.
. . iv . .
Sometimes her dreams take a different turn. Her One girl is alive and well, alive and greedy, and she presses herself against Venatrix so sweetly, so desperately that Venatrix wakes soaked to the bone and churning with an odd mixture of shame and desire and guilt.
…It rained last night. She won't be able to sleep outside like this soon.
Some days are worse than others, and this is one of them. When her head slumps down and almost falls into her omelet, her parents swap a look over her head that would make Venatrix's fingers curl if she saw it. But she doesn't. Her head hangs heavy, full of sweet brown eyes and longing so sick it aches. She imagines how Mariposa would chuckle at that, how needy she is, and the thought would make her cheeks flush if it weren't coated in grief.
But the drip in her nose isn't from tears; Venatrix only registers it when her mother instructs her to take a hot shower.
She complies. The combination of bare skin and hot water sends shivers through her frame. Venatrix expects to relax into it; instead she almost passes out. She lowers to a crouch, sitting under the showerhead while she waits for the creeping blackness to pass.
It's almost refreshing. Hot water and steam cradle her in warmth, clearing whatever had caught in her sinuses if only for the moment. Her vision returns, but Venatrix stays down there, scrubbing the grime from her skin and hair in safety. When she's finished, she switches the water off, towels herself dry, and crawls straight into bed. Wet, uncombed hair immediately soaks her pillowcase, but Venatrix doesn't care. She curls up beneath the cool sheets and drifts…
She doesn't fall back asleep, but it's close. That ache festers in her chest, paralyzing; when Dagmara comes in to check on her, it's lunch time. Venatrix stirs, blinking in surprise. Her mother, unfazed by the fact that she'd forgotten to clothe herself after her shower, tells Venatrix she'll be coming to the Academy with her for the afternoon, and Venatrix lets out a groan. She collapses into the mattress, yanking the comforter over her head.
"Agate is there. She's working at the studio today."
Venatrix doesn't quite perk up at the name of her friend, but she stiffens. When she peeks out from beneath the blanket, Dagmara has already set out a change of clothes—the nice zip-up tracksuit, with the stripes and the Academy logo. Venatrix lets out a huff, but dresses quickly. She ties back her hair as much as she can in an attempt to look like she put some effort in. (It's difficult with her thumb, but she gets the tie twice around).
When they get to the Academy, Dagmara has them stop at the cafeteria first and practically shoves a sandwich down Venatrix's throat.
Agate finds her struggling to choke down a gummy glob of half-chewed peanut butter, banana, and bread. She waves in greeting, mute until she can follow it with a gulp of water. "Hullo."
"Trix! Didn't think I'd see you around today."
Venatrix takes another bite of sandwich so she doesn't have to think of something to say. Agate hovers; she looks like she wants to sweep Venatrix up in a hug, but her hands are full of lunch tray. She settles for brushing against Venatrix's shoulder as she takes the adjacent seat. Dagmara stands to leave as she does, smiling at Agate's wave of greeting, and instructs Venatrix to "meet me in my office when you're done."
"Ooh, is someone in trouble?" Agate says when she departs.
"Probably just penmanship practice," Venatrix grumbles, swallowing the last of her sandwich. Agate's eyes flick to her right hand with a grimace. "Writing leftie sucks. She's making me recopy her whole novel."
"First edition or second?"
The second edition, which her mother had rewritten when she wasn't neck-deep in the immediate turmoil following her Games, is well over a hundred pages longer. "Take a guess."
(Venatrix wonders how much of the novel had been finished by her mother's two-month mark. It's an unfair comparison—Venatrix knows it is—but she can't help but think about how much she's lagging behind, still.)
Predictably, her sourness is visible enough for Agate to pick up on. "Heyo." She pokes Venatrix in the arm. "Want a cookie?"
Venatrix purses her lips. Sub-par snickerdoodle or something worse? "They have anything good?"
Agate waggles her eyebrows, bouncing off to investigate. Venatrix takes the moment to cleanse her throat of peanut butter; she downs almost her entire glass of water before a movement in her peripheral makes her flinch so hard she spits half of it up. "Shit—'Makers…"
A hand reaches out to steady her. It's not Agate—she can't immediately place the owner; she slaps it away based on that fact alone. "The fuck is your problem?"
