Amaris Odelle
Victor of the 75th Hunger Games
she/her
She swears to God, she can feel her brain melting the further she ventures into the center of the Capitol.
The Capitolites gossip to each other as she passes, a flash of red in a sea of gold and silver. They whisper in their shrill voices, what's she doing here?, a cacophony hardly muffled by the gloved hands they bring to their mouths.
Amaris knows she's never been beloved by the people. She knows that she represents yet another failure in the system, and yet another grave dug in the Gamemaker mausoleum. She knows she was never an adequate performer, and she knows they'd much rather the boy from Two had slaughtered her like a sheep.
But she doesn't like them either. So maybe it evens out.
She turns a corner sharply, leaving the dawdling crowds behind her. Let them talk, she thinks. They'll all remember her visit when it hits the morning papers.
At last, the Capitol's pride stands before her - The Home of Panem, stretching high into the sky and protected by gilded gates of swirling arches and blooming flowers, its windows lined impeccably like soldiers standing for their general.
Also known as the Heart of Panem, and to many as the source of tragedies.
She wonders if the President manages to sleep soundly in his little palace, or if the solid gold in the bed-frames shine just too much to close your eyes and the satin sheets are too soft to feel at home.
She wonders if the President sleeps well after dropping bombs or if they look too much like fireworks from his window.
(Sleeps like an angel, she's sure of it.)
A Peacekeeper approaches her, helmet concealing his face and pristine gloves hiding any inch of skin from his body. He hardly looks human. Maybe he isn't. It would certainly make things easier.
"Name and reason for visit?" he asks sharply.
He carries some sort of gun in his hand, no doubt the latest contraption invented by the boys from Three. Seems a bit pointless, she thinks, as if there needs to be a better way to kill people that bullets hadn't already solved. People die just as much no matter how they die.
(But she's not stupid.)
(She knows it's the fear that matters.)
"Amaris Odelle," she replies, mirroring his robotic tone. "I have a meeting with Mr. Zolotov."
Without a sign of acknowledgement or comprehension, the gate unlocks, and the Peacekeeper begins escorting her down the floral courtyard at a clinical pace.
He halts at the front gates, over half his size, and knocks in a saccadic rhythm. Once. Twice.
The door opens and a second Peacekeeper appears before her eyes, the first disappearing behind her back, and she is lead down a hallway of paintings from the old world and carpets of woven red and gold. This silly little dance is repeated a couple times, the doors getting less massive everytime, and Amaris has to stifle a small laugh at the fifth Peacekeeper, who remains impassive.
Finally, they reach what seems to be the door, and the sixth..? Peacekeeper gives her a curt nod. "Wait here. He will be with you in an instant," before striding away as if he had anywhere better to be.
A few minutes pass, the ticks of an ancient wooden clock filling the hallway with its only sound.
Then, the door opens wide, and a man pokes his head through. As if he somehow brought life along with him, the room regains a little bit of humanity when he smiles.
"Ms. Odelle! So lovely of you to come." The Vice President steps to the side and opens the door further, leaving space for Amaris to enter. "Please, come in."
All things considered, for a room in the Capitol, Zolotov's office isn't too bad. His window is clearly larger than the ones in the hallways, and its velvet curtains have been pushed wide open, letting the light in. It catches the edge of a whiskey glass, sending little beams onto the walls. Some papers are scattered on a polished desk, and a cigarette still half lit burns amber on a glass ashtray. A filet of smoke drifts from it, but it only furthers the office's refined atmosphere.
Well, shit. He'd make a better President than the babbling fool we have now, Amaris thinks, half amused.
(But if Zolotov history was anything to go off of, that'd end up with far more mass graves than this century needs.)
Amaris gives him a polite nod and she takes a seat in the decadent chair that sits across from her desk. "Thank you for meeting me," she says, hoping the venom doesn't bleed through too much.
Technically speaking, Zolotov hadn't done anything to her, but if Amaris has learned anything from her father, it's that an accomplice can be tried like a criminal.
"Why, of course!" Sol exclaims, eyes twinkling like her glass of whiskey. "It's always wonderful to meet another Victor." He tilts his head towards his liquor. "Care for a drink?"
