CHAPTER XXVI: INTERMISSIONS
Kai Thana • District Four Male
Two Suite / July 7th, 6:14 PM
Kai was sixteen years old the first time he tasted blood.
It wasn't his idea — it was the voice's. It started speaking to him the very same night he watched the sea swallow his brother and father. It had been quiet at first, just a whisper. But with each sleepless night that passed after the incident, the voice steadily grew louder, keeping sleep at bay like a sinister ferryman.
ñðßðÐ¥ rêmêmßêr§ whå† håþþêñêÐ, it hissed. ¥ðµ håvê †ð rêmïñÐ †hêm whå† håþþêñêÐ.
One night, while passing by an alleyway, something compelled Kai to stop. He turned, eyes landing on a small, sleeping form, shivering against the cement. Kai recognized him immediately: the pail boy from the Mortalis.
This kid was a nobody. He wasn't the captain, who had cut the rope; he wasn't a sailor, a coward who rowed away from the scene. But he'd been a bystander on the same ship where Kai lost his father and Micah, the only people he'd ever loved. This pail boy watched everything go down and did nothing, said nothing — and that was crime enough.
He couldn't have been more than two years younger than Kai; fourteen, maybe fifteen. Malnourished, just like the rest of the orphans that scurried throughout the hollow parts of the harbor. His hair was blond, wet and slick against his bony forehead. Most importantly, he was alone, asleep in an alleyway with no one watching over him.
No one except Kai.
§†år† wï†h hïm, the voice whispered gleefully. §†år† wï†h †hê §måll £r¥!
Kai took a jerky step into the alleyway. His feet felt heavy with lead as he took a second step. Then a third. This felt wrong: he felt as if he was no longer in possession of his own body, like he was being controlled by something darker, more primal.
In the blink of an eye, he found himself hovering over the boy, who was curled into a fetal position. His own breaths grew ragged in his throat, like something was trying to claw its way out.
Kai didn't know how long he stood there, casting his shadow over the sleeping boy — minutes, hours? But the next thing he knew, the pail boy's eyes were wide-open, bloodshot as they darted between Kai and the jagged knife in his hand.
The boy did not move. Kai didn't either.
"Don't," the boy croaked out at last. In this part of Four, there was no point in trying to ask why someone was holding a knife over your prone body. The only proper thing to do was beg. "Please don't."
Kai swallowed hard, the boy's clear fear icing through his veins. He wanted to get out of here; he wanted to turn around and forget this ever happened. But something held him in place; something made Kai shake his head, slowly, stiffly.
"I can't," the voice murmured through him. Kai's hand gripped the worn hilt of his knife so tightly he felt as if his knuckles might just pierce through his skin. "I have to."
The boy continued watching him with wide, unblinking eyes. He stayed so frozen and so still that for a brief moment, Kai wondered if time had halted completely. He blinked once, twice, and then suddenly the boy was shooting upright, trying to slip past him like a minnow.
He was fast, but Kai was faster. Kai held the boy down as he screamed loud and shrill, his cries racketing off the walls of the alleyway. Fear, bright and fiery, flooded through Kai's body as he tried to make him quiet, make all of it quiet; he struck his knife down one, three, five times —
SCHHK — ssSCHKh — sHScHKKkSHHK — over and Over and OVER AN Đ ØVɆⱤ ₳₦₳Đ ØVɆⱤ ₳₦ĐĐĐĐdddd the boy wasn't making any sounds anymore
but his mouth was still wide open and kai swore could still hear the screams
his eyes were still open too and kai swore the boy could see Him
and his hands and his knife and the blood All of the blood
…
…
⁽ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵒⁿ ˢᵉⁿˢᵉ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵗᵉˡˡ ᴷᵃᶦ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵏᶦˡˡᶦⁿᵍ ᵃ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ᵈᶦᶠᶠᵉʳᵉⁿᵗ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᵏᶦˡˡᶦⁿᵍ ᵃⁿ ᵃⁿᶦᵐᵃˡ. ˢᵗᶦˡˡ, ʰᵉ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᵖʳᵉᵖᵃʳᵉᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ʰᵒʷ ᵈᶦᶠᶠᵉʳᵉⁿᵗ.
ᶠᶦˢʰ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ˢᶜʳᵉᵃᵐ; ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ᵃ ˢᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᵃᵗ ᵃˡˡ. ᵀʰᵉʸ ʲᵘˢᵗ ˢᵘᶜᵏ ᵃᶦʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵈᶦᵉ ˢˡᵒʷˡʸ, ᵘⁿˡᵉˢˢ ʸᵒᵘ ᵉⁿᵈ ᶦᵗ ᵠᵘᶦᶜᵏ; ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶜᵃˢᵉ, ᵗʰᵉ ᵒⁿˡʸ ˢᵒᵘⁿᵈ ᶦˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʳᵘⁿᶜʰʸ ˢᵠᵘᵉˡᶜʰ ᵒᶠ ᵇˡᵃᵈᵉ ᶦⁿᵗᵒ ᵇᵒᵈʸ.
ᴺᵒ — ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ ᵃʳᵉ ᵈᶦᶠᶠᵉʳᵉⁿᵗ. ˢᵒᵐᵉʰᵒʷ ᵇᵒᵗʰ ˢᵒᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵃⁿᵈ ʰᵃʳᵈᵉʳ, ʷᶦᵗʰ ⁿᵒ ˢᶜᵃˡᵉˢ ᵗᵒ ᵖʳᵒᵗᵉᶜᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠˡᵉˢʰ. ᴮᵘᵗ ᵒⁿᶜᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᵍᵉᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵒⁿᵉ, ʸᵒᵘ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵖʳᵉˢˢ ᶦⁿ ˢᵒ ᵐᵘᶜʰ ᵈᵉᵉᵖᵉʳ ᵗᵒ ᵇʳᵉᵃᵏ ᵗʰᵉᵐ.
ᴮᵘᵗ ᴷᵃᶦ ᶜᵃⁿ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵘᵖ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵒⁿᵉ ˢᶦᵐᶦˡᵃʳᶦᵗʸ: ᵗʰᵉ ᵍˡᵃˢˢʸ ᵉʸᵉˢ, ᵉᵐᵖᵗʸ, ᵘⁿˢᵉᵉᶦⁿᵍ.
ᵀʰᵃᵗ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᶦˢⁿ'ᵗ ˢᵒ ᵈᶦᶠᶠᵉʳᵉⁿᵗ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᶠᶦˢʰ. ⁿᵒᵗ ᵃᵗ ᵃˡˡ.⁾
For hours afterward, Kai couldn't stop vomiting bile. With no food in his system, it felt as if he might hurl all of his intestines through his throat entirely. He entered fitful pockets of sleep, awoken too often by the boy's screams and the voice's laughter echoing in his skull. The tremor in his hands lasted for days.
But after the first storm passed, all of it became much easier to stomach.
