XII. Conflicting Sentiments
Nobody move, nobody gets hurt
But where's the fun in that
Survival of the worst
It's the Apex Predator
Edric Grendel. 18.
District Six Male.
He's beginning to think there's something off about Moxie. Now, that's not exactly an incredibly astute thought for Edric; anybody who can easily talk to people has always been off-putting to him. Maybe Moxie's natural charisma is something everybody's supposed to have, but Edric could never relate. Not that this is shocking, but when you only really talk to your parents and people who are either mad at them or indebted to them, you don't really gain social skills.
So maybe Moxie's not suspicious; perhaps she's just overwhelming. Edric sighs; it's not like there's much he can do about it now. She probably thinks very little of him, despite his efforts to cling to her. Even if he's been alone his whole life, that was in Six. In the arena, Edric isn't sure it'd be best to be on his lonesome. Edric has always done his best to be approachable, but that's hard. Again, he has very little experience with people. But he doesn't need Moxie now, because he has the others. Surely there's somebody else out there who'd be willing to keep Edric company until they both meet their ends.
(He's afraid of what he'd do if he were alone. Back in Six, he always got into the most trouble when he was alone with his parents' customers. When he didn't have anybody—not even Car—to hold him back Edric's fury tended to get the best of him despite his every effort to control himself. After all, every person in his life has seen him as nothing but a scrap of paper to be crumpled up and thrown in the garbage. Is he just not supposed to be upset about that?)
(But he doesn't have to be alone here. If everybody in this room is hated the same way he is, maybe they'll be more willing to view Edric as enough for them.)
"Are you coming with me or not?" Moxie ushers him through the Training Center doors with a scoff. "Today's our last day of training, you know. We've got to make the most of it."
We. Edric chuckles to himself. No, he needs to make the most of today. Moxie's going to be okay if she doesn't do anything today. She already has people willing to serve her. Hell, has she even seen how Ripley's eyes sparkle when she looks in their direction? Today Edric needs to prioritize himself, not her.
"Sorry," Edric replies. "I'm just a bit tired this morning because I forgot to drink coffee."
That's a lie. Really, Edric feels as great as he can in a place like this. But she doesn't have to know that.
(A part of him feels guilty for acting deceitful towards Moxie the same way his parents were towards the people of Six. Edric can't let that part get the best of him if he wants to get out of this mess.)
"There's not going to be coffee in the arena, you know," Moxie tells him. It's odd, because she's always been more caustic with Edric than with their other allies. Maybe it's because she knows what Edric knows, that he's useless—
No! Edric can't tell himself that. Negative self-talk isn't going to get him anywhere. He should know that by now.
He tells Moxie, "I know there won't be. It doesn't mean I can't take advantage of the coffee here, though, or rather not take advantage of it this morning."
She giggles slightly. It makes Edric wonder if what he said was funny. Usually, people laugh at him, not with him, but he doesn't think his previous statement was embarrassing enough to be laughed at. So Edric decides she must be laughing with him then. He laughs too, but not too loudly. There's no need for him to milk it.
The two of them take a few steps towards the center of the room. Moxie leans over, taps Edric on the shoulder, and asks him, "What do you think of Asherah, Dasani, and Elio? I know we should've talked about it yesterday, but it slipped my mind."
Somehow, Edric doubts that's true. He sees no reason for Moxie to seriously ask him his opinion about something, especially when she never asked him about Ripley. If she did, Edric would have said that he's actually quite fond of the Five girl. In their brief conversations, they've mentioned being here because of her mothers' actions, and well, that rings a bell for Edric. He tried to explain why he was voted in to Ripley yesterday, but his words came out all mushy, so he ran towards a weapons station instead. None of that matters, though, because Moxie doesn't care what Edric thinks of Ripley. She's already made up her mind that they're useful based on her medicinal experience, and honestly, that makes a decent bit of sense. Unlike Ripley, Edric doesn't have much about him that can be useful aside from the fact he's large enough that people can hide behind him in dangerous situations. At this point, Edric wouldn't let any of them hide behind him.
"They're alright," Edric says in response to Moxie's question. "I especially like Dasani. He seems like he's capable of a lot."
Edric also thinks that Dasani's much like Moxie and overwhelming. The Four boy's a ticking timebomb; Edric's sure of it. He doesn't want to be in their way when they finally explode. Anybody else, though? He wouldn't mind if they're Dasani's collateral. Maybe if Edric draws Moxie to him, he'll be able to make a getaway.
Elio, too, is a lot to handle, but differently. While Dasani's overcast with darkness and cynicism, Elio's unbelievably unrealistic. At times, Edric has wondered whether or not the Ten boy is even aware that they'll soon be entering a death match together. If he does, well, he certainly doesn't care. Edric wishes he was naive enough to value Elio's optimism, but instead, he finds it to be a waste of time.
And then there's Asherah. Edric can tell that the Seven girl has some degree of pragmatism to her, but he isn't sure if it's out of caution or with the intent to cause harm. She's comfortable talking to Moxie without making a joke of her like Elio or being slightly afraid like Dasani. Edric assumes that he comes off as comfortable with his District partner on the outside, which has led him to wonder if maybe Asherah's the same.
"What do you mean, capable of a lot?" Dasani springs up at Moxie and Edric's sides as if on cue. That just confirms Edric's theory that Moxie had ulterior motives when asking him what he thought of the others. She was probably hoping that Edric would say something rude about them because she knew that Dasani was quickly approaching them, and he seems like quite the loudmouth and gossip.
Edric stammers, "I just think that you're really strong, that's all. You're a valuable asset for anybody's team, y'know?"
