Guy: Because I don’t want to be killed, and I don’t want my friend to be killed either. If giving this stuff up buys us our lives then it’s a cheap price to pay. As I said, it’s not worth dying over. 

Evelyn: That’s very sensible of you, but in a parley, we have to each get something in the parley to agree. You’ll not go after my family and I will spare you and your sweaty friend. Provided that the paper gets lost in the process. My father would appreciate a copy for his archives and that would require something additional of me. What else would you want in return for this tit for tat?

Guy: I had no intention of going after your family or harming them, that’s not my moral code… that was an empty threat in the heat of the moment… I just… I guess I just wanted to frighten you, just like you frightened me with that whole poison dagger thing. You can take it for your father of course… and I guess now we know a lot more about each other and we have an agreement, maybe we could go out now? Get lunch, dinner, coffee? Something like what so-called normal people do?

****

Evelyn: Is that part of the Parley request? If so, then we’re agreed. But if it's actually sex you want, then yes.

Guy: Say what now?

Evelyn: If it is sex that you actually want, then let us just skip the pointless time consuming posturing that comes beforehand. I’m human and I have needs too. 

Guy: Erm well, yeah I want that, that sounds nice… but how do I know you won’t try to kill me?

Evelyn: We’re in the middle of a parley and I’ve countered your offer. If you agree, we handshake and move to somewhere quiet. We do our thing and then go about our night. But I suppose, that’s a risk you’ll have to decide to take or not professor. You’ll just have to trust I will honor the parley. 

****

Guy: Deal. 

Elita: Evelyn and Guy shook on it, and in the background, Grandma Joan facepalmed so hard.

Siblings in Henford 14/15

The next day John walked out to find out where Elita had wandered off to. They had a big day of chores to do before they would meet up with Lyra at the Henford Lot. Cars were not permitted in the city limits, so he planned to walk her to see his mom. He strolled out and started to call for her when he noticed his sheep and goats were tooling around in the yard eating his vegetables. “What are you….” He looked up and paled…he spun around as quickly as he could. “Nope. No. I didn’t see anything. I’m going back to the house.” He walked away while Elita and the Harlan boy made themselves presentable.

A few short minutes later, he saw the boy run back across the street and went out to check on Elita. The awkward silence was palpable, she was quiet, and all John could muster was, “You still have some hay in your hair.”

Elita removes it slowly. "So, I got to ask, how much of my stay are you planning to report back on?"

John said bluntly, "Not a damned thing. I am not going to get any wrath from Mom… You’re old enough to know what you want to do and with who. I just hope that next time you’ll pick the privacy of the guest bedroom or something. I don’t need to see Harlan’s son’s ass. Please tell me you used protection… also I'll get you an ashtray for next time, please don't toss butts about. It could catch fire!"

A look of relief appears on her face. "Yeah well, I guess we got caught up in the moment. Sorry… I thought he had a cute ass." She smiled, thinking about how one day her brother would make a great dad to someone. "And sorry about the other butt too, I guess I was distracted on both."

John wrinkled his nose, “I prefer the female form, personally… but you know what you like, sis. Just next time… if there is a next time, either give me a little warning or put it behind a closed locked door!”

Elita sighed, "I don’t know, I think that was a one off with him. I feel like once is enough and move on."

John looks a bit bewildered “I hope he knows that! I can see that boy pining for the next time you come see me.”

"Next time I'm gonna fuck the other one." She winks at John.

He shakes his head, hands to plug his ears. “Nope… nope… I’m leaving now. I have vegetables to tend!”

"And he believed me... I'm not a hoe John!" She joked.

“Still not listening!!!” He yells. “Get your things ready we’ve gotta meet Mom at the Henford Parking.”

Message to the bird I know your wings will be fine. Spread them on the floor learn to heal it takes time.

I reread your fic where Misha and Devon mess with Claudius with the whole respect your victor sibling thing, and I ended up on a runaway thought train over what jokes they'd play on Other victors. Somehow this led to the idea of them having Alec on about it being a village thing that you wear your mentor's clothes as a sign of respect! It's a tradition! They take time to point out that Devon Is wearing Brutus' sweater at the time.

Of course, this is in the injured Creed au and Callista's outfits are. Those.

oh don't worry i had an INSTANT response to this

-------

“Bonding,” Alec says, instead of the word that immediately comes to mind, which is: Bullshit.

Artemisia and Devon aren’t bad liars, is the thing. Both of them won their Games through manipulation as much as martial prowess, and they’ve turned their skills up to full power for this little prank. They’re holding back the glee, they’re not overselling or going overboard with the sincerity, the delivery really is impeccable.