Amaris forces a quick smile. "No, thank you." Not everybody is a fucking daylight drinker, she wants to add, be she restrains herself.
If she wants today to succeed, she needs to set her cards as right as can be. And if that means playing nice with the monsters in this building, so be it.
Someone has to do the dirty work, after all. So why not her?
The Capitol seemed to have thought her capable of much worse when they'd voted her in for the Games.
(And she'd provided, of course.)
Keeping her lips tight, she continues, "I'm afraid I won't be as interesting as your friends from Three. But I hope to offer some… satisfactory information." Her eyes shift as she watches Sol drum his fingers against his vintage table. Can this man genuinely not sit still?
"Mmh," he hums evasively, which seems to be a habit of his. "Yes, Anansi seemed to mention something like that."
Amaris breathes through her nose sharply. Can Capitolites do nothing other than beat around the bush? "Let me cut to the chase. We both know my District's been in a state of chaos, with the rebels and such. And we both know that your administration has been scrambling to figure out how to contain it."
"Yes," Sol agrees, voice getting sickly sweet. "We both do know that. So what are you here to tell me, Ms. Odelle?"
(With his long dark hair framing his face and that gleam in his eyes, he reminds Amaris absurdly of a tale from the old world she'd heard long ago.)
(Something about a cat with a shifting smile, telling riddles.)
"I have names."
Well, that certainly wipes the smirk off Zolotov's face. He leans back, pensive fingertip to his lip. "Oh yes? That certainly changes the game, doesn't it."
"And in return," Amaris continues, not letting that bitch muse further, "you make me head Peacekeeper of my District."
Sol opens her mouth, as if she's about to release a peal of laughter, but then shuts it. "Wanting to leave your dear old father jobless? How terrible."
"I'm sure you can relate."
This time, Sol actually laughs, and the sound is crystalline like the chandeliers hanging from the main halls. "I'm sure I can, yes."
(It'd been a funny idea at first, of course.)
(Vote in the Head Peacekeeper's daughter, I'm sure that spoiled brat has never had to fight for anything in her entire life. Ha-ha.)
(She doubts they'd been laughing as much when it turned out she knew how to use daddy's precious guns.)
(That was the last time a firearms Game was ever held.)
"And…" Sol trails off dramatically. Amaris even wonders if he'll stand up and stare out of his window, or if that's even too cliche for him. "Well, pardon my curiosity, but what's in it for you?"
Amaris had expected that question, of course. She'd rehearsed it, even, making sure that her eyes remained steady and she didn't blink too much. The words fall out of her mouth, easy and automatic: "The unrest in the District is beneficial to no one. The last thing our population needs is to fall out of favor with the Capitol. And the Odelles have a legacy to upkeep, of course. One that my father is failing miserably at."
"Ah yes, the Odelle legacy of order and justice." Sol chuckles, taking a sip of her whiskey. "So, my dear, who's at the head of this shameful uprising?"
This time, Amaris can hardly conceal her smile. "Why, my very own father. Head Peacekeeper Noran Odelle."
When Amaris returns to her people in the ash and smoke heart of the District, they're in a panic.
They swirl around her, whispering amongst themselves and then settling into an anxious silence. They wait, with bated breath, for her to make a statement. For her to speak to her troops, to rekindle their courage.
She'd received a letter from her second-in-command a few hours before arriving: Some of their firearm dealers had been caught, found during a raid on their storage spaces, shot down like animals as they tried to run.
All of this while she shared a room with a man accomplice in these massacres. All of this while she was offered a drink by the devil himself.
Yet her people understood why it had to be done. They didn't hold any grudges towards her dishonest ways. After all, a rebellion's never won without some blood in the streets.
With her father behind bars and hopefully soon to be executed, they wouldn't have anyone pressing at their heels. And with her at the head of the District? Her movement could begin to spread outside of the gangrenous backstreets in her city. Her words could start being spread freely, her pamphlets could be passed from hand to hand and her slogans splattered on the sides of buildings and her rallying cry could be heard from the factories to the hearths of the people.
Of course, some of her people still looked at her with uneasiness, whispered behind her back as she walked by. She could understand.
What kind of daughter leaves her own father to the wolves?
But her father had never been any kind of parent to her. He'd never taught her anything except how to stab in the back, and that justice was best served fucking warm.
(Well, check-mate, dearest dad. Seems like I was listening to your lessons after all.)
And she could understand the doubt in trusting a woman whom the Capitol had nicknamed the saint, the merciful, with a revolution. She could understand their reluctance after seeing her take down tributes by aiming for the legs and letting more bloodthirsty tributes pick them off. She could understand when her only two official kills were mercy kills.
It's a common error, to mistake her lenience for weakness. A true leader recognizes when violence is needed and abstains when it is not. A true leader knows how to stay in control of himself, and keep himself contained.
And a true leader knows when it's time to stop playing by the rules.
She raises her head, leveled and composed and unbreakable like any man should, becoming even with the crowd before her.
"I know that in these trying times, your nerves have been pushed to their limit," she begins. "I know that you've been lying awake at night, wondering if our effort was for nothing. But I promise you, with the District now safely in my hands, the Capitol will know our names."
(Her people cheer.)
(They scream her name.)
Someone needs to do the dirty work in this filthy world, so why not her?
Who better than the daughter of Lady Justice herself?
The Capitol will see if she's that merciful when their judgment comes.
Noelle Morrone
Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games
she/her
The sun has barely made its way above the skyline when Noelle cracks open her first bottle of beer. The click feels satisfying under her hand, and it sounds like home. Good enough for her.
Somewhere in the back of the bar, music from a jukebox plays, distant enough to give her a backdrop to sink into. She throws the bottle back, and it tastes sort of warm, but she doesn't mind. She has nowhere better to be.
What else is there to do for people like her? Make her way to Victor Alley and blow kisses to the passing tourists? Accept the deals from perfume companies and smile bright for a camera? Do yet another interview about why she could've possibly wanted to sign up for a death game.
(Why, why, why.)
(That's all they ever want to know.)
It doesn't seem to matter much to her anyway. The most important part is that it happened. Seven years ago, Noelle Morrone, failed student and failed human, stood up and volunteered for a game you aren't supposed to come back from.
Yet she did. She did, with a baseball bat in her hands and rage she never knew she had in her veins. She did, and now the entire country remembers the sound of skulls cracking and bodies falling to the ground.
(And all they want to know is why.)
Well, here's why. Noelle Morrone was fucking bored, and for a few days, she was bored no more.
She twirls her bottle against the counter, mindlessly. It sounds like the glasses she used to wash back home. And now she's bored again. Been so for seven years. Funny thing, maybe the Capitol should get worried. Everyone knows what she did when she got a little too tired of her status-quo. Maybe they should get worried after branding her the most savage beast of the decade and then leaving her to rot.
They aren't worried, though. It's as if everyone can tell that the fire inside her is gone, snuffed out like a candle in the dark. It's as if everyone can tell she's just a shell now, and, well, a shell's never hurt anybody.
Noelle sighs. Soon it'll be the Reapings again, and if she's to believe the pretty letter that landed on her doorstep a couple weeks ago, she's to mentor some poor unlucky bastard again. Again, they'll ask - how'd you do it? How'd you make it out so well, Ms. Morrone?
The thing nobody wants to admit is that it simply isn't very hard. They cover it up with their dramatic retellings and their government-funded autobiographies, but winning the Games isn't that hard if you've got enough to fight for.
(She tells them that everytime.)
(They still end up dead, though.)
A noise startles her out of her thoughts, and she whips around, suddenly back on high alert. But a gruff man with dark hair pokes his head through the door, and Noelle relaxes.
"Shit, Bastien, you scared me," she mumbles.
He chuckles. "Sorry, kid! Just checkin' on you."
"No need, I promise," she sighs, but as she sets down her bottle of alcohol she realizes there probably isn't much truth in that statement. "I'm just biding my time."
Bastien gives a sympathetic wince. "Mentoring year this time, huh?"
She nods, not wanting to talk about it further. To his credit, Bastien always takes the hint, and he nods back, makes his way into the kitchen in silence.
