Sacha Celosia
Victor of the 45th Hunger Games
he/him
He knew the nightmares would come back.
They always did.
Sometimes they'd fade into the background, when his life would finally hit a peaceful crescent and he wouldn't have to worry about teenagers' fates in his hands. Sometimes he could swear he was almost cured, whatever that means, the sounds of bombs at last gone quiet.
Yet those easy times never lasted, and soon he'd find a golden-crested letter at his doorstep, telling him that he was to be the mentor of two doomed children once again.
It's a funny thing, really. Trusting him with human lives, when he boasted the highest kill count Panem had ever seen.
How could they expect him to bring salvation when all he'd ever do was destroy?
But those are a lot of heavy questions for a man like him, and he'd much rather live his life than try to puzzle it apart. So when he wakes up with his ears still ringing with an explosion from long ago, he doesn't curl up in bed and wait for an epiphany.
Instead, Sacha gets up, makes breakfast, and waters his fucking plants.
He's overslept - that much is clear from where the haloed sun now stood in the sky. Tourists are already walking the sidewalks of the Victor's Village, chattering excitedly when they recognize who a house belongs to. He wonders if anybody gets thrilled when they see his - if anyone remembers him besides his anecdote in the history books.
(Did you know a kid with a training score of 2 got twelve kills?)
(Did you know he was only fifteen and won his games?)
(Isn't that crazy?)
Though admittedly, the full story isn't as exciting as the facts make it seem. It's probably why nobody cares to tell the rest.
Munching on an apple, he turns his thoughts to something far more important, his personal treasure. His flower wall, as he likes to call it, is in full bloom today. The wooden shelves he's stocked are piled high with species of all kinds, local to exotic, an assortment of puffs and petals and rose and mauve, reaching out to the sunlight with their rainbow heads.
He didn't have much to show for his fifty years of life, but his collection was one of the rare things that made him proud. When the people decided they would forget Sacha Celosia, he resolved himself to forget them too. And in the process, he'd discovered flowers make far better company than humans.
In fact, they had a lot more subtleties to find out about, and the secrets they hid were no more dangerous than a fun fact. For example, did you know that the ghost orchid doesn't photosynthesize? Or that the Cosmos atrosanguineus smells like chocolate?
(And, unlike people, they could be categorized very neatly in the worn pages of his journal.)
(They also don't ask much of you except basic love and care.)
He rummages around to find his newest addition to the collection - his Silene tomentosa, straight from the personal gardens of the Capitol.
Turns out that when you've killed a man's family, the least you could do is offer them a rare specimen.
This one isn't very flashy, but instead a more subtle beauty, the elegance of a dancer in its shape. Its long ghost-white petals stretch out in all directions, each in an entwined pair. The center is of a nice, soft yellow with pistils shooting up towards the sky. He'd been worried it wouldn't adjust to its new home, but it seemed to be doing just fine, the stem standing up a little straighter than before.
For a man with the world at his fingertips, the President hadn't been able to find a decent gardener that would keep the poor thing's turgor in proper pressure. Luckily, he was here now.
It was an easy life, taking care of things that don't need much - just a little bit of love. Sacha's years haven't been filled with a lot of hope, but if he could do this for them, it was good enough for him.
Never mind the children he couldn't save at the hands of vicious monsters from Two, never mind the children he'd had to watch get cut down like animals with a hunting knife or torn apart by a hungry mutt or…
(...blown to pieces in fire and dirt.)
Never mind them. They could take the backseat of his mind, remain in his sleepless nights and restless dreams where they belong.
If he could give a few treasures of nature a home, that would be enough.
The Victor's Gala, like every year, is dreadfully boring. A couple of gilded figures from One light up the room, snorting angel dust off tables and raising toasts to whatever they can imagine. The chiseled brutes from Two wink at reporters and offer their best razor-sharp smiles. At the center of the maelstrom stands the latest pearl, Scylla Isvara, strands of hair golden in the spotlight. The rest wander the room with a hesitant glass of champagne lingering in their hands, avoiding the flashing lights as best they can.
Sacha's never been one for the cameras, and they've never been quite fond of him either. He stays on the edge, biding his time until he can return to his home and lock himself away from all the noise and the crowds and everything else that comes with his pseudo-fame.
If, at the very least, people found him worthy of relevance, he would accept the social obligations. But he's been discarded at the end of the index, the last shelf of replays, the early-morning reruns.
And, still, they ask him to show up, as if this one year they'd pay attention to him, or his District, or whatever two poor souls he'd been entrusted with. As if they'll finally make an exception.
Every year, of course, does not belong to him but the newest beast they'd extracted from the arena, their latest starlet who'd put on a much better show than he ever did.
Scylla handles the questions from exclusive reporters pretty well, keeps a nice smile plastered on her face and shakes the right hands. But Sacha can recognize small signs that the Capitolites watching comfortably from their sofa won't. He can recognize the slight twitches in her shoulders and the way her eyes can't settle anywhere and the way her nails dig into her palms. He knows every loud noise makes her jump and every dark corner feels like a threat.
He knows, because it's been the same for him, and the same for every other Victor in the room.
He knows it never leaves you, and it'll never leave Scylla either, hanging over their heads and shadowing their every move.
(But Christ, she's so much better at hiding it than he ever was.)
"Mr. Celosia?"
A voice startles him out of his thoughts, and he jumps a little. The last thing he expects is to be noticed here, in a room full of stars who shine brighter than him.
To his surprise, it's the man he'd seen sharing a line with the best of One, the man he's seen on live television more than his own reruns - Sol Zolotov, Vice President of Panem, dark hair sharply angling her face and a cryptic smile on her face.
"Mr. Celosia?" she repeats. "It's good to finally meet you."
If Sacha wasn't standing in front of a man that could blink and have him executed, he'd laugh at the absurdity - good to meet him?
"Um, it's good to meet you too?" he blabbers like a fool, suddenly unsure how to stand.
Sol's mouth stretches just a bit more, as if his very existence was somewhat bemusing. "I'm sure it is," she says smoothly. "The truth is, you're quite difficult to get ahold of outside of your home, Mr. Celosia. Much like our friend over here," she flicks a hand in Scylla's general direction, who seems to have found great interest in One's various forms of entertainment.
"Well, I just… don't really like going out?" he tries, pitiful. "I've got uh, flowers to take care of?"
Sol hums a little. "I've heard of that too, yes." Her eyes sparkle in the chandelier lights, and the air feels closer, as if sharing a personal joke with him. "An admirable hobby, especially when compared to what the rest of you fill your evenings with."
The rest of you. It's always stung, to know that that's what the Capitol considers them, something apart and foreign and intriguing, lumping him together with the monsters who hunted their way into this room with flesh and steel.
He could point out that it's a pretty rich comment coming from someone who was doing lines with Celestielle Fontaine five minutes ago, but Sacha's never had much of a fire in him. It's always been easier to take things willingly, still standing. So, he mumbles a little, "thank you."
The playful glimmer in Sol's eyes fades away, and she steps closer to him. It makes him uneasy, being so close to someone so complicit in massacres and misery, like he should be able to smell the blood and the rot on her.
"Anyway," she says, voice no longer warm. "I'm certain you're aware that I am not here to catch up with Panem's long lost stars. You see, the state of the Village hasn't been… as secure as Laurent and I would like. There's been rumors going on, as I'm sure you're aware, of instabilities within your ranks. Not to mention, of course, whatever follies are stirring up in Four." She locks eyes with him, as if she could discern his thoughts if she tried hard enough.
If anyone could read thoughts, it'd be her, and Sacha feels absurdly like the conversation's happening at gun-point.
"...Yeah. I guess that rings a few bells," he says, throat tight. "I haven't been really, uh, aware of the politics of the Village?" He gives a nervous chuckle, for good measure. "Like you said, I'm not really out of the house."
Sol's expression regains that cheshire brightness from earlier, like a cat having spotted a good dinner. "Oh, I'm sure. And I'm sure you could also say that you're not exactly… noticeable by the other Victors, right?"
"S-sure."