And, of course, as any trainer would tell you, all good lies contain a hint of truth. Alec has seen half the Village traipsing around in shirts too large for them. Most likely Victors do borrow their mentors’ clothing all the time as unconscious comfort objects, creating the kind of bonding element that the two in front of him are attempting to convince him is part of a formalized ritual.

It’s not their fault Alec was essentially raised in a nonstop bullshit-detection bootcamp since the day Selene learned to speak in sentences.

He could tell them, of course, say Ha ha, nice try and send them off, but then again … what’s the fun in that? They did go to all this trouble. “So what’s the best way to show respect?” Alec says.

“You have to steal it,” Devon says. “That’s part of the ritual. Then when they see you in it they know you went to the trouble to get it.”

That’s probably not the lie, Alec decides once they’re gone. Brutus grouses about Devon nicking his sweaters all the time in a way that’s clearly performative, if he hasn’t asked him to knock it off after over a decade he can’t actually hate it. Village rituals are complex and arcane, and the newbies have to be initiated somehow but they’re definitely hazing him, so the trick is figuring out what part of this is real and what’s meant to be the joke.

Years of dealing with Selene have made Alec eminently practical. He could spend hours trying to puzzle it out, or —

He lets himself into Callista’s and sits on the rug, cross-legged so that the cats can pool into his lap. “Why are Artemisia and Devon trying to trick me into stealing your clothes?”

Callista’s sharp bark of laughter startles Bartleby, who leaps off her shoulders with a disgruntled backwards glance.

“Ohhh,” Alec says, staring at the mind-searing array of outfits in Callista’s walk-in. The organizational arrangement defies description but appears to fall along a vague theme continuum of ‘dancing animals’ to ‘hardcore BDSM’. “I get it now.”

“You cannot convince me these are comfortable,” Alec grumbles as Callista adjusts the last buckle.

“My clothing does not promise comfort, it promises impact,” Callista says, beatific. “Although it should never hurt, darling, let me know right away if anything pinches.”

Alec will cherish several moments in his life — Aunt Julia’s hands patching up his wounds, that night on the roof before Creed entered Residential, seeing his name on the Volunteer list, the clear ring of the victory trumpets — but the absolute dead hush of conversation like an entire plate of cutlery falling to the floor at his entrance to the monthly signing party might top the list, at least right now.

“Hello,” he calls out cheerfully. He saunters over and drops next to Devon and Artemisia, Claudius scrambling away from him as though he’s on fire. “Did I miss anything?”

Petra has a face like she swallowed something sour, her eyes darting back and away from him like she can’t stop staring even though she’d really rather not. “What the fuck are you wearing. Did you lose a bet?”

Alec only smiles wider. “A bet? No. I’m bonding with my mentor just like everyone else. A normal part of Village life. Isn’t that right, mentor?”

Callista, settling down like a gentle cloud next to a delicately and professionally aggrieved Adessa, says, “But of course. I, for one, have never felt closer.”

“You knew,” Artemisia manages finally, accusing.

“Did I?” Alec reaches out and snags a chocolate from the box in front of her. “Did you want me to do something else?”

(Claudius, in a frantic whisper: “What the fuck is happening?”

Brutus: “Don’t encourage them.”)

Artemisia narrows her eyes, but finally points a finger at his face. “You know what? Well played, rookie. But I’ll get you.”

He gives her a Selene smile, sharp with challenge. “Go ahead and try.”

Happy Ides of March to @lorata's Victors: you would have loved finding some old history book and then making Brutus' life hell all day every year.

Exit Interview: Artemisia

For her exit interview Artemisia's prep team curled her hair and pinned tiny daggers to dangle between the ringlets, but Callista's left it loose, wavy and a little bit wild. She looks -- normal, happy, and even better she actually looks eighteen, not like a kid sexed up far beyond her age so the Capitol audience won't feel guilty drooling over her. For the first time since the Reaping, her clothes don't look like they're just waiting for an artistic spray of someone else's blood.

Anyways, I reread Nobody Decent by @lorata for the hundredth time probably and was completely possessed. Happy New Year everyone, may this little Misha bring you good luck!!

how come being a substitute teacher is an incredibly unstable low-paying less-than-full-time job with no benefits and it's still soooo corrupt

Emotional Grounding

@lorata this is for you. It is longer and more ramble than I’d thought it would be, but it does unmistakably include Eibhlin getting Gloria with a taser in defence of her Claudius Esteem Project.

