intermission || katelyn & beck training center

[[nyte]]

b e c k .

"when the lights come down,
got an empty crown"

Once upon a time, he'd found the Capitol devastatingly beautiful. Long before his first story ended and he was just a boy not unlike a sparrow, proud to have slipped from between the bars of his cage. He'd looked upon this landscape of incomprehensible wealth and thought it a garden of eden. He thought he'd found freedom.

It was safe to say he'd learned his lesson since then. All that's left of his childish delusion is a synthetic floral scent seems to cling to the atmosphere, stinging his sinuses and managing to worsen the headache that has been building right behind his eyes since arrival. Beck Hailsham had once again found himself at the heart of glitz and gore and very much wanted to go home.

The Training Center didn't look any different this side of the Games and he feels almost foolish for thinking it might. The tribute's faces still look like his, all soft edges and stolen youth.

He'd spent the ride over doing what he does best: puffing out his chest and spitting lies so certain he almost believes them. (Me and Anatalia are careers, yeah? At the very least you're starting with a leg up on the lower districts!) His smile had been bright, meant to mask the guilt that came with just how relieved he was to be sitting shoulder to shoulder with strangers. His old friends were safe, though he didn't know if they still bore the weight of the Hailsham name. Arie Krigel was safe, he wouldn't have to come home to Leon stinking of his daughter's flesh and blood.

It's an exhausting act, one he's struggling to keep up while lagging behind Anatalia and offering an occasional quip to lighten the mood. Strangers or not, he still wants to bring them home and that fucking sucks. Every time he catches a stay gaze it breaks him down a little more. It's a miracle he's managed to keep his smile in place and it's sickening just how fast it fades after they've turned away.

Dominic Merluccius, it's hard not to see himself mirrored in the boy. A different face, a different name but a similar resignation to the inevitable. Perdita Leto, who had saved Arie. There's something unsettling about her, he's worried about what might have inspired this particular act of heroism. It takes guts to volunteer over a household name or merely a blatant disregard for your own well-being.

He'd saved a boy too, hadn't he? Beck Hailsham certainly wasn't a saint, so just what did that make her?

As hard as he tries to forget their names he finds them etched in the empty space between his ears. Even when the tributes, his tributes, are out of sight they infect him like an illness that burns bone deep. Every idle thought becomes filled with Dominic and Perdita.

Should he be doing more?

Are twenty-five names much heavier than twenty-three?

A few days have passed since training began in earnest and Beck finds himself in the training rooms more often than not, offering to hold bags of sand as tributes try to cram a lifetime into their last moments. Watching them makes him sick to his stomach, a rolling unease that's become almost unbearable. That's why he does it. He doesn't want to become complacent, let his fear turn him into another one of the pawns he's seen strewn about this chess board.

Beck's going to save Perdita and Dominic. One of them has to come home.

(but you don't really believe that, do you?)

He feels his skin go cold and clammy, vertigo replacing the blood rushing in his ears as he staggers back under the weight of a well-placed kick. "Take over, will you?" He shoves a cloth-lined target into a trainer's hand, ignoring the confused protest that follows as he claps a hand over his mouth and quickly storms out of the room.

(are you ready for two more funerals, Beck Hailsham?)

He thought he was a good liar.

Now he knows he was wrong.

[charade]

k a t e l y n .

You're just like me when I was your age
We all knew better, name it, we've been there

One of the most terrible parts about being a mentor was having to watch the tributes from the other districts. Determine which of them were threats and which of them would probably die at the start. It was sickening, but it was something she had learned how to do. There were only so many sponsors, and those were the people she’d have to convince to send items to Cyro and Arabella. If she was unable to tout the children in her care and hold them up to a potential sponsor, then sometimes her job meant implying that another tribute wasn’t worth spending any money on.

And she hated it herself for it.

There was an alarming amount of volunteers for the quell. Fully half of the tributes. The most concerning ones were Emmett Le Roux and Will Johnwayne. Both came from career families. Strong families that had a history with the games. That wasn’t to say that the other careers weren’t dangerous, but these were the ones she expected to get the high training scores and quickly soak their hands in their competitor’s blood. It’d be her job to make sure that blood didn’t belong to her tributes.

As she wrestled with the contradictions in her head., she watched the newest victor struggling to train his tributes, she felt a pang of guilt. Beck Hailsham reminded her of Annie. A victor from a career district that was out of his depth. The look he wore on his face wasn’t calculating. Wasn’t indifferent. It was the face of someone who was trying their best to be the person they were expected to be and drowning in the process. She supposed the smart thing to do for her tributes would be to let him sink. But as Margaret had told her all those years ago, she had too much heart, and it was her downfall.

She couldn’t just stand by when there was someone in need. When there was someone that needed a life jacket. Beck excused himself from the trainer and stormed away, his nerves fraying and his hand over his mouth. Because of that, she could guess. Because of that, she knew. She could have gone for the niceties, asked him if he was alright when he clearly wasn’t. Smiled at the little white lie he probably would have responded with.

But sixteen years after the cold, Katelyn no longer wanted to dance around issues, pretend because it was easier. Life had taught her to be straight and to the point. Too much time was wasted on smiling to hide the pain, too much pain held inside because it was inconvenient; because it could be dealt with later. It had always been later, and then it had hurt all the more when the bandage finally came off.

So she detached herself from the wall she'd been leaning on and grabbed a pair of energy bars off the refreshment table, hoping he liked chocolate or cinnamon and followed him out the door. “Hey. Beck.” She called out, catching up to him. “You should keep your strength up,” she said holding out one of the bars to him. “It’s easy to get overwhelmed by the pressure of all this. I’m Katelyn by the way. It’s nice to formally meet you.”

[[nyte]]

b e c k .

"when the lights come down,
got an empty crown"

Kindness feels different delivered to the foot of his throne. He'd not known much of it before victory. Mercy was not meant for Panem and what miracles she held shouldn't be wasted on a bitter little orphan killing himself for the sake of spite. Sophie leaving him no choice to fall on his blade for her might have been the only real kindness he'd ever known.

He doesn't trust it anymore. Warm smiles look cold and calculating as their eyes carve frozen paths up and down his body, dancing with ideas of how best to use him. Not a light in the darkness - a spotlight. They offer salvation in exchange for another wire wrapped around his wrist.

(Now dance.)

"Hey. Beck." He flinches at the sound on his name, bringing his shoulders up to his ears as though that might protect himself from the sound. She comes up beside him but it's a few moments before he can gather the strength to look at her. Simple things take so much courage these days. "You should keep your strength up.".

And there it is. Charity, generosity, pity. He looks at the energy bar like it's something foreign, trying to decipher what poison Katelyn's hidden beneath the wrapper. He looks up at the sun from a precipice, toes edging over a cliff face and it's so tempting to stay here. Alone and broken because he's known how to do that all his life.

Too bad he's weak enough to trust her.

Muttering a quick "Thanks." He turns the gift over in his hand a few times before tearing into the packaging and taking a quick bite. The appreciative rumble of his stomach helps him realize just how weak and hungry he'd let himself become. "I'm Beck." He responds on instinct to her greeting before stumbling over his tongue at the realization - "But uh, you already knew that."

He cringes at his own hollow laugh. "Sorry about rushing out, I musta looked kinda dumb huh?" His gaze flits from the half-eaten food to Katelyn to the floor. "Did it ever make you mad?" He worries his lip between his teeth, tasting dirt and gunmetal mixed in with the chocolate. The Arena never really left him, not in the year he's been away.

"Kids are gonna die. They're gonna hurt like we did. We can pretend, but we're not helping them."

This all feels terribly dangerous. The walls have eyes and ears and tongues eager to taste dirty little secrets. Threats tied up in silk and satin are the language of the Capitol. Dissent is a death sentence for many but even more so for a Victor who'd received such generous endorsements during his Games. A savage career makes for the perfect victor. Sure he sits pretty and plays the part but that's not enough to stop the words from falling out of his mouth before he can think better of it.

"Sometimes I wish I was brave enough to really try to save them."

[charade]

k a t e l y n .

