XIII. Raising The Stakes
All alone, he turns to stone
While holding his breath half to death
Terrified of what's inside
To save his life, he crawls
Like a worm from a bird
Lorian Naciri. 17.
District Two Male.
If he squints hard enough, it's like he's back at Shindy's.
The private session room is objectively nicer than the gymnasium back in Two, where Lorian would show off his skills to the deans year after year. Or at least, this room was nicer. Between the metallic panels on the walls and the glistening floorboards, there's not a chance in hell Shindy's would ever be able to afford anything similar. Even with their hefty tuition prices, which are only getting higher, they'd never have enough to invest in the place's aesthetics.
That doesn't really matter now, though. In the front of the room, there's a jet black stain on the ground, and half of the weapons are missing from their racks. The acrid scent of bleach in the air means somebody tried to remove the blemish, but they were clearly unsuccessful. Lorian sighs. At least now he has a vague explanation as to why they took a break after the girl from Eleven's session.
He ambles to the center of the room, his hands rigidly bent at his sides in perfect right angles. Like there's a puppet string pulling his hair, Lorian keeps his head high and his eyes locked on what's in front of him. Or, more aptly, who's in front of him.
"Good afternoon," Lorian announces, his vision focused on Head Gamemaker Snow and the assistants who surround him. When he doesn't get an answer, he continues, "How are you doing today?"
Still, nothing. He knows that he's the twenty-first session they've seen today, but still, he wishes they expressed at least some enthusiasm for his arrival. Lorian can't imagine the sessions that preceeded him were all that exciting, save for maybe Charon, who probably did something so absurd it was at the very least interesting. Between him and Belacaine, Lorian's the better fighter too, so, despite her confidence, he reckons the Gamemakers were underwhelmed.
He remembers what she told him before he went off to his session, that he's doing great. Lorian wants to believe her, really, he does with all his heart, but there's a voice in his head taunting him and saying she's a liar.
(Belacaine did want to talk to him before he was sent to his private session, after all. She didn't say what about, so now for all Lorian knows, she could be announcing that she wants to leave the alliance and take on the Games on her own. He can't say he'd blame her. Lorian repeatedly reassured her that he has everything under control; when it was just them two, the Ones, and Clarion, maybe that was true. But now? He doesn't know if he can lead such a large group.)
(At least not well. Lord knows Lorian's still going to try.)
"You can begin whenever you're ready," one of Snow's assistants quips through the window.
It's then that Lorian realizes he's been standing still for at least thirty seconds. He whispers under his breath, "Fuck."
And then louder, he projects his voice towards the Gamemakers once more, "I'm ready."
He bolts towards the weapon's rack and quickly grabs hold of a broadax, its silver blade flickering under the neon lights. Lorian grunts. The weapon is far heavier than those back in Two, his left arm already beginning to burn. Either that, or he hasn't been eating as much as he should have ever since arriving here.
"Quit making excuses," Lorian huffs, a single drop of saliva escaping his lips with his sharp exhale. "You're better than this. You know you're better than this."
He clenches his jaw and carries the broadax to the room's center. With a sigh, he asks the Gamemakers, "I'd like to spar with two of your strongest trainers."
Lessons from Shindy's ring through Lorian's ears, all of the times his teachers would tell him, "During your private session, it is your duty to prove to the Capitol not only why District Two is the best, but why you're the best."
That's right, Lorian tells himself. I am the best.
(No, he's not. Lorian Naciri's the fucking worst. He's nothing more than a pathetic loser with a half-baked plan, determined to win the Hunger Games on spite and spite alone. That's not enough. It's not even close to enough, and Lorian knows it too.)
From the room above, Lorian hears somebody call, "Of course, sir." He blinks twice, then watches as two men in thick iron armor come towards him. Immediately, he recognizes one of them as Hollister, the Head Trainer from earlier this week. Though the other is far shorter, both look equally capable of making Lorian's acquaintance.
He tightens his grip around the ax's handle, his palms already slick with his own sweat, then looks the shorter trainer dead in the eye. Lorian asks him, "What are you waiting for? Come get me!"
As the man charges toward him with a short sword, Lorian twists his wrists to the side. The blade of his broadax scrapes against the sword, protecting Lorian from taking the hit. He bends his knees closer to the ground and raises his weapon. With a single fluid movement, Lorian brings his arm downwards, hoping it'll dislodge the trainer's sword.
He isn't so lucky. Instead, the trainer pivots to the side and then steps in a large circle behind Lorian. He whips his torso to the side, his confident expression quickly shattered when the hilt of the trainer's sword collides with his chest.
Lorian buckles over and winces as the burning sensation travels bone-to-bone nerve-to nerve, his entire body igniting with anger. His eyes dart up to meet the trainers and his brow furrows. This won't be the end of me. There's no fucking way this'll be the end of me.
Gripping the broadax with all of his might, Lorian swings the weapon over his head, planting the fake blade into the trainer's neck. He puts all of his weight forwards, smirking as the trainer's shoes squeak with fiction against the floorboards.
