VIII. Subordination Day
I want to believe
Instead, I look at the sky, and I feel nothing
You know I hate to be alone
I want to be wrong
Clemensia Dovecote. 33.
Assistant Gamemaker.
There's something hypocritical about just how immensely her wife enjoys watching the yearly reaping recaps. Before the Dark Days, Lysistrata's family was dirt poor without a pot to piss in. So, Clemensia once assumed that Lysistrata would be somewhat sympathetic towards the annual cluster of Tributes shipped off to the slaughter. Recent years have proven that Lysistrata thinks very much the opposite.
"We're going to be late!" Lysistrata's grip around Clemensia's left wrist is firm as they make their way through the corridors of the Gamemaking Office. "Put some pep in your step, I beg of thee."
"They never start on time," Clemensia argues, still keeping up with her wife's brisk pace. "I promise, dearest, we're going to be fine."
Their patent leather heels ᶜˡᵃᶜᵏ atop the linoleum flooring and echo against the walls as the pair gets closer to Coriolanus' office. Clemensia takes more than her fair share of time as she marches her last few steps towards the man's domain. Sure, Clemensia and Coriolanus were close in their school days, but that was before he became a power-hungry maniac. One that gave her a job, yes, but still a power-hungry maniac nevertheless.
Lysistrata lets go of Clemensia's hand and eagerly knocks on the door. "Oh, Coryooo! We're here!"
"I'll let you in if you promise not to call me that," the man's deep voice calls from inside the room. Coriolanus once preferred to be addressed with his nickname, but those days are long in the past. Being Head Gamemaker has done wonders for his ego; thus, childhood nicknames are no longer on the agenda.
"I pinky swear!" Lysistrata pleads, her cheeks all pressed up against the door. Clemensia can't help but beam at her.
She hears familiar footsteps get louder in the direction of the door. The handle turns, and the door swings open. Underneath the frame, Coriolanus stands, a smug expression on his face and his hands in the pockets of his red corduroy pants.
"You were nearly late," he says flatly.
Lysistrata cocks her head back at Clemensia and laughs. "See, I was right, and you were wrong!"
"Congratu-fucking-lations," Clemensia deadpans.
Stars, Lysistrata's lucky she's cute.
They step into Coriolanus' office, the room suspiciously neat as usual. If she didn't know better, Clemensia would think that this office is purely for show and the Head Gamemaker doesn't actually work in a place so orderly. Every book is neatly placed on a shelf, and all the papers on the desk are systematically filed in a wire basket. The only thing different about the office compared to typical days is the bowl of red grapes on the wooden coffee table between Coriolanus' two white sofas.
"After you." Clemensia gestures to a spot on the couch further from the grapes. Lysistrata sits down, Clemensia quickly following suit. Coriolanus reaches down at the bowl, grabs a handful of grapes, and sits on the other sofa.
"Well then, does this mean we're ready to begin," Lysistrata asks.
Coriolanus nods, pointing his remote control at the screen. "Most definitely, but before we begin, I wanted to remind you two that this year's Tributes are going to be unlike anything you've seen prior, due to the nature of the Quell."
"Yeah, whatever." Lysistrata rolls her eyes in annoyance. "Just get on with it. Clemmie and I know how to handle ourselves around freakazoids. Isn't that right, dear?"
Of course, it is. We've been near you nonstop for the past six years, Clemensia thinks, but instead says, "Correct. Let's get this show on the road."
Coriolanus presses a button on the remote, prompting the flat-screen television to flicker on. Thankfully, his copy of the recaps doesn't include Lucky Flickerman's commentary. Clemensia doesn't loathe the guy, but she doesn't find any of what he has to say particularly interesting either.
Clemensia watches as Sapphira Starlett walks up to the stage, her entire body visibly shaking and zeal in her eyes. Under her breath, she mutters, "Somebody's a bit too excited to be voted into a murder pageant."
"Either that, or she's on drugs." Coriolanus quips, popping a grape into his mouth.
Lysistrata leans over and whispers into Clemensia's ear, "I don't know; I think she's cute."