"Am I really?" Dasani asks, clearly unamused. "It's funny of you to say that when just about everybody else in my life has said the exact opposite. What makes you different?"
"Simmer down, Four." Oddly enough, Moxie comes to Edric's rescue, furrowing her brows. "Edric was just trying to be nice to you, weren't you?"
She glares daggers at Edric, prompting him to nod in agreement. Moxie continues, "I'd learn to take a compliment if I were you. Not just now, but in the future too. Anyway, do you know where the others are?"
"I'm right here!" Elio pokes his head out from behind Dasani. "I was playing a game called the quiet game where I see how long I can go being quiet."
"You set a new record, little buddy," Dasani says, extending his hand over his head. Elio leaps up in the air and touches Dasani's hand with his own. "Let's see if you can be quiet for even longer next time."
Just like he always does, Elio smiles, ignorant of the terrors of the world around him.
Yet again, Edric finds himself jealous of the younger boy. Not only is he unfazed by everything that's soon going to happen to them, but he's also managed to make a friend simultaneously. It's a sign, maybe, that Edric has the wrong attitude towards everything happening, and perhaps if he were more enthusiastic, he too would be liked instead of merely tolerated.
"Nice work," Moxie tells Elio, her tone superficial. For once, Edric can't blame her. He too doesn't know how to talk to somebody as overwhelmingly zealous as Ten.
From behind Moxie, Ripley approaches. They tap her shoulder and wait for her to turn around before saying, "G-good morning, Moxie."
Ripley peers over Moxie's head at everybody else in the circle. "Oh! And g-good m-morning to e-everyone else!"
Strangely, she's much more comfortable around Moxie than they are anybody else in the alliance. Edric has noticed Moxie smothering her in compliments, but he didn't think it'd be enough to woo somebody who's usually so quiet and awkward.
"Good morning to you too," Moxie responds. Her voice is far more jubilant than Edric's ever heard, making him again wonder, what exactly is going on in her head. A part of him thinks he'd be scared if he knew, probably because there are undoubtedly a lot of insults for him tucked away in the crevices of her brain.
"That just leaves Asherah then," Edric says in an attempt to be helpful. He fears that if he's too quiet, Moxie will think he's suspicious, so even if she doesn't seem to appreciate his interjections, she doesn't seem wary of them either, and that's a good thing.
"I saw her walking towards the bathroom on my way over to you," Dasani remarks. "I'd assume she'd be here shortly."
A female voice chuckles from behind him. "For the first time in forever, you've assumed correctly."
Dasani steps away to reveal the girl from Seven. As the shortest member of their alliance, Edric often has to tilt his head down when he wants to speak to her, but he doesn't mind.
"Alright, that's everybody!" Moxie announces. "With private sessions happening later today, I was thinking it'd be most productive if we all got a bit of sparring practice under our belts. I know we haven't done much, but it's all okay since that's going to change now. I've got a few pairs planned, and then we'll switch them around in half an hour or so. How does that sound?"
"Sounds great, Moxie," Asherah replies, calm and collected. "Who were you thinking should pair up together?"
It's kind of sad that based on her tone, Asherah thinks she's at the same level of leadership in their alliance as Moxie. This is so clearly the Six girl's domain, even if Asherah wants to act like an equal. Edric thinks that she deserves better.
"I wanted to go off with Elio," Moxie drawls. Edric's not sure why she wants to spar with the weakest member of the alliance other than to be a show-off when she inevitably wins, but he assumes she has her reasons. "And then Ripley and Dasani; y'all are similar heights, so you should go together. That just leaves my District partner and Asherah."
Ripley flounders towards Dasani, and Moxie grabs Elio by the wrist, leaving Edric alone with Asherah.
"Hi there," he murmurs, a little nervous because he's never talked to her and only her before.
Asherah's warm smile immediately makes Edric feel more comfortable. "Good morning! Your name is Merrick, isn't it?"
"It's actually Edric," he quickly corrects her. "I guess you weren't too far off, though." Immediately, Edric regrets saying anything. "But you can call me Merrick if you want."
"I don't," Asherah replies. After a pregnant pause, she speaks again, "So, did you want to practice sparring?"
Edric nods. "Sure thing. I'm not the best at it, but I'll give it my best shot."
"I won't be much competition for you, don't worry," she says. "I've always been more of a lover than a fighter anyway."
Edric wishes he could say the same, but that'd require having an opportunity to be a lover, and he's never had one. Maybe if his life were different, Edric could maintain a phlegmatic temperament, but with his parents being who they are, that was never a possibility.
But, based on the desperation in Asherah's giant doe-eyes, Edric thinks she wants him to say the same. So he does.
"Me too! Though, being a lover isn't going to be much help in the Hunger Games, I imagine."
"Hey, there's no need to worry about that now." Asherah's grin only widens as she leads him towards the sword rack. "Let's just focus on the now while we still can."
"Sounds good to me, friend," Edric mumbles, but she's already so far ahead of him that she can't hear. For once, though, Edric Grendel has hope that somebody will listen to him soon.
Olathe Whitethorn. 18.
District Seven Male.
He's surrounded by fucking idiots.
Not that Olathe anticipated much better from a collection of the twenty-four most hated children in Panem, but still. These imbeciles somehow weren't able to meet his expectations, which were so low they were basically in hell. Or maybe he shouldn't say hell; they'd probably take that as a compliment because, great fucking heavens, there is something seriously wrong with Lucifer Deathrage and Aleister Darski's brains. Stars, they nearly make Seven's Peacekeeper force look like a bunch of geniuses.