Noelle owes a lot to him, and to the small community she's found in the Capitol. It's an oasis in a sea of endless scrutiny, and one she is very desperate to cling to. Despite the Victors all being grouped together in the same Village, tiny sup-groups have formed between them, and the 'Tors from Ten have always taken her in as one of their own.
(Despite her choosing to be there.)
(They forgave her.)
They hadn't asked any questions like the frantic reporters had, they didn't shy away from her (as if she'd jump on them and tear them apart) like the ones from Five did, and they especially didn't ask her to explain anything about her life from before.
She just could be. Even if that didn't mean much more than lingering in bars at the wrong hours or doing makeup with the other Ten girl, it still counted for something. It still felt like home.
Sometimes she catches herself wondering if her friends from Ten miss doing those things with her. If they miss shooting down the mailboxes and having too many fuckings shots and skipping school because they were hangover.
But those days are over now, and she'll have to be content with what she has now. She made the choice after all. The string of fate had been in her hands.
Suddenly, a knock on the front door breaks the stillness of the morning. This time, she doesn't jump, just curses - if it's another fucking reporter she swears to God -
Noelle whips the door open, and the bell above jingles with discontent at being handled so roughly.
To her surprise, it's not a parasitic journalist standing in front of her, but instead a girl, about as young as her, flinches back.
Shit.
"...Scylla Isvara?" Noelle asks, scrunching her nose incredulously. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Scylla shifts away, uncertain. "Am I, uh, bothering you?"
Noelle hasn't been a very passionate watcher of the Games ever since her personal triumph, but she's pretty damn sure she recalls Four being a vicious animal not so long ago, tearing into people with her bare hands. It was strange, seeing her cowered like that.
"No. Not really." Never mind the fact that she most definitely is, but Noelle isn't that much of a bitch (anymore). "What do you want?"
Scylla seems to regain some of that supernatural self-confidence, and she straightens her back. "People told me this was a good place to find support. For people like us, I mean," she says, voice steadier.
"People like us? Do you think we have anything in common?"
"Well, for one, everyone thinks we're batshit insane. There's that," Scylla replies with a self-indulgent smirk. "But I mostly just mean we won our Games."
Noelle scoffs, but she doesn't shut the door on her. "Aren't you a career? This is a place for people who had to work their damn way out of that hellhole." Christ, Noelle, you don't even believe that.
"I'm not a career, I'm a volunteer. You would know the difference." And still, that small smile lingering at the corner of her mouth. Noelle doesn't think she's seen someone more punchable, but then again, she's thought that about too many people for the title to have any value.
Noelle steps aside, letting the door creak open further. "Jesus, fine. You can come in if you want."
Scylla's smile widens into a sardonic, wide thing, and she steps inside with gusto. As she looks around the place, Noelle realizes that it isn't much to look at. A couple stools are scattered around the bar and some booths are losing their red color. She finds herself clarifying, absurdly, "It's usually better than this. You know, in the evening, when people are supposed to be in bars."
At that, Scylla raises an eyebrow at her and gestures to her bottle sitting lonely on the counter. "In the evening, huh?"
"Yeah, guess you got me." Noelle gives a soft little chuckle, and the sound doesn't feel quite familiar in her voice anymore. Maybe this girl isn't so bad, the barehand murders aside.
Noelle sits back onto her stool and pushes another towards Scylla with her foot, who accepts the invitation. There's a short moment of comfortable silence, before Scylla continues. "I'm sure it's obvious that I'm not here just to make friends. I… have a bit of a small favor to ask of you."
You. "You mean the 'Tors from Ten?" she asks, suddenly feeling a little more awake.
"No. I mean you, specifically."
Noelle frowns. She's never been singled out for much, other than the few weeks after the day they pulled her out of the arena, shaking and painted crimson from head to toe. "Me?"
Scylla leans in further, and Noelle can feel her heartbeat again. "Noelle, tell me, what do you know about the Sun?"
Yayyy women ! hope yall enjoyed the controversy. It will get more controversial next week with my beloved innocent angel constantine 3333333333 hope yall are also ready for more sol lore
I also feel more confident w my writing now i hope it is Showing !
Otherwise not much else to say so bye thank you for reading
Q: who in my subplot should kiss