Introductions IV.

Devastation, creation, intertwined.
You don't love the flames, you just want them for yourself.
And douse my head in kerosene, horizon into hell.

If you asked anyone in District Eight, they would tell you that Ramsey Fedorova is a living nightmare.

A boy full of wickedness and vanity and so much flame. Someone that should be locked up for good and never be allowed to see the light of day again. A scourge on their district, a person so far past redemption.

If you were able to actually track him down in the underbelly of Smogtown and ask him this same question, Ramsey would tell you much the same thing with a slow, terrible grin spread over his face.

But deep down, ignored and hidden away, kept secret in his heart, Ramsey is a dreamer.

He dreams of being dressed in all the finest fabrics Eight has to offer. He dreams of a youthful smile with missing baby teeth plastered on billboards and advertisements. He dreams of his mother singing in the kitchen. He dreams of a raven locked in an ornate cage. He dreams of a crowd trying to catch a glimpse of their district's new prince. He dreams of jagged tattoos and endless fire. He dreams of hope and laughter and sunshine.

Then he wakes up. Wash, rinse, repeat. Reality beckons, uncaring that Ramsey never wants to leave the world he visits when his eyes close.

Usually, when the real world pulls him from sleep, it's abrupt and cruel. Eyelids snap open and Ramsey forces himself out of bed, despite every muscle and tendon in his body crying out for him to lay back down, to rest. Life would be so much easier that way.

Ramsey's life is anything but easy.

This time, however, the first thing he feels as he wakes up is a coolness—like a breath of something unexpected, something alive, touching his skin. His eyelids flutter open slowly, and before he can gather his thoughts, he feels the sharp, unexpected sensation of fat drops of rain splattering against his shorn hair.

Iron bites into the back of his neck, sharp as claws ravenous to get under Ramsey's skin. There's an ache in his back and he feels sore all over. Oh, the joys of a stakeout. He feels tired, too senselessly and stupidly angry that he risked sleeping, not after he'd promised Kaya that it wouldn't happen again. It will not happen again. Not after tonight.

Ramsey slowly stretches out his limbs, grabbing onto the ledge of the fire escape he fell asleep on. Pulling himself up, he yawns carelessly—it's not like anyone noticed him yet. The continuous pollution of the factory quarter rises into the clouds in the distance, drifting across the river that dissects the district in half. As Ramsey leans over the barrier of the ledge, he sees a figure dart into the alleyway below.

Just on time.

Climbing down the rusty ladder proves easier than expected, considering most of the buildings in Eight look like they're on the verge of collapse. It's as if they have a Mayor that spends more money on lavish parties than fixing the district's infrastructure. Oh wait...

What a complete fuckwad.

Ramsey still thinks of his father constantly, accidentally, in the way he used to scratch at himself while sleeping—when he would wake to blood on his pillow, jagged cuts running up and down his arms. A relentless, pressuring pain. A desire to inflict. It has been nearly a year and the hurt is still fresh. He kicks a nearby trash bin and then opens up the lid and viciously slams it shut again.

As Ramsey approaches the entrance of the alley, broken glass and rubbish crackle under his dark leather boots. Curls and dark skin lean against a brick wall, slick with water from the lazy drizzle. Ramsey scrunches his nose at the dumpster nearby. Rain always makes the smell of piss and death even more pronounced. You would think after a year of sneaking around the slums, he would be used to the pungent aroma.

"What're you fuckin lurking for?" he demands, feeling aggrieved for a reason he can't name.

Kaya salutes lazily as he stops next to her. "Cut the teen-angst bullshit, Princess."

Ramsey grins sharply. He can always count on Kaya to volley back insult after insult. She's his partner-in-crime for a reason. His most trusted confidant. Ramsey would be dead in the river if she didn't take him in all those months ago. They've spent countless nights scheming and planning since then, striking government targets and causing upheaval. Ramsey doesn't deserve her loyalty.

He doesn't deserve anything good in his life.

This is the circular, endless preoccupation of Ramsey's brain now: fuck fuck fuck what am I what am I what am I going to do I'm such a mess fuck I'm so worthless I don't deserve this. He'd promised Kaya it wouldn't happen again and Ramsey isn't a liar, not like his father, but it sometimes seems that he will follow down that path against his will. There is nothing to do except wait and endure and try to stay alive, and these are all things Ramsey is terrible at.

A screech of tires demand his attention, the loud hum of an engine causing his senses to heighten. They both peer around the corner of the building, using the shadows to their advantage. Violet braids emerge from an armored vehicle, ugly and ostentatious and oh so Capitol. Only the best and most fortified transportation for Chastity Vespa, the district's escort for the past five years. Wouldn't want her to get blown to bits by the dirty rebels in Eight, now would they?

More liaisons and district officials pile out of the armored truck after the escort, all chummy and cheery despite the continuous sheet of rain. Avoxes outfitted in red hold large umbrellas for the pigs, mouths forever silenced. It makes Ramsey sick. To think he used to be waited on every day like these people, oblivious to the suffering of those forced to obey every command.

"Should burn the whole fucking nest down," he spits.

Kaya hums in agreement as they watch the group ascend the grand staircase of the Justice Building. Despite the uneven cobbled streets and grime of the city center, his father makes sure to keep his beacon of power spotless. Ramsey gnaws on the silver chain around his neck, a nervous habit Kaya has tried to get him to stop. Old habits die hard or whatever the fuck his mother used to say. She can't say much now, body thrown into the frigid waters by the Peacekeepers after their desperate escape.

Run, run my son! I'm sorry, for everything! Forgive me! Save your—

Ramsey bites harder on the metal in his mouth, willing the echo of his mother's cries away from his brain. Now is not the time for crying over ghosts. There is a job to be done.

Chaos is at the top of tonight's checklist.

More shapes step out onto the recently constructed reaping stage, welcoming the new arrivals. As the clock face strikes midnight, bells ringing out into the hush of night, shadows start piling out of the various back alleys surrounding the concourse.

A crack of lightning illuminates the starless, stormy sky, causing a few of the liaisons lingering on the front steps of the Justice Building to startle. Lighting should be the least of their worries; true danger lurks mere feet away. "Well? Are you ready to get this show on the road?" Kaya teases, raising her eyebrow, piercings gleaming with rainwater.

Answering with a middle finger, Ramsey steps out from the back street. He feels hundreds of eyes on his person, spiked maroon leather jacket a beacon for his loyal rejects, all eagerly waiting to strike the heart of corruption. It was easy for Ramsey to adapt to a lifestyle of chaos, using it to annul everything terrible he's known.

The scars on his back still ache, ablaze with the memory of a clothing iron.

Becoming an insurgent, and later, the leader of a gang was never his intention. Crawling out from the filth and muck, all Ramsey wanted was to be free. To unchain his shackles. Transforming into a vile figurehead, the type of creature the factory workers warn their kids about, was a bonus. Striking fear into the hearts of the very people that stood by while his father ruined him fuels every ambush and Molotov brewed. His fellow outcasts trust Ramsey, despite his cruel exterior.

He simply cannot afford to get hurt again. So, hostility and bloodied fists are Ramsey's answer. It's better to let everyone think him controlling and reckless, a gaping hole where his heart should be.

Raising his hands to cup his mouth, Ramsey lets out an ear-piercing, "KRAAA!"

One by one, a cacophony of answering caws reverberates through the air. Even from this distance, Ramsey can see the confusion and terror overtake the welcoming party on stage. And then a wave of ruin descends on the Justice Building all at once, homemade smoke bombs and fiery explosions flying overhead.

Peacekeepers rush to protect the officials, but it's too late. A burst of orange explodes near the entrance of the building, raining hellfire down on the visitors. A woman with emerald skin goes up in flames, arms waving in every direction for help. Her companions screech and cry, knees wobbling together. Smoke permeates the stage as gunshots ring out. Amidst the madness, Ramsey watches his father hide behind withering bodies. A Peacekeeper pulls himself from the crowd and tries to usher the Mayor to safety.

Hell fucking no.

Ramsey rushes the stage, Kaya fighting off any inbound dangers. Armored soldier after armored soldier falls victim to her rage. In seconds, his hands are covered in crimson too. In between the warring sides, Ramsey fights his way to the stage and mounts the front steps. His fury only amplifies, vast and directionless. Flames roar across the stage, the smell of burnt flesh and wood intermix with the smoke and rain plaguing Ramsey's vision.

Someone must have got a lucky shot on his father's escort, because Ramsey finds Corrado alone, bathed in carnage. A cut runs along his temple, evidence that he is not immortal. Once upon a time, Ramsey thought the man a God, unshakeable and true. Now, he knows him to be nothing more than a monster.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Standing before his father, chest heaving and jaw clenched, Ramsey is frozen. For the first time in almost two years, the Fedorova heir inhabits the same space as his torturer. Disbelief crosses Corrado's face, then anger. Ramsey stays silent as the battle wages on, dying screams a backdrop for this long-awaited reunion.

Say something! You planned for this! End it! Shoot him! Kill him! Claim vengeance—

With the same chiseled features and dark eyes, Ramsey watches the older version of himself carefully. Malice paints his irises black. Corrado straightens the lapels of his ruined suit and hauls himself up from the stage before speaking. Finally, his father confesses, "I wish I killed you two years ago."

The last piece of Ramsey's already blackened heart goes up in flames.

Ramsey sneers, but no words escape his lips. Tears prick the corners of his eyes, threatening release. He feels a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back from the stage. Kaya has a vice-like grip on his arm, but he resists. "We have to go, Ramsey!"

Cobblestones run red, blood from loyalists and rebels intermixing. In his periphery, the last of Ramsey's insurgents flee into the complex labyrinth of Eight's streets, his father's soldiers slowly making their way back to the destruction of the Justice Building.

He considers killing his father right then and there, but so many Peacekeepers are watching and that means he has to do what he does best.

Run.

Destruction follows Challenger Higanbana like a shadow—silent, inevitable, and always just a step behind.

It isn't my fault, she'd tell anyone who asked. As a kid, she actually believed those words. But people could sense it in her, a kind of crackling energy that unsettles everything she touches. Buildings, relationships, entire towns—everything would tremble as soon as she entered the picture. She never tried to make it happen. It just did.

People whispered about her as she passed by, their eyes filled with unease. Some said she was cursed. Others believed she was pure evil that was best left untouched.

At first, she hated the chaos she seemed to bring with her. It had started small—a shattered window here, a toppled bookshelf there—but over time, the consequences grew larger. People would get hurt and all she could do was stand there, stunned by her own helplessness. But that didn't last long.

Especially after she was left to clean up the messes she made by herself.

Now, she wears it like armor. Takes pride in the hurt she causes. She can feel the fear in the air before she even enters a room, the way conversations stutter to a halt and eyes turn away, like they are expecting a storm. She loves that power. Or at least, she tells herself she does. After all, if they fear her, then they have to respect her. No one ever crosses her. No one dares. Not even the baby killers at the Ludus Magnus have tried to fuck with her.

Destruction has become her weapon, and she wields it with a kind of strange, twisted pride.

Sometimes, late at night, she'd look at the wreckage around her, the way her mere presence seems to unravel everything, and for a fleeting moment, doubt would creep in. Maybe she isn't meant to be this way. Maybe there is more to her than just being a walking disaster.

But then she would push the thought away. She had convinced herself long ago that she enjoyed it; loved the control that fear gave her. After all, who needed stability when you could command attention like a thunderstorm?

Even the guards in Stonegrave Penitentiary regard her with unease as she approaches the mountain complex.

The penitentiary is an imposing structure carved directly into the side of a jagged cliff, far from any village. From a distance, it appears as though the mountain itself has swallowed the prison whole, its gray stone walls blending seamlessly with the natural rock. The building's silhouette is stark and angular, jutting out from the ridgeline like the spire of a dark cathedral. Snow-capped peaks loom in the distance despite it being the height of Two's warm season, and sheer cliffs drop away below, adding to the sense of isolation.

The prison entrance is an unmarked passage through the rock, accessed by a winding, treacherous road that hugs the mountainside. The air is thin up here, and the harsh winds whip through the narrow entryway, carrying with them the smell of pine. Metal gates—cold, rusted, and formidable—stand at the entrance, making it seem as though the penitentiary itself is shrouded in secrecy.

Challenger flashes a predatory smile to the guard that checks her papers. Even through the dark visor of his helmet, she can practically taste his worry.

Inside, led by another Peacekeeper, the penitentiary is a network of carved-out stone hallways and chambers, each cell a dark, cramped alcove in the mountain's belly. The air is dense with the scent of damp rock and stale air, and the constant hum of dripping water echoes off the walls. The windows are high, small, and narrow, offering little opportunity for escape or even hope.

Chal feels nothing but satisfaction.

The stone walls are jagged and rough, and even the floors are uneven, making the place feel unfinished, as though it was never meant to be inhabited, let alone used as a prison. Despite the remoteness, there's a constant presence of watchful guards who patrol the catwalks suspended above the prison's lower levels. They seem like phantoms, silhouettes in the gloom, as they move through the corridors, the clinking of their keys the only sound breaking the oppressive silence. In this place, even the wind seems to have a voice—howling through the narrow passages and the prison's open spaces, a constant reminder that the mountain itself is a silent witness to the punishment carried out within.

The penitentiary's very location—perched high in the unforgiving mountains—creates a sense of inescapability, but more than that, it serves as a testament to the harshness of nature and the punishment dealt out within District Two by its own people. It's another place shaped and molded by the unrelenting forces of stone and cold found throughout the district.

Challenger still thinks the place is a filthy mess. Boring rocks and barbed wire and blah blah blah. She's just thankful that things turned out the way they did; in another life, she would be the one calling Stonegrave home sweet home. In another life, pain wouldn't be tattooed on her soul.

"Look what the cat dragged in."

A lithe body slides into the seat opposite her, eyes wide with amusement. "Raze!" Chal greets, her classic shit-eating grin plastered for all to see. Her escort stands at attention near the door of the visitation center.

Swathed in a beige prison jumpsuit, the boy leans forward, strands of hair artfully draped across his face. Challenger really has to make it a point to ask about his hair routine. She isn't sure what kind of specialty products are available to a convicted murderer, but Raze was always a charmer; probably has one of the guards wrapped around his pretty little finger.

Some things never change. The power of a twink truly is astonishing.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Chal? I haven't seen you since…" Raze pauses, pretending to think. Always the one for dramatics, a full fifteen seconds go by before he deems it appropriate to continue with a non-dismissive wave. "Oh well, you know."

"Since you killed my father?"

"From what I remember, I had some help moving the body."

"Yeah, well I was found innocent unlike someone here. You forced me to drag that heavy son of a bitch, remember?" she snickers real obnoxiously. If there's one thing Chal loves more than anything, it's getting under other people's skin. Burrowing deep inside and finding out how they tick. Learning what buttons to push so that she can get the loudest reaction. It's like a game. One that Chal always wins.

Playing the role of resident shit-stirrer is something she takes seriously, believe it or not.

"A lovely defense. Fake as fuck, but it was a smart move. Wish I thought about getting a Peacekeeper in my corner."

"Guess you were late to the weekly orgy they have in the barracks." Chal pouts and mocks a tear running down her cheek with her pointer finger. Raze huffs in his seat. He always hated the fact that she could out-bitch him.

"How's the old fuck doing by the way?" he asks, brushing an invisible speck of dirt off his left shoulder. "Last I heard, Gryffin took you under his wing."

"He's dead."

Her once step-father leans back in his chair and lets out a whistle, clearly entertained again. "Didn't take long to fuck that one up."

Chal drums her fingers on the metallic edge of the table, luminous and slick. She's bored now, the past putting a damper on the conversation. Let sleeping dogs lie. Chal didn't come here to talk about Gryffin or her father or anyone else that had the misfortune of crossing her path.

She shrugs. "He hung himself actually. Too distraught over his estranged wife or whatever the fuck."

Raze quirks a brow. "Hm. I'm sure that's what happened."

"What can I say? I have bad luck with father figures."

"Why are you really here, Chal?" Raze squints his eyes, clearly exasperated. "I can't imagine you came all this way to make friendship bracelets."

"So you're saying you don't want to? I brought a whole bag of charms!" Chal exclaims. The boy offers no reaction. Raze is the only person that's been able to somewhat see through her bullshit. It makes her insides burn. "Fine. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to volunteer today."

"Funny."

"Yeah well, those rocks-for-brains bitches down at the LM wouldn't know a good thing if it punched them in the face."

"Keep telling yourself that, babe."

"I thought you'd be more excited. Someone in the family is going to make it out of this stupid ass district!"

The blonde tosses the long curtain of his hair behind his back before answering. "We're family? Sweetie, you and I both know the only reason I was fucking your father was for the money."

"Duh. But who knows? I could make a call or two. Could get you out of this joint. We would own this entire district." Chal rubs her hands together gleefully. Because that's why she's really here: to see if someone cares. Maybe she isn't alone after all. Chal never had the best relationship with Raze, but he's been one of exactly two people that have been able to keep up.

The other person is gone forever. All thanks to her of course. Another reminder of the devastation that hangs over her head like a dark cloud.

"Aw, that's a cute thought," Raze hums, a smirk playing on his lips. Challenger feels like a bug under a microscope. She wants to bite and thrash and go wild. "I have a good thing going here though, I practically run this place. Plus, I wouldn't exactly want to spend my time with you. Your dad was right in saying you're pretty fucking crazy."

Challenger acts before thinking.

Raze's nose instantly breaks when his face collides with the metal table, Chal's right hand still gripping his collar. She feels a grin splitting her face, and can imagine the wicked look in her pupils.

Nose bloodied and crooked, Chal can see the telltale signs of fear in Raze's features. Finally. Her veins sing with adrenaline and excitement. It's been too long since someone's looked at her like that.

Back when Gryffin was still around, serving as the lead investigator for the Special Forces, he'd let Challenger join the interrogations. Those sessions were the best time of her life. She loved the intimacy of it all, relished in the way a person cuffed in the chair across from her would squirm. Chal learned there's a specific kind of thrill to making people feel helpless. Small. Afraid.

Just like how she felt all those years ago, a mere child left alone with a monster. Her father was good for one thing though; if you aren't born a monster, you better become one quick. It's the only way to survive this world.

The cadets at the Ludus Magnus dislike Chal. Avoid her with a wide berth. But they aren't scared of her, despite everything she's done since joining their ranks. At least, not yet. Soon, they'll learn—come to understand that they're all merely prey. Nell made a mistake choosing Isara; poor thing could never handle the pressure. A few well-timed seeds of doubt and a handful of pills should've taken care of that problem by now, if Chal had to guess.

Chal leans in close to Raze's ear, aware of the whole room watching the scene she's causing. "Your loss."

She pushes away from him then, disgusted with his face. Annoyed by his mere existence. The guards make a beeline for their table but Chal is already halfway across the room, strutting through the archway and singing, "Toodles!" on her way out.

She's not sure when the change occurred, but Chal stopped being an actual person somewhere along the way. When her dad left, perhaps? She doesn't remember crying when he packed his bags. Challenger smiled for days after her father died, tossed down the stairs by his newest lover. Most children don't celebrate when their only remaining parent fucks off.

Maybe it was when Gryffin died, and she could only feel a numbness in her chest.

Deep down, Chal has always known there's been something wrong with her. Her biology might be off. Maybe her heart is too damaged. Either way, she doesn't need other people. The past few years have cemented that notion.

Challenger breathes easier knowing everyone despises her very being. It's easier that way. And if they don't, she'll make sure they do.

Because this is what she does best: destroy.

Planned to have this edited and posted last week, but due to current events, I didn't have the energy.

On a lighter note! Can you tell I got a little bit too carried away revamping these intros? This is what happens when y'all give me rat bastards. Fair warning.

Only one more round of intros and then we're off to pre-games. I'll save the planned format and sentimental shit for next time.

Let me know your thoughts on the cast so far, if you're inclined.

Lyrics are from "Arsonist" by Halsey, by the way.