Chapter 64: Caged Beast Still Howls

?, the Capitol

Venatrix woke hungry— no, starving.

The empty pit in her stomach growled and churned and ached so fierce it took her a solid minute to realize she couldn't move. Confusion bled quickly to anger-rage-panic—what's going on, I can't—why can't I—

Something on the inside slowed her muscles, but Venatrix fought it nonetheless; she was growing used to that.

What she didn't understand were the clamps around her wrists. Around her ankles. She tugged at them, weak despite the fear, despite the ever-increasing panic. No— she tugged harder, straining to investigate, but something stopped her chest too, her head. A wrangled shout crawled up her throat. She turned her head—no, can't—turned her jaw; sharp plastic bit into her cheek. The scream pitched louder, wordless, frantic— the more her body tried to slow her down, the more Venatrix's will to fight it grew; the harder the restraints bit into her skin.

"What the—LET ME GO!" The words slurred on her tongue, muffled by the muzzle.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Venatrix couldn't stop them; they slipped beneath the plastic, and god, the fucking stench—

Yet all the panic, all the pain of indignity couldn't eclipse the pang in her stomach.

(Do you remember?)

I'm so fucking hungry.

Somewhere outside her line of vision, a door opened. Venatrix froze.

Footsteps— a nurse. She padded into view, placing a tray at Venatrix's bedside table. Venatrix tracked her movements, and when the nurse refused to look her in the eye, her gaze flicked to the objects she carried: bowl. Spoon. Glass of water.

She stepped out of sight; Venatrix's eyes strained to keep up.

(Do you remember?)

I won the Games. I won.

Her body strained too. Nurse or otherwise, the woman's presence screamed threat— Venatrix couldn't help the way her limbs jerked towards the person just as much as she couldn't quell the rapid beating in her chest.

The footsteps slowed, and she honed in on the sharp intake of breath. Three seconds, then a rattling exhale.

Out of nowhere, careful fingers brushed the side of her head.

(Remember.)

I killed my father.

Venatrix flinched.

"—just trying to take this off!" Somehow, her panic bled into the nurse's voice. Metal clinked in her ear as a buckle came undone, the sound jarring enough to keep Venatrix on edge. "It's alright, see? We're going to work you back up to solid foods, but in the meantime—"

The muzzle came off.

Venatrix sucked in a breath—it choked her like a lover. Air wheezed through her lungs, cutting like knives up her throat, her lead-and-sandpaper tongue. She felt rather than heard the buckle at her forehead come undone, and her head lurched forwards as she caught her breath, slow and razor-like.

I killed my father.

(He deserved it.)

—what have i done what have i done what have i—

Stop it. Stop it, I can't—I'm-I'm so hungry, I'm so fucking hungry it hurts, I need—

"Food," Venatrix croaked out. "I need…"

My parents. I need—I want—I want to go home.

The nurse stepped back into view, holding the bowl and a spoonful of what looked like slightly fruit-colored mush. She offered it to Venatrix. "Alright, Miss Pyke, open up."

"What?"

The Capitolite took the opportunity to shove the spoon into her mouth. Venatrix choked on the sudden sweetness; her teeth clamped around the spoon, and she ripped it free— it clattered across the room.

"What the fuck!" she spat. The nurse flinched again. Good, but not good enough. "I can feed myself! Fuck you!"

Bursts of air huffed through Venatrix's nostrils. The chiding words of the nurse glossed over her ears; the bowl came close enough, and Venatrix lunged, knocking it from the woman's grip with a snarl that drowned out her squeal.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" She thrashed; dull pain cut into her wrists and ankles, but Venatrix didn't stop, didn't care. "JUST 'CAUSE I'VE ONLY GOT ONE GOOD HAND DOESN'T MEAN I CAN'T FUCKING—I CAN USE A SPOON, I CAN USE A FUCKING SPOON YOU ASSHOLE, LET ME GO!" The words scrubbed her raw. "LET ME FUCKING GO, I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!"

(Just like you killed your father?)

