Medya Caine
Nineteen / District Four Victor
Medya's little trainees don't seem to understand what "I brought you here, and I can take you out just as fast" seems to mean until it's too late.
Tethys struggles beneath her iron grip around her throat, the beating of her fists against Medya's ribs slowing and growing weaker with each hit, every breathless gasp, every choke. Hate boils in Medya's blood, tightening the tension in her fists more and more until she feels the thudding of the girl's heartbeat beneath her palms. But ultimately, killing your tribute before the Games begin in the suite is an act of treason, so she lets her go.
Tethys stays motionless on the floor, her lungs struggling for air with quiet, shallow rasps. Medya brings herself to her feet, flexing her fingers at her sides, staring down at the crumpled figure beneath her. Tethys's lips are blue and bruises begin to bloom around her neck; but she's alive, painfully so. But with the bloodbath tomorrow, Medya doesn't figure she'll make it very far, not anymore.
She isn't Victor material anyhow. She would've been another stain on Four's victory records.
Her and her little friend Pointus have only shallow concepts of what Victory means. He's cowering in the corner, shaking like a leaf with eyes wide— far from the brave knight he should be. Does a little bit of violence frighten him? What a coward, what a failure they both are before they even reached the arena.
"You know, I really wanted to work with you two," Medya breathes out, her voice wavering with the tension in her chest. "The academy didn't choose you two but what does that matter? Their opinion doesn't mean anything. They didn't choose me either."
Her tributes, her first pair since she won last year, volunteered against the Academy's orders, chasing that same success that she had. At some point, she believed they had talent, the skill and the means to win right behind her, and for a few moments she let herself believe it'd be the better outcome. But as the week crawled towards the end, they showed their true colors.
Medya steps away from Tethys, closer to Pointus. He backs further into the wall, as if it could save him from any attack she could inflict on him. She waits for him to acknowledge she spoke, to do anything but stand there, but he's quiet, so she gives him a prompt.
"Do you know where you both failed?"
When he doesn't respond, she then gives him the answer.
"You started bringing that fame bullshit into it!" She steps forward, quickening her steps until she lunges and grabs him by the collar, shoving him into the wall and earning a terrified yelp from him. "That's your problem, you brought yourself into this. It's not about you, it's about what you can provide for your District."
She slams him into the wall, just enough to shake him up. It seems to knock some sense into him, as he raises his arms and pushes her away from him, a newfound survival instinct taking over him. They wrestle with their hands pressed together until they reach a stalemate in their struggle, keeping the other from doing anything with arms tangled between them.
"You're selfish," Medya hisses.
"You're CRAZY!" Pointus shouts back, shaking his head around.
"Do you even know your history?" She tilts her head mockingly. "Hm? How baseless the Career Academies were before the war. They believed in honor and celebrity status, nothing more. Such a shallow motivation. It didn't save them from those bombs now, did it?!" She usurps his defenses and grabs at his shirt again, pulling him closer to her. "You think it'll save you?"
"Get off of me!"
She gives Pointus a dissatisfied look, then drops him onto the ground. While he picks himself up, she steps to the other side of the room and observes her tributes; Tethys is slowly raising her head, still clearly dazed, and Pointus rushes to her side to pull her onto his lap.
Medya shakes her head at them. She could say something about how being so tender with your District Partner was a flaw waiting to be exploited, but everything has a time and that time has passed. The protests die on her tongue, replaced with a final sneer.
"I'd say good luck tomorrow, but, ehh…" she laughs and shakes her head. "Here's to better luck next year, then."
God, Medya's luck is shit.
Why is Pointus still kicking it? He's made it to the finale, beaten and mildly broken on the rocks scattering the valley, but he's still kicking it. He has a wicked dagger clutched in his right hand, and his entire shirt is bloodstained and tattered from the fights he had with three other tributes— two of which died by his hand (third ran away fatally wounded and was picked off by a straggler).
Medya can't say she's not interested in him. He moves with such a conviction many other tributes lack, not at all losing the drive kickstarted into him when Tethys had died in his arms following the bloodbath. It's weird, he has had such a change of heart from the overconfident, witty kid that was presented to her; he was now a proper tribute, and she dares say she was proud. Perhaps she had humbled him?
But all of that to say: she isn't exactly rooting for his life.
A good tribute sure, but he would be nothing but a faulty player in the Capitol. He's lackluster, he didn't participate well in the Career Pack, and he kills like an animal: bloody and vicious and mercilessly. He's no better than the outliers, he doesn't even fight like he was trained to. Does somebody like that even deserve to be hailed a victory?
Medya leans forward, as if she could bridge the gap between herself and the television if she just made herself as tall as possible. It's mounted high above their heads, big like all things in the Presidential Mansion; every year, they so graciously throw the Victors a party on the final day of the Games, watching the finale like a spectacle and congratulating the lucky mentor who gets to take a kid home.
Now, it was between her and the man from District Seven. His name is Caspian Helvar and she has not an ounce of respect for him in the slightest — but alas, it's between the two of them now, so she must be respectful.
Medya approaches him, eyes flickering between her surroundings and the television, and hooks her pinky finger around his. He's startled away from the viewing, looking at her with wide eyes, and she swears she can feel his heartbeat through his hand, or perhaps pulsing in his ears. For the big, tough lumberjack persona he holds so closely, he's radiating an awful lot of anxiety.
"Whatever happens here—" she murmurs, making her voice smooth but sly. "—no hard feelings?"
She raises their joined hands closer to their faces. He curls his lip at her, but makes no move to untangle themselves.
"You seem so sure about your tribute winning," Caspian grunts in return.
She gives him a devilish grin, then drops their hand. She could laugh at that, but instead she says, "Just don't feel bad for whatever happens, okay?"
Caspian gives her a look, one of bewilderment. This could be anybody's game from a statistics standpoint, so it's a loaded sentence, but she knows the truth and what's going to happen here. Victory is only granted to the worthy.
She doesn't even bother to act surprised when the Seven boy comes at Pointus from behind and cracks his skull open on the rocks, again and again and again. She keeps her expression calm, slightly smug, because she knows now that she's won. Despite the roadblocks, she is still in control. The audience holds its collective breath the several seconds it takes for him to bleed out, and when his cannon fires and the victory is announced, they begin to cheer. She's half-tempted to join them.
Medya looks over at Caspian. He blinks back at her, as if he truly hadn't anticipated the win, the diehard pessimist he is. She pats at the shoulder of his crisp suit.
"Congrats, Mr. Helvar." Is all she gives him.
Medya is beginning to think she has a sobering touch the way he collects himself quickly enough to choke out a "thank you" before the crowd is rushing to talk to him. All of these Capitolites celebrating an outlier victory is moronic in a way, they'll raise a toast to anything and realize who they were toasting to later.
Medya doesn't even want to look at her fellow District Four Victors. They're going to harp her for denying Pointus his "rightfully earned" sponsorship gifts, but last time she checked you weren't supposed to feed the animals. Honest to God though, she would if they earned it.
And she thinks to herself, maybe next year they'll earn it. By next year, she'll have improved the Academy's performances, be an influence that actually cares for their cause; no more half-hearted attempts or hesitation or doubt. They'll be better next time, stronger, more worthy, which is a train of thought she likes to follow much better.
It's true, there will always be next year.
Yay prologues are over! Sorry for taking like four and a half months to get through them but this is my pace and you're all going to have to deal with it.
Next is intros 1 with Walker, Josie, and Devyn! Whooo's excited :D I'm excited. My kids are so special.