Luckily, or rather, unluckily for them, Olathe has a purpose for them. He spent his first day of training looking for somebody, anybody moldable enough to become his bitch. As the Tributes began pairing off, Olathe was nearly worried he'd missed his chance. He wasn't expecting the Nine boy to be stupid enough to approach Olathe on his own. Sure, he wasn't Olathe's first choice for a servant (he'd prefer to spend his time with somebody who doesn't have hair that resembles a possum's tail, thank you very much), but he's good enough.
It doesn't hurt either that Aleister comes in a package with a kid even more delusional than he is. Just, lord, the way Lucy acted like he was a fucking genius when he declared himself the son of the Devil. It took every last muscle in Olathe's body not to laugh at the lunatic. Still, Lucy's helpful. Aleister's clearly attached to the kid, which means he'll be an excellent bargaining tool. Yes, yes, Olathe's cognizant of the fact the Nine boy's totally smitten with him, but if he can go a decent bit of time without swapping saliva with the rat, he sure as fuck isn't complaining.
"Lucifer Deathrage, please report to the easternmost room of the gymnasium for your private session!"
A loud voice booms through the Training Center's speakers. Earlier in the morning, Olathe's mentor told him they'd be pulling kids out of training one by one in reverse District order so that everyone would get a chance to demonstrate what they've "learned" during training. That's in quotations because though Olathe meandered around various stations, he didn't learn shit. He didn't need to either. With twenty-six kills under his belt and six years of experience surviving on his own, nothing Olathe could learn in three days would be of much help to him. Instead, he set his eyes on selecting his prey, and just as he always does, he succeeded.
"Oh boy, oh boy!" The Twelve boy shrieks once the disembodied voice goes silent. "That's me. I'm first!"
"Good luck, my holy scion," Aleister kneels to the ground and waves his hands towards Lucy. His eyes dart to Olathe like he's expecting him to do the same.
Right. Olathe sighs. When the youngster called him a "succubus" or whatever the fuck, Olathe decided it'd be best if he played along. It was a good choice, too, because now little Lucy's convinced that his devilish father sent Olathe into the Games to protect him or some shit, which is funny because he intends to do the exact opposite.
Aleister's gaze lingers longer, making Olathe realize what he, unfortunately, has to do. He kneels just like the Nine boy did and gestures toward Lucy like an eloquent showman. Mother, father, if you're watching me, I promise I'm not making a fool of myself on purpose. Please still be proud of me.
(As if his parents would be proud of him after all he's done. Tayen and Nodin, pacifists. When they told their son to get revenge, they didn't mean with a trail of twenty-six corpses behind him. Though Olathe refuses to admit it, his dearest parents probably think he's worse than the tyrant who maimed them.)
"Get up off the ground, boys," Lucy says with a sinister laugh. "There's no need for you to bow down like you're fucking obsessed with me!"
"Noted, dark one," Aleister apologizes, his tone somber as he rises to his feet. "We'll do better in the future."
"That we will," Olathe echoes, hoping he won't accidentally laugh at himself.
"Thank fuck!" The Twelve boy enthuses. "You should've seen how stupid you look."
Trust, Olathe's well aware of how ridiculous he looked bowing down to a pre-teen. It is funny, though, how presumptuous Aleister is of the kid's desires. Olathe makes a mental note to himself, Figure out what Lucy wants and just how far Aleister is willing to go for him. He tucks it away for later.
"Alright, alright," Lucy continues, spinning around on his left heel. "Off I go! Promise me you won't miss me too much, okay?"
Before he can get too far, Hollister Crowe, the Head Trainer, stops Lucy in his tracks. The boy screams, "If you're going to tell me to go to my private session, I'm on my way, so don't be a dick about it."
"That wasn't my intention," Hollister responds to Twelve. "I just wanted to develop certainty that you know where you're going."
"I do, but thanks for the gesture." Based on his tone, Olathe gets the feeling Lucy isn't actually thankful. For once, he can't blame the boy. Hollister's just as irksome as most of the other Tributes, with his pretentious vocabulary and ridiculous self-importance.
Once Lucy's out of Olathe's sight, he sits next to Aleister on one of the Training Center's metal benches meant for taking breaks. Immediately, he can feel the Nine boy's goosebumps brushing up against his arms. Sure that Aleister's not looking at him, Olathe rolls his eyes. Wow, he really is one of the most pathetic people I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. This whole thing almost seems too easy. There's got to be a catch to all of this, but until Olathe discovers it, he'll keep pushing on like everything's normal.
"So, Aleister," he begins, his eyes narrowing on the Nine boy's lips. Though Olathe won't dare kiss them, making Aleister think he's interested is an important first step. "We haven't gotten the chance to talk, just me and you, isn't that right? How did that happen, exactly?"
"What do you mean?" The other boy nervously twitches in his seat, his cheeks already tinted a rosy shade of pink. "I made a promise to Lucy's father the same way you did. That I'd protect him no matter what it takes, so excuse me if I'm prioritizing the person we're supposed to be watching over. To be completely honest, I assumed you'd have the same goals."
"I do, I do. Trust me," Olathe drawls, his tone low and husky. He raises his lips to expose his teeth, then allows his tongue to brush against their surface ever so slightly. "I just have been thinking. If the Devil has given us both the same purpose, protecting young Lucy, it'd make a whole lot of sense if we had some sort of strategy to ensure he's safe. We need to be a united front for him, don't you agree?"
Aleister's eyes widen with infatuation. It's an expression Olathe's terribly familiar with, one that he knows only belongs to those who are moments away from giving into his ardor. Again, though, the Nine boy's just going to have to wait. Unlike with the Peacekeepers back in the Hissing Woods, Olathe has to play the long game here. If he gives Olathe what he desires on the second day of them knowing one another, it'll be a lot harder for Olathe to get him to do his bidding later when it matters.
