91st Victor Presentation

[admin kay]

I wanna go instead.

Lauren had watched the clip of Storm Adroxis volunteering over and over again. He'd fallen asleep with it looping, cell phone restingin his left palm, slipping ever closer to the edge of the bed. In his dream, Storm slipped on violet river rocks, spinning towards an abyss.

He woke, clutching the phone, dripping in sweat.

By the time he'd made himself presentable a stylist had arrived to escort him to the dais. Zeus and Saber were already seated. Well, if you could call whatever position Zeus had contorted himself into 'seated'. Saber of course sat primly. Lauren offered them both a weak smile, pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, and carefully sat. With the triumvirate in place, the ceremony began. The roar of the crowd deafened the first speaker. Lauren shifted. Ever since they'd sent twenty-four tributes into their lovingly crafted arena, he'd never been quite comfortable. He fidgeted with the rings on his fingers, most especially the heavy gold one, presented to him that very morning, commemorating the 91st Games. Soon he would be compelled to the microphone, having drawn the short straw. Soon his voice, thin and reedy, would be blasted across the city, warped over television sets throughout the nation.

And all he could think about was sitting at Storm's bedside as a nurse checked his vitals. "Uhm," he'd began, as elegantly as ever, fingertips tapping on the arm of his thick glasses. "Etiquette would probably dictate that I should apologize. But since you volunteered to be here, I think maybe that's not helpful?" He flinched. It had sounded more genuine in his head. "What I mean to say is: congratulations. You really surprised all of us."

He'd tried to soften that truth with a smile. And finally, he forced himself to clasp his own hands in his lap and really look at Storm Adroxis, a mere boy, a killer who Lauren - however distantly - had aided. "I guess what I came here to say is: I'm glad you're back. From now on you aren't just going to be Storm. You're Victor Adroxis. You might as well enjoy as much of that as you can."

And then the doctor had swooped in to check on some of Storm's not insignificant wounds. Lauren had been ushered out. He'd thought about waiting for the next shift change but what else was there to say? Storm was not a friend, not a colleague, not a son. He was now a battle-forged hero and Lauren was merely the nerd who helped facilitate the battlefield.

The microphone sang, calling him back to the present. Lauren slid to the center of the dais, wrapping both hands around the mic. "Citizens of Panem, I'm pleased to welcome you to the victor presentation ceremony of the Ninety-First Hunger Games!" Pause for applause. "As is tradition, tonight we will show a recap video of this year's Games, so be sure to stay tuned for this required viewing!" Some traditions never change.

Lauren Kinkade announced the prep team, stylist, escort, and mentor of the victor; all were received with tremendous applause. But then, the moment they were all waiting for... Lauren took a deep breath. "And now, may I present the victor of the 91st Hunger Games... Storm Adroxis!"

[lance]

s t o r m .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

He'd spent so long thinking about the Games and the Games only (the plan to volunteer, the grit required to survive, the consequences of murder and its actions, et cetera et cetera) that Storm had never really processed what was to come after.

But now, days removed from a morphling induced haze and days further removed from leaving five victims and twenty three corpses in his wake, well, it was starting to sink in that this wasn't just an ending for him so much as it was a beginning. Cause of course, now he was Capitol royalty. Now, year after year, he'd have to return to the Capitol to mentor two new bright-eyed kids with the knowledge that at least one of them would die and the second one most likely would as well. That was his fate, until someone unlucky enough to repeat his feats won and allowed either him or Avriel to take a year off every now and then.

(His mind flits to his wayward mentor, and not for the first time, his face flushes with the knowledge of how goddamn immature he'd been in the face of a tired young man who'd only been trying to do his duty).

But for now, one thing at a time. One thing at a time meant dressing up in a suit the color of storm clouds, because man the Capitol prep team thought they were original, having his hair neatly styled back and the gauntness of his cheeks hidden by so many layers of makeup that his entire extended family could have likely used some and still had plenty leftover. And though it wasn't entirely unpleasant, it was stifling, in a sense. No longer was he a tribute with all the freedom in the world. No longer was he a kid with nary a responsibility. No, he was a victor now, a Capitolite celebrity with a duty to fulfill for the rest of his life.

(Was this what his father had based his coming-of-age ritual on? Was this similar to what Night and Eve had gone through when they were scant older than he right now? Damaged beyond repair, set to inherit a legacy that would weigh down on them for the rest of their lives?

Well, if that was the case, at least now they'd have solidarity).

A member of the prep team pinches his artificially blushed cheeks and coos, tells him "Oh, you look so adorable!" as if he wasn't a confirmed killer of five, as if he wasn't a skinny beanpole of a kid still suffering from the effects of malnutrition and artificially induced rage.

But then the words of the Gamemaker, with his glasses so thick and voice so stutteringly awkward that Storm wondered if nerds were the latest Capitolite fashion trend, rang through his ears.

"From now on you aren't just going to be Storm. You're Victor Adroxis."

Victor Adroxis, second of his name. That's who he'd always be here now - not Storm, the happy-go-lucky kid who loved sweets and pranks and smiles and laughter, but Victor Adroxis, the kid who'd killed five people of varying backgrounds in five separate fights and locations in order to place the crown on his head and live another day.

And he'd wanted it, after all. Wanted to be more than just another kid, lost in the mix of a large family. Wanted to prove he was every bit as worthy and capable as his older siblings. Wanted to prove that he, too, had what it took to make his family proud.

(But what part of any of that would make his family proud? What part of almost losing another son, so soon after losing two daughters, would instill anything other than grief?)

Well, at least the nerdy Gamemaker had said. He'd won, so he may as well enjoy it. Or try his damnest to, at the very least.

So he smiles brightly and waves when he's corralled out onto the stage where Sardonyx Crowe waits to greet him. He smiles brightly and laughs at the right moments during their interview. And during the three hour recap video, themed "Independence" for being the first victor in nearly thirty years to win without a single ally, his demeanor doesn't crack once.

That doesn't mean he doesn't feel it, of course. Five die on the first day, and his scuffle with Texas Lovell and his ally in the Bloodbath is seen as some sort of dramatic foreshadowing. A disproportionate amount of time is spent on him freaking out on the little mushroom muttations and getting soaked to the bone in the process. Then it's the third day, and Texas dispatches one of the Two careers like she's nothing, while for all accounts and purposes Storm has a day to himself he most certainly did not earn.

Then the shadow mutt nearly stabs his brains out, and it's no less painful watching it on screen than feeling it in person. Nor is it any less painful when Willem stumbles across him later, delirious and tearful, and slowly, patiently patches him back up.

Then the dragon sets the land alight in purple. Storm and Carly meet in battle, two sides of District Nine who'd never found common ground and always been at odds with one another, and yet it is December Whitaker who pays the price, the first of the five to fall at his blade.

Then it's Willem, and only then does Storm avert his eyes. And if he clenches them tightly at times to ease the burning building behind them, well, that's none of your business, is it?

Cordelia is another case entirely, savage and brutal and every bit the model Career and yet Storm manages to keep up, manages to use Willem's last gift to throw her off just enough to survive. Then it's Cachimorro, and the mood is strangely light despite literally being a fight for revenge, yet he too falls at the end of his blade.

When he crosses blades with Texas, it's even more striking how different they look - Storm gaunt and emaciated but standing strong on his own two feet, Texas a shadow of his former self, the purple visible within his veins even more prominent on a giant screen. They trade blows and insults and words aplenty, and when Storm pulls out his final gambit, well, no wonder the Capitol eats this up year after year, because it was pretty fuckin' dramatic.

And then it's over, and Storm is smiling again, but already his mind is a million miles away, because really, it doesn't matter what he did in his life before that.

Not if that is what's going to be remembered for years and decades to come.

elegant