A scream tore from her jaws. It hurt, it hurt, but maybe they'd hear—maybe they'd come—

Anyone but this fucking nurse, but it was only her, eyes wide and cowering a few meters away. Why won't you help me? It came out as a wordless wail that heaved at her lungs. Her shoulders shook; she yanked at her restraints, voice pitching in frustration. Warmth trickled down her cheeks. Venatrix blinked it away, clamped her teeth shut—she needed air—but there was the nurse, inches from her face and that telltale clink of metal buckles—

Venatrix snapped, teeth inches from fingers.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME! DON'T YOU TOUCH ME WITH THAT THING! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU—!" A hiccup choked off her words, and they bled into sobs, sniveling pathetic sobs— "I swear, I'll kill you, just let— let me go, I wanna go home, I… please…"

But Venatrix blinked, and she was alone.

It hit her like a truck, the futility; the truth. And it made a home in her heart, the cold, inconsolable terror. No matter how much it hurt, how much she hurt herself, no matter how loud she screamed, she was alone.

So she screamed. She wailed, and raged, and thrashed and sobbed, and when a cold chill in her blood began to drag her under, Venatrix didn't even care.

Time passed. They must've changed whatever they'd been pumping through her bloodstream because the next time Venatrix woke, she felt only numbness.

And the next time.

And the next.

She didn't howl when they removed her muzzle to feed her, or force a liquid down her throat that soothed the rawness. She didn't snap when they put it back on. She flexed her right hand, her metal hand, with only the barest flicker of curiosity before falling still and waiting.

And time passed.

Doctors came in to speak with her—speak at her—though none Venatrix recognized. They seemed to think she couldn't speak back; Venatrix didn't care to correct them, merely nodding along as they talked about her "progress."

She wasn't stupid—there would be no progress until they unstrapped her from this fucking bed.

The fact that they hadn't said they didn't trust her not to kill them first chance.

Fair point.

The desire was still there, buried beneath the drugs. It was easier to think about than the other things, the ones that crept in when she was alone.

No one's coming for me.

Percy was dead. Mari was dead. Bellara, her father…

—my fault my fault my fault—

Why would they come? Mom hates you, doesn't she? She hates you for what you did, and so does Iago, so does everyone—

(So do I.)

You belong here like this, chained up and locked away. You're never getting out. You're not a Victor— you're a monster. They're never coming back.

And neither are you.

…

Something was off.

Venatrix felt it before she fully realized her return to consciousness— sharpness. Alertness. Pain. So familiar and yet so foreign these past few days. Before she even opened her eyes, Venatrix pulled at her restraints, a habit that had taken shape as of late; perhaps one day she'd find them gone, but today wasn't it. What day is it?

The internal question fell to the wayside once she cracked her eyes open. Something fluttered in her chest, anger-fear-caution, but nothing was out of place in the room she'd vaguely come to memorize— just her.

The door opened; Venatrix zeroed in on it immediately.

Just one of the doctors. Venatrix let out the quiet breath she'd been holding as he stepped through, greeting her with a false smile. She somewhat recognized his pale pink hair, his even voice. "Good evening, Venatrix." Evening..? "I trust you're feeling alright?"

Venatrix didn't bother answering. Just as well; the doctor continued as if he didn't expect it. "We have a visitor for you." She stiffened. "I recommend that you be on your best behavior."

Should've kept me drugged, then, Venatrix thought, but she remained quiet all the same, rubbing her wrists absently against the inside of her restraints. By now, she knew better. Screaming and cursing had gotten her nowhere; at least the chafing, she could control.

(Still, the howl lingered just at the tip of her tongue, waiting.)

The doctor pushed open the door, muttering a quick exchange with the visitor that Venatrix didn't catch, but—

Venatrix's breath caught in her throat.

She recognized the Head Gamemaker instantly. The sight of him here— not two stories above her head, not behind a screen, not as the mythical hand that controlled the horrors of a now-dead world— was so jarring that she could only blink dumbly.

