning to take the needle off of Trilan's skin, seconds before Avron hooks his chin over their shoulder. "Not bad, not bad. I see why Dad puts up with you now."
"To be fair, he's had a lot of practice with you," she retorts back with a grin, shrugging Avron off before reapplying the needle to her canvas.
"Well, duh. Everyone knows you need to warm up with something light before tackling the true problem."
"I thought it was 'Everyone knows you should tackle the harder problem first so that you get that out of the way quickly,' wasn't it?"
"Kids, kids, be nice." Trilan's muffled voice pipes up, and Eli breaks her focus just long enough to match knowing grins with Avron.
"This is us being nice, though" they say in perfect harmony,
"Unfortunately, I am well aware," Trilan groans.
Chuckling to herself, Eli puts the last touch on the tattoo. "All done, boss."
"You sure?" Avron pipes up again.
"Quite."
The rest of the process passes by smoothly - Trilan, predictably, compliments the tattoo profusely, the same as he'd done the previous three times (even though Eli knows full well that the first one wasn't deserving of that level of praise), they get it all cleaned up and apply the second skin to the freshly inked patch of skin, and she even jokingly lists off each and every part of the aftercare process as if Trilan hadn't personally applied over twenty tattoos on himself alone before she notices the energy shift.
Damn it, so close, is all she manages to think before Trilan turns to focus his full attention on her.
"You know the offer to spend the day with us tomorrow is still open to you, right?" he offers, and, well. Shit.
"Of course I'm aware," they snap, all semblances of the light, joking mood from earlier wiped out in an instant. "I have my own room at your place for fuck's sake."
The fire is short-lasting, doused almost immediately by a wave of regret. "Sorry," she mutters. "That was uncalled for."
"Nothing to be sorry for ," Trilan assures just as quickly. "I know how hard the anniversary is for you and Rei, and I just want you two to know that Av and I are here for you if you need us."
Avron nods, a rare moment of seriousness etched onto his face. "Dad may have been a bit too blunt-" he gives Trilan a side-eyed glance that would have made Mother proud, "but if there's anything we can do, just give us a holler."
"Thanks, guys. Appreciate that." It's the same offer they'd given last year, and the year before that, and the year before that as well. And Eli truly does appreciate the gesture, they really do - the first couple of years, the anniversary had been…overwhelming, to say the least, and the point of refuge had been sorely needed. These days, for her at least, it wasn't so bad. "We'll see how Mom feels, really. Sometimes, she's not so bad. And sometimes…" they trail off.
"Grenadine's all she can think about?" Trilan finishes.
Eli nods. "For better or for worse." She sighs. "Hopefully, the neighborhood doesn't make a big fuss this year. You'd think after seven years they'd learn to chill out a little, right?"
"District Eight? Chill?" Avron asks, faux-incredulously. "Man, Eli, you might as well hope to become President if those are your standards."
Eli snorts. "Right, I forgot. People around here will riot if you slam their door too hard, let alone like what happened to Mother."
"Isn't that giving them too much credit?" Far from the uncomfortable silence that usually follows whenever her mother is mentioned, Avron plows right through. "Forget slamming - if you close a door on someone, people will riot."
"Sounds like we just need to get rid of all the doors then."
"Finally, someone with some good common sense!"
Something loosens in Eli's chest, and when Avron and Trilan dissolve into laughter, it's nearly impossible not to join them.
How, with all the shit that's happened to me, did I get so damn lucky?
Sterling Satinette, 18, District Eight Male
July 4th, 19 ADD, 9:14am - forty six minutes until Reaping Day
The sun is bright today, its rays strong enough to penetrate the thin haze that he'd always accepted as a fact of life growing up in Eight. Not surprising, really, when one considers the day - he's pretty sure he can count the number of years the weather wasn't hot and dry on Reaping Day on one hand, if that. But even with that in mind, there's something about it today that's more blinding than usual, as if the earth has moved ever so slightly closer towards its fiery patron, or vice versa.
Or maybe, for Sterling Satinette, it was simply a byproduct of not having seen it for the last three weeks. After all, the last time he'd seen it-
Panic. Mayhem. Fear. Regret. They never should have come here, not alone, not when so many shadows held knives and guns and malice-
He shakes his head, brushes matty hair out of his eyes. Never particularly short to begin with, it's still an annoyance, getting in his eyes, brushing down the back of his neck, one that normally he'd deal with with a simple hack of his knife, only-
Absently, he palms his pants pocket. Empty. Figures. Leaving an enemy armed was the first mistake that he'd been taught never to make, because for many in his world, it would also be their last.
