Chapter 68: Lunatic's Privilege

TW: Ableism (regarding Venatrix's prosthetic)

It happened so fast. One minute she was talking, the next, screaming her head off, hitting the table with her fist. Bright red bloomed into view— Oberon was already moving when she collapsed.

He dove to catch her; her head just missed the corner of the table. Dag flocked to his side in a heartbeat, blazer stripped from her shoulders to wrap around her forearm.

And 'Makers, the blood…

It gushed from where wires had been ripped from their ports. Bits of metal still poked out from her flesh; with quick, steady hands, Dag picked them out best she could before wrapping. Blood immediately soaked the fabric. Venatrix lolled like a ragdoll in his arms; Oberon propped her up as his wife put pressure on what remained of her hand. "Medic!" he snapped to anyone who was listening. Some part of him registered a flash of blue in his peripheral—the host, hyperventilating. "We need a medic!"

Color leached from Venatrix's face by the second. Already, red slicked Dagmara's hands.

One of the cameramen must've acted quick; two medics rushed over from 'Makers knew where, helping Oberon to his feet.

Venatrix never left his arms.

He scooped her off the ground— she shouldn't be this light— while Dag and one of the medics kept pressure on the wound. The other guided them; where, he didn't care. There was no choice but to sprint after them.

His heart beat thick in his ears. Stabbing pain soon echoed through his chest, but he could not drop her. He could not lose her.

(They'd taken her after she tried to kill him. Caged her. Muzzled her. No longer was she permitted to harm others, so she turned on the one thing within reach— herself.)

(She was so like him it hurt.)

Outside, an ambulance. More paramedics swarmed; Oberon laid her on a stretcher, and one took Dagmara's place at the wound. Like clockwork, they loaded her in the truck, and Oberon took a second to breathe but—

Something wrapped its fist around his heart.

Someone was talking to them, to Dagmara. Apparently only one of them could come along, but Oberon couldn't breathe, he couldn't… His head swam. Instinctively, he latched onto Dagmara to keep from falling, and before he knew it, they'd strapped him into the truck too.

Venatrix woke in the hospital again.

Before she even opened her eyes, she knew. That smell…

In that moment, it was as if she'd never left. Had it all just been a dream?

"You."

Venatrix's eyes flew open. She wasn't alone— it took Venatrix a minute to fully wake up let alone place the voice, the wavering hatred in Doctor Astic's tone.

"You are fucking deranged!" A hand clamped around her shoulder. Venatrix gasped. The doctor came into view, violet eyes blazing. "That was some of my best work!"

"Get off of me," Venatrix tried to hiss; it came out as a croak.

"After all that effort—!" Her grip tightened. "You think because your parents are Victors you get to do whatever you want, is that it? Huh? Well, newsflash sweetie, that's not how it works around here!"

"Get off—"

"Good luck getting another prosthetic now, because I am not—"

"GET OFF!"

She couldn't tell if the words even came out beyond a shout, but something must've worked. The doctor vanished— in her place, darkness swept in, embracing her like a lover.

They kept her sedated. Venatrix didn't know how long, only that when she woke again, her prosthetic had been fully removed. Not even the barest trace remained; no stray scrap of wire, not even additional scarring. Still, her brain sent the command to move her fingers, as she would with the metal, as she would with the flesh.

It felt odd to send a thought directly into the void.

She wasn't alone this time either; the new doctor was unfamiliar, stern, but kinder than Astic had ever been to her. He explained that they wanted to release her as soon as possible.

Venatrix nodded slowly as nurses ran tests, fitting her for a new set of fingers.

This one would be different, the doctor explained. Less advanced. There'd be no tearing it from her flesh because it would only sit on the outside and look like a hand, functionality be damned. Apparently, her nerve endings were "too damaged" for Astic's caliber of prosthetic.

However kind the doctor's eyes were, Venatrix recognized the punishment.

Fine. I hated that thing anyways.

It took longer to realize that they weren't bringing her back to the psychiatric ward. They really would let her go home.

(The dread pooling in Venatrix's gut said otherwise. She'd believe it when she saw the mountains of District Two for herself.)

But they let her mother through without fuss. The fact comforted her as much as the look in Dagmara's eyes unnerved her, but regardless, she gathered Venatrix into a tight hug, kissing her on the forehead. To Venatrix's surprise, they let Dagmara guide her from the room, a nurse on their heels with the prescription for yet another bottle of pills.

They met Oberon in the lobby. He appeared to be filling out paperwork at the reception desk. If possible, even more exhaustion lines creased his face, though he smiled when he saw them. "The head surgeon said she's clear to go," the nurse informed them, and Oberon thanked her. "Doctor Fennec also prescribed these for you." Dagmara took the bottle, exchanging a look with her husband. "And these for you." She passed another bottle to Oberon who snatched it from her grip.

Briefly, Venatrix wondered what happened to Astic before deciding that whatever it was, the woman probably deserved it.

Exhaustion seeped through the ride back to the Training Center, though Venatrix got the sense that her parents were waiting for the privacy of their suite before the impending discussion. She didn't dare relax. She fiddled with the useless prosthetic, clearly crafted of some sort of plastic or silicon, but painted over with swirls of silver and gold. Typical. In the very least, she discovered that she could still pinch things using her thumb.

Sure enough, the minute they reached the District Two floor, Venatrix's parents pulled her into their room. "Venatrix," her father said, and she bristled at his tone. "I am glad you're okay, but what the hell were you thinking?"

His tone wasn't accusatory—it was desperate.

Still, the desire to defend herself reared its head. Swallowing it felt like acid.

What had she been thinking? Truthfully, Venatrix couldn't remember. There had only been red. So many feelings were red.

"I thought you understood how delicate this was," he continued. "You can't just—"

Dagmara cut in. "What your father means to say—"

"No, Dagmara, I am saying what I mean to say. Please let me handle this." When Venatrix looked up, her mother was gone. She forced herself to meet Oberon's eyes. "I know this is not easy for you, Venatrix. It has never been easy for anyone, and you…" He exhaled, pinching his nose. "We're lucky. They were able to cut the interview before you lost control, and we are lucky that they would rather see you at home and celebrating than locked away in an institution for the next ten years."

Thoughts of Eridan flashed through her mind. By the look on her father's face, the other Victor's fate weighed on him too.

"I know you are not… happy with me right now, but I am still your mentor, and we are still in the Capitol. If you can't be in control of yourself— if we can't even pretend that you are in control of yourself…"

Venatrix bowed her head in shame.

In the silence that followed, she could practically feel him studying her. Oberon sat down at the edge of the corner chaise, as if that would make her feel more at ease. "Talk to me, Trixie. What's going on in your head?"

She remained standing. Her head felt fuzzy, in the way she'd come to associate with hospital visits. But she couldn't forget what lurked underneath, what brought her there this time.

That didn't mean she wanted to talk about it. "...I don't know."

"Try. …Please."

Fingernails dug into her thigh. "Everyone's dead because of me. Just like I wanted. That's…that's what I was supposed to want." Venatrix glanced at her father, but he waited for her to continue. "You said… you said you didn't care what I had to do to win. But I do." She sucked in a breath. Her thoughts flickered back to the banquet, the Valorius kid. "Maybe it's just another year for everyone else, but I— I can't go back. I'll never stop being a monster."

He was looking at her still. Venatrix sensed it, even if she didn't have it in her to meet his eyes. "That's how we survive," he said gently. "By becoming monsters."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't have," she snapped.

"But you did. You had every chance to give up, but you kept fighting. Nobody can do that for you, Venatrix."

"But I—that's what you fucking trained me for!"

"That was my job," he said harshly. "To give you the tools you need to survive in this world, because this is our world—!"

Just then, the door cracked open. Her mother's glare flickered between both of them, no doubt drawn in by raised voices. Slowly, Venatrix felt her fist uncurl. Oberon's features contorted into something defensive before he gave up. "They scheduled a photoshoot for us," was all she said. "We're leaving in five."

Venatrix took that as an excuse to storm from the room, pathetic as it was. She cast a backwards glance to her parents, their low, hissed tones— "Would it really kill you to be a little kinder?" "I am trying, Dagmara!" —soon eclipsed by the closing door. Before she could quell the bitter feelings in her chest, loud voices swept her up in their excitement.

"Venatrix, darling! Can you believe we're already heading back to Two today? I'm going to miss this so much!"

Venatrix shot Kitty a glare, wriggling out of her clutches. Soon enough, her parents reappeared, and the escort guided them down to the lobby where a car awaited them outside. The drive to the studio was as short as she remembered, and the attendants wasted no time squeezing the three Victors into their outfits. Both District Two prep teams had been called on for the event, though only Stefania's presence—and her dog—offered her some sort of comfort.

It was needed— the theme of the shoot, apparently, was furs. Venatrix scowled as they shoved her into a short dress crafted entirely out of black fur, though the irritation dissipated somewhat when she realized how soft it was. Artful tufts and leather patches created a detailing that she couldn't quite appreciate, but the Capitolites seemed to fawn over it. Best of all, there was no muzzle. Instead, Stefania carefully placed silver caps over her canines that lengthened them into pointed fangs. They're never letting go of the wolf theme, are they? This, though, she could live with.

Her father and mother had gotten a different sort of treatment. Long capes of fur — grey and white respectively — graced their shoulders, but the rough fabrics and leathers beneath were draped with burnished jewelry, giving them the impression of a rugged sort of royalty. Something about it reminded Venatrix of her arena.

Naturally, they all received crowns. Simple bronze circlets, nothing more.

Everyone seemed to be in agreement to get through this as quickly as possible. While the escort squealed and clapped at every click of the camera, Venatrix and her parents were silent. They let the director and his attendants shuffle them around for about an hour or so, switching through poses and holding a fierce sneer that made Venatrix's cheek muscles begin to ache. At least they didn't have her smiling much.

Only once it was over did Venatrix think to lament the lack of prop weapons.

Thanks to some meddling from Stefania's end, though, they let her keep the dress. Venatrix had begun to sweat under the heat of the lights, but stubbornness and satisfaction kept her donned in the black fur, though she did have to give back the tooth caps.

From there, they headed straight to the train station. Something began to twinge in Venatrix's heart as they boarded. Same rooms, same ridiculously lavish decor, only now, there were fewer people.

Only now, she was headed home.

Too good to be true, her brain warned, but Venatrix ignored the thought.

Her feet felt unsteady in her boots, hands too shaky to keep in sight. She sat down on one of the couches, tucking them beneath her. The stupid prosthetic wouldn't fit neatly. Her mother sat next to her and took Venatrix's hand in hers, carefully unstrapping the plastic appendage. Venatrix stiffened; the scars were fresh, but closed. The desire to link her absent fingers through her mother's ached, but the touch itself was gentle, welcome. It helped, to know her mother wouldn't shy away from the parts of her that weren't whole.

And her father… Venatrix's face clouded as she watched him linger at the boarding entryway. The door hadn't yet closed, though as far as she knew, everyone from Two had already boarded.

A Peacekeeper stepped up. Far from the only one on the train, but behind them… Recognition and relief washed over her father's face as a shock of firetruck-red hair followed the officer. She only caught a flash of Eridan's face as Oberon gripped his hand in welcome, clasping his shoulder in a half-embrace that Eridan leaned into. Disbelief warped the younger man's face into something almost innocent. He met Venatrix's eyes as Oberon let go, and she couldn't tell what she saw in them.

Again, her parents seemed to be having a silent conversation over everyone's heads as Oberon ushered Eri through the corridor. "We're going home," Eridan murmured as they passed, meeting Venatrix's gaze again with a cautious smile. His voice cracked with emotion. "We're actually going home."

The train shifted beneath them, and it was real.

Dying sunlight cracked between buildings as they picked up speed. It hurt her eyes to look, but Venatrix didn't care. She curled up against her mother as they hurtled through the city, eyes open but seeing nothing aside from sharp orange, searing yellow, electric pink, and then blackness as they shot through a tunnel. They'd arrive by morning.

Some time later, Kitty gathered them all for dinner, insisting upon a special welcoming meal for the new Victor. Quickly, Venatrix fumbled with her prosthetic to reattach it. "Come, come, come! We'll be able to do this every year from now on, isn't that exciting?"

Morwenna only glared at her, rubbing her temples. If Venatrix had to guess, the red-haired Victor hadn't slept since Percy's death. She'd hardly spoken a word to Venatrix either, but she supposed they'd have time for that later. Cadmus and Antigona were nowhere to be found, as were the rest of the older Victors, save for Callithyia. Eridan had reappeared; he seated himself at Venatrix's right despite Dagmara's warning look, trapping her next to the escort. "I almost forgot how extravagant the Capitol was," he whispered, quiet enough for Kitty to miss. The pompom-clad woman was too busy scrolling through the results of the photoshoot on her tablet, holding them up for the group to see.

Venatrix grunted in response to Eridan's words, the sound lost among the unenthusiastic mutters of approval at the photos from the gathered Victors. "What made them let you go?" she asked under her breath, and Eridan pursed his lips.

"I think your dad said something to them."

Venatrix glanced at her father. He seemed startled at catching both her and Eridan's glances, but smiled weakly.

"Venatrix, dearie, can you pass the gravy?" Kitty said from her side. Without thinking, Venatrix grabbed the bowl to her right. "It's so bad for me, I know, but this duck is simply too dry, I can't—waah!" The gravy bowl slipped from Venatrix's plastic grip, splattering brown sauce and bits of food all over the escort's front. "My dress!"

"I didn't mean—" Venatrix started but Kitty cut her off.

"Seriously, could you be any more clumsy?! Ohh, come on," she whined, patting at the dress with a wet napkin. She shot Venatrix's parents a glare. "You seriously need to teach your daughter some manners."

"Enough, Kitty," Oberon said.

"But it's ruined…"

Venatrix exchanged a look with her mother, ignoring Eridan's snicker. "I'm sure you can get it replaced," Dagmara said politely, to no avail. As soon as the escort noticed droplets of gravy on her tablet, the tirade continued.

Scooting her chair closer to Eridan, Venatrix rested her forehead on her prosthetic, shooting the other Victor a scowl. He grimaced in sympathy, but it did nothing to quell Venatrix's rising anger.

What a worthless scrap of plastic, she thought, glaring at her hand. If she could curl it into a fist, it would've been sent into the escort's jaw already. She hadn't thought it possible to hate it more than the claw Astic had made for her, but here she was.

Eridan eyed it curiously. "New hand?"

"Yes, this one's useless." She used it to pick up her glass of water; her grip held for a second before that slipped too.

Kitty yelped again. "Venatrix!"

"Whoops." Belatedly, she noticed that she hadn't quite strapped it on correctly. "Should've given me one that actually worked. Oh well." She picked up her knife, purposely letting it slip through.

Eridan pressed his lips together to suppress a chuckle. "Hey Venatrix, can you pass me the, uh…" His eyes scanned for the most precarious thing on the table. "Shrimp cocktail?"

"Sure thing."

Everyone except Kitty seemed prepared for the fallout. Venatrix didn't even bother picking it up; one nudge from the prosthetic was enough to knock it over. The escort leapt to her feet with a shout. Dagmara shot her a chastising look, but Oberon's face was entirely neutral, if a bit too cheery. Eridan, however, couldn't help his burst of laughter. Even Morwenna appeared amused at the escort's misfortune.

"Are you quite finished?" Kitty hissed, shaking out the pom-poms on her dress. "Your other hand is perfectly functional, for Capitol's sake!"

"Oh, that makes everything okay, huh?" Venatrix sneered, her mirth quickly dissipating. "How 'bout I take some of your fingers, then, see how you like it—"

Wisely, Dagmara chose that moment to drag her away from the dinner table. "If I recall, you are supposed to be controlling yourself, hm?"

"It was just a joke," Venatrix said lamely.

"Not funny."

"Dad thought it was funny." Her mother raised a brow. "Fine. I get it."

With that, Dagmara sent her to bed, which Venatrix would've protested if she wasn't relieved to escape the dinner company. The shower was needed, anyways. Exhaustion seemed to soak through her bones and into the steam; she didn't bother reattaching the prosthetic.

Unfortunately, it woke her up too. By this time, the sky had gotten dark; there wasn't much to see out the window this side of the Rockies. Nosing through the closet, Venatrix threw on something soft enough to pass for pajamas for the night. As she went to close the door, something hanging caught her eye. Gold chains, black leather pleating— her Reaping day dress.

For a moment, she stood rigid, before slamming the door shut. She didn't need it. The dress would find more use as kindling than in her closet at home.

Home.

She couldn't wear it any more than she could go back. Yet here she was, on the train.

On second thought, the desire to yank the dress from its hanger and rip it to shreds suddenly sparked. Her parents' warnings resurfaced only just in time. Control yourself. And that was far from the only warning she'd gotten.

'The Capitol wants to love you for it— let them.'

What a joke.

Dinner must be over by now. Venatrix poked her head out, but her mother was nowhere to be found. Intent on avoiding the common areas, she ambled down the corridor of the train, barely remembering the layout.

The aisle was dim, but a line of soft, yellow light dusted the carpet from inside one of the rooms. Venatrix studied the door before knocking. After a beat, "Come in."

Her father's voice.

It was joined by low-volume audio when she pushed open the door, but not even that could dilute the sounds. Dying screams bled through the television speakers, interspersed with the crackle of fire. Oberon didn't look at her. He sat at the foot of the bed, eyes glued to the screen, the flames that danced across it. It didn't take Venatrix long to realize what he was watching.

Silently, she sat down next to him. Far enough where he couldn't reach out to her, but close enough to know she was there.

And on the screen, he ran. Wild-eyed and burning with hatred, eighteen year-old Oberon Pyke cut his way through the arena without a shred of remorse for what he left in his wake. How young he looked, compared to her memories as a child.

Yet there was no denying he was a monster.

The man next to her, however, seemed to age by the minute. Maybe they must become monsters to survive, but Venatrix knew that the reputation had hounded her father ever since he stepped out of the arena.

Hers would, too.

(He made her into this. Because he loved her, yes, but also because it was all he knew, the only way he knew how to survive. Yes, she would always be a monster now, but, in spite of it, she was loved—is loved.

Maybe a monster can only love something monstrous.)

As the last remaining Career by family interviews, there had been no surprise when Oberon had made it to the finale. On the screen, he faced down the Nine girl, a scrappy thing with a scowl deep enough to match his manic grin. He let Nine make the first move, and he let her cut him deep. As a kid, Venatrix had never understood why he didn't just strike her down, get it over with.

Now, though, she did.

"She… she was twelve," Oberon said, his hushed voice almost eerie in the afterglow of the Games. Somehow the information seemed to surprise him. "She always looked so much older…" He paused, scratching at the splint on his arm. "Fought like it too."

Venatrix turned her head, studying the lines on his face, the sorrow in his eyes. She couldn't help but think of her sister, how Bell had always fought like a much older trainee. How she wanted to be older, be like Ven.

She almost reached out to comfort him. In the end, she didn't— he'd carried these sins for almost thirty years. She hadn't even carried hers for one.

Her father's eyes stayed fixed on the screen.

He was right about the Nine girl— she looked like hell, fought like hell. She ended up dead at his feet anyways.

"Are you proud?"

Now, Oberon looked at her.

"You say you're proud of me. Are you proud of that?"

It was a genuine question. Her tone lacked the bite of sarcasm, but for half a second, Venatrix feared it wouldn't matter.

But he relented. "I was. And then… then I learned that I needed to be, at least in public." Regret laced his tone. "And so do you."

Easier said than done. But perhaps she would think back to her crowning, her sister, her promise, and she would manage.

"It really is my fault," he said, eyes drifting back to the screen. "Everything. …Everything except you." He flicked off the television and stretched out a hand. An offer.

Venatrix would not console him. He seemed to know that, and smiled anyways, faint and familiar. Slowly, she placed her hand in his like she was disarming a bomb.

"I did a shit job as your mentor, and I apologize. If I could change that… But here you are regardless." He said it like she was a miracle. Skin prickled at the back of Venatrix's neck. "I don't expect you to forgive me right now. And I understand if you don't believe me, but I never intended to abandon you. It wasn't my choice—" he let out a sharp huff— "but it was my fault."

She thought about how she'd felt in the arena, alone; the memory of her rage churned a pit in her stomach. Part of her wanted to pull her hand away now, but it was a deadweight. So much for five fingers.

"I know you're angry, honey. I know it hurts. But Venatrix, you will always be my daughter. There is nothing you could do that would make me give up on you."

What a curse that was, given what she'd done. What a relief.

Warm tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "I'm… glad," she said, forcing the words through her teeth, "that I didn't kill you." The shame could burn her throat, the anger. "But I'm not—" She swallowed. "I'm sorry that I had to try."

He didn't hug her. Venatrix could sense that he wanted to, but she was glad he held back. The tears were bad enough.

"I'm so sorry it came down to this," he said instead, his voice cracking with emotion. "Your mother and I—it was never just about Victory or–or vengeance. We only wanted this for you so you could live."

Venatrix sucked in a breath. Such a heavy gift when the cost was twenty-five lives.

Live. What a thought.

It was almost too big. "What do I do now?"

Oberon cleared his throat. "We play by their rules. For now, and whenever we return to the Capitol. But when we get home, well… Whatever you want."

Venatrix swallowed, mind racing, yet entirely blank. Her next words came out as a whisper.

"...What–what do I want to do?"

She sounded so small. So utterly pathetic.

But there wasn't just pity in her father's expression— this was something he understood. He shuffled closer, laying a hand on her shoulder. "We'll help you figure it out."

true vengeance 151 . weebly . com

A/N: Vibes of Ven's photoshoot outfit are kinda like this: pin . it / 2CaouExvc (remove spaces) except all black w the leather and fur !

I know we're like two inches away from D2 but. I really like how this chapter ends here ;-;

Sorry for the ableism.. this is where I put the "Just trust me dude" button hbjgfff. Well, see you all in a week!

- Nell