"Miss Pyke. I've been quite eager to meet you up close." Killian Aquila's shoes clicked as he stepped closer to her, scrutinizing, appraising; he made no effort to hide it. Why should he? Behind him, the doctor closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.

Dark eyes raked over her. The mere existence of her restraints seemed to burn.

Venatrix tracked him in return, every muscle in her body itching to move and screaming about the fact that she can't. "Well," he said, beginning to pace a circle around her. "Welcome to the other side. How does it feel to be a Victor?"

Her fingers twitched, metal and flesh alike. Anger clenched her jaw shut; the stiffness traveled all the way down her neck to her shoulder, but Venatrix had no hope of quelling it.

"I wanted you to be lucid enough to remember our conversation," Aquila said from behind her head. "Should I bring the doctor back?"

After a beat, she spoke. "You."

"What about me?"

"You killed my sister."

"Orders from on high." The Head Gamemaker stepped back around to face her. He pulled over a chair, keeping himself in her line of vision. Despite the stiffness in his posture, he exuded grace and ease, not a single black hair out of place nor a stray wrinkle marring skin or fabric. "I told them we should've gone with her instead; she would've made a much more manageable Victor, but—"

Every atom in Venatrix's body threw itself towards him. The binds did their job; a wordless snarl spilled from behind her muzzle. Her muscles strained, fingers curled, and in her mind's eye, they wrapped tight around his pale, skinny neck, tight enough to snap.

Killian didn't flinch. In fact, his barely-there smile was almost smug. "There's my wolf."

"I'm not yours," she spat.

"Oh, but you are. My first Career… I've always wanted to see for myself if your kind were any good. And what a titan you were!" His grin was genuine now, eyes alight with intensity. "Truly, it was such a pleasure to see you come undone at the jaws of my mutts. You gave me quite the show."

"Unbind me, and I'll do it again."

The Head let loose a laugh, sharp and unnatural. "I'm sure you would. But there's no need; I merely came to congratulate you, Venatrix Pyke…"

No, you came to gloat.

"And to warn you, I suppose." Aquila's expression sobered so smoothly as if he'd never shown any other face. "What you did to your poor father, that will not stand. The President is already displeased that I destroyed my arena— though I'm sure she'll come around; it was Ragnarök… But now that you are all that remains of it—"

"What about Charcoal?"

Killian frowned. "Radovich's cat? Miss Pyke, you have much bigger things to worry about."

She swallowed, clenching her fists around her now-shaking fingers. "My dad—"

"Is not your concern right now. The situation is being… dealt with."

Venatrix's brow furrowed in confusion.

His expression hardened into something like titanium. "You may have 'won', but it would serve you well to understand the role you must play. You have a dynasty to uphold now, Venatrix." He stood, straightening out his wrinkle-free jacket. "The Capitol wants to love you for it— let them."

Love me…?

Struggling to process the thought, Venatrix merely stared as he started to walk away. He nearly made it to the door.

"Killian," she barked.

Aquila stiffened, as if no one had called him by name in a while.

"This isn't fucking over."

He raised a brow.

"I am going to kill you." Venatrix met his eyes, her promise cold in its sudden clarity. "I swear it on my sister's name, I will kill you, and everyone responsible for taking her from us."

The Head Gamemaker merely smiled. "Try, if you wish. I'll await the effort."

Everything hurt. Before Oberon opened his eyes, he felt it, and the simple task itself felt herculean.

It helped, somewhat, to see Dagmara sitting at his bedside next to the beeping machines. Her lips twitched, a poor attempt at a reassuring smile, and when she squeezed his hand, he automatically squeezed back.

It brought the briefest flicker of relief— then, he remembered.

'You left me to die!'

"Dag…" he choked out.

'—SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—'

Oberon squeezed his eyes shut. Behind them, his daughter's face appeared, twisted with pain and rage; the phantom pains in his chest felt all too real.

Rough fingertips gently brushed away the liquid from his eyes. He hadn't even realized… "Easy," Dagmara said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him from instinctively sitting up. Oberon tried anyway, but the pain in his heart was suddenly acute; he went limp, gasping. "You're not going anywhere, hon."