Truthfully, Ms. Starlett isn't what Clemensia was expecting when the Capitol announced that the Districts would vote their biggest and baddest pariahs into the Games. She gets the feeling most won't be like her, at least. Her District partner certainly isn't. The somewhat serpentine boy threw his chair to the side and fumed from the moment he stepped onto the stage.
"I'll just outright admit it," Clemensia begins. "When the Quell twist was finalized, I expected kids more like Mr. Rossmani than Ms. Starlett. He seems like the sort of kid I'd expect to be voted in, while she's more of a chihuahua, for lack of a better term. I think we'll have fun with him."
"You definitely will," Coriolanus agrees (for once). "Once we're done for the evening, I'll send you all the files I have of these twenty-four fiends. Rossmani's definitely going to be a key player."
"I just think Sapphira's really cute," Lysistrata blurts out. "She seems fun and like we'd maybe even be friends."
Before anybody can respond to her, Coriolanus switches over to District Two.
Immediately, Clemensia recognizes the girl as Tourney Beaufort's daughter, and she can't help but chuckle. It makes all too much sense that she'd be voted in, especially after her idiot father tried to expand their phony business into the Capitol.
"I'm not surprised it's her either," Coriolanus says, noticing Clemensia's laughter. "What stumbled me more was why Commander Naciri's son was voted in and not Mr. Beaufort's son."
Lorian Naciri looks far too proud to be standing on the stage while the audience goes quiet. Lysistrata, equally perplexed, asks, "Is there such thing as election fraud for the Quell?"
"Of course not," Coriolanus scolds her. "We made sure that nobody would ever possibly be able to tamper with the ballot boxes."
"But this is the first time we've ever had an election for something in this country," Lysistrata argues.
He nods. "You know what, you're right. I'll look into it."
Districts Three and Four are relatively uninteresting. What's most notable is Clarion Bohr from Three nearly tackling a Peacekeeper to the ground and Talisa Azores from Four trying to pull a sword on her escort, only to inform everybody that it's fake and they should all calm down. After their tomfoolery, their partners, Aiko Grice and Dasani Amato seem relatively normal.
Five is a different story. Before her name is even called, the camera captures Ripley Sabyn hysterically crying. As it zooms into her face, the girl stammers, "At least it isn't somebody else."
"I feel bad for her," Lysistrata whispers into Clemensia's ear. "I hope she's okay!"
Clemensia has the feeling she won't be.
Ripley's District partner Melchior Kolmogorov is practically her antithesis. When his name is called, he steps up from the back with a devious smirk and claps despite the people in the audience booing him. In fact, he seems happy the entire time, almost like he doesn't know that he's been voted into a death match. Optimism is a good thing, but Mr. Kolmogorov's just seems excessive.
Though her reaction isn't as dramatic as Ms. Sabyn's was, Moxie Adegoke from Six seems relatively upset about being voted in.
"I'll just spoil this one for you; tomorrow is her nineteenth birthday," Coriolanus drawls.
"You're kidding?" Lysistrata bursts out into hysterical laughter. "That is such a bad bounce, wow!"
Coriolanus crosses his arms and deadpans, "Why would I kid?"
"I don't know," she quickly eats her words. "Let's talk about something else, like how her District Partner is crying. Why do you think he's crying?"
"Probably because twenty percent of his District wants him dead," Clemensia says flatly.
"That's a great guess!" Lysistrata enthuses, wrapping her arms around Clemensia. "Coryo— I mean— Coriolanus, why do you think this kid is crying. Clearly, he can't have too bad of a life. He's kind of chubby."
"What did I say about body shaming the Tributes?" Clemensia teases as if this was a recurring theme in her and her wife's conversations.
She taps her finger against her chin. "You actually haven't said anything about that."
"And I don't want to, either." Clemensia presses her hand over Lysistrata's mouth.
Edric Grendel is one of the few kids that Clemensia genuinely feels bad for. Whatever reason this kid's been voted in for, he probably doesn't deserve to die. But alas, such is the nature of the Quell. Clemensia knew when it was first being conceived that there'd be some kids that simply didn't deserve to be there, but most of them are crooks, and disposing of them is worth the lives of those innocent. Really, it's not much different from any other year where even more innocent children are slaughtered.
