Apollo Carina
District Two Male
18
–
When the tournament reaches the final round, everybody's screaming his name.
Apollo's pretty used to that, whether it's when he's surrounded by his friends and chugging down a solid liter of alcohol, or when a prettier person is under him and having a good evening. The whole Academy, however, all the remaining male cadets and the female ones who stuck around to watch? It's a whole new high.
The person standing between him and the Volunteer spot is some self-serious guy from the dynasties of Two, someone who believes he had to work twice as hard just because his parents are stuck up. One of the few people who don't appreciate Apollo's amazing sense of humor, too, which seems to be a recurring trend in the boring. Funny how that works out.
He's a classic guy, other than his ridiculous jawline and weapon of choice (who the fuck uses a halberd these days?) but Apollo can't deny his talent since he's made it so far. This is where his luck ends, though, at the end of Apollo's blunted javelin.
The boy, his name is Jeremiah if Apollo remembers correctly, makes the first move, swinging his halberd in a heavy circle towards Apollo's stomach. Apollo dodges to the side, easy. The problem with Jeremiah is that he's slow, preferring flexing those big muscles of his with lazy moves over precision. It's ridiculous, and even somewhat boring in terms of showmanship. Luckily, Apollo is here to give a better show to anyone watching.
As Jeremiah raises his halberd to make another swing, Apollo feints to the left with his javelin, having Jeremiah step towards the right where Apollo meets him with a real blow, straight in the stomach. Jeremiah curses under his breath, and the crowd around them starts cheering for Apollo.
He winks at his opponent, ever the charming rival, but Jeremiah only glares back. Boring. Apollo can't wait to be in the after-party among people with a better sense of humor.
Really, what a stupid idea to fight with a halberd.
Jeremiah prepares for another swing, but Apollo swings his javelin around to hit him in the legs, making his blow go sideways. Jeremiah stumbles, Apollo rolls to dodge another clumsy strike, and shoves his javelin between Jeremiah's shoulder blades. Jeremiah swears again, this time far more audible, and stumbles forward, tries to whip around but Apollo shoves the entirety of his body into Jeremiah, both of them crashing onto the floor.
He points his javelin onto the back of Jeremiah's neck, just enough for there to be a small dent in his skin, waiting for him to surrender. In just a few seconds, the volunteer spot will be his, ready to take in all its glory, but -
"Apollo! Watch out!"
Apollo whips his head up to the crowd, startled. He finds, on the front row, Aurelie waving her hands around, panicked. What the fuck? He looks back down at Jeremiah, when, shit, Jeremiah's arm is moving and suddenly there's a sharp pain in Apollo's right thigh, a blade cutting into skin.
Apollo jumps back, slapping Jeremiah's arm away with his javelin, and a slightly bloodied knife falls out of his opponent's hand. A real life knife, not a blunted one, all steel and sharpness.
"What the hell, man!" Apollo yells at him, now feeling a cold speck of blood rolling down his leg. "Were you gonna fucking sabotage me?"
Jeremiah opens his mouth to spit something back, but before he can, the announcer's voice booms across the Academy gym. Our male Tribute for the 80th Hunger Games - Apollo Carina!
Everyone hollers for him, a couple of his more rambunctious friends stomping their feet on the bleachers for good measure. He darts a quick look towards the front row, wanting to mouth thanks to Aurelie, but she's already gone. Characteristic.
A pair of Peacekeepers approach Jeremiah to drag him out, no doubt already aware of the cheating that'd just occurred, and Jeremiah spits towards him on his way out.
Good grief, Apollo thinks, still reeling at the level of desperation from Jeremiah. Some people really need to lighten up.
–
"Apollo's going into the Games, motherfuckers!"
One of his slightly more inebriated friends jumps off a table of the bar, splashing alcohol everywhere around him. Tyran's been a good buddy to him for a couple years now, still cheering for him to become the Volunteer even if it meant taking the opportunity away from him. It's almost like being a nice, funny guy meant people like you. Maybe Jeremiah should be taking that advice.
Not that Apollo gives a shit about Jeremiah's fate. He hopes he'll be seething when Apollo steps onto that stage next week. That'd be pretty hilarious to see.
There's around fifty people at the tournament after-party, most of them being male cadets who had little stakes in the whole operation, or some female cadets who preferred partying over training for their own upcoming tournament. Shit, there's even some people he doesn't recognize at all, probably some neighborhood friend-of-a-friends. Not that he minds, if they're here to have a good time, then Apollo's willing to provide!
Tyran stumbles onto the ground, laughing hysterically at his awkward jump, turning red under the flashing lights of the party.
"Man, you're drunk as hell," Apollo says, leaning over him.
"Shut up bro…" Tyran moans back, struggling back to his feet. "You had as many shots as me… you just handle it better…"
If you're asking him, there's a lot of things that Apollo handles well - ladies, pressure, overwhelming success - but alcohol is certainly a notable one. "Touche," he shrugs. "You need to go back home though, man."
If it were anyone he knew less, Apollo wouldn't care much, would probably dare the drunkard to run around shirtless or something along those lines, but Tyran's one of the rare real ones. A homie, if you will.
"Why…" Tyran pouts.
"Because you're gonna be throwing up all over me tomorrow morning and I'm planning on watching the damn female tournament, that's why."
"Fine…"
Apollo watches while Tyran trudges out of the room, tripping here and there, apologizing to chairs he most likely thinks is another partier, making sure he makes it to the door.
A sharp tap on his shoulder makes him jump.
He whirls around, and to his surprise, it's Aurelie, her fire-red hair tied up in a ponytail and sweat clinging to her forehead, mouth pressed tightly into a straight line.
"Oh, hey there! Come to congratulate me?" he asks with a wink.
Of course, Aurelie's nose flares at that, which Apollo has started to find pretty cute. "Yes, sure, why not," she says, and he can almost glimpse amusement in her eyes. She's been uptight lately, however, even more so than usual, the selection tournament nearing closer and the pressure becoming suffocating around her. Apollo's got no doubt she'll win and Volunteer alongside him, though. She's always been the strongest female cadet.
"Guess I'll be seeing you onstage, then?" Apollo continues, teasing. He likes to see the way those eyes of hers light up, accepting any challenge in his voice. If there's anyone in the Academy who can keep up with his need for excitement, it's her. Probably why she's spent so many nights in his bed, too.
"Of course."
If Apollo was any wiser, he knows he shouldn't expect Aurelie to win the tournament. Shouldn't expect everything to go exactly as planned, go exactly his way. But who can blame him, really, when everything so far has? When his talent became unquestionable, and victory ever-so reachable? He sees no reason for things to change anytime soon.
Besides, Aurelie's the most obvious choice. He can't imagine anyone being capable of beating her at anything - besides himself, of course.
They stand there, for a couple instants, in comfortable silence, the pulsation of the music swallowing anything else. Finally, Aurelie turns on her heels. "Gonna get some sleep. You should, too, if you don't want to look stupid tomorrow. Well, more stupid than usual."
Apollo can only grin at that. It's been too long since she'd insulted him, it had started getting a bit weird. "Yes, ma'am," he shouts at her as she leaves the bar, fire-red hair flowing behind her.
Maybe Apollo should be more concerned, to know his future District Partner so closely. To have known her so… intimately. Maybe he should be even more so concerned by the fact that the image of her, covered in guts and blood, lips curled in a fierce snarl, is appealing to him, considering it's a sight he may very well be seeing soon.
But Apollo's never been much of a worrier.
Turning back to his friends, he lets the noise of the party surround him once more, already pouring himself another drink and letting any discomfort wash away.
–
By the time Apollo gets home, the sky has started coloring itself gray, announcing the arrival of the sun.
He slips through the back door, hinges creaking from old age. He tiptoes through the kitchen, a dinner plate sitting in the sink, waiting to be washed. His mother ate alone tonight. It's never happened, in Apollo's decade of training at the Academy, he would never forget to come home and eat with her. His stomach stirs, uncomfortable with guilt, at the thought of leaving her alone, to go party with his stupid friends.
He steadies himself. It was just for one night. Just one. When he wins, he'll be able to give her anything she wants, will be able to stay with her as long as he'd like. Could order her a fancy steak frites, take her to some Capitolite restaurant, and they could enjoy meals more luxurious than in his wildest dreams. He'll make it up to her.
She's worked so tirelessly to provide him with a good life, a good home. A roof over his head, food and water, but most importantly, love. A comforting warmth in the wake of his frigid father. It's only right he works just as hard to win, to return the favor, to make sure she'll never have to hold two jobs at once.
She's always believed in him, and if, for whatever reason, Apollo begins doubting himself, she'll always make sure to remind him of her optimism. And Callista Carina is always right. If things have gone well for them until now, it'll keep doing so.
(Even if it has to be through death, and bloodshed.)
(It wouldn't be the first time Apollo's had to take blessings in the form of a casket.)
He slips into the hallway that leads to his bedroom, making sure to avoid the creakiest floorboards. But as he passes through, he notices a faint light emerging from the living room. Squinting, he steps towards it. Maybe he'd drunk more than he thought he did.
But, as he steps into the room, he finds his mother sitting on her old reading chair, bleary gaze fixed on a book on her lap. As soon as she hears him shifting in the doorway, she turns around, eyes lighting up at the sight of him despite the dark circles lining them.
"Why are you still awake, Mom?" he asks, softly.
She shakes her hair, slightly, her dark hair falling onto her shoulders. "Just wanted to wait until you got home. To celebrate. Should've figured you'd be up late, though," she chuckles, and though there's no admonishing in her tone, Apollo still feels somewhat guilty, as if his immaturity had betrayed her.
"Sorry."
"Aw, come on, don't be," Callista assures him, though she yawns right after. "You deserve to be out having fun. Especially because the coming weeks are going to be… rough."
Apollo bites his lip, unsure how to respond. He knows it's only natural for his mom to be worried for him - it is the Games after all, anything can happen. But she's also the person who taught him to aim for the stars, to believe that life will give you gifts if you wait long enough. "Yeah, it will be, but I'm gonna be okay."
Callista's smile widens, but her gaze remains soft. "That you are, sweetheart. As always."
His heart warms slightly at the confirmation. Callista's words have always carried more weight than those of his instructors, his friends, or worse, his father. If she says things will be alright, then they will be.
"Girls' tournament tomorrow, no? That Aurelie girl's gonna be winning, you think?"
He flushes slightly at the implication in his mother's voice. She's not blind, she knows that there's been a couple adventures between her son and the Koa girl, but it does sound more childish to him when acknowledged by her. "Um, yeah. She's absolutely the best in her category. She's gonna Volunteer alongside me."
As simple as that, really. And from then on out, Apollo has the rest of his life planned out, ready to be seized and conquered. As long as Aurelie wins the tournament, Apollo doesn't see a way for his plans to be shoved off course.
Seems like a Carina was destined for greatness, after all.
–
Aia Buttering
District Two Tribute
18
–
Aurelie Koa doesn't stand a fucking chance.
It's the element of surprise, working in Aia's advantage. The announcer himself couldn't keep the confusion out of his voice as she progressed, destroying all her opponents, clawed her way to the final round. No one knows her - not really. Remember her as nothing but a shadow, lingering on the edges of the training room, nodding when asked to.
For someone who was born to catch attention, she had a way of blending into the crowd.
None could've seen her sudden success coming, seeing her as average, forgettable, irrelevant.
Aia's always hated warnings. They give people the chance to stop her.
Aurelie's been pacing the ring, tiger in a cage, grinding her teeth together, eyes flashing with determined fury. She's always been far too loud, that one, always demanding attention. Too flashy, too emotional. Everything Aia isn't.
Besides her sharply honed skills, merciless and brutal, that's what will be her undoing.
No one has ever been a good soldier by allowing themselves to get distracted.
Aia remains calm, keeping a steady grasp on her twin daggers. Listens to the cheers from the crowd, shouting Aurelie's name. None are for her. So be it. Soon they'll all be for her. All she needs to do is remain focused. Unbroken. Always.
The round's been officially started a few moments ago, but Aurelie doesn't seem ready to make the first move. Aia would prefer it if Aurelie made the first move, which would allow her to sneak a stab into her stomach. Quick and easy. That's how most kills are.
However, the more Aurelie paces her angle of the ring, baring her teeth, confused and sweat dripping down her forehead, undignified, the more Aia realizes she'll have to go first.
She takes a few steps forward, crouching into a fighting stance. One that she's practiced for a decade, now, coming to her as naturally as flirting did to other girls. Aurelie adjusts as well, brandishing her sword.
