in the wings // [zaya one-shot]

[sbeeg]

Smoke lingered in the bar, dim lights disguising its occupants. The bartender slumped against a cabinet, watching the tributes get interviewed on the television that spit out more static than images. Only a handful of people milled around the establishment. Some in booths whispering, others alone nursing a drink.

Zaya was one of the later.

There were no towering heels tonight, no winged eyeliner or bedazzled corsets. They had left them all behind, still neatly placed in suitcases from their stay at the Training Center. Wrapped in a dark hoodie, he sat on a stool flicking a cigarette at an ash tray. There were no cameras here, no reporter looking to speak to her. Just stale beer, vomit stains, and quiet. At the very tip of Style Street where the buildings were shorter and the signs less flashy was Zaya Reine's safe haven. There had already been another victor since her games, and another one on the way. The Capitol once again swollen and expecting a new baby victor. They'd coddle and kiss them, show them off to everyone and then toss them in the back to get heavy with another one. A vicious cycle, over and over. They barely thought about the other twenty three that never made it to the other side.

He still thinks about them, the ones that died. Some by his own hands, her neatly painted manicured nails twisting a knob of mutt aggression just enough to slash the life out of a child.

A child.


They're never having kids. He already decided it. Even if she found someone to have one with, they could be born into this city of excess. This candy cotton facade rotting from the inside out. Sometimes he wonders why the people in the districts keep having children only to send them to slaughter. Is it simply a human desire? Is it something about people that insisted on them leaving life to the next generation even if it is shit?


She takes another swig of her beer, the sour liquid dribbling down his chin. The bartender either doesn't recognize her or doesn't care. He's a older man, with the scars of a past fabulous life. An intricate tattoo weaves across his face, formerly a bright blue but now faded and bleeding out from its original design. His head is bald, his forearms coated in art similar to his face. Zaya wonders what kind of life he lived. If he was a Victor chaser, or simply enjoyed going to clubs and looking pretty.

She certainly used to.

Zaya Reine hasn't had a public appearance in over a year. No runways, no fashion collections, no outings with other gamemakers. She needed a second to think and you can't think with cameras in your face.

He glances at the television and sees the District Ten victors shuffling off the train. Mace is getting old and Saffron looks nearly unrecognizable but then again puberty does that. The last one catches her eye.

Ansgar Todd. His first victor from way back during the 74th. Six years. Age had creased the boy's face but other than he seemed the same. His little rat friend perched on his shoulder as he walked, ignoring the Capitol cameras pointed at him. Her heart twists.

There's a part of her that wants to take Todd and Blakesley away because she is responsible for them, for whatever nightmares that haunt the farthest corners of their mind. She drains her glass.


He waves at the bartender and the man hobbles over, pouring another frothy cup. Zaya drowns themselves in it, ignoring the cherry voice of Caesar Flickerman over the speakers.

"What a great crowd of tributes this year!"

She had said the same thing.


Reine drinks deeply from his glass, wanting the sharpness of emotions to dull into a light buzz. His fingers twitch, remembering how it felt to string together the anthem every night. How it felt unleashing muttations with a touch of a button.

She wishes she could apologize to Stella and Ansgar, say how sorry he was for making them go through with all of that and then have to live under the Capitol's spotlight as a pet.

He wishes...


Reine drains her glass and leaves money on the counter. She steps out into the world and the powdered pedestrians don't think twice about walking around him.

He starts for his apartment, his vision twisting the sidewalk.

She wishes she could apologize, but she can't because if they ever asked her to do it again.


She would.