Oberon groaned in response. His hand found hers once again.

"How are you feeling?"

It hurts. Everything hurts so, so much. But all that came from his lips was, "Cold."

How had it gone so wrong? How badly did he have to fail as a mentor—as a parent—for his daughter to think that she wasn't enough? That he didn't love her?

He never intended to abandon her. He never wanted to put her through this.

They never had a choice.

Look where that got us.

Dagmara's hand slipped from his, and she disappeared from view. Moments later, she returned with a thin blanket, sweeping it over his form. "It's all they have," she said. Right. Oberon grimaced in thanks regardless. "I suppose they put more effort into the technology. Said you should be up and walking in a couple of days." She shook her head in disbelief. "She stabbed you in the heart, Oberon. Multiple times. We're lucky we were already in the hospital when this happened, otherwise…"

"They should've let her kill me."

Dagmara went rigid. "Don't you dare." He recoiled—ow—at the sharpness in her tone. "After everything she's been through— after everything we put her through, you'd really want to make her live with killing her father too? You'd really want to make me—"

Oberon opened his mouth, closed it, and waited for her.

"No," she continued. "We are lucky enough that she is still living. I'll be damned if we can't make this right."

He couldn't help the caustic laugh. "How, Dagmara? She fucking hates me, and she has every right."

"And what about you?"

"Me?"

"Don't you love her enough to try?"

Oberon sucked in a breath; it went straight to the brand new scar tissue in his chest. "Of course I do." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Forgiveness was not something he understood well, but some things mattered far, far more.

Venatrix couldn't do this on her own. No Victor could, however different the shape of their burdens, their shiny new griefs and traumas. She needed his and Dagmara's guidance whether she wanted it or not. As her mentors, it was their job to carry her through the Capitol with her chin up, and as her parents… The real work would begin at home. Unlike those in the Capitol, they would not leave her to face the terror and the grief and the ugly truth of her actions alone.

That was what made them different, District Two. Venatrix. That was why he and Dagmara had guided her down this path.

In light of that thought, Oberon turned to his wife. "You should be with her, Dag. Why are you with me?"

Conflict flashed across Dagmara's features. "Oberon…"

Something in her tone pricked at his ears, something far more serious than appeasing his pitiful self-deprecation. "Dagmara, where is she?"

Perhaps he should've asked that first.

Dagmara shook her head. "She's not here. I… I don't know where they took her." Her voice cracked. "I don't know."

The chill returned.

The door to his room opened; Oberon found himself grateful they'd positioned his bed so it lay within his view. Less so when the hospital assistant stepped aside to let his visitor through. Oberon swallowed, straightening despite the pain. Dagmara remained stoutly at his side, his hand clenched in hers, until the President verbally dismissed her. She cast him a backwards glance as she left, one that let him know she'd be waiting doggedly by the door.

In her place, Valorius stalked towards him, hands clasped behind her back, dark eye appraising. She walked alone; her bodyguards must be waiting outside.

"You're welcome."

Oberon stared at her blankly.

"Yes, your daughter is still alive despite the fucking mess the two of you have made of my Games. So…?"

"Thank you." The words scraped at Oberon's throat.

"You're. Welcome." Venera's exhale hissed through clenched teeth. "Now, you better hope she can keep her toes in line, because if she can't—"

"Where is she."

Venera's eye narrowed to a slit, brow creased over her metal eyepatch. "I know you know better than to interrupt me," she said lowly. Her long, painted fingernails tapped against the machine reading off his insistent heartbeat. "Quite frankly, I've had enough unstable Victors from your district. I do not need another. I want her fit for the public eye and happy about it, do you hear me? This falls on your shoulders."

"Venera, I already broke her enough—"

"Then fix her," she hissed. "Put her back together! Before she has to appear on television, preferably."

If only it were that easy. Oberon found he appreciated the sentiment far more when it was coming from his wife. With the arm still hooked up to an IV—the one that wasn't broken, thankfully—he gestured sarcastically to his current state.

Venera rolled her eye. "Please, you've been through worse."

"Actually, I don't think I have."

The President hummed, then shrugged. "You'll be fine enough to do your job, and that's what matters, isn't it?"

Oberon pressed his lips together.

"Get her through the ceremonies. Hell, maybe even enjoy it. All I want from you is a happy little loyal Victor family, is that too much to ask?"

"That might be a little hard if I'm forced to divorce my wife."

The President tilted her head in mock confusion. "Divorce? I don't know why you'd want to divorce your lovely wife after such a glorious occasion," she said pointedly. Oberon's brow furrowed. "You and your family should be proud! Three Victors— it's almost unheard of." She leaned in closer. "And you really should read your marriage contract more closely."

Is this a fucking joke? The tyrant's subtle smirk told him that to her, it was.

Oberon tried to sit up, once again finding himself incapacitated by the pangs in his chest. "Enough with the fucking games, Venera," he snarled. "Where is my daughter?"

"Oh, don't worry, she's safe, for now. Somewhere she won't be of harm to others… or herself."

His eyes shot wide. Panic rose in his chest, and just like that, any semblance of his mask crumbled into grinding teeth and flashing hatred. "No," he spat. "Venera, you can't…" She stepped back, brow raised. "You can't have her, I'm supposed to bring her home! I have to bring her home, you don't—!"

Venera cut him off with the push of a button, leaning in just enough to block the overhead light. "Take this as a little warning, Oberon. If you cannot fix her," the President promised, "I will."

This time, the cold in his veins brought with it a wave of darkness.

Since Venatrix went the majority of her conversation with the Head Gamemaker without actively trying to kill him, they decided to start undoing her binds. That's what they told her when he left.

The next time Venatrix woke, she felt her heart speed up when she found her restraints gone.

Most of them at least— the weight of the muzzle still pressed down on her cheeks, her nose. But it didn't stop her from sitting up. It didn't stop her from scrambling over the edge of the bed—and landing hard on the cold floor when her tingling legs refused to work. Venatrix gasped. Pins and needles raced through her body. Spots of color clouded her vision, and her ears rang with dizziness that was replaced with words once it cleared.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the disembodied voice came again. "Please return to your bed, Miss Pyke."

Not a single bone in her body considered complying.

Legs stiff and unhelpful, Venatrix pushed herself onto her bottom, scooting backwards until she hit a wall. She flinched—it wasn't too far from the bed. The voice came again, and Venatrix ignored it in favor of tugging at the straps of her muzzle. There was a buckle somewhere… but her flesh fingers trembled too much to sort it out; her metal ones didn't stand a chance.

With a growl of frustration, Venatrix pulled at the thing itself; it only dug into her face. Useless. A shout tore from her lips. She slammed her fist into the floor; the impact sent a nauseating reverberation from the metal into her bones.

She felt rather than heard the door open, the new presences enter the room.

Venatrix blinked, eyes still sticky from unconsciousness. As best she could, she gathered her feet under her in some semblance of a crouch, though her ability to lunge—to attack—was questionable.

She didn't need to.

The doctors, nurses, whoever they were started towards her, but one held them back. "Let me help you," they said to Venatrix. Capitolite in both voice, appearance, and lack of a distinctive gender. She held still while they unbuckled the muzzle; when it fell away, she uttered a gruff, "thanks."

She didn't miss the surprised looks of the others gathered, including the pink-haired man from earlier. Ignoring them, she accepted her tentative savior's aid to stand.

That seemed to kick the others into gear. Immediately, they detailed an extensive list of physical therapy regimens which Venatrix didn't bother retaining, too focused on the task of putting one leg in front of the other after so long being restrained. Look how weak I've become, how pathetic. It seemed to erode at her bones, stifling every limb and every neuron that fired to her brain. After one lap around the room, the bed called to her, and Venatrix let her Capitolite guide her to it. Out of nowhere, food arrived—a mealy sort of protein mush that could've tasted worse but definitely could've tasted better—and they supervised while she ate, with her own hands this time.

