penance of the damned // mohamed + babe {victory tour, d9}

[lance]

m o h a m e d .

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

It's a twisted, twisted thing, being forced to stand in front of the entire lifeforce of a district and talking up the feats of those that died in your place.

You remember those from years past. Watched as Adder from Two, Babe from Nine, and yes, Samiyuq from Five all stood on the stage of Five, spoke of the bravery and honorable sacrifice of the five that had fallen in their place. For them, it had been a position of honor, the courageous warrior that had defied the odds, committed the right amount of murder and possessed the right amount of luck to survive.

Not so with you. Maybe it's your age, maybe it's the circumstances of your win, but this time something's different. Twelve stared up at you with unrest. Eleven barely disguised their anger. And Ten, the instigator's home - or Paloma, as you later learned her name was - bored through your soul with something akin to hatred.

And here you were, in Nine. The fourth of your twelve prepared speeches freshly over and done with, giant banners of the girl and boy - Vanya and Nocte - flanking you on either side, their families standing as representation for the two sent to die. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Nine's sole victor standing on the stage, back and to the left a ways. It is new, different, unlike the emptiness of the previous three districts. Somewhere in the back of your mind as you read from the script placed in front of you, you wonder how terrifying Adder of Two is in person. Whether Samiyuq will be a comfort back in Five or a stone wall.

Your speech finishes, the fourth time etching the patterns of routine into your conscious. And if there is unrest, anger, hatred in this crowd, you cannot find it. This crowd remains deathly silent, concealing its true intentions. You swallow audibly, fully aware of the stutter that had butchered every fourth word in your speech, fully aware of the quaver of your hands, so unlike a killer, so unlike a victor.

To your right, Nocte's banner flaps in the wind, the gigantic rendition of his face glaring at you as if with contempt, as if reminding of the words you'd shared in the last few seconds. As if reminding you of the promise broken on the bloody sands of the arena.

Together, you'd uttered. Until the end.

But the end came and went, and there was no together anymore. Only one scared little boy and twenty three corpses rotting in the sun.

The flashy escort whose name you haven't bothered to remember dismisses you from the stage, and you're only dimly aware of the silence that weighs the air in your absence, only dimly aware of the footsteps that follow you away from the scrutiny of ten thousand judgmental gazes.

How convenient it must be for those left behind in the arena. In death, the consequences of your actions are no longer your problem. But in life - oh, in life, they remain a specter that haunts over you forever.

Not for the first time, you envy them.

But, you're used to dealing with the burdens of the dead as the last one standing of the living. So in the brief privacy between the speech and the obligatory dinner that must follow, where Nine's delicacies and decadence will be laid out in a feast before you while the rest of the country starves, you swallow your fear, stop, and turn to face Nine's victor - Babe Adroxis, winner of the last Games, but a proper winner - killer of three, including his own district partner and a boy from your very own home. A proper victor, as the damned escort had reminded you more than once - one who had earned their title instead of having it granted to them on a golden platter.

In truth, this was not entirely spontaneous. Apologies were not a part of your speech. It was unbefitting of a victor, they'd said, to apologize for the glorious honor that they'd been granted, act as if the luck of winning was a burden instead of a privilege. To apologize was to squander your gift, to lower yourself to the level of those that didn't deserve it.

What a load of bullshit.

So maybe you couldn't apologize to each individual family of your fallen brethren for living while their children died. Maybe you couldn't apologize to the eleven districts who had engaged passively in resistance and had nothing to show for their efforts. But you could apologize here and now, to one person.

And one person was a hell of a lot better than zero.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, not trusting the waver in your voice to remain restrained should you raise your voice any higher, not trusting the tears in your eyes to not flood if you lift your gaze above his waist. "I'm sorry. I know Nocte was-I mean, I know he could have-"

Why apologize anyway, the escort had asked. You had lived, the others had died. Why should you apologize for the gift of life? Especially when you hadn't even had to work for it like the others had?

Because, you'd fumed silently. You hadn't done your best. You hadn't done what you could to keep the others alive. Names rattled around in your brain - Coal and Piper, Dustin and Nannette, Séui Ngàhn and Paloma, Nocte and Vanya,, your district partner, your protector - Sage - and so many others that you couldn't name but would no doubt permanently tattoo into your brain once you'd heard them. You'd formed a pact, the twenty four of you - resist the Capitol's tyranny or die trying - and instead of sticking to that binary, choosing one or the other, you'd meekly submitted like a coward. Like a traitor.

"He-" And the guilt, the fear, always lurking at the back, surges forth, wrapping twin hands around your throat that all but choke you. "He deserved to be here." More than me, the silent implication adds.

They all did. From Twelve to One and back again, they all did. They'd died heroes, while you had lived and became the traitor.

And that was a curse unforgiveable. To apologize - for your actions, for your inadequacies, for your life - was the least you could do as penance.

elegant

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

His fingers tug at his hood, eyes more tired in the mirror than he thought they'd be. If they're a little bloodshot it's because he was up a little late, neck bent over a table deep in the basement of Adroxis Ammunitions. Burma had too many good points, told him just why his planning wasn't going to work.

It's left him sour this morning, mind tugging on all the threads that Burma'd pulled loose. It's a lot easier thinking about that shit than the knowledge that he's going to meet the new victor today. Some kid from Five, and that's not the intimidating part. It's the fact that the kid's from a group that didn't bend, refused to fight each other until the Capitol had to figure out a way to kill them all off.

It was more than could be said for himself and his group. Sure, in the end, all of them are dead anyway, but Babe has blood on his hands. He's a murderer, nothing he does now can change that. All the planning, the stand-ofs, and the arms he's been sending to other rebellion cells across Panem don't act as penance.

He's a killer and he knows that.

Mohamed can still wash his hands of all of it. There's no balance to repay, he can live a life apart from all of that. Except there's nothing like nearly dying to wake a man up.

Babe watches Mohamed's crowning, eyes on the way that they handle him. There's less care there, or fear maybe. Babe had made his whole victory tour at gunpoint, escorted from the train to the district square, handcuffs keeping him civil.

But to be fair, he'd killed three kids.

Nine is silent, watching this kid stumble through meaningless words. Babe figures that Mohamed is a year or so younger than him but he feels younger than that. That isn't good, they'll eat him alive so quickly if they smell that on him.

The District looks grimy as ever from the stage, half the crowd dirty from a long shift at the factories. Most probably just want to get home for a bit of shut-eye before work. He remembers this vaguely from last year, except the statue erected in the Square's fountain is new. Babe carefully avoids looking at it.

The kid's done talking soon enough, which is good, Babe has never liked being on a stage and there's been far too many in the last year. Samiyuq is lucky at least, with Mohamed they probably won't be required anymore, like passing the baton or something. He watches the crowd disperse idly, wondering which one of them will be reaped next go.

If there is one, he corrects himself after a moment. There's a reason they haven't laid their weapons down yet. There's a reason Burma and him have been up planning all night long. They're going to end this, right?

No other children should have to die.

Babe follows the procession off of the stage, not really looking forward to the dinner to follow. It isn't that he doesn't want to talk to Mohamed, it just doesn't feel good to sit there and be expected to stuff himself while people are starving just out the door. Like most things after becoming a victor and therefore becoming other, it feels more like a punishment than a prize.

Babe doesn't want the responsibility of having to explain to Mohamed that he's no longer a human being, just an entity, an idea even. It's been a long time since anyone looked at Babe and treated him normally, been a long time since he could just go to the market and grab something. People moved out of his way in the street, fell silent when he came near.

He's not a boy anymore, not even Babe Adroxis. He's something else entirely.

"Look kid, I-" he starts when Mohamed stops him but then he pauses, there's something in the other boy's face. Babe glances at the back of the escort and their peacekeeper escort. Jesus, they really aren't worried about Mohamed it seems. Babe's mouth twists down into a slight frown of annoyance. Where the fuck was that apathy last year?

"I'm sorry."

Babe sighs and digs in his pocket for his cigarettes. He's been trying to quit, something about wanting to live long enough to see his grandkids or something. Somehow Babe doubts that he's going to get that far.

"Are you trying to apologize for living? Kind of fucked up, kid," he says and gets his cigarette lit on the first try. He lets it hang there for a moment and glances over at the escort again. She's seemed to just notice that the both of them haven't followed. There's something wild though about the way she just stares at the both of them, waiting, as if she's the one working for them.

Babe's never really been a man of many words but his second near-death experience has twisted something in him. He's not the sad kid from the year before, with no hope and no plan. He's not so powerless anymore.

"Yeah, sucks about Nocte but only one of you was going to get out anyway," he continues, and offers the cigarette briefly to Mohamed before changing his mind. "That whole stunt was cool," he says, lowering his voice slightly, "People are talking about organizing again."

It's been a few years since anyone was really gung-ho about the rebellion, Babe was one of the last to want to try. He's lost everyone to the rebellion, but there's something in him, in his blood maybe that keeps him fighting.

Babe starts walking towards the escort again, eyes focused ahead, "No use getting hung up, they're dead and you're alive and that's all that matters now."

God it's so easy to sound cool when he's not busy being a hypocrite. He pushed his sword through September's chest again last night, the nightmare woke him and gave him the sunrise through his window.

"Want to apologize? Live for them, all of them."

Shit, he's got to get more flowers for Xim.

table by dars

[lance]

m o h a m e d .

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

Babe Adroxis is not quite what you were expecting. There's a certain air about him that just exudes confidence, like someone who's really gotten their shit together and knows exactly what they're doing in the world.

And why shouldn't he? He's had a year to get through this, had a year to recover from the wounds of the arena. And the difference was he chose this. He fought and bled and, yes, killed to get his way here. Every swing of his blade was in accordance with the Capitol's game, not in defense of the others but in pursuit of their ends. Like Adder, like Samiyuq, Babe fought to be here. He wasn't handed that gift, that curse of life on a silver platter like you were.

Perhaps that's why he's so sure of himself. To have the steel to decide to cling onto life so damn tightly that you're willing to do the unthinkable before you loosen your grip must take an insane amount of confidence.

If you'd had that same confidence, then you'd already be ashes on the arena by now, committed to a sacrilegious death just like your sister Fatima. But she'd done that without hesitation, without fear, to save you and Ahmed way back when. Why hadn't you called upon that same steel, that same fire, to protect Ahmed in her stead?

Babe means comfort, even shares a secret like they were old friends - the old cells were talking of reorganizing again? Would the sacrifice of so many children be avenged? And as he offers you a puff off his cigarette before changing his mind (not that you'd accept anyway, tempting as it might be), you realize that Babe Adroxis reminds you an awful lot of Khaled. That same self-assurance, that same desire to help those he barely knew, even that same flirting with danger and legality even before the Dark Days had blown into all out war.

You're not sure if that thought is a comfort or not.

"Want to apologize? Live for them, all of them."

But that was the thing, wasn't it? You were never supposed to live - not if you wanted your brother to live past his eighteenth birthday. You'd entered the arena, gripped your sword, stood over Sage, formed the pact at the beginning and end alike, all to die a noble, heroic, Capitol-approved death.

And here you were, three steps past your plan without any idea how to proceed.

But if anyone would get it, perhaps it would be this strange boy from Nine who reminded you a little too much of your eldest brother.

"How?" you murmur to Babe's retreating form. Then again, louder. "How?"

And dammit, you'd promised yourself you wouldn't cry, not again, but as your gaze lands around your fresh almost brand-new dress shoes, there's a burning wetness in your eyes nonetheless. "I was supposed to die." And it's cathartic, almost, admitting it out loud for the first time. "Just like my mama and papa and brother and sisters. All to protect me. And when it came time for me to follow their example, to die quietly so my younger brother could l-live." You pause, hiccupping back your tears. "I failed."

You squeeze your eyes shut, angrily wipe away the hot wetness, shake your head as if by doing so you can shake your grief back into the depths of your psyche. "Any one of them would have been better for this. Nocte, Vanya, any one of the others should be here right now, and I should be dead so that my brother would be safe and someone who-who-who just isn't me would be here instead."

And fuck it, you look up at Babe, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now, torn between mortification that you're breaking down in front of a total stranger in an unfamiliar land and a burning hope that maybe he can help piece together all of the fucked up pieces jumbled inside of you. "'nd I shoulda died but I was too much of a coward so now I'm here instead and I don't know how I'm supposed to live."

A beat passes, then another, before realization that you just poured your soul out to this boy you met all of ten minutes ago sinks in.

"'m sorry," you hiccup again, shame burning your cheeks as your gaze once again drops down to glossy black dress shoes. "You didn't ask for this."

elegant