District Seven's Asherah Uzeram is another example of a life that probably shouldn't be taken, her expression downcast and ridden with despair. On the other hand, the manic smile on her partner Olathe Whitethorn's face proves Clemensia's point that some people are better off dead, where they can't harm anybody.
"Was there some sort of a rule that District Seven could send two girls that nobody told me about?" Lysistrata asks, pointing eagerly at Mr. Whitethorn.
Clemensia sighs. "Olathe Whitethorn is a man, dear."
"—And a very ethereal, angelic, man at that," Coriolanus adds, for some odd reason. "With a face like that, I understand why so many people fell for his traps."
"Thank you for sharing." Clemensia stammers. Blessedly, before Lysistrata can make a joke about Coriolanus being gay, the television turns to District Eight.
Before Eight's escort can even begin to select the female Tribute, Charon Tricolette, stands up in the stalls and shouts, "I know I'm next; can you just get this part over with, please?"
As Mr. Tricolette walks up to the stage, Coriolanus releases an aggrieved sigh. "For the love of Panem, what is this booty-biter doing?"
"Coryo!" Clemensia reprimands him, slapping his wrist from across the coffee table out of instinct. "You can't say that word. It's a slur, you know."
"Maybe he can," Lysistrata offers. "His name does say anus, and he's not married. Besides, I know we both heard what he just said about Olathe—"
"Silence!" The Head Gamemaker sneers.
Not understanding the meaning of that word, Lysistrata continues anyway. "I mean, he's engaged, but maybe that's just a cover-up. Maybe Livia's also gay!"
"Neither of us are homosexuals," he says. "I can assure you."
"I don't know," Lysistrata replies, her grin widening. "I've never seen you kiss."
Afraid that this will end in both of them getting executed, Clemensia puts one hand on her wife's shoulder. "Please."
Oddly enough, Mr. Tricolette's District partner, Lycra Draper, is equally, if not even more eccentric. As the camera pans to her face, Clemensia quickly realizes that she's covered in blood.
"Oh dear," she mumbles.
"I thought the same thing," Coriolanus replies, even though Clemensia was very clearly talking to herself. "And no, she doesn't look like that because she's on her lady time."
"I didn't think she was—never mind." She decides she's not in the mood to discuss menstrual cycles with Coriolanus Snow of all people and diverts her attention to District Nine.
Helen Rimmonn seems vehemently pissed with Aleister Darski, who doesn't even look her in the eye. In fact, Mr. Darski doesn't make eye contact with anybody. He just stands on stage and broods.
"Pack it up, edgelord," Lysistrata shouts at the screen. "Nobody likes you!"
"I think he's fine with that," Clemensia says. There's something sinister about Mr. Darski that definitely intrigues her. It'd scare her if she were going into the Games with him, but thankfully she isn't.
The boy from Ten, Elio Basanti, throws a temper tantrum when his name is called. Unlike Gremory Rossmani's fit from earlier, Mr. Basanti's is less menacing and more… pathetic.
"Instant bloodbath," Clemensia mutters under her breath. As sad as it is, a kid as young and clearly naive as him doesn't stand half a chance against some of the other players. Either that, or he'll surprise everyone. She doubts it.
Though District Eleven has been utterly dull in Games past, this year marks what may be a pleasant surprise. Thana Achillea's chilling laughter sends a shiver down Clemensia's spine, and Xan Fruit certainly doesn't look like the average District Eleven resident.
"If he's from District Eleven, why is he white?" Lysistrata addresses the elephant in the room.
Clemensia rolls her eyes. "You can't just ask somebody why they're white!"
"His father's the mayor," Coriolanus says. "And apparently, not a very well-liked one either."
"Thank you for answering my question!" Lysistrata smirks. "Nice to know that somebody in this room cares about me."
Clemensia ignores her wife's subtle dig, knowing that she's well aware of just how much Clemensia loves and appreciates her. Instead, she speaks her mind. "Maybe we should talk about how a white guy is leading the only majority-Black District, just for a minute."
"Or we can talk about District Twelve!" Coriolanus flicks the remote.
Madrasa Saiz seems relatively unbothered and accepting of the fact she's been reaped, making ample room for the dramatics of her District partner, Lucifer Deathrage (Is that even a real name?), who has been voted in unanimously.
The young boy maniacally laughs as he parades through the aisles, yet Clemensia still can't bring herself to take him seriously.
"Look at him," Lysistrata coos. "He's just a little guy!"
"Please do not joke about Lucifer Deathrage!" Coriolanus shouts. After a pregnant pause, he tacks on, "Or you can. I have no clue what this kid's deal is and why he received all of the votes. I couldn't find anything on him."
For once, Clemensia is glad District Thirteen blew up, as it means she no longer has to deal with the utter nonsense of these Reapings.
"Quite the eclectic bunch, don't you think," Coriolanus says with a smirk. "I think they're actually going to work quite nicely with your plans. More specifically, your mutts, Lysistrata."
She aggressively nods. "I was thinking the same thing! I know they'll need some tweaking, but for the most part—"
"They do need tweaking; that's so true!" Clemensia cuts her wife off and grabs her wrist, lifting her up and off the couch. "That's why I think we should go home right now, and you can work on them."
"Leaving so soon?" Coriolanus asks as Clemensia makes her way towards the door, Lysistrata in tow. "You girls really are such hard workers."
"This was lovely, but yes!" Clemensia slips through the door. "Thank you for hosting; it was a pleasure!"
The office door clicks behind her. For the first time in an hour and a half, Clemensia Dovecote can breathe. Good lord, the man's a mess.
Lysistrata Vickers. 33.
Assistant Gamemaker.
"You know Clemmie, I've done some thinking, and I've concluded that Coryo is kind of a sociopath."
Truth be told, Lysistrata's done more than just some thinking. When she was at her desk tweaking mutts earlier in the day, her mind trailed to the children her creations would soon be maiming. Lysistrata knows the ethical implications of the Hunger Games, as much as she chooses to ignore them. She knows that whoever's voted in will be ripped away from their family the same way her brother was when the tides of war raged. There'll be collateral damage in the Districts, the same way there always is, but eventually, everyone will forget, only for the next year to come. Really, the Quell's good for the Districts' morale. If they're actively selecting who they want to see die, chances are they'll be less upset when said person actually does kick the bucket.
Now, Coriolanus Snow sees things differently; he's always been a bit of an eccentric, and that's why the two of them are friends. However, they differ because Coriolanus sees the lives taken in the Games as entirely disposable. He doesn't realize the implications of senseless slaughter and even sees it as a form of art. The same could be said about Lysistrata, yes, but acknowledging the corruption she contributes to is better than completely turning a blind eye. Over the years, she's gotten used to hearing his snide remarks about the Tributes. She knows that Coriolanus views them as numbers instead of deliberate sacrifices. It was easy for Lysistrata to assume that his commentary would be no different this year. And thus, she decided to see what she could do to get under his skin and how he'd react when she failed to humanize the Tributes the same way she usually does. Lysistrata wondered what would happen if she acted just as insane as the thoughts that indeed run through his head are.
Her results were clear. Coriolanus is a certified maniac.
Intrigued, Clemensia leans back in her chair. "Now, why would you say a thing like that?"
Based on the smile that curls on her wife's lips, Lysistrata can tell that she harbors the same opinion of the Head Gamemaker but has been too afraid to express it. She'd be surprised if it didn't hold true that there's rarely been a time where she and Clemensia disagree.
"You may have noticed that I wasn't exactly on my best behavior tonight," Lysistrata says with a playful laugh.
Clemensia sighs, taking a sip of her red wine in an ornate crystal glass. She jests, "You? Acting out? I didn't notice that at all."
Lysistrata furrows her brows and grits her teeth. "Do you want to hear my explanation or not?"
"Okay, fine, yes, I did notice. What the actual fuck were you on?" her wife replies.
"Well. simply put," Lysistrata begins to explain. "I was curious what our good friend Corey-anus Snow would do if confronted by somebody who matches his own energy."
"So you were acting deranged because you wanted Coryo to follow suit?" Clemensia squints, still confused. "I don't understand still. I'm sorry."
"I just wanted to see how angry and abstruse he could get!" Lysistrata elaborates. "I think it worked too. Do you remember the joke he tried to make about Lucifer Deathrage? I don't remember it being very funny."
"Okay, yes." Clemensia finally seems to understand. "He was definitely a bit out of it tonight."
Lysistrata rolls her eyes. "I'm shocked you didn't realize that when he called the boy from Eight a bootybiter."
"Yeah, okay, what the fuck was that about?" Clemensia sets down her glass of wine and further reclines in her chair. She whispers, "Does he really think that's all we are?"
"It's like a gay man thing we don't know about." Lysistrata snickers. "Maybe they just bite each other's asscheeks for sport or something. At least lesbians have dignity—"
"So you're the homophobe now?" Clemensia cuts her off, a heinous laugh escaping her lips. "I think I'd prefer if he just called Eight an actual slur."
"I bet it'd sound really funny coming from his mouth, too," Lysistrata adds, taking a seat on the ground and tilting her head upwards. "I don't know if he'd even know how to pronounce it."
"No, no, I bet he mutters it into his pillow at night as practice." Her wife lifts the wine glass off the table and offers it to her. Lysistrata takes a sip while Clemensia continues, "Anyway, the point is. I agree with you. Yes, there's something seriously wrong with him."
Lysistrata pouts. What exactly does it mean for us?
A common trait most Capitolites possess is a severe want for more. Though Lysistrata was born on the sprawling fields now known as District Ten, she shares that desire with everybody else. Perhaps it's because she hasn't seen Ten since she was six, or maybe she's just as selfish as everybody else here. Whatever the answer is, she doesn't particularly care. The point is the role of "Assistant Gamemaker" no longer cuts it. She's sure that she and her wife spend more hours in that office than Coriolanus, too, only to stand in his shadow. Lysistrata would mind less if Coriolanus were actually active in his role, but instead, he takes credit for the work of others.
Noticing her wife's silence, Clemensia asks, "What do you think the point of his engagement to Livia is anyway?"
Honestly, Lysistrata's never thought much of it. Did it seem out of the blue when Coriolanus randomly announced his engagement two months ago? Certainly. But, he's always kept his personal life under lock and key, and even though he hasn't mentioned Livia's name in years, Lysistrata assumed they were getting married for the typical reason. "Because they're in love just like we are?"
"You think we're in love? That's the first time I'm hearing this," Clemensia intones, hardly able to hold back her giggles. "But seriously, you can't actually think there's any love between those two."
"I don't," Lysistrata admits. "But I don't know why else they'd get engaged?"
Clemensia pauses for a moment, hoping Lysistrata will figure out what she's thinking. When it's clear that she hasn't, Clemensia smirks and says, "For opportunity, obviously."
Why the hell did I not think of that? Lysistrata's jaw goes slack. Maybe marriage has made her a smidge too idealistic. In a place like the Capitol, it makes perfect sense that those privileged enough would opt to share their wealth through legal union instead of marrying out of love. Even if it's just another reason why Lysistrata is an outcast here, she's glad she got married to the love of her life, and that success followed them soon after that.
"That makes sense," Lysistrata tells her wife. "It does, however, beg the question of what Coriolanus wants. It's got to be something he wants pretty bad if he's marrying a ditz like Livia to get it."
"Please," Clemensia scolds her. "I thought we left making fun of Livia in high school."
"Well, that was before she got engaged to Coriolanus Snow," Lysistrata insists. "I'm starting to think everything we said about her was true, you know."
"Fair, but you're getting off-topic." As usual, her wife is right. Still, it's not Lysistrata's fault she finds it so terribly hard to focus, especially during serious conversations. It seems she'll always be a kid at heart. "I was going to say that I think Coriolanus is aiming for the presidency."
Lysistrata's eyes widen. She slaps her own thigh because it just makes too much sense, and she's frustrated with herself for not thinking of that first. Truthfully, she isn't sure how she feels about a Snow presidency either. It'd mean that he's no longer stepping on their toes in the Gamemaking office, yes, but he'd still be in charge of them overall.
"Ravenstill's not—" Lysistrata catches herself about to say something idiotic and pauses. "He's not dead yet. But when he does die, it'd make sense for him to have arm candy to sway people into voting him for president."
Clemensia nods. "I knew there was something in that brain of yours."
"If you mean besides mutt designs, certainly." At times, work gets the best of her. She's never been the most rigid of perfectionists, but Lysistrata still wants her mutts to be on par with the arenas her wife so expertly creates. She wants each year's Games to tell a story and for the arena and mutts to create something united. Since looking at the Tributes earlier, Lysistrata's brain has been spinning with ways to make these Games even more cohesive.
"You realize that if Coryo's the president, you'd be even more stuck with me," Lysistrata teases. "I'd quit the snark while I'm ahead."
"But why?" Clemensia pleads. "You're so fun to pick on."
"I know, and so are you," Lysistrata laughs, then waits a minute."What do you think we should do about Coriolanus, though. Personally, I think we should encourage his presidential escapades because then, well, the Games would be all ours."
"What do you mean ours?" Clemensia stammers. "You never asked me if I wanted to run the Games with you."
"I didn't realize I had to." Lysistrata presses her left knee to the ground and lunges forwards. "Oh, Clemensia Dovecote, will you make me the happiest woman alive and be my Co-Head Gamemaker?"
"You can't be serious!" Clemensia puts her hand to her mouth, pretending she's surprised. "Why, I'd be honored."
Lysistrata rises to her feet and pulls her wife up with her. She takes Clemensia's hands in her own and presses her ear to her heart. For a split second, the rest of the world fades away. It's just them, two schoolmates whose stolen glances turned into so much more. Nothing else matters to Lysistrata except the woman whose arms she's found a home in.
It's only a second, though. Because soon, as the two of them sway, tipsy in their living room, Lysistrata can't help but wonder what their next steps should be.
From the day she was born, she's considered herself a dreamer. Now, she's afraid of what'll happen if she suddenly wakes up.
Chinese Satellite - Phoebe Bridgers
Look, I don't know what the fuck happened. Maybe I missed my silly goofy gay girls too much; is that such a crime?
I realize a lot of this was nonsense, but I also do not care. Also, if you squint really closely, there is actually a whole bunch of content here that is relevant to the plot. So yeah, fuck you all, I am actually so valid. If you read all of this wholesome gay bullshit having also read Domestic Tranquility and are now mad at me, it's okay. I'm mad at myself too. Point is, I missed them and I had fun being silly and goofy and camp.
Thank you RB for murdering my ass with her recent chapter and then hopping over to beta this bullshit. Go read Gilded Cage if you haven't; that shit slaps so hard.
Happy 4th of July, by the way. Remember, America is racist and was founded on stolen land. I'm only mentioning the date because it's also the day this chapter takes place, and the day I posted the original We The People bloodbath two years ago. Yeah, I was speedy as shit back then. Too bad everything I wrote lowkey sucked. But, that is why we are here now, isn't it?
That brings us to this week's question, what's your least favorite thing about America besides the fact I live here?
Another thing I want to point out is that with this chapter, I've hit one million words published on . I know like it's probably not exactly a million because of ANs and it always boosting word counts, but I have 300k words of Tribute forms + a decent stockpile here as padding so I don't give a fuck. I really can't believe I've written so many words in so little time but I'm grateful for each and every one of them since they allowed me to become the writer that I am today. I'd say here's to the next million, but honestly please just shoot me if I get to two million words of Hunger Games fan fiction without writing a real book. I hope I don't screenshot this and call myself a clown in like two years.
Alternative weekly question: What's your favorite thing I've written? I have no idea what I think; please tell me!
Next week we're linking back up with our Tributes again because it's time for the parade. It won't be boring because I refuse to do the whole "describe everybody's outfit" thing again. Three times was enough. There are also some… let's just say tricks up Coriolanus' sleeve to ensure the Tributes are on their best behavior. I hope that has left you significantly afraid, as that was the goal.
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds