future rust, future dust. | saffron.

[✨ zozo.]

SAFFRON

It only made sense that they would call upon the victor who had lost the most. Blue had dressed her up as plainly as he could, at her request. "Remember when I wore black for a while?" she'd asked, staring at her exhausted reflection in the mirror and counting her ghosts. Blue just nodded. "Say no more."

The Justice Building had had a fresh coat of paint, a clean, new floors. Reggie had warned her in advance, thank Ripred, that the whole thing would be a bit of a sick show but it was best not to wear heels. Saffron obliged, standing in the hall with boots on hoping she wouldn't trip, or faint, or both, wishing desperately for Mace's presence. She had to remind herself that he couldn't hold her hand through everything, that she wasn't a child, that she had to be a big girl sometimes. Snow, of course, reminded her every day.

There were cameras, for television and print. Blue fussed over her, dusting at her coat and readjusting hair clips - he'd become a doting, if not comfortable presence - these past few years. She'd be sad to see him go when he did. Gathered around the room were District folk important enough to attend, eager to be the first to witness the new Hunger Games Museum. A flashy Capitolite with green hair and a microphone ran over lines and shuffled a camera operator a few inches to the left. Chaos - but a quieter chaos than she'd expected. 

"Now it's very easy," Blue said to her as he stepped back to admire his handiwork. "They'll do most of the work. Reggie told you what to expect, yes?"

"Yes," Saffron barked back, wringing her fingers nervously. 

"Good, so we've had a word and they won't bring up the girls-"

The girls. Oh fuck, the room warped, she might vomit-

"- then someone had the genius idea to bring up you!"

"M-me?" It didn't make sense. She was-

"But I'm not dead?"

"Oh, yes, and thank goodness for that" said Blue, who was now silently judging the man with green hair getting miced up in the corner of his eye. "They've still got your file, though."

"It's rather adorable," whispered Blue - but she'd already been scooped up and thrown in front of a camera.

The green man beamed and made the crowd giggle, flicking through the machinery like he'd done it a thousand times. Saffron blinked and smiled along, pressing a button when she was told, dysphoric, pixels whirring to life in front of her expecting to meet her mirror image.

The crowd gasped - perhaps it hadn't worked - but a streak of orange caught the corner of her eye and that forced her gaze down. There, clear as day, stood

Quinn?

"Howdy," blinked the tiny girl. "Who are you?"

The crowd chuckled at that. 

"I-"

It took her a moment to step back and form words. She drank in the little girl no taller than her elbow, deep brown eyes that searched for answers. Her nails were trimmed down short, a little scar jutting out from where her hair tucked behind her ear. All fringe and frayed clothing, grit and survival, a feather in her hair. A chain around her neck.

Her own fingers found her collarbones, searching for a ghost. A memory.

"I'm you."

"Really?" asked the small girl, brushing scraggly strands of hair out of her eyes. "Hmm." She wasn't convinced.

"And that's not all folks," a bleep, a fingerprint, the girl in a taupe dress and worn-out boots stood famished and bleeding with her fringe matted with dirt and blood. Dressed in green and red, a number 10 stamped on the shoulder of her shirt and a flail sat clasped tightly around her little hands.

Her own hand, her good hand, found her lips. The rest of the room gasped with her.

"If you're me," asked the girl, asked Saffron, "then why's your hair yellow?"

In the time it took for her fingertips to subconsciously find her coloured hair, a mirror of her former self clutched burnt sunlight and the room expanded. Not this. Not this. Not this not this place not this place not Lucy not this.

They stood in a snow field, a giant ice cube in the distance - little Saffron's hand vanishing as quickly as she had appeared. She felt it before she saw it, the cold. The chills. The ice. Her hand slicing from her wirst at the merciless blade of Lucy Peverell's sword. The way it screamed. The way she had screamed.

"I...."

"What are you hiding from, Saffron?"

The arena swallowed itself and they stood in the room once more. People around them applauded, and then little Saffron vanished with her question hanging in the air and people rushed forward so desperate to try out their new toy and Blue took her hand gently and led her away.

"Well done," he mused quietly in an empty hallway. Saffron found a bench and sat down, exhaling with everything she had, white hot knuckles clutched around the lip of the seat.

"You did well. Better than I thought."

"Blue?"

Her friend blinked. "Yes?"

"I think I'm over blonde hair."

That made him smile.

"Come," he coaxed, gesturing with his hand. "Let's stop hiding."