"Sorry…"
Through her glared daggers, Venatrix takes in the face of a former classmate. Tyberius… she can't remember which one, and frankly she doesn't care to. He stands there, weight shifting irregularly. Must be the one who kept getting himself hurt, though why he hasn't gone away yet leaves Venatrix baffled and irritated. She takes the last swig of water to clear her windpipe. He's still there. "Dude, what."
"Oh, uh, I just—I wanted to say congrats. On winning." Venatrix leans onto her hand, digging her fingernails into her scalp. "Um… it's nice to see you here?"
Go away. Venatrix gives him a smile that even the Capitol could see through. She's supposed to be working on her temper, after all.
"So I guess you're gonna be here often? Ack—of course you are, that's how it works, duh. Idiot," he mumbles to himself. "Well, I'm training to be a cadet now, so I'll be around too…"
Venatrix tunes him out. A flash of blonde from the dessert station catches her eye; Agate, her angel, her hero, her savior from awkward conversations, bringer of cookies. Eyes wide and cookie in her mouth, Agate draws a sharp line across her throat that Venatrix doesn't think she's meant to see.
"Um. Venatrix?" Tyberius is still fucking talking. "So would you maybe want to—go out?"
"Huh?"
Behind him, Agate facepalms.
"Like to dinner or something. On a—on a date…?" His voice pitches higher, turning the clarification into a question.
Venatrix thinks she might choke again. "Why the hell would I do that?" By the look on his face, Tyberius seems to be going through the five stages of grief in the span of three seconds. What the fuck just happened? In any other scenario, Venatrix might feel a flash of pity at the utter humiliation that now colors her former classmate's cheeks. But she can't stop the sudden, irrational anger that bleeds through her chest, twists her features. Her thoughts flick off. She rises to her feet, grabbing him by the shirt. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously!?"
"I—I just thought—"
"Are you joking? Huh? You fucking—"
(She's shouting now. People stare. Control yourself.)
"—I swear to fucking god, if you talk to me again I'll—!"
"—Look, I'm sorry—!"
"Hey!" Agate—Venatrix's head snaps toward her. "Hey, let's all take it down a notch, yeah? Trix, you just—yep, let him go…" Agate pries her fingers from Tyberius's shirt— "Ty, don't you have training or something?" As soon as he's loose, he scuttles away. "That's right, fuck right off," Agate mutters crossly. She sighs; Venatrix would echo the sentiment, but her breath still comes out in sharp huffs, gaze still locked darkly on the direction of Tyberius's retreat.
How can he even ask that? Did he not watch…? Does he think I can just, what, move on? Who the fuck does he think he is, just 'cause we trained together, that doesn't—I don't even—
Does he think she was nothing to me?
Agate's look of concern goes unnoticed. When she squeezes Venatrix's hand, it breaks the trance. "Easy, Trix. Look, I brought you a bunch."
Chocolate chip. Rainbow sprinkle. Snickerdoodles. Even oatmeal raisin. Shakily, Venatrix lets Agate guide her back to her chair. She plops down, still fuming. Bracing her feet on the rung of the table, Venatrix rocks her chair backwards, then forwards with a tack. Tack. Tack. Slowly, the energy seeps away.
"Gaah," Agate groans. "I told him not to fucking do that."
Tack. Tack— "Wh—you knew?"
"I told him it was shit timing…"
"Agate, I don't even fucking like guys."
"You went out with Percy."
Venatrix squishes a green sprinkle beneath her index finger. "Anyone would've gone out with Percy if he asked. He's got those stupid puppy-dog eyes…" She clears her throat. Neither her nor Agate correct the tense. "Whatever. I don't want this shit right now, I want—" Her voice catches again.
Their silence becomes jagged.
Agate's breath huffs unevenly, like she wants to say something. Venatrix would suddenly rather be anywhere but here. The cafeteria's nearly empty, but people still stare, they're always staring. Really, they always were.
Regardless, her mother's expecting her.
"Venatrix…" Agate's voice quiets. "You know you can talk about her if you want."
"What is there to say?" Venatrix snaps. She knows exactly who Agate means when she says her. But Venatrix wouldn't know how to talk about Mariposa even if she wanted to. Sure, everyone saw the Games, but those moments, they were hers.
"You said you loved her. On TV."
"I said a lot of things on TV."
Agate scoffs at her impudence. "Yeah, and you're a pretty shit liar, especially now that you're…"
"Now that I'm what."
Agate hesitates. Venatrix braces herself for the slew of possibilities that could spill from her mouth. Uncontrollable. Insane. Damaged. Broken. A monster.
"A Victor, I guess."
"Safe choice," Venatrix grumbles.
This is where Agate should return the teasing jibe. But she only smiles awkwardly, still unsure. A sudden, nasty feeling sprouts in the pit of Venatrix's stomach; she almost wants to hate her, hate herself (some kind of monster you are), but Agate keeps talking. "Aaaand Victors need talents. Which I can help you with. Maybe."
"Don't try to change the subject on me."
"I thought you had nothing to say." The glare Agate gets is enough to kill her cheeky grin. "Listen, I'm just trying to help you, Trix. I—I don't really know how, but—" she lets out a strained breath— "you're my friend."
Friend. Not best friend. Venatrix gets it; throwing around that title with the obvious hole in their trio feels almost wrong. Insulting even.
But the omission still jabs like a sword to her chest.
It wasn't on purpose. Agate still looks at her with those woeful eyes, and it would only hurt her needlessly to refuse.
So Venatrix nods, and tries to forget about it for the next few days.
(She fails.)
This routine is steadily killing her. Half-day shifts at the Academy should be easy, but consistently, Venatrix finds herself collapsing from exhaustion as soon as she gets home. Granted, she's still licking her wounds. Unlike her arena injury, Venatrix's body seems more equipped to deal with simple sprains and gashes; her collection from earlier this month is healing up nicely. But today, she hasn't even exercised, and she's sore as if she ran the mountain trail in a dead sprint.
Tomorrow… Most of the kids have off for this weekend, but not Venatrix.
Not the Eighteens either; and not Iago, to her surprise.
He joins the older kids in the parking lot after morning warm ups, an extra spring in his step despite the drizzle. Based on the dew that seeped into her clothes this morning, the sickly grey sky, Venatrix had a feeling it might rain again. Bad news for those participating in the summer Mocks.
Luckily, Dagmara told Venatrix she could leave early.
The tempting thought melts to outrage at the sight of her brother. "You're not competing, are you?" She turns to her mother as the last of the Eighteen's class filters out from the auxiliary gym. Dagmara nods.
"Read it and weep, sister." Iago flicks his wrist dramatically, finishing with a snap of his fingers.
Venatrix shoots him a scorching glare; she turns back to Dagmara, frowning. "But that means he'll get to do four—wait no, six—mock games before he graduates. I only got three."
"Most people only get two," Iago pipes up unhelpfully.
"Most people get none," Dagmara reminds them both. She raises a brow at Venatrix, unlocking the car. "You won already, hon. What does it matter?"
Embarrassment flushes her cheeks. The argument dies on her lips; Iago snickers as Arthur, Sanji, and a few other Eighteens file into the vehicle. "If you really want, you can still join in on this one," he chirps.
"I hope you get slaughtered, you little fa—"
The car door slams shut.
By the time they arrive, the rain comes down in torrents. Iago looks a little less-than-thrilled to be participating now, but he's far too proud to admit it. The rain eats right through her hoodie; Venatrix tries to stifle the nasty shiver that traces down her spine. Any other day, the summer rain might have been nice. It's not the coldest she's ever been—not by a long shot—but it's still unpleasant. Already, thoughts of the hot shower Venatrix plans on taking when she gets home flit through her mind. They'll retreat into the Nut to monitor soon enough, but truthfully, Venatrix isn't looking forward to that either.
The location they chose this summer isn't too far. It varies from the sloped meadow where they all now stand, not too far from the road, to a steeper, sparse mountainside. Venatrix swears they'd gone out hiking this way once before, her and her family. Camping trip, maybe. It'll be even more dangerous in the rain. Sure, the armor absorbs some of the impact, but there's little they could do if someone slips and falls on their neck. Or pulls a Coquina.
Venatrix pushes away the thought. There are enough nooks and crannies in the rockside to provide cover from the rain if anyone's keen enough to look.
She helps Dagmara distribute packs and armor to the gaggle of eager mock tributes. Some of them flash dirty looks in Iago's direction while others listen intently as her father—he must've ridden over with the rest of the kids—outlines the instructions. No maiming. No murder. Penalty of death.
Yeah, right.
Iago sidles over as everyone else gets into position around the "Cornucopia"—the bed of Morwenna's truck, parked in the middle of the meadow. He raises his voice over the rain. "So…what was your record again?"
"Don't even try."
He smirks. "Can't be that hard." Briefly, Venatrix thinks about disqualifying him. "What would you do if I won all the Mocks this year? Think they'd have to send me in early, no?"
Venatrix blinks at him through the rain. His words take a minute to process. "Are you insane?" she hisses.
"I'm just kidding."
But he's not. Venatrix knows her brother too well, and right now she can't even wrap her head around what he's thinking. Dagmara calls the mock tributes to their places, and it takes her guiding hand for Venatrix to move away from the oncoming carnage.
He's an idiot. (He doesn't want to be left out.) Did he not see what I went through? (It's his birthright too.) Has he not suffered enough already? I'm a Victor—I can stop him.
(How are we still so arrogant?)
In her distraction, Venatrix misses the starting call. Tributes roar, rain patters, weapons flash, but even that can't cut through the sudden, red anger coursing through her veins. Iago's cackle sounds over the downpour, but she's not mad at him.
She doesn't know who the anger is for.
It sits in her chest, aimless and festering, as they hike back to the cars and settle in the Nut behind monitors and screens and weather maps. Dagmara shows her the map of red dots—the tributes' positions and statuses. The Head Peacekeeper greets her with an enthusiasm that exhausts her even more.
They let her do the death horns. Venatrix presses the button thirteen times, winces, then slumps forward in her seat.
The rage is just a headache now.
She'll be better at the next one. More attentive. The Peacekeeper in the monitor next to her keeps sending furtive glances her way; her mind is telling her it's Tyberius. She'd snap at him again if she had the energy. But she doesn't.
This is unexpectedly boring—it's not like the real Games where they can see the action from every camera angle. Venatrix has already lost track of which red dot belongs to her brother. They've all dispersed now, with some groupings still intact. Somewhere nearby, the low chatter of her mother and Morwenna's voices analyze the alliance groupings, their position on the terrain, but Venatrix can't find it in herself to keep up. She's sure everyone can pick up on it.
"Venatrix, you're here too? No way! Isn't this so exciting?"
Okay, not everyone.
Venatrix recognizes that voice. The upside means she doesn't have to look to find out who's speaking. The downside means that someone's speaking to her, and it's fucking Arrhenius.
"You did this last year, didn't you?"
Venatrix grunts in assent.
"What was it like? Was it anything like the real Games?"
She shrugs.
"Well, I've been meaning to ask, how were the real Games? Since I'm going to be training you all for the long run now, I need to know these things. Wait a sec, let me write this down—"
Venatrix still hasn't deigned to look at him. If she does, she just might lunge for his throat, and that would probably get her a whack to the head when they try to pull her off. It already throbs loud enough to nearly drown out the former Capitolite's chatter.
A more commanding voice interrupts. "Alright kid, that's enough. You're the Capitol guy? I think the Head PK's looking for you."
The pressure seems to lift with Arrhenius's departure, though her father's presence replaces it with something almost worse. Venatrix stays facing her screen. In her peripheral, Oberon wears a slightly cheeky smirk—so he lied about Flint—which fades when Venatrix doesn't share his amusement.
"You doing okay?"
She grunts again.
Oberon lowers his voice. "Time to go?"
He's letting her decide. If she says no, Venatrix doubts he has the guts to force her. She glances towards her mother; her conversation with Morwenna has expanded to include Callithyia and Flint. The three Victors point and gesture at the dots on the screen, completely engrossed, while the Head Peacekeeper folds his arms and nods. Oberon follows her gaze. "Your mother has to stay. She's mentoring next year." He gives her an apologetic 'you're stuck with me' look.
Venatrix's mind is still hung up on next year.
God.
I need to get out of here.
She turns to her father and nods. Swiftly, they make their exit, though not so hasty as if to look like they're escaping. "Your hair looks nice this length," he says as they pile in the car; Venatrix shoots him a look. Very promptly, he shuts up. As of late, Oberon seems to have gained a decent sense of when to make conversation—(which is never)—and Venatrix finds herself exceedingly grateful with each missed opportunity. She loses track of time in the car ride home, but it's a blessing. He says something about returning to the Mocks and leaving food out for her, but Venatrix is halfway up the stairs already.
She lumbers to her bed, falls on top of the cover, and sleeps straight through dinner.
She's sick.
Honest-to-god closed-throat fever-and-chills sick.
Sometime in the night, her father must've returned to check on her. Venatrix hisses when he yanks open the curtains, burying her face into her pillow to avoid the piercing daytime. Heavy rain still thumps the roof, pings off the gutters. Her collarbone aches.
Oberon shuts the curtains with an apology. Venatrix barely registers it. She feels it when his presence vanishes, then returns with a thermometer and a cold hand pressed to her forehead. Venatrix groans. The look on his face tells her what she already knows. "Damn, Trixie," he says half to himself. "Almost as bad as your fever during the… hm."
The air in her room tastes stale. Venatrix shivers despite the mountain of blankets she's shoved herself beneath.
He leaves again, and Venatrix doesn't remember closing her eyes, but the next time she opens them, there's a glass of iced water on her night table and a cold compress on her forehead. There can only be one culprit. But all Venatrix can think of is how he showed her no such kindness while she suffered worse in the Games.
All she can think about are the ones who did.
(If she deserved it, maybe they wouldn't have died.)
They're not here—her father is. But anger won't break her fever. It only exhausts her more.
The next time Venatrix wakes, her father is there again with a cup of cold syrup and a fresh glass of water. Venatrix can barely choke it down. The awful flavor clings to the back of her throat like it wants to come back up. She grits her teeth and swallows.
"There's soup downstairs. Callithyia brought some."
Venatrix grunts. She crawls back under the comforter. Oberon reaches over to tuck her back in, but a keening moan of protest halts him. He sighs, nearly imperceptible. "The Mocks are still running. Your brother is doing well. Think it might last another day or two, especially with the rain. Nobody wants to get too soaked out there, but…" He huffs again, slapping his knees as he stands from where he'd perched at the foot of her bed. "They'll be alright. Your mother's watching them. Get some rest, Trixie."
It's not a difficult order to follow.
Cold pricks beneath her paws. Wind flattens her ears to her head, fur fluffed up against it. The movement aches. She's not running this time; she's not even sure if she's hunting.
But there is a scent…
Venatrix presses her nose to the ground, sifting through frozen blood and snow. She'll find it. She will.
She turns, following the trail of blood. Each paw she lifts leaves another fresh, bloody print in the dark red ground. How long has she been walking? She moves slow, far too slow.
She moves.
She turns again, circling back the way she came, snuffling through her gory path. Her own scent clouds the trail. Her pain clouds her judgment. Perhaps there's nothing here. Nothing to find. No point in circling again and again, in spilling more blood and reopening old wounds, wounds that will never heal unless she lets herself rest.
But this dogged part of her keeps hunting.
Venatrix doesn't know any other way.
Someone has cracked her window. Cool winds from the rain sweep in, piercing through dreams she can't begin to remember.
It shuts with a sharp crrick! and Venatrix starts awake.
"Apologies." It takes her a minute to place Callithyia's low tone. "I brought you something. Eat." The old Victor shoves a bowl of something warm under her nose. It probably smells fantastic.
Venatrix scooches upright until she's sitting. Even that makes her head spin. "My dad?" she croaks.
"They needed him at the Mocks. Eat."
Steam tickles her chin. Venatrix obeys; the taste of salt is jarring after hours of nothing. Two sips of broth feels like more than enough for Venatrix's poor appetite, but Callithyia forces half the bowl into her before relenting. As difficult as it is to swallow, Venatrix welcomes the fuzzy warmth that now sits in her chest. Callithyia begins to update her about the goings-on of the mock games—it finally stopped raining—but Venatrix's attention drifts, first to her own mock games, and then back to her last few weeks of training. Her last few weeks with her best friend.
Old, dumb arguments swim through her head. The odd, terrible feeling of fighting with Percy. How that evaporated in the face of what they'd signed up for.
"Dying is one thing, sure, but I'd take that any day over winning wrong."
"I'm sorry." Words croak out. "'M sorry I couldn't… do it right."
Callithyia hums in question.
"Games," she mumbles. "Winning."
The old Victor's hand touches her forehead, brushing back wisps of curls. Cool. Calming. "Venatrix," she says, and there's a weight to it. "There are a hundred and fifty-one ways to win. I don't think any of them are right."
Venatrix groans in confusion, already slipping back into a sweaty, disjointed slumber. Callithyia's fingers comb gently through her hair, but in her mind, Venatrix curls up on the bathroom floor, her arms wrapped around a fracturing Percy. I'm sorry I didn't wait.
He doesn't hate her this time.
Her fever breaks. Venatrix feels it like a sigh of relief when she wakes, though her head still pounds. Clothes and stiff sheets stick to her skin with dried sweat. A shaky hand reaches for the glass on her nightstand; she gulps it down, splashing half of it across her chest, her blanket. Venatrix huffs in annoyance. She feels so weak.
Still, it's not the worst she's ever felt. Hard to beat that.
Hauling herself out of bed, she lumbers to the shower. Spots of color and blackness jolt through her vision at the sudden movement. Venatrix braces herself against the wall, slipping down to her knees to lean against the bathtub. One fleeting thought of her father finding her passed out in the shower is enough to make her hesitate.
Her nose may still be stuffy, but Venatrix knows she reeks. Bathtub it is.
As the hot water flows, Venatrix scrubs her teeth clean. The headache, the weakness; they still linger, but she suspects it's the result of being bedridden for a couple days (?), and forces that thought to be louder than the one scolding her for being back to square one. She spits mint from her mouth.
(Before Mariposa's kiss tasted like blood, it had tasted like mint.)
The bath is full. She switches off the water and sinks in.
It nearly scalds her, but Venatrix lets the heat chase away the last of the shivers. Steam rises in clouds from the water's surface. It doesn't quite clear her sinuses, but as she leans her head back against the porcelain, she can almost breathe again.
Her teeth still taste like mint.
For once, she feels calm. The headache seems to subside. She forgot to put the stuff in to make bubbles, but there's some sort of purple soap orb within reach—Stefania or someone must've sent it—that she unwraps and plops into the tub. It explodes in a watery cloud of purple glitter, fizzing with energy. Venatrix flinches, (definitely some Capitol thing, maybe one of the Nells…), then kicks the bar of soap into the water as well, figuring both ought to do the job of getting her clean enough. She leans back again, idly watching the glitter bomb bob and dissolve and hiss. Mari would've gotten a kick out of that.
She would've been at Venatrix's side for this, playing nurse once again. Sick again, Vee? Venatrix can hear her tinkling laugh. Are you sure you don't just want me to take care of you?
(More than anything.)
The porcelain is hard against the back of her skull, but Venatrix imagines she rests on Mari's lap, imagines the fingers that card through her damp hair. She tilts her chin back, as if those soft brown eyes would be staring right back.
They're not. There's nothing but mist and grey marble tile.
Something warm trickles down her face, but Venatrix dunks her head underwater fast enough that she doesn't have to acknowledge it.
Bad idea. Glitter in her eye. It burns—at least that's an excuse. But it burns; Venatrix swishes over to the faucet and yanks the water on. It comes out ice cold, and she splashes it on her face, flushes her eye. When that doesn't work, she shoves her head underneath. Ice pours down her face.
Eventually, the irritant vanishes. Venatrix only turns off the water when she hears it start to spill over.
Cursing and shivering, she stumbles back to her room and into the comfiest set of sweats she owns. The headache still throbs. Venatrix chugs the glass of water by her bedside as quick as she can in thick, mucus-y gulps. Semi-reluctantly, she makes her way downstairs, leaning heavily on the railing. Food will help with the headache, the weakness.
Still, Venatrix tries to pretend these ailments don't exist. There's commotion in the kitchen; they'll hear her stuffy voice no matter what she does. Her father prepares a meal—dinner, judging by the dim light outside—though he makes a beeline for the fridge when he sees her, pulling out a container of Callithyia's soup. It was alright when she had it. It would be better if she had a sense of smell. Venatrix expects to see her mother working alongside him at the stove; she's surprised to find Eridan instead. "Hiya, Venatrix. Feeling alright?"
She grunts, sliding into her designated seat at the dinner table—left of the head, so she could both manage her siblings and get roped into adult conversation.
Eridan seems to get the hint, returning to the cooking area to help. He and Oberon chatter away, or rather, Eri does the heavy lifting. Venatrix tunes them both out, head pillowed atop her folded arms. A light thud on the table alerts her to another glass of fresh water, deposited wordlessly by her father. Venatrix is too tired to scowl, though she considers it.
She ignores the water. She'd ignore the cooking too, but the smells are strong enough to pierce through her congestion. Not strong enough to move her appetite. She picks at the soup her father places in front of her.
The sound of the garage door squealing open grabs her focus. Seconds later, Iago and Dagmara pour in; the surge of Iago's laughter batters her ears. "—still can't believe she actually fell for that! These guys make it too easy, I swear."
"What, did you win?" Eridan asks.
Iago unloads his backpack and rain jacket on the chair next to her. "Well—no. Third place though, I was close! Tied with Arthur for max kills."
Not close enough, Venatrix thinks quietly. Last year he'd gotten fourth and second respectively, but it's like her father had told her the first time she'd failed: kills and placements won't matter if you're dead.
Something still nags at her.
(So many die every year—they have to matter.)
The conversation has long-since moved on to the ups and downs of Iago's mock games. It's just training. And Venatrix knows better than to say any of this out loud. She doesn't have the energy.
One look at Eri says he doesn't either.
In the few times she's seen him, the other Victor seems to flip-flop between boundless energy and none at all. Now, it's almost as if he transferred it straight to her brother. Perhaps it's the subject—mock games can too easily become a sore spot for their participants. Venatrix knows that all too well.
Suddenly, she realizes she rarely sees Eri around the Village at all. As the others gather at the table with their plates, Venatrix quietly asks about it.
"Hm? Oh, I don't really live here anymore."
Her spoon stills.
"Its not really allowed, but if I had to live in that house, I think I'd try to kill myself again, so." He shrugs blithely, speaking quietly enough to avoid her parents' scrutiny. "Your dad helped me get an apartment downtown, just above Rocky's. They let me bartend every now and then too; it's…kind of nice. You guys should come down sometime. They do drag shows on Friday nights."
My dad helped you…? Venatrix opens her mouth to respond, but Iago's whine cuts her off. "Triiiiix, you guys aren't even listening!"
Venatrix pulls a face.
"Come on buddy, I know you'd love a drag show," Eridan needles.
"You don't even care."
"Fine," Venatrix huffs, "tell me who you killed."
"So you weren't listening!" Now that Iago has her attention, though, he doesn't seem to find offense. "Oh, you should've seen it. We were right by this one creek—it might've been the one Bell fell into that one time—and the whole thing was flooded! It was, like, up to my waist, which I only know because Sanji fell in, and I had to help her out (and then I killed her, of course), but it wasn't too bad, like, we got warmed back up before the finale and…"
Subtly, Eridan slips away again. Iago carries the dinner conversation; apparently, they brought out "mutts" this time. That's what they needed Oberon for.
As amusing as the thought of her father chasing around the tributes with a fake chainsaw and a gorilla mask is, Venatrix spends the rest of the evening trying not to think about her own mutts. She glances to Eridan for help, but he's pulled out his cellular. It doesn't even take five minutes for Iago to notice, and the two begin crafting witty Jabber posts to the dismay of everyone at the table. Venatrix excuses herself early.
She crawls back into bed, but now that she's alone, the thoughts seem that much louder. Taking a note out of Eridan's book, she flicks on her own phone.
Twelve unread messages from Agate, though Venatrix knows they've been interspersed throughout the week.
One new text from Alystra. She opens it. Picture of someone walking a muzzled dog, paired with the message, "u lol." She texts back a middle finger emoticon. She's pretty sure Alystra's phone can't load emoticons.
A few unread texts from her mother, which, judging by the text preview, contain non-urgent messages like "Love you, sweetie" and "Get some rest, O.K.?"
Venatrix scrolls down. Even more unread messages dated back weeks, months. 'Makers, it's been ages since she checked this thing. Out of morbid boredom, she opens the dreaded Jabber app. It's nearly incomprehensible—bits and bobs of something that's probably humor are strewn amidst images and videos of garish fashion, garish celebrities, garish murder.
Her brother's post, from Eridan's account.
EPhaetheus141✔️: dinner with my favorite psycho killers :3c OPyke122 DIllura127 VPyke151 [IMAGE]
[ALT TXT: A plate of chicken and vegetable stir fry over rice arranged to look like a smiley face. Dagmara and Venatrix Pyke are partially visible in the background.]
→ EPhaetheus141✔️: yes all hang out without you. Die mad about it. VPyke151 says hi btw
→ EPhaetheus141✔️: jk actually she says fuck you AHAHA
Venatrix rolls her eyes, but she appreciates the honest sentiment. There's more:
EPhaetheus141✔️: if you think about it im basically like the 4th pyke kid :heart:
→ bl00dbathXd: see we dont even need the dead one
→ → EPhaetheus141✔️: kill your sel.f
→ → EPhaetheus141✔️: seriously,, i will pay you u stupid fuck
Before she can react, the page refreshes, and Eridan's original jab is the only one on the screen. Venatrix blinks. Was that real? She trusts the callousness of Capitolites far more than her exhaustion-laced eyes.
The feed continues.
She stops when she sees her own name again, Mari's name.
_m4r1tr1x_: This is my districtsona Tulip Saffron, shes from district 7 and is the sister of the girl venatrix killed in the bloodbath (heather btw) but after she won the 152 games she forgave venatrix because she knows how hard it was and now theyre girlfriends chapter 1 of their mentoring fic should be out shortly! 💞 [IMAGE]
[ALT TXT: A drawing of a flower printed dress of simple outer-district style. Her name is listed as Tulip Saffron, 152nd Victor. A few traits are listed next to her profile: shy, brave, shrewd, loves rain, axe-throwing ace]
→ maritrix: woooooow. Just wow.
→ justice4mari: girl.. im removing you from the maritrix groupchat. This is unbelievable.
→ _m4r1tr1x_: wtf? Have you people never heard of multishipping?
→ → maritrix: have you never heard of bETRAYAL?
→ car33r_luvr: your oc sucks
→ TheD11Stan: You might want to consider changing the name, flower names are more fitting for D11 or D12. Tree names should cover your bases pretty well
→ → _m4r1tr1x_: the actual tribute's name was literally heather, thats a fucking flower
→ → TheD7Stan: heres a list of every flower named D7 tribute thats ever been reaped for the games that i just so happen to have for this exact reason xoxo [Link Jab → TheD7Stan: Complete D7 Tribute Directory (Filter Category: flower)]
…What? Most of this goes over her head, but it's too easy to keep scrolling.
maritrix: ️! ! ! _m4r1tr1x_ is officially added to the blocklist ️! ! !
→ justice4mari: fr she never wanted to support mari, she just wanted to BE mari
→ car33r_luvr: _m4r1tr1x_ change your username dumb bitch !k
The_D2_Stan: are the maritrix girls like.. okay
→ princessjulianasb!tch: this is why i dont talk to tribute shippers once the games are over
What the hell?
_m4r1tr1x_ → venatrixdyke
.
VPyke151✔️: venatrixdyke Seriously?
venatrixdyke: i think im gonna throw up.
[ venatrixdyke has deactivated ]
Good, Venatrix thinks harshly. She clicks on the profile of the user dubbed maritrix—is that supposed to be me and Mariposa…? Suddenly she's staring at a video of Mariposa's face, fake-laughing during her interview in that horrible, stunning dress, repeating in a loop—
Venatrix throws her phone.
She was told the Capitol loves her. Is this supposed to be their love? It's a different kind of horror from the love she knows; this one is sticky like guilt.
Mari's fake smile plays again in her head. Then, her real one, covered in blood-paint promises.
It echoes in her mind until morning.
A/N: Theres literally so much going on in this chap and for no reason bvjhdbfh i hope u enjoy though. it makes me chuckle c: ig i will see u guys when i see you next, whenver that will be
- Nell