The voice gave him a short reprieve before it started to chatter once again. The next time it spoke to him, it was a week later — then, just a few days. Eventually, it claimed a man every other night.
With each new victim, the voice grew louder, more ravenous. Kai no longer resisted the call; obeying was so much easier.
He spent his daylight following his target, hopping from shadow to shadow; when night rolled around, he struck. He grew accustomed to the sounds of bone ripping through flesh, the metallic taste of blood spraying through the air.
He killed a couple of people in dark alleyways. One, he left skewered and smiling grotesquely in a chair. He left another man in his kitchen, expression frozen in horror while facing a framed picture of a wife and child he'd never see again. By the time Kai had killed five, it no longer fazed him anymore. By ten, it started to feel good.
Blood and brine would forever stain the soul of Kai Thana, the Bone Demon. No amount of seawater could wash it off. The only thing that mattered was that everyone who was on the Mortalis would eventually met the same fate as Kai's father and Micah.
If he had to, Kai Thana would singlehandedly turn District Four into a ghost town.
A little over a year later, it was finally the captain's turn. Kai had saved him for last; he knew experience would give him the inspiration to make his death as brutal and horrific as possible, just as the lecherous coxswain deserved. It was frighteningly easy to find him, and even easier to take him to God.
By the time Kai was finished with him, the captain was gored open and hung on a hook, unrecognizable. His torso had been severed from his legs, the man's ribs hanging open like a hungry mouth. There was nothing artful about this butchered piece of meat; the captain looked disgusting and detestable in death, a perfect depiction of his hideous soul.
Finally, Kai had done it. He had killed every person who had been on the Mortalis — he had finally avenged his family.
So why didn't it feel like it was over?
Right in front of Kai, he hears a man's voice speak with sharp clarity. "Looks like you didn't make the cut."
Kai blinks — suddenly he's on the rotting decks where he spent half his childhood, a place he hasn't seen in years but recognizes instantly. Somehow, he just knows he's in his younger body, a younger version of himself before the murders and the incident and false promises of hot meals, hot beds, and a reprieve from the hot sun. The wood is slippery underneath the calloused skin of his feet; sunlight ruthlessly bares down against his skinny back. Fish glore is splayed all over his palms, bright red in its ripe freshness. He grips a rusted scaling knife in one hand and gutted snapper in the other.
"What do you mean?" Kai says, scowling. As much as he tries to sound intimidating, his voice comes out stubbornly squeaking, a marker of his physical immaturity. He narrows his eyes at the man, trying to parse out his features, "I cut it. You can see it right in front of you."
The man shakes his head. The movement just makes his features even blurrier; his visage remains unpolished in Kai's vision, smoky as seaglass. "Take a look for yourself."
Kai looks down, squinting. With a startle, he realizes he can make out words on the staticky, iridescent scales, several unfamiliar words. His own name sticks out in the middle with uncanny sharpness.
1. Reverie Berlusconi: 11
2. Sergeant Andronicus: 10
3. Kieran Locke: 10
4. Jupiter Fairhope: 9
5. Lucifer Bishop: 8
6. Cassia Cosmos: 8
7. Asahel Cervantes: 7
8. Crossland Vectra: 7
9. Emilio Carver: 6
10. Orion Amsel: 6
11. Fioynder Itamor-Nilth: 6
12. Ginseng Clarkson: 6
13. Jillion Morgan: 5
14. Yuly Montreal: 5
15. Shaffa Zorp: 5
16. Falo Tarandrus: 5
17. KAI THANA: 5
18. Keesha Cathode: 4
19. Juno Rovensteine: 4
20. Wisteria Rose Peak: 4
21. Delano Astarte: 3
22. Artan Steffins: 3
23. Dottie Dressel: 2
24. Mavis Marigold: 1
The edges of his vision flicker, the scenery around him oscillating between the decks and a strange, furnished room. The floor is rotting wood one second and grey linoleum the next, staining and unstaining itself with the blood of fish. He blinks, trying to make sense of what he's seeing, but every time his gaze starts to focus, a searing pain pierces right through his temples.
The fish — the screen — no, the fish — just keeps flashing in the light, blinding and violently technicolor. But the words before him remain the same: KAI THANA: 5. "How is this possible?" Kai slurs.
"Just a guess," a girl's voice says. Kai's head whips around to face her, and it's frustrating — she's almost familiar, but she's not. No, Kai has never seen her in his life… has he? Her voice is musical, lilting like a siren's, but the words that follow are condescending, snarkish. "It doesn't seem like the Gamemakers enjoyed your performance very much. Whatever it was."
Her arms are crossed like she's nonchalant, but Kai can feel her preening. Self-satisfaction radiates off of her, like summer rays against hot concrete. It disgusts Kai — how dare she look so happy? How dare she smile after what happened?
In fact, no one around here is wearing the expression they should. The tallest of them, a boy, leans against the wall, staring stonily. The freckled, bulky girl lazes on a coach, drumming her fingers against the armrest. Across the room, a boy with electric blue eyes grins ear to ear, like he has anemone in the place where his brain should be. They act as if nothing just happened — his father and Micah just went overboard — why isn't anyone reacting? Why isn't anyone OUTRAGED?
His brother's voice floods his mind, bitter and wrong. §hê'§ låµghïñg å† ¥ðµ. †hê¥ åll årê.
Tidal waves roar deafeningly in his ears. Something churns inside his chest, something angry and powerful and insatiable. After everything he's done for this crew, after he laid so much on the line, after everything he did to make this godawful life better — was it all for NOTHING? What was all of this for, IF NOT FOR HIS FATHER, FOR MICAH?
₦Ø฿ØĐɎ ₵₳ⱤɆ₴ Ⱡł₭Ɇ ɎØɄ ĐØ, ₭₳ł, Micah's voice says, wicked and ghastly. ɎØɄ ₦ɆɆĐ ₮Ø ₱Ʉ₦ł₴Ⱨ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₣ØⱤ ł₮!
₱Ʉ₦ł₴Ⱨ ₮ⱧɆ₥ ₱Ʉ₦ł₴Ⱨ ₮ⱧɆ₥₱Ʉ₦₴łⱧ₮ⱧɆ₥—
Kai jerkily slams his hands over his ear, nails raking down. "Stop! STOP!"
"Kai," the blurry man says, voice edged with steel. "I think you should leave."
"No!" Kai screeches. "We can't leave now — you told me everything was going to be different after this!"
"Jesus Christ," he says, shaking his head. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Kai's vision shakes, splitting the man before him into two figures: one a boy his age, the other the captain he thought he already killed. The long dreads are the same, the sun-browned skin is the same, those beady, black shark eyes are the same. The boy. The captain. The boy. THE CAPTAIN. IT'S ALL HE CAN SEE. THE CAPTAIN. EVERY OTHER THOUGHT VANISHES
ⱧɆ ₴ⱧØɄⱠĐ ฿Ɇ ĐɆ₳Đ. Ⱨł₴ Ɇ₦₮Ɽ₳łⱠ₴ ₴ⱧØɄⱠĐ ₴₮łⱠⱠ ฿Ɇ ₱₳ł₦₮ł₦₲ ₮ⱧɆ ₵Ø₦₵ⱤɆ₮Ɇ ₩₳ⱠⱠ₴ ₩ⱧɆⱤɆ ɎØɄ ⱠɆ₣₮ Ⱨł₥. ɎØɄ ⱧɆ₳ⱤĐ Ⱨł₴ ⱧɆ₳Ɽ₮ ₴₮Ø₱. ₩ⱧɎ ł₴ ⱧɆ ⱧɆⱤɆ ₦Ø₩? ⱧɆⱤɆ, ₮₳Ʉ₦₮ł₦₲ ɎØɄ, Ⱡ₳Ʉ₲Ⱨł₦₲ ₳₮ ɎØɄ
perhaps the man is right. he didn't make the cut, after all — that's why this pain, this anger hasn't left him yet — because HE HASN'T FINISHED THE JOB
The world turns red; he snarls, he swings, his nails sink into tender flesh. Someone yelps, a high whine like a hurt dog —
"Cassia!" the captain's voice booms, delightfully, rightfully horrifed.
Kai's fists find purchase on a head of hair. He yanks sharply to the side, throwing his attacker into the floor, knocking the stars out of her eyes. He locks his gaze onto his true target once more, the captain, who made the dire, dire mistake of rushing to help his comrade —
A cackle rips out of Kai's chest, consuming him — oh, this feels good. this feels Ɽł₲Ⱨ₮! HURTING SOMEONE THE CAPTAIN HOLDS DEAR, JUST LIKE HOW THE CAPTAIN HURT MICAH MICAH MICAH
Faster than a tempest, Kai's hands lash out, throttling the captain's thick neck. He makes a strangled noise — his hands immediately reach out to claw at Kai's wrists, but Kai is SO MUCH STRONGER THAN HIM, ₴Ø ₥Ʉ₵Ⱨ ₥ØⱤɆ ฿ⱤɄ₮₳Ⱡ ₳₦Đ ฿Ɇ₮₮ɆⱤ
around him, kai's surroundings have turned into a frenzy of movement — USELESS CREWMATES RUSH AROUND LIKE THE LOATHABLE, MINDLESS SCUM THEY ARE — ₮ⱧɆɎ гР₦Ø₮Ⱨł₦₲ ₳₴ ɎØɄⱤ ₣₳₥łⱠɎ ĐⱤØ₩₦ɆĐ ₳₦Đ ₮ⱧɆɎ ĐØ ₦Ø₮Ⱨł₦₲ ₳₴ ɎØɄ ₴QɄɆɆⱫɆ ØɄ₮ ₮ⱧɆ Ⱡł₣Ɇ ₣ⱤØ₥ ₮ⱧɆłⱤ ₵₳₱₮₳ł₦
₮ⱧɆɎ'ⱤɆ ₦ɆӾ₮ ₮ⱧɆɎ'ⱤɆ ₦ɆӾ₮ ₮ⱧɆɎ'ⱠⱠ ₳ⱠⱠ ₭₦Ø₩ ₮Ⱨł₴ ₱₳ł₦ Ⱨł₴ ₱₳ł₦
the shark tries to wriggle out between his hands it's slippery but not slippery enough
It Thrashes Wildly but Kai Squeezes HArder
The storm screams Louder in his Ears like an army of Footsteps
Lightning crackles like the Barrel of a Peacekeeper's gunPress harder pPress hARDER — ₥₳₭Ɇ ł₮ ₴₮Ø₱ ₥ØVł₦₲
a bright, breathless pain pierces itself into Kai's shoulder
he looks down woozy but the light above water is already going grey
his body goes slack and he sinks into deep
ᴅᴇᴇᴘ
ᵈᵃʳᵏ
Artan Steffins • District Twelve Male
Library / July 7th, 6:45 PM
The bookshelves are only a blur as Artan rapidly strolls past them, desperately attempting to outpace his District partner. "Must you follow me around everywhere?!" he snaps.
To say this reunion with Mavis was a surprise is an understatement. Mere hours ago, Artan had been idling around at the Training Center, hoping to catch a private moment with Ginseng. At last, he had fully memorized the poem he'd written in Ginseng's honor, and was prepared to deliver it once and for all. But to his horror, he quickly realized that Ginseng was not alone — the person that flanked the District Seven girl was none other than Mavis. He rushed in to split the two, hellbent on sparing Ginseng from his District partner's prejudiced remarks. But Ginseng vanished right as he intervened, the elusive maiden spilling through his fingers like smoke.
Since then, Mavis has glued herself to his side, much like how she did during the journey up to the Capitol. She seems to be under the impression that their relationship has magically repaired itself. What possibly could've given her that idea, Artan knows not, but he hardly has the energy to push her away now that she's affixed herself so stubbornly.
Artan had gotten a brief reprieve when their stylists whisked them away for interview preparations. His team gave him a sage green suit to wear, and ran a floral-scented gel through his auburn hair. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, he sees that Mavis is dressed in a similarly posh aesthetic. Her stylists managed to find a dress that matches the powder blue of her eyes, and her hair bounces behind her in elaborate coils, glossy as grease.
"It's dangerous to walk around places by yourself!" his District partner exclaims as she tails after him, practically hugging his heels. "Who knows what or who might be lurking."
Artan sighs, his expression darkening. "Let me guess: a 'brute'? A 'savage'?"
"I did the math — there's at least a two-in-five chance, which is pretty significant! If you count the girls, too, it's—" She pales as soon as she catches Artan's glare, stumbling over her next words. "I mean — well, you know, anyone can be dangerous…!"
Artan tsks, but he notices Mavis's self-correction. He's secretly a little impressed that his District partner managed to learn some decorum over the past two days. Artan doesn't have hope that she experienced a full paradigm shift, but this is… tolerable. If he has no choice but to deal with Mavis, better a politically correct version of her than a shameless one.
Overhead, Artan catches sight of the sign he's looking for: romance. He makes a sharp turn into the corridor of bookshelves, immediately coming eye to eye with a couple of titles he has at home in his own personal library. Solar Lake. Pragmatic Experience. A vintage copy of Caveat Emptor, like the one that lives on his mothers' coffee table in the living room. A sharp pang of longing sears through Artan's chest before he grabs ahold of it and shoves it down, bent on focusing on the task at hand.
"I'm sure I will fare just fine on my own," he mutters, grabbing a title at random from the shelf before him. "Shouldn't you be worrying for yourself?"
"What do I have to worry about?" Mavis barks out, laughing a little too forcefully. She sounds positively deranged — which, Artan supposes, is not too different from her usual.
Artan snaps the novella closed, massaging his temples. "Don't tell me you're still entertaining the delusion you'll be saved from this."
"It's not delusion if it's really going to happen!"
"It's a delusion because you think it's going to happen! That is the verbatim definition of—" Artan suddenly halts in the middle of his sentence, scowling. "Gah, never mind. I don't have time to argue with you!"
Mavis nods fiercely, crossing her arms. "We have more important things to prepare for!"
"'We'?" Artan says, incredulous.
"Yeah!" his District partner chirps. "I thought maybe we could find something helpful for interviews!"
Artan scoffs. "You can do that. As a solo endeavor. As for myself, I'm thinking beyond mere interviews, Mavis."
His eyes sweep the upper bookshelves, imagining the worlds each of these novels might contain. One might be set in a fantastical, magical land, full of mirth and mischief. Another, in a dreary dystopia, where the only hope for miles is the main character's forbidden romance. The possibilities are endless in fiction, running rampant beyond his wildest imagination — it's why he always finds himself gravitating towards it, time and time again.
The sun streaming through the overhead windows casts rays of light against the shelves, pleasantly warming his skin. If Artan closes his eyes, he can pretend it's a spotlight, crowning him as the protagonist of the next great love story.
"I'm thinking about life," he breathes. "Love."
"Ohhh," Mavis drawls, before winking exaggeratedly. "You're talking about your in-love-with-Ginseng thing."
"Don't make it sound trivial," Artan says snippily.
"I'm not!" Mavis protests. "You know, now that I've gotten to know her, I quite like her. She's one of—"
"Do not," Artan grits through clenched teeth, "say 'one of the good ones.'"
"…one of a kind," Mavis finishes.
"Okay." Artan observes her, wary. "Acceptable."
"Is she in love with you yet?"
Artan feels his cheeks start to turn pink. "Um. Er, no. It's… still an ongoing venture."
Mavis suddenly raises her hand, and slaps his back with much more effort than necessary. Artan nearly doubles over with the impact. "What have you been doing these past few days?!" she exclaims. "Have you even talked to her?!"
"I've done that much, at least!" Artan glowers. "But I can't seem to get her alone. Each time I attempt, someone seems to materialize out of nowhere!"
Mavis blinks. "Oh," she says sheepishly. "Are you talking about me?"
"Only partially," Artan admits, heaving a sigh. "Most of the time, it is her friend that gives me trouble. Dottie."
"Is she the wild-haired one?"
Artan shivers, nodding. "Correct. She behaves quite uncouthly. Last night I saw her spill tea on her shirt, and she sucked it straight from the fabric like — like some sort of beast."
"W-whoa. I've certainly never done anything like that," Mavis says hurriedly. "How disgusting!"
"She has been quite the thorn in my shoulder," Artan mumbles. "Whenever I try to get near Ginseng, she's right behind her, casting me a dirty look."
"I'm sure natural selection will take care of those like her soon enough," Mavis says. "And whenever it does, I have this book that I think will help you comfort Ginseng afterwards."
Artan gives her a look. "When did you have time to find a book?"
"We went past the self-help section. There was a book about charisma, and I just snagged it off the display."
"You went to the self-help section and you came back with this, of all things?"
Mavis stares at him blankly, not comprehending. Artan just shakes his head, snatching the charisma book from her hand. "Forget it. I suppose it can't hurt to see."
As soon as Artan lays eyes on the cover, he instantly realizes that it does in fact, hurt to see. The title reads How to Utilize Your Natural Masculine Charisma to Win Over Women, words sharing a cover with a broad-shouldered man, rugged and attractive. His facial hair is dark, thick and well-groomed. His arms are crossed, muscles catching light as if they had been glossed over with oil. The look on his face is somehow smoldering with a rugged sort of glint, promising something steamier…
With a loud thud, the book comes crashing to the floor. "Wh—what is this?!" he gawks, furiously airing out his collar. "Mavis, why would you—?!"
Mavis rushes to pick up the book, glaring at Artan."I thought it was relevant! 'Cause you're trying to win over Ginseng. And you're a man, aren't you?!"
An image of his ex-best friend flashes in his mind, causing something bitter to churn in his stomach. William had started maturing much earlier than Artan, and was always the manlier-looking one between the two of them. It was probably why Melisande left Artan for William, trading his smooth baby face for the other boy's patchy stubble. "'Natural masculine charisma'? Do you really think that's something I possess?" Artan sputters, heat flooding every part of his face.
"Well," Mavis says, "I'm sure the book can teach you something about that."
Artan slumps against the bookshelves and sinks down to the floor, suddenly overtaken with lightheadedness. "It's hopeless," he bemoans. "I'm no tall, dark and handsome type. I don't have… 'swagger', or… 'm-machismo'… I can't pretend to be someone I'm not."
He clutches his chest, as if trying to stop his own heart from shattering into pieces. "The only things I have going for me are my tender sensitivity, and love for the written arts." He pauses. "All of which are above-average for boys my age, I might add."
Artan clears his throat, preparing himself. This is the part in the romance novel where the protagonist starts to wax poetry about his endless woes, all of the forces separating him from his beau. He summons the words from the recesses of his recent memory, channeling every ounce of passion he can muster.
"𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓌𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶 𝓉𝒶𝓃𝑔𝓁𝑒𝒹, 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓃𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹
𝒲𝒽𝑜 𝓉𝓌𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝓂𝒶𝓃'𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒶𝓅𝑒𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓈𝓉𝓇𝒾𝒻𝑒
𝐵𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 𝒶 𝒻𝒶𝒾𝓇𝓎, 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝑒𝒹,
𝒯𝑜 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝑒 𝒶𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝒻𝑒.
𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓀𝑒, 𝓂𝓎 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒹'𝓈 𝑒𝓎𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝓈𝑒𝑒
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝒶𝒾𝓇𝓎'𝓈 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒, 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒶𝓈 𝒹𝒶𝓎.
𝐼 𝒷𝑒𝑔𝑔𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃, 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑒, 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝑒,
𝐵𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇-𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒'𝓈 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝓎.
𝒴𝑒𝓉 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓈𝒶𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝒶 𝓂𝑜𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓌𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉
𝒜𝓈 𝓋𝒾𝑜𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓈𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓌𝑒 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹.
𝒮𝓊𝓇𝓋𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓁, 𝓋𝒾𝓁𝑒, 𝓅𝓊𝓉𝓈 𝓊𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝑒𝓈𝓉,
𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝑜𝓃 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒷𝑜𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝒹.
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒶 𝒸𝓇𝓊𝑒𝓁 𝒹𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉
𝒯𝑜 𝓉𝓊𝓇𝓃 𝒷𝑜𝓎𝓈' 𝒹𝒶𝓎-𝓁𝒾𝓉 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉.
"
Mavis abruptly cuts him off, falling into a fit of crude snorts. "You better keep that to yourself!" she guffaws, slapping her knee. "She's going to think you're a total pansy!"
"W-what?" Artan stutters, wide-eyed.
"'Both may well be dead'? That's an awful line!"
Artan's nostrils flare. "What do you know about poetry?!"
"I'm just saying, girls don't like that kind of stuff. Anyone can read sappy sonnets."
"It's a soliloquy. Which is extremely different." Artan sniffs. "And I doubt that Dottie girl would ever read one for Ginseng. I doubt she's even literate enough to."
Mavis grabs Artan's shoulders, shaking him. "Look — are you trying to win Ginseng over, or are you trying to put her to sleep?!"
"I'm at my wit's end!" Artan wails. "What am I to do if this is not enough?!"
"You have to give her something she needs, something she can't get anywhere else!" Mavis yells. "Just think about it — what does everyone here want?!"
Artan closes his eyes trying to concentrate. What unites every individual here? Mavis is always talking about how she's not supposed to be here, her plans to go back and restore her family's former glory. Hardly a conversation goes by where Yuly doesn't bring up the orphanage in Eleven, how much the kids there remind him of their alliance. Everything seems to remind Ginseng of her older siblings Min and Bo — she seems to categorize every experience into something one or the other twin might like or dislike.
(And as for Artan himself, well… deep down, he knows everything he's doing here is just an attempt to replicate the love he used to have.
Why is he doing this? What does he want? What does everyone want?)
"To go home," Artan answers at last.
Mavis snaps her fingers. "Exactly! Everyone wants that, including Ginseng. It's very biological. So what you need to do is somehow figure out a way to make her think you're strong, that she's safer with you than with anyone else."
Artan hesitates. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but… you're right," he murmurs, barely repressing the horror he feels about saying this to Mavis. But he can't deny her logic — the desire for shelter and safety has always ruled human nature. "That's… surprisingly helpful. Thank you."
"Aw, shucks," Mavis says, bashful. "Don't mention it." She shuffles her feet. "Are we friends again?"
"Fine," Artan says, embarrassment stinging his cheeks. "Sure."
Mavis squeaks, throwing her skinny arms around his shoulder. He allows the contact, awkwardly patting her back. The experience isn't unpleasant, all things considered. In fact, her touch is strangely comforting after several days of lack thereof, after several days without the embrace of his mothers.
Artan finally breaks contact and turns around, mortified by the heat that stings in the corner of his eyes. He can't do this right now. He needs to concentrate — Artan, concentrate!
He racks his brain for everything he knows about love, human nature, and survival. He vaguely recalls a study he once read: something about the correlation between high-adrenaline activities, fear, and attraction. Now that he thinks about it, every great love story has a secondary plot, something that involves a permanent, imminent threat.
Artan blinks. Suddenly the gears start to click into place, one by one. He doesn't know how he didn't see it sooner — in his mind's eye, he watches as a grand strategy unfurls itself, his prayers for a foolproof plan answered. At last, Artan has figured out what he needs to do to capture Ginseng's heart.
After all, there's only one thing a damsel can't resist: a hero.
Juno Rovensteine • District Six Female
Six Suite / July 7th, 6:53 PM
After the stylists turn Juno into a less lifeless version of herself, she returns to the District Six suite to wind down in the comfort of her own privacy.
Even though every bone in her body aches with exhaustion, she's unsure how much she'll be able to relax. Her nervous system won't quit — she's already breaking into an anxious sweat merely thinking about the next tribulation that lies ahead: interviews.
Juno doesn't know the first thing about maintaining a good conversation, much less commanding an audience. All of this social performance stuff, it was always Ander's field of expertise — Juno couldn't hold a candle to his blazing bonfire of charisma. What she wouldn't give for just an ounce of that confidence right about now.
Juno opens the door to the suite, no longer surprised to see her morphling mentor Vicodonia and her equipment occupying the shady corner of the room. It had been jarring the first couple of days, unseeing, unspeaking, but now the woman is as much of a fixture of the room as the couch and the potted plant on the windowsill.
Quietly, Juno slips through the room — at least, she attempts to. Right as she's about to pass Vicodonia, a sudden flurry of words dashes across the monitor beside her mentor's wheelchair, making her jump in fright. In her paralysis, it takes Juno several moments before she processes the words on the screen.
MIGHT YOU BE INTERESTED IN SOME ASSISTANCE WITH YOUR INTERVIEW?
Juno's eyes flicker between the blinking green text on the screen and her mentor. The woman's face is pallid, completely slack. She hardly even blinks. Not a single muscle moves — the only thing Juno can see is the shallow rise and fall of Vicodonia's chest, feathery breaths slipping through her lips.
(Morphling from a bag drip, drip, drips through a tube and into her vein.)
Juno doesn't understand. She peers around the room, wondering if it's possible there's someone else here. Maybe this is someone's sick idea of a prank, but neither the other mentor nor Crossland seem like the type to do something like this.
As she contemplates, the words just continue to blink at her, silent and patient. Juno hesitates for a beat longer before tentatively waving a hand in front of her mentor's slack face.
YOU KNOW, the screen blares, IF YOU CAN MANAGE, A VERBAL RESPONSE WOULD DO JUST FINE.
Immediately, Juno retracts her hand, shame burning her face. "I — I'm so sorry, Ms. Vicodonia," she stammers, "I — I didn't know that if it was you speaking, or…"
VICODONIA SOUNDS SO UPTIGHT, the screen comments. PLEASE, CALL ME VIVI. TO CONFIRM: YES, I'M THE ONE IN THE WHEELCHAIR, AND YES, I'M THE ONE TALKING TO YOU.
How… Juno thinks to herself, mouth slightly agape. She can't tell how Vicodonia is managing to commandeer the machine without moving a single muscle. It seems as if her mentor's thoughts are synchronized with the monitor, each popping up in real time. Juno knows that Capitol technology is light years beyond the Districts', but this is beyond anything Juno's ever heard of. It makes her wonder how many problems the Capitol has already found a way to fix — how many problems they choose to ignore.
The words pause for a brief moment before resuming, almost bemusedly. I WAS A REAL LOOKER IN MY YOUTH, BUT I'M NOT SURE THAT'S THE CASE ANYMORE. IT'S UP TO YOU, THOUGH — WOULD WE LIKE TO GO OVER A FEW INTERVIEW QUESTIONS, OR WOULD YOU RATHER KEEP STARING AT ME?
"I'm sorry," Juno squeaks again, voice wavering with embarrassment. "The first. Please."
TAKE A SEAT, THEN. MAKE YOURSELF COMFORTABLE.
She scrambles to place herself in the green seat across from her mentor's wheelchair, trying to straighten out the shock that still lingers on her face. Juno can't even begin to make sense of things — she had never heard or seen Vicodonia speak before, much less communicate so eloquently. In fact, she thought that Vicodonia couldn't do much of anything.
How bizarre Juno's life has become, between being Reaped, the first night, and now. She's taking public speaking advice from a mute. At the same time, any advice at all is better than none — beggars can't be choosers, and Juno is desperate.
ANSWER ME THIS, JUNO, Vicodonia writes. WHAT DO YOU THINK IS THE FIRST THING THAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN?
"Um… the Master of Ceremonies says hello, and you say hello back. I think." She cringes slightly, feeling as if she's too loud. It's unbearably awkward conversing with Vicodonia when the only voice Juno can hear is her own.
NOT QUITE. FIRST, YOU WALK ACROSS THE STAGE.
She flushes, feeling stupid. "Oh, yes. Of course."
THIS MIGHT SOUND STRANGE, BUT IT'S IMPORTANT TO ESTABLISH A CONNECTION WITH THE AUDIENCE BEFORE YOU SAY A SINGLE WORD. YOUR TIME BEGINS AS SOON AS YOU WALK ONSTAGE — YOU WANT TO WAVE A LITTLE, SMILE AT THE CROWD, EVEN BEFORE YOU SIT DOWN.
Juno nods hurriedly, but she can hardly stomach the idea of facing the audience at all. Left to her own devices, Juno would just keep her eyes on the ground and scurry to her seat as quickly as possible, praying her legs don't give out underneath her.
YOU DON'T SEEM VERY KEEN ON THAT, Vicodonia comments.
Wordlessly, Juno shakes her head.
The monitor makes a low buzz that sounds almost like a hum. YOU HAVE A VERY UNDERSTATED PERSONALITY. NOT A BAD THING, BUT IT DOESN'T HELP YOU HERE.
MY ADVICE? BE SOMEONE ELSE FOR A LITTLE. I KNOW, EASIER SAID THAN DONE, BUT I THINK YOU COULD GO FOR A GIRL-NEXT-DOOR ANGLE. QUIET, POLITE, AND SWEET. IT'S JUST A SLIGHT ADJUSTMENT, A MORE PALATABLE VERSION OF YOU. CLOSE ENOUGH TO THE TRUTH — YOU JUST HAVE TO MAKE THAT EASIER TO SEE.
"Definitely easier said," Juno mutters, her throat feeling tight. "I'm always trying to be someone else, but it never works. No matter how much I practice, it falls apart as soon as I'm in front of other people. I can't stop shaking, trembling, sweating…" Juno stops herself before she can ramble longer, knowing the worst thing she can do right now is work herself up.
Vicodonia takes a moment before responding. TRUST ME, she writes. I KNOW THE WITHDRAWALS AREN'T EASY.
Rapidly, Juno shakes her head, face flaring up yet again. "I'm — no, I'm not—"
OH, Vivi types, I MUST APOLOGIZE. THAT WAS A HASTY ASSUMPTION ON MY PART.
"It's fine," Juno says, looking away. "I don't blame you. But I'm not a morphling. Or anything else like that."
I HAVE A BAD HABIT OF THINKING MY TRIBUTES ARE LIKE ME IN THAT REGARD, Vicodonia types. EVERYBODY IN MY FAMILY USED. SO I NEVER KNEW ANYTHING ELSE, REALLY.
"Oh," Juno whispers. She isn't sure what to say.
BUT I DON'T MEAN TO MAKE THIS ABOUT ME. IT'S GOOD YOU'VE GONE THIS LONG WITHOUT AVOIDING IT, Vicodonia says, almost hurriedly. MOST DON'T. YOU'RE BETTER THAN THE REST OF US.
Juno flushes. She thinks about Anders, who was vibrant and alive even in the throes of morphling. She never knew anything was wrong until it was too late. "I… really wouldn't say that."
PERHAPS YOU COULD USE THAT TO YOUR ADVANTAGE HERE. YOU'RE CLEAN, YOU STAY OUT OF TROUBLE. The words pause. TRUTHFULLY, IT'S A LITTLE BORING, BUT YOU'D BE SURPRISED HOW MANY PEOPLE WILL SPONSOR TRIBUTES PURELY OUT OF SYMPATHY.
She nods, pursing her lips. Juno isn't sure how to feel about only getting attention through pity, but it feels more wrong to complain.
Vicodonia changes the subject. KISHOR MAHADIO LOVES TO ASK TRIBUTES WHAT THEY THINK OF THE CAPITOL. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU WOULD SAY IF SHE ASKED?
Juno's eyes flit away from her mentor and the screen. She suddenly feels colder, tongue frozen in her mouth. Her mind goes back to the pool room, the extravagant fountain, the Avox, all of which she's tried to put out of her thoughts since that first night. She still hasn't managed to slumber and she doesn't dare leave her bedroom at night, so for the past several Juno has just remained petrified in bed until somebody drags her to the Training Center.
Even ignoring the imminent threat of the Games, Juno doesn't think she'll be able to convincingly lie and say she's had a lovely time here — not while the sharp chemical smell of the pool still lives in her nose, not while the image of the Avox's black, empty mouth still stains the backs of her eyelids, keeping her from sleep.
"I don't know," Juno answers truthfully.
For a long moment, Vicodonia says nothing. Then, she says, THAT FIRST NIGHT. IT WAS TWO, MAYBE THREE IN THE MORNING — I SAW YOU REENTER THE SUITE.
"I… didn't realize you noticed."
I DON'T SLEEP MUCH BECAUSE OF THE MORPHLING. AND I SEE EVERYTHING WHEN I'M NOT UNDER. I WONDERED WHERE YOU HAD GONE AT SUCH AN HOUR.
"Nowhere in particular," Juno murmurs. "I just thought a change in scenery might help me fall asleep better. It… did the opposite."
DID YOU SEE SOMETHING?
Juno shivers, wrapping her arms over her knees. She opens her mouth, but the words die on her tongue. So instead, she shakes her head.
A long pause. THERE'S SOMETHING ODD WITH THIS YEAR'S GAMES. THE GAMEMAKERS FEEL DISORGANIZED, EVEN MORE THAN USUAL. PERHAPS ACCREDITED TO THE NEW HEAD GAMEMAKER.
IN PAST YEARS, THE WHOLE SCHEDULE WAS POSTED BEFORE THE TRIBUTES EVEN REACHED THE CAPITOL. BUT THIS YEAR… Vicodonia trails off. THIS YEAR, THEY'VE GIVEN IT A PIECE AT A TIME. SO WE MENTORS ONLY KNOW WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN A COUPLE OF HOURS IN ADVANCE.
Juno frowns. "That's… odd."
I'D SAY SLOPPY, Vicodonia types. BUT WHO KNOWS. MAYBE IT'S BY DESIGN.
"Maybe," Juno repeats, wishing she had more to add. She wants to talk about that first night. She wants to talk about the pool, the water, the Avox. But a full minute passes and she can't muster the courage to voice what she saw. A full minute passes without a word from Vicodonia.
Juno blinks as she realizes this, turning to her mentor. "Vivi?" Juno asks.
No response.
"Vivi," she says again, "are you there?"
Cyber green glitches on the screen before it scrambles itself into something coherent. I APOLOGIZE, Vicodonia says, each letter straining to reveal itself, one-by-one. I KNOW THIS IS ABRUPT. I THOUGHT ID HAVE MORE T IME . BUT STA RTING TO HURT
"Oh," Juno says, furrowing her brows in concern. "Is there anything I can…" she starts before trailing off, already realizing what the answer might be.
Every letter feels painful to watch. COUL D YOU
Juno swallows, rising to her feet. She perches down next to Vicodonia's wheelchair, inspecting the morphling drip equipment. Her eyes latch onto a bright blue knob, cranked toward the medium setting.
MAX. TU RN MAX
Juno feels as if her chest is full of cement as she turns the knob to the highest possible setting. She watches as the fluid shoots through the tube and into Vicodonia's veins, as quick as a gunshot.
I M SORR Y, the screen types, sluggish. THA NK YO U
The monitor wipes itself clear.
"Vivi?" Juno whispers.
Nothing.
Juno presses her mouth into a thin line, trying to swallow the constricted sensation in her throat. Her vocal chords feel raw, more used than they've been in a long, long time. The silence that surrounds her like a shroud no longer feels as welcome as it should.
She should leave. She should, but for some reason, she can't bring herself to just yet. Juno just kneels there for a while, listening to the sound of Vicodonia's deep breaths, tranquil under the sickly sweet haze of morphling.
Lucifer Bishop • District Seven Male
Seven Suite / July 7th, 6:56 PM
Rolling a joint is so difficult for no good reason.
Lucifer leans over the glass coffee table, staring intently at the materials before him: a piece of coarse rolling paper and an aromatic bud of green, clutched clumsily between his thick fingers. The rolling paper already looks worse for wear, having gone through more than a couple of failed attempts.
It's not Lucifer's first time smoking — green was easy enough to get in the Underground, and he and Henrietta messed around with it a handful of times before everything boiled over. It wasn't often enough for Lucifer to consider it a habit, but he wouldn't be surprised if the copious amounts of incense between the Chimera's fighting arena and the brothels gave him a perpetual second-hand high.
All that's to say, Lucifer didn't expect to have so much trouble with the simple task of rolling. It shouldn't be this hard. God knows Lucifer's hands have had to do far more punishing things, but he supposes it's one thing to use them as weapons, and another to use them for… well, for this.
Beside him, Emilio's curious blue eyes watch closely. His eyes flicker between Lucifer's face and his fingers before whispering something, his voice even more hushed than usual. "W-where did you g-get that?"
"Jo," Lucifer responds. He briefly recalls what his mentor told him.
"This is Capitol-grade kush, man," Jo said, waving their hands emphatically. "It's gonna blitz you to the fuckin' moon. Tell your ally that. Use those exact words."
Lucifer is not going to use those exact words. "They said it's pretty strong. Should be enough."
"E-enough for what?"
Zeroed in on his task, it takes Lucifer a moment to answer. "Interviews."
Emilio cocks his head slightly.
"Helps with nerves. Makes this…" Lucifer taps the side of his head. "…a little quieter."
"Oh," Emilio says. The boy from Nine falls silent, but his mouth remains open as if he wants to say something else. This isn't lost on Lucifer; he pauses, shooting an inquiring glance at the boy.
Emilio peers around the room warily before pointing at the work-in-progress joint. His voice comes out in a bashful request. "C-could I a-also…?"
Lucifer nods emphatically, head bobbing up and down. "Jo gave it to me to share, anyway."
Emilio's face brightens as if he hadn't expected Lucifer to say yes. He sits a little straighter, shoving his hands in his lap. His expression is a strange combination of excitement and trepidation; Lucifer's never seen anything like it before, but the Nine boy wears it like a second skin.
A couple of minutes pass before Lucifer manages to semi-successfully pinch the green inside a fragile slip of paper. As soon as he thinks he's got it secured, the lumpy joint falls apart through his fingers.
"D-do you need h-h-help?" Emilio offers. "I-It's j-just a t-tube shape, right?"
Lucifer nods, sheepishly sliding his failure over to Emilio's side of the table. "Yeah. Skinny, tight. Then twist off the end."
Emilio fares a lot better than Lucifer. Within a minute, Emilio presents the finished product to him, the boy beaming with satisfaction. Lucifer turns it over in his fingers, admiring the other boy's handiwork. It's light, but compact and sturdy. Lucifer should've known that the craftsman would do a better job at this than him; it could've saved them a good ten, fifteen minutes. He feels like he should be embarrassed, but looking at Emilio's wholesome smile, his only real urge is to mirror it.
He does.
Lucifer pinches the joint between his fingers. "You or me first?"
Emilio stutters, eyes darting. "I — um…"
"Right," Lucifer murmurs. "I should… show you how to do it."
He takes a match from Jo's near-empty box on the table, striking the red end against the charcoal-black strip. He sticks the blunt end of the joint in his mouth, raising the lit match to the skinny, twisted bit on the other end.
The flame catches smoothly, burning its way down. A smoky, heady aroma starts to filter into the room as light wisps of smoke snake across the ceiling, dancing together before fading out. Thankfully, Jo had taken the initiative to tape down all the smoke detectors in the suite — more for their own sake, but Lucifer appreciated not having to worry about it.
When the embers reach where the green starts, Lucifer lowers his eyelids and inhales deeply. Smoke invades his lungs, sharp and potent. It feels like breathing in flakes of fire that burn themselves out on the walls of his throat. He holds in the smoke for one, five, ten seconds, letting it linger in his throat. Only when his eyes start to water does Lucifer relinquish of smoke, exhaling a steady stream of it through both of his nostrils.
Pleasantness seeps into his limbs. Between this and the icy salve his stylist team smothered onto his skin, the full-body soreness from private sessions feels like little more than a distant ache.
When Lucifer opens his eyes again, he sees Emilio watching him with wide eyes. It's a second before he realizes he's forgotten to do any actual demonstration for the Nine boy.
"It's, um…" Lucifer mutters, "...like that. Kind of." He fans the excess smoke from his face before passing the joint to Emilio, silently berating himself in his head.
Emilio nods anyway, not quite understanding but amenable. He gingerly raises the joint to his lips, as if taking a small sip.
"Breathe in deep and hold it," Lucifer explains. He watches Emilio do as instructed, before Lucifer thinks about it a little more. "Actually, not too deep. Just—"
He cuts himself off after seeing the alarmed expression on Emilio's face, like a dog that's bit off more than it can chew. Lucifer immediately doubles back, attempting damage control. "If you took a big hit, that's fine if your lungs can handle it — if not, you wanna slowly let it out—"
One of the doors in the suite suddenly slams open on its hinges. Ginseng comes skipping out of her room like a gazelle, pink dress bounding behind her. Emilio immediately starts sputtering, caught off guard by the sudden intrusion. Lucifer's quick instincts catch the falling joint before it gets the chance to hit the carpet.
"Hi, Lucifer!" Ginseng chirps, throwing herself onto the couch. Lucifer swears he hears a couple stitches in her dress snap. "Hi, Lucifer's ally! What are you guys doing?"
Emilio's sputters have progressed to hacking coughs. Lucifer starts slapping his back violently, trying to prevent the Nine boy from choking to death. Before he can even attempt to respond, Ginseng barrels through with an onslaught of questions, pointing at Emilio. "Is he okay? Is he dying? Is that a lollipop in your hand? What flavor is it? Why does it smell like Bo's room all of a sudden?"
Lucifer's head spins with the rapid fire rate of Ginseng's questions. The residual smoke in his lungs also definitely doesn't help. "Uh…"
He's thrown for a loop as Ginseng suddenly lifts the hem of her dress and procures a water bottle from the waistband of her casual utility shorts. She throws it at Emilio, hitting him square in the leg before skipping over to the exit.
"Gonna go up to Dottie's room now!" she announces. "Toodles!"
The door clicks shut not even a second later.
At some point during Lucifer and Ginseng's "conversation," Emilio stopped choking on air. Now, the only sound in the room is the intermittent wheeze and rattle of the Nine boy's chest as he breathes in, breathes out, like a some kind of goofy instrument.
Lucifer can't help it — he starts snickering. Nothing is even that funny, but it kind of is at the same time. He's smoking something that an ex-enemy gang member gave him with a guy he's only met a couple of days ago, in the nicest place he's ever stayed in. There's a significant chance they might both die tomorrow and they're spending their last night getting high.
Iit's ridiculous. It's stupid. But both of these facts just make Lucifer laugh harder.
Emilio seems to think so, too — a grin cracks across his face before he's laughing too, these wheezy, whistling giggles that just make everything seem even funnier. Lucifer points weakly at Emilio before losing balance, flopping over into the other boy's space, snorting the whole while. Emilio doesn't stand a chance, going boneless with laughter as well.
One hit and Lucifer's already giggling like this? Jo's shit is no joke.
It's strange — an uncanny sense of familiarity washes over him. Years ago, when he and Henri smoked for the first time, they sat together on the floor, kind of like this. The room was musty and dank, and the lighter they stole nearly ran out of fluid before finally holding a steady enough flame to light their blunt. A couple passes later and they were giggling so hard that Lucifer had to clamp his own mouth so that he wouldn't attract any attention post-curfew.
The smoke blew out Henri's pupils so black and bright. He remembered thinking they looked like ink-black pools, infinite and endless, voids he'd be happy to drown in. They both knew that if someone caught them sneaking after curfew like that, they'd be punished severely. Yet, he'd felt so safe. He'd felt both so vulnerable and so safe with Henri.
He can't say the feeling is the exact same with Emilio, but the boy's company is easy in a way that surprises him. Lucifer can't explain why, but he trusts Emilio, and it feels right.
Lucifer glances over at Emilio. The Nine boy's pupils nearly swallow the entirety of his irises. He looks relaxed, nearly unrecognizable now that his constant, underlying nervousness has melted away. "Is it doing anything?" Lucifer asks.
Emilio doesn't quite respond. He looks down at his hands, gaze a million miles away. It almost seems as if he's looking right through them. "Am I floating?"
Lucifer gets the sense that something is off, but he can't tell what. "No. It just feels like that."
"Whuh," Emilio says. "Everything is vibrating…"
In the middle of another hit, Lucifer realizes what it is. "You're not stuttering anymore."
"Whoa," Emilio says, blinking slowly. "Whoa."
The boy from Nine dissolves into another fit of giggles. The joint is burning down quickly now, less than half the length it was. Lucifer stands, dragging Emilio up onto the more comfortable couch before taking a seat himself.
The cushions swallow Lucifer whole. He feels like he's sinking forever into the couch. It's practically the softest thing he's ever felt; his whole body feels like one large hug.
It's nice. Maybe this is what life is. Sitting on a couch with some guy, laughing about nothing. Letting the minutes pass like hours.
(It would be nice if this didn't have to end, but he knows it has to eventually if he wants to see Henri again. He misses her. He wishes she was here, but he doesn't — not like this.
...Now his body feels like one large ache.)
Suddenly, something echoes against his ears, like a hammer against a gong. The sound carves a dent in his stupor, an intrusive moment of sobriety.
"Was that a knock?" Emilio murmurs, rolling his head over to look at Lucifer.
"Think so," Lucifer responds, willing himself off the couch. It feels like peeling himself out of an embrace. His body groans his protest, but he manages to stand on his own two feet, swaying only slightly.
He slowly racks through a list of names in his head, wondering who could be on the other side of the door. It could be Jo, he considers. Or Ginseng might've returned, but for some reason that doesn't seem right, either.
He can't explain it, but something feels odd.
Lucifer tightens his fists. His knuckles throb in response, a well-worn feeling.
"I'm gonna get the door," he tells Emilio.
Emilio's hands shoots out to grab his wrist, alarmed. "What if it's Peacekeepers?"
"It's probably not," Lucifer says.
"But what if it is," the boy insists, eyes wide.
Lucifer pauses, genuinely considering. "I could take at least the first two."
The District Nine boy sinks back into the couch, nodding to himself. "I could maybe do one," he murmurs to himself. That's all Lucifer catches before Emilio starts mumbling more under his breath, incomprehensible sentences intermingling with what Lucifer can only guess are supposed to be combat sound effects.
Lucifer leaves Emilio to his musings. Walking away from the couch, he approaches the door, then hesitates. He can't hear anything on the other side past the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. Briefly, he wonders if he just imagined the knock, but a louder part of him knows he didn't.
Lucifer puts his hand around the doorknob. His other arm is poised to strike. There's no reason the person on the other side would try to hurt him before the Games even start, but Lucifer has to be ready for anything.
Here goes… potentially everything.
He swings the door open, locking eyes with someone he never would've expected.
He's wondering if his eyes are playing tricks on him. He's only caught occasional glimpses of this person throughout parades and training, but the Career is innstantly recognizable.
The girl's hair is as gold as sunlight, cropped closely around her head. Maybe it's a new style, but Lucifer wouldn't know anything about that even without his altered state. She's completely at ease leaning against the doorframe, like nothing is out of the ordinary.
"Seven," the Career says, arms crossed. "Got a minute?"
a/n: jazz hands! that's intermission, which is basically just that gap between private sessions and interviews, (coming up next! :) ) so very exciting if i do say so myself… istg every author's note features me readjusting my goals; interviews aug 30th god be willing. also happy 4 year anniversary to this syot hehe! she's old enough to go to pre-k!
HUGE BIG FAT BEAUTIFUL THANK YOU TO GOLDIE AND LOGAN FOR BETA-ING! their assistance was INVALUABLE; i learned from logan that holding the smoke doesn't actually do anything (i can't believe lucifer fed emilio misinformation) and goldie's demure and mindful brain turned artan's failboy poem into a shakespearian work of art… unbelievably how sexy and knowledgeable my betas are im such a lucky goose *cries real tears*
today's title is self-explanatory but don't worry, we'll get into victimFUL crimes soon enough!
qotd: if you were a capitolite, who would you want to sponsor and why?
deuces,
bonkies