Sacha feels Sol's hands graze his slightly, and it takes all his power to not twitch away. "Good. All I'm asking, Mr. Celosia, is that you keep an eye out for something potentially interesting. Something we could make good use of."
"W-what makes you think I'd help you out?" he asks, but it comes out as a weak, submissive croak. Of course he will, because his entire life's been held in hands like hers since he was fifteen and fucking terrified. Of course he will, because there's no world in which he could do so differently.
Sol finally draws away, and she flashes him a mannequin smile. "Mr. Celosia, all that I require is that you think about it."
And with that, as silently as she had arrived, she was gone.
Anansi Abisai
Victor of the 71st Hunger Games
he/him
At the risk of sounding dramatic, Anansi would rather die than be here.
However, there are not many places he enjoys being in. So that might be why.
The crystalline fools from One have been giggling and gossiping intercepted with exaltations as they tilt their heads to the sky and let a new high wash over them. Zhan from Two is staring at everyone like a spider in a cage - he's surprised she hasn't grown mandibles yet. Sylvie from Seven is most likely still itching to ax someone in the head, and the rest of the outliers scramble around frantically, unsure what to make sense of in this cacophony.
If this is a preview of what his year of mentoring is gonna be like, Anansi really hopes there's a way to quit.
Christ, he misses Con. Though the man is probably no less eccentric than One's stars (just the other day he'd brought in a copy of Michelangelo's Creation of Adam into the lab because it "reminded him of them"), he certainly made for far better company than drunken fools.
(He was, also, very pretty. Which certainly helped.)
(But you didn't hear that from Anansi.)
Pushing down a dramatic sigh, Anansi makes his way towards the alcohol table. The stock of glasses have certainly taken a certain hit in the last few hours (no doubt a large majority Sol's fault), but a few remain. He grabs one gingerly, and hesitates a little with his lips on the edge.
The last thing he wants to be is the kinda 'Tor who gets drunk at Capitol-mandated parties, but he's already sold his soul to the devil and his fine ass, and nobody thinks highly of him anyways, so he might as well.
Especially if it can make the porcelaine squeals of the few exclusive Capitol guests less… grating on the ears.
He tilts his head back and downs the whole thing (is that how Sol feels?), and the sensation burns nicely on the way down.
Satisfied and a little reinvigorated (plus, he only needs to stay here for another hour, right?), Anansi makes his way back into the tumbling mass of party-goers, slipping between a brainless jock from Two and some scrawny thing from Twelve.
Shining in the scintillating lights of the chandelier, he catches sight of the girl from Eight - what was her name again…? Amaris? Anansi had been a little too busy with chemical warfare that year to pay attention.
As if sensing his eyes on her back, Amaris turns around sharply, locking his gaze with hers of steel.
"Dr. Abisai," she says, and he can't tell whether it's a challenge or a greeting. "I didn't know they'd still let you in."
He smiles. "Regretfully so. Even worse - you'll be stuck in a mentoring room with me this year, I'm afraid."
"Oh, is that so?" She moves closer, and Anansi can't shake the feeling that her body functions at a speed higher than others. One minute completely still, the next right next to him. "I thought this year, it was up to you to entertain the masses."
The disappointment still stings him, of course. After almost ten years of hard work, the reward for his tenuous research was supposed to finally arrive. It should've been him and Con's grand opening, an opportunity to show the world what they'd spent sleepless nights working on. But instead, he has to sit in front of a camera and wait for some meager brainiac to get clobbered so he can go home.
"I think you're mixing me up with Dr. Athanasios," he jokes, but his tone is still sour.
Amaris blinks, maybe for the first time in their entire conversation, and hardly cracks a smile. "Hmm. And how does a person like you find themselves working for the Capitol?"
"Why? You interested?"
"Maybe."
This time, Anansi fully halts. The last thing he expected was for an outside 'Tor to follow his vocation of being a turn-coat. As far as he remembers, he'd been shunned by the entire community after he began his collaboration with the President.
(Being a Volunteer 'Tor never helped either, of course.)
"I thought the Capitol hated you. Isn't that what your Quell was all about?" he asks, brows furrowed.
Amaris waves her hand evasively, but the gesture doesn't feel natural on her. "The Capitol hates everyone."
"They don't hate me!" he reminds her, though it's further from the truth than he'd like to admit.
Amaris' eyes of ice narrow. "And why is that, Dr. Abisai? What makes you so special?"
Truth be told, not much has ever made Anansi special. He'd grown up smart, so what? So did everybody. Everyone in his damn city did. No, nothing that makes Anansi the anomaly he is now has ever been his to begin with.
But that's not something he wants the ravenous crowds knowing, and certainly not the vulture from Eight.
"Well, you see, it all starts with me meeting a boy…" He gives her his best cinema grin, hoping it'll piss her off enough that she'll leave him alone. Judging from the fact that her mouth has remained a stony line this whole time, pissing her off doesn't seem too hard.
Amaris breathes loudly through her nose, the kind of noise someone makes when they realize they're wasting their time on a child. Gotcha. "I'll just cut to the chase, Dr. Abisai. Do you think you would be able to get me an interview with Sol Zolotov?"
"Well, shit! I just don't see why not!"
Breathing a sigh of relief, Anansi nose-dives onto his thousand-dollar sofa.
Listen, he isn't one to turn down a cute little dinner party, but a rave filled to the brim with some of the most relevant people in all of Panem makes him want to have a lobotomy. And his brain is all he's got going for him.
The thing they don't tell you about being a 'Tor is that it fucking sucks. You can take a wild guess about the trauma and the post traumatic stress disorder and all that, but they don't tell you that every single goddamn minute of your time gets wasted on camera flashes and white ashes.
Luckily, dear old Constantine had found him a solution for both - a memory wipe and a job for the people that had ruined his life. And now he has to see it all thrown out the window for yet another year, because Laurent can't be bothered to offer his best men a little reward for their efforts.
…Whatever. Anansi's mom used to say that complaining is a rich man's hobby. Maybe she was right. He's been more whiny in his golden mansion than back home, when he was living on a few pieces of bread and soup everyday.
And though his mom never was the pinnacle of parental affection a kid could've hoped for, his stomach still feels a pinch at disappointing her.
(Would she regret the man he was today? The visionary with no code, the fool with no heart.)
Anansi doesn't like thinking about that too much. He doesn't really like hurting too much in general, never been his style.
Maybe Con'll be able to do something about these feelings. He'll have to ask the good doctor for a remedy.
Repressing another sigh (even he's not that dramatic), Anansi shuffles back to his feet and onto his satin carpet.
He's still got some energy left from the couple of drinks he had, and fine, maybe he'd snuck in a treat from One. And if there's one thing Anansi isn't, it's a quitter.
So what if he has to mentor? Con did it, and look where it got them? Happy and …married? Sort of?
And even though the kid he's gonna get isn't going to be genetically modified by the sheer power of homosexuality or whatever, maybe he can still do a little something to help the guy out.
He's won the damn thing, after all. Maybe not while conscious, but it's still gotta count for something? Right?
Taking a deep breath, Anansi concentrates. At first, it took a while to get used to, the sensation of experiencing beyond himself, a cove within his own mind. But with practice, it feels more like using a second muscle.
He activates his implants and they come alive with a tiny, imperceptible whirr. If someone were looking closely, they'd notice a hint of blue right behind his left eye, but Con had taken great care to make sure they remain mostly invisible.
He bites his little at the feeling, because fine, maybe the process of his new body still feels foreign to him. Taking great care to not make any mistakes, he shuffles through his recorded memories until he hits the first one - his Bloodbath.
Allowing himself to relax just a bit, he presses play and settles back comfortably onto his couch.
He has a kid to bring back alive, and he can only use memories he could swear he's never experienced.
He has a lot of homework to do.
Westworld? Whats that? Is that some kind of show? I have no idea what ur talking about .
Anyways there is a reason why sacha and anansi share a prologue. that is all i will say. otherwise ummm teehee all my slots r reserved keep giving me great kiddos and i hope yall enjoy . next prologue has women yayyyy
q2 is chris nolan in love w cillian murphy