There's something comforting about the imposing vastness of the ocean. It dwarfs everything on land: the highest peaks, the lowest valleys, and the people who inhabit the spaces in between. It stretches on seemingly endlessly in every direction, reaching corners of the planet few men have ever seen. It persists day in and day out, just as it has persisted for several millennia before Mara existed and will continue to persist for several millennia after she is gone.
As she stands atop the damp sand and allows the frigid water to wash over her feet, it's easy to imagine the uncaring tide pulling all of her worries out to sea with it. The ocean doesn't care about the weight on her shoulders or the gruesome images in her mind or the blood coating her palms, only that it's all washed away. And in some ways, it is, letting Mara forget everything else—even if only for a while.
Before long, though, the soft glow of the moon becomes dull and the water around her ankles runs red. The scent of salt in the air is replaced with the stench of death and the taste of blood hangs heavy on her tongue. With every crimson wave that crashes on the shore, the tide swells higher, and Mara begins to run for higher ground.
It's no use. Her legs can't carry her fast enough, even as the thunderous applause and ear-piercing cheers egg her on. The water rises to her waist, then to her neck, and soon she's swept out to sea. As the current threatens to pull her under, she sucks in one last breath and closes her eyes.
When she opens them again, she sees herself sitting on a throne before the entirety of the Capitol. There's a frantic look in her eyes that doesn't show on the rest of her face. Her short, dark hair is disheveled and wet. Every inch of her exposed skin is stained red. Yet, somehow, the white suit covering her body is utterly immaculate.
The silence blanketing the auditorium is eventually disrupted by the sound of boots crossing the stage. Mara does not turn to the source of the noise from her seat on the throne, but at the same time, she's watching as Ish emerges from the dark side of the stage and steps into the blinding spotlight surrounding her. A glistening crown fit for a king rests in his hands. There's a sad smile on his freckled face as he steps forward and sets it on her head.
"Congratulations," he says softly. "I hope it was worth it."
Mara opens her mouth, only for the words to die on her lips. It isn't the deafening roar of the crowd that silences her, but an abrupt, shooting pain that sends shocks through her nervous system. When she looks down, there's a blade buried in her chest. Ish is nowhere to be found and she's losing blood fast and nobody is helping, why isn't anyone helping? With a shaking hand, she grabs the end of the blade and—
She wakes with a start to sweat-soaked sheets and an empty bed. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room, the twinkling of the stars is rivaled only by the glistening lights of the Capitol below. The electric fireplace built into the wall across from the bed is off, leaving the luxurious room bathed in darkness. Mara rolls over to look at the clock on the nightstand. It's nearly 3 AM.
Sweeping back the damp covers, she climbs out of bed. The marble floor is like ice beneath her bare feet as she quietly pads through the apartment. It's quiet aside from the gentle ticking of the elaborate grandfather clock in the hallway. When Mara knocks on the slightly ajar door of the study, she's gentle.
"Zelena?" She asks, peering into the empty room.
She continues through the penthouse until she reaches the dining room and kitchen. The single light above the kitchen island is on and an empty envelope adorned with a black wax seal sits on the countertop. Beside it, there's a crumpled letter. Neither of those things are a particularly good sign. Mara would even venture to guess that they're the reason Zelena isn't in bed with her.
There's a brief moment where she hesitates as she stares at the letter. Judging by the design on the halves of the wax seal, it's straight from the office of the president of Panem. Mara has seen the golden seals before on Zelena's mail, but never black. It's enough to unsettle her, even if she doesn't know the particular meanings of every color of wax that gets dripped over an envelope.
When she turns to continue her search for Zelena, she notices the open sliding glass door just past the dining table. It leads out to the terrace, which wraps around the majority of the apartment's exterior and boasts some truly breathtaking views of the city. Of course, it features several other unnecessary amenities, like a swimming pool with a clear bottom that sits just above the den on the first floor, and a lounging area surrounded by expertly-trimmed hedges for maximum privacy and relaxation. Over the years, Mara has stopped feeling so out of place in Zelena's apartment, but for some reason, stepping out on the terrace always reminds her that she'll always be a girl from District 4.
The terrace, unaware of her lack of belonging, greets her regardless. First with the soft trickling of the waterfall that feeds into the pool, then with the quiet sound of jazz music–Zelena's favorite–playing over the speakers built into the surrounding planters. The dozens of raindrop-shaped lights hanging from the lattice patio cover are on, twinkling like the distant stars so high above them. At the far end of it all is Zelena, leaning against the glass railing as she takes a long pull from a cigarette.
Mara moves to join her, feeling goosebumps rise across her skin as it recognizes the chill in the evening air. The cold is a bit more biting than usual given she's only in her underwear, but the issue is mostly remedied when she snakes her arms around Zelena's waist and presses her body against the smaller woman's back. Zelena lets out a little sigh before leaning into the touch, allowing Mara's chin to rest on her shoulder.
"Did I wake you?" Zelena's voice is as soft and smooth as the satin sheets on her bed, devoid of the grating lilt found in most voices across the Capitol.
"No," Mara answers. "Nightmare."
Zelena hums in understanding. "Are you all right?"
"I am now," she says as she presses a kiss to the side of Zelena's neck. "Are you?"
Zelena takes another drag on her cigarette before smothering the lit end of it against the ashtray resting precariously atop the railing. The smoke dances through the air like a ghost stirred by the rich sound of the piano coming through the nearby speakers. When the last wisps have vanished into thin air, Zelena gently pulls away to face her.
The ever-present dark circles beneath her dark, hooded eyes only appear to be getting worse. Her long, flaxen hair is pulled back in a ponytail with a few loose strands framing the sculpted angles of her face. In the low light, Mara can even see where Zelena has been chewing on her bottom lip.
"I got a letter," Zelena tells her.
"I saw."
"Did you read it?"
"It isn't my mail," Mara points out, which earns a laugh from Zelena.
"Please, you practically live here anyway."
It's true, even if they only ever admit it in jest. Mara can hardly remember the last time she spent more than a few days at her home back in 4's Victors' Village. Why would she, anyway? There's nothing left for her there.
"What did it say?" Mara asks.
The corners of Zelena's mouth twitch before she speaks. "The viewership charts for last year's Games finally came in. They were lower than they've ever been since President Bell took office."
Mara has picked up on a few of the inner workings of being Head Gamemaker since she started seeing Zelena. From the handful of conversations they've had about her work, she can usually put together context clues to determine the meaning of a development without Zelena needing to spoon feed it to her. In this situation, however, Mara is quite certain that a letter from the president about low television ratings is universally bad—even without further context.
"I could lose my job," Zelena continues. "Or worse."
"You won't," Mara reassures her.
"I could. And if I do, he'll give it to Calliope. He said that if the lack of viewership persists, he'll require fresh minds at the helm of the Games."
The thought of Calliope Gallus as the Head Gamemaker nearly makes Mara shudder. Zelena has told her dozens of stories about the Gamemaker-in-training and the ideas she brings to the table. There's an undeniable fire in her that burns to be breathed into the Games, though it's almost overshadowed by an alarming degree of sadism. It's a necessary trait for a Gamemaker, according to Zelena, but it can be dangerous if left unchecked.
Perhaps, Mara thinks, that's exactly the problem. Perhaps it's rampant sadism that President Bell is looking for. If that's the case, she isn't entirely sure that Zelena is capable of delivering. At least, not without a bit of encouragement. And maybe a bit of convincing.
"Remember when we first met?" Mara gently takes hold of Zelena's wrist, the one intricately decorated with red ink serpents so detailed she swears they might come to life, and begins guiding her toward the bar beneath the patio. "It was at Valerian's party, the one after the tribute scores for the 94th Games were revealed."
"I remember… My first year as Head Gamemaker." She pauses for a moment before adding, "I was such a nervous wreck."
Mara has never admitted it, but she was too. Participating in the Games and everything that followed had shown her a side to it that she didn't particularly like. It was no longer about the privilege of getting to represent District 4 or the opportunity to make use of a childhood defined by grueling training. No, it was about maintaining appearances and attending events and enduring interactions with people that made her question her humanity–or whatever was left of it, anyway.
It was all one big, cold machine. And she'd been a willing cog in it.
The realization brought with it a terrible rage. An unhealing, gaping wound had formed somewhere in the depths of her soul and it festered with resentment toward everyone around her: her parents, her peers, the Capitolites, strangers, everyone. Even Zelena at first, despite her staggering beauty and the way she stood out in every single room she entered. Over the course of several conversations and countless galas, Mara's icy front gradually melted until she discovered that Zelena was a cog, too.
That was enough to reframe everything from their connection to the very first time they saw each other. Now, the memory brings a smile to Mara's face. She remembers Zelena with shorter, darker hair and a gleam in her eye. The image of her in that beautiful evening gown with the plunging neckline and the thousands of shimmering rhinestones still makes her stomach do flips. Zelena is still every bit as beautiful as the day they met, even like this—sleep-deprived, stressed, and smelling of cigarettes.
"But you were also so passionate. So excited, so eager to prove yourself to everyone." Mara presses a button on the bar and after a few seconds, a panel on the countertop slides open to allow two glasses of red wine to rise from within. "Whatever happened to her? To the Zelena who loved her work?"
The Head Gamemaker accepts one of the glasses from Mara, looking down at it with a frown.
"I'm just not that woman anymore. I haven't been for a long time."
It's a sore subject. One that's come up a few times before this, usually after a particularly hard day. There's a sort of back and forth where Zelena tells Mara that she should run–that she's a monster. And then Mara placates her, reminds her that the hands that have sent dozens to their deaths are the same hands that have run through her hair after a nightmare. That the mind behind the brutal traps and wretched beasts is the same mind that has written her beautiful words and undergone so much change over the years.
Zelena has never admitted to it until now, even if there's never been any denying that it's the truth. The both of them have known for longer than they care to acknowledge. They've been changing since that first night all those years ago and it's finally starting to catch up with them, finally becoming real.
Still, some part of Mara wants to probe further. That selfish part of her knows what prompted this change, but she wants to hear Zelena say that it was because they met each other, because they made the mistake of getting to know one another in ways that neither of them ever expected. It's the closest thing she'll ever get to an 'I love you', after all.
But Mara bites her tongue, watching Zelena throw back her wine in two gulps. She sets the empty glass on the countertop and looks out at the cityscape beyond the glass railing. Even in the dark, the scars of the Second Rebellion are still visible. Half-built skyscrapers rise from distant blocks and silhouettes of construction cranes blot out the stars that hang low in the sky.
"Sorry. I don't mean to drag you into my work. We should get back to bed," Zelena says.
Mara takes a sip of wine. It's full-bodied and deep, complemented by spicy notes and a hint of mint. Much too rich for her blood. A cheap beer from the shitty bar near her childhood home is more her speed, but she appreciates the fact that Zelena shares these fancy things with her anyway.
"You know I don't mind," Mara tells her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.
At that, Zelena smiles. She twines her fingers through Mara's and pulls her close. Her other hand comes to rest on the hard plane of Mara's stomach before she leans in and catches her lips in a chaste kiss.
A short while later, they're back in bed. With Zelena curled into her side, it's easy for Mara to forget the nightmare that woke her in the first place. The warmth of her body and the faintly floral smell of her shampoo are as comforting as they are grounding. It only takes a few minutes for Mara to start drifting off.
Zelena's voice is barely above a whisper when it cuts through the silence. "If I can't make these Games something worth watching, I'll lose everything."
"Not everything. You'll still have me," Mara reminds her. "You'll think of something good. You always do."
"I hope you're right."
a/n: hello! welcome to Where Angels Fear to Tread or the 99th Annual Hunger Games. this story will be a partial SYOT and will feature gay people, plenty of angst, and a good bit of child murder. if that sounds like something you're particularly interested in, you should stick around or even submit a tribute! you can find the link to the submission template in my ffn bio, as well as a link to my handy dandy (and hastily thrown together) worldbuilding document. i'll be accepting tribute submissions through discord only, so make sure you get in touch with me there! thanks for reading and may the odds be ever in your favor.