(Massive inhale)
Thank you to Reign Falls, Grim Apocrypha, Very New To This, Dante Alighieri1308, ladyqueerfoot, Skeekiest, Lisan al Gaib, SakuraDreamerz, and yoyowhitehole for the reviews (with many of them leaving multiple! love you guys). Feedback for the characters and writing style truly inspires me to try and do better as well as to keep writing - it's much easier to sit at my computer and type away when I know I've got people waiting for it!
In particular, a MASSIVE shout out and thank-you to Dante Alighieri1308 for the shoutout in their own SYOT story, "The 59th Hunger Games: These Cloying Delights." As readers of that story can probably tell, the formatting and general manner of storytelling in that story has been a HUGE inspiration to how I'm attempting to tackle my own (the intro formats are almost identical haha) and it's an honor to receive that shout-out from the person who essentially laid the groundwork and planted the seeds of inspiration for my own work. If you haven't, be sure to check out These Cloying Delights - it's a riveting read and will keep you on your toes!
That should be all from me up here! See you all again at the bottom of the chapter. On to District Two, where we've got some fearsome competitors ready to take the stage!
"...Serpent..."
"...this year... volunteer..."
"...really..? ...victory..."
...
"Hear all that, boy?"
The callous, harsh yet humor-tinged voice resounds. Youssef feels a solid thud upon his back as he walks, the weight of the hand that raps against his shoulders heavy. He glances over to the absolute brute of a man that had nearly caused him to stumble, his eyes as hard as stone.
"Yes, sir." The reply comes, voice kept even and steady.
"Good lad." The voice responds, evidently pleased. The boss was a man who demanded perfection - submission - at all times. It mattered not if Youssef Vyrax was to volunteer this year. It mattered not that the day was tomorrow. Today, at least while patrol was ongoing, he was till Cadet-In-Training Vyrax, serving under Corporal Hadrian Vyrax and Commander Pavlov Peckard.
The latter stands to his left, the thick, meaty hand that had been at Youssef's back dropping down once more to the side of the Commander.
"We're losing a good Cadet, Corporal." The Commander speaks again. "Your boy's performed some exemplary work over the years, rooting out the undesirable attitudes in this place. It's a shame."
Hadrian, to the right of Youssef and one other patroller, is evidently proud. The atmosphere is more relaxed, today. Both men, usually hard and emotionless, showed the slightest bit of mirth. Pride, Youssef knew. The most capable volunteer in years, and that title largely came thanks to the hands-on experience Hadrian and Pavlov had provided. Most went into the games with 1 or 2 kills under their belts - bodies gained from assessments designed to test their mettle in taking a life as well their skill in combat.
Youssef was entering with nineteen.
"Nessa will have to take my place, then. If she can handle smudging her makeup."
Youssef elbows the final member of the patrol lightly to emphasize his joke. He feels his elbow connect with the palm of the patroller, and smiles internally. He'd taught her well.
"You already know there'll be hell if my family finds out I've been put on one of your little kill-missions." Nessa replies, pushing Youssef's elbow back before dropping her palm back to her side. "I'll save it for the Sixty-Fourth."
"You could have come along this year, though. Ah, wait - that oddball caught you off guard, didn't she? Not a good look."
"As if. You think I want to have to kill you in the Finale? I wasn't trying." Nessa speaks pointedly.
Youssef remembered watching the selection of the female tribute. He'd been rooting for Nessa, personally, and had cheered the loudest when she had taken out two of the other volunteer-hopefuls with her whirling blades. He'd cheered right up until the girl with the vacant stare had seemingly materialized behind his protégé and tagged her with a wooden dagger, eliminating her from the selection trial and winning the mock-Games. He didn't even know the winning girl's name - and didn't truly care. He'd find out tomorrow, anyways.
At Nessa's retort, both older members of the patrol let out small chuckles. Which, for them, might as well have been guffawing fits of laughter.
"Awfully bold of you. I suppose we'll never know." Youssef retorts. Deep down, he would prefer not to have to square off with Nessa, either. He'd much rather stick a knife in the throat of this unknown volunteer than cut down a long-time associate. Someone he'd even dare to call a friend, if he was in particularly good spirits.
"That's enough chatter out of the two of you." The Commander speaks sternly yet without anger in his voice, stepping out to address the group. He turns around, standing a couple inches above even the 6'4 Youssef.
"This is your last patrol, Vyrax. It's been an honor."
The Commander gives a firm nod and salutes in the manner typical of the Peacekeeping forces - left arm folded behind the back, right hand placed in a fist over the heart. His boot gives a dull thud against the floor as he stomps, and Youssef salutes him back. Commander Peckard had been brutal. He'd been secretive and demanding and ruthless. And yet, now he was proud.
"Yes sir, Commander." Youssef repeats the phrase like a faulty record, to which The Commander shakes his head.
"You're not my Cadet anymore, boy. Patrol's over; you've been relieved of duty. You're our representative now. The Serpent. A Career."
The Commander offers a hand.
"Yes, Commander." Youssef takes it, his grip firm.
"Damnit, Youssef. I'm not your commander now. Pavlov will do. You're no boy anymore, and you're no Cadet to me. We're men. You're our shot at victory."
Pavlov pulls his former Cadet in to an embrace - brief and tight and yet still surprising.
"Say hello to the ol' ex-wife in the Capitol for me, yeah?" Clapping Youssef on the shoulder, Pavlov begins to walk back the way they'd come, signaling to Hadrian and Nessa to follow.
"We'll see you tomorrow, Serpent. Bright and early."
Watching the group return on their own patrol route, Youssef feels a brief sense of remorse. He was leaving the life he'd become so accustomed to. The life that he'd been good at. But, as they said in the middle of country-fuck nowhere out in Ten, there were greener pastures that awaited. The life of a Peacekeeper was nothing compared to that of a Victor. And Youssef was damn sure he'd be coming home a Victor.
Living in the shadows. The shade casted from the brilliance of those around you made for an effective hiding spot.
But even those destined to dwell within darkness would have their moment to shine.
That moment would come for Lethe Maiorianus in... how close was it now..? Just a under 24 hours, right? It was strange, though. She'd grown comfortable, playing second fiddle. It afforded her a quiet anonymity and a relief from the pressure of her father, Corvus. All of his attention went to Cora. The firstborn. The favorite. The heir to his booming factory business. Perhaps many would be jealous. Envious of the blatant favoritism. Lethe was not. Business was not her forte. She didn't wish to run her father's empire and inherit all of the stress that came with it. She wanted more in her life. Excitement and recognition.
...
Maybe not so comfortable with second place, then.
That's why she'd done it. She could count on one hand the number of people who knew that she would be the one entering the Sixty Third Annual Hunger Games. Cora and her father were not among them.
Could they even be upset, though? This was Cora's final reaping. Lethe was no longer bound to protect her. No longer expected to volunteer should the heir of the Maiorianus fortune be reaped. Her duty as the spare had passed. Now, she could choose for herself what to do with her life. Volunteer for her own reasons. Not for those of her father.
Thud. Thud.
"Come in." Lethe replies simply, snapped out of her thoughts. There were really only 2 people it could be.
"Coming in." The light and humorous voice repeats, and the wooden door to Lethe's room creaks open. Cora - as radiant and positive as ever - pokes her head inside, a pleasant smile across her face.
"Dad says it's time for dinner. He's imported some special steaks tonight, in honor of the reaping." Cora pauses. The subject of how Corvus felt about both of his daughters was always an awkward topic. The steaks were expensive, even for a man as well-off as Corvus - as juicy as a District man could buy. Both of them knew why. Because it was Cora's final reaping, and a volunteer had been decided. Though nobody knew the name, they all knew it wasn't Cora. Lethe would be lucky if her father even realized that next year would have been her last one, too.
"He wants everyone to have some. We know you've been training hard at the Academy."
A lie. Lethe could tell. Cora, as many wonderful qualities as she possessed, was a terrible liar. Her breathing hitched a certain way and her eyes could never remain focused on one point. It was a lie. But it wasn't a harmful one, Lethe knew. Her father probably couldn't care less if Lethe got to eat. But Cora wanted to experience the delicacy with her sister. It was a kind sentiment, even if she had to play pretend.
Lethe gives a silent nod and her best attempt at a warm smile. It comes off a bit forced, but Cora pretends not to notice that. Her sister had never been the best at expressing herself.
"Just think, Lethe. When I run it all, this.." Cora flails her arms, indicating her frustration with the situation at whole. "..it'll all be fixed. Dad doesn't know what he's talking about. You've served him well. His production's gone up ever since you started keeping an eye on the factory, you know. And don't even mention all of the stuff you've done for me."
Because you told me to do it. Lethe thinks to herself. Cora could be kind. She cared - Lethe knew that much. But she had never been quite above using Lethe's uniquely acquired talents to further her own agenda. Whether that be collecting information from competitors or threatening them with the status and danger of an Academy Cadet breathing down their neck. It never felt right. The first time it had hurt, when the sister Lethe thought to truly hold her best interests at heart doled out the same tasks that her father had given her when he had noticed her penchant for hiding in plain sight. Now, she'd become numb. They both thought of her the same way. Like a spare tool.
They all did. Except for one.
As she rises from her bed on her final night at her father's house, Lethe thinks of Theodora. Her fellow Cadet. The one person to always greet her with a smile. To address her like she addressed everyone else. She stood tall, Lethe remembers, taller than even most of the males in her age group. She was a master with a sword in her hand. Yes, that had to be why Lethe liked her so much. She could learn, from someone who fought like that. It had nothing to do with her genuine care for those around her, or the way her eyes would shine when Lethe would ask for advice, or the way her hair blew gently in the summer breeze. Yes. She was a model cadet. That was all.
"Thank you, Cora." Lethe speaks politely. "I'm sure we'll all need our energy to cheer on our volunteers tomorrow."
Lethe would certainly need it, to weather the storm that she'd face during the Visitation Hour. Dad would be raving and furious. Cora would be crying.
She wonders if Theodora would stop by, too.
Youssef's normally stoic face betrays a rare shock as he hears his partner's name. The one he'd neglected to learn. The one he'd written off as a fluke victory. She almost whispers it into the microphone, but her soft voice is drowned out by enraged shouting from the back of the crowd. A man's voice, deep and booming and commanding. Youssef likens it to the voice that The Commander - no, that Pavlov had often used before some of the squad's more dangerous operations.
He's dressed with a particular level of sophistication rarely seen in the Masonry district. Despite this, he's just as big and burly as any other Two-grown man and he breaks through the section of 18 year old males like a raging bull seeing through red-tinted glasses. Anger clearly clouds his vision and soon he's barreled through the 17 year old male section as well, dead set on making his way towards the stage.
"LETHE!" He roars, voice drowning out the whispery murmur over the stage mic. "LETHE, STEP DOWN THIS INSTANT! STEP DOWN, OR I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL-"
He gets no further before he's surrounded and promptly tackled by a swarm of no less than 6 peacekeepers. Youssef let's out the smallest of smirks as he recognizes Pavlov and his father among them, the combined strength of the two - and their 4 compatriots - more than sufficient enough to hold down the disruptor of the volunteering ceremony. How stupid this man must be, Youssef thinks. He's been around enough, dined and spoken with enough of Two's high-class to recognize the man that was Corvus Maiorianus. The genius proprietor of the largest tile factory in Two. That was the reputation he carried, anyways. But Youssef had never had the pleasure of meeting this supposed genius in person. It was honestly disappointing, to find that he was simply a bull-headed thug when he got emotional.
"That will be quite enough of that." A haughty voice followed with a sniff of disapproval sounds from the Capitol escort, her voice shrill and almost avian to match with the surgically implanted feathers upon her cheeks. "Repeat yourself, one last time pleaser, dearie."
The female volunteer lets out a quiet sigh, before pulling the mic closer. Her voice is no louder than before.
"Lethe Maiorianus."
All she speaks is her name, but Youssef lets out an involuntary whistle.
In all of his years, his meetings and discussions and investigations done for the wealthy, he'd only heard of one Maiorianus heir. Cora, her name was. Not Lethe. He'd never heard of Lethe.
That intrigued him. As did her skill with the dagger. She'd taken out Nessa, after all. Clearly she was no slouch, though she appeared to be a bit malnourished by Two standards.
Pale skin, lean build and a gaunt face - if he'd seen her wandering the streets, he wouldn't have assumed she was an Academy trainee. Homeless addict would have been the guess.
Nonetheless, Youssef is nothing if not adaptable. It was all a formality, anyways. Maiorianus or not, Lethe and Youssef were District Partners. She would serve as his stepping stone to something greater. He'd make sure she was remembered, of course - as any generous Victor would do. She was the first of many who would help elevate Youssef to the larger public eye, and in doing so she would help to make Panem all the better. What more could someone like her want, he thinks?
As he moves to shake her hand, he ensures his grip is firm. Piercing brown eyes meet Lethe's pale, dull blue.
She had been emotionless when she'd called out as Volunteer. When she'd walked up to the stage, her feet had dragged. When she spoke her name, her voice was flat and whispery. She had shown nothing but general apathy for all around her from the moment Youssef had paid attention to her.
But when they lock eyes, he swears he sees the ghost of a smile playing across her lips.
Curious.
And that's a wrap on D2's Reaping! These two characters were certainly a bit more traditional in terms of volunteering than the last chapter (cough cough Hyperion, no shade i love him), but I hope you still found their characterization interesting! I'll be the first to admit I struggled a bit with their solo scenes, but I think it all came together in the end during the joint reaping scene for me.
Thoughts, concerns, comments, criticisms all welcome! Let me know what you think about Youssef and Lethe! Anything about them strike you as particularly interesting? Anything briefly mentioned from them you'd like to know more about in their upcoming appearances in the Pre-Games? Let me know!
Until next time,
logangster outta here