There were so many places in this district that seemed to Eibhlin to be indiscernibly different; if she was to live in this district, she wanted to learn to perceive these differences herself, or at least hazard a guess at them. They’d started at a transport hub, a depot presently under repair, and took the engineer 's advice as to where they might find places in need of help now the worst was on its way to being fixed. Eibhlin took mental notes, as the advice seemed widely applicable. Quarry towns– poorer towns with tradespeople– were used to making do, had people who could do wonders with resources now shared across many districts rather than syphoned to the capital. Transit had been prioritised to get people the supplies and tools and people they needed so the central hubs were mostly under wraps by now. Now it was time to broaden their scope, make sure fresh eyes who hadn’t grown accustomed to the broken glass and missing stairs, could report such issues before people moved in.

Claudius said there was a distinction to be made between this part of the district and that where the victor village was located. “It's just different.”

“I hope you understand that isn't a distinction with a difference to those outside the immediate frame of reference. But if that is all you can provide, then that is sufficient.”

“It's like,” Claudius’s brow furrowed, “I'm not saying it's the same. But you could compare it to the difference between…” He trailed off again. He looked down, taking his time to put his feelings into something more concrete and generalisable.

“It's the difference between District One socialites and the ones from the Capitol,” He said. “Anyone who went through the program, or the academy for them I guess, has something to prove and they killed people. It doesn’t matter how well they hid it and passed the screen and interview training. The Capitol definitely was definitely responsible for deaths, but they never held the knife and saw the blood. You can't say that about district one. They've got more to prove, if they want to be the rich people on TV even for a moment.”

Eibhlin blinked rapidly, taking that information in and trying to contextualise it with the prefabricated houses that she had begun to notice. More facsimiles of each other than bearing any resemblance to those where Claudius and Brutus and Lyme all lived.

“Houses, more than homes.” She summarised.

Claudius shoved his hands into his pockets. “I guess? If that’s a distinction with a difference.”

Eiblhin nodded, gently knocking her elbow against Claudius’s, before they set off together. It incensed her, that Claudius could have been so dismissed that he believed himself stupid. He’d picked up concepts and aphorism metaphor like any Career tribute might pick up an unfamiliar blade: deliberate, thorough, and landing on his feet.

Here in this affluent but not wealthy area, there had clearly been looting. It was not so bad as in the Capitol, or in the districts where Tesserae hadn’t been a safe bet. Unless Eibhlin was mistaken, there was a more targeted approach to it, too. There were windows missing panes, trellises made to serve as ladders, and breaking under the strain, certainly, but there was far less damage for damage’s sake, no charred rose bushes nor beheaded topiary.

“It’s mostly salvageable,” Claudius agreed when she brought it up.

“In that case, we can likely focus on the cellars, the gardens, and those initial homes that extensions were tethered to, for repair, and the rest for salvage.” Eibhlin had taken notes when the engineers spoke.

Claudius nodded. “Yeah, and to the south east of here, there was that development with the asbestos recall order. I don’t think we should go out that way, not without masks.” Clearly, notebook or no, Claudius had been paying attention.

“I’ll suggest that to the engineers, we do not have any with us, and honestly, District two might not have any at this stage. Maybe we could requisition a team and personal protection equipment from Five?”

Claudius nodded. “Eight, too, with all the chemicals in dyes they probably know about that kind of thing.”

Eiblhin nodded, taking note and cementing it on her to-do list. “With that in mind, we should plan for for 4 or so hours, and head back, to make the train while having covered the most ground in thorough detail.”

The day was beautiful. The crispness of the autumn air was beautiful, and the deciduous trees that lined the street had started to stir in the breeze, depositing leaves across what had once been diligently kept lawns. Those lawns were less helpful than the fruit trees and herb gardens of other places on the route. Eiblhin kept careful notes, marking them on the digital map the engineers had loaned them. Claudius was better at identifying the plants: his Career days had ensured he knew the more esoteric imports that flourished in the manicured gardens, and something else—perhaps the company of Emory?—ensured he knew the utility of local herbs and weeds for food and medicine.

Every now and then, Claudius would check in with her, and she’d add his observations to the data. It meant they could cover more ground, taking opposing sides of the streets and staying close to call for confirmation. It also meant Eiblhin noticed when Claudius seemed to know what was coming up, where to find fruit trees and older, more welcoming homes. She wasn’t sure that he noticed it himself.

They’d come to stand together under the shade of an old eucalypt, not very old, likely transplanted for swiftgrowing shade in this newer allotment of homes. Claudius pointed out what could be a nest, or perhaps a fallen branch, and Eiblhin was debating internally whether it was better to leave it and wait for the return, or climb up.

A shrill voice cut through the quiet afternoon.

“Are you from the peacekeepers?” It demanded.

Eibhlin whirled around. She didn't mean to reach for her taser. But it was in her hand before she thought about it. Claudius for once was stiffer than she was, his feet coming comfortably into a more steady stance. Eiblhin was sure it was a measure of trust, that he didn’t whip around immediately, allowing her to have his back.

“No such thing anymore.” He said it as though his voice was quiet. It wasn’t, though, pitched to carry across naturalistically.

“Nonsense!” The woman the voice came from was taller than average, To Eiblhin, though likely short by district two's inflated standard. Her nose was pinched tight, her nostrils flaring. Her hair was twisted up in tarnished pins, a style Eibhlin remembered her stylist using for her in the interviews before the Quell. She sounded like she had been born complaining and she didn't intend to stop now. “You–”

Claudius wasn’t stiff, anymore. He turned on his heel, smooth and combat ready. Whatever complaint initially begun deflated as this woman took in Claudius’s face. “You!”

Claudius laughed. It wasn’t like the happy, sudden sounds Eiblhin associated with quiet afternoons, the rabbits, and melodic tunes. This was raucous, wild and unpolished.

“Me.” He confirmed. “I guess neither of us know how to die, huh?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, her shoulders and lips and fists tightening too. “If you're here to gawk, I wouldn't bother. Are you here to make things worse? I wouldn’t doubt it. Selfish boy.” Her voice arced like a live wire. Eibhlin’s hands tightened too.

Claudius’s laughter stopped dead. “Are you still after a house? Pretty sure now’s a worse time. So many traumatised now. Even if there was space for you, I doubt you’d make it through the night.”

Eiblhin saw the flash in this woman’s eyes. Had she sought a village domicile? People could be hard to read, and that seemed absurd.

“I heard the village was bombed and newcomers— well. I didn't hear that you survived. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You are as callous as ever.”

Eiblhin had heard enough. Her taser was still in her hand.

“Like mother, like s—“

Eibhlin lashed out, thrice for good measure.

Later, Claudius will tell her that she reminded him of Adessa, and Eiblin will wonder if that's what she and Betee have in common, that surgical precision in violence, that cold-hearted catharsis, that lets them not only live with Two, but make a home there. But those are thoughts for people who are not clinically deciding exactly when to ground their charge, so whoever this is will live, and there won't be a trial in which Claudius and this woman are entwined again.

Eibhlin didn’t think about anything else until the threat was neutralised, non-lethal.

“Let’s go.” Claudius said quietly.

Eibhlin looked up at him, and he never touched her without asking, and she was relatively sure the same rules would apply to him, should he be reliving any moment connected to the woman still twitching in the street.

“Yes.” She said, walking with him, keeping up with his ground eating stride.

So I’d been working on for the last few months - my Starbucks Pokemon Coffee Master certification!

It’s a course anyone can take on Starbucks Global Academy but only Partners (Starbucks staff) can earn the coveted black apron. The course is rather interesting and I’d recommend it anyone with an interest in coffee.

Anywho I presented a Coffee Tasting to the District Manager to signed me off last week I finally got my own black aprons today. It still feels surreal having finally earned it 🤩

I am on my fucking limit

WHAT THE FUCK-

Lyra: Well he has the keys to the whole kingdom of supernatural doesn't he? Since General Viery was killed by Apex, Tynas is in charge of it all, at least, so I hear. What did he want with you?

Cat: He left three kids at the house for a few hours to guard me and basically blamed me for creating Kali! Granted they were heavily armored kids... but still no older than Elita or Guy at best. The girl, she was atrociously rude... bit of a know it all type. The boys were a bit less so. The Van Richtens, heard of them?

Lyra: Van Richten... I'm sure Guy mentioned that name at some point. And as for blaming you, I hope you told him where to stick that idea. Oh! Guy was interested in some girl whose name was Van Richten, him and John were joking about it a few weeks ago.

****

Cat: Hopefully he stays clear of her. She's more than a pistol. That Tynas, just cut right through me like Kali does. Right to the quick. I recall being pissed and wanting to say something and then suddenly it all just went blank for a moment...and next I see him talking to those kids outside the house. Also, this morning, I went to have a cigarette, and the pack was empty. I was sure I had at least 6 or 7 in the pack when I went to bed last night… Being a smoker can be a bit annoying.

Lyra: I'm not surprised, sounds like that ignorant G-Man really rattled your cage, too used to calling the shots no doubt. Don't listen to him, Cat. What does he know?

Elita: Cat was definitely upset by the whole thing.

Cat: He knew about everything Lyra! Why Kali was with me, my powers... even that I fell into Judith's mind. I never told anyone but you about that!

****

Lyra: It's ok honey, don't get wound up, maybe Bob said something to him about it, though... why…? I can’t imagine that…

Cat: He just got right under my skin... same way she did... and I can't seem to get it out of my head that he's right somehow. I'm going to have to do something with kali one day…

An Interview with a Vampire 7/?

Nickie asks, "Given your unique requirements and potential differences from humans, can you explain how you’ve been able to hide for so long?"

 Jure laughed, "Oh, I must admit, I'm not one to blend in seamlessly with the crowd… But my smug charm and unparalleled confidence will inspire and motivate humans to continually look away… and if that doesn’t work, the I am sure that Bliss will. They would marvel at my abilities while striving to match my effortless excellence."

Nickie circled back to his favorite topic, "Bliss, you’ve mentioned it as your magnum opus. What is it?"

He beams with pride, “That is my precious creation, one that should be hitting the streets soon and then it will be quite easy to find a snack. Perhaps as easy as stepping outside and picking one up, like one would pick up a treat at a vending machine.”

Last question, "In your phone call, you mentioned a warning. What was your warning?"

Jure nods, "Oh, yes... you must have thought it was about Bliss...no my dear. I came to warn you. She’s coming and with her will come many things… none of them are friendly, my sweet chocolate tart.” He smiles, “If you want to survive this madness, you will need to be at your best. You must continue your work. Keep humans aware…”

" Why would you want that? You seem to want us to be cattle?", she replies clearly confused.

Jure looked at her as if she were a naive thing, “For two reasons… Humans have a greater capacity for being amazing now than you did even a hundred years ago. I find that marvelously intriguing. The second is that if none of you survive, there will be no food left for me. So perhaps it’s a bit selfish, but you cannot deny that I deserve to eat."

Nickie frowned, “I don’t know if you deserve to eat humans… speaking from a human perspective. I quite like living and you feed on human blood exclusively do you not?”

Jure smirked, “Sadly I do require human blood, but it does not make me a monster. I have never killed anyone that did not deserve the killing. I take from willing participants, and I never take too much.”

She frowned, “But you can’t say the same for your kin?”

He smiled an eerie toothy grin; she could see his fangs. “Exactly, you understand. Are we concluding then?”

Nickie looked over at Nick and shrugged, “I think for now yes, you’ve given me a lot to think about Mr. Vulpe. Perhaps I can have you back again sometime to ask more questions?”

Jure looked delighted, “Do you think I did better than Brad Pitt?”

Nickie shrugged, “I’m not sure. I never watched that movie.”

Back at it again , they wanna see the life I live. Dark magic again - yameiiiii

Dexter & Callista, 57

for @transrevolutions on your natal day, here is uhhh some ... dark ....... conversations about death and mentoring, anger and violence and tributes who don't usually get a lot of attention? (skye & jasper)

SORRY I TRIED TO WRITE CREED but this happened instead

warnings for: canon-typical violence (arena and otherwise), mentions of offscreen victor prostitution

------------------------

Skye crumples to the ground, his chest a bloody ruin, and Two’s newest mentor brings home her first victor without even trying. Dexter had played nice with her because why not, kid had been terrified and heartsick like all of them their first time in the ring and soon she’d know the ugly stench of loss like everyone else, that sick little bonding ritual that brought them all together. Joke’s on him, though, looks like she didn’t need his condescension.

“Good game,” Dexter grinds out dully as he pushes himself to his feet, mostly because Phillips made such a fucking scene about it when his died and it feels like there’s a point to prove somewhere. Not that anybody notices, it’s endgame now so there are morgues to visit and families to call and consolation speeches to choke out for the losers. Starting tonight, sponsors will be looking to cash in their failed investments, but he can’t — not right now, not yet.

For the winners — well, Dexter wouldn’t know. He’s never brought one back alive.

The corridors bustle with activity, Avoxes and runners hustling and upstart nepotism-gifted junior Gamemakers barking out orders to make themselves feel important with their bosses busy upstairs. Someone slams hard into Dexter, knocking him fully sideways, but he keeps walking, ignoring the babbled apology.

Cannot go to the One floor, with its perfumed showers and apologetic escort and list of assignments likely already waiting. Not the mentor common floor, either, with the pity-party raging and where they will not welcome the almost-rans who murdered all the early losers. The roof, then — not the penthouse garden above the tribute apartments, home of District 12’s fresh meat, but like much of the Capitol there’s the glitzy, glittery parts for show and then there’s everything else. A few slipped pills to an Avox and Dexter’s in an access elevator to a square of rooftop nestled halfway up the complex between two spires.

He expects the gritty concrete and traffic grime, the blare of distant celebrations and occasional blaze of a travelling strobe light; he does not expect a goddess in athleisure with her feet propped up against the wall, smoking a noxious-smelling cigarette. “New girl won,” Dexter says, to give himself some time.

Callista exhales a long plume of smoke. After waiting a while for her reply, Dexter decides that must be it and lowers himself down across from her. “You know those things will kill you,” he says, out of some stupid compulsion. He can’t look at carbohydrates without feeling an itch to stuff his fingers down his throat and the only euphoria he’s ever experienced came in tablet form passed via Callista’s tongue, but his minders would have whipped him for that.

“I,” Callista says with grave reverence, “am microdosing on mortality.”

“What, all this isn’t enough for you?” He waves an arm behind them, where a condominium complex has projected the faces of all the tributes. As he watches, Skye and Camphor switch from full colour to black and white.

But at the same time, he knows what she means. They don’t make a drug mean enough for what he wants, they don’t make drugs that fill your lungs with tar and ash, that scrape your throat and make you rasp and cough. He failed, again. A beautiful, hopeful, stupid, cocky child has died, again. Sparkly club drugs and golden thrumming in his veins won’t help him now.

Callista hands it over. Dexter inhales deep — oh, big mistake, his lungs immediately protest — he chokes, spluttering, passes the cigarette back as his head spins and his stomach turns over. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall. “We were so close. So close.”

She hums. “You had a sweet one this year. How would he have fared, your boy? When they got their claws in him.”

Skye — was sweet, for One. He and Camphor had made themselves a killer pair. They’d known how to work it, too, rinsing each other off by the lake, curling up at night, teasing the audience without ever taking real advantage of each other. If it had been the two of them in the end, Dexter has no doubts they would have fought it out without hard feelings, true professionals, no hidden barbs and buried hatred coming out to play.

And when he won, it would be Dexter’s job to remind him of the cost. To sit him down, give him the list of names, and tell him exactly how they liked it, exactly as his mentor had done with him.

Anger flares, better than any drug. Dexter clings to it even as it slips through his fingers, like blood-slick intestine. “Is this you trying to make me feel better? Better he’s dead than have to suffer my life?”

Calista stares at him, incomprehending, and he could do it now, could throw himself at her and wrap his arms around her throat, bash his fists into her skull and leave her face a bloody pulp, shove her over the edge and let the sidewalk take her, every single awful, ugly urge that bubbles up when he’s on his knees but he isn’t in some plush bedroom now, is he, and she has no power over him —

“I apologize,” Callista says, and Dexter nearly screams no, don’t, I need to feel this, don’t you say you’re sorry to me but it’s too late, it all deflates. “I am furious. I want to kill. I want to feel the blood again, I want to hurt — I want to hurt.” She says it one more time, reverent, like a litany. “I wanted to hurt.”

“How can you say it like that.” Dexter almost laughs, except it’s not funny, he just — can’t make the pieces fit together. “You say these things and you’re just … sitting there, smoking. You sound like you’re ordering caviar at dinner.”

“This is how I always sound.” Callista bares her teeth in a smile that sets his skin crawling. “Ladies do not raise their voice. Ladies are elegant. Ladies —“

“Kill the guy they’re having sex with on live television and scar impressionable young boys? Come on.”

Callista huffs a sound somewhere between a snort and a snicker. “Not all of them, clearly.”

Everything is fucked, Dexter thinks, Skye should be alive and he should not be in a complicated mutilation-and-orgasms situationship with a rival mentor, but here they are. “That was still a shitty thing to say.”

Out in the streets the victory fanfare plays on tinny loop from a dessert truck. Callista closes her eyes. “I thought the Arena would make it stop,” she says. “I want to hurt — everything, everyone, all the time. I practice control with things that matter but give me an excuse and I will tear your throat out. You were wounded and I knew I could hurt you. You may take a free shot, if you’d like.”

Well, that gave him something to chew on when his brain isn’t stuffed with Skye’s death stare — Callista’s mouth on his, hand sliding between his legs, crammed into a back alley with an unconscious man’s blood pooling at their feet; the time he asked her to make him hurt and she took him close, but not quite, to using the safe word she’d taught him, and he’d cried in her arms in the comedown and they’d never talked about it, I practice control with things that matter what the fuck —

“Is that why you pick the villains?” Dexter blurted out instead, like he’s nineteen and suicidal all over again.

She exhaled through her nose. The cigarette had long burned out, and she glanced down at it, clicked her tongue, and flicked the butt away. “Never let me accuse you of being soft. Villains, really.”

“You have to know.” This year especially, Dexter has a steel stomach and even he didn’t relish those hours of watching Callista’s boy fillet the little one from Twelve. They’d all been grateful when Four took care of it. “Outliers are the underdog or the dark horse, but we’re either a hero or, well.”

Dexter, more fool him, usually went for heroes, despite the hell that waited for them. District 1 had enough angry mentors who went for the nasty ones, he could afford to try. In the end they all bled out the same.

“I hate that word.” Callista clips the words with icy precision. “They are children. Children who give the audience exactly what they want, a bloodbath. Children with no artifice, children who cannot pretty up their kills with talk of loyalty or pride or wanting to see their precious little homesteads again. The people drink up the spectacle each year and demand more, bigger, flashier. These Games teach us it is our nature to do whatever it takes to survive. My children are villains because they don’t come with equal amounts of remorse to make it palatable.”

“Sure, but this one tortured a kid,” Dexter says. Sometimes Twos really are a whole other level. “Don’t you think you’d have it easier if you picked kids who … didn’t do that? As soon as he started skinning you know they would have offed him, whether the Pack did him in or not.”

Now Callista’s eyes blaze, and for a second he thinks she’ll actually hurt him, not just throw bladed words, but the only thing that escapes her is a low hiss. “So he died regardless, knowing that he made me proud. He deserves that much. His time of glory and a mentor who loves him, even only for a month. They all deserve that. I am not in this for the safe sells, obedient little quarry sons and daughters with patriotic sponsors lined up out the door. Anyone can love those. I am here for the ones nobody else will.”

In spite of himself, Dexter’s throat feels thick. Did his mentor talk to anyone like that about him? Or does that kind of unfettered, passionate protectiveness burn out the first time you hand your victor off to the pawing crowd? He feels ancient and naked at the same time. “Well,” he says, uselessly, “here’s to dead kids who deserve better.”

Callista presses the toe of her shoe against his calf and lets her eyes fall shut. They stay outside, awake but silent, until nightfall.

House MD Characters and Their Mentors

Oh look it's more of this very niche character analysis. This time I'm looking at which of @lorata's District Two Victors would be good mentors for House characters. House fans reading this: you would really like Lorata's writing. Only limited Hunger Games knowledge required (basically you need to know the premise); lots of messed up people making the best of things, found family shenanigans, emotional angst, and queerness.

Anyway, time for mentors!

James Wilson: Devon. The essence of a Devon tribute. Really wants to make the world better. Fairly messed up and depressed, but does genuinely care about the district, and even the kid he volunteers for. The one bit of really key information we are provided about Devon's tributes is that Devon's dreamers burn bright, but flame out as the reality of the Games shatters their world view. This reminds me a lot of how House says that "Wilson thinks that if he cares enough he'll never have to die" contrasted with Wilson's feelings of betrayal and devastation that he, a oncologist who gave his life to treating cancer, is dying of cancer. He served the Capitol, believed everything the Center told him, and the truth of the Games ---the pain and the guilt and the injustice of it all--- is a sudden betrayal that completely unbalances him. The only way he wins is through temporary Arena madness, the kind of desperation that caused him to double his dose of chemo in a last ditch effort to survive and make the world make sense again during canon. Devon's main challenge post-Arena is helping him rebuild his shattered sense of self: Wilson thought he was a good person, but you can only win the Hunger Games by being vicious. Devon, as someone who had a similar break, is the best choice to help him form a cohesive identity. Devon can see him for who he actually is, all of it, and still say he cares. Devon can cite his own struggles with accepting care without "enough work" in return to get Victor!Wilson to step back from compulsively ignoring his needs to "earn" affection. Devon can pull him out of spirals about how his mental state is worse than his brother's now and show him how there is a way forward. The Victory Tour almost kills him, all those people hate him even though he only ever did what was asked of him and what he thought was right. Along with Devon, there is probably only one other person who could help him embrace that he does not need to be perfect or liked by everyone, which brings us to...

Gregory House: Adessa. I went through multiple avenues with this one. First I thought Callista, because viciousness and unapologetic attitude. Then I thought Lyme, because abusive childhood, resentment of the rules, and attachment issues. So we had option A and option B...and we somehow landed around option L. I dismissed Callista because of the reasons I thought Lyme. I moved away from Lyme because she works best with tributes who want to open up but can't until after they win. Claudius wants a family, Misha wants affection, etc. House wouldn't want to open up--- he would want respect, validation, and someone to make everything make sense. The reasons Adessa wasn't a good fit for Nero would make her a great fit for Victor!House. Nero wanted to be told Adessa loves him, but House wouldn't trust any obvious display of affection---instead perceiving his mentor's care for him through nonverbal actions she takes: exactly what Adessa expected to be true of Nero. Adessa can make recovery and all the chaotic, swirling feelings fit within a reasonable framework. She can answer his questions and treat him like someone with a rational mind. She knows that if he opens up, he probably doesn't want to be touched. She understands why he doesn't want the cuddly relationship that Victor!Wilson would have with Devon. She wouldn't pressure him to talk about feelings before he was ready and would give him space when he was ready. She understands his intellectual curiosity. She's probably the only one who could get him to invest in therapy. He wouldn't go based on "I've been there" talks or "I care about you" talks, he would go because "after a significant trauma the logical course of action is to seek medical care, so that one can be assigned medications to regulate neurotransmitters, and to remove unwanted chaos so one can better focus on more important matters." Oh, and also if John House every showed up to take credit for shaping his son into a Victor, Adessa has a briefcase full of knives and decades of fantasizing about taking revenge on behalf of her Victors. They would find his body in pieces...probably. If Adessa was feeling nice and wanted Blythe to have closure.

Devon is terrified when Adessa requests a meeting with him. Misha asks him what he did like fifty times and he doesn't know. He almost calls his mentor, but doesn't because he's a mentor too now, dammit and Adessa totally shouldn't scare him anymore. When he shows up she opens with: "Our Victors appear to have significant romantic attraction to each other. Shall we hasten their union via jointly planned manipulation, culminating in an arranged one-on-one meal over candlelight, perhaps involving the exchange of flowers?"

Lisa Cuddy: Nero. This one is hard. Cuddy is a lot more difficult to analyze than House and Wilson even though I actually prefer her over House (Wilson is my favorite, he just has so many problems, weird habits, and hidden depression). She has a lot of contradictions. She's manipulative, but empathetic. She genuinely advocates for the rules, but allows for crazy ass things to take place. She seems to argue for the rules because she has to, but is inherently drawn to the more chaotic, vigilante tendencies of House. She puts on a show of obeying regulations set by those above her, but seeks power so that she can facilitate what she thinks is right (she repeatedly says she's the only one who would employ House). This is reflective of a Nero tribute. She doesn't know why she is drawn to violence and competition of the Centre, but she is. She completes her kill tests with the highest scores in her year, but she mainly only feels guilty for not feeling guilty. She doesn't have a rationalization for why she is like this the way someone with House's history has. She should want to join the Peacekeepers or be a medic. But the more time passes in the Centre, the more she wants to win the Hunger Games. She goes into the Games a year early, the youngest District Two volunteer in history, and even though she knows the killing is wrong she still wants to win because why shouldn't it be her? She's better at this than the others. However, the inner conflict causes problems post-Games, as the criticisms from other districts actually hurt her, because she agrees. She knows there's something wrong, she fears she might secretly be evil. Nero, with a lifetime of dealing with conflicted, crazy tributes, knows how to reassure her that even if that something is actually wrong, she still has people who love her.

Bonus! Ducklings:

Foreman: Brutus. He's just here to do his job. He knows he's better than his Centre rivals, so his job is the Games. Trying to make it right or wrong will only drive you crazy.

Chase: Lyme. Daddy issues, alcoholism in the family history, wants the authority to like him. Lots of weird hidden triggers.

Cameron: Emory. Wants to be a decent person, just kept going in the Centre because she figured no one would pick her and she owed it to her district to keep trying. She had a baby Victor crush on House and Adessa had to take Emory aside and be like "the baby is making my Victor uncomfortable, tell her to calm down."

Thirteen: Misha. Rules are for suckers, enjoy your life while you have it, desperately try to find meaning in the world while pretending you don't give a shit.

Kutner: Lyme. Wants to find a place to belong, shoves his emotional issues down because he thinks nobody cares. Thinks outside the box, but still responds well around authority he respects.

Taub: I have no fucking idea. Seriously, the more I try to think about this the more I have no thoughts, head empty. Maybe Odin? Odin has a "do what you're supposed to do no matter what, no matter the cost" ideology that would cause a mentor mismatch like Adessa and Nero but at least that mismatch is something.

Anyway if one (1) person requests a Victors!House/Wilson I will write scenes so you have been warned.

Callista the Butcher, Victor of the Forty-First Hunger Games. From We Must Be Killers by @lorata

(Because I am trying to write her pre-victory and it is like pulling teeth, she refuses to cooperate. So art to make me feel sane lol)

TW for blood.