Aia swipes at her right, Aurelie making her way to block her blow, but Aia shifts suddenly to her left instead and shoves the blunted dagger into her side. Aurelie stumbles backward, spits something, swears under her breath. She's messy. Chaotic. Flawed. Anyone can see that. It's a wonder, really, that she's made it this far.
Using the stumbles to her advantage, Aia rams her right dagger towards the girl's stomach. Aurelie blocks with her sword, but Aia dives her left dagger down, ramming right into her gut. Aurelie hisses, falling forward a bit.
At that moment, Aia knows she's won. Any opponent unable to recognize her feints, unable to anticipate her stoicism, is doomed to fail. Aia slams the hilts of her right dagger into the girl's head, and she crashes onto the ropes, gaze burning with animalistic rage.
The crowd falls silent, uncomfortable shifting up in the rafters echoing through the gymnasium. Finally, the announcer speaks up.
(Our female Volunteer - Aia Buttering!)
Aurelie growls in her direction, but Aia stares at her, impassive. A shame that someone with her talent with swords was wasted on volatility. If only others knew how to control themselves better. Perhaps the world would be a lot better off.
She takes a bow, respectful, taking care not to raise her fist into the air or anything that puerile like her District Partner. There'll be time for her to show off, in front of cameras. There'll be a time when her prowess will speak for itself. She doesn't need to show off for any of them.
Not anymore.
She stands back up from her bow, and her eyes find their way towards the stand, past her inconsequential peers and instructors, locking themselves instead on her family. Her mother stands against the railing, staring right back at her, lips pursed in her characteristic judgment. As if Aia had been caught scribbling on the walls again. As if her daughter wasn't about to become a legend far surpassing any of their plans for her. Next to her stands her father, frowning, dark gaze directed straight at her. It's anger in his eyes. An anger she's known her whole life, grown accustomed to like one gets used to their next-door neighbor. But in this moment, leveling her gaze to meet his, she recognizes something else inside of it.
Helplessness.
At his daughter's mercy, his perfect future for the family now upheaved.
Perhaps he'd finally know how it feels, now, to be tugged around like a dog for someone else's purposes. Perhaps he'd finally understand the destruction of having your future stripped away by greedy hands.
Perhaps, or perhaps not.
It doesn't matter, now. Aia will forge a name for herself, without them holding her strings.
Nothing matters anymore. They can't stop her now.
(There had never been a warning.)
–
"What the fuck, Aia?"
Aia observes, impassive, as Cassian Ecclesia paces around in the Academy's common room, his brown hair in a mess, flailing around.
If only people could restrain themselves. It'd solve so many problems.
"What the fuck?" he repeats again.
"I heard you the first time," she responds. It's the only words she's spoken to him in weeks. Not that he'd notice, too caught up in her gorgeous blonde locks to notice how her stomach would turn at his proximity.
Cassian opens his mouth, and closes it again, reminding Aia of a fish out of water. He's never been particularly handsome, but now, flushed red with the frustration that reminds her too much of her father, she feels disgust crawl up her throat. "We were - we were supposed to get married next year! Jesus Christ, Aia, do you ever consider others' lives?"
If Aia knew how to, she'd laugh at that. She's seen that sort of entitlement in too many men by now, from immature boys that'd been shoved at her in parties and her bumbling classmates at the Academy. That sort of conviction that if she chooses something for herself, for her own good, that it makes her the devil. That the altruistic thing to do is to follow them with a bowed head.
Fuck that.
"I don't want you, Cassian," she replies, and even she can't keep the bitterness from her voice. She's spent far too long pretending to tolerate him, pretending that bile didn't rise into her mouth every time he took her hands in his. She doesn't need to keep quiet, now. Her life is finally hers. "I never did. The wedding isn't happening."
Despite the finality in her voice, as unbudging as steel, Cassian still finds a way to make a sound of indignation. As if she'd somehow betrayed him.
(When, in all actuality, it had been him, confession his love for her when she used to think he was the only man she could trust.)
(He had been the traitor. Yet another pig led by his impulses.)
"I'll be winning the Hunger Games," she continues, and though she doesn't enjoy speaking this much, she needs him to understand that he'll never be seeing her again - other than on a screen, a crown shining on her head. "Then, I'll be moving to the Capitol. I will forget you."
Cassian throws his hands up into the air, as if dealing with a hopeless child. "Fine! Jesus. You're a fucking psycho, you know that? You're batshit insane, Aia."
If she's to be frank, Aia considers herself to be very rational, more than any of the petulant men she's had the displeasure to come across. Still, she allows herself one jab - "Maybe so. Have you ever seen someone sane win the Games, though, Cassian?"
He sputters something, incoherent, which Aia makes no effort to decipher. She's spent far too much time forcing herself to be interested in the droning-ons of men, who only see her slender figure and perfect frame. Who only see her body, and the children she could provide, perfect, blonde, potent. Who are only there because her parents desperately want to display her, ornament that she is, in hopes that someone would want her hand.
She's done with them all.
She rises to her feet, and a small thrill of pleasure runs down her back at finally being able to leave a conversation on her own terms. "Goodbye, Cassian," she says, and really, he ought to be grateful that she gives him a farewell.
–
The hallways of the Academy dorms have finally grown quiet, drunken seventeen-year-olds finally returning to their beds. Stumbling over each other, mouths against others', drunk on life.
Aia's been laying in her bed, watching the minutes pass by on her bedside clock. She should be sleeping, she knows that. She's never struck herself as an insomniac, always having enough self-control to soothe herself and move onto the next day. Still, there's something inside of her, strumming with impatience, beating against her chest in cadence with her heart. Aia's always prided herself in her patience, in her capability of making efforts that will only be reaped in years. She's awaited this moment for nearly a decade. When she can finally step onto a stage of her own choosing, finally be revered in a way that she wants, be known for her own exploits.
She traces a lithe finger on her palm, finding the nail crescents dug into it from when she'd had to bear conversations with Cassian at his estate. No more of that. The only scars she'll be collecting will be the ones from the glory of battle. Symbols of victory, not compliance.
Almost free.
Her mother would be scolding her about that, of dreaming about relics etched into her skin. She shouldn't be marred, it's considered unbecoming for a young woman. Unnattractive, whatever that means. Her skin was soft and pure, appealing, it shouldn't be broken. She's heard it far too many times, perhaps it's part of the reason she wants to see it roughened and bruised with violence, with hard work. She doesn't want to be ogled at anymore. She wants to be respected.
If Aia's being honest with herself, she's never quite grasped the concept of attraction. They tell her it's because she's being difficult, while more well-meaning people tell her she simply hasn't met the right person yet. It all sounds strange to her, though, the concept of letting someone know her body. It's become a fortress for a reason. Not to be entered.
(No longer a female body. Just a weapon.)
(That's all she wants.)
And when Aia wants something, she reaches for it, no matter the bones she breaks and the blood she spills. When Aia wants something, she fucking gets it. No matter what.
Maybe she's foolish to expect that her victory is a fact of nature. Maybe it's presumptuous, maybe it even reminds her too much of Cassian's entitlement. But the difference between her and those men is that she worked for this. Tireless days and tireless nights, turning her suffering into effort and effort into success, driven by lack and not privilege.
Once she enters that arena, she'll mostly be surrounded by people far less trained than her, fragile and starved by poverty. The only people who could threaten her would be her de-facto allies, the rest of the Pack, but judging from her District Partner's foolishness and One's incapability of choosing a trainee based on their worth, she should have victory already in her hands.
Then, finally, she'll be able to seize her destiny, and shed away whatever woman they believe her to be.
Not a girl.
A legend.
–
Igor Zima
District Three Male
18
–
When the first message appears in his inbox, Igor isn't sure what time it is. He's been sitting in his bedroom for quite some time now, the blinds drawn over his windows to prevent distractions such as the sunrise. There'd been a couple parents-to-be who'd come over to the orphanage, looking for someone to adopt, and each time, he'd received a knock at the door inviting him to come out and meet them. He hadn't budged, of course. Being an orphan meant that he had been unwanted. It made no sense that someone would purposefully take him. Therefore, there was no reason for him to leave his room and meet them. It's truly logical, yet his fellow orphans never understood. Alas, Igor's had to realize by now that most humans do not function with logic.
Instead of worrying about adults saving him like white knights, he's been focusing on something far more important - the screen of his computer, a lighthouse's beam in his dark room. The current system he's been working on - some high defense site for a wealthy technology company in the District - has been offering a bit of a challenge, diverting his repeated attacks and sending him away when he tried forcing passwords out of it. He purses his lip, though in reality, he doesn't find himself incredibly distraught. He'll figure it out in time, he knows he will. Igor never gave up on a project, always seeked out new ways to improve himself, polish his hacking skills. Without a challenge, he could never become perfect.
He takes a sip from a can of energy drink sitting on his desk, pondering. Maybe he could try another way, not forcing his way directly through the passwords but instead making it believe that he was an employee, not an intruder. Really, the system shouldn't be so scared of him. Unlike the people it was there to protect the company from, he wants no intellectual property. He's just perfecting his art.
Just as he's about to launch another attempt, a message flashes across his screen. He frowns - it's an internal message, a notification from his own computer, except it reads: r u phantom?
Perplexed at first, he quickly realizes that he's been sent a message by another expert hacker - someone capable of sending messages straight through his computer's system. Someone who's interested in him, in his talents, who's heard of his screen name.
His heartbeat picks up a bit, and not just from the caffeine coursing through his veins. He needs to impress this person, whoever it is. He needs to make his response perfect.
Opening a new tab on his computer, he quickly manages to find the device that hacked his - whoever he's dealing with is talented, and would have blocked his location with ease. Evidently, he wants to make sure Igor finds him.
Using the same trick, typing the message into his interlocutor's very system, he responds, yes. who r u?
A moment passes, then another pop up flashes onto his screen: someone important. r u interested in a job?
His finger lingers on a button. He's never been very attracted to the idea of a job, of working for a company who wants to exploit his talents. But… the offer doesn't seem to come from someone on the right side of law, and perhaps that means whatever he's being offered is more exciting than a corporation. why not. what u got?
A minute passes, though Igor only knows this thanks to the clock on the right corner of his screen.
Then, finally, a response:
shit u wouldn't even dream of, man.
–
Igor is awoken by the sound of a notification. He lifts his head up, groggy, from his desk. He's still on his computer chair, he must've fallen asleep while working. It's unfortunate, really, that he has to sleep. He'd do much better without that, would be able to consecrate more of his time into perfecting his craft, pursuing his passion.
The more time he spends doing jobs from Wraith, the more his status as a human being starts to become annoying. Inconvenient. He still has to eat, occasionally, though he makes sure to eat instant ramen and other nutritional packages that do not waste any time. He still has to drink, though by drinking energy beverages, he also gives him something that keeps him awake. He even has to go to the washroom, sometimes, has to leave his lair and step into the sunlight, has to brush past people and be acknowledged in his physical form.
If only he could be a computer. It'd solve so many of his problems.
No such luck yet, however, and Igor straightens in his chair, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Wraith's sent another message onto their groupchat. new job 4 phantom.
The three other members of their group, Aberration, Enigma, and Tracer, are already busy with various jobs - releasing people's private information, sending files and texts. It doesn't matter what's being asked, or by whom, they're just happy to provide and cultivate their talent.
im back srry, he sends, whats the job
Wraith responds immediately, of course he does. Unlike the other four of them, he manages to keep his time consistent, unbothered by sleep and other embarrassingly human necessities. One of these days, Igor hopes to be like him, but for now, he has to focus on not doing anything shameful - after all, it's the only time Igor's ever felt welcome anywhere.
some guy from the corpos wants us 2 give him info on a rival corp. the usual
Igor stifles a sigh. The usual, indeed. At first, hacking into corporation systems had been a true challenge for him, something worth his time and improving his skills, but now, it's become far too easy. He's been longing for something more exciting, something that can finally push him towards perfection, something grand. But, as it seems, there aren't those kinds of opportunity every other day.
As if sensing his disappointment - Igor sometimes wonders if Wraith didn't hack into his computer's camera, too, to keep tabs on him… Not that he would mind that - Wraith sends another message:
ik its getting boring but theres nothing better 2 do rn. Hopefully smth better will turn up soon.
Igor nods. Wraith's right, he knows that. He just needs to be patient, and his grand opportunity will finally appear. All he needs to do is wait, and while he waits, he really has nothing better to do than enjoy easy jobs. After all, what else would he do? Talk to people? Leave his room? Even worse, go outside? Practically unthinkable. The outside world never liked him much, people frowning when he said things the wrong way, sighing and eyes glazing over when he tried to express what he was interested in. The first thing he'd heard when he entered the orphanage was right - Igor Zima was unwanted, simple as that.
Unwanted by everybody, except Wraith and his Inner Circle. Unwanted by everything, other than the systems he pried open every day.
He'll just have to keep waiting. His big break will come up soon. He knows it.
–
A few months passed, dull and uneventful, all the jobs that landed into their laps being so easy a child could surely do it.
For a few days now, Igor's been toying with the idea of expressing that to the Inner Circle. He's shoved the feeling down, afraid that they would consider him ungrateful, or that he'd just somehow say something wrong - Lord knows he never quite understood how to talk to others. But it was growing stronger, the feeling of incompleteness in his chest, so close to something huge but never quite reaching it.
And, really, if someone was going to understand what he was going through, it would be them.
So, taking the little courage he has, he types out: im honestly rlly bored.
A few moments pass, then Tracer responds: wdym?
nothing's happening. i feel like we shud have a more important job by now.
He halts, feeling a bit unsteady. Maybe he'd come across as too harsh, or self-pitying. Maybe they'd finally realize that he wasn't one of them, not really -
yea man i feel that. wish we could do smth better
For the first time in years, Igor feels his mouth moving upwards. He's smiling, almost giddy. Finally, someone who understands his frustrations with the human world. Finally, someone who takes him seriously.
wish i was a machine tbh. then we wouldn't have to eat n shit.
A moment passes, a bit longer than the last one, and Igor wonders if he's said something stupid. At last, a reply comes, this time from Aberration: yk. we might've been working on a solution. if ur interested
wdym?
i mean we're working on smth that can improve us. once and 4 all. no longer humans. we need a good builder tho some1 like u? u in?
Igor doesn't even need to think twice - he'd do anything for these people, and even more so for the possibility of cleansing himself of all his human flaws.
im in.
–
The device was ready. After weeks without sleep, accumulating cans of energy drinks on his desks, a graveyard for ramen bowls and plastic forks, he's finally achieved it. His masterpiece, sitting gleaming in the palm of his hand.
The cure for his humanity, the remedy for all his imperfections.
All he has to do, now, was to plop it into his brain correctly, and he'd become a flawless creature, beyond flesh and bones and into the perfection of binary. He should feel excited. Should be giddy with it, it should be thrumming through him - after all, isn't it his life's goal? To become an advanced version of himself? To free himself from these shackles?
But, as he stares at the tiny gadget, he feels something sinking in his gut. Something telling him that, yet again, perfection was just out of his reach. He wasn't sure if he could apply it into himself properly. It'd require surgical precision, and Igor preferred to know as little as possible about human anatomy. Aberration knew how the brain worked - it was thanks to him that the blueprint had been created for the device. But Aberration could be halfway across the District, or maybe even in another one. There was no way for him to get to Igor and help with his ascendance.
Once again, Igor finds himself alone, victory right in his grasp yet unattainable.
If he's being honest with himself, maybe he's worked too hard on this. His vision's been swimming with black dots, from staring too long at a bright light in his pitch-dark room. He also feets weaker. Maybe the lack of sunlight, maybe eating the same things for days on end, maybe a combination of all three, but his lifestyle was catching up to him, a sickly undertone shadowing his every move.
It disgusts him, really, how weak he is. How weak humans are. Sitting here, with the perfect solution in his grasp, yet he can't even use it on himself, too damaged. Too fragile.
God, it makes him sick.
Still, Igor knows it can't have all been for nothing. He's destined for something greater than this, he knows that. Destined to become the first human to transcend into machinery, the first of his kind to achieve ultimate sublimity. He knows that. Why else would the rest of humankind shun him, if it wasn't because his place was elsewhere? Why else would he feel like he belongs nowhere in the real world?
He knows the Reapings are coming soon, though he's not entirely sure what day. Maybe he can meet up with Aberration there, or at least one of the others. Maybe he could then ask them to help him with implanting the device, and everything would be solved.
He just needs to believe that they won't be repulsed when they meet his physical form, like everyone else is. He just needs to believe that they'll want him, even as a real person.
He has to believe that.
He sees no purpose to his existence if it isn't to become something flawless.
Unironically really proud of my writing in this one, they call me the improver. Hot! Review so i know who u fw and who u dont fw.
Question is ummmm give me a sci fi au of ur kid