girl on my throne. glass&nixie, vt.

[[ retro gm ] angel lí ✨]

f i n c h .

winter blooms, covers my garden
what's to lose?
and nothing moves, all of my feelings
frozen with you

The pounding on the front door is what raises me from sleep, but the roar of displeasure from my father is what jolted me wide awake.

He was swearing about what time do they call this-- hungover, wincing underneath the pain of a migraine. I was at the door before I could check the clock, remembering that it'd stopped ticking for months now, and frowned. Gotta get that fixed, I thought, opening the door without a care in the world.

I expected to see some fucker here to complain about losing their money to Wiz's ill placement - not my fault he told me to tell everyone he was going to jump off the platform first then got second place. Never should have trusted his wimpy ass in the first place, fuck -- but it's not a punter demanding a refund. These people were dressed far too formally to be spending their whole paycheck on underground games betting.

Or -- fuck. They'd found out about the underground games betting.

"Sorry to bother you so early," the man began, hat pressed to his chest and a sympathetic look in his eye. "But nobody from the Finch family turned up to the Justice Building this morning."

By the looks of the winter sunlight poking through the trees, it couldn't be a minute past 8am. The smoke from next door confirmed it, daily hot porridge served up to the kids that don't stop howling 'til the afternoon. Little bastards -- at least they're young enough to keep crying. Pa has no excuse.

"Who's botherin' us?" he hollers, but I just glare at him and shoo him away with a wave of my hand. Begone, the motion says. Useless drunk bastard.

I turned back to the man I'd deuced to be an office and put on my best questionable, innocent glance. Sixteen now and I still look twelve, haven't grown an inch since eleven.

And?

"Well," the man cleared his throat, "we know that Victor Summers is a touchy subject for your family, Miss Finch, but, erm, the new laws around Victory Tours require one family member of the fallen tributes to attend an event whilst Summers is visiting Seven..."

And?

"...well, erm, you see - she leaves this afternoon, and-- we're aware your brother came awfully close to winning, and your family are going through a lot, but-"

I rolled my eyes, understanding what he was saying. We'll be fined, or locked up, or worse.

At least he wasn't here about the money.

"Perhaps a parent, instead...?"

I took one look at my father, snoring on the couch again, and a quick glance down the hall confirmed that Ma still hasn't gotten out of bed since Whiskey died. I just sighed and grabbed my coat, shoving a pair of Wiz's old boots on - yesterday's dungarees and an old shirt of my brothers still hanging from my tiny body.

So that's how I ended up following this Keeper's well-dressed entourage down to the middle of town. At least they gave me coffee whilst I sat swinging my legs under the chair and practicing my best scowl. I should've brought my hunting knife, slaughtered her like a beast. No, that'd be too kind. Stab her through the heart like she did Whiskey, just to know how it feels.

Not like it'd make a difference. They'd just bring her right back, zombie girl with a crown on her head and I'd be a corpse before I could blink twice.

Maisy Dupree saunters out of a room looking like shit, as per usual. She's got bags under her eyes that look like bruises, bloodshot eyes and getting skinnier by the minute. She should be fucking thankful, with Sasha out the way she might have a fighting chance at surviving this winter. It's a miracle they let her live at all - there has to be a reason they didn't air that entire alliance's death. They tried to do something and failed, and Maisy should have paid for it.

Instead I'm paying for it, Wiz six feet under. He played the game fair and now he's dead and I'm left alone in this miserable fucking world, forced to sit across the table from his killer. At least Maisy doesn't have that gut-punch, but she's still crying her eyes out like the babies next door and I'm just scowling, willing the wall in front of me to crumble and break underneath the weight of my quiet rage.

It doesn't, of course. Because nothing works out the way I want it to. Wiz is dead and I've got a target on my back and they're calling my name -- there she is. Nixie.

My hands tighten around the handle of a knife but my nails pierce the skin of my palms instead.

table by elegant !