He pulls his ax away from the trainer, then raises it again to make another strike when—
Shit!
A jolt of pain explodes in Lorian's waist and he looks to the side to see the second trainer standing tall and proud.
He feels his grip on his weapon loosening as he bends over in agony. The weight of the blade threatens to pull Lorian to the ground, leaving him with no choice but to let it go. As the ax hits the floor, his teeth grind together, the dry taste of powdered enamel coating his tongue.
The voice in his head beckons him, "That's all you got, huh?"
"It's not," Lorian spits back.
"Then why aren't you doing better?" He isn't sure if he hears his father's voice or his own.
Lorian whispers "I'm doing the best I can" over and over again at the ground, hoping that eventually, he'll believe himself.
(He knows he won't.)
He tilts his head upwards, making eye contact with the trainer for the first time since being knocked down. The older man asks him, "Do you want to stop now? Perhaps I can go grab an intermediate or even a beginner level trainer."
Every aching muscle in Lorian's body tells him to say yes, but his heart disagrees. He listens to the latter and stammers at the trainer, "I'm good, but thank you for the offer."
"You should've accepted that, you schmuck," his father tells him in his head as Lorian's hand finds the ax's handle once more. "There's no possible way you're going to defeat both of them. You're being a fool."
"Am not," Lorian mutters.
He's the alliance's leader. He has to prove himself to be the strongest one, and the only way he can do that is by doing well here and now. No Gamemaker is going to give him a high score if he gives up and settles for a weaker opponent. Belacaine wants him to do well. Gremory knows he'll do well.
(The One boy clapped Lorian on the back earlier today and told him, "Today's your shining moment, isn't it, big guy? I look forward to seeing that eleven."
Lorian had offered him a meek smile. "I sure hope so."
"Don't sell yourself short, Two," Gremory said, his eyes half-closed in sympathy. "You're going to take down the strongest trainers the Capitol has to offer, I just know it."
He'll be damned before he lets One down. The last thing Lorian needs is to let somebody down again.)
Lorian swings the broadax counterclockwise, making firm contact with one of the trainers' shins. His lips nearly curl into a smile before he realizes that his strike didn't do a thing. Fucking hell.
He slams the ax harder, once more then twice more then three-four-five then— shit!
The collar of Lorian's shirt chafes against his neck as he realizes the other trainer's grabbed him from behind. He swings his elbows backward, but the trainer's sturdy armor makes Lorian hurt instead. The first trainer slashes at Lorian's chest with his sword and mutters, "If this wasn't plastic, you'd be dead."
"Well, it is," Lorian whispers, hoping the trainers can't hear him. "And I'm not."
Bile rises in his throat as the trainer behind him continues to pull him backward. Lorian's hand crawls toward the ax's blade then he juts the weapon's handle at the trainer's armpit. It's enough to make him let go of Lorian's shirt, but not enough to stop the first trainer from grabbing his shoulders and pulling him forwards.
"Fucking get off of me," Lorian shrieks, twisting his torso in an ultimately futile attempt to break free from the trainer's grasp.
He swings Lorian around in a circle by his shoulders like he's a rag doll, then presses his lips to Lorian's ear. "I gave you a choice, punk."
It's true, dammit. Lorian brings his ax to the gap of armor on the trainer's side, but either he's really damn strong or Lorian's really damn weak because the other man doesn't move. Instead, he blinks, lets out an exhausted sigh, and throws Lorian to the ground as if he's nothing.
(Because he is nothing.)
His chest throbs as he collapses, his entire body begging him to just give up, but Lorian can't. Even though he feels his own blood dripping from his nose to the ground and a tooth in his mouth beginning to come loose, Lorian can't give up.
Besides, this isn't the first time something like this has happened. He lost a tooth back at Shindy's and when he showed it to his father, the man told Lorian, "That's just a sign that you're working hard and putting all of yourself into your training. I'm proud of you, son."
Very rarely did Lorian hear that from him. Never ever did Lorian deserve it.
Like a phoenix in a forest fire, Lorian rises once more, but his vision's blurry, and his stomach twirls and whirls and fuck!
He feels a fist hit his face and the tendons holding his tooth to his gum break free. He watches as it flies out of his mouth, seemingly in slow motion before it hits the ground with a click!
But even then, Lorian knows he can't quit. He's a leader. He's the best of the best. Even if he wasn't selected for the Core Four's endorsement, Lorian still walked alongside titans. He still worked his ass off, just as hard as his peers, if not more. He deserves to be here just as much as anybody else from the academies.
(He doesn't deserve this at all. He's a failure; a sad, ridiculous, asinine, failure. District Two doesn't consider him theirs. They'll laugh in his face when his score is revealed, and good lord will Lorian deserve it. He's taken his home's pride and dragged it through the mud. He's tainted his family name with all of his mistakes.)
Before he can get up again, the sound of a whistle cuts through the air. Lorian looks up, hoping and praying that Snow won't tell him, "Your time is up."
But that's exactly what the Head Gamemaker says, and Lorian's heart sinks to the bottom of his chest. The tiny bit of hope that he could still somehow turn this fight around is diminished into ash and he's left as weak as a lark and in pain, terrible pain.
(There was no way in hell he was going to turn it around. He should've been smart enough to know that he'd never turn it around.)
Every last bit of him aches as he struggles but eventually stands. Snow says through the speakers, "Thank you for your time."
Lorian can't help but think he's being sarcastic. Based on the amused looks on his assistants' faces, he definitely is.
"Good," Lorian whispers to himself. "After all of that, I do deserve to be laughed at."
One of the trainers stands at Lorian's side and reminds him, "It didn't have to be like this. I gave you the opportunity to switch to a weaker opponent but you—"
"It did have to be this way," Lorian cuts him off with a huff. "I'm trying to lead my alliance— that means being better than all of them. It means I can't be a coward and fight some novice. I have to aim for the stars, for fucks sake!"
"And how did that turn out?" His father's voice inside his head nearly brings a tear to his eye.
"Awful," Lorian says, this time so soft the trainer doesn't hear him.
As he clambers out of the room, his arms tucked into his chest, he can't help but think that his mind is just as bruised as his skin. He may have walked into the training room with a smile on his face, ready to fight with everything he has, but Lorian walked out as damaged goods.
He's tired. He wants to lie down for just an hour, maybe two— long enough that he can somewhat forget what happened to him in there and make amends with himself and the mistakes he made. Lorian knows that'd be useless. When he wakes up, the training scores will be released to the country, and everyone will know just how badly he failed. Everyone who saw him as a potential threat will laugh at him. This was bound to happen eventually. There's no possible way Lorian will ever live up to the impossible standards his father set for him.
(There's no possible way Lorian will ever live up to the impossible standards he set for himself.)
More than anything, he wants to forget that the past however many minutes ever happened. He wants to tell his allies that he did great, that he made them proud. But he's lied to them too much already by making them think that he's actually worth something, that he's actually a valuable asset to their team.
He's not. He sees it now; he's not worth anything.
Though he tries to act coy, all it takes is one look into Belcaine's eyes for Lorian to break. Red-hot fury consumes his soul and enables him to grab ahold of the weapon rack closest to him and slam it against the ground.
Lorian notices a Peacekeeper barreling toward him, but shoos him away with a beleaguered groan.
He doesn't need this now. He doesn't need any of this ever.
(If he'd just thought hard for once, Lorian wouldn't have to go through all this.)
(It never was up to him. His father would always make sure this was his fate.)
He glances at Belacaine once more and begins to walk toward her. She bolts to him in a hurry and asks, "What happened? Is everything okay?"
"It doesn't fucking matter," Lorian shouts. He kicks his feet against the ground and flails his arms back and forth. "You go lead the Pack, Belacaine. You're much better than me anyway."
He runs away before she can say another word, too embarrassed to confront his partner, the girl who seemed to trust Lorian, only for him to cast that trust aside like a crumpled-up ball of trash.
When he turns his head around his shoulder and gets a good view of everyone in the training center, Lorian dreadfully concludes that he's just like them.
Weak. Pathetic. Troublesome. Intolerable. Unwanted.
There's nothing Lorian can do to make anything better. He's an outcast who would never amount to anything just like everybody else here. He doesn't deserve to be liked, much less loved. Not even by his own family who were right to cast him aside this way. They were right to assume that he'd never make any of them proud.
He slams his fist against a wall and releases a muffled scream into his wrist. Everybody around him really was right, huh? Lorian Naciri really is a weak, pathetic piece of scum who never should have dared to dream of becoming better than the fate that was always meant to be his.
(He's too hunched over to see the way Gremory stares as he comes undone.)
Ripley Sabyn. 17.
District Five Tribute.
It's nice to be a part of something. Or at least, Ripley thinks that they're a part of something. It's hard for them to be completely sure, but the fact she's huddled up around the television screen in the District Six apartment with five other people has to have some meaning.
(Just two days ago, Ripley was convinced that she was nothing. With her heartbeat throbbing out of her chest and her head cleanly shaved, they never thought that anybody would ever be drawn to them, much less want them. While the circumstances may be grim, she's still grateful for the threads of companionship she's begun to weave.)
She thought that she'd be afraid when it came time for the reveal of their private session score, but Ripley's oddly at ease. Their demonstration earlier today wasn't anything close to the most impressive thing in the world, but she hardly stuttered when she identified plants and poisons on a large display and didn't even tear up until they were walking out of the room. At this point, she considers that a win.
As Ripley leans against the sofa's armrest and stares into space, she feels a familiar tap on her forearm. They don't flinch and instead look down at their ally Moxie Adegoke from Six straight in the eyes.
"How are you doing?" The older girl asks them, her voice silvery and coated with sugar. "We didn't really get the chance to talk about your session earlier."
"I'm doing good, actually," Ripley replies, almost not believing her own words. They can't remember the last time they said something like that without lying. "I think the Gamemakers a-actually liked what I had to show them."
They blush in embarrassment from their own stutter. Moxie told Ripley yesterday that they should talk slower to avoid tripping up on their words. She said that it'd make them seem more confident, something the Capitol would like. They mumble, "I'm sorry."
"For the stutter?" Moxie tilts her head to the side and inquires. "You don't need to apologize for that, Rips. You've been doing a great job today and I'm delighted to hear that you think you did well during your session."
"Thank you," Ripley intones. "I hope that you did well yourself."
The Six girl smirks. "I don't mean to gloat, but I'm relatively sure that I too did good."
"You don't sound cocky," they inform her. Moxie's confidence is probably what impresses Ripley most about her. There's little they wouldn't give to be just the same. "If anything, it's good that you feel secure in your abilities."
"I want you to feel secure in yours too," Moxie says.
Ripley nods. "Well, I do."
"That's great then. I'm proud of you."
That's the thing about Moxie. Ripley truly, wholeheartedly believes that she wants the best not just for them, but for everybody else in the alliance as well. Unlike Melchior who didn't seem to pay any mind to Ripley when she followed them around that first half-day in the Capitol, Moxie consistently checks up on her to make sure she's all right. Ripley's not sure what she did to deserve somebody so considerate and empathetic, but it's best if she doesn't question it.
(If they do for too long, they'll decide they're unworthy of Moxie's kindness and clemency.)
"When do you think the ceremony's going to begin?" Asherah Uzeram from District Seven asks, Ripley's eyes immediately darting to the television screen. Two pompously dressed ladies are chatting up a storm, but the volume's on mute because everyone agreed there was no need to listen to them.
Moxie's District Partner, Edric Grendel, who sits beside Asherah on the sofa looks down at his watch. "Assuming they start on time, there are still three minutes to go."
"Oh, alright," Asherah responds with a sigh.
Much like Moxie, and everyone else in their alliance really, the Seven girl seems to have a good head on her shoulders. She's not as confident as Moxie, her conviction always laced with a tinge of melancholy, but she's still quite assured. Really, despondency of various degrees seems to be a running theme for Ripley and their alliance, save for Moxie of course, and maybe Elio.
"Personally, I can't wait!" The Ten boy enthuses. Somehow, he's managed to climb on top of the sofa and balance himself on the edge like he's a bird. Ripley holds in a sigh. Elio's a good kid, there's no doubt about that. Ripley truly believes his actions at the parade were done with only the best of intentions, but he's by far the most optimistic person they've ever met, and not in an affirming way like Moxie. No, Elio's positive outlook on the world is almost ironic, considering it's the world that sent them here to die. Luckily, he spends most of his time bothering Dasani. Ripley doesn't think they'd be able to handle him outside of a group setting.
"What are the odds he gets below a five?" Moxie murmurs.
Ripley cranes their neck towards her and asks, "Were you talking to me?"
The Six girl nods. It confuses Ripley, because it appears that Moxie's trying to condescend Elio, or at the very least, signal that she doesn't think very highly of him. Considering they too get annoyed, Ripley would be a hypocrite to condemn her for it, but they can't help but be a bit surprised that Moxie's expressing any form of negativity.
(Maybe it just means that Ripley's special to her. Ripley's never been special to anybody.)
Noticing Ripley's silence, Moxie softly elaborates, "I mean, he's entertaining for sure, but I question how good his private session was. I really don't want him to get his hopes up?"
Of course, Moxie was asking that out of concern and not disdain. Ripley's an idiot to think that their beacon of light in the dark world of the Capitol— and soon the Games— would ever speak or even think ill of somebody.
She replies to Moxie, "I think you're right."
(A wave of resentment sinks deep into Ripley's stomach. Why did they assume something so bad about somebody who's only taught them good? Why were they prepared to say something nasty or cruel about Elio, just to please Moxie, when that wasn't even what she wanted? Is this a sign that they're eventually going to be Moxie's crux and hold her back?)
"It's him; it's him!" Elio shouts, pointing at the television screen.
Ripley turns her head to see Lucky Flickerman's kaleidoscopic visage— crimson hair, striking lapis eyes, and a sequined suit with every color of the rainbow somehow incorporated.
Moxie sits down next to her and whispers in their ear, "May the odds be ever in your favor."
Ripley laughs. "You too, my friend."
As the District Six apartment settles into silence, Lucky's voice blares through the speakers. "Greetings citizens of Panem!"
Elio enthusiastically claps, the widest grin Ripley's ever seen plastered on his face.
"As you all surely know, the Tributes of the Twenty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games, or the First Quarter Quell, had their private evaluations today." Lucky continues, his voice sonorous. "I'm not going to waste much time stalling, since you'll be hearing from this year's Tributes directly when I interview them all tomorrow. Instead, I'll just get on with the scores."
The scores are announced in District order, which means there's still a bit of time before Ripley's is revealed, but that doesn't prevent all the nerves they hid for the day from finally setting in.
"First off from District One we have Sapphira Starlett and Gremory Rossmani," Lucky announces, then looks down at his sheet of paper. Even though Ripley's never thought anything of either of the Ones, she suddenly feels nervous for them. While they may be her competition, she still wants them to receive scores that they're happy with. "Miss Starlett has earned an eight and Mister Rossmani has earned a seven."
"Not bad, not bad," Ripley hears Moxie say, probably to herself.
"Next up is Belacaine Beaufort and Lorian Naciri from District Two." When Lucky's eyes meet his paper this time, he almost seems surprised. Ripley's unsure why, since District Two usually gets high scores which is probably what he's reacting to. "Miss Beaufort has earned a five and Mister Naciri has earned a four."
"Aren't the kids from Two supposed to be good?" Elio blurts out while the rest of the room gasps.
"Yes, dear," Asherah says to him. "I don't know why they scored so low this year. Do you think maybe it's because of the Quell? Their Tributes aren't trained?"
"Fuck no," Dasani calls out. "I've seen those freaks; they're good. Either they fucked up big time, or they're doing this to be strategic."
"How would that even be a good strategy?" Edric questions. "People were always going to be wary of anybody that's from a District that's basically a glorified military base."
Ripley looks over to Moxie and asks, "What does this mean for us?"
"Only good things," the Six girl assures her. "It means only good things."
"From District Three, we have Aiko Grice and Clarion Bohr," Lucky carries on with the scores. Ripley's expecting Clarion to do relatively well since he allied with the Twos, or maybe not now since their scores weren't that impressive. "Miss Grice has earned a five and Mister Bohr has earned an eight."
Ripley stands corrected.
"Moving right along, we have Talisa Azores and Dasani Amato of District Four." Ripley glances over to Dasani, the boy physically shaking with nerves. "Miss Azores has earned a seven and Mister Yamato has earned a ten."
"Let's fucking go!" Dasani pounds his fists against his chest and lets out a guttural scream, earning a sigh from Moxie. "Fuck yeah, woo!"
His boisterous reaction leaves Ripley a bit unsettled. They can tell that Dasani has good intentions, but he's clearly volatile, which doesn't bode well for the people around him. He could be deadly considering he earned that high of a score. Judging by Moxie's expression, she feels the exact same way.
"I knew you could do it, 'Ani!" Elio claps right along with him, practically beaming. "I'm so diddly-darn proud of you!"
Both Asherah and Edric's cheering is far more muted, though still respectful.
"Next up is District Five, home to Ripley Sabyn and Melchior Kolmogorov." With all of the commotion surrounding Dasani's score, Ripley didn't even realize that she was next.
Her palms begin to shake as sweat drips down from their forehead to their cheek. Sensing her nerves, Moxie squeezes their arm and assures them, "No matter what score you get, you did your best and that's what matters. I'm proud of you no matter what."
"Miss Sabyn has earned a seven and Mister Kolmogorov has earned a seven as well."
Before Ripley's even able to react, Moxie shouts, "Let's go, Ripley! I told you that you didn't have to worry."
They smile the most real they've smiled in at least a year. "Thank you Moxie. I just—"
"Were worried?" The Six girl asks. "Rips, there's no need for you to be afraid or anything. You can do anything you put your mind to, look."
"You're right," Ripley says.
The more they think about it, the only person who's ever held her back is herself. It was her own mind that prevented her from standing up to her mothers' corruption, her own mind that told her she'd fail her training session. If only Ripley could remember from time to time that their mind is sometimes a liar.
"From District Six we have Moxie Adegoke and Edric Grendel," Lucky says, sending Ripley back to reality. They look over at Moxie and notice that she's completely unfazed, much different from how Ripley was less than a minute ago. Edric too looks completely stoic. "Miss Adegoke has earned a nine and Mister Grendel has earned a seven."
"Oh my goodness," Moxie enthuses, seemingly surprised with her own score. "I can't say I was expecting that, wow!"
"Don't sell yourself short," Ripley tries to comfort her, imagining she's a patient in her mothers' waiting room. "Just like how you believed in me, I sure did believe in you."
"That means more than you know," the Six girl replies.
Somehow, hearing those words from Moxie means more to Ripley than anything their patients have ever said.
Aleister Darski. 18.
District Nine Male.
It is to be expected that any Tribute would be nervous as private session scores are revealed. A good score means more rancid Capitolites lining your pockets with sponsor gifts, precious goods that could be the difference between life and death. A good score means being set up for success, being well respected amongst your fellow Tributes as a force to be reckoned with, and a bad score means there's a target painted on your back and the label "weakling" plastered on your forehead. Performing well in the interview is important too, yes, but charisma is nothing if you don't have the physical prowess or the sharp wits to go along with it.
Or at least, that's the nonsense that Aleister's mentor, Androcles, told him earlier this morning. Truth be told, Aleister Darski doesn't give a rat's ass about what arbitrary number the Gamemakers have assigned to him. The root of his anxiety has more to do with the long-haired boy sitting across the room.
Aleister's yet to address he and Olathe's awkward encounter earlier in the day with the Seven boy privately. He knows better than to cause a potential ruckus in front of Lucifer. As embarrassed as he is, Aleister mustn't distract himself from his assignment from the Devil.
But still, despite his attempts to act casual in Olathe's presence, both for the rest of their training time and now that he's sitting in his apartment, Aleister's hands can't stop themselves from shaking.
(Even when he was just a boy, Aleister never quite fit in with his peers. They'd call him words he couldn't be bothered to look up the meaning of and laugh when he raised his voice at them in fits of rage. He tried his best to befriend them but Aleister never understood their jokes and all their references to books and shows were entirely lost on him.
It was different with Olve. Or at least, Aleister thought it was different with him, since he always understood exactly what Aleister meant whenever he spoke. Now that Olve's gone, Aleister's back to square one. He's back to wondering whether lingering touches and pensive gazes actually mean something, or if he's just getting his hopes up once again.
It seems the latter's true.)
(Which makes sense, because why would anybody as tantalizing as Olathe Whitethorn go after him of all people? As a succubus, everyone around the Seven boy must desire him to some extent. Why should Aleister be considered special enough to be wanted in return?)
"Well, what do you know, it's time for the first one of our scores!" Lucy calls out, crosslegged, and sat center on the District Seven apartment's floor. "How do you think you did, Olathe?"
"I already told you, Lucy, I did good enough for all three of us." The Seven boy says, a rush washing over Aleister in spite of himself. It'd really be a lot easier for him to act normal if Olathe weren't so intoxicating.
"That's the sort of confidence I'm expecting!" Aleister notices Lucy's smile, wider and brighter than it's ever been when he was talking to him. He knows that Olathe too is here to please the Devil and ensure Lucy's safe return, meaning that the two of them are equals in their master's eyes, but still, he's worried. During Aleister's private session, Olathe could have easily said something to Lucy about their incident and Aleister's presumptuous actions. That'd surely lead Lucy into a fit of infernal rage fueled by his father's power, which would not mean good things for Aleister.
(He worries that when he dreams tonight, it'll be of Lucy spouting insults at him, "pervert, freak, loser, idiot" the same way Milos and Karolina did. Aleister fears that he'll lose somebody who could evolve into a brother the same way he ruined his relationship with those bound to him by blood.)
"From District Seven, there's Asherah Uzeram and Olathe Whitethorn," Lucretius Flickerman's voice booms through the room. While Aleister's nervous and Lucy clearly is as well, not even the slightest look of discomfort is smeared onto Olathe's face.
"Miss Uzeram has earned a six and Mister Whitethorn has earned a ten."
"Very good," Olathe mutters to himself.
Lucy stands up and rolls his eyes. "Why didn't you get a six, huh?"
"Ten is better than six," Aleister informs the boy, trying to be helpful.
He pouts, "Yeah I know that, I'm not three. I was just making a joke because six is, you know, the Devil's number."
Aleister offers him a polite but subtle laugh. "That's funny."
Olathe's response is far more visceral, the Seven boy shrieking like a mad man and covering his mouth. "Oh dear, Lucy; you are so fucking hilarious. I've never met anybody nearly as funny as you."
"I know I am. Thank you," Lucy remarks then sits back down.
The telecast continues, Lucretius announcing the next set of scores. "From District Eight, we have Lycra Draper and Charon Tricolette. Miss Draper has earned a six and Insert Appropriate Honorific Here Tricolette has earned a ten."
"Too many tens; where's the variation?" Lucy blurts. He's made similar comments throughout the night but it's clear that he doesn't really care about the scores. In Aleister's opinion, the boy has no reason to. It's he and Olathe's job to ensure that Lucy doesn't have to worry about anything at all.
"Maybe District Nine will be different," Olathe offers. "I suspect Aleister gave the Gamemakers quite the show."
"I did," Aleister says, trying his best to sound as confident as possible. For his session, he set a small campfire in the middle of the room then fought off some of the trainers and stripped them of their armor which he then threw into the flames. While Head Gamemaker Snow seemed weary at times, Aleister never did anything that made him get too viscerally upset. In fact, the man seemed to like what Aleister had done. Either that, or he was damn good at pretending.
"Well then let's hope that you get an eleven or else I'll call my dad on you." Lucy laughs, but when he notices that Aleister's incredibly shell-shocked, he quickly stops. "That was a joke, apologies."
Again, Olathe cackles and Aleister merely chuckles. It's hard for him to laugh much when he's so incredibly stressed.
"District Nine is the home of Helen Rimmonn and Aleister Darski." Hearing his District partner's name makes Aleister immediately angry. He's already dreading when he returns to his apartment for the night and is forced to make eye contact with her and remain blank-faced as she calls him names and preaches her heretic bullshit to him.
"Miss Rimmonn has earned a score of two and Mister Darski has earned a score of nine."
Aleister grunts. Screw what he previously said about how whatever his score is, it doesn't mean much to him. A score of nine means that he's worse than at least one of his allies and surely a disappointment now in the other's eyes. Even if he's used to letting people down, it'll never stop hurting so much.
"Impressive work," Olathe intones, Aleister's face immediately going flush. "Not a ten like me, but it definitely isn't the worst score in the world."
He can't tell if the Seven boy's making fun of him or if he genuinely means the compliment. Considering how poorly it went earlier today when Aleister assumed Olathe's intentions were positive, he must be insulting Aleister now.
Aleister can't blame him either. He broke a boundary and threatened the sanctity of their alliance. Damn Aleister for letting his indulgence get in the way of what's important. Off with his head for making Olathe uncomfortable when that was never what he wanted.
(Love. All Aleister Darski wants is love. That's the one thing he'll never get because a man so wretched he maimed his parents is far too ill to actually be admired.)
"From District Ten, we have Levine Hornsby and Elio Basanti," Lucretius continues. "Miss Hornsby has earned a three and Mister Basanti has earned a four."
"Losers," Lucy scoffs. "Their scores don't even add up to their District number."
This time, Aleister enthusiastically laughs before Olathe can first. He doesn't want Lucy to think that he doesn't like him, because no, Aleister would do everything for him.
(Because he can't do anything for Milos or Karolina. He let himself get manipulated by Olve and LaVey's silver tongues and ruined his family's life for good. He was callow and inexperienced, so eager to find an alternative solution for the life he hated living. He was too naive and it ruined everything. Aleister may have something to believe in now, but it came at the cost of losing it all. He refuses to disappoint the only thing he has left.)
"From District Eleven there's Thana Achillea and Xan Fruit." Aleister can tell that Lucretius is getting tired of reading off the scores. That's perfectly fair because he's getting tired of listening. If Lucy's score wasn't last to be read, he'd have turned off the television after District Ten. "Miss Achillea has earned a one and Mister Fruit has earned a two."
"That's what happens when your last name is fruit," Lucy says, hardly able to hold in his own laughter.
"I guess it's a bad thing to be so Fruit-y." Olathe stares directly at Aleister, long enough to send a chill racing up his spine.
Not quite understanding the nature of Olathe's comment, Lucy cracks up. All Aleister wants to do is hide from the world he continues to ruin, but yet again, he can't.
"Lastly, our Tributes from District Twelve: Madrasa Saiz and Lucifer Deathrage." Lucy gets onto his knees and mimics praying at the screen. "Miss Saiz has earned a five and Mister Deathrage has earned a six."
"What the fuck?" Lucy screams. He picks up the television remote and shuts the screen off before throwing the device to the ground. "This is so fucked up. What the fuck?"
It surprises Aleister too. Yes, Capitolites can be ignorant, but even they should recognize that Lucy is the father of the Devil and deserves a score higher than a mere six.
"It's your father's number," Olathe gets off the couch with Aleister and reminds the Twelve boy as he continues to rant and rage. "It's a sign he's watching out for you."
Picking up what Seven's putting down, Aleister continues. "If you get too high of a score, people would probably think you're more of a threat than you actually are, and they'd want to hunt you down. This is all to protect you, I'm sure of it."
"Bullshit," Lucy sneers and crosses his arms. "I can't believe everybody fucking hates me here."
"That's not true!" Olathe assures him. "Aleister and I don't hate you and we're both going to protect you, right?"
Aleister nods. "He's right. We both want the best for you and while yes, this may be considered a misstep, you wouldn't be your father's son if you weren't perfectly capable of making the worst out of the best and the best out of the worst."
"Why would I think you guys care about me when you haven't even mentioned doing anything for my birthday tomorrow?" Lucy stomps his feet against the ground. "My father did tell you about my birthday, right?"
"I'm afraid not," Olathe utters, his tone soft.
Lucy scowls. "I knew I should've invited him to my birthday. Even if I wasn't reaped, at least then he'd know when my birthday is so he could tell you guys about it."
Aleister's taken aback. How dare his divine ruler forget his own son's birthday? Even if he had more important things to do such as burning bridges and preparing his undead army for combat, surely he'd have some time to acknowledge his son's special day. Yes yes, the Devil is supposed to be the embodiment of all things evil, but making his liege feel abandoned still shouldn't be on the agenda.
"I'm sorry that happened and that you're upset about it." Aleister pats Lucy on the back. "But I promise, Olathe and I are going to do something tomorrow to make sure that you have the best birthday ever. Maybe after interviews, we'll gather on the rooftop together. And we can get balloons, and maybe pizza and even some ice cream. How does that sound?"
"Passable," Lucy pouts with a shrug. "It'd be better if my dad were there."
"Well what if Aleister and I do something special for you in addition to the rooftop party," Olathe offers. "I'm sure one of us can think of something!"
"It better be real fucking great," comes the Twelve boy's response.
Before Olathe or Aleister can say anything more, Lucy bolts out the door leaving the two older boys in the apartment alone.
"I'll just get going then." Aleister grabs his jacket from the kitchen counter and wraps it around his waist. "Thank you so much for hosting. I look forward to collaborating with you."
"I look forward to it as well," Olathe replies. "Let me know if you have any ideas, why don't you? I trust you'll know where to find me."
"I'll let you know what I come up with."
Not wanting to partake in any more awkward conversation, Aleister leaves through the door immediately after he's done speaking. He swears he hears Olathe call out to him, "safe travels," but he can't be bothered to figure out what the other boy meant by that. Instead, Aleister stands in the hallway idly, waiting for the elevator to come and save him from his misery.
The one good thing to come out of today is the fact Aleister's now been gifted with an opportunity to show Lucy that he's a worthy guardian. If he can make his birthday the most incredible the boy's ever had, maybe then everything will be okay. Maybe it'll even regain Olathe's respect for him. This birthday party could be what prevents Aleister from creating yet another mess. The only question is what exactly he'll do to make this party special.
The elevator arrives and Aleister steps inside. He immediately presses the button labeled "9" and sighs as the doors shut and the platform raises. Not even thirty seconds later, the two glass doors spread open, leading Aleister back to Nine's Apartment.
Before he even opens the front door, he can already hear Helen's shrill voice. "I just don't understand why a woman of the lord should be punished with a score of merely two!"
"At least you didn't get a one like the Eleven girl," Androcles responds, which is weird considering he's supposed to be Aleister's mentor, not hers.
Aleister swings open the door and walks into the apartment to see Helen and Androcles sitting beside one another by the dining room table.
"Good evening, Sir Darski," his District partner greets him, Aleister not believing her saccharine tone for even a second. "I noticed that you received a rather impressive training score. Is that because you finally gave in to the Lord and decided to fight for him instead of your measly little Devil?"
"Fuck off," Aleister hisses at her. He rips off his jacket and throws it across the room. "I got a nine because I did exactly what the Devil told me to do, I'll have you know. It's not my fault your god wants you to be weak."
"He just wants to do the best for me."
Unbelievable! She sounds just like Aleister's parents.
(She sounds just like the life that Aleister was a fucking fool to leave behind.)
"I don't believe that for a second," he sneers, then darts his eyes over to Androcles. "Are you just going to stand there and let her talk about me like this? I heard you giving her advice and now you're being a bystander to her bullshit. What kind of a mentor are you, huh?"
"Aleister, please," Androcles says, his voice stern. "Don't argue with Miss Rimmonn. I understand that you two have your differences, but that's no reason for you to be so hostile. It's been a long day for you; it'd be best if you got some rest."
"Whatever," Aleister stammers, then rolls his eyes and leaves the living room in his past.
As he collapses on his bed and his face mushes into his pillows, Aleister wails.
Loser.
Idiot.
Fool.
Failure.
Disaster.
Every word he's been called rings through his ears, every insult he acted poorly to receive. How did he mess up this fucking badly? Why was he so fucking foolish he got himself into this mess, only living to prove to his ruler that he's maybe worthy of living in the afterlife by his side?
(Hoax.)
All he's ever wanted was something to believe in that wouldn't let him down, and now he's presented with a chance to secure his good graces with the Devil he oh-so-loves. Just make Lucy's birthday special; how hard could it be?
Very hard, apparently. Because no matter what Aleister does, it won't be enough because there's no chance, not even in hell, that he'll be able to somehow get Lucy's father in attendance.
(Because he isn't real, dumbass.)
(You don't have anything to believe in. All you have is yourself, and that's not enough, now is it?)
"Goodnight Androcles!" Once again, Helen's voice makes Aleister sick. "I look forward to chatting with you again tomorrow."
"Goodnight Helen," the pathetic excuse for a mentor says back. "I'm glad that I get to work with you. Thank you for opening my mind to some of your beliefs, I really appreciate it."
Ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous. They're both so fucking ridiculous. If only there was a way to—
Aleister's lips curl into a slight smile. Suddenly he knows exactly what he'll do in honor of the thirteenth birthday of one Lucifer Deathrage.
The Bird and the Worm - The Used
Hello LGBT community!
Just like I promised, we are back at it again with another chapter after my brief absence. To all those who read, I hope you enjoyed General Welfare, and if you haven't, feel free to check it out. Also, please read District Eleven-Olive's "A Stone's Throw" featuring my beloved child Ataru because Em sort of popped the fuck off.
Hopefully you enjoyed this score reveal chapter. I'll try to post all the scores on the blog soon or in other words, I will hopefully remember soon, but you never know with me. There's been some drama and there's only more to come.
Thank you so much to Erik for filling in and beta-ing this chapter while my usual queertoes were busy.
I'd like to say I'll have part one of interviews out next monday, but the truth is, I don't really know. The chapter is done, yes, but my semester starts soon and I want to build up more of a stockpile before I post weekly again. I'm sort of in a writing slump at the moment, but I know I'll get out of it. In the meantime, I'll likely be doing bi-weekly updates.
And now for today's question… if your tribute was in Danganronpa, what would their ultimate be? If you don't know what that question means, consider yourself lucky.
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds