scarlet loathing || d4 train thread

[[nyte]]

 beck hailsham

His smile is sandpaper, all blood that seeps between his teeth before he spits it into the sink. "Fuck." He presses a hand to the split in his lip, leaning into the pain that causes because that's all they've ever taught him to do. Memories linger in the cramped washroom, Turner's eyes intense as they bore into the back of his neck. He hears Nanette laugh somewhere in the distance, an artifact from before he watched her forget how. Beck Hailsham is always the first to the train because he loves to greet its ghosts.

The mirror is soothing when he leans his forehead into it, exhaustion has him burning feverish as of late. So full of restless flame that it's a wonder he still manages to look this sallow. The skin beneath his eyes is kissed a dark blue that even foundation cannot obscure completely, Sailor had been sure to gripe. Though that small, scared part of him screams in protest, he lets his eyes slide shut and counts the precious seconds where nothing exists at all.

3

2

1

It always hurts to open his eyes, he hates looking at himself. Dim lighting is excruciatingly bright and his gaze is so, so dull.

He grips the counter with white knuckles and forces another smile. This one is cleaner. He can face them now.

Not that he had much of a choice.

---

He feels pity for the boy, Bubby. There was too much mourning when his name was called, that pregnant pause that waits for greedy little volunteers, and when none came it all collapsed. In on him and anyone else who gave a damn about him. There's a foggy memory - one Beck is actively trying to push from his mind's eye - of Bell standing on that stage and of just how small he felt looking up at her from the crowd.

It's a wonder that in all these years, nothing ever changes. Tragedy repeats itself, a broken record that skips all the sweet melodies.

Areto is electric, a thundercloud heavy with its next breath. He'd have admired her if this was five years ago and he was still a sixteen-year-old fool who believed strength is what made a good career. There's an ethereal beauty to her, one that will grab the attention of her sponsors and peers alike. He believed in so many tributes like her and then he watched them die.

But he smiles at them when they arrive, gesturing at the empty seats beside him. In spite of himself, it's not entirely false. It's a terrible thing to board this train and find yourself completely alone.

"Do we start with the depressing shit, or would you like to sample the sushi platter first?"

The words taste metallic, he must be bleeding again.

[tick 12a / calla]

A R E T O

► ► ►

Beck looks like shit when they all sit down. Areto watches him settle into his own skin with a sharp sort of judgment. This is the boy who won the games, a piece of Four's apparent pride, and Areto doesn't find herself feeling terribly impressed.

Bubby is still sniffling beside her, for reasons that Areto doesn't fully understand, and the strain in Beck's smile when he looks at them makes her wonder if she should be crying too.

She's not quite sure what she expected. More grandiosity maybe. More pomp and circumstance. The Justice Building had been nothing more than an opportunity to soothe her steady nerves, and if the Keepers thought it was strange that she didn't have any visitors, they didn't say anything. Areto had said all of her goodbyes on the island already. She'd held her mothers' hands and told Klonie to keep her chin up. She'd stood in the salt spray before she left and promised Lysippe that no matter what happened, she would hold herself strong.

She holds herself strong in that carriage now, watching Beck Hailsham in the same way a falcon watches a mouse.

The Amazon in her wants to dismiss him. It tells her that she doesn't need his opinion or help and that she'd much rather be talking to someone like Anatalia. But the healer in Areto wants to force Beck into a cocoon of blankets and give him something warm to drink. And to find a poultice for that split lip.

But Areto bites back both of her instincts and sits up straighter instead. She has Deianeira's pride, but she has Melousa's heart as well, and that means that for this brief moment, she is not above hearing the advice of a mainland boy.

"I want to know about the careers," She says. Because it's a strange and foreign concept. She's heard humours of their deadliness and their ferocity, but she's heard stories of their cockiness too. "Where I come from, we don't train like them. I want to know what to expect."