Even then, she barely got a few bites down. Something about the texture on her tongue became too nauseating too fast, but she thanked the nurse before they left.

She never saw them again.

Emptiness gnawed at her stomach, but each meal ended in the same result, more or less. It only took one instance of forcing food down her throat in a fit of frustration, only for it to come back up later, for Venatrix to respect it. Patience was never something that came naturally—

(—Patience. Percy. Redredredred—)

Venatrix stopped chewing, swallowed. The howling slipped slowly beneath the void, and she set down the strawberry. Fruit stayed down better, they'd found. Soft, sweet. This one was big enough to nearly cover her palm; her small bite barely made a dent. Back home, they grew smaller, more tart. Callithyia used to have a patch she'd let them come over and pick in the summers, before Two's winters finally got the best of it.

An attendant came quickly to remove her plate. Never left, probably. The constant supervision weighed just as heavily as it had during the arena, but sharper. More and less private at the same time.

At least she wasn't waking up in a muzzle anymore.

(Still alone, though. Always alone.)

Still, with each cycle of wakefulness and cold-sweat dreams, Venatrix found herself growing bored. No— restless.

Now that she could move around in it, the room was tiny. There wasn't much to do, aside from trying to eat. Sleep. Pace. Blink. Pretend to listen. Take her meds. Or, 'Makers forbid, think.

Doctors and nurses poked their noses in to talk at her and make her move, but nobody told her anything. And she asked— when her voice inevitably rose in volume, they quickly scurried away, leaving her scowling in frustration. The physical therapy was the only thing that kept her sane, or close enough to it. Tiring out her body was familiar. Welcome, even. The sessions felt too short for someone of her caliber, her history. If it weren't for the doctors, she'd push through the pain, but at some point, even Venatrix had to acknowledge what this was: recovery.

That's what it was supposed to be, at least.

Unfortunately, not even a flicker of amusement crossed the pink-haired doctor's face when she asked for a sword. They didn't listen, of course, but they did finally bring her to another room. One with more than a hospital bed and a shitty little roll-away night table. This one had a desk, window—no, fake window; that's just a screen—and a real bathroom this time. For a second, Venatrix found herself excited before she realized how stupid that was.

I shouldn't be here. I won—I should be getting crowned as Victor.

The attendant left her with a fresh change of clothes and the explanation that this was temporary, this was good, but nothing further. The thought buzzed in Venatrix's mind as she took too long to change out of the hospital robe, finally, and into the set of silky—plasticky—lounge wear. How many days has it been? Does everyone take this long? I got pretty injured, yeah, but I'm better. I'm getting better. Did it take this long for Mom and Dad? If I can't be as good as them—

"You were always enough, Trixie."

The door opened with a loud click. Venatrix gasped, pressing herself against the farthest wall in an instant.

Her heart rate began to steady when she recognized the newcomer, never mind Doctor Astic's obvious peeved expression. "Well, well, Miss Pyke. Five days since your Victory, and you're still here." Surprise wore off; Venatrix felt herself bristle with low-level anger. "I suppose I should be grateful they've kept you well medicated," the doctor sniffed, setting down her things at Venatrix's desk. "And well exercised despite completely neglecting your prosthetic. The nerve! They never should've let you out of my care…"

Venatrix frowned, but any budding questions dissipated when the doctor pulled out her tools and dove straight into business.

She disinfected the metal and the skin beneath; Venatrix held back a wince. Methodically, Astic tinkered with the device, wisely keeping any screwdrivers or sharp objects out of her subject's reach while Venatrix gingerly held out her hand. It didn't take long. They ran through dexterity exercises that Venatrix vaguely remembered doing before, tapping fingers together before Astic brought out a strange-looking squishy marker and a sketchpad for penmanship practice. She left Venatrix with the last two objects when the session concluded.

Venatrix stayed seated at the desk. Despite her questions, she hadn't bothered speaking to the doctor. Maybe if she was less of a bitch…

She sighed. The noise rang uncomfortably through the room, quiet save for the buzz of electricity and the dull hum of air conditioning. Venatrix picked up the marker again, squishing the foam exterior in her metal grip. Astic had wanted her to practice. Flipping to a new page in the book, she clutched the marker in her fist and jabbed its felt tip repeatedly into the page.

Maybe they thought she'd take after her father with a pen as she did with a sword. Fat fucking chance.

The marker was useless for anything but ink. Maybe that was the point. She abandoned it, tearing out the page with a satisfying riiiip.

"I want to track your progress with this book," Astic had said.

Venatrix tore out another page. She grinned.

Soon enough, sheets of paper littered the floor, mostly blank with a select few unintelligible scribbles. When she ran out of pages, Venatrix shredded them into scraps. It was surprisingly challenging with the prosthetic, but hey, I'm practicing.

The attendants returned when she gave up and started using her teeth.

Venatrix accepted the glass of water they gave her and the pill that came with it, though she flashed them a glorious metallic middle finger before crawling into bed.

When she woke, the marker and sketchpad remains were gone, the room clean. Typical.

She kept her breakfast down this time. Mixed fruit and yogurt— Venatrix was surprised to find herself able to finish the bowl, her stomach still grumbling for more. What I wouldn't give for one of Aunt Tiana's snickerdoodles.

The thought of home struck her so sharply.

Her graduation party. Her aunt and grandmother baking in the kitchen. Her and Percy, curled up together on the bathroom floor.

(Her final exam, only hours before.)

Stop.

It felt more real than the white walls that surrounded her now.

Abruptly, Venatrix stood. She paced around her bed, shaking out the inexplicable jitters. Any second the pills would kick in and numb whatever this was, but is that really what I want?

I want to go home.

(As if they'll want you back.)

When the pacing didn't cut it, Venatrix ran herself through the set of stretches the doctors had given her, and the ones she remembered from training, long-since ingrained into her muscles. Her right shoulder sang with effort when she leaned into it, and the strain was almost enough.

What does it matter? I'll never be able to hold a sword the same way I used to.

She could barely hold a pen. So much for practicing.

A long, rattling exhale trailed from her lips. Venatrix sank into the carpet, stretching out her limbs to lie on her back. This was it— Victory. What did she need the sword for anymore?

The thought unsettled her; Venatrix immediately shoved it away.

The click of the door pushed it back further.

Venatrix sat up, alert but without the familiar undercurrent of panic. Must be the pills. The attendant, trailed by a pair of stockier orderlies, informed her that if she so desired, she was permitted to leave her room in their company for a brief walk.

Immediately, she scrambled to her feet. A thousand thoughts raced through her head—questions, curiosity, concern—but Venatrix found herself halfway out the door before any of them made it past her lips. The Capitolites didn't prompt her for conversation, either. Sure, she recognized the attendant, but clearly he had no deeper information or message to convey, though Venatrix perked up even more when he mentioned a courtyard.

All thought slipped from her mind the moment Venatrix stepped out into the sun.

It was nothing grand. Some greenery, a few benches. Sandy paths wound their way between wimpy little trees with fake-looking flowers, the whole thing encircled by the walls and squat buildings of the hospital, or facility, or wherever the hell they were.

But the sun kissed her cheeks; a breeze tickled at her flyaway curls, and Venatrix stood there, absorbing it all.

"Nice, isn't it?"

She jumped. The voice came from her peripheral; Venatrix didn't know how she missed the shock of bright red hair. Not auburn, not blood— strawberry.

"It gets old after a while," Eridan said, strolling towards her. He paused a meter or so away, as if his own pair of attendants were making sure he kept his distance. "Pretty quickly, actually. But it's better than nothing."

Venatrix stared. She'd been a mere child the last time she'd seen her father's most recent Victor (barring her current self), and Eri had been… less tired. More lively.

Still nervous, though.

She'd always found him an odd choice for a volunteer. Even after she'd grown up enough to give it real thought, it only confused her more; at least, until she saw him fight. Though, perhaps everything that came after his Victory had colored her perception.

