.
x. perjury
✦ ✧ ✦
the voluntary violation of an oath or vow
andromeda vivaldi
eighteen / / district five
—
She would enjoy this place so much more if she had actually decent company.
"Patience Is All You Knead" is just about the most ridiculous name for a restaurant that Andromeda's ever heard, but beyond that, it's pretty swanky. Golden chandeliers hang from mirrored ceilings and classic paintings decorate the walls. The maroon upholstery makes even the chairs look luxurious, fancily dressed people reclining in them as the sound of their voices fills the room.
"We're going to be late," her father says as a waitress ushers the Vivaldi family between chairs and tables. "We have guests to impress — Cassius, pick up the pace."
Andromeda slightly turns around to see her younger brother basically dragging himself down the carpet. She debates glaring at him, but ultimately decides against it. Something about how there's a time and place for everything.
Eventually, they're led to a private function room, away from the prying eyes of other guests with a large banquet table. Andromeda scoots into the spot furthest away from her mother, who looks at the waitress and smiles. "Thank you so much. I appreciate—" She glares daggers at Andromeda. "Your legs!"
She wants to say, "what about them?" but she bites her tongue and tilts her head to the side. "Pardon?"
"They're uncrossed!"
Right, because Panem forbid Andromeda spends even five seconds sitting down with her legs uncrossed, or else the world will explode into particles of un-ladylike-ness, destroying all of humanity — and that would be an under-reaction. Whatever. Regardless of how she feels, she has no choice, so she crosses her legs. "Is this better?"
Her mother peaks underneath the table. "Much better, thank you darling."
"You're so welcome." One day, Andromeda suspects she'll get contractions in the muscles around her eyes because of how much effort it takes for her to not roll them at every little thing her mother says.
"Alright," Andromeda's father says once the waiter has left the table. "We have some guests joining us, but I wanted to talk about something important beforehand concerning the company."
"Oh?" She raises an eyebrow.
She's always been indifferent about the family business, Vivaldi Weaponry, and the explosives and firearms they create for the Capitol, but she knows better than to express those feelings aloud. After all, the company is why the Vivaldis get to live so luxuriously and someday she's going to run the whole operation. It'll be nice being in charge one day, free of her mother's insistence on her being "ladylike."
"You're getting older," Father starts. "That means it's time for you to start taking things more seriously." At sixteen, Andromeda hardly thinks she's fit to be in too much of a position of authority, but she can rise to the occasion if necessary. "You too, Cassius." Father points at Andromeda's brother, staring into space as per usual.
"Huh?" Cassius straightens his posture. "I thought I wasn't allowed to be a part of the company?" He's had health issues ever since he was born, after all. There have been several instances where the family thought he was going to die, so everything he was supposed to do has fallen on Andromeda. She takes care of the finances, attends meetings with a smile, and twists the truth when she needs to, all without complaint.
"Please, don't be ridiculous, my son. Of course you have a place in the company — you're going to be the face of it someday."
And just like that, Andromeda's heart stops. "He's going to do what?" she asks.
"Be the face of the company," Father repeats.
"And not—" It's like somebody set fire to Andromeda's hair and dumped kerosene over her body and now she feels everything inside of her erupting into flames, threatening to burn her to a crisp. "Not me?"
"You thought you were going to be at the forefront?" Her mother rapidly blinks. "Oh, Andromeda, sweetie. Being the face of a company is a man's job."
"Precisely," her father says. "Don't worry though—"
"Oh shut the fuck up!" Andromeda ignores the loud gasp from both her parents, as she slams a fist on the table and the silverware clangs. "You told me the company would belong to me someday but now you're suddenly changing your minds?"
"I mean, you'll still be doing a lot of work, if it makes you feel better."
"It doesn't, actually."
"But you've done so well with everything I've taught you. I'd hate to let that talent go to waste."
"Then give me fucking credit for it," Andromeda sneers, throwing her glass of water to the ground and smiling when it shatters. "You really think it's fair that I work my ass off— " Every curse word she says feels like an act of rebellion — good. "So this dipshit wet blanket can gain all the public notoriety?"
"Apologize to your brother," Mother screeches.
Andromeda looks Cassius right in the eyes and cackles. "I'm sorry you're a dipshit wet blanket."
Tears start forming in Cassius' eyes but Andromeda doesn't give a rat's ass. She doesn't care that he objectively hasn't done anything wrong — his mere existence continues to set Andromeda back, time and time again. Sometimes, and especially right now, she wishes one of his medical emergencies killed him.
Father shakes his head, his brows furrowed so tightly Andromeda thinks his head is going to explode. "I admit, I didn't think you'd respond like this."
"What?" Andromeda can feel her face getting red, smoke pouring out of her nose like she's a fucking bull. "You thought I'd be happy about this?"
"You don't have to deal with the public perception that comes with being in charge. This conversation has clearly proved that you're too unstable for the position and that we made the right choice." She looks around and sees some waitresses standing nervously, which means she's ruining the family's public perception as she speaks — how very lovely. "We can't let people see this."
"Fuck no—"
Mother slaps her on the wrist. "Cut it out with the cursing. You're traumatizing your little brother."
"I'm sure he's been exposed to worse at school," Andromeda scoffs.
Suddenly, she hears footsteps. Andromeda's father covers her mouth with his hand and whispers, "if I hear one more word out of you, I'll beat you until you're black and blue."
"Let's smile, everybody!" Mother clasps her hands together. "Andromeda, you're about to meet your future husband."
"My what?"
"Make way for Perseus." A waitress turns around the corner revealing a ginger boy around her age and his parents. The parents seem stunned while the boy just so subtly smiles.
"Oh my lord, just kill me now."
—
Spending afternoons at Persi and her parents' house makes life all the more bearable. Yes, that's right — not Perseus, Persi.
Andromeda still has to address her as a boy around both their parents, but when it's just the two of them, everything becomes so much easier. It's been a bit over a year since their first interaction, and somehow Persi is just about the best person in Andromeda's life.
She lets Andromeda serenade her with her violin, and when they're told to practice ballroom dancing, she tells Andromeda to dance the "male" part. She wouldn't describe their relationship as "being in love" or anything close to it, but it's nice to hold somebody at night, skin pressed to skin and lips pressed to lips.
What makes things better is that their parents couldn't be happier — both Andromeda and Persi's parents are thrilled their little arranged marriage idea actually worked.
(But the family business still weighs like rocks on Andromeda's shoulders. Even if she continues to labor away for her father and now her brother, none of it will ever belong to her. Sure, someday Persi will inherit her own parents' company, but that won't be Andromeda's either. There's never going to be anything she can call her own except for herself.)
All that is to say, Andromeda's currently on a one way trip back to her parents' shitlist and she doesn't particularly give a fuck about it.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Persi asks, holding an electric razor.
Andromeda sits on the counter in Persi's bathroom, a ridiculously ornate room with gold-infused marble countertops and gemstone-laden floor tiles. She never thought it would be possible to meet people with a stupider amount of money than her parents, so it's hard for her to not laugh at just how unnecessary everything in this room is.
She runs her fingers down her ponytail, a pair of scissors in her other hand. "I don't think I've ever been more sure of anything."
Andromeda takes a deep breath, and cuts just above the hairband, over a foot of hair falling to the ground. She looks in the mirror, and even though her hair is still a bit past her chin, she's never felt more like herself.
She does her best to stay still as Persi shaves her head, every strand of hair on the floor like a chain she's finally been set free of, until there's hardly anything left.
"Do you like it, Andromeda?" Persi asks.
She looks in the mirror and for the first time in what feels like her whole life, she actually recognizes the person she sees as herself.
"Not Andromeda… Andi."
—
The bouncer at this club is going to give them a headache.
He's so goddamn thorough, checking everybody from head to toe before inviting them inside the Serpent's Spine and insisting they show him their belongings, and it's almost making Andi anxious, emphasis on almost because they're above anxiety now. They just want to go inside and cause a ruckus, fuck's sake. There's literally metal detectors too. There's no reason he needs to be sticking his hands in people's pockets too — that's overkill.
"Do I know you?" he asks when Andi and Persi make it to the front of the line.
"Me?" Persi makes a confused face.
"No. H— the other one."
Andi squints. Have they ever seen this guy before? They see so many faces, it's hard for them to keep track of every one. Doesn't matter though — this guy is really weird, and acting way too hard for his twiggy physique. There's something in his eyes that makes him seem like he isn't entirely there."You don't, no."
"Alright then." The bouncer looks the two of them up and down. "Can I see what's in your bags?"
Frustrated, Andi opens their fanny pack to reveal just her wallet and a vaporizer. Percy on the other hand has lots of makeup products in her purse, but it doesn't seem to faze the bouncer.
"You can zip them back up now." They do that. "Enjoy your time at the Serpent's Spine."
"We will, no thanks to you," Andi scoffs.
"What the hell was his deal?" Persi asks as they make their way inside the building. "Bro kind of looked like a ghost."
"I would too if I had to work at this place."
She giggles. "Completely fair."
As soon as Andi makes their way to the main dance floor, all sorts of cool people start to flock to them — the sort of people who were too afraid to approach them when they looked like a girl. They ask Andi questions, flirt with them, and offer to buy them drinks. It's a welcome reprieve after a whole day of being yelled at by Father over literally nothing, and they're equally pleased that Persi's also getting doted over.
"You having fun?" Persi asks Andi while she dances with some hot blonde.
"Of course." Andi was with a girl a few minutes ago, and really should get to meeting up with her in the gender neutral bathroom so they can both forget just how fucked up existence is. They glance over to the girl Persi's dancing with and smirk. "You better treat her right — that's my fiancée you're dancing with."
"Excuse me?" The blonde pulls a way a bit. "You're engaged?"
"Who isn't?" Persi chuckles. "It's totally chill — no need for you to worry." She rubs her hand against Andi's head — their parents reacted terribly to the bald thing, by the way. "You go off and have fun with whoever you're having fun with. I told my parents you're sleeping over, so you don't need to worry about finding yourself a way home."
"Thanks, fiancée." Andi laughs, waves Persi off, then starts making their way to the bathroom.
What sucks is, as many nights out as Andi enjoys, there's always going to be the morning after when they're forced to face their parents and pretend to be Andromeda until they either go to school or hang out with Persi.
Even if things seem to be getting good, there's really no point in any of it. It's all temporary, after all. Andi Vivaldi's life is permanently fucked up, and it'd take some form of divine intervention to change that.
seventh woods
seventeen / / district seven
—
Timber and sticks, Seventh could really get used to nights like these.
Them and Omar have finally gathered enough people that are interested in their axe-throwing show to rent out a small amphitheater, right in the heart of Delonix. Almost two hundred people sit in the wooden stands now, their faces alight thanks to the metal torches planted in the ground, all excited to witness the greatest show ever known to District Seven.
As the boy and boy-adjacent take center stage, the audience rises to their feet and starts to clap. Seventh takes a deep breath, absorbing all the positive attention, and how it's all for him. Well, and Omar. But mostly for him.
(He knows that isn't true — Omar's one of the most popular kids at school, and lots of people heard about the show because of him, but it never hurts to pretend, right?)
"Ladies, gentlemen, and others, welcome to the Woods & Figueroa Axe Throwing Spectacular!" They announce, a gigantic smile on his face. "We've got an incredible show for all you incredible people. All I ask is that you respect my colleague and I and stay seated to ensure your safety."
"An incredible show indeed," Omar continues, while Seventh shuffles through the backstage area and drags a rack of throwing axes onstage. The audience gasps as they hand Omar one of the axes. "Wonderful, Seventh. With that, we can begin."
He grabs two axes for himself, and stands several feet away from Omar before juggling them. People applaud as Seventh throws the axes higher and higher in the air, never failing to catch them. After a minute, they say, "Now what do you say we get a third axe in here?"
"What a wonderful idea!" Omar exclaims whilst the audience roars. Ever so delicately, he tosses his axe toward Seventh, who catches it and immediately sends it up into the air. "Why Seventh, you're a star!"
I know, he thinks to himself, a smirk forming on their face. He's never missed a throw once in his life, while Omar on the other hand has missed quite a few, often ending up with cuts on his palms bleeding out onto the dirt. He hopes today isn't the day for another error as he tosses Omar one of the axes. Luckily, he immediately catches it, and Seventh is able to get him juggling all three axes without fretting.
"Be right back, audience. I'll miss ya!" They return backstage once more, this time dragging out a long wooden pole. After picking up the last axe from the rack, he prepares to aim. He jumps into a backflip, then chucks the axe with all his might, so that it cuts the pole right in half, which makes people cheer for him. It also takes the attention off Omar — the juggling trick is surely getting old by now.
Around half an hour later, the two of them have done all sorts of tricks, throwing their axes into all manner of objects while contorting their bodies in ways previously thought impossible. Surely, everyone in the crowd's voices are sore by now because of how much they're been shouting, and their hands are equally tired from all the clapping.
"We thank you so much for coming," Omar says, concluding the performance.
Seventh dramatically flourishes their arms and bows. "Yes, thank you. It's been a pleasure performing for you all."
And he'll chase that pleasure again, too. Over and over until he can finally make a name for himself, and everyone has forgotten Omar ever existed at all.
—
"I think our tricks are getting stale," Seventh says during rehearsal one day. The sun is setting and the two of them are practically drowning in pine trees, but he prefers to rehearse like this, where nobody can see him and Omar's new routines.
He used to be scared to train at night, common sense says that it's dangerous, but Seventh just so happens to be above that. After all, he's been throwing axes for almost seven years now — he doesn't need sunlight to hit his marks. To think, he only started this hobby because he was bored working for his family woodshop and now it's become his whole livelihood.
Omar plops himself down on a fallen tree. "Why do you say that?"
"Have you not noticed? People know what to expect with us now. They're getting sick of it!"
Truth be told, every audience is more enthusiastic than the last, but there's never been any harm in twisting the truth. After all, he just wants to make him and Omar better performers, and once that happens, they can take all the credit for themself. That and it's not Seventh's fault that Omar is one of the most gullible bastards he's ever seen.
"They are?"
"Yes, obviously." Seventh takes a seat beside him, and softly smiles as he makes direct eye contact. "Clearly you're not paying attention, but that's okay. I'm always here to notice the little things."
"That's what makes you such a good friend," Omar says, his cheeks turning a bit red. Seventh has never known what that's about, but it happens from time to time. Perhaps the boy has a crush on him, not that it matters. Seventh is too good for him. That or he's nervous — who's to say?
"Exactly," Seventh hums. "Now, would you like to hear about my new idea for our grand finale?"
Omar's eyes widen. "Sure, go ahead!"
"Okay, so here's what I was thinking." They leap off the log and dig in his backpack to find a small plastic water bottle. "We'll use a vase when we do the real thing so it's more exciting but basically, either you put this on your head, or I put this on my head, and then the other person throws an axe at it, making the water splash everywhere. I think it'd be exciting. What about you?"
"We've never tried throwing axes at each other. Wouldn't it be dangerous?"
"So is everything we do," they say. "Besides, we're both professionals at this point. I think we can pull this off with a bit of practice."
"Okay, but I'm a bit nervous that my hands will shake if I try throwing the axe." Hesitantly, Omar also gets up. "I can do my best to stay still though, if you want to try."
"I won't just try, Omar, I'll succeed." Seventh hands him the water bottle. "I don't want you to actually get injured, I promise. Otherwise, I'd have nobody to perform with."
(But maybe that'd be a good thing? Nah… Seventh pushes that thought out of their mind.)
Omar balances the water bottle on his head, and Seventh grabs an axe and steps a few yards away from him. "Are you ready?"
"Sure am," He says through gritted teeth.
Seventh takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and throws the axe a bit above Omar's head. To their delight, the bottle erupts, water splashing everywhere. They smile and exclaim, "we did it! We fucking did it!"
"To be fair, I didn't have any doubts that we wouldn't." Omar ducks down behind him, totally hyped with a giant smile on his face, and picks up Seventh's axe. "I have my own water bottle — what do you say we run that back?"
"Absolutely."
(He doesn't notice that the water made the axe's handle slippery. Maybe it's because he doesn't want to notice, but that would be crazy.)
Omar sets another bottle on his head, and Seventh readies his aim.
He doesn't realize what happened until it's already over. The weapon slips out of his hand, and goes in a completely different trajectory. Omar's eyes widen in shock and he tries to move backwards, but before he can, the axe plants itself right between his eyes, a fountain of blood gushing over his body as he falls to the ground.
"What the fuck?" Seventh panics. It's not because Omar's eyes are rolled back and there's a deep, bloodied gash where his forehead should be, his skull split in two and bits of his brains spilling out onto the dirt. Rather, it's because people are going to think he did this on purpose.
He can't go to jail. Not only are they too pretty for that, Seventh has a whole life ahead of him.
So, Seventh does the only thing he can. He yanks the axe out of Omar's skull, and fucking runs, so far away that they can no longer see the heap that was once Omar, and no longer know where they are. The trees are even taller here and the moonlight hardly lets him navigate. He can figure out how to get home later. For now, he has to quite literally bury the hatchet.
Briefly, he takes a deep breath and drags the axe down his forearm, wincing in pain, just in case he needs an alibi. Then, like a feral animal, Seventh digs into the dirt beneath his feet, prematurely annoyed that he's going to probably get dirt on his nice new pants, though he supposes that's the least of his concern considering he's already covered in blood. Eventually, there's a two foot hole in front of him, deep enough that he can put the hatchet inside, and cover it with the surrounding dirt.
Then, he rises to his feet, and prepares to put on the biggest performance of his entire career.
—
"You mean to tell us, somebody just came out of nowhere, attacked Omar, but not you?" A Peacekeeper sits across from Seventh in his office, clenching his jaw. It's a rather somber room, no decorations on the wood paneled wall, just a desk, two chairs, a ceiling lamp, and a profound sense of unease.
Somewhere in the room where Seventh can't see, a clock ticks and tocks, each passing second digging a deeper hole of dread in his stomach.
"It wasn't just somebody," they correct him. "It was that weird guy, Chester. Me and Omar were stargazing when he came out of nowhere and started hacking at us with an axe."
He's kind of an urban legend around Delonix, always in the forest doing weird, unexplainable things such as eating leaves and talking to wildlife. Even if nobody's seen him break the law, it certainly wouldn't be a shocker — everyone already jokingly refers to him as Chester the Molester. He knows the cops are waiting for an excuse to get rid of him, and Seventh has just that.
"That doesn't explain why he didn't go after you, too."
"He did!" Seventh rolls up his sleeve to show the bloodied bandages wrapped around his arm and blinks, trying to seem more upset about this, more human in general. It makes them sick to be desperate and begging, that's not who he is. But he swallows his pride and folds in on himself. "I was scared for my life — thought I was going to die. He grabbed Omar who told me to run, and I wish I could've somehow fought back. And then when I saw his corpse, and I just… I wish Chester would've killed me too."
"I understand, and I'm sorry for your loss," the officer says, though he doesn't actually seem particularly sorry.
Seventh sniffles, trying to conjure up some fake tears. "I don't know what to do without him. He was my best friend – all I had. I just want him to have his justice. I want him back."
"I see."
The officer's expression is painfully neutral. Seventh has no idea if his lies are even working on him. They rely on their ability to read people without much thought, but they can't with him. They suppose that is a part of his job though. Whatever — that doesn't mean Seventh has to like it.
Another officer walks into the room and stares at his colleague. "Can you give the kid a break? He's young – clearly he didn't kill his little boyfriend."
"Can you bring him back?" They ask the second officer, letting their voice quaver a bit. "Or just do something, anything, please."
"I'm sorry for your loss." The second officer reaches over to the tissue box on the desk, and pushes it toward Seventh. "Do you need one?"
"Y-yeah. Please." He blots his crocodile tears, then loudly sobs. "Can you… promise to fight in his honor while I'm too weak to. You don't even need to tell me about what happens until it's all over, or even tell me at all…"
"Usually, we prioritize sharing sensitive information with the deceased's family." A shiver crawl's down Seventh's spine. He needs to know what happens with this case — anything to soothe what could blossom into paranoia. Though they could ask Omar's family, they have no idea what they'd even say, because he's not particularly sorry for their loss, and it's way easier to lie to the police than to a grieving family. Strong emotions always make things difficult. "However, since you are the one who reported this tragic loss, I suppose we can also keep you in the loop."
"Thank you kindly, officers." Seventh extends his hand, trying not to smirk when the first officer shakes it.
"Don't sweat it, kid. I appreciate you approaching us and telling us the truth."
doverina polveri
sixteen / / district eight
—
She just wishes she could understand anything that's happening right now.
Just last week, Dove was playing hop-scotch with her brother, Lyle, and the only thing she was afraid of was tripping over her shoelaces and scraping her knee on the pavement. Now, all she can think about is the smoke in the air and how terrible it smelled, something that sounded a lot like fireworks, and how sad her mommy and daddy looked.
Dove wonders if she'll ever see them again. As of now, she isn't sure if they're even alive. The only thing she knows is the graffitied walls of this warehouse, and the scary man sitting across from her.
"Why am I here?" She finally musters the courage to ask the man. "And um… are you going to kill me?" Hopefully, he won't, but Mommy and Daddy always told her not to trust strangers — you can never be too sure what they're thinking about — so Dove doesn't exactly have the highest of hopes. Her only wish is that it doesn't hurt.
(Once, she saw Daddy kill somebody, but she wasn't supposed to see that. It seemed quick, at least. His knife in the other person's chest and then they fell over and Dove ran away so she wouldn't get in trouble.
She was only nine then, but now that she's ten, maybe she's mature enough to handle death now.)
"I don't plan on killing you, no," the man said. "My name is Henley, and if you want, you can think of me as your new father."
"You're not my dad!" Dove shrieks, fear and rage consuming her tiny body as she begins sobbing uncontrollably.
"Oh," Henley takes a moment to compose himself, then walks closer to her, hands her a tissue, pats her back gently. "I don't mean to say that I'm actually him, but he and your mother gave you to me and my family and told us to do our best to raise you like our own."
She still struggles to blot up her tears. "T-they did?"
That doesn't sound like Dove's parents. Sure, they'd sometimes joke about putting her up for adoption when she wouldn't eat her veggies, but they didn't actually want to get rid of her, right?
"I know it's a lot to take in." Henley says."I promise though, we're going to take such good care of you, you're not even going to notice that your mother and father aren't here."
"Are they dead?" She asks. That'd explain why they gave her to someone — maybe they also gave Lyle, and her other brother Duvall, to these people.
"They're still alive," he assures her. "Don't worry, one day you'll get to see them again."
"You promise?"
"Of course I do." Henley puts out his pinky. "Let's shake on it."
—
Dove's old enough now to understand that she's lowkey being held hostage.
But honestly, the past five and a half years haven't been too bad. The Harlaw family cares for her, or at least they do a better job pretending they do compared to her parents. They've never told her where she can or cannot go, as long as she cooperates with their instructions, she pretty much has free will.
Well… there is an exception to that. Dove's not allowed to seek out her "real" parents, but at this point, she doesn't want to. When the Harlaws took over the Polveri mafia's land — yeah, that's another thing she's learned — they demanded they get to keep one of their children. Her parents gave her up with no hesitation, or at least that's what Henley says.
At night, Dove can't help but wonder why her. Duvall was so young he probably wouldn't remember any of this, and Lyle was old and smart enough to break free. She wonders, is it because she's a girl, or worse, is it because she's just… defective or something.
Thinking too hard about it seriously bums her out, so she tries not to. It's just hard when she'll likely never get the answers to her numerous questions. Dove knows that her parents know she's still alive — the Harlaws send them videos every few months, but they still haven't come back for her.
Luckily, she keeps herself busy so she doesn't have time to think. Or, more accurately, the Harlaws keep her busy.
In the dead of night and dressed in all black, Dove shuffles around a dilapidated pharmacy building, dark mold covering every crack in the bricks with some of the windows barely connected to their hinges. She's been to this place dozens of times, knows exactly how to go in and out without getting caught. The owners are doped up half the time anyway—it's not like they've noticed so far.
The window directly left of the entrance is the shakiest, so Dove is able to lightly push it open, then nimbly pull herself upwards, and then inside. She reaches in her pocket for the "shopping list" Henley gave her — pain killers, syringes, needles, numbing cream — pretty much the usual. The Harlaws could very easily afford all of this, but stores in Eight are required to keep a list of every customer and what they buy, so it would draw too much suspicion to them, hence why the crime families have to be underhanded.
Quietly, Dove crawls through the aisles, not daring to turn on her flashlight. If a man outside saw a sixteen year old girl all alone, there's no telling what he'd do to her, just that it wouldn't be any good. She'd rather be initially perceived as a thief than as a sixteen year old girl.
(Yet the Harlaws sent her out anyways, and Dove knows exactly why. Even if they don't act like it, she's just as disposable to them as she was to her parents.)
She has to squint to see everything clearly, but she eventually finds the syringes, so she tucks them inside her satchel. The painkillers, needles, and numbing cream are usually locked underneath the pharmacists' desk area, so that could be a challenge.
When she finds her way there, the cabinets are sealed shut as expected, so Dove grabs one of the lockpicks securing her ponytail, and unfolds it. She takes a deep breath, and inserts the hook into the lock, then digs around to find the mechanism.
After a few seconds of pushing around the pins, she hears six clicks and is able to open the drawer. Dove finds the largest bundle of needles and puts it in her bag, then digs around until she finds a large jar of numbing cream, and a bottle of painkillers. She takes as much as she can without overfilling her satchel, then removes her pick from the lock, and gently closes the door.
Dove leaves out the same window she came in without making a sound. Already, she's excited to return to the Harlaws base because she knows how proud they'll be of her, prouder than her parents could've ever been.
It's just a matter of being safe on the streets, even if that's usually easier said than done. But she hasn't been assaulted or murdered yet, so she just needs to keep up that streak.
—
"Dove, we have an important job for you today."
She wakes up to Henley's wife, Elaine, hovering over her bed one morning.
"Yes, Mo—ma'am." Ugh. Dove's been having a hard time not referring to her as "mom" again. She's usually most guilty of this in the morning, because every night she dreams of finally reuniting with her family, even if she knows that'll probably never happen.
"You're allowed to call me Mom," Elaine reminds her as she peels herself out of her covers. "You know I wouldn't be offended."
"I know." There's still something about it that'd make Dove feel a bit sick, like she's finally giving into the truth that she'll never see her family again. Hope is a rare thing in Eight, but she still tries to hold onto the smallest bit of it. After all, she's stuck here for good and it's not like she'll ever know anything better.
(Cordura Faux was a fluke. People from here aren't supposed to come back from the Games. Just because Cordura was able to escape the grimy streets of Tattersall doesn't mean anybody else will. Besides, she wants nothing to do with this place now, and Dove can't even blame her.)
She puts on her slippers and follows Elaine through the house, even if it's more accurately a secret base. It gets loud at times, especially at night, and all the concrete walls are covered in lewd graffiti, but she's gotten used to it. "What am I doing?"
"I'm taking you to the interrogation crates," Elaine answers. "We've had some issues with stealing, and I know you'll be able to chew somebody out."
A hefty responsibility, but one Dove will complete with a smile. She's grown to genuinely love interrogating people. It soothes her inner child who was once terribly afraid to be in a similar situation. Not only that, it gives her feelings of power, and Dove cherishes that.
(She may not know who she is as a person, but it's better to act strong than to be weak.
Will she ever know?)
After a brief trip outside, a swirl of winter air making her shiver, she's inside the crate once more, but this time in the exact spot where Henley was sitting all those years ago. Across from her, there's a boy maybe three to four years older than her handcuffed to the wall, a clear look of panic on his face.
"H—hello," he says to Elaine and Dove when they walk inside.
Elaine ignores him and whispers in Dove's ear, "His name is Blaise Poplin and he stole three vials of morphling. Make him cry, or worse. Whatever you think he deserves."
Dove nods as Elaine leaves the room, then diverts her attention to Blaise. She takes Henley's seat then drawls, "I didn't think I'd see you on the cutting room floor, Poplin."
"W— what'd'ya mean?" He asks. Truth be told, Dove has never seen this man before in her life, but it doesn't hurt to pretend things are personal.
"I remember the first day you joined us, and how you pledged to be loyal no matter what." Standard newbie behavior, she laughs to herself. "Do you remember making such a pledge?"
Blaise squints. "Um, yes…"
"Have you kept that promise?"
"Yeah, obviously. I have no idea why your mom thinks I stole from her."
"Do you know why she thinks that?" She debates correcting him on the "mom" thing, but decides now isn't the time for that. "Elaine is not an unreasonable woman, as I'm sure you're aware."
"No idea," he says, rapidly tapping his foot against the wall. "Because I swear on my cat's life, I didn't steal anything."
"Tell me about your pet cat then." Dove starts to move closer to him, eyes focused on his arms so she can potentially find proof that he used morphling. "What's its name?"
"Um…" Blaise shakes when Dove puts a finger on his arm. "S— Silky."
"Interesting." Dove finds a series of red dots on his upper arm, so she backs away. "What breed is Silky?"
"She's the white breed." His entire face is red, drops of sweat forming by his hairline.
It's fairly obvious to Dove now — this guy doesn't have a cat, so she has no idea why he swore on one. Between that and the potential needle markings, she knows enough to conclude that he's lying about stealing.
"Does she ever bite you?"
"No?" He aggressively shakes his head. "What kind of question is that?"
"I was just asking because I noticed a bunch of markings on your arms, and I was wondering if this 'Silky' could be blamed for them." Dove smirks and it makes Blaise flinch. "But they're not from the cat, now are they?"
"No, they're from Silky. You asked if she bites — the markings are from scratches."
"Scratch wounds would be long lines, not individual dots." Isn't that obvious? "I think your markings look like they were from, perhaps, a dull needle."
"That was a long time ago," Blaise says, with a comically large gulp."I'm eighteen months clean — you have to believe me on this one."
"Why would I believe you about anything?" Dove snickers.
(Briefly, she remembers the time she saw her father with a knife, and just how afraid the person opposite him seemed. Blaise's expression is eerily similar.)
(There was also a time where she saw Henley do similar. Afterwards, he told Dove that someday she'd have to be comfortable doing the same.)
(She wonders, is now the time?)
"Please, ma'am." Finally, Blaise's shaking eyes have erupted into tears. "You have to believe me. I didn't steal. I'm only eighteen — I still have so much life that needs to be lived."
And so did Dove when she was only ten. She can't bring herself to feel a lick of sympathy for him.
After thirty seconds of Blaise's whining, she tells him, "Okay, okay. I believe you."
"Really?" His entire face lights up. It's almost funny how gullible he is, though she wasn't particularly expecting better from a crackhead.
"Really." Dove nods her head. "I'm going to go find some keys so I can let you out of here."
Blaise exhales with relief, but Dove's excitement for the day is just beginning. She just hopes the color red looks good with her eyes.
Another day, another slay. Extremely common Linds W.
Thank you to Kindle for Andi, Ty for Seventh, and Epsilon for Dove! I loved writing them and I hope you love them too.
Thank you Erik for beta-ing. Maybe you won't have to next week because it's Tyrian, or maybe you still will. Chapter is going to be called Foreskin I mean Forsaken and the ones after are Offbeat and Kinfolk. Appreciate all the love as usual, and maybe I'll have more interesting things to say next week.
Q: What is your favorite song on Halsey's fifth album, The Great Impersonator. If you haven't listened, please do. As of right now, my favorites are Lonely is the Muse, The End, and the title track.
Linds. Laugh. Love.