Berwick had taught him that. Berwick, of the Black Hands, who'd treated him nicely, who'd convinced him that this life maybe was, in fact, worth living. Berwick who'd been his in to the underworld of Eight, Berwick who'd taught him not just to survive, but to thrive, Berwick who'd-
Something shifts in his heart, and he curses, because fuck, that wasn't even the reason he was in this mess, that had happened literal years ago, and yet still he can't fully let him go, that pain in his heart was long supposed to be banished to the edge of the world, yet he was weak, weak, weak-
He's weak, because numbers shouldn't be a problem, especially when it comes to Aleksi - that'd been why he'd been trusted with him in the first place - and yet one is no match for ten no matter who the one is, not when all he has is his flimsy little knife and they have crowbars and bats and fucking guns and he knew he shouldn't have agreed to this-
His foot catches on the edge of the sidewalk. Pain flares up his hands, ignites on one knee as he catches himself, yet it's dull, already numbed. What's a little extra fire when he's already been reduced to ash? Even before, it'd never mattered - he'd suffered worse as a kid, worse when Aleksi had found him, claimed him, and brought him to the Houndstooth estate. Pain was tertiary in his world even before. Now, it should have been quaternary.
The Houndstooth Estate. He'd had half a mind to go straight there after he'd been released, just lay his head on the chopping block and end it right then and there. If he was lucky, they'd end it quickly. If not - well, it'd be deserved, wouldn't it?
But he'd squashed that train of thought almost immediately. Sure, he might not have much left to lose, if anything at all, but he hadn't made it this far in life by simply rolling over and dying. It'd been him against the world once, back before Berwick, back before Aleksi, and he'd survived just fine.
If it wasn't for those two-
It's scary how history can repeat. His first time seeing Aleksi, three years ago, surrounded by dead bodies and smoking guns. It'd been a massacre, despite fairly even numbers, because even then, even at fifteen, no one fucked with the youngest Houndstooth and lived to tell the tale. Most of the Black Hands didn't. Berwick didn't.
But Sterling did.
With seemingly inhuman effort, he pushes himself back to his feet. Reaping's in an hour, boy, he'd been sneered at. Best not be late.
Which made sense. If there was one thing that gangsters feared more than each other, it was the Capitol. And at least other gangsters could bleed - each and every one that had fought on the losing side during the Dark Days had simply died.
Of course, most gangsters just died, anyway. Even those as striking and magnetic as-
It's scary how history can repeat. Because three years later, it's the same, only different. Black Hands are his enemies now, and there's no gang at his back, just Aleksi. Aleksi, who'd promised him it'd be okay. Aleksi, who'd wanted to celebrate his birthday in secret - no weapons, no gangs, just the two of them for one night. Aleksi, whose brilliant blonde hair was now matted with red, whose striking blue eyes now stared vacantly up into the sky. Aleksi, who'd laughed in the face of consequences. Aleksi, who now, was dead because of them.
But Sterling wasn't.
He makes it with minutes to spare. Once, he might have cared how the Peacekeeper in charge wrinkles her nose at him as she pricks his finger and registers him into the system. Once, he might have cared how disheveled he'd looked, how he must surely reek, how he doesn't saunter to his spot so much as limp. But once, he would have had Aleksi at his side, rules and traditions be damned. Once, he would have had a purpose - stick by his side, volunteer if he ever gets reaped, and don't let him into any danger.
Hah. Look how that had turned out. That'd been his role, hadn't it? Aleksi had spared him, saved him, claimed him, and his role in turn would be acting as his sacrificial lamb, no matter the cost.
Too bad he'd ended up a cockroach instead.
Laughs. Jeers. Pain. Ropes, chafing into his wrists and ankles. Aches in his back, his legs, his neck - they only let him out of the chair to eat and drink, no more, no less. Sometimes they'd kick him around, but they'd gotten bored of that pretty quickly.
But they wouldn't kill him. Not when they figured out his past. Not when they figured out his present. The Black Hands called it mercy, keeping him alive, given his betrayal. Sterling knew better.
There was no mercy in how they'd leave him to rot for days at a time, with only a weak basement light to see. There was no mercy when they kept him updated on the outside world, how Alaric Houndstooth believed he was Aleksi's true murderer, how it'd been his idea to orchestrate the ambush, how they'd 'conveniently' let Sterling kill two of their weaker members to solidify the cover story.
There was no mercy in how they let him live.
He tunes out the ceremonies, the mayor's drone, his own thoughts. Right now he has hours to live, if he's lucky. The Black Hand will be after him. The Houndstooths will be after him. Few survive the wrath of one. No one had survived the wrath of both. It's an inevitability, is it not? Should he just roll over, accept his fate, and let it end, once and for all?
A name catches his attention. It's from the girls bowl, not his, yet he watches regardless as the unlucky chosen doesn't walk to the stage, but stomps. Faced with staggering odds, the reality that no one has ever survived the Hunger Games before, and she doesn't bend, doesn't break - she rages, she roars, she even calls the quivering escort a name that causes Sterling's lips to curve up in a smile despite everything.
Or, he could do that. He could fight against the inevitable, too. Rage and burn and tear through as many as he can before going down. In his state, it's a lost cause. He'd only gotten two of the Black Hands when he was fresh and armed, and now he's neither. But it'd be something. A choice, not an inevitability. Just like this girl, choosing to go down kicking and screaming instead of resigning herself to her fate.
You and I are not so different, it seems, he thinks as the escort dips his hand into the boy's bowl. I hope your odds turn out better than mine.
Vespasian Phoenix, Capitolite-Assigned Mentor of District Eight
July 4th, 19 ADD, 9:57am - Three minutes before Reaping Day
It should probably be concerning to him that he's barely focused on the Reapings these days. They are, after all, only the biggest part of the Hunger Games after the Bloodbath and the finale in terms of sheer significance and enrapturement. Something something, oh, the Games are returning after a yearlong hiatus (six months, if you count the Victory Tour, an annoying voice that suspiciously sounds like Gaius echoes in his head unprompted), we get to meet the cast of the biggest event of the year, et cetera, et cetera.
Truthfully, Vespasian couldn't really care less. From a spectacle perspective, yes, they were important, but from a stylistic perspective? From an entertainment perspective? They were mere details in the grand design. It didn't matter which boy and which girl got plucked from obscurity to be propelled to worldwide fame - it mattered that their outfits were the best in show, that they stood out enough for one reason or another to get the masses talking back home, and Eight was just oh so good at pulling them off. He pitied the other districts and their stylists, really - there were only so many ways one could make trees or cows or coal exciting for the chariot rides, but fabrics? The very materials that were the building blocks of his life's work? It took a very unimaginative mind to not turn that into something appealing, and luckily for Vespasian, he is far, far, far from unimaginative.
(No matter that he hasn't actually been the stylist in six years, ever since he accepted the promotion. His replacements would listen to him regardless if they valued their careers, and luckily for him, after three know-it-alls who thought they could do it better than him had found their lives ruined, the fourth one had seemingly gotten the hint.)
Still, decorum and tradition mandate that he pay at least a semblance of attention to the tributes, if only to pick up things to make up about them. He'd found out the hard way that Games fanatics and socialites, for some reason, cared as much about the characters beneath the clothes as much as the fashion statements themselves, and he did pride himself on never making the same mistake twice.
So there he sat, leaned forward, hand on chin, elbow on crossed over knee, taking in whatever he could. The mayor was wearing a pale blue pantsuit for the fourth year in a row - ugh, boring. Gaius looked as extravagant as ever in his nighttime sky patterned suit, yet he seemed oddly subdued - his complexion was unusually pale, beads of sweat kept forming at his brow, and ugh, was he sick? Really? Vespasian made a mental note to confine him to his quarters on the train until they got to the Capitol. The last thing he'd need was to take an extra hour out of his day to stop by the doctor's office because of some backwards District flu.
The mayor finishes her speech, and steps aside. Gaius, for some reason, looks even twitchier. Yep, definitely sick - Vespasian's seen the man perform his duty without so much as a hint of a nerve for two years - and even his voice squeaks when "Elida Orsala!" is announced to the crowd of District peons.
What follows next is simply amusing - the girl in question, for some reason or another, does not take kindly to the honor of her Reaping, stomping up to the stage in such a rage that Vespasian almost forgives her horrifyingly pedestrian T-shirt and shorts. Angry tributes are always the most fun to dress up - if only because their defiance captures the attention of the masses without Vespasian even having to do anything. He narrows down the potential designs for her from a dozen to four in seconds, and then down to two when a truly impressive string of curse words is hurled at Gaius (who, if possible, has turned even paler. Vespasian hopes the man doesn't faint - that'd be a dreadful anticlimactic ending to what was so far a beautiful start).
Luckily, he pulls himself together enough to avoid fainting, though Vespasian's trained eye still sees his hand visibly shake when he reaches into the boy's bowl. Unluckily, the second name - "Sterling Satinette!" - produces a boy who looks about as far away from his namesake as possible. Tall, gangly, grungy - seriously, does he even know what a shower is, for Dominus's sake? - even his own attempt at anger is a disappointment compared to Elida's. Cold, seething, glaring, wordless - where's the spectacle in that?
Oh well, he thinks as the pair shake hands and are promptly escorted into the justice building. One out of two isn't bad, and maybe Faustina can salvage something from the boy-
"Excuse me, Mr. Phoenix?" The sound of his own surname yanks him from his thoughts, and he turns to find a plain-clothes young woman as its source. "I was told to give this to you."
Vespasian blinks. The woman was holding out…a letter? "Told by whom?" he asks, squinting at her suspiciously. "A fan, or a rival? That will determine-"
"Neither, Mr. Phoenix." The audacity of the interruption shocks him into silence - and the woman shakes the letter almost impatiently.
"Then who could it be?" he snaps. But his curiosity has been piqued, so he leans forward regardless. "Because I swear, if this is from that damn-"
He trails off abruptly. Because he knows that symbol, knows that scrawl. And if he's receiving this here, receiving this now-
His predecessor for the escort position had told him about this, once, and Vespasian had laughed her off. But now…
"Well," he says, accepting the envelope after taking a second to recompose himself - because it always takes just one, no more, no matter what. "It appears that some legends are true after all."
The woman only smiles wanly in response, before stepping back and melting into the crowd.
And Vespasian might hold himself to a high standard of decorum, but not even the Capitol has figured out how to read minds yet. And, safe within his thoughts, he momentarily lets those standards drop, and consolidates his feelings into one word;
Fuck.
Hello and welcome back to An Illusion of Instability! Today, we bring a set of tributes that are more similar than one might think given their completely different backgrounds into the story, and who are certain to shake things up in one way or another by the time the Games themselves are officially under way. As always, many thanks to ladyqueerfoot for Eli and to geologyisms for Sterling!
District Eight has always been a fun playground for me to worldbuild in, and the tributes did not disappoint in playing in them to their heart's content. In Eli, we find someone who, while they might not have had the easiest or smoothest upbringing, has mostly landed on their feet and finds themselves in a relatively stable situation by the time of the Games. Yet despite everything - a job she loves, people who care about her - it's unclear if things are really as stable as they present themselves, or there's a decent amount of downplaying going on as well - and with the Hunger Games yanking her out of this comfort zone, in what direction will they evolve? Sterling is another matter entirely - here's someone who has been struggling since seemingly day one and has yet to find a lucky break that sticks. They're taken in on the streets by a kind soul - and bam, he's dead. He forms a bond of some sort with his savior, grows comfortable - and bam, he's dead too. How much, if anything, does he have to lose - especially when, on top of everything else, the Hunger Games are no longer a hypothetical but a very real problem? Our second Capitol-assigned mentor of the series clearly isn't concerned with the same things - he is, after all, above such insignificant concerns and people - yet try as he might to do as he wants, things aren't smooth for Vespasian Phoenix either. Semi-cooperative tributes, the upcoming tribute parade - and oh, a suspicious letter that unnerves even him. Now where have we seen that before? (And let's not even get started about Gaius, lest be be hearing him rant for another thousand words).
Each of their stories will continue eventually, but for now, we'll head off to District Nine in our next chapter, where we'll meet our next couple of tributes and couple - sorry, pair of victors doing their thing. Sixteen tributes down, eight to reveal - man, we're really getting kind of close, aren't we? We'll continue chipping away at that number next time - see you all then!
