We The People: The Director's Cut

by ladyqueerfoot

Twenty-four Games and 552 bodies dead on the ground. The Capitol now expects more than senseless killing, craving a show that ends with a star. Head Gamemaker Coriolanus Snow has kept them entertained thus far, and with a new trick up his sleeve, he'll dazzle them once more. This is the year he establishes himself as king. Welcome to the First Quarter Quell. (SYOT)

16. Bite The Hand

XVI. Bite The Hand

---

So spare me your pity symphony
Wake up and get up off your knees
Handcuffed by Sunday fallacy
Crucify the saint in your soul

---

Moxie Adegoke. 19.
District Six Female.

---

Of course, the bastard's late — really, it's on for her for thinking he'd actually be on time. Absolutely nothing about that scoundrel has indicated appropriate behavior; she shouldn't be surprised.

I just thought that if he was actually serious about this… Moxie groans, leaning against the wall in Six's apartment's kitchen. …he'd have the dignity to not be — she glances at the clock — five minutes late now, for fucks' sake.

She runs her hand through her braids and sighs. Maybe this is what she gets for trusting a man of all people to do even the bare minimum. Considering what happened last time — wait — there wasn't a last time Moxie Adegoke trusted a man, or a woman, or lord-forbid, a child. And she doesn't think this is going to be the first time.

It can't be. Why in the world would a lioness bank on a hyena, especially now of all times?

Perhaps she should just go to sleep instead. It certainly wouldn't hurt to fully indulge in what's likely to be her last night of good sleep for at least a week. She's going to miss all the Capitol's accommodations, that she can admit. Even if they're all a bunch of drama queens acting like the Hunger Games is the paradigm of all things violent and brutal when they wouldn't last a day on the streets of Six, they certainly know how to be good hosts. Well… good hosts to everyone except Elio, but that's his own fault.

Moxie looks up again, noticing that another minute has passed. She sighs; yeah, sleep is the best option for the rest of the evening. Besides, being unconscious means that she doesn't have to deal with any of her allies, if she can even call them that. They're more like slightly good moraled individuals with varying levels of usefulness, but Moxie suspects at least a few of them will be able to get the job done — her job done. Especially with the addition of — right, he made the terrible decision to be a no-show. She'll just have to get rid of him as soon as possible.

Just as she's walking to her room, Moxie hears the doorbell chime. For fuck's sake, just when I was adjusting to the idea of navigating the arena without him. Still, late is better than never.

She prances back to the door, about to ask if it's her potential future colleague at the door when he chooses to identify himself. "Oh, Moxie!"

His voice is one incapable of forgetting, low and sinister yet somehow maddening. As Moxie gets closer to the door, he continues to shout. "I'm ready to discuss our arrangement."

She turns the door's handle and pulls it open, unable to stop herself from rolling her eyes when she sees District One's Gremory Rossmani staring down at her.

Moxie scoffs, "You're late."

"I know I am. My apologies dear," the boy says.

She sighs. "If you think you can get away with talking to me like that, I'd recommend just turning around and quitting while you're ahead."

"Noted." Gremory nods his head. "Are you going to lead me inside or should we just stand around under the door like idiots?"

Moxie doesn't give him an answer, instead walking into the room and gesturing for him to follow. She sits down at the edge of the bright red sofa and points at one of the checkerboard chairs beside her. "Sit."

The One boy takes off his shoes and does as commanded.

She looks at him again, studying each and every one of his serpentine features. Neither say a word, almost like they're two beasts in the wild, patiently waiting to see who will be the first to fold. That's typically what happens when two predators are without their prey. Not that Moxie considers Gremory a predator, of course. He's just somebody who'd make a good source for any information she could need down the line.

(The One boy approached her on the second day of training while she was refilling her water bottle.

With a sinister smile, he told Moxie, "I know exactly what you're doing, Six."

"And what's that?" she had replied, pretending to be as meek as a newborn chick.

"All of your allies so far are clearly weaker than you," Gremory said. "You're trying to find the most useful ones, aren't you?"

"So what if I am," Moxie scoffed. "What's it matter to you?"

He folded his arms and sighed. "We have similar strategies, you know. It may be worth a discussion if you're up for it."

Earlier this evening, while she was waiting for her interview, Gremory again walked up to her. This time, he asked Moxie, "If I came to your door with information tonight, would you turn me down?"

She nodded.

By then, Moxie saw flickers of potential in him. More so, she saw that his allies from Two had completely bombed their private sessions. Based on their cocky attitudes earlier in training, Moxie assumed them to be Careers, so if Gremory had a part in their failure, maybe he would actually be wise to know further.)

"Alright, let's get on with it," Gremory finally says. "How do you want to do this? I tell you shit about my allies and then you do the same with yours?"

"You're just going to do a massive info-dump even though I've given you no indicator that I'm at all trustworthy?" Moxie glares daggers at him, already exhausted. "You can tell me whatever you want, but I'm inclined to believe you'd be fuckin' lying.

"Well, are you trustworthy?" he asks.

Moxie smirks. "Fuck no, and neither are you."

Gremory waits a minute before speaking again, his face freezing in stoicism as he carefully selects his words. "So then what's the point of this arrangement if neither of us trust each other, albeit rightfully so?"

"That sounds like a question for you to answer," she says. "This was your idea after all."

The One boy runs one hand through his hair then crosses his arms. "Okay – well, how's this? If you tell the truth about one of your allies, I'll do the same about one of mine. I'll then give you two days in the arena to figure out whether or not I was being honest, and I'll do the same with you. On the second night of the Games, we'll find somewhere to meet up and confirm with one another that what we saw was true."

"So are you just telling me to stalk your alliance?" Moxie asks. "There's a lot of you; how do I know you won't kill me if you get even a glimpse of me?"

"I'll make sure they don't kill you," Gremory answers. "Much like you, I sort of pull the strings with them. It's less obvious, but they're all under my thumb. And respectfully, I'm not too worried about your alliance attacking me, so before you bring that up as a potential concern, I simply do not see it."

Moxie sighs; is her alliance really that pathetic? Well, to some degree, yes, but they all have their individual strengths. Or… at least most of them do. Edric's growing more of a spine every day, and he's already physically imposing. Even if she's hard to push around, Asherah seems to have some degree of medical experience, though not as much as Ripley does. Because oddly enough, as pathetic as they are, Moxie does see something in Ripley. Even if she's incredibly vulnerable and would probably snap in half if an enemy got too close to her, Moxie senses there's something more to her. Despite how weak they come off, Moxie can see a layer of vehement anger resting dormant underneath her. It makes sense based on everything Ripley's told her about her past. It's just a matter of Moxie figuring out a way to unlock that anger. And then there's Dasani, who has a similar deal going on, though he's way less panicky than Ripley. He's a slow-forming storm, and Moxie wants to be on his side when he finally lets loose.

And then there's Elio… Lord, Moxie has no idea what to make of him. Even if he is more-than-likely harmless, his energy radiates suspicion. It'd be easy to convince anybody that there's something off with him. That makes him the best target to pawn off to Gremory. Even if she talks out of her ass, chances are Gremory would take her words as truth after looking at Elio for just a minute.

"They have their strengths," Moxie says of her alliance. "They're also not at war with each other the way your alliance seems to be."

"My allies aren't at war with each other," the One boy responds. "At least not yet they aren't."

Moxie rolls her eyes, again questioning why in the world she's decided to humor this bitch. It's for information, she reminds herself. If you want to win, you need all the information on as many people as possible.

"Tell me about one of them then," Moxie sternly commands. "Your pick."

Again, Gremory ruminates for a while before answering. "So you know the Two girl? Belacaine?"

Moxie nods. Really, she wanted information on somebody besides one of the trained Careers. She knows their business like the back of her hand: glorify violence and win out of selfishness. But, she did tell Gremory he could pick whoever he wants to talk about, so she can't complain.

"Well, she's not actually trained, at least not really," Gremory begins, a gasp escaping Moxie's lips. Suddenly, she's way more interested in what Gremory has to say about her. "From what I've gathered, she dropped out of the Academy at some point during her teenage years because she wasn't improving at the same rate as her peers. Still, she masquerades as if she knows everything there is to know about training, when that couldn't be further from the truth. Of course, she could've been playing her skills down whenever I saw her training, but I sincerely doubt it, since nobody can be that bad on purpose. I guess that explains her low training score too."

She presses her lips into a line. That definitely does explain her low score, but it doesn't explain her partners. Is the Two boy not trained either? Based on the stick up his ass keeping his posture in check, it doesn't seem likely.

"Does the same go for the boy?" Moxie decides to ask Gremory, even if his deal was information on just one of his allies.

The One boy shakes his head. "Oh, Lorian's trained alright; he just sucks."

She chuckles, even though she shouldn't since this whole thing is definitely not a laughing matter. "So are you telling me the Twos aren't really a threat? Maybe they were downplaying their skills."

"Basically, yes, that's what I'm saying." Gremory nods. "If you want, you can keep an eye on them both during the bloodbath. I doubt either will get a kill in — so there's proof for you."

Moxie shrugs. "For your sake, I certainly hope they don't."

Again, she doesn't trust him. Gremory's far too severe a person for Moxie to even take seriously. She has no doubts that he'll be a threat in the Games, but that doesn't change the fact he's fucking ridiculous. Maybe she's making a mistake by engaging with him, but in the worst case scenario, she'll just sic Dasani onto him.

(More than anything, he reminds her of her step-father, Cache, the epitome of male toxicity and ridiculousness. Gremory's the kind of guy that expects everything to go his way or else he'll throw a fit, and oh how Moxie despises such a mindset. She can only hope he ends up the same way Cache did.)

"Now tell me about one of your allies," the One boy says. "You can pick too."

"Elio from Ten," Moxie flatly states. "He's the one who caused all the problems at the parade."

"Trust me, I know who he is," Gremory remarks. "What's his deal?"

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there," Moxie chides him. "At first I was hesitant to get too close to him since his little outburst made him rather hated, but I just had to know what was going on in his head."

"Makes sense," Gremory says with a nod. "What exactly did you find out about him?"

"Mainly that he's fucking stupid," she answers. "His whole agenda seems to be promoting animal rights and world peace, but who the hell has time for that genre of bullshit in Panem? Like genuinely, who?"

"Him apparently. Unless he's hiding something."

"That's what I was about to say!" Moxie exclaims. "He cares so much about animals I have a hard time believing that he genuinely cares about people, if you're picking up what I'm putting down."

Gremory better be picking it up because Moxie truthfully has no idea what the hell she's putting down.

"Cannibalism?" The One boy asks with a too-gleeful smirk on his face.

Y'know what? I'll take that, why not. How on earth Gremory came to that conclusion is beyond her, but he seems awfully convinced so again, Moxie humors him. "Yes, actually. He's made a whole stink about never eating animals or animal products, but he's seemed to exclude humans from that. Or, he's never mentioned people, at least."

"Makes sense to me." Gremory nods. "Though respectfully, I don't know if he'd eat somebody two days into the Games. Is he really that insane?"

"I hope not," Moxie answers. "But, if I see you from the corner of my eye, I'll try to pull Elio aside and have a conversation with him that's loud enough for you to hear."

Earlier today Moxie already had great success in manipulating Elio into thinking whatever she wants him to think. It shouldn't be too difficult to mimic such a move.

"That seems fair," Gremory replies. He gets up from his seat and extends his hand towards Moxie. She doesn't dare touch it, because that would imply some degree of respect. "Where do you reckon we will meet up in two days?"

"The Cornucopia," she says. It seems like a decent central location. Moxie will just have to ensure her alliance settles close enough to it. "How does that sound to you?"

"Excellent," Gremory responds, putting on his shoes. "It's a pleasure doing business with you, Moxie."

"Yeah, something like that."

She leads him to the door, examining his every move to ensure he doesn't meddle with something he shouldn't be near. When Gremory finally leaves the apartment, Moxie leans against the wall and sighs. Somehow, she's not sure if she got anything out of that conversation other than frustration, but she'll find a way to put her knowledge of the Twos into action. It'll be a lot easier to prove than Gremory's theory of Elio being a cannibal, that's for sure.

As she attempts to venture to her room once more, Moxie hears another knock at the door. She sighs. Is Gremory back for more? Or did fuckin' Edric forget his keys again. She's been dealing with idiots for three days now; Moxie doesn't have much desire to deal with more of them. Sure, she can be an extrovert when she needs to be one, and for the most part Moxie is an extrovert, but that doesn't change the fact she needs her rest and relaxation time just like any human being. It's especially important now because of the Games starting tomorrow.

(Sure, Moxie did tell her allies that they could stop by her apartment if they needed something, but she was hoping they wouldn't need anything and she'd finally get some peace and quiet. Even if she'll never admit it lucidly, this is on her.)

Not bothering to give more thought as to who it is, Moxie takes a deep breath than opens the door. Even though in hindsight, it makes perfect sense, Ripley was somehow the last person Moxie expected to see standing before her. She figured Ripley would want to sleep off some of her nervous energy, but her not being able to sleep is equally understandable.

"Good evening, Ripley," Moxie addresses them, one hand on her hip. "How goes things?"

The Tribute from Five sighs. "Things have b-been better, t-to be honest."

Even if every excruciating detail Moxie's learned regarding Ripley's home life has been awful to say the least, Moxie doesn't expect the night before the Games to be a highlight of their existence. Still, Moxie has trouble thinking of a scenario where Ripley was genuinely happy, save for last night's score reveal. Not that she really feels bad for them; it's just something she's noticed.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Moxie hums. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"W-we could talk," Ripley shrugs then answers. "Would that b-be okay w-with you? I-if you're tired. I u-understand."

"I'm not tired at all," Moxie lies. But really, she can't be tired now. Even if she was able to build an empire in just four days, she can't slack off and let it all crumble down around her. "Do you want to sit on the couch?"

Ripley nods, Moxie taking it as a sign to grab her wrist and lead her through the apartment. Even if she tolerates Ripley far more than she does Gremory, there's a strange sense of deja vu building up in her chest as she walks. Sure, she sits with Ripley on the couch and doesn't care about how close they are, because ultimately it doesn't matter. At the end of the day, both Ripley and Gremory are just people to use and then destroy when they've served their purpose. Any distinctions don't matter.

Despite them being a fair bit taller than her, when Moxie's by Ripley's side, they somehow shrink. Moxie's unsure if that's from her domineering nature or the fact Ripley's just generally derelict, but she takes it as a good thing about herself nevertheless.

"So," Moxie begins. "What's up?"

"Mainly f-fear for t-tomorrow," Ripley answers, confirming what was already obvious. Her voice shakes as she speaks, something she'd been doing less and less of since the first day of training. That's how Moxie knows that Ripley's genuinely terrified. Yesterday, they hardly stuttered at all.

"I understand why you'd be afraid," Moxie tells her ally. "The Games are going to be a lot more fast-paced than our time together in the Capitol for sure, but that doesn't mean we're going to be active on our feet the whole time, y'know. There's going to be downtime, especially as the numbers dwindle, so we should be fine."

Not that Moxie expects Ripley'll be alive as the amount of Tributes gets lower. Still, that's what Ripley wants to hear, so Moxie has no problem saying it.

"B-but w-what i-if I die?" Ripley somberly asks. "D-do y-oyu a-actually think I could l-last long?"

Again, Moxie lies. "Oh, you definitely could. It's just a matter of staying alert and listening to me. I'm going to make sure you succeed, and that's a promise."

"R-really?" Ripley's eyes widen like she's a puppy dog.

"Of course," Moxie says. "I care about you, remember?"

"Y-you do?"

Moxie nods. Really, she's never cared about anybody in her nineteen years. Why would she form attachments to sentient beings that'd stand in the way between her and her success?

(Why should she get close to anybody when they could be like her mother? They could be a selfish bootlicker who failed to acknowledge their own child, instead seeing them as an accessory to put on and forget about.

Why should she get close to anybody when they could be like her stepfather? They could be emotionally manipulative, every word from their mouth acrid until their memories become nothing but poison.

Why should she get close to anybody when they could be like all the crooks and fraudsters she met on Six's streets? They could all have ulterior motives, practically begging to unleash their claws on the first person that gets too close to them and willing to pay away their sins as if that'd even work.

Why should Moxie Adegoke fully let anybody into her world when the only person who's consistently been there for her is herself?)

"T-thank you," Ripley coos, now sounding rather relieved. "Y-you know Moxie, I c-care about you t-too."

Really? I had no clue — it's not like you've been following me around for four days or anything. Moxie fakes a smile, because she's happy for all the wrong reasons and she knows that's bad. She knows she shouldn't be happy that this innocent squirrel of a person cares about her because all she's going to do is use them and this just makes it easier. Sure, Ripley probably won't betray her, but Moxie'd be damned before she took any sort of risk, especially when she's not completely sure that they're hiding something from her.

"That makes me really happy to hear, Ripley." Moxie scratches at their scalp, some of her hair already beginning to grow back.

"Y-yeah?" Ripley beams. "I'm g-going to p-protect you in the a-arena too. I can u-use all m-my medical knowledge. And t-then you'll be safe. Besides, I doubt F-five wants me back. Y-you'd be a much better victor than m-me."

"Don't say that!" Moxie hides the joy that statement brings her. "You'd be a great victor, Ripley. I believe in you, I promise."

They don't say anything in response, instead letting tears roll from her eyes and fall down her face. This time, Ripley doesn't do anything to prevent themself from crying, instead sitting idly as the tears flow onto her shirt. After nearly a minute of staring at Moxie, Ripley wipes a tear and finally speaks. "Y-you're t-the f-first p-person my a-age to actually b-believe in m-me. Thank y-you."

"Of course."

Ripley rests their head atop Moxie's, their tears sliding off her face and onto Moxie's neck. She wipes a tear off her skin, an unfamiliar feeling rising in her stomach. Is it regret, guilt, even? Whatever it is, Moxie doesn't want to find out.

She can either continue feeling bad for Ripley or she can continue her upwards trajectory towards success. Ultimately, she knows she'll always choose the latter.

---

Thana Achillea. 17.
District Eleven Female.

---

If, three days ago, you told Thana that she'd be spending her last night of guaranteed life on a balcony with a literal gremlin, she'd have laughed in your face. Actually, she wouldn't laugh per say, as laughing is a new skill of hers, something she only knows because of one Melchior Kolmogorov. Maybe that's giving them more credit than they deserve, but Thana can't deny that life before meeting them was a whole lot less amusing.

Ironically, the last time Thana laughed back in Eleven was when she was at the orchard, watching with wild eyes as she delivered retribution on the society that wronged her and sealing her fate as one of the twenty-four damned to the arena come morning. She was sure she'd never laugh again after that, too. Yet, the past forty-eight hours of Thana Achillea's life have been filled with more laughter than she thought she was capable of producing.

(If Sage, or even Megaera saw her like this, chances are they'd be laughing too, though for different reasons. For once, Thana is able to ignore thoughts of whatever those may be. She has something— somebody who's more important now.)

Here, on the sofa of District Five's apartment, a sketchbook on her lap, a charcoal pencil in her hand, and Melchior sitting across from her with their signature smirk, Thana feels a whole lot more at home than she ever did back in Eleven. Even though they're a fan of lightning, Melchior makes Thana feel nearly as warm as fire does, and that's saying something. Never did Thana think she'd reach such a profound level of closeness with somebody, much less in only a few days.

(Though she doesn't think of Sage and Megaera, there's still something terrible running through Thana's mind. She's tried to silence this particular thought on several occasions, but it always returns.

What if you die tomorrow?

…or worse…

What if Melchior leaves you tomorrow?

She wishes she could tell herself there's not a chance in hell of that happening, but that's what she said about Sage.)

"Hey Thana," Melchior says, their sketchbook tucked against their chest. "I'm going to tell you something right now, and I don't think you're going to like it."

Unless you tell me that you've hated me this entire time, I think I'll like it. Thana sighs. When did she become like this? What the hell happened to the girl carved from ice and why has she chosen now to start melting?

"I'm waiting then," Thana hums.

Even if Melchior appears to be quite the fan of hers, Thana can't tell him that she feels the same way about them. It'd probably weird them out, especially considering Thana doesn't really know how to phrase compliments, or most sentences really. With the Games tomorrow, the last thing Thana needs to be is overbearing.

Melchior cackles. "I think I'm really fucking awful at art."

Thana tilts her head to the side and grimaces. "Are you now? Why do you say that?"

While she's definitely amused by whatever Melchior considers "awful art," she's a smidge afraid as well. A large portion of the things Melchior has said to her thus far involve them being the best at everything, even if that isn't true. The fact they've actually admitted to being bad at something is rather frightening.

Melchior holds their sketchbook over their face, still not revealing what they've drawn. "Promise me you won't laugh at what I'm about to show you."

"I don't think I can promise that," Thana replies. If she does laugh, it's their fault. They're the one who showed her how to laugh in the first place.

"Fair enough." Melchior nods, then slowly begins to turn around their piece of art. Ripe with anticipation, Thana sits on the edge of her seat, her eyes darting with anticipation for whatever it is on the paper. As the sketch makes its way into Thana's line of sight, nerves (the good kind, for once) bubble in her stomach.

When she finally sees the page in its entirety, she gasps and then bursts into laughter. Whatever the hell Thana was thinking she'd see, this is a hundred times worse.

It appears as though Melchior attempted to draw her, but they really did the worst possible job. Though he likely did his best to capture Thana's curls, two ovals on the side of her head and one longer ellipse sticking out from the top doesn't cut it. The addition of circular scribbles in the center of said "hair" doesn't do it any favors. Thana's face doesn't really look like a face either. The features are in all of the right spots, but her nose is the same shape as her hair only upside down and her eyes are unrealistically round and squished together. At least they drew her smiling…

"What's wrong?" Melchior asks as Thana is unable to stop her cackling. "I was trying to draw you!"

She stammers, "You know what's wrong, idiot."

"Not really," they protest, tone laced with sarcasm. "When I said you wouldn't like it, I was sorta fishing for compliments."

Thana shrugs then wipes the tears that have begun to form in her eyes. That's a new one, she thinks. Laughing so hard that you start to cry. "I don't have any compliments to give you."

"Then can you give me some constructive criticism?" Melchior preens.

"I suppose," Thana says. She takes a deep breath and looks at the drawing, letting out another chuckle because she still hasn't gotten over just how atrocious it is. "I'll start with my hair. Not to be crass, but it looks rather phallic."

"You mean it looks like a dick?" He looks at his sketchbook and rolls their eyes. "You're allowed to say that word, you know. Unless you're afraid of dicks."

"I'm not afraid of male genitalia," she tells them, but the truth is Thana hasn't thought of them enough to develop a fear, something she still intends not to do. "But, as an asexual homosexual, I would prefer if one was not on my head. Or upside down on my nose."

Melchior nods eagerly. "When you put it that way, I see where you're coming from. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," Thana insists. "This work of art has been, in an odd way, enjoyable to look at. I'd say it's so bad it's good, but it's not. It's just really bad, but sort of funny."

"Is what you did any better?" they ask, as if it's not obvious that literally a stick figure would be better than their atrocity.

"I'm not done with my notes yet," she remarks, the smile on her face only growing wider. "While I do appreciate the expression I have on my face, I'm lacking eyebrows and also my eyes look rather… breasty."

"I can see that too." Melchior chuckles. "Thank you for the constructive criticism. I appreciate how dedicated you are to improving my skills as an artist."

"Anytime," Thana says. "As my best, and only pupil, I only want you to be successful."

They burst into hysterics which makes Thana's cheeks feel warm. Did she just… tell a joke? And did Melchior just… laugh at it?

As bad as Thana considers herself with compliments, she knows that she's even worse when it comes to telling jokes. Mainly, that's because people tend to laugh at her, not with her, and most of the time, Thana isn't even trying to be funny. But here, she was, and oddly enough, it actually worked. Even if Melchior's not exactly the most difficult person to make laugh, Thana will take her successes where she can get them.

(This may be the last time she's able to do such a thing. Come tomorrow, it's very likely she'll somehow fail the way she always does.)

"Okay, but show me what you drew," Melchior begs, widening their eyes like one of those elderly dogs with crusty white fur. "I promise I won't laugh at it."

"You'd better not," Thana says. She looks down at her sketchpad and smiles. While she has the tendency to be down on herself about nearly everything she does, Thana knows that she's actually pretty good at drawing. It's one of the initial reasons Sage decided to be friends with her. Even if the other girl later said that all of Thana's drawings are awful, she's learned with time that Sage was probably just bitter. Most people in Eleven are, much like the grapes in the vineyards when they're not quite ripe yet.

Though it's abstract, Thana's drawing of herself and Melchior still looks more like actual people than their drawing of her. She portrayed herself as Cthugha, a fictitious deity that takes the form of a giant ball of fire. Between the curling flames that make up her hair, the shading around her eyes, nose, and mouth, and the blazing claws at her side, Thana considers the portrayal accurate to herself. Melchior looks like themself too, even if Thana took inspiration from the Cgfthgnm'o'th, a ginormous lightning monster for him. With their bald head, piercing eyes, and signature smile prominent in the drawing, it's easy to tell it's Melchior. Not to mention, she's used their massive scar as the start of the beast's scales, some of the pattern stretching down all the way to their tentacles. Even if it's not Thana's best drawing since the Tribute apartments didn't exactly have a wide assortment of art supplies, overall she's happy with it.

"Well, I drew both of us," Thana proclaims before turning over the sketchbook to show Melchior. "I know that we're not really people here, but—"

"No, no; shut the fuck up!" they interrupt. "This is fucking incredible, Thana. What the actual fuck?"

"Thank you." Thana curls back into her seat, not sure what she's supposed to say to that. "I'm glad you like it."

"Like it?" Melchior's brows furrow. "Dude, I fucking love it. Do you mind if I get a closer look?"

Thana nods, prompting Melchior to stand up from their chair and amble closer to her. Instinctively, Thana recoils. Usually when people walk up to her, it's because they have a problem with her and want to say something that Thana'd prefer not to hear. But Melchior's expression is gentle and excited, and that's something Thana doesn't know what to do about. She gets the feeling that somebody being genuinely interested in her and everything she does will never not faze her. Alas, it's not her fault that she's spent so much of her life feeling so terribly empty.

Melchior reaches out toward Thana's notebook, so she raises it in front of him. Now that they're closer to her, Thana can really see just how enthralled they are by what she's created, the look on their face almost as bright as fire itself. It's probably the longest Melchior's gone without saying something, instead soaking up each and every detail of Thana's drawing.

When he finally steps away, Melchior claps their hands together and beams, "Clouds above, Thana, you are fucking unbelievable. I always knew you could draw well, but this might just be the best thing I've ever seen."

Thana gulps. If this is the best they've seen, Melchior clearly hasn't seen much art, but their words are sweet regardless. She tries to say something, an expression of gratitude for Melchior's kindness, but the words are thick like taffy and Thana can't push them out.

In her silence, Melchior just continues to speak. "It's just so detailed and even though it's grayscale, it might as well be full color because everything in this drawing just feels so alive. Even though the figures aren't human, they really do look just like us. That's what's most impressive, the way you've somehow captured the human psyche in something out of fantasy."

Again, Thana's unable to say anything in response. She does her best not to make an uncomfortable expression. If she did, Melchior would probably assume it's because she doesn't like what they're saying when really it's because she doesn't know what to say back.

"Hey, you know what?" Melchior raises their hand in front of Thana's face. "You get a high-five for sharing this excellence with me."

Her eyes widen. It's been so long since Thana's seen two people clap their hands together in joy, she can't quite form a picture of it in her mind. It's been even longer since she engaged in a high-five with somebody herself, if that's even something that's happened ever. But, here Melchior is, ready to enact a physical gesture of camaraderie and endearment with her.

What the hell am I supposed to do about that?

Slowly, Thana raises her right hand so it's about the same height as Melchior's. Though she's shaking, she grits her teeth and presses out the words, "I'm ready… for the high-five."

"Let's fucking go!" Melchior hollers and the following moments play out in slow motion.

Their hand creeps toward hers, fingers curled in excitement and sparks flying out from their palm. As Melchior's skin gets closer to hers, those sparks turn to embers and then flames. When they finally touch, it's like an inferno.

A chill runs down Thana's spine, her hand still lingering in the air as Melchior returns his own to their side. As if nothing happened, they tilt their head and playfully stick out their tongue.

"Thank you…" Thana mutters, her hand still warm from Melchior's brief touch. "I enjoyed that…"

"Dear lord, you are so fucking weird." They shake their head. "I mean that in a good way."

She nods, slowly lowering her hand. As Melchior returns to their seat, Thana wonders, when was the last time somebody touched me?

She can't come up with an answer other than all of the times she tickled herself with fire so she'd feel alive, even if just for a second. Even if she enjoyed her charred skin and obscured fingerprints as they were from fire and fire is what loves her, this encounter with Melchior feels different. Thana's not yet sure if it's in a good way or a bad way.

(Good, because she's found somebody that makes her feel like everything when she was told her whole life that she was nothing. She never thought that'd happen to her.)

(Bad, because it could all come crashing down within a matter of seconds, leaving her all alone with the fire yet again. She's not sure it'd be enough anymore.)

"You're weird too," Thana says. "I'm glad you liked my drawing of us, but if you thought that was cool, I'm afraid all of my drawings back in Eleven would make you faint."

Melchior's face softens. Chances are, they're thinking the exact same thing as Thana, that they'll never get the chance to see her other drawings. Even if they did win the Games, chances are, Megaera wouldn't let them near her house, much less into Thana's room to see all the works she kept hidden from her.

"I can imagine them," Melchior proposes, but Thana knows that it's not the same. "Or, if you win, you can take me back to Eleven with you and we can spend the whole day looking at them together."

Right. Thana reminds herself. They think they're immortal.

Thana's never had it in her to correct them, but she especially doesn't now. She knows it's unrealistic, but considering the monsters that are always roaming around in her mind, she doesn't think she has room to talk. Besides, if she really is like fire, Thana's immortal in her own way too. Flames never die; they always come back to haunt somebody else.

(But she doesn't want to haunt anybody anymore. For once, Thana's content in being herself.)

"That'd be nice," she remarks. "That'd be really nice."

She reclines further and takes a deep breath. Every passing second brings the two of them closer to the Games despite Thana's constant urges to light time itself ablaze, as if that was somehow possible. She knows that the two of them need to figure out some sort of a strategy or plan that isn't finding one another and playing everything else by ear, but talking about the Games would just cement the fact they're real.

If Thana could have it her way, she'd sit in this chair forever, permanently living in this moment of bliss where nothing can hurt her. Besides, it's not like she has anything in Eleven to return to. Really, staying in this moment, one Thana's beginning to suspect may be the best of her entire life, is the most ideal scenario she's ever constructed. She could go through every page in this notebook with Melchior at her side, filling each one with a different monster until she runs out of space, erases, and starts over all again.

Here in this bubble, Thana's free to create.

Tomorrow in the Games, Thana will once again be forced to destroy.

(After all, it's what she does best.)

"You know, I'm kind of excited for tomorrow," Melchior says, a statement which immediately catches Thana off guard.

"Why's that?"

They smirk. "Well, we've had such a good time here in the Capitol, I can only imagine what it'd be like when we're finally able to run free."

"I suppose." Yet, Thana'd still give anything to be confined here instead if it meant no danger or ticking clocks. "Is it bad that I'm a bit scared?"

"Not at all," Melchior replies. "I was scared too, but then I saw it like this: tomorrow, as scary as it seems, doesn't have to be an ending. Really, it's more like the beginning."

She raises a brow. "The beginning of what?"

"Us," they say. "Once that gong rings, Thana, the world doesn't belong to the Peacekeepers or the Capitol or the assholes in our Districts or anybody else. When the clock strikes zero, the world belongs to us."

"Us," Thana repeats.

Her and Melchior, together despite death doing everything to split them apart. Together as the entire world falls down at their feet, begging for the mercy they'll laugh and refuse to give. She really does like the sound of that.

---

Asherah Uzeram. 18.
District Seven Female.

---

She gets the feeling Edric isn't going to leave her.

That's not much of a problem though. Asherah enjoys his company. It is, however, getting a bit late, and if tomorrow has the potential to be the last day of her life - hopefully it isn't - she'd like, at the very least, to be well rested for it.

Simply telling Edric "This has been nice, but it's time for you to go," would sound far more caustic than Asherah wishes to come off as. Especially now that Edric's been far more open with her than Asherah ever thought he was capable of being. To dismiss him after he's been so vulnerable would be plain cruel.

It would also imply that Asherah wants to get rid of him which, well, couldn't be further from the truth. She just is beginning to worry about tomorrow and she doesn't want Edric to bear sight of what she's like when she's worried. The last time Asherah Uzeram was worried, well…

"Khaya's running a fever!" Asherah shouts, one hand on the Mayor's daughter's forehead and the other cradling her firstborn daughter. The older woman looks at Asherah, an uneasy expression on her face. She tells her, "Don't worry ma'am. Everything's going to be fine."

Everything's going to be fine, she repeats inside her head. I'm going to handle this the best I can, and everybody is going to be alright.

Deep down, she's not so sure.

"Can I do something to help?" Hadassah asks.

Asherah's hands tremble as she puts the healthy baby in a bassinet. Can she do something?

She remembers what her mother told her, the basics: prioritize the mother's life over the baby. Still, it feels wrong to leave an unborn baby for dead.

Khaya coughs.

It'd be worse to leave somebody who has an entire life for dead, Asherah tells herself. It'd be worse if something awful happened to Khaya, especially when one of her babies is already alive. As awful as it sounds for her to say, one baby is better than none.

"Can you help Khaya deliver the second baby?" Asherah asks Hadassah, trying her best not to sound as stressed as she is. "I'll focus on making sure her first baby as well as Anthia's daughter is healthy."

"What if I have trouble?" Hadassah's brows furrow. "You did say just now that she's sick."

Asherah sighs. "Prioritize her over the baby."

The words come out slowly but she knows she's doing the right thing.

"Try to deliver the second baby though," she adds. "Just if it comes down to it… you know who to pick."

Asherah grips the bassinet's handles and begins wheeling the baby outside of the room and into the intensive care unit.

Everything's going to be fine. She inhales. Everything's going to be alright.

Even though her job demands she deals with high stress situations well, considering how the last one turned out, Asherah doesn't want to be subjected to another one. Especially not one that concerns her own life - dealing with the lives of babies was strenuous enough.

(Not just her life now; Edric's, too.)

"Are you okay, Asherah?"

About half an hour ago, she suggested the two of them put on a movie - something lighthearted like the films she used to show birthing mothers so they'd relax. She doesn't quite understand what she's watching now, but it's better than being alone with her thoughts. Still, despite her screen being graced with a bright-haired lady in a boat with a prince whilst a lobster sings of romance, Asherah's mind is elsewhere.

She takes a deep breath and sighs. "I'm fine, Edric."

"Are you?" He tilts his head to the side and squints. "You've been shaking since before this song."

Have I been? Oh, that's embarrassing. "I just really like the rhythm. You don't need to worry about me."

Asherah fixes her eyes back on the screen, knowing that if she looks at Edric for any longer, she'll be tempted to let her guard down and share her mental burdens. He's dealing with his own struggles, he doesn't need hers on top of them. Besides, an abusive mother is far more concerning than her nervousness. To talk about it now would be insensitive.

Edric interjects. "I know I don't have to be, but I am worried about you."

She rolls her eyes. So much for prioritizing myself over everyone else here. Though she shouldn't, Asherah is worried for Edric too. Everything he's said tonight has been laced with uneasiness. She doesn't want him to be uncomfortable on a night he's nearly convinced is his last.

"Fine then," Edric says when Asherah doesn't respond. "You don't have to tell me what's going on. I just assumed that you'd want to because I told you about my mother and everything, but if that makes you uncomfortable, I understand. Really, I shouldn't have told you. I bet you think I'm pressuring you now and that—"

"I don't think you're pressuring me," Asherah cuts him off. "It's just that…"

(It's just that what? It's just that you've spent so much time helping others, you now refuse to let them help you? It's just that admitting you have problems just like everyone you've worked with would mean you're less than them? Is that what it is, Asherah? Do you not want to be vulnerable? Are you afraid of being vulnerable and asking for help because that's what you did with Hadassah and now you're here, on the verge of dying?)

"…I don't know where to start," she admits.

Edric tucks his chin into his neck. "I didn't know where to start either. I guess that's why I started with the beginning, which is, well… my mother's business."

"My beginning has to do with my mother's business as well," Asherah says. "She didn't do anything illegal like your's did, but she did raise me in her footsteps. Do you know what a midwife is?"

"Those people who deliver babies?" Edric asks. "I've read about them, yeah, but I've never met one. People in Six are usually too poor for help giving birth to a kid. They sort of just do it themselves and hope it comes out breathing."

There's something about his words that upset Asherah. How odd it is that her livelihood, basically everything she knows, is all but obsolete in another person's land. Maybe this means she's lucky. Maybe this means she shouldn't share further because her problems are so minuscule in the grand scheme of things.

"Why'd you ask?" Edric notices her silence - there's been so much of it tonight, huh?

Asherah exhales. "I'm a midwife."

"Oh, cool," he remarks. "I guess I have met one then."

"Yes, you have." She nods her head then continues. "My mother was a midwife too, as you could've probably inferred. She trained me to be just like her, and well…"

How does Asherah even put into words what happened?

She messed up? No, she didn't physically do anything that night that led to the baby's death.

She trusted the wrong person? No, Hadassah's her best friend, even if that's only by default.

She bit off more than she could chew? Maybe. That still sounds just… juvenile.

"There was a misunderstanding," Asherah finally chooses to say. "My friend - who happens to be the midwife daughter of my mother's midwife friend - and I had a bit of a misunderstanding. We had to deliver three babies at once, and well, only two of them made it."

"That's still better than none of them making it, or only one of them." Edric's eyes widen, almost as if he doesn't quite understand Asherah's predicament.

"It was the mayor's daughter's baby," she further explains.

Edric shrugs. "Well then, I can see how that'd lead you here, but I still don't think that makes you a bad midwife if that's what you're worried about."

Is it? Truthfully, Asherah isn't sure. Maybe she's more afraid that this miscommunication has probably cost her her life, one she never fully got the chance to live - just like the baby her instructions helped slaughter. She could very well die tomorrow, and if that's the case, what sort of a legacy would that leave her, one of a midwife who couldn't even do her job? Is it wrong that Asherah thinks she's destined for more than that?

"I guess I'm more worried that if I die in the following weeks, I'll be remembered as somebody who couldn't even do their job properly," Asherah tells him. "I know that's not as bad as your whole District being afraid of you, but I take my work very seriously and I'd hate to be remembered as a failure."

"I don't think you're a failure!" Edric insists. "Was that the only baby you lost in your career?"

Asherah nods.

"And what about the mothers?" he asks. "Did all of them live too?"

"They did," she says.

Edric smiles. "Then I don't think you did a bad job at being a midwife in the slightest. I'm not good with math and I don't know the exact number of people whose baby you delivered, but I'm sure your survival rate would still be close to an A+. I'm sure your mother didn't do her job absolutely perfectly. Did she ever tell you that she delivered a baby improperly or something?"

"She didn't, no." Asherah shakes her head. "That's probably because we're not really supposed to lose babies. It's a shame that I did - I don't blame her for being too humiliated to admit it if she did it herself."

"I'm sure she did at some point in her however many years," Edric says. "I know it's your job and all, but people die in Six all of the time and we've sort of collectively accepted it. Besides, it isn't the worst thing in the world if one less person is forced to deal with all of the bullshit that being alive entails. You're good at what you do, I promise."

Even though he's trying his best, his words don't quite get through to her. They've clearly been raised in very different worlds and in hers, any career failure is literally damning. She doesn't expect him to understand, though.

"It doesn't doom you for tomorrow either," Edric tacks on. "I'm sure there's some similarities, but ultimately the Games have a different needed skill set than being a midwife."

Asherah smiles ever so slightly. "Thank you."

She means it too. Even if Edric's advice wasn't the most helpful, his heart was in the right place. At a certain point, that has to be what matters most, right? Asherah's own heart was in the right place when she gave Hadassah those instructions, even if it ended in a stillborn - which wasn't Asherah's fault entirely. Edric's kindness is more than what Asherah has received from her other allies. That very well may be because she never let any of them in, but unlike Edric, they never tried.

"No problem." Edric lifts up the remote and switches off the screen. "I should probably get going for the night, but I'm going to see you tomorrow, right?"

"I hope so."

Asherah really does. In fact, she'd be beyond thrilled if the only person she saw in her alliance was Edric. When push comes to shove, he's the one who she wants to be with, not the others.

She rises to her feet to walk Edric to the apartment's door. As she strolls by his side, she whispers a question into his ear. "How do you feel about it just being us two?"

Edric squints. "What do you mean?"

"Just us," Asherah reiterates. "Sure, we'll meet up with the others at first, but after a day or two, I think we'd be better off running away. I'm not sure I feel safe in such a large group."

"Please," he says. "I'm sort of afraid of Moxie and then Ripley's obsessed with her. Dasani and Elio are morons - I'd be better off with just you."

"Then it's settled."

Asherah grins as she pushes open the front door of the apartment, gesturing for Edric to walk outside.

For once, she's convinced that it wouldn't be that much of a stretch to say that she has a fraction of a chance. It may not be much, but that small bit is all Asherah needs to hold on and never let go.

---

Charon Tricolette. 18.
District Eight Tribute.
Cw. borderline-explicit sexual imagery

---

They never thought they'd be saying this, but lord bless Gremory Rossmani.

Alright, maybe that's a bit dramatic, but truly, Charon does appreciate the One boy for helping push her over the edge. He already had urges, so to speak, regarding Clarion, but Charon was nervous that if they took the plunge, they'd face consequences. There's still a chance that they might, hence why they must be oh-so-careful in the coming moments.

Charon's well-aware that Gremory's trying to take advantage of them by playing into her sanguinary impulses and they refuse to outright let him. They'll indulge in whatever this plan of his is for now for their own benefits, but if Gremory thinks he's somehow getting a leg up over Charon, it'd be best if he thought of something else.

Even if Charon wasn't growing bored of Clarion, if they didn't know he was cheating on them (again, thank you Gremory), they'd probably still go through with killing him. It's been forty-six days since he dirtied his hands with the soul of an unsuspecting fool and they'd be lying if they said they didn't miss it. That, and they're now out of practice, a problem given that tomorrow is the start of the Games.

This won't hurt much… at least not for Charon it won't.

(Isn't that what matters? Above all else isn't the only thing that matters simply Tricky! Trick! Charon! Does anything else bear relevance besides the scantily clad harlequin throwing knives at a target, the entire world spinning in the palm of their hand? Is there something more important than a killer who didn't bother to take off their makeup before butchering man-after-man night-after-night?

He doubts it.)

"How are you doing, sweetheart?" Clarion chirps from underneath them, his voice so sing-song 'cause he doesn't yet know what's about to happen to him.

Charon arches their back, one hand making a fistful of the Three boy's hair and the other crawling down his spine. It feels refreshing to be back where they belong, cold skin touching that of another and sweat dripping down their cheeks, neck, collarbones.

"I've never been better," Charon says with a moan. His heart throbs underneath his chest with every rise and fall whilst their hips grind and thrust against Clarion's back. "There's no place I'd rather be…"

(They aren't sure they mean it.

Yes, there truly is nothing like making lust to somebody else, but deep inside, Charon knows this thrill doesn't even hold a candle to the one they felt when they were performing. Oh, how it saddens them that the closest they'll ever get to performing at Circus of the Divine once more is killing in the Games. At least they'll still be a spectacle. At least Charon will still have that…)

Clarion snakes his fingers across the bed, his chest flattening onto the sheets as Charon lays on top of him. They curl their fingers into his shoulders, press their nails into his skin, and drag their hands down his back, a giggle escaping the back of their throat as Clarion winces.

"Did that hurt?" Charon asks, not particularly caring about the answer. She spreads her thighs and straddles them around Clarion's waist then lowers themself so their lips are grazing against his ear. "I can make it hurt more."

"You can?" Clarion groans, his hips swaying back and forth.

"Of course," they drawl. With a quick thrust, Charon nibbles at the Three boy's earlobe then pulls their head away from him. "All I ask is that you beg for it."

If he begs, Charon can't feel bad about what they'll do to him. If he begs, it's not their fault when he can't take the heat.

(As if that makes anything better, freak.)

As Charon watches the Three boy struggle to push out the words, he notices there's something oddly peaceful about him. Even as he writhes, Clarion seems to be at ease, as if he enjoys his discomfort. It makes Charon stop and think, Well this is a lot less fun, isn't it?

Dice's words - why now? - echo in her ears, "Charon, you sick fuck. You can't just kill people for fun!"

If only they had the courage to reply, "Sure I can, and I'll kill you next."

Maybe then Charon wouldn't feel such a thrill when Clarion groans, "P-please…"

"Please what?" They beckon him.

As Charon returns her hands to his hair, pulling backward with her fist close to the root, the Three boy's lips curl into a smile. Why is he smiling? He isn't supposed to like this.

Yet, Clarion does, utter pleasure in his voice when he begs, "H-hurt…"

"Hurt who?" Again, Charon teases.

It's almost as if Clarion doesn't understand. It's almost as if he doesn't know that the number one mistake any man can make is agreeing to enter Charon Tricolette's bed.

(How the hell is he supposed to know?)

The near-juvenile grin on his face almost makes Charon actually feel bad for him — emphasis on almost. They remind themself, You don't mean anything to him. He's a worthless piece of trash and he cheated on you. There's no need for you, a king, to feel sympathy for a mere peasant at the foot of your throne.

(As if Charon's a king and not an undesirable, unwanted, unloved jester.)

"Hurt m-m-me..."

And there they are, the words Clarion will soon regret letting leave his lips.

(The words you'll soon regret letting him say.)

Charon removes his hands from the Three boy's hair and places them beside his shoulders. He pushes his body upward and rolls to the left, freeing himself from Clarion's flesh. They slide off the bed and wipe the sweat off their inner thighs with a towel on the bedside table. Though they can hear Clarion shivering, whimpering and begging for them to hurt him, Charon turns her head so they don't have to see.

(If they don't see, there's less of a chance they'll feel bad.)

Clarion's just… so innocent and pure despite being Three's most revered pariah. Even though he hacked bank upon bank and committed fraud upon fraud until his whole house was filled with lies, Clarion is, at his core, somebody misunderstood. He just wanted to be financially independent from his family, but then things spiraled and he wound up here.

Charon Tricolette is well aware that they're a bad person, but they can't say the same when it comes to Clarion Bohr.

(They can't say the same thing about Sapphira Starlett either. She's starry-eyed and mystical, an ingenue despite the perils of the world she's surely been exposed to. Yet, Charon doesn't want to hurt her. Is it because she's a woman?

No. It's because she has tenacity. Clarion doesn't.)

(Why does that mean he deserves to die?)

It's because he cheated. He sees Charon as a tool and that's why he cheated, and with Lycra nevertheless. He did it 'cause he knew it'd anger Charon, and that's clearly what Clarion wants.

(Want. Want. Want. Is there anything that Charon doesn't want? Will anything ever be enough for them?)

They wrap their hand around the bedroom's curtain and take a deep breath. This isn't something that Charon wants to do, it's something she has to do. Right?

Charon reaches as high as he can and pulls at the curtain, a semi-grating noise infiltrating his ears as the fabric tears then drops to the ground. They pull the curtain taut as they examine the chandelier hanging over the bed. This shouldn't be too difficult.

"W-what's that?" Clarion takes his eyes off his torso and darts them toward Charon. "In your h-hands?"

Charon smirks, and it's a smirk that feigns innocence too. They drawl, "You said you wanted to be punished, didn't you?"

The Three boy eagerly nods, forcing Charon to again tell themself, He want this. You're not doing a bad thing because he wants this.

They amble around the bed's perimeter, standing still once they reach the right side as they position their hands so that only a foot of the curtain hangs over their knuckles. Their eyes meet Clarion's, his pupils enlarging in lust whilst they take his hand in theirs.

"Are you going to be good for me?" Before Charon can even finish her sentence, Clarion's nodding eagerly. "Well then… Turn around on your back, why don't you."

He does as instructed, again so zealously it makes Charon's heart slightly pang. Gritting his teeth together, Clarion props himself up on a pillow. The boy's back quivers once it's suspended in the air but it's clearly from desire, not fear.

Charon flicks the curtain in a circle, letting the rope spin in the air for a moment or two before he snaps it downward at Clarion's rear. A noise escapes the Three boy's lips. Whether it's a moan or a shriek, Charon doesn't know.

They do know that they like it, though. They do know that the feeling running cold in their blood is one they missed dearly — the excitement of knowing that somebody else is at their disposal.

(But why must it be Clarion? Why can't Charon wait less than fifteen hours to instead kill a stranger?)

It's less fun that way, she reminds herself. There's something about duplicity that makes anything far more thrilling.

(So why didn't they kill Dice? Is it because in spite of their differences, there was a part of Charon that actually loved him more than they loved to kill? Was there a small bit of hope in their cold black heart that Dice could actually fix them? Did Charon actually want to be fixed?)

They whip Clarion's backside again and again, their smile widening with every sound the Three boy makes. They're smiling 'cause they enjoy this, smiling 'cause they enjoy causing pain and they'll enjoy it too when they kill Clarion, who deserves to die without even making it to the arena.

(Charon deserves to die before the arena, too. Too bad they've never been great at getting what they deserve.)

When they finally stop flogging him, Clarion sighs in disappointment. Charon doesn't let himself take it personally. "Patience, sweet one. My hands are getting a smidge tired."

Lies. All Charon tells are bloody, filthy lies. Just another thing they can add to their small list of things they're good at - killing, ruining people's expectations, deceit, performing to enhance killing.

Not wanting Clarion to see what they do next, Charon shoves his head into the pillow. "I know you won't judge, but I really would prefer you not see me in such a state of disarray."

Clarion doesn't protest, likely 'cause sex is supposed to be an act of love not bloodlust. A shame his expectations now must change.

(There was a time for Charon when sex was about love. Her and Dice's first few times were nothing but bliss, their souls intertwined like a knot, like a promise, even. As a child, Charon was never safe - either alone and on the run or working with heavy machinery no kid should ever touch. With Dice, Charon could finally say they'd found shelter.)

(Or at least they did, before they ruined it and everything else.)

Charon throws the curtain over the chandelier, screaming in fake pain to drown out the sound of the crystal charms colliding. Clarion asks them, "Are you okay?" But, Charon doesn't answer. Instead, they press their elbow into the backside of Clarion's pillow, hoping he'll see it as a sign he best shut up.

As Charon crawls onto the bed and begins to stand, they think to themself about how much easier it'd be if they simply smothered Clarion now. Easy, yes - but interesting? No. Charon knows they won't be satisfied if it isn't special. It's the least they can do, too. Clarion's going to die at some point; really, Charon's a saint for giving his death some sort of a purpose.

They wrap one edge of the curtain in a loop close to the chandeliers railing then tuck the remaining material underneath their left foot. Next, Charon runs the fabric through their hands so they can begin their knot. They make a shape resembling the number eight with the curtain's ending piece - one of the few numbers he actually knows, and only because it's the number of where he's from. They wrap the tail around the rope and then in six narrow circles until there's barely a small loop at the top. Carefully, Charon pulls the fabric through the hole and tightens to complete the knot. After observing the hole loop for a moment, Charon decides it's suitable to fit Clarion's head and neck.

Charon stretches their body across the bed, enough so that they can reach the left lamp without moving their left foot. They dim the light until they can hardly make out the shape of their own shadow and begin to breathe heavily.

You can do this, Charon. You were born to do this. Even though the last time they tried to hang somebody resulted in the rope snapping and Charon just using her knife, she's confident now that she can pull off this kill. Besides, this Capitol fabric is far more sturdy than the bedsheet they used in Eight.

(Can you do this, Charon? Were you really born to do this, or were you just so bored and lonely you turned murder into a hobby? Soon you'll get bored again. What are you going to do then?)

"Alright, I'm ready for you to do something for me," they say to Clarion, crouching over and letting their fingers graze underneath his chin.

Clarion enthusiastically replies, "I'll do it! I'm ready to do it!"

Again with the keenness, yikes! Charon feels their own eyes roll inside their skull. Doesn't he know how hard he's making this?

They sigh. Of course he doesn't.

(Because Charon isn't supposed to do this. He knows deep inside that he's not supposed to do this.)

That doesn't stop him from instructing the Three boy, "I want you to close your eyes and raise your head from the pillows. Please arch your back and keep your arms at your side. It is very important that your eyes remain closed this entire time, otherwise your surprise will be ruined. Can you do that for me?"

"Y-yes," Clarion stammers. He doesn't even hesitate before lifting himself off of the bed. "Is t-this okay?"

"It most certainly is."

Carefully, Charon places the noose on top of Clarion's head. Before they can lower it onto his shoulders, their hands begin to shake.

(This is it, Charon. If you do this, you'll be proving to Eight that they were right to send you to die. If you drop the rope, all you'll be doing is admitting that you're a monster, that you're a freak.

I am a freak.)

Gently, they let the loop touch Clarion's skin. They kneel and untuck the curtain from underneath their foot. And then, they count down in a whisper.

"three…"

Clarion begins to twitch, though his eyes are still shut.

"two…"

The Three boy opens his eyes, looks down and gasps, but before they can grasp what's happening—

"one!"

Charon pulls the curtain. Clarion's body lifts in the air and he lets out a shriek.

She meets his gaze, the boy's irises tearing with betrayal as he wheezes for air.

("I'm sorry," Charon mouths.

Clarion replies, "You're not.")

His eyes roll over, but Charon can still hear his heartbeat. Carefully, he ties the curtain around the bedpost and leaves Clarion hanging lifelessly.

There's something about him that's oddly beautiful.

Charon then swiftly folds Clarion's bedsheets underneath him. She re-fluffs the pillows and positions them in an orderly fashion, as if there was no harm. As if Clarion's death was a suicide. Charon picks the Three boy's clothing from off the ground and folds them neatly at the foot of the bed then scurries to find his own apparel.

He steps into his leather pants and throws his shirt over his head. With a deep breath, Charon then cranes their neck to get one final look at Clarion.

His heartbeat's gotten slower and his skin's already begun to grow pale and bruised. Charon gently grabs Clarions' wrist and brings his hand to their lips.

"It's been a pleasure knowing you," they whisper. "A shame I couldn't know you longer."

(It's a blessing. If Charon spent more time with the Three boy, maybe they'd get attached. If they got attached, it'd be harder for them to eventually kill him, and it'd be another conundrum like with Dice.

Charon can't afford to get attached, especially not now.)

(Besides, much like Dice, there's no way in hell that Clarion actually liked her, much less cared about her.)

He turns back on the lights then carefully pries open the door, noticing that there's nobody in the living room, probably 'cause it's late enough that Clarion's young District partner is fast asleep, same with the mentors. They shut the door behind them, refusing to allow themself another look at Clarion since they know they don't deserve it then scurries through toward the apartment door.

They're just as careful opening and shutting that one too, only exhaling once they're finally in the hallway. Much like with their previous kills, Charon wonders what the scene will be like when the body is discovered. Will it be panic? Relief? And who will it be that first finds Clarion's body? He can only hope they think it's a suicide.

Even though Clarion was one of the happier people that Charon's met, everybody's hiding something. Hopefully, people will come to the conclusion that Clarion was secretly struggling with sadness and despair and made the last-minute decision that the Games were not for him. It can't be too much of a stretch - Charon assumes people have taken their own lives prior to the Games in the past.

She pushes the button to call for the elevator and sighs. A voice inside their head tells them, "That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

(They're unsure if it was Gremory's voice or their own.)

When the elevator arrives, Charon steps inside and leans against the railings. They press the button for District Eight's apartment and sigh in relief.

Everything is going to be alright. They killed the person they were attached to and now he can't distract them in the arena. He can no longer let Charon fail.

(But there's a certain diamond-studded starlet who can. One who Charon sees when she looks in a mirror that's been shattered and cracked.)

The elevator stops at Eight's floor and the doors open. That's when the fire alarms begin to sound.

---

Lucifer Deathrage. 13.
District Twelve Male.

---

He's got two words to describe his feelings as he rides up the elevator to his birthday party and they're cautiously optimistic.

Aleister's been talking up a storm about how this charade is going to be one that Lucy never ever forgets, and while sure, that's classic Aleister behavior, Lucy's definitely intrigued. The Nine's boy's sort of a bit obsessed with Lucy, which like… who wouldn't be obsessed with literally the antichrist, so this party's got to be a hit. If it isn't, Aleister will probably throw a bitch fit about it and Lucy will have to stand there all awkwardly and say "It's okay, It's okay," even if it isn't and he'll then wonder, which one of us is babysitting who again?

Dear fuck, Lucy's life is a mess. He appreciates his father's gesture of sending two guardians into the Hunger Games with him, but they sure as hell can be annoying at times, geez. Now, don't get him wrong. Lucy does genuinely appreciate Aleister and Olathe's companionship, but there's something off about them. He'd never expect a succubus and a familiar to get along per se, and he doesn't think his two allies completely hate one another either, but, there's something lurking beneath the surface. What that thing is, he doesn't know, but it's probably some form of gay bullshit that will end in hysterics.

Enough about them, though. Today is Lucy's day, not theirs.

As the elevator rises higher and higher, Lucy's stomach begins to swirl with uncertainty. More than anything, Lucy's hoping that when the doors finally open, his father is standing in front of them with the universe's most proud smile on his face. He'll clap and cheer, then gesture for Lucy to come closer to him, saying, "Happy birthday, my darling son! I'm so proud of you." Then, Lucy will cuddle up in his father's arms and he'll be so happy and so fulfilled, he'll probably spontaneously combust or some shit.

(He knows that's not going to happen. He knows that his "father" has far more important things to deal with than juvenile, pathetic Lucy.)

"Are we there yet?" Lucy taps on Olathe's shoulder as the eleven on the elevator screen turns into a twelve. "This has got to be the longest fucking elevator ride of my entire life!"

"Patience," the Seven boy instructs.

Lucy sighs. "Right. Patience."

He spent the last few hours sequestered in Olathe's room while Aleister "set up" for the party, and lord what a snooze those hours were. Maybe Lucy was just so nervous and excited for his birthday, anything else was boring in comparison, or maybe Olathe is just genuinely a boring dude when he doesn't have Aleister to poke fun at.

Then again, Lucy didn't say much to the Seven boy. He knows that Olathe's responsibility is to protect him, but still Lucy can't help himself from being slightly afraid of him. He once heard one of his mothers complaining to somebody about how difficult it is when you're incredibly beautiful, so perhaps that's why Lucy's now afraid of Olathe. Because he's incredibly beautiful, and well… if his mother Countess is a good example, being beautiful means being dangerous.

Lucy doesn't quite know what she gets up to in her spare time, but considering how many people are willing to kiss her feet just so she'll talk to them for a minute, it must be riveting. His other mother, Lilith, said to Lucy once that it's best if he doesn't know about Countess' practices, but that just made him want to know more. If Olathe is just as — fuck, what's the word for this — devious as his mother, Lucy just hopes that he isn't on the receiving end of his tomfoolery.

When the elevator screen turns from a twelve to a thirteen, and then a fourteen, Lucy's brows furrow. He asks Olathe, "Since when are there more than twelve floors here?"

"There's always been more than twelve," Olathe says. "Even though it's labeled as zero on the elevator, the lobby still counts as a floor. Floor thirteen is where the escorts are housed — we wanted to throw your party there, actually, since you're turning thirteen after all, but were told that we couldn't. Thus, the fourteenth floor, which is actually the rooftop, is our best bet."

Before Lucy has time to ask a question that Olathe will probably have a long-winded and slightly condescending answer to, the elevator stops with a ding!

"And we're here!" Olathe announces as the long metallic doors slide open to reveal Aleister standing proudly with his hands on his hips.

"Well, well, well," the Nine boy trumpets. "If it isn't the guest of honor for our little rendezvous!"

"It's not a rendezvous," Lucy grumbles, taking a step out of the elevator. "It's my birthday party!"

"A birthday party is a type of rendezvous," Aleister explains. He grabs Lucy by the wrist and leads him several feet away. Lucy tries to peek over his shoulder to see what the party is like, but Aleister shifts his body to block his vision. "Now Lucy, I want you to close your eyes. I'm going to step away from you so you can see the nature of your party, but I want it to be as much of a surprise as possible."

Has it not been enough of a surprise already? Lucy rolls his eyes. He's been waiting for what feels like forever and now Aleister still wants to drag out this shit. For all Lucy knows, the Nine boy hasn't made him a party at all and instead he's been stalling and figuring out something that he can potentially pass off as one. Lucy puffs up his cheeks to drown out the sound of him sighing. He shouldn't have asked for a birthday party; he should've known that he'd be disappointed. If his father has never cared enough to throw Lucy a birthday party, why would his servants suddenly care?

Olathe steps from behind Lucy and stands next to Aleister, the Seven boy's hands folded in front of his chest. "Lucy, we don't have forever. Please, just close your eyes."

Lucy scoffs, "Fine." He closes his eyes and lightly chuckles. "Are my eyes closed enough for you?"

"Yes they are! You're doing wonderfully," Aleister says. A moment passes and Lucy hears a rustling sound before the Nine boy continues, "Open your eyes!"

Lucy does as told and is immediately greeted with what is perhaps the most interesting thing he's seen this week - or possibly his whole life, while Olathe and Aleister cheer, "Surprise!"

Along the railings lining the rooftop's perimeter are red and black streamers and on the ground is rainbow glitter that glows in the moonlight. There's a home-made banner reading "Lucy is Thirteen!" hung in between two telephone poles and a long wooden table with three chairs, topped with a gigantic birthday cake. The decorations are far from the most exciting part of the rooftop, though. Behind the table, two people that Lucy recognizes as Aleister's mentor and District partner are gagged and tied to the ground with a thick rope, their bodies writhing as Lucy stares at them.

As he gawks wordlessly, Lucy notices Olathe whisper something into Aleister's ear with a noticeably confused expression. He decides that the Seven boy is astonished by all of Aleister's craftsmanship and care and simply cannot believe he set up the entire party all by himself. Olathe turns away from Aleister with a disapproving tut, prompting the Nine boy to call out to him, "It's going to be fun, trust me!"

Hell yeah, it's going to be fun, Lucy muses.

He runs in a circle around the rooftop, running his hands through the streamers with a mirthful smile. He really was senseless to think that his allies wouldn't follow through on providing him a birthday celebration. In fact, the only thing that'd make things better is if his father stepped through the elevator behind him.

But Lucy isn't going to hold his breath. He mustn't be selfish and ask for too much. Besides, his father is probably too busy. Still, it would've been nice if he popped into Lucy's mind to wish him a happy birthday. Lucy tried to summon him several times earlier today but his father refused to address him.

Lucy again glares at the two guests Aleister's brought. Maybe they'll be able to help Lucy prove himself to his father.

He spins in a circle once more, Aleister enthusiastically cheering as Lucy twirls himself over to the table and plops himself down on a chair. Lucy gushes, "This is all so incredible! Thank you so much."

"It's our pleasure," Aleister beams, though Olathe from across the rooftop doesn't seem too amused.

Lucy smiles at the Seven boy, hoping he can charm him into sharing he and Aleister's excitement. He waves his hands in the air. "Why don't you two come sit next to me!"

Aleister immediately runs over to the table, prompting Lucy to get out of his seat and wrap his arms around the Nine boy. Though he's flustered for a second, Aleister hugs back. Lucy cranes his head upwards to meet the taller boy's gaze and tells him, "You're the best. Thank you so much!"

("No, you're the best," he swears he hears Aleister whisper.)

When Lucy pulls away, he turns around to see Olathe at his other side. He tilts his head at the Seven boy, smiles, and returns to his seat.

Not yet sitting down, Olathe asks Lucy, "Where's my hug?"

What Lucy wants to say is, "You don't get a hug because you seemed bored with me and also you did something that pissed Aleister off," but he doesn't. If his father is watching, he'd want Lucy to get up and hug Olathe too, since the Seven boy is doing him a huge favor. He shakes his head, stands, and embraces the Seven boy, though not as tightly as he did Aleister. Olathe only barely squeezes Lucy back, and there's something about his touch that feels far less warm than Aleister's.

He lets go of Olathe and returns to his seat, voraciously eyeing the delectable treat in front of him. Now that he's closer, Lucy is able to read the words "Happy Birthday Lucy!" iced onto the cake. He swipes his hand at the frosting, a lump now accumulated on his finger which he then sticks in his mouth. He looks over at Olathe to see the boy now laughing, his expression far more jubilant than moments ago.

Though he wants to take another lick of frosting, Lucy has an important question he must ask first. "So… what's on the agenda for tonight?" He glances over his shoulder, swiftly noticing just how miserable Aleister's invitees look. "Or more importantly, what are they doing?"

Lucy watches as Aleister's mentor tries to say something, but the gag in his mouth drowns out his words. Once Lucy returns his sight to both his allies, Aleister happily chuckles. "Oh Lucy, it's not about what they're doing… it's about what we're doing to them."

"What do you mean?" Lucy's brows furrow.

Aleister claps his hands together and sways side to side. "That's a question that can only be answered after we eat this cake. Olathe, did you bring the candles?"

The Seven boy nods then procures a small box from his pocket which he slides across the table to Aleister. As the Nine boy sticks the candles into the cake, Lucy can't help but sigh. Even though this is his birthday party, his allies seem to have ulterior motives. It's like they're using the party to benefit them, and the fact it's Lucy's birthday just happens to also be true. Lucy never asked for people to be tied up behind him… Is that something either Olathe or Aleister wanted, or did Lucy's father instruct them to do it for him? If the latter is the case, Lucy's annoyed - since when does his father know what's best for him? He couldn't even wish his son a happy thirteenth birthday.

He's just busy, Lucy reminds himself for the umpteenth time. Don't take it personally, he's just really busy.

(How long can he continue to say that before he's just deluding himself?)

"Oh Lucy," Olathe coos, prompting him to snap back into reality. "It's time for you to blow out your candles!"

Lucy looks down at the cake and notices it's now full of candles that have likely been lit with the lighter Aleister's holding.

He nods. "Yes, and then we'll eat the cake?"

"Precisely," Aleister replies.

The boys begin to sing, "Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!" as Lucy swings back and forth. Their voices aren't nearly as nice as Lucy's mothers', or at least Aleister's isn't, but he's still appreciative. For the first time since arriving at the Capitol, something feels almost normal to him. "Happy birthday, dear Lucifer! Happy birthday to you!"

With the mightiest gust of air he can muster, Lucy blows at the cake, about half of the candles being reduced to smoke. Before he can blow at them again, Aleister asks him, "Did you make a wish?"

"Shit, no I did not," Lucy stammers. He closes his eyes for a brief moment and ponders, I wish for my father to finally accept me as his almighty son and show his face to me.

He's been wishing that for so long, Lucy's forgotten that it's not implied. Year after year, his father refuses to meet him, but this year, Lucy has a feeling that he will. If the Hunger Games are Lucy's final test, he's almost done proving himself to his father, now. Just the concept of his wish coming true in potentially less than two weeks is enough to make Lucy shake with excitement.

He blows at the candles again, this time extinguishing the rest. While Olathe cheers, Aleister plucks the candles out of the frosting and sets them to his side. "So, I couldn't find a knife…" the Nine boy admits. "We're going to have to eat the cake with our hands."

Olathe sneers then quickly laughs. Of course he'd be the sort to think eating with your hands is disgusting. Lucy usually eats with utensils, but he's eaten with his hands on a few occasions and truthfully doesn't mind. He grabs a fistful of cake with his right hand then shoves it into his mouth, leaving a trail of red crumbs on the table.

Lucy licks his lips. How did they know red velvet is my favorite flavor of cake? Is it possible that his father told them? Lucy didn't think he'd remember that.

He takes another bite of cake, chews, then gestures to his allies. "Don't you guys want some too?"

Olathe nods in refusal, but Aleister enthusiastically grabs a small piece of cake then gently plops it inside his mouth. A few seconds later, he asks Lucy, "What do you think of the cake? I worked very hard on it."

"It's simply delicious!" Lucy beams, wiping some of the frosting away from the corners of his lips. "I truly can't thank you enough for this."

"You don't have to thank me," Aleister remarks. He steps out of his seat then stretches his arms above his head. "Though, if you do want to… I'd recommend waiting until after your presents."

"Presents?"

Lucy turns around and watches as Aleister gestures to his mentor and District partner. "What did you think they were? I imagine it's been a long time since you unleashed your father's fury upon a non-believer, but luckily, I have gotten you the finest of sacrifices."

Lucy gulps. Does Aleister want him to kill these people? According to his mothers, Lucy's killed many many people with his mighty roars and screams, but he's never been with the people as they died. He watched from afar as Countess killed somebody in his name, too, but he's never done something like this. Ah, no wonder my father doesn't think I'm good enough.

"Thank you," he tries his best to sound extremely grateful even though more than anything, he's simply confused. "How do you, um… recommend I sacrifice them?"

Aleister pulls out the lighter from his pocket, the one he used to light the birthday candles, then hands it to Lucy. "With this, of course." He reaches under the table and sets a large bottle on the surface. "I have some extra canola oil from making the cake that you can douse them in if you'd like."

Lucy smiles even though he's not too happy on the inside. He was right — this party is to make Olathe and Aleister happy, not him! Surely they know that Lucy's never done something like this before. Are they challenging him the same way his father is? He sighs. What happens if he doesn't set these people ablaze? Would Olathe and Aleister leave him, no longer believing Lucy's the mighty antichrist he says he is?

He doesn't want to find out.

Lucy rises to his feet then looks at the people behind them, both of them terribly afraid. As he steps toward them, lighter in one hand and canola oil in the other, they start to cry. Lucy takes a deep breath. They're going to cry more once I set them on fire, aren't they?

He knows absolutely nothing about these people other than that they've wronged Aleister somehow and now Lucy's father wants their souls. They've done something wrong, yes, but does that really warrant them dying the night before the Hunger Games? Lucy exhales. Why wasn't he this worked up when he killed all those other people the way his mother said he did?

(Is it because he never actually killed them at all?)

Lucy presses down on the button of the lighter, his hands shaking as he begins to produce a flame. Before he can walk closer to the two squirming hostages, Aleister cuts him off.

"Lucy!" he shrieks. "You silly boy — you forgot to lead us in a prayer! Saying a prayer is the most important thing one must do before a human sacrifice."

"Yeah, obviously," Olathe shouts. Lucy turns slightly, immediately noticing that the Seven boy is much closer to the elevator than him and Aleister. "Go on. Lead us in a prayer."

Now, Lucy's led a few prayers back in Twelve, but none of them were too important — his mother usually did those. But, Lucy does remember everything that she's said during these prayers, or at least most things, so hopefully he'll be able to do well now.

Lucy turns his back to the sacrifices then claps his hands together. He instructs, "Repeat after me."

"Oh dearest infernal ruler of hell," Lucy drawls, his stomach numb.

"Oh dearest infernal ruler of hell," as Aleister and Olathe's voices echo his, a drop of sweat rolls down Lucy's face.

He continues, "May you recognize the sins of those who have failed to acknowledge your glory."

Come to think of it, Lucy doesn't know what exactly the sins of the people behind him are. It's too late for him to ask Aleister now…

"May you recognize the sins of those who have failed to acknowledge your glory."

"By sacrificing these damned souls, I will finally set them free." Lucy nods.

(He wonders when he'll be set free.)

"By sacrificing these damned souls, I will finally set them free."

"May they atone forevermore." Lucy kneels on the ground and raises his palms to the sky.

He watches as Aleister and Olathe do the same, solemn expressions on their faces. "May they atone forevermore."

Lucy turns back at the hostages and produces a flame once more. From behind him, he hears his allies declare, "Amen!"

His eyes dart to the bottle of oil, forcing the realization that Lucy's supposed to douse them first. It'd also probably be easier if he sacrificed them one at a time. Noticing that the girl's more even-tempered than Aleister's mentor who seems utterly miserable, Lucy decides he should put him out of his agony first.

He steps close to the man doing his very best not to let his fear show, because Lucifer Deathrage must be fearless now. He must be unfazed for his father, with bravery that cannot be shattered.

This is what I want. Lucy nods and unscrews the cap from the bottle. This is what'll make Dad proud of me.

Lucy darts his eyes from side to side, ensuring that there's nobody watching him. He's worried that messing up the sacrifice could get him in trouble, not just with his father but with the Capitol too. Luckily, the fact he's burning these people means Lucy's DNA won't be there as evidence. It'd probably be wise if he threw the cake and the banners into the fire too. That way, they'll never know it's him.

With a gentle flick of his wrist, Lucy splashes Aleister's mentor with the oil, the man shaking as it sinks into his skin. Lucy takes another deep breath. I'm helping him by doing this. I'm helping him know what's right in the world.

He crouches down and picks the end of the rope off the ground then fiddles with the lighter. Once Lucy's created another flame, he presses it against the rope, drops it on the pavement, then dashes backward.

The mentor groans as the flames travel along the rope rapidly, Aleister cackling with delight as they get closer and closer to the man's skin. Lucy stands by his side as a putrid scent fills the air, one he hasn't smelled in a couple of months at least.

He's always been fascinated by the scent of burning flesh. Lucy's mothers taught him that it represents power. They told him that the smell of skin as it's reduced to ash is one of Lucy's father's favorite smells and that those who produce it are sure to be his favorite.

Does this mean… Lucy's his favorite now?

"𝕺𝖍, 𝕷𝖚𝖈𝖞!" a familiar voice says inside his mind. "𝕴𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖙 𝖍𝖚𝖒𝖆𝖓 𝖘𝖆𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖊 𝕴 𝖘𝖒𝖊𝖑𝖑?"

He eagerly claps his hands. "ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰, 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔰! 𝔇𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔦𝔱, 𝔉𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯?"

The flames continue to cover the Nine mentor's body, a ringing sound now playing in Lucy's ears. He's unsure where it's coming from, but it seems like yet another sign that his father's proud.

"𝕷𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖎𝖙? 𝕷𝖚𝖈𝖞 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖗, 𝕴 𝖑𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝖎𝖙!" the man himself confirms. "𝕴 𝖆𝖒 𝖘𝖔 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚. 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖘𝖔 𝖈𝖑𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖋𝖚𝖑𝖑 𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖆𝖑!"

Lucy smiles, tears of joy falling down his face as the smell grows more and more pungent and more and more of the mentor is reduced to nothing but ashes.

He looks at his bottle of oil and tilts his head toward the Nine girl. If his father was proud now, Lucy can only imagine how proud he's going to be after his second sacrifice.

Before he can step forward though, he feels a sharp tug on his arm. He turns around to see Olathe staring dead in his eyes, Aleister clutched onto his opposite shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Lucy shouts.

Is Olathe trying to fuck this up on purpose? The Seven boy replies, "We need to go, now."

Lucy keeps his feet firmly planted in the ground. He can't leave now, not when he's so close to achieving his final goal.

Olathe pulls at him. "I said, we need to fucking go!"

"I can't," Lucy refuses.

He grits his teeth and tries to pry himself away from Olathe, ignoring the sound of the loudspeaker booming, "Attention Tributes, Mentors, and Escorts! Attention Tributes, Mentors, and Escorts! Please make your way out of the apartment complex immediately. There has been an emergency!"

Lucy looks up and notices a helicopter spinning in the air, a cloud of smog emitting from underneath it. Again, Olathe tries to pull him back but again, Lucy holds his ground.

The smoke lurches towards him, infiltrating his lungs and making his vision go blurry. Lucy's head spins as he tries to fight through it. His chest throbs in agony, hands becoming clammy until he drops the bottle and the lighter.

He sees a tall man standing over the Nine mentor's charred body.

Then, Lucifer Deathrage only sees black.

---

Thoughts and Prayers - Motionless in White

---

IN LOVING MEMORY OF ELIZABETH "QUEEN ELIZABETH II" ALEXANDRA MARY WINDSOR
…you would have loved "We The People: The Director's Cut"

Gone, but never forgotten

*in the arms of an angel starts playing*

QoTD: What is your favorite memory with Her Majesty?

Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Harry (and Megan)

This funeral would not be possible without Your Fuckedness Erik "Geologisms" Rocks