"I suppose you make a good point," the Nine boy responds. "Though I will say, it's hard for me to create something with somebody I hardly know."
"So, are you saying you'd like to get to know me better?" Olathe prompts. He creeps his right hand on the bench ever so closer to Aleister's, but not enough that the other boy can easily reach out and touch him.
Aleister nods. "I'd like to, yes. Would you be willing?"
"Only if you're willing to let me know you," Olathe replies with a slight wink. Before the Nine boy can jump in and ask the first question, he begins himself. "So, what was life like in Nine, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I don't mind at all," Aleister assures him. His left hand seems to get the hint from Olathe's right and begins to crawl. "Nine was honestly abysmal. My parents were a bunch of bootlickers who went on and on about how there's this god in the sky who's going to save us, but I never bought it. They truly sounded insane, you know. I just wanted to be understood and—"
"That's when the Devil helped you?" Olathe assumes out loud, using context clues. "I was the same way, funny enough. When my parents died, I was just looking for an explanation of the world that made sense, and worshipping the Devil seemed to be my best option. If the world truly is an awful place to exist in, it's nice to have somebody to believe in as opposed to the views of pathetic optimists."
He's totally talking out of his ass but based on the stars in Aleister's eyes, Olathe's doing an incredible job. He continues to ask, "Does that make sense, or am I just making a bunch of silly assumptions that we have similar experiences."
"Oh, no," the Nine boy replies, his voice soft as if he's in a trance. "You're saying everything exactly right. I just— how do you understand exactly what I feel?"
"No idea," Olathe says with a shrug. "I guess I just saw something in you. And then, when you told me that you also worship the Devil, I knew we'd have a lot in common. So while yes, some of that was a total crapshoot, I had a feeling I'd be right."
"You were." Aleister cranes his neck and nods his head. Olathe bites down on his bottom lip and licks his top one. "Did you also have the experience in Seven where nobody liked you because you were preaching the truth? Because that was one of the hardest things in Nine."
"Of course I did," Olathe feigns enthusiasm. "These Peacekeepers were always on my ass, saying that my beliefs were a whole bunch of bullshit, so I had to, I guess, show them the truth… with a knife."
"Oh wow," the Nine boy gasps and smiles. He directs his eyes to Olathe's lips and purses his own. Olathe has a good feeling he knows where this is going, and oh, is it going to be fun for him. "I wish I was strong enough to fight my oppressors head on. I usually let my matches do the talking for me."
"Well, that's nothing to be embarrassed about," Olathe replies. He notices Aleister's cheeks deepening to an even brighter shade of red and lets his hand brush against his forearm. His touch lingers, but not for too long. "You're probably more efficient like that. I respect it."
"T-thank you," Aleister stammers. He reaches out to touch Olathe's arm himself, but Olathe swiftly inches away. "I bet k-killing with knives is more fun, though."
Olathe leans close to him. He brushes the Nine boy's blonde ponytail in front of his shoulder and grabs a fistful of his hair. He whispers, "But I'm sure the flesh of the nonbelievers smells so lovely."
Again, Aleister tries to get closer, and again Olathe pulls away. The Nine boy smirks, seeming to enjoy Olathe's game, as if he actually knows what it is. "It smelt gross at first, actually. But let's just say… the scent really grows on you."
"Is that so?" Olathe raises his brow in intrigue. Really, he doesn't care, but anything to get Aleister even more worked up than he already is. He wraps his arm around the Nine boy's arm and croons, "Care to tell me more about it?"
He brushes his nose against Aleister's cupid's bow, then uses his chin to lift the Nine boy's. Their lips hang heavy less than an inch apart as Aleister grabs onto Olathe's wrist. He closes his eyes and begins to move in on him when—
"Hey!" Olathe screeches. He drops Alesiter's back and tears himself away from him, leaving the Nine boy hunched over on himself. "What the hell was that for? What were you trying to do to me?"
"Oh, I just thought…" Aleister stammers. His expression is one of sheer embarrassment, and oh, how Olathe fucking lives for it. "I thought that you were trying to—"
"Kiss you?" Olathe cuts him off. "Now, why would I do that? I'm here to protect Lucy, not to find love. Maybe you should reevaluate your priorities, because I thought you wanted to protect him too."
"I'm sorry," the Nine boy blurts out. "It's just… You were so close to me… And I thought… Never mind. I'm being ridiculous. I was probably seeing things because you're a succubus. I'm sorry. I should have known better. I should have known that you can't control how people perceive you."
"Yeah, it's because I'm a succubus," Olathe agrees, somewhat impressed that this fool has managed to gaslight himself, and he didn't even have to say a word. "I don't know what you were seeing, Aleister, but I promise, you're just an ally to me. Nothing more and nothing less, okay?"
"Okay…" Aleister cautiously nods. He pauses for a minute to think, but his face quickly morphs to one of terror. "Oh my lord. You're not going to tell Lucy about this, right? I don't want him to think that there's drama between us. I don't want him to be mad at me and think I'm not dedicated and that—"
"Of course not," Olathe soothes him, letting his hand graze against his. "This'll be our little secret. And it won't happen again, right?"
"Right," Aleister says with a sigh. "I'm sorry again. I really, truly, am."
The more he apologizes, the harder Olathe has to mask his smile. Poor, pathetic Aleister Darski doesn't know how down bad he is. He doesn't know how easily he's fallen into Olathe's trap and that a heavy chain now hangs around his neck.
He'll learn soon enough, though. But not before he serves his purpose.
Thana Achillea. 17.
District Eleven Female.
She doesn't really care that she left the Capitol's most valuable equipment nothing more than a pewter-colored pile of ash.
Head Gamemaker Snow had told Thana, colloquially speaking, to "show him what she's good at." Maybe she was wrong, but she assumed the man knew why she was voted into the Quell. Really, Snow should have expected that the girl sent to die for playing with fire would do the same thing for her private session. He also should have considered investing in gadgetry that was less flammable, considering Thana can't be the only one in this group of twenty-four that's set something ablaze in her past. Between arsonists and rebels, the room was destined to become a smog-ridden haze eventually.
"Your private session is now over," Snow shouts at her through the safety of his double-paned glass windows. "You're dismissed!"
Thana, still standing above her heap of cinder dust, merely shrugs. She tilts her head towards the Gamemakers and mutters, "Thank you for having me, I guess."
She didn't think the Gamemaker would particularly enjoy her routine of grabbing weapons and other equipment off the walls, throwing it all in the center of the room, and setting it on fire, but still, Thana's upset it's over. Sure, the flames weren't nearly as sentient as they were back in Eleven, but they were flames nonetheless, and Thana still relished in the warmth of their embrace.
(As a Peacekeeper sprayed them dead with extinguisher, the flares told Thana, "Wₑ'ᵣₑ ₛₒᵣᵣy wₑ cₒᵤₗdₙ'ₜ bₑ ₛₜᵣₒₙgₑᵣ fₒᵣ yₒᵤ."
She smiled back at her pyre and promised, "You'll have more time to rage soon enough.")
A Peacekeeper begins to trek towards Thana, making her sigh. She whispers under her breath, "I'd prefer if we didn't have to do this."
She steps away from her precious charcoal and makes her way toward the room's exit. Blessedly, the officer makes their way back to the corner where he previously was. As Thana stares at him, she can't help but wonder, Does he know Megaera?
Thana certainly hopes not. Everybody would be better off if they didn't have to come in contact with that blusterous martyr. Thana sure wasn't happy to see her when she came back from her night of glorious firestarting. She tried to feign innocence when she first saw Megaera's unamused expression, but the ash on Thana's arms told the real story.
(She couldn't even blame her disheveled state on Sage that time.)
She wraps her fingers around the doorframe's header as she leaves the room, eager to hold onto her blazing paradise for just a moment longer. The heavy sound of boots, presumably from the same Peacekeeper, stomping toward her prompts Thana to take the final step out of the room and shut the door behind her.
Not even thirty seconds later, a husky voice booms from the overhead speakers, "We will now be taking an intermission from private sessions, no longer than an hour in duration, due to unexpected circumstances."
Thana hears an array of curse words from the center of the room. She assumes they're from her District partner, Xan, since his session was meant to succeed hers. Even if he weren't a misogynistic nutcase, Thana wouldn't have much pity for him. After all, Xan will have his turn eventually.
"What the fuck did you do in there." Before Thana can find a wall to prop herself up against and relax on, a familiar voice rasps in her ears.
She tilts her head to the side, unsurprised to see Melchior from Five standing beside her. Thana rolls her eyes at them and replies, "What's it matter to you?"
"No need for the attitude," Melchior derides her. "I just wanted to know what the hell you did to cause the Gamemakers to take a break."
"Maybe it's not because of me," Thana counters. "Maybe they're just tired."
Melchior laughs the same unsettling snicker that seems to always leave their lips. "You're fucking hilarious, Thana. Did you know that?"
"I wasn't trying to be," she says.
Even though this is now Thana's third consecutive day in the company of Melchior Kolmogorov, she doesn't know what she's supposed to make of them. Sure, the two of them have had a great bit of fun together, hovering around the fire-starting station until a Peacekeeper forced them to leave, and tinkering with wires to see if they could make something explode. Still, Thana worries their joy (if she can even call it that) is quickly fleeting. In just two days, they'll both be thrust into the arena. While Melchior doesn't seem even close to worried about the Games, the arena is all too potent in Thana's mind.
With every passing hour, something alerts Thana that her reckoning is near. She's reminded of that when she stares into Melchior's eyes from the right angle, she can see her own reflection in their soul. Soon enough, a time will come where they'll be forced to leave her just like everybody else has.
(At first, the thought of being abandoned by Melchior was a relief to her, as she found the other Tribute's exuberance exhausting. Now, Thana's not sure she'd be better off if they left her side.)
"You never try to be funny," Melchior reminds her as if she didn't know. "You just are."
"You're funny too." Thana knows by now that's what Melchior wants to hear. If they didn't, they wouldn't be trying to crack jokes about virtually everything around them. "That is… funny looking."
Even if that could be interpreted as an insult, Thana doesn't mean it as one. It's objectively hilarious that he's covered in purple bruises and peachy lines that resemble lightning and has the same haircut (or lack thereof) as an orc.
"You realize I'm going to take that as a compliment, don't you?" Melchior teases. They lean against the wall and hold their hand to their head. "You also realize I'm not going to shut up until you tell me what you did in there?"
Oh, Thana's well aware. It's not that she doesn't want to tell them either. It's just amusing to edge them like this. That, and the rational part of Thana's brain says she shouldn't tell Melchior about her blazes of glory and the actions that followed.
Because if Thana does tell them, she's letting her guard down even lower. Ever since the incident with Sage, Thana swore she'd never open herself up to another human being (or whatever the hell Melchior is, because she's still not sure they're fully human). The more pieces of her identity Thana lets flicker off her skin like embers from a campfire, the closer she gets to being entirely snuffed out. Even if Thana doesn't currently see Melchior as a threat, they could easily be hiding under a deceitful mask. After all, she didn't think Sage was the type of person to leave her alone in a burning forest, hardly able to fend for herself.
"Believe me, I know," Thana says, licking her lips. "But what I don't know is why, exactly, you care."
(That's a double entendre. Yes, Thana doesn't understand why what she did during her private session is any of Melchior's business, but her confusion goes deeper than that. She can't comprehend why in the world they'd stick by her side for three days even though all she's done is push them away.)
(Thana's always considered herself a challenge. She knows she isn't for the faint of heart, but quite frankly, Thana doesn't want to deal with people who aren't willing to put effort into becoming a part of her life. If she locks her heart behind metal bars and cold stares, the people who dare enter her world are more likely to actually give a fuck.
Or, logically, they should. Thana let her guard down for Megaera and Sage, but she's somehow even more broken than she was before. Every day is just more proof that she shouldn't get close to anybody ever again.)
She recognizes the look on Melchior's face. It's the same one Sage had before she swore that she had a profound appreciation for Thana and hoped they'd be friends until the end of their days. The Tribute from Five mumbles, "Because I care about—"
Before they can continue, Melchior seals their lips, cheeks puffing up and face turning red. As they exhale, they stammer, "I just don't want to copy you, that's all."
Thana knows that's not what Melchior wanted to say, but she also doesn't want to hear what they meant. If it's anything that vaguely resembles admiration, Thana wouldn't know what to do with herself. Even if she craves it with each and every breath, her heart's too feeble to process affection.
And so, Thana ignores their spoof and assures him, "They definitely won't let you do what I did, so you have nothing to worry about."
"Can't you just give me a little hint?" Melchior pleads. "I think it's sort of what I deserve after I let you have a taste of my super serum this morning."
The sour liquid Melchior concocted from lemons, salt, and ethanol nearly made Thana puke, but she didn't have it in her to say so after seeing how proud they seemed of their creation.
"It involved fire," Thana concedes, knowing that she's being vague enough Melchior won't be able to do much with the information.
As expected, their brows furrow. "Yeah, no shit! I kind of assumed that. In case you haven't noticed, you're a bit fucking obsessed with fire, even if you refuse to tell me why."
"Well, clearly, you don't mind," she retaliates. Melchior's tone is harsh, but Thana can't tell if they're actually angry with her. She's never been the best at understanding how people feel. "If you did, you would've left me by now. If you hate the fact I'm exercising my right to privacy, maybe it'd be better if you did just go."
Her words taste more bitter than Melchior's serum as they fall off her tongue. As her voice scratches against the back of her throat, Thana knows she's saying something she'll immediately regret. By the time she shuts her mouth, she already does.
She stands and waits for Melchior to run away from her. That's what they should've done on the first day of training, if they knew what was good for them. Yet, for some fucking reason, they clearly did not. She taps her foot against the ground, a loud clapping noise bouncing off the walls, yet Melchior stays exactly where they are.
"Did you not hear me," Thana whispers. "I said it's okay if you just go."
"Y'know, Thana, there's a difference between hearing and listening," Melchior remarks, their voice just as cheery as it always is. "You've told me to leave you alone like twenty times in the past three days, but I know you don't actually want me to."
They're right, dammit.
"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable with my question about your private session, but I was just curious, that's all. I promise, my intentions aren't vicious." Melchior says. It's the most serious Thana's heard them. With a smile, they add, "Do you really think I'd give my super serum to an enemy?"
"It kind of tasted like a morbid crossover between lemonade and tears, so maybe?" Thana answers seriously.
Pretending to be offended, Melchior gasps. "Super serum is an acquired taste. I can only pray that your palate is as refined as mine one day."
I can only hope that I have enough days left to have a palate as "refined" as yours, Thana muses, not wanting to ruin the mood with the undeniable truth.
"But hey," Melchior inches closer to Thana and whispers. "Just because I'm an open book doesn't mean you have to be one too. You're allowed to take things at your own pace; we have all the time in the world."
"Except we don't," she reminds him. "The Games are in forty-eight hours."
"And?" They don't seem to see the problem. "That's more than twenty-four hours, which is more than twelve hours, which is more than— Ah, you get the point."
"Not really, but I'll pretend I do," Thana concludes, not wanting to start an argument within an argument within an argument. "I'm sorry that my head isn't in the clouds like yours. Trust me, I wish my eyes were covered by smog too."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Melchior raises a brow. "Just because I'm stuck in the clouds doesn't mean I don't see the storms. I'm a lot less dumb than you probably think I am, Thana."
"I don't think you're dumb," she says. "Dumb people don't memorize a myriad of facts about noxious gasses for fun. I guess I'm just… jealous of your optimism in all of this."
"That's fair enough." They shrug their shoulders sheepishly. "But, I'll have you know, you don't have to wait for a storm to pass to have a little dance in the rain. Sure, we're here because Five and Eleven think we're bad people or whatever, but we're still allowed to make the most of our time here."
Melchior stares at Thana, waiting for some sort of a response. But she doesn't know what she's supposed to say. Instead, she looks at them a moment longer before tucking her chin into her neck and mumbling, "I set a bunch of the equipment on fire."
"You what?" Melchior shrieks, ignoring Thana's preference for a more quiet conversation. "That's fucking awesome, holy fuck!"
"Thank you?" Thana replies. "The Gamemakers were much less enthused, as you can imagine."
"Who gives a fuck?" The Tribute from Five exclaims. "Good lord, Thana, you're a fucking madwoman. It's incredible."
"That means a lot coming from you," Thana admits.
Melchior nods their head like a nervous puppy. "I mean it; I really do. Dude, you have got to be one of the coolest people I've ever met."
And just like that, in spite of herself and everything she's learned, the iron bars that guard Thana Achillea's heart begin to melt.
Belacaine Beaufort. 18.
District Two Female.