Of all the people, all the places…

And where exactly do you think you are right now?

Venatrix swallowed the thought. Eridan was still watching her. "They… don't let you out?"

If the older Victor picked up on the waver in her tone, he didn't point it out. Instead, Eridan jerked his chin for her to follow. "Why would they?" he said, starting down the nearest garden path. "This is where they put the unstable Victors when we go insane and kill our families." He glanced over his shoulder when he realized Venatrix wasn't following.

(—all she sees is red, in her ears her eyes her hands, it's in my mouth—)

"My dad… is—is he…?"

Eridan frowned, then shrugged. "I don't know what you did. They don't tell me shit in here."

One of his orderlies cleared their throat.

"And they don't like us talking about it either." He beamed, all teeth and clearly false. "Come on, Venatrix. It'll be nice to take a walk." He glanced pointedly back at the orderly—guard. "Don't get your panties in a twist, we'll be fine." The guard trailed them anyways, and Eridan let out a long, slow exhale, the corner of his mouth twitching.

He was right— it was nice to walk. The fresh air felt good on her skin; Venatrix hadn't realized how much she'd missed it. Her slippers scraped oddly against the dirt, the only sound passing between the pair as Eridan fell silent. He stuffed his hands in his pockets—jeans, Venatrix realized. In fact, his whole outfit, from the dyed hair to his Capitol-brand sneakers was decidedly not facility-provided. Not like hers. I guess after ten years, they had to let him have something.

So much for Victory.

Venatrix eyed the edges of the garden, the facility walls. "They really keep you in here all the time?"

His lip twitched again. They stepped into the shade of a flowering tree, then out again; in the light of the sun, his pale skin was almost translucent. "You see that?" He jerked his chin towards the sky. Venatrix squinted upward, frowning, and Eridan lowered his voice. "I don't know how they do it, but you can only really tell when it's raining. Just like the arena."

A sudden memory resurfaced, a six-sided die changing direction midair.

"Don't worry, though, Venatrix. I doubt they're done with you yet."

Somehow, Venatrix didn't find that reassuring.

Eridan smiled, as if she wasn't meant to. "We're too interesting to get rid of, especially you with that nice little family of yours, of whatever's left of it. I bet they love that."

Venatrix felt her fingers curl into a fist. But she nodded, remembering the Head Gamemaker's words.

"Besides, they still have to parade you across the nation to remind everyone what a Victor looks like. …I'm surprised they let you keep the scars."

"What?"

He gestured to her face. Venatrix raised a hand (then lowered it, switching to her left) and ran it down her face. Unmistakable ridges stretched from her forehead down to her jaw. She touched them again; she could almost feel the ghost of Mariposa's blade biting into her flesh.

Venatrix couldn't help it— she smiled.

It came with a weight, a heavy ache in her chest, but even that couldn't cut through the bizarre sense of elation that buzzed through her veins. A gasp spilled from her throat. Eridan tilted his head, a kind sort of concern in his expression. "Are you—alright?"

Venatrix sucked in a breath. It came out as a bubbling laugh, too powerful for her to form words around. She merely nodded, wiping at her suddenly-blurry eyes.

She barely realized they'd finished walking the circuit of the courtyard when her attendants began to direct her back towards the facility. Again, the emotion surged in her body, too strong for Venatrix to protest; she didn't hear Eridan's parting words, but she appreciated them all the same.

Her mind was too occupied with the dead girl that lived on in her skin— as long as she had the scars, nobody could ever forget.

She wouldn't let them.

true vengeance 151 . weebly . com

A/N: The Ven/Eri convo was one I had for a while... and still as I was writing, it developed even more. Love that! Getting closer to the end of the fic... I don't intend for each chapter to be this long, but also if they need to be... I wouldn't exactly be Opposed to scraping the 300k word count :P (ignore whatever FFN says this is at). As for an actual finishing deadline. Uhh.. I guess we'll see. Making promises has not worked out too well in my favor in terms of deadlines. Oops.

See you in like a month I guess? Maybe sooner!

- Nell