You're just like me when I was your age
We all knew better, name it, we've been there

“But you already knew that.”

He apologized for running out of the training center, and she smiled good-naturedly, letting him talk. He was upset, as he should have been. There’d be another twenty-three coffins going back to the districts in a few weeks. Kids were going to die in pain, in confusion, and all the training in the world wouldn’t help when they were staying death in the face.

“Did it ever make me mad?” she wondered aloud, thinking about little Carrita Nessage’s body being desecrated by that bitch from twelve. About Jacob and Kass being forced to fight each other. Rex standing over Arianna’s corpse. The ever-growing number of headstones in the tribute graveyard bearing the name Izar. “Everyone deals with this differently.” she said instead. While she knew the Capitol had eyes and ears everywhere, the training center was more watched than most.

She studied his face, the slump of his shoulders. The way his cheeks were drawn like he’d forgotten how to smile. Maybe he had. After coming home, she hadn’t smiled until the moment the last cannon sounded in the seventieth, giving her a miracle in the form of Kirito Miristioma. Beck was young. So young. Still tossed about by the whims of an unforgiving public as they crafted an identity for him.

That was the worst part. Forgetting who you were. Having to find yourself again.

“You’re here,” she said after a moment, smiling kindly. “You’re trying, instead of quietly fading into the background. That’s brave, even if you feel like you’re faking it.” Sometimes she wondered what would have become of her if Kirito hadn’t come home that first year. That first quell. She’d felt like she was faking it up until that point, holding everything in, letting the ice coalesce around her heart. “I don’t fault you for running out here. It’s unnerving, the first year back. Because they don’t get it. They watched you fight and kill and bleed and they cheered. Expect you to help someone step into your shoes before you've even figured out how to get the bloodstains off.”

And a victor like Beck more so. A career in name if not in spirit. He reminded her of Annie. Of Opal when she was younger.

“Right now you’re the newest victor. All eyes on you.”

It had taken around five years for the eyes to stop following her, but then, most victors didn’t have back to back successes at the start of their career as a mentor. Or loudly voiced their displeasure with the Capitol when they were a teenager. The trauma was a different matter. She’d gotten over the pain from her games, or so she liked to think. But there’d been plenty of trauma after that as well that she was still trying to work through.

“The spotlight will fade in time,” she said quietly. “As long as you don’t give them a reason to keep watching.” she paused, not wanting to scare him off. But some things needed to be said. Beck looked miserable, and he wasn't going to be any help to his tributes."But the knife in your gut? the pressure behind your eyes and panic in your chest?" she sighed. "Well, like I said. Everyone deals with this differently."

[[nyte]]

b e c k .

"when the lights come down,
got an empty crown"

It's unnerving to hear all of his fears fall off her tongue. They sound sweeter than candied lies but are no more comforting. Pulling punches was a luxury for those who had been through far less than they. Unshed tears sting the back of his eyes but Beck is quick to blink them away, pressing his palm hard into the socket like a child with blood trickling down freshly scraped knees.

don't cry, don't cry, don't cry He takes a shaky breath and bears a smile he hopes is bright enough that she doesn't notice he can't bring himself meet her eyes. "And here I was hoping you'd tell me it gets better."

Beck doesn't know much about families past the fairy tales he'd once woven in his dreams back at the orphanage. They weren't much different than this, he realizes. Warmth and comfort offered for no reason other than someone cared he was hurting. That little boy desperately wishing upon dusk's first star for a family to call his own had no idea just what he'd go through to find the ghost of one. Made up of old skeletons and tarnished gold.

Katelyn speaks of a waiting game. The Capitol will grow bored of him once he's all used up. The thought is unnerving. The Eighty-fourth hunger games is destined to be another of many discarded playthings. Their names, their faces - the ones that he can still recall so clearly - will become obscure artifacts pawned off to games enthusiasts. As useless to Panem as they had been before their Reaping. So was the fate of Katelyn's ghosts, so will be the fate of the next Victor's.

He'd made Walter a promise as he lay dying, one that probably meant nothing to the boy he'd just slaughtered but everything to Beck Hailsham.

I won't let them forget us.

It sounds foolish in retrospect. "Does it even help bringing someone home?" Dominic and Perdita were a lighthouse among a storm of troubled thoughts. He can't rid himself of their presence, fear and resentment coiling amidst concern and sympathy. They looked to him like he'd done something right in that arena. Starving and scared, a murderer half-mad and bending beneath the weight of everything he'd done to survive.

Either one of them comes to understand just what he is or he faces both of their families with empty condolences. "I'd never even seen them before the Reaping, why does this hurt so bad? I shouldn't care about them." He's angry, he's exhausted, he's full of wounds he refuses to let heal and sweet memories that are just old enough that rot has set in.

He doesn't mean it, but it feels damn good to say. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life with a knife in my gut! I just wanted to fucking survive!"

The outburst knocks the air out of his lungs and he struggles to regain composure. It's not Katelyn's fault. Hell, she's trying to help him. He's a little boy lashing out at whatever's nearest in the hope that it'll keep him from caving in. "Will they ever let us stop hurting?" He finishes weakly.

[charade]

k a t e l y n .

You're just like me when I was your age
We all knew better, name it, we've been there

With every year that passed, Katelyn saw the same scene play out again and again. Another teenager put through the grinder and losing pieces of themselves in the machine.  She could have told him that it gets better.

Because it can. It does. It did.

It’s just that it can get worse again too. She let him rant, lets him pour out his pain as she gathered it in the cup of her heart. It wasn't not a choice, not really. She had to figure this shit out on her own, all alone, and she can’t let someone drown when she could cast them a line. He wasn’t the first young victor she’d tried to give a helping hand to, and it was doubtful that he would be the last.

“I just wanted to fucking survive!”

There were cracks in his armor, and she could see that they were bleeding.

But truer words were never spoken. I just want to survive; she’d told herself after cutting off Dillon’s leg. I just want to survive; she’d told herself as Chaske wheezed and choked by her side. I just want to survive; she’d screamed internally as her ice pick determined that Margaret Dubois had had a heart after all.

One large enough to hit.

It’s a lot of questions. Questions a half a dozen victors younger than her have asked before. Questions she used to think she had the answers for. But the world kept spinning, and while the games never changed, people did. Why did it hurt, trying to take care of complete strangers? Because being a victor meant you knew exactly what they were about to face.

How many people other than herself remembered Alexis Rhondal or Pixie Ruined as anything other than a statistic? Their families, sure. Games nerds and historians. But they didn’t breathe the same air. Didn’t stain the same snow with their blood. Didn’t get left behind when she came home. She remembered what it was like in those early years, how hard it was not to feel the chill in her bones.

There were dozens of children in the graveyard in eleven now, dozens that she’d failed. But the numbers were uneven because there were three times that she hadn’t. Two men that had become as family to her. And—

Even as much as Kass disliked her, she was glad the little firecracker was alive.

“No,” she said bluntly. “They won’t stop picking at your scabs. But it does get easier. Time heals all wounds, though—“ she thought about Patricia. About Annie. And then about Mace and Saffron. Kirito.

“Some people’s wounds take longer to scar over than others.”

She put a comforting hand on Beck’s shoulder, looking him in the eye.

“You survived, now for what comes after.” With her free hand, she softly tapped the middle of his chest with a finger. “You care; that’s good. Because the arena can take your blood. Can take a hand, your tears, your friends. But if they didn’t take your heart, it means you’re stronger than you think.”

She sighed, taking her hand off his shoulder. “And to answer your first question, it does help.” Helped to have someone from home in your corner. Helped you feel like you weren’t a complete failure. “It doesn’t make it worth it. But it helps.” She stared at him, reading the pain in his eyes. She’d heard the hitch in his voice when he’d asked if the hurting ever stopped. “I know we don’t know each other. But I do know what you’re going through right now.” And she knew what she’d needed but hadn’t gotten when she’d had to mentor Kirito that first year back.

All those years ago.

“It’s not your fault, you know. None of it is.“

She hoped she wasn’t overstepping any boundaries, but she took a step forward and opened her arms for a hug.

“Hey,” she said, her eyes full of understanding. “Come here.”