So, here's a fun fact. Weapons that you've never used, much less heard of before two days ago, are probably niche for a reason. And that reason? Because they're really fucking tricky to use.
Belacaine learned that fact approximately thirty seconds ago when she finished her private session and was met with unamused stares. On the first day of training, she picked up the meteor hammer because she thought it seemed neat. While yes, it was, in fact, neat, and Belacaine did, in fact, enjoy throwing metal balls connected in chains in the air, it was not effective in the slightest. She thought it might be fun to woman-handle balls, something she was never able to do to the brutish boys back in Two because she was too busy dating women. But it was less fun and more fucking embarrassing.
Still, though, Belacaine struts out of the private session room with her head held high, acting like she did not in fact just fuck the fuck up in front of some of the most important people in Panem. Besides, she never even liked them that much anyway. Coriolanus Snow looks like a baby that's been run over by a train and his lesbo assistants give off huge "probably drinks the blood of babies they keep hostage in a pizzeria basement" energy. Maybe if the three of them drank Beaufort Brand Ultra-Strength Serum, they'd have some cells swimming around in their brains— wait, that shit's just as fake as they are.
Recognizing her confidence, Lorian rushes over to her and asks, "Well, how did it go?"
Now, this leaves her at an interesting pathway. She could either lie and say that she did a fucking phenomenal job, or she could just tell him the truth. If Belacaine does lie, it won't be for long, is the issue, because tonight's broadcast will tell the truth. Or it will allow her to lie again. She could say that the reason she scored as undoubtedly low as she did is because Snow was upset drinking Beaufort Brand Ultra-Strength Serum didn't allow him to finally get it up for the first time. Actually, Lorian would probably hate her for making a dick joke. Ah, she'll think of something.
"It went great, actually!" She gushes, kicking back her left leg. "I don't know why I was so worried, to be honest. It was really chill, and I'm just overall really happy."
"Glad to hear, glad to hear." Belacaine can sense the nervous energy radiating off of Lorian, even if he's trying his best to sound genuine. He lowers his voice and whispers, "Hey, do you think we could have a little talk before they call me in?"
"Of course," she answers. If a few days ago, Lorian told her that they needed to talk, Belacaine would have been scared shitless. But now—now she thinks that Lorian's established some degree of trust in her. She isn't sure why the hell he trusts her, but she's not going to question it. For now, she thinks it's fun to have a little angry-faced bitch boy address their alliance as if he actually knows what he's doing.
Really, it's Belacaine who's pulling all the strings. Or at least, she thinks that she's pulling them. As an incredibly suspicious person herself, Belacaine knows a suspicious person when she sees one. She's not sure what on earth it is about the pair from One, but good lord, there is something wrong there. There's no way that somebody could naturally have as much energy as Sapphira, and Gremory's like a more boring version of Lorian. Belacaine knows they're both hiding some dark shit; they've just got to be.
Clarion is just as good of a meat shield as Belacaine said he'd be, so submissive while simultaneously thinking he knows shit, and while maybe he does, he shouldn't be too easy to kill. Charon though? Oh, it's so incredibly obvious that that motherfucker has somehow been going to an Academy and training. Belacaine never thought that Eight was a Career District, but she also doesn't know much about District Eight other than it comes after District Seven and produces textiles, whatever the fuck that means. Maybe they also produced trained murderers. It's anybody's guess, really.
Belacaine has the least opinions on the newest addition to their alliance, Talisa Azores from District Four. She seems decent enough, almost too decent, and she approached Lorian herself this morning, as opposed to the other members of their alliance who were all dragged in by somebody.
"I think that we're outnumbered," Lorian admits to her. It's not exactly what Belacaine thought he'd say, but eh, it's close enough. "Or, more specifically, I'm outnumbered. How exactly am I supposed to lead six other people on my own?"
"I personally think you're doing great," Belacaine says. A part of her means it too. Lorian's the sort of guy who puts more pressure on himself than what's worth it, and she nearly pities him for it. "Just keep doing what you're doing now, and I think we'll be just about golden."
"You mean it?" Her District partner asks, his eyes widening.
"I sure do," Belacaine replies with a nod. "While we're here though, I actually wanted to talk to you about something.
She might as well pick now for the time to drop the bombshell that there's something suspicious about just about all of their allies, so the two of them should probably tighten their grasp on all of them. After the private sessions, everybody's going to be bustling about, so now's probably their last chance at alone time together until the day's end.
"Shoot," Lorian intones with a shrug.
Before Belacaine can say anything, the speaker rips through her words, "Lorian Naciri, please report to the easternmost room of the gymnasium for your private session!"
"I guess we'll table it then," he says, slightly disappointed. "I'll see you tonight, huh?"
"Yeah," Belacaine responds. "We'll talk about it tonight."
She wanders off to catch up with the rest of the alliance and see what they're up to, but is hardly able to catch a break before Gremory pops up next to her and asks, "So, what were you and Lorian talking about?"
Was she really being loud enough that people could tell she was talking to Lorian? Probably. She's loud a lot. Ethereality said it was her least favorite thing about Belacaine. Belacaine said that her least favorite thing about Ethereality was how frequently she fucked her twin brother, but that's another story for another time. Maybe Ethereality would tell it herself if she wasn't, y'know, dead. Belacaine once wondered, Is there actually such a thing as dick so good that you're willing to destroy a family for it? She only briefly wondered that, though, because any further thought would require thinking about Ronin's genitals, which is a big no.
"District Two things," Belacaine replies to the One boy coyly. "You wouldn't get it."
"Oh, I'm sure I would," Gremory remarks, completely unfazed by her. "Why don't you tell me more? As allies, we're supposed to tell each other things, are we not?"
