ᴅᴀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɴɪɢʜᴛ [ᴅɪsᴛʀɪᴄᴛ sᴇᴠᴇɴ]

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

"You can crash in my room while I'm gone, if you want. There is a spare key in the tree hollow," he said to Lex Lionel. Which was a nice way of saying don't break my front door again, please. It had been years since it happened, and he wasn't sure why he insisted upon bringing it up every year. If he was being honest, he quite preferred the new one. It was much more substantial and sturdy. Say what you would about her, but she had quietly developed a real sense of style when no one was looking.

He looked down at himself, dressed by those who wanted him to appear more put together than he was. Red flannel under a fur-rimmed jacket, simple black jeans and sleek ankle boots. He'd convinced them not to shave his face- couldn't recall a single time they'd tried without nicking his neck. One day the idiots were gonna slip and cut his throat, he was sure. Even so, he knew he probably looked more polished and put together than he had since this time last year.

"I have a spare key," she retorted. He grinned while she carried on: "And a house. If you just want me to watch the strays, you'll have to ask."

He rolled his eyes in mock frustration.

"Okay then: please watch the strays while I'm gone."

He folded his arms across his chest.

"If Max goes hunting, please go with her. We must have set up a dozen snares this morning." Which was a nice way of saying make sure she doesn't get herself caught. His sister wasn't any better at goodbye than he was, so they distracted themselves with busy work and ultimately set more traps than she could handle alone if they did their job correctly.

"Keep an eye on Marley if Elena is over. And if he tries to have a party, stop it. Permission for mild violence is granted if necessary." He was sure to annunciation the last part clearly, because Lex.

A fist bump, a silence that was their equivalent to see you soon, and he nodded to the peacekeeper who was tasked with driving him to the train station.

———————————————

They were day and night, his tributes. The girl was dark skin and sharp edges. Clean face that told him she came from money. Calculating eyes, but an obvious lack of experience. She had smiled when her name was called, and he wondered if it was genuine, or if it was to cover the tears that were falling inside of her, where the shadows were. All the secret bits of herself she had already tucked away for safe-keeping.

And the boy was a sun-bleached winter. Blue-eyed and fair-haired and reckless enough to call himself onto the stage. Ageless. Timeless. Neither here nor there, and he had the hands of an artist: steady and true. His icy stare was almost biting enough for Mackenzie to believe there was not an ounce of fear within him. But he knew better.

"They'll need you for preliminaries," Jacquelyn said, scent of cinnamon wafting off her taut skin in a heavy wave. Her signature dark hair was easily down to her knees now, and had been decorated with the very same orange monarch butterflies that adorned her bodice.

"I'll be in shortly," he said, not willing to take his eyes off of the tributes. At least one of you will be dead soon, he thought, hating himself for it. Fearing what was come. Already knowing he would do anything to prevent it. He took a seat and rubbed his hands together for warmth; why anyone had ever thought to invent fingerless gloves, he would never know.

"I, um..." This was the hardest part: the part where they both looked at him and waited for a secret he didn't have. The part where they asked how to survive and expected him to have an infinite answer, and he did not have an answer to give them. He had only failure after failure and a second of good luck that had given him the upper hand four years ago.

"First thing's first: shed your morals. If you want to play up a character in the Capitol, that's great. I'll work with you on that more in-depth later. If people like you it makes it easier to get sponsorship. But on the inside, you can't be good. Not now. You have to be selfish. You have to choose yourself every time. I almost died anytime I tried to choose differently."

He hated this. He hated telling people to become monsters. He hated telling people to get used to the idea of kill or be killed. But he also knew it was their best bet, and he knew that it was the only reason he'd survived in the end, and he knew that it was better for them to realize it sooner rather than later.

His eyes flicked to the girl.

"You," he said, pointing a finger at her, "You look rich. You come from money?" He thought, maybe, that could have sounded insensitive.

"Doesn't matter. We can use that. You know who else came from money? Jacinta Salazar." He didn't have to guess to know that she was already in the communication car, waiting on him so they could receive their instructions for the days to come. He supposed she didn't exactly have the same knack for sentimentality as he did, but then she'd also been a lot better at recognizing her survivalist nature than he was, so.

"And you. Brave boy," he said the words as if they were an insult, and in many ways he meant them as such, "Capitol loves volunteers. You any good with a weapon? Because the sympathy vote goes down the drain when the only person to blame for you being here is yourself, trust me. And the others might see you as a threat."

He leaned back in his chair.

"Hell, they might see you both as a threat. Once that's established, there is no undoing it. Only thing you can do is convince them you're too much of a threat for them to handle. No being shy at the parade, no throwing the private training session, no disrespectful interview, no crying. Got it?"

[lance]

So it's the first day of the rest of your life. And that latter figure has now just dropped from decades to weeks, unless you find yourself incredibly lucky and lower yourself to murdering other kids in gladiatorial combat. Then you got to say goodbye to Mama, Mark, and the twins for perhaps the last time, and then the only girl that's ever been in your position and lived without claiming a victory decided to stop by as well.

So all things considered, you think you're handling the circumstances quite well.

In other circumstances, the quartet taking up the train car more opulent than every ounce of wealth you'd ever seen in your life would have been something straight out of a comedy book. A gaudy Capitolite woman who's chosen which of you were to die for longer than you can remember, a harried Victor from four years ago with not a single success story to his name thus far (though you're not sure if that's to be commended or shamed, given rumors about horror stories from Eleven and Twelve), an icy-haired pale ass boy who volunteered himself into the fray (and okay, maybe you're a little salty that of course it would be the unfortunate boy whose name was pulled from the bowl who had a savior to thank and not yourself), and then you. Sapphire DeCaria, apprentice lumberjack who had nothing special to speak of aside from her name and less than orthodox origin.

For some reason, the awkward silence is filled with a memory from your fourteen year, the year that the bearded man sitting across from you claimed his victory. A memory of a parade, or perhaps an interview, where the very man, then a boy, had generated more than a single tear from the more shallow of your peers. "Why is it always the hot ones that have to die?" was one quote in particular that stuck out.

At the time, you'd giggled and laughed, ignoring the shitty feeling in your gut that you were engaging in superficial discussion about a boy destined to die. But for better or worse, he'd won - killed enough kids, outlasted the rest - and now he was the one shot, the one advantage you had going into the rest of your life, for better or for worse.

Mackenzie Pryce, for his part, still had the rugged natural looks that had made himself popular with your classmates during his time as a contender. But today, he looked like he could use about three days of a nonstop beauty sleep and the removal of the weight of the world from his shoulders. Somewhere behind his dark eyes lay the persona of a boy who had killed four to keep the privilege of oxygen in his lungs, the knowledge of a tactician that had navigated three of his charges to the final third of the Games, the regrets of a mentor who had found a consolation, if not a success, on his first try, and then deep, bitter failure across the next two.

A look is shared with the Capitolite woman whose name I really cannot be assed to remember, then a few words, and then suddenly she's departed into another train car and his attention is on you and the boy across from you.

"I, um..." For all of the time you've seen this very person on your television screen and on the main stage of, you'd think you'd have a better idea of what to expect from him. But for all you know, you're about to get a lecture, or you're about to hear about his desire for a drink.

The odds seem pretty split either way, so you tilt your head one side in curiosity, waiting to see what was to come.

The lecture, it turned out, won.

"First thing's first: shed your morals." No "Hi, I'm Mackenzie!" No "Welcome to your imminent and utter doom!" No "So tell me a little about yourself!" Just all business and straight to the point, and you're not sure if you should feel annoyed or if you should respect him more for it.

The advice, to his credit, was battle-hardened and sound, or at least gave the impression that it was and that he knew what he was doing. Lex Lionel's words from the Justice building echo through your head - "About 80% of Mom's advice — Mackenzie's — is good, so try not to tune him out too much." and so you decide to oblige, taking each and every word into account - even if you're not about to call what is currently a total stranger "Mom". "If you want to play up a character in the Capitol, that's great. I'll work with you on that more in-depth later. If people like you it makes it easier to get sponsorship. But on the inside, you can't be good. Not now. You have to be selfish. You have to choose yourself every time. I almost died anytime I tried to choose differently."

And you remember, in flashes - a girl from One who took the initiative after they teamed up to end another. A boy from Three who capitalized on his hesitation to steal a kill, a kill that in a different world could very well have been him. And not that you were planning on ignoring him even before you'd been advised otherwise, because let's be real, you want to go home as much as anybody save probably Icehair.

There's a pause, and then suddenly he's looking you straight in the eye, an unreadable expression behind his own dark orbs but something powerful evident regardless. "You," he said, and he points a finger at you as if about to accuse you of something. "You look rich. You come from money?"

Well. Not totally off the mark.

And you can't help but snort, because wow, you've totally never heard that one before. But sarcasm can only dispel a solemn determination for a second, and as the name Jacinta Salazar, the only other living victor in recent memory drops from his tongue, you realize that this battle-hardened victor is probably the only living person you've ever met that actually has talked to someone from your father's home.

Icehair is labeled as a threat, before he glances back to you and compromises that you both could be threats. Which hey, you'll take that - if you can start out this whole shitfest one foot ahead of the others because of that very viewpoint, then so be it.

...being shy at the parade, no throwing the private training session, no disrespectful interview, no crying. Got it?" It's blunt and wrapped in splinters instead of silk, but the point hits you nevertheless. And already you're looking over this tall ass tired young man in a new light - sure, he might have a script and a routine, but goddamned if he still isn't putting forth effort.

And given what your situation was when you were first eligible for the Captiol's death games? Hell, it's sure of a hell lot better than nothing.

Of course, if one thing hasn't changed, it's your genuine inability to toss aside sass for more than three minutes at a time. "So hello, welcome to your imminent death, you look rich, oh and don't cry because you can't look weak, any questions?" you reply casually, as if commenting on the weather. "Did I get that all correctly?"

But then you realize that not everyone understands your version of sarcasm even after years of practice, and you suppose that the last thing anyone here needs is a misunderstanding. So hardly a beat passes before you soften your features and tone alike. "Got it."

A second passes, than another, before you decide that Icehair used up any priority tips when he voluntarily signed up for this thing that you never asked for, and Ripred forbid if you at least don't get your first shot at getting personalized advise.

"And for the record, my family is perfectly middle class, thank you very much." Dammit, DeCaria, tone down the rough edges, you inwardly curse yourself. "But yes, my dad - well, biological father, anyway - was a Keeper. Mom said he came from One. Figured if anyone could make the connection, it'd be you, since, well..."

Shit, he killed the girl from One, didn't he? Nice going.

"Sorry." Heat builds up in your cheeks and you break eye contact as shame threatens to overwhelm you. But just as quickly you fight it back, and turn your head in his general direction, even if this time you can't focus on anything above the hairs on his chin. "Moving on, yeah." You manage to lift your gaze a bit higher, this time focusing on his nose. This situation sucks ass, and I didn't ask for any of this-" and you debate shooting Icehair a pointed look before deciding against it "-but point is, I'm not going to give up so easily."

Finally, you manage eye contact again, and just the tiniest spark of humor catches light. "So, going for the threatening approach, eh? Threatening as in stomp all big and mean like the Twos do, or threatening as in chop the heads off of every Avox I lay eyes upon?"

The look in Mackenzie's eyes is enough to elicit a sound not unlike a giggle. "Kidding, of course." Then once again, back to solemn. "But for real - I'll take any advice you're willing to give and commit it to memory."

Because if anyone thinks I'm just going to roll over and die just because I didn't choose this life, they've got another damn thing coming.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

vargen forrester

The incessant hum from the framework of the carriage seemed to scurry up my calves, climb my hipbones, and sew itself to the shivers that trickled down my backbone. Even though this was an honor, a sacred privilege very few were given, fear clutched its ironed talons around my heart, twisting it cruelly to the point where my breaths came out ragged and torn, each gasp more labored than the one before.

This was the human part of me that I detested; the fae-folk that caroused and danced in the underworld’s sprawling gardens would never be afraid about this, their mystical flesh untouched by brimstone or fire, steel or arrowheads.

A door creaked open, and a man strode in, his steps heavy, features as elusive and muddled as a creature beneath murky waters. I wasn’t so attuned to victors but Mackenzie Pryce was a glided treasure of the district, its brown-wreathed god, its deity in humble refusal of its divinity. Both lion and lamb; Mackenzie had been sacrificed and had sacrificed. He was torn apart and put back together as one would a mosaic.

I would never let myself tear at the seams like he had, I mused as my eyes gawked at the anxieties that unfolded themselves across his clean face, mosses growing rapidly over a stone, blood in spring-water. In his lavish furs and dark gloves, he was a merciful god shedding his wisdom, the way he spoke like fretted water, but I was not his reverent.

He was not the one my worship was posed towards; the Forresters did not pray to tamed and kind gods. Kindness was an open, unarmored chest and cruelty was the honed apex of a blade; I knew which one I had to be for my god. 

The words the two spoke went past me, water parting about a stone, smoke adrift. Only when Mackenzie turned and said, “brave boy,” I let my head rise and held back laughter.

Bravery was for heroes; I was not one.

“Capitol loves volunteers. You any good with a weapon?”

A nod was given at that; my hands carried ridges and callouses from the hours of carving wood into deadly marvels, threading bowstrings. “My family kept our bellies full through hunting,” I said, my huntress mother and the moon on her shoulder radiant in the back of my eyelids. He said ‘threat’ with the cadence of a worry, but I let the edges of my mouth curl. “Let them see us as threats,” my eyes leapt from his face to the girl’s, “being feared is much better than being marked as a target—

the predators rule a forest, not the prey.”

When the girl spoke, she bristled with deprecation, tone as sour as overripe fruits, words double-edged. She did not handpick her own destiny as my family had for my own; no, she was flung into this, wild-eyed and gasping, her world capsized by the ravening, cruel tides of fate.

She was bitter about it, rightfully so.

“So, going for the threatening approach, eh?” she said, “threatening as in stomp all big and mean like the Twos do, or threatening as in chop the heads off of every Avox I lay eyes upon?” My eyes gleamed with amusement; I let out a honeyed chuckle. “But for real - I'll take any advice you're willing to give and commit it to memory.”

I was exhausted of the sugar; the honey glazed over the rot. Mackenzie had yet to tell us about the real workings, only alluded to it through carefully-hidden words. “What Mr. Pryce hadn’t told us, is how the killing's done in there.” Shoulders lurched forward; my eyes were bright mouths, eager to devour whatever discreet sentiment or hidden memory that was bound to arise and wring his face.

How much guilt did he feel afterwards?

Hadn't the memories withered already?

That was another trait that separated us—he saw humans as vessels of grand stories and friendship, as companions; I considered us as anomalies. If I could wear the bark of a tree, or the silver face of a lake instead of this sun-burnt flesh that scraped and burned and stank, I would. But, my question had flowered from a place of curiosity also, because the beasts I’d hunted and passed on in the forests were not humans. Their throats squawked only cries, no pleas or begs for mercy.

Humans were not feral, though I wished they would be.

My winter eyes skittered over to the girl once more, at her smooth and polished face. “Have you killed before?” I queried, trying to envisage her hands to be as red-stained as my own. I effortlessly could; it was a rhetoric question because every human knew murder, our hands that had squashed ants, our feet with the carcass of moths and flies. It flowed in our veins and was consigned to our history books; it dwelt in our hearts and swam in our heads.

Murder in a competition such as this one had always been a form of survival; to kill another was to save oneself.

But to me, it was more than that—

murder was a form of worship because though half-god were content with burnt incense and sprigs of wildflowers,

real gods ravened blood.