June 28, 10:43
Training Center, District One
Her back hits the ground, hard, and there's laughter from above her. Alila squeezes her eyes shut and breathes, her hands trying and failing to properly grasp her fans. A flash of panic overwhelms her system – the sort of this can't be happening hysteria that renders her unable to move. All her years of training seem useless right now, and the most pressing thought in her mind right now is just how inviting the curve of her neck is, how easy it would be to tear a knife straight through it.
The panic is short-lived. Alila forces her eyes open and flattens her lips into a line at the sight above her. Blonde hair, full lips that stretch into a far-too-smug smile, and blue eyes dancing with delight.
"Fuck," Alila mutters. "I thought I had you that time."
Nemesis – Mimi – laughs and extends a hand. "You're rusty. You sure I'm really facing a Victor here?"
"Ha ha," Alila says drily. She eyes Mimi's hand for a few extra moments before accepting it. "You know I haven't… done this in a while."
(Because sometimes her ankle still feels uneasy under her, like one wrong movement will make it snap. Sometimes Alila wakes in the middle of the night drenched in a cold sweat, and it takes hours to get the sound of clattering rocks out of her head. Sometimes Thee stands in front of her, and Alila can't see the boy she's known for years, she sees the one that died right in front of her eyes, the one she couldn't protect.)
"No excuses," Mimi tuts, waggling her finger at Alila. "If I'm gonna beat you, I'm gonna do it while you're at your best. And that means you've got a lot of work ahead of you, huh?"
Alila huffs, trying to shake the visions out from behind her eyelids. "First you're mad that I beat you out for the volunteer slot, and now you're mad that I'm not beating you. Is there anything you don't find a way to complain about?"
"Nope! I'll have you know I'm very hard to please."
"Yeah, yeah, that's nothing to brag about, you know."
"Isn't it?" Mimi's eyes glitter, and she dips low into an exaggerated bow, her rapier an extension of her body. "I do pride myself on my very high standards, thank you."
"Not high enough to get you into the Games."
"You talk big game for someone that hasn't won a fight since then."
Alila winces, and Mimi's facade cracks. "Too far?"
"Maybe a little."
Nemesis Segula is the sort of girl that doesn't apologize, nor does Alila want her to. Instead, she turns her back on Alila and begins fiddling with her bag on the sidelines. It's a display that's clearly meant to give Alila a moment, a chance to compose herself once more.
So she does. Alila flips her fans over in her hands, running the tip of her finger along the dull blades and remembering what it was like to tear these through flesh. She tries to place herself in the Arena this year, taking the place of Saccharine, and Alila doesn't know that she'd be able to win again, not against the likes of Pantheon or Thessaly.
The thought doesn't strangle her like Alila thought it would. She instead feels a strange sense of relief in the knowledge that she's exactly where she needed to be. She would've been one year too young to meet Makani, or Justus, or cross paths with Thee. Without them…
A stray tear brushes her cheek. Alila sniffles and flicks it away.
When Mimi turns back around, she's pulled her hair back into a ponytail that swishes every time she moves. The bangs are a new addition, though, one that Alila keeps noticing. They fall out of Mimi's ponytail to frame her face, making her typically sleek look far more… casual. Alila has the strange urge to brush them behind the girl's ear.
"I need to tell you something."
Alila feels hot, sure that she's been caught staring. All she can manage in response is, "Oh?"
"Well, first – what have you been up to lately? I mean, after the Games, what is it that you do?"
"Oh." Alila pauses, trying to think. "This, I guess. I'm relearning how to dance. I spend a lot of time with Estelle and my siblings."
"And?"
"And… that's it, really."
"God, you never do change, do you?"
"Excuse me?"
Mimi smiles and shakes her head. "Nothing, nothing, it's just… well, I had an idea. You enjoy this, right?"
Her mouth goes dry. "Enjoy… what?"
"What we're doing right now? Sparring?"
"Oh! Um, yes. It's like when we were still trainees, except with lower stakes."
"Far lower," Mimi agrees. "But you look back on those days fondly, too, don't you?"
Alila squints at her. "Where are you going with this?"
Mimi gives her a crooked smile, the sort that means she's uncharacteristically nervous. "They offered me a position here. As a trainer, I mean."
"Really?" Alila blurts out before she can stop herself. "I always thought you hated kids."
Scoffing, Mimi shoves her shoulder. "I do not! … Well, mostly. Some of them can be… eugh, gross, but I'd be dealing with only the finest. No snot-nosed little brats-"
"Like you?"
"Hey! -or… wait, where was I going with this?"
"You hate kids, but maybe don't actually, but are very willing to make an exception for the ones that remind you of yourself as a child."
Mimi pouts and crosses her arms. "Well, not all of us grew up with fifty million siblings in the house."
"There were only thirty of us."
"Must you take everything so seriously?"
"I must, if you don't take things seriously enough."
"I can take things seriously!" Mimi darts a few feet away, blonde hair whipping around her head. The grin she throws back at Alila is enough to make her heart stutter, and then Alila wonders what the hell that's about. "Shit, wait- that's not the point. My point was that… I think it's something you should look into."
"Me?"
"Obviously. You're a Victor, aren't you?"
"Well yeah, but-"
"So you have the sort of invaluable advice that no one else has. You love training. You may be a little rusty right now, but you more than know what you're doing."
"This is awfully complimentary…"
"I know; don't get used to it. I'm just saying it's worth looking into."
And… well, Alila hates to admit it, but Mimi has a point. She gnaws on her lip and pointedly avoids making eye contact with the other girl. She remembers her talk with Estelle about Saccharine, about Nectarine, and wonders how many girls have gotten away with something like that because the Academy looked the other way.
"I'll think about it," Alila promises.
"Alright," Mimi grins, "I'll take it as a win for now."
"For now?"
"Yup. I'll be following up with you about this!"
"Of course you will," Alila mutters under her breath.
"What was that?"
"Oh, nothing!"
Mimi sniffs. Her chin tips upward, and light glances off the slope of her nose. Alila doesn't have much of an eye for aesthetic, but she is suddenly reminded that Mimi would make a lovely model.
"Another round?" Alila needs things to be normal again. She stretches her arms over her head, her muscles sore.
"How about we turn this into a bet?"
"A bet," Alila says drily. She doesn't move. "That's your grand idea?"
"You haven't let me finish."
"You keep pausing!"
"Yes, for dramatic effect. Look it up. Anyway, it goes like this: we spar, and if I win, you'll go to a party with me."
"This is your version of taking things seriously?"
"Yes, because I will so graciously take the time to transform you into something suitable for a party. For all those fancy Victor parties you go to, I'd think they'd rub off on you at some point…"
"Hey-"
"And then if you win… well, considering the way you've been fighting lately it seems pretty unlikely, but you can come up with your own prize. Deal?"
Alila wrinkles her nose. She has literally no idea what she could possibly want from Mimi. "Why do you want me to go to a party so bad?"
"You turn twenty in a few months, don't you? All those years of training, and you never let yourself have any fun at all… I'm just trying to show you the experience you missed out on!"
"I dunno…"
"I know. You've gotta let me shove you out of your comfort zone here and there."
Alila gestures between the two of them in a private sparring room. "Is that not what's happening right now?"
"You're stalling," Mimi says cheekily.
Alila hates that she's correct. She wisely turns her face from the other girl and sniffs. "I am not."
"If you're worried about me bragging about beating you, you know I wouldn't do that."
"Yes you would."
"... Okay, yes, I would've. Back when we were trainees with something to prove."
"And there's nothing to prove now?"
"God, would you just chill? I'm not making you sign a blood oath or anything, Lils. Fight me, and if I win, you go to this party. Fight me and win, and I'll do whatever it is that you want. Okay?"
Alila hesitates. "Anything?"
Mimi raises an eyebrow, more curious than skeptical. "Sure. Anything."
"Okay." A smile slowly crosses Alila's face. They're rarer these days, but she's relearning how to live in the moment, how to let herself have some fun. "Alright. I'll kick your ass, then."
"You can try."
June 29, 01:12
Indeterminate Location
Madoka's life wasn't supposed to end up like this.
Isn't that what everyone says? The sentiment that Madoka's life took a wrong turn several years ago and never quite got back on the right track isn't exactly a new concept, but… shit. This must be a new low.
There's nothing left for her. Madoka gave up everything for Akira, and now it's all gone. Her family, her friends… her fucking sister. She won the goddamn Hunger Games and has nothing to show for it. Nothing that really matters.
It's been years since Madoka felt the hot sting of tears behind her eyes, but she feels them now, and her immediate response is an overwhelming sense of shame. How can Madoka sit here and have the audacity to cry when she couldn't manage to help her sister at all? Every step of the way, Madoka failed the only job she's ever had, the only one that's ever mattered.
(Older sister, protector, shield. Madoka would throw herself on the frontlines of every war just to keep her sister safe on the sidelines. Slaughtering her way through the Games was never exactly an intended outcome of the silent promise she'd made herself ten years ago, to protect Akira with everything she had, but Madoka knew that the money and security being a Victor provided would take care of them both for all the years to come.
That's the only part that mattered. Not the faces of her allies as she dirtied her hands with their blood, or the way children flinched away from her on the street, or the way even Carina didn't seem to trust her sometimes.
Akira was supposed to be safe. Madoka doesn't know how she's supposed to go on like this anymore.)
There's a sour taste brewing in the back of her mouth. Madoka's head feels delightfully fuzzy, but she wants it to hurt. She gestures at the bartender with a couple fingers, and his face noticeably flattens. It takes him a suspiciously long amount of time to disentangle himself from his current customers and face Madoka again.
"Another," she demands. She's not sure how many this will make.
"There's supposed to be a limit, you know," he reminds her. "Maybe-"
"I don't give a shit," she sneers. "You want my money, don't you? My business? I want another. Whatever the hell you'll give me that's stronger than water."
"You've been here all night."
Has she? Madoka hasn't noticed. She hasn't noticed much of anything, really. Not since she watched her sister's heart stop beating. No matter how many drinks Madoka has downed, she can't get the sound of that fucking flatline our of her head. The persistent whine rattles in her skull even when the alcohol has numbed everything else.
"Okay?" Madoka pushes herself forward, ignoring how the room spins in her periphery. "What, you gonna kick me out now? Ain't this place open the whole night long?"
"Listen, I'm really not supposed to-"
Madoka sneers and stands up. A loud clatter rings through the bar, and it takes far too long for her to realize that the stool she was sitting on is now haphazardly lying on the floor. She shoves her hand into her pocket and pulls out a wad of cash before throwing it on the bar. "What, you need proof I'm gonna pay for this shit? You afraid I'm gonna stiff you?"
"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to calm down-"
The world around her goes red. Her hand lashes out, fast as a whip, and latches onto the bartender's collar. A quick yank, and he's halfway sprawled across the bar, a flush building in his face.
"Don't fucking tell me to calm down," Madoka seethes. Everything about her right now feels hot, too hot, and there's a steady pressure building in her head. "Do you have any fucking idea who I am? What happened? Any idea at all?"
"We get a lot of important people here, Miss," the bartender manages. His hand fumbles on the bar as if looking for something. "I'm terribly sorry if I can't recognize everyone-"
"Fuck you," she spits out. She shoves him away from her, suddenly disgusted by the thought of touching some fuckass capitolite who's never had to experience a single hardship. Her wad of cash is still on the bar, and she swipes at it with a hand, watching with delight as it flutters to the floor. "Fuck you, and fuck this shitty ass bar, and fuck-"
A hand clamps around her bicep. Madoka reels back, her fist flying towards whoever is fucking touching her, and then screams as her knuckles crunch against a helmet. More hands land on her then, burning through her clothes, and for every one that Madoka manages to bat away, another takes its place. They drag her backwards, and no amount of desperate thrashing makes them let go for longer than a moment. Madoka hasn't felt this helpless in years, not since she saw her parents' lifeless bodies, and the realization that Akira has ended up just like them is enough to make her retch blindly onto the floor.
This sort of situation is nothing new to Madoka. She's used to being thrown around by peacekeepers, used to being treated like scum on the bottom of their boots. One of them is the reason she got separated from Akira in the first place, all those years ago. So when they start trying to haul her out of the bar, Madoka lets her body go limp, her eyes fluttering shut as if she's passed out. Someone curses loudly, and half of Madoka's body keels to the side, her knee brushing against the ground. In the mere seconds where one of the fuckers loosens their grip, intending to hoist her back upright, Madoka wrenches her arm out of their grasp. The blood in her veins boils hot, and her head grows dizzy from the thrill of a fight rather than just the amount she's had to drink.
"C'mon," she mutters under her breath, shifting her weight between her feet. Neon lights glance off of dark visors, and it feels like she's not even facing people. A crooked smile lifts one side of her mouth, and she gestures towards them with two fingers. "C'mon, show me what you've got."
Two of them exchange glances, and Madoka jumps on the opportunity. It's been a while since she was caught up in the thrill of a good fight, her fists bloodied and her pulse pounding loud enough to drown out the world around her. A grin overtakes her face as she lunges forward, tackling one of the peacekeepers to the floor. Their armor crunches under the weight of her body, and Madoka pulls her fist back to slam into the side of their face again and again and again and ag-
The fucker's friends come to help them out, swarming the two of them and wrenching Madoka away with enough force that she knows she'll be left with ugly bruises in the morning, purpling welts to remind Madoka that she's alive (and Akira isn't) and the thought strikes her that she deserves this (because Akira didn't) and if this is the only way she can atone, then….
A fist glances off Madoka's jaw, and she bites her tongue, her mouth filling with the familiar taste of blood. She gags and blindly lashes out, but someone just grabs her wrist and forces it behind her back. When Madoka attempts to throw her head back, she just ends up ramming it into one of those fucking helmets, and stars scatter behind her eyelids. The next time she blinks, her face is pressed into the floor. Something holds pressure on the center of her back. Her arms are locked behind her, and Madoka feels that if she tried to get them free, she'd end up ripping something out of place.
… honestly, that might not be such a bad thing. not after seeing her little sister explode into tiny pieces, after being stabbed by someone she considered a friend.
She thrashes blindly on the floor, desperately hoping to smash her head into something. She's not drunk enough for this. She wants to succumb to the blackness, to feel a blissful nothing and feel like she's close to… to…
"Oh, love," a familiar voice croons above her, and Madoka struggles to find the source. "Calm down, I'll get you out of here."
"'Rina," she slurs. Madoka coughs wetly, and then spits a glob of blood on the floor. "My- Kiki…"
"I know, I know." Her hands are so tender, so warm, and Madoka feels the sob building in her chest again. "I couldn't find you, I'm so sorry."
"I want to go home," Madoka whispers. "Carina, can't you take me home?"
There's muffled noises above her, a whole conversation happening outside of Madoka's little bubble. She wants to lay her head down on this cold, dirty floor and never move again. Wouldn't that be better for everyone?
The boot on her back lifts off, and Madoka sucks in a silent, desperate breath. Her fingers tremble against the ground. She's never felt more pathetic.
"C'mon," Carina urges. A hand, a gentle hand, tucks her hair back, and Madoka leans into the warmth. "I'll help you up, love."
And so she does. Madoka sags sideways, and Carina catches the entire weight of her body with ease. It's a little unnerving, how easily Carina manages to catch her defenseless like this. Madoka hates the way her lover's hands know exactly where to cradle her, how to pull her close and make her feel so fucking safe.
More than anything, it makes Madoka think of her sister and how she was never able to do that for Akira. And she never will again. She'll have to live the rest of her life as only a part of herself, an eldest daughter without anyone to protect.
When Madoka buries her head in the crook of Carina's neck, it's to hide her steady stream of tears, never mind the fact that everyone around already knows how broken she is now. Without Akira here to see, what does it matter, anyway?
What does anything matter at all?
July 1, 20:01
District Eight Floor
Smoke wafts into the air, backlit by a single lamp, and Callan instinctively wrinkles his nose. If they were in his own room, he'd get Ariadne to put out her smoldering cigarette, but considering this is her floor, he figures he can't really complain.
Besides – he's got a small orange kitten crawling all over him right now. That's enough of a distraction for the moment. He'll get used to the stench soon.
Callan leans back against the headboard and sucks in a smoke-filled breath that makes his lungs ache. His entire body feels wound too tight, on the verge of snapping, and he knows that now, in front of Ariadne, he can't afford to crack. His thoughts are bouncing back and forth – Theo, Bastian, the tributes in limbo – if he keeps this up, he'll drive himself insane.
Strangely, Ariadne looks more relaxed than ever. Her eyes are closed, lashes casting spindly shadows down her face. Her skin glows from the lit cigarette, but it's her hair that's the brightest thing in the room. The sight makes Callan remember when he first met her on a balcony years ago, before his entire world had been upended and he lost his way. Back before Maddox Henbane was even a name Callan knew.
(God, it really hadn't been long at all, had it?)
He feels far too old for it to only be his twenty-seventh birthday approaching. Physically, he's well aware that he's essentially in his prime. But every time he looks in the mirror, Callan just feels exhausted, like the weight of the world is dragging him down. The only thing he's ever wanted is a goddamn break, and that's looking more impossible by the day.
His eyes are back on Ariadne, taking in her relaxed posture through the haze of smoke. The sight makes him strangely jealous. Callan sort of wishes he had the luxury to do whatever he wanted with his body. It's probably for the best, really, that he's intensely scrutinized from every angle and can't afford to slip. Some days, the ability to indiscriminately shave years off the end of his life sounds rather nice.
He mindlessly scratches the back of his arm.
But beneath the layer of jealousy , there's something more like resentment curdling in the pit of his stomach. Callan is still grappling with the loss of Theo, but Ariadne sits here unbothered by the fact that she still has one tribute in the running, that she still has a chance of success.
"Aren't you worried?"
Ariadne blinks at him. "Hm? About what?"
About what? "Guinevere? Your tribute that may or may not still be alive? Your possible Victor?"
She sighs and takes another steady drag of her cigarette. Breathes out the smoke. She's so ridiculously casual about it that Callan feels like he's going insane. His eye twitches, and he says, "Haven't you heard the news? There's only two left."
"They need healing," Ariadne muses. "They've been shoved into a stasis of sorts, a non-death where the whole country sits by and waits to see who stabilizes first, who stabilizes best. But the longer this drags out, the more likely it is that their injuries are permanent. Guinevere… I know they punctured one of her lungs, and she got hit in the stomach. Thessaly has been battling infection for days untreated, and acquiring a slew of new injuries certainly won't help her case. I can't even begin to imagine the internal damage for Kodo. The odds certainly aren't in anyone's favor."
It's all said so factually that Callan can only gape at her. "You- don't you care? Aren't you curious to see if Guinevere is already gone?"
"Knowing won't make a difference in the outcome, will it?"
"Do you care either way?"
"Oh. Is that what this is about?" Ariadne huffs out a laugh. "You lost your own tribute, so now you want to dote on mine?"
"I-"
"Don't get yourself too worked up. To answer your question, yes. If Guinevere dies, then I suffer no personal loss. If she wins, then I have a job to do. Is that the answer you're looking for?" Ariadne pauses. "Not to mention I'm interested in seeing if she proved me wrong."
"Proved you wrong?"
"I knew I had the potential for a Victor this year. But between Svelte and Guinevere, I thought Svelte had it for sure. He had the drive, the skills… he would've made a wonderful Victor."
Yarn rolls over, exposing a soft belly, and Callan is glad to keep his gaze focused on the task presented to him. He indulges the kitten, soft mewls doing their best to make his shoulders relax. "Wonderful for who?"
Ariadne's lip curls. "You know Maddox is on the lookout for someone new. Guinevere is too soft. She has too much to go back to. Svelte… he could take it."
"What makes you so sure?"
"She wanted to go home. He wanted to win. A simple difference, but an important one."
Realization hits him slowly, and his hand stills. "You did pit them against each other."
"If that's the conclusion they drew, that's certainly not my fault. All I did was attempt to make them understand what was at stake."
He frowns as Yarn nips at his fingers, needle-like teeth threatening to draw blood. It doesn't hurt, not really, but it's enough of a nuisance to make him sigh and return to scratching behind the kitten's ears. In response, the kitten begins to ferociously make biscuits on Callan's thigh. He sighs. There really is no way to win here.
"You understand, don't you?" Ariadne asks. Her eyes glitter darkly. "You chose the Games. You could've survived your whole life, but you needed to win. Now that you're on the other side of that decision, don't you see the difference?"
"You're testing them," Callan realizes. "You're seeing who's worth your efforts. Does Eirian know about this?"
"It doesn't concern him. Ve is perfectly capable of making his own decisions as a mentor."
"It does if you're tampering with their individual chances."
"They both made it to the finale, didn't they? Nothing I said or did wounded their chances any more than they did for themselves."
"You could let someone else mentor," Callan mutters.
"Why should I? I'm not going to blindside them, and I'm not going to coddle them, and I'm certainly not going to get attached until one of them actually manages to return victorious. I'm doing my job, and nothing more."
"You liked Five," Callan counters.
Ariadne's features soften. She flicks the ashes of her cigarette onto the nightstand. "I had no responsibility for that one. Whatever happened, I would never be held liable."
There has to be more to it than that, but Callan is too weary to continue digging. He just sighs and turns his head away. If only he could find it that easy as well.
Minutes tick by in silence. Callan continues to indulge Yarn until the kitten seemingly burns out, content to instead curl up along his leg. It's strange to have a creature so relaxed near him, especially when Callan knows how easily his hands could wring life from it, just like he did with that child from Seven-
"So," Ariadne says, orange glow sputtering close to her face, "you and Bastian, huh?"
Surprised, Callan tries to hide his change in demeanor with a cough. Ariadne sees through him anyway, because of course she does, and her ever-present smile grows, ever-so-slightly. Callan breaks eye contact and coughs. "What do you mean?"
"You can't play stupid with me. I've seen him follow you around. I saw you use your sponsor money on his tributes. That's never happened before."
"... And?"
"And?" Ariadne's tone says she's waiting for him to talk first. It's a tactic he's well aware of – give him enough rope to watch him hang himself. Callan refuses to be that daft again.
"We've been talking. Our kids were allies. Is there another answer you're looking for?"
"You two didn't grow close overnight."
He almost smiles. "Didn't we?"
Ariadne's cigarette finally flickers out. She makes a face and stubs it out in her ashtray. "Be serious with me, Callan. I'm only trying to look out for you. He's a liability, you can't expect to get… involved and not have that blow up in your face."
"A liability?"
"Did you somehow miss the way Maddox cut him loose like he was nothing? Do you want that to happen to you next?"
"What, so I should just ditch him to save my own skin? Like you did with Estelle?"
Ariadne flinches – the sight is too shocking for Callan to get any gratification out of his dig. "That's different."
"Is it?"
"It's for her good, not mine. She doesn't deserve any of… this."
"And we do?"
"Don't give me that shit. You walked right into your deal with Maddox. You act like it's some way to atone for all the shit you did in the Arena. Some way to martyr yourself, huh?"
His jaw tenses. "Back off, Ari."
"Alright, fine." Ariadne pushes herself forward, leaning into Callan's space. It takes far too much effort for him to remain still. "Just reassure me. You and Bastian – there's nothing more? Nothing I should be worried about?"
Callan swallows and keeps his gaze firmly locked with Ariadne's. "We're friends. Does it matter?"
She regards him for a moment longer and then sits back. Checks her nails. "I suppose not."
Something about her behavior feels off. Callan stays quiet, fighting back the urge to ask, Why do you ask?
Shit. He doesn't want Ariadne to ask any more questions than she already has. He doesn't want to give her a reason to look into things even more. But she doubled back to it. She asked if there was anything deeper to their relationship, if she had any reason to be worried.
God, this always made him exhausted. The one thing Callan hated about his relationship with Ariadne was how there was an inherent distrust between them, like they each had their own agenda and couldn't trust the other with it. It wasn't fair. Callan wanted to trust her, found himself time and time again attempting to rely on her, but something always stopped him from going all the way.
Oh.
"What did you tell Maddox?"
Ariadne jolts, clearly surprised. "Excuse me?"
"You're fishing for information. You're his informant. So what did you tell him?"
"Only that you two were talking. It's not like you kept it much of a secret."
"You still had no right to do that."
"You said it yourself – I'm his informant, aren't I? So that's what I do. Inform. He knows everything, and it's better I tell him than someone else."
"Why, so you can get the accolades for selling out anyone but yourself?"
She sneers, and her eyes flash. "Because no secret is safe from him for long. If I don't tell him, he'll sniff it out, and he'll uncover whatever it is that you're so hellbent on hiding."
"Who says I'm hiding anything?"
Ariadne laughs and shakes her head. "Really? You think I don't know you well enough by now? I'm trying to figure out if your fascination with someone who's already been cut loose will turn back to bite me in the ass or not."
Callan scoffs, incredulous. "That's it? You didn't want to risk getting dragged down with us? I didn't think you were the type to grow complacent-"
"I am not fucking complacent," Ariadne snaps.
"Could've fooled me."
"I do what I fucking have to in order to keep my family safe. So yeah, I share a few little inconsequential secrets to keep Maddox off my ass. Is that a crime?"
Her hypocrisy isn't really a new concept, but Callan certainly feels astounded by it now. "You kissed Estelle and then ran crying to me about it so he wouldn't find out. Is this really how you're going to repay me for keeping you two apart? For isolating her?"
"This was a mutually beneficial agreement."
"And yet somehow, you're the only one who seems to be benefiting from it."
"That's not my fault."
"Maybe not, but I did you a favor, and you respond by throwing me under the bus?"
"I'm trying to do you a favor," Ariadne hisses. She's standing up now, clenched fists trembling at her sides. "I'm trying not to let you accumulate any more weaknesses-"
"Weaknesses?" Callan mirrors her stance, his movement sudden enough for Yarn to be unceremoniously awakened. "Are you fucking serious?"
"Look at where you've gotten yourself," she snaps. "Do you really think you can afford any more reasons to dig yourself a deeper hole?"
Callan reels back as if he's been slapped. The bed between them feels as wide as an ocean, a distance that only grows the longer he looks at it. "What- you think this is my fault? I didn't ask for this."
"I am only repeating what you have told me before. And I'm trying to make sure it doesn't happen again. Getting yourself attached to someone who's already fucked up – what the hell are you thinking?"
"His sister died."
"So he has a sob story? Is that it? You're awfully defensive of someone that you're 'just talking to.'"
"And you were quick to throw Estelle away the instant she so much as threatened to drag you down. Who's to say I'm not next?"
The sudden silence is deafening. Callan nearly chokes on it.
Ariadne sucks in a steady breath, but Callan can see the way her nostrils flare. She's barely holding herself together. The high ground she prides herself on so much is slipping out from beneath her, and soon enough she won't be able to bite and scratch her way back to the top.
"So that's it?" Callan says quietly. "I just hadn't given you a good enough reason to cut me loose yet, huh?"
"It's not personal," Ariadne replies. Her chin is lifted. "This doesn't have to turn into anything-"
"It already has."
He starts making his way towards the door, giving Yarn a cursory pat on the head as he goes. All the while, Ariadne's facade never slips. Callan wishes it would, just so he could earn the satisfaction of knowing she cares, despite what she continues to tell him.
(After all, Callan certainly cares. He always does. He never learned not to. Isn't that his biggest flaw of all?)
"I hate that things have come to this," he says quietly. "I really think we might've been friends. But you never unlearned the lessons that Arena taught you, and Maddox only cemented them in your head."
Ariadne won't look at him anymore. She's slumped down in bed, looking far more defeated than she'd ever willingly give the impression of. "I don't need a fucking lecture."
Callan pauses in the doorway, one hand still braced against the frame. He doesn't lift his head as he says, "I'm not your enemy, you know."
She pinches the bridge of her nose, another lit cigarette already in her other hand. "Just get out, Callan."
When he leaves, Callan doesn't fully close the door. It's the only olive branch he can offer. He hopes that someday Ariadne will recognize it as such.
July 1, 22:48
Sub Rosa
"Fucking hell," Ariadne mutters to herself. The dim lighting of a bar and an overpriced glass of wine aren't nearly enough to erase the memory of her conversation with Callan. Her fingers itch for another cigarette, but she left her lighter back in her room, and she's not about to be the sort of Victor that bums free shit off random capitolites.
The bartender keeps glancing at her nervously, like he's afraid she's going to go absolutely apeshit any second now. Around the tenth time this happened, Ariadne had half a mind to tell him to fuck right off. She only didn't because she knows this would somehow get back to Maddox, and she can't deal with a shortened leash right now.
Shit. He's pissed enough already. None of the three tributes remaining have impressed him enough to make it an easy decision. Not only has Thessaly gone totally off the fucking rails, she's also Bastian's. Guinevere might have potential, but Ariadne had sold Svelte hard enough that his district partner is disappointing in comparison. And then Kodo… well, Ariadne doesn't know the full story there, but she figures him and his sister were reaped together for a reason. She highly doubts he was even supposed to come close to leaving that Arena alive.
So yeah, she's secondhand stressed. Sue her. Ariadne isn't complacent just because she values her own life and her family. She knows when to keep her head down. She knows when a fight is – or isn't – worth it. That's how she got this far. That's how she's stayed safe.
Her first glass of wine goes down smoothly, if a little too quickly. Ariadne lifts a hand to request another. What the bartender slides in front of her is a darker red, richer. The first sip Ariadne takes burns all the way down, dries out the inside of her mouth. She instinctively curls her lip, but then decides she likes the burn.
She should say she's sorry. Ariadne feels mortified by the mere concept, but it keeps nagging at her. She's… fond of Callan. In a sense. He's far more foolish than she would've guessed for a Career, but he has a frustratingly good heart. Ariadne suspects that's what gets him into more trouble than anything.
But to say she's sorry would mean, in some sense, admitting that he's right. That she's a goddamn hypocrite, and complacent, and just as much of a backstabbing bitch as she was seven years ago.
(...is he wrong?)
Ariadne shudders from a sudden gust of wind. It's still the middle of summer, where Ariadne gets soaked in sweat just by staying outside for too long, but the nights have a hard time remembering. She figures someone must've just come in, but that's not her problem right now.
"Hey hey! I told myself I wouldn't come tonight, since I'm supposed to be heading out tomorrow morning, but I thought a little too hard about your pretty in pink – can I get one, by the way? – and knew I had to come get one. I really shouldn't stay for long, so here's the money – keep the change! – and don't give me anything else! Thank you so much, I really appreci- Oh!"
That last interjection is clearly intended for her. Ariadne cocks her head to the side, looking with interest to see who's so shocked by her mere presence. On a night like this, she should really be less surprised to find herself face to face with Estelle Duvont, the other girl's face burning under the neon lights.
Pretty in pink would be an accurate description for Estelle as well. The skirt she's wearing flows like water around her legs, and the neckline of her shirt leaves her shoulders exposed. Somewhat unwillingly, Ariadne rakes her eyes across Estelle's collarbones, mind beginning to wander. The girl's blonde hair gleams in the light, picking up whatever colored light is radiating through the bar at any given moment. First green, then red, then blue. Ariadne finds it hard to look away.
"Fancy seeing you here," Ariadne says drily. She takes another sip of wine. "Figured you'd be long gone by now."
"I, um… still had business to take care of." Estelle hovers over Ariadne's shoulder until she relents and gestures towards the empty barstool. "Alila went home, though. She needed to. This wasn't… this wasn't a good first year for her."
"Didn't look like a good year for you, either."
Estelle laughs nervously. A bartender slides a drink in front of her – this pretty in pink is in fact shimmery and pink and probably barely tastes like alcohol. Ariadne has to hide a faint smile.
"It could've been better," Estelle admits. "Saccharine was… a difficult case."
With a snort, Ariadne replies, "No shit."
Estelle quietly sips at her glass. She makes a noise that Ariadne swears could be a sniffle. "I'm sorry, by the way."
"For what? I've still got one in the running."
"But not both. And the one that's left…"
Estelle looks away nervously. Ariadne gets it. Guinevere was pretty thoroughly fucked up at the end there, and even if she makes it out, there's a hell of a long road waiting for her. At least, based on the family interviews, she has a decent support system to go back to. In the long run, that's just something to be used against her, but for now, Ariadne supposes it's a positive.
"You don't really want to talk about our tributes, do you?" Ariadne asks.
The other girl sighs quietly. "No. Not really."
"Got any bright ideas? Anything rattling around in that pretty head of yours?"
The laugh and blush she receives in response is well worth the compliment. "I'm not… I don't know. I never know with you."
Well, shit. That's an overly honest answer if Ariadne's ever heard one. She wants to shrink away, but maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the illusion of anonymity, but something compels Ariadne to lean forward regardless. "What do you mean by that?"
"I don't know. With you, it's just… complicated."
"Let's uncomplicate it." Ariadne extends a hand. "This is our first time meeting, hm? Can't have history with someone you've never met before."
Estelle cracks a smile, and it's fucking radiant. She shakes Ariadne's hand – warm, soft, inviting – and then rests her chin on her palm. "I'm Estelle Duvont, then. You?"
"Ariadne Valade. A person of little importance or relevance simply having a drink in this bar. How did you find yourself here?"
(She should stop. Even if she's not drunk, she's certainly tipsy, and this isn't a good idea. She should stop before things go too far.)
"They've got my favorite drink," Estelle says. She's almost done with the glass – how did Ariadne miss that? "Guess I was just… in the mood?"
"Right – you said you're going home tomorrow? So you're having one last night out on the town?"
"More or less."
"Are you in the mood for company?"
"Are you offering?"
Ariadne smirks. "I was actually going to offer you up to that fine gentleman across the bar there – something told me that grey hair is what really gets you going."
At that, Estelle laughs and shakes her head, and the movement of something in her hair catches Ariadne's eye. Silver stars hang from each ear, glinting as they catch the light. Ariadne can't figure out why she's so entranced by them until Estelle flicks her hair over her shoulder and catches her eye.
"What is it?" Estelle asks worriedly. Her brows pinch together in concern, and she starts brushing back her hair as if there's something there. "Do I have something-?"
Ariadne curls her fingers into a fist to keep from reaching out. She takes another sip of wine. "No, you… you look great, Estelle. You always do."
"... Really?"
Her response is so quiet that Ariadne laughs out loud. This only makes Estelle grow shyer, and Ariadne realizes she's seriously asking.
"You're one of the prettiest girls I've ever met," Ariadne whispers. She can't bring herself to say it any louder. "It can't be that hard to believe, right?"
A sniffle. Estelle's chin is pointedly turned away. "I'm not sure. You left. And every time you come back, you're still so nice to me, and I just…"
Fuck. This is why Ariadne has always believed it's so much easier to keep her distance. Lashing out at Callan is nothing – he's like a brick wall. Nothing visibly distresses him. But Estelle…
God, Estelle…
"I know," Ariadne says. It's not an apology, because Ariadne doesn't know how to apologize for something she still can't fully explain. "I know."
Another sniffle. Estelle is suddenly standing up, and all Ariadne can think about is how she doesn't want Estelle to leave. "I should really-"
"Wait!" One of Ariadne's hands grabs Estelle's wrist, and the other girl stares at her with wide eyes. "I'll- go with you."
There's clear hesitation in Estelle's eyes, but she nods anyway, like she can't help it. "Okay."
The walk back to the training center is a blur. Ariadne isn't aware of much more than the feeling of Estelle's hand still in hers. She knows she should let go, especially out in the open like this, but for once she doesn't want to let Estelle slip right out of her grasp.
(Can't she be selfish for once?)
(... Isn't she always selfish?)
"Wait," Estelle says as they enter the One floor. Her hands flutter about her like she's nervous. "Wait, I'm not sure… I don't think this is a good idea."
"We're not doing anything," Ariadne says. She doesn't know if she believes her own words. "What's wrong?"
"You frighten me," Estelle admits. Her hand trembles. "I'm afraid of what I might do around you."
Me too, Ariadne thinks, but she chokes back the words. Instead, what comes out is, "What are you so afraid of?"
Estelle's eyes dart down. "Falling, I think. Doing something I can't take back."
"Because you would regret it?"
Estelle swallows audibly. "No."
It's impossible to tell who moves first. All Ariadne knows is that one minute they're in the dark living room, several feet apart, and then she's back at the party from a few years ago, Estelle's soft lips on hers. Her hands already know where to go – one on the hip, another in her hair – and the startled gasp from Estelle is enough to make her double down.
This is a mistake. Ariadne knows it, but she can't seem to stop herself. It's what she wants – what she's wanted for a long time, really – and with Estelle reacting this enthusiastically, who can blame her?
"Is this- fine?" Ariadne mutters through kisses. Her fingers brush against the soft skin of the girl's hip.
Estelle mutters something that might be a please, and the world spins as they stagger towards the bedroom. Ariadne doesn't bother with the light switch, merely fumbling for the lamp as she passes by. Her other hand is too busy trying to work Estelle's shirt off. The task is only difficult because Ariadne's hands are shaking – why are they shaking?
The other girl yelps in surprise as they fall into bed, a clumsy mess of limbs. Ariadne's hand cradles the back of her head, and Estelle latches onto her shirt. A giggle slips out of her mouth, and Ariadne is transfixed.
(She can still stop.)
(She doesn't want to.)
Ariadne pauses then, breathless. Estelle is splayed out beneath her, blue lace caressing creamy white skin. Her pulse thrums rapidly under Ariadne's fingers, and she wants nothing more than to sink her teeth into the tender skin of Estelle's neck until she bleeds.
Overwhelmed, and struck by the strange urge to apologize, Ariadne manages, "I'm not a good person, Estelle."
The other girl stills, and Ariadne draws back, expecting this — whatever this is — to be over. Instead, Estelle just looks at her, and somehow that makes Ariadne feel so much worse. She's got Estelle pinned down like a butterfly, one that doesn't know it would be so much better if she just flew away.
"I'm not asking you to be," Estelle whispers. Her fingers graze the underside of Ariadne's arms, and her gaze is nearly reverent. "Please."
And shit, maybe Ariadne is so much weaker than she ever imagined. Her breath catches. She feels shaky. She's suddenly far too sober, far too tipsy.
I'm sorry, she thinks, even as Estelle arcs up to meet her. She knows that no amount of guilt will be able to save her here.
For the first time, she finally knows the taste of innocence.
So fleeting, and then gone.
July 2, 07:31
District One Suite
The other side of the bed is cold when she wakes up.
Estelle is numb to it all. This is fine. This is what she expected. There was never another way this morning would play out, not even in her wildest fantasies.
(Wouldn't it be nice…?)
She sucks in a shuddering breath. Goosebumps litter her skin. There's a bruise on the inside of her thigh that she runs her fingers over. The slight ache makes her flushed again, and Estelle feels as if there's something lodged in her throat.
Peeling herself out of bed, Estelle goes through the motions of her day like any other. She steps into the shower and scrubs her skin until it's pink, and she doesn't register how hot the water was until she steps out into a haze. The mirror is thoroughly fogged up, and Estelle has to reach for a towel to scrub a spot clean, squinting to see her own face. The glimmer of tears in her eyes says enough. She lets the mirror fog over once more, glad to remain separate from her reflection for a while longer.
(She's always so stupid. Estelle knows she can't have Ariadne, not in the way she wants. She'll never be able to. This simple fact has been made clear to her time and time again, and yet…
She'll never be able to say no. She'll always want. That alone is enough to ruin her.)
Stepping back out into her Capitol bedroom, Estelle keeps her back to the bed as much as she can. She turns to the closet, its overwhelming nature strangely comforting to her in the moment. Everything is organized by color, a narrow corridor stretching several feet ahead of her and encompassing everything from fine dresses to sleeping clothes, all tailored for her specifically. Estelle could typically get lost in here for ages, turning the floor into a mess of clothes to pick up later as she anguishes over what's good enough to wear.
Today, she does not have this problem. Today, Estelle reaches a hand out for whatever she can grab first – a sage green blouse with flowing sleeves, a pair of black slacks – and throws them on with no further consideration. There's no one she's trying to impress today, no one she's likely to see at all. Estelle will take the train back to One, and then…
And then it's back to life as normal. As if nothing happened at all. As if Estelle didn't have to suffer through another year on the outskirts of the Games, getting her foolish heart flayed open for the millionth time. She'll go home and sew the jagged edges back together and pray it'll be enough to withstand the next time.
(There's always a next time.)
Estelle makes one final pass of her room to ensure nothing is left behind. Her eyes pointedly skip over the bed and its rumpled sheets. When she leaves her room, and the door closes behind her, there's something so unexpectedly final about the noise that she shudders.
She sniffs. Straightens her spine. Estelle Duvont is her mother's daughter, after all. She knows how to put on a good face.
The train ride home is uneventful. Estelle is glad for it. She spends the entire time in the back car, curled up in a window and watching the world pass by. The finery of the Capitol, in all its tall buildings and elaborately dressed citizens, ends abruptly and leads to green grass and flowers battling the heat of the summer. The farther from the clutches of the Capitol she gets, the more the grass browns under the sun, flowers beginning to wilt without anyone to admire them. The Capitol thrives on attention — much like its prized jewel, One — so it's only natural for the wildlife to do the same.
Getting back home takes far too much time, far too little. Estelle blinks and her journey is over. She feels like last night was weeks ago. She still feels cool hands on her throat, her hips-
Fuck.
"Hello?" Estelle calls as she opens the door to her house. She'd normally have two large dogs swarming her by now, trying to drown her in kisses to make up for all the time lost, but they're nowhere to be seen.
The second step she takes is full of far more trepidation than the first. Estelle knows she's a Victor, that this is her house, but she fears her years of freedom have led to her instincts dulling like an old knife. She doesn't have anything to defend herself with, and in the first few seconds – the only ones that would count – she can't come up with anything, either. She could be dead right now if there was any real danger.
The foyer lays before her, its high arched ceiling imposing and offering no cover. Estelle would just have to take a left and go up the stairs to retreat to her bedroom, where she'll likely attempt to sleep whatever this is away. If she kept going and took a right, she'd land in the kitchen, which won't hold anything promising until she goes grocery shopping. Beyond that…
A pair of warm brown eyes plead at her from the entrance to the living room. Estelle smiles softly, recognizing Emmy – Emerald – from several feet away. Her entire body relaxes immediately at the sight. Her dog is clearly nervous, but her tail wags faster the closer Estelle gets.
It's only when Estelle reaches Emmy that she remembers inviting someone into her home weeks ago.
The majority of Estelle's living room is untouched. Her colorful blankets are still strewn casually across white furniture, a large pink rug in the middle of the hardwood floor. Her television is on, and classical music echoes softly throughout the area – Estelle's attempt to give her dogs entertainment while she's gone. Asteria checks in on them frequently, but Estelle worries about them getting lonely regardless.
The only thing out of place in Estelle's home is her own mother, who has draped herself across the couch. She blinks up at her daughter with streaked mascara running down her face, Ruby's head resting on her thigh. The other dog whines softly as Blanche's face cracks once again, and a fresh torrent of tears is soon soaked up by Ruby's fur.
"Hi baby," Blanche whispers, voice hoarse. "I'm so- thank you."
Estelle's lip trembles. She takes a wobbly step forward. "Hi, Mom. I missed you."
Her mother's arms open, and that's the only invitation Estelle needs. She rushes forward, curling up against her mother's side like she's a child again. Her own tears are fighting to break free, but Estelle does her best to suppress them for now.
A soothing hand cards through her hair, gently untangling every knot. Estelle's eyes flutter shut. There's a certain heaviness to the pit of her stomach that makes her unable to fully relax.
"He wants to leave," Blanche admits above her. Her fingers are shaking. "Again."
"Again?"
"He's done this before." Her mother's voice is barely audible. "Probably more than what I already know."
"How long?"
"I… always, I think."
"Oh."
A sniffle. "I still love him. I shouldn't, but I do."
Estelle finally looks up. She wipes away one of her mother's tears. "I know."
"I wanted us to be happy. I wanted you to be happy. And I… I still can't leave."
"...I know."
Blanche's face crumples. "I'm sorry. This is so- I'm sorry, my star. I should've been better for you."
"Mom, don't do that-"
"But you'll do better than me, won't you?" Her mother's face is so earnest, her clear blue eyes a reflection of Estelle's own. "Look at you. You're a Victor. They'll treat you right. They'll deserve you. Why wouldn't anyone want you?"
Estelle's heart thrums in her chest. Her stomach twists. She swallows. The smile she forces onto her face borders on sickly. Her mother doesn't notice.
"You'll learn from my mistakes," Blanche whispers. Her eyes are beginning to flutter shut, the exhaustion taking hold as soon as there was someone to relax in front of. "Your heart is a special thing, 'stelle. Don't give it to just anyone. Remember it's yours."
She's not sure how long it takes her mother to fall asleep. By the time Blanche's breathing finally slows, Estelle still hasn't come up with a suitable response for her.
July 8th, 10:39
District Seven Victor's Village
This is a big day for Kalanit.
To the rest of Panem, it's just like any other. There are whispers that the Victor has finally awoken, that a Victor has finally been decided, but Kalanit doesn't like to wonder about fickle gossip. When the time is right, she'll be told.
The tape recorder feels strange in her hand, the mechanisms clicking under her fingers in the way plants never do. Kalanit feels strange and exposed like this; a child desperately trying to play dress-up to fit in.
"Are you ready?" Estelle Duvont asks. She blinks at Kalanit with wide eyes, ready and eager for their project to begin.
Kalanit will never be ready. But she steadies her hand and places the tape recorder on the table between them. Her finger hovers over the button to record.
It's strangely helpful to see Estelle look exactly as tentative as she is. The last thing Kalanit wants to do is fuck anything up. But she wants to give her fellow Victors a choice, let their stories be heard, and not just whatever narrative the Capitol crafted for them.
Estelle believed in her enough to agree to talk. Kalanit has to believe in herself as well.
"Ready."
no victor yet. sorry except i'm also not
tune in next time for epilogue two: through the looking glass
~de laney is out