Belacaine sighs. "I guess you're right."
Is she going to tell him everything? Hell no, she won't even tell Lorian everything. But is she going to tell him what she thinks of a certain clown? Oh, a hundred percent.
"I'm usually right," she swears she hears Gremory say under his breath. That just goes with her theory that there's something uniquely fucked up about him. That actually gives her all the more reason to tell him about Charon, since he seems really good at destroying people. He did get a pretty large portion of One's votes, and that District is chock-full of people who need to be destroyed.
"Okay. Gremory, what do you think of Charon?" Belacaine asks, her voice far less high-pitched than it usually is when she's around him. "Whatever you say, I'm not going to judge you for it."
That's very much a lie. Belacaine judges everybody for everything. What can she say? It's fun, really.
"They're quite the eccentric," Gremory says, his words carefully placed. That's one thing that Belacaine's noticed about the One boy. Everything he says is so just particular, like he rehearsed it in the mirror the night before. Some people might find that seductive of him—hell, Belacaine does just a tiny bit—but it's way weirder than it is sexy.
"Care to elaborate?" she implores. Belacaine just knows that Gremory's biting his tongue, and there's something exceptionally interesting that he really wants to say. "Because I may be inclined to agree with you."
"I don't understand how they're so good at throwing knives," Gremory remarks suavely. "I know they say they're from a circus, but none of the circuses back in One had knife-throwers, so it's left me a bit confused."
"Oh my goodness," Belacaine shrieks, patting Gremory on the shoulder. He quickly removes her hand from him and proceeds to dust himself off. "You are going to absolutely adore my theory about them!"
"Oh?" Gremory raises a brow. "What do you mean by theory?"
"I think Eight has Academies," Belacaine clarifies. "Or at the very least, it has some sort of training program, and that's where Charon learned all the knife tricks."
The One boy licks his lips. "That's definitely possible. I never considered it myself, but it would make a lot of sense. You're right on that front."
"Then why did you think Eight was off?" She inquires.
"Oh, I just thought they were sort of a weirdo." Gremory chuckles. "Will all respect to her, anyone Sapphira likes, I'm immediately a tad judgmental of. She's an acquired taste, in case you haven't been able to tell by now."
"Believe me, I have," Belacaine says, laughing with him. "Do you think Talisa and Clarion are odd, too, since they seem to get along with her?"
Her eyes trail over to the three of them. Sapphira's has climbed onto Charon's back, and Talisa has done the same with Clarion. The two girls are fighting one another with swords and giggling up a storm. In an odd way, Belacaine's a bit jealous of them. She never got to do all the fun, kiddish things when she was younger. Instead, she did whatever her father wanted from her. She securely rested under his thumb and never wavered, even if that was somewhat out of fear. Belacaine always wondered if being a kid was fun, but being just as repressed as Two's Cadets, in a way, meant that she never got her answer.
"A bit, yes," Gremory admits, his voice hush. "The three of them all seem, well, incredibly fond of her, and I can't help but wonder why. It makes sense that Charon would be drawn to her if he really is the performer he claims to be, but the line of connection are a bit blurrier with the other two. I can tell Clarion's somewhat smitten with Charon, so that makes sense. Maybe Talisa is the same way with Sapphira?"
Belacaine glances over at the Four girl, immediately recognizing the sparkle in her eye when she looks at Sapphira. "I'd say that's likely, yes."
"Glad to hear you agree," the One boy responds. For a moment, he drifts away, looking at the others and thinking something he probably won't ever admit to Belacaine out loud. When he notices that she's still beside him a few minutes later, he rapidly speaks, "So, was that all that you and Lorian were talking about?"
She nods. For his sake, that's all that he needs to know. "It was nice talking to you one-on-one though, Gremory. I wouldn't be upset if you wanted to do it again."
Belacaine glances at the other four and all the fun they seem to be having. She wonders, What would they say if I asked to join? Maybe she's overthinking it, but she's worried she wouldn't be able to play-fight with them since it's a game that seems to be played in pairs, and she doubts Lorian, let alone Gremory, would be willing to carry her.
Before she can make a decision, though, the doors to the private session room swing open. Out runs Lorian, his face red with anger. He glances at the weapons rack closest to him and throws it against the ground. Though Peacekeepers run towards him, Lorian doesn't seem to care, instead telling them off with dramatic waves.
Noticing that he's headed in her direction, Belacaine meanders towards him. As soon as he's close enough, she asks Lorian, "What happened? Is everything okay?"
"It doesn't fucking matter," he responds, kicking his feet against the ground. "You go lead the Pack, Belacaine. You're much better than me anyway."
She tries to say something else to him, but she blinks and he's gone.
Apex Predator - OTEP
I bet you're wondering what happened in Lorian's private session, huh? Don't worry, it's far more pathetic than you ever could have imagined.
I'd say you'll find out next week, but that's a fucking lie. Why, you say? Well, I have been working on a special little project as a part of the SYOT Verses Victor Exchange and that's dropping next Sunday night as opposed to a new chapter of this dropping next Monday morning. I figured after everyone has had their first Capitol POV was the best time to take this break and well, if you do chose to read my fucking novel of a VE fic, I hope you enjoy. I do not know or understand how I wrote over 40,000 words in two weeks nor do I want to know.
Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed the conclusion of training. Once again, I appreciate all the discussion regarding the fic; it makes me feel really special. Thank you R-B for beta-ing this chapter, btw! I'd love to know what everybody thinks regarding alliances and what not, if you get the chance, since these are more or less our alliances as we head into the Games in… eh, several chapters.
Question: This is actually not a question. It is a humble request for a Minecraft related headcannon about this fic. Thank you.
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds