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chapter sixteen
LEAVE A MARK

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Ptolemus will never forget that cold, barren and detached look in her eyes. It isn't the same kind of cold as his mother's, where the ice would thicken and the whispers would come as the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood like pine needles. His mother's eyes had never been warm to start with, so when they dropped several degrees more, it wasn't the same kind of startling. The look in Sage's eye as President Snow prepares to snatch the gleaming crown from her head is unnerving and offputting. Her gaze has always been one that felt like warmth, a similar sensation to basking in the sunlight, the flecks of gold and pools of whiskey beaming. Now, after witnessing another side of the horrors, they're diluted, as if the sun burned out and the earth froze over.

Sage stands solemnly along the balcony for all of The Capitol to see, the audience in the ampitheater hooting and hollering. The scenery fuses with one of a memory from a year ago, and the golden crown upon her head weighs heavier than she remembers. Her fingers dangle limply at her sides as her eyes and skull ache from all the crying. For the last few hours, she feels like she's been sleepwalking, ambling through a murky haze. She barely feels real.

Then there's the shift of white hair in the corner of her vision, and like electric shocks, it jolts her back to life. Something inside her flickers, warm and angry, and her dark eyes flit toward his transluscent ones. They say eyes are the window to one's soul, and she can see through the panes of President Snow's that there isn't one waiting behind.

His swollen lips twitch at the sight of her, and that stench of roses twinges her lungs. It's so acrid it almost causes her eyes to water. She holds his stare as long as she can as his black gloved hands pluck the crown from her head. If looks could kill, this might be it. A part of her almost cowers and tries to feign that sweetness and charm. But surely, he can't murder her brothers for a stare... can he?

"Your Tributes fought bravely... Ms. Navarro," he murmurs, lips barely moving as amusement dances in his tone. A muscle in her jaw feathers, and to conceal it, she offers a faint bow of her head in gratitude. She can't muster up a proper thank you for his... "kind" words.

A soft and pleasant hum vibrates in his throat, and he turns to present the crown to Panem's newest Victor. Panem's latest and greatest murderer.

He's only five feet away from her. She doesn't dare to peek in Marcellus's direction. If she does, the violent and bloody images might come back, flashing in her memory like slides from the toy camera her brothers saved up to buy at the mercantile. Click! Mateo's head turning from the force of the brick. Click! Blood oozing from his temple, his figure suddenly so limp. Click! Her dead Tribute carried up to the sky. Click! Then with the pictures comes the sounds, with the sounds comes the ache, and with the ache comes the tears.

She had really hoped she'd pass her crown to a very alive Mateo.

But it seems the self-made prophecy of Marcellus was no match for her hopes and prayers. She knows she can't hate or blame him. He just wanted to live, like the rest of them. Like she did a year ago.

Why did it have to be her Tribute who needed to die in order for his wish to be granted?

She's whisked from the caverns of her mind when the crowd stands with a roar, the gleaming gold balanced on Marcellus's head. Everyone is smiling big and bright smiles as they applaud, whistle, and toss roses toward the balcony. Their white grins resemble fangs of wolves surrounding their prey, and Sage is overcome by the urge to flee. However, she's forced to stay put until she's finally excused. Quickly taping herself back together, she tries to keep the broken pieces of her from leaving a trail behind her as she rushes in the direction of where the train waits to take her home.

She just needs to get home.

Philo escorts her to the elevator that Shep has been holding. So far, she's managed to dodge the Reporters, most of their attention maintained upon Marcellus. The silver doors start to close when a callused hand inserts itself between. Her heart hiccups and her wide eyes trail across the sleeve up to his face.

Ptolemus attempts a weak smile. His heart is thundering against his chest, to the point it's deafening. He'd been trying to catch her before she was gone, just to talk, or listen, or something. He'd imagined what he hoped to say over and over. But now that he's finally caught up to her, and she's finally in front of him since yesterday's Victory, his mouth has run dry.

"H-hey." He swallows thickly, glancing between a stiff Philo and Shep, then back to Sage. "Can we talk, real quick?"

"We can meet you down at the train, Sage," Philo offers lightly.

The ache is beating like a tumor. She uneasily tries to glance past Ptolemus's shoulder for encroaching paparrazi. The flashes and chirping seems to be further down the hall. With a subtle nod of her head, she tentatively steps out of the elevator. He offers her his hand, and after a moment, she takes it. Ptolemus releases a breath he'd been holding. Gently, he leads them toward a large potted tree against the wall, ducking themselves behind.

Sage can't look at him. If she looks at him, she'll start crying again, so she just stares at his shining leather shoes. Meanwhile, Ptolemus still holds her hand carefully, studying her silently. There's so many things he wants to say. What he comes up with might not be his best.

"How are you?" He regrets it the second he asks.

She closes her eyes to stop the tears from welling, grinding her back teeth together. All she can muster is a shake of her head. If she speaks, she's afraid of what she'll sound like.

"I'm sorry," Ptolemus breathes. "I'm so, so, sorry. I'm sorry I had to leave, I'm sorry for Taura and Mateo, I'm sorry this happened, I'm sorry—"

"Ptolemus, stop."

"I can't, I need to tell you I'm sorry and—"

She squeezes his hand tightly once. "I know." The sharpness of her tone startles him, and he straightens nervously. He clings back to her, afraid she might slip through his fingers. When she peers up at him he can see the red rimming her eyes again.

"I know, and I know it's not your fault. It's not your fault, and I'm not mad at you, I just—" Click! The image of Mateo's bleeding head. Taura's crashing body. Sage winces as her voice cracks like glass. "I just need some space, okay? I need space, I need..."

There's the whir of a crowd, and Capitol reporters are unleashed upon their hunt. She can hear them ascending the stairs, maneuvering around the halls, beating against the glass doors. There's a flash of a camera and a wild eyed Reporter starting right toward them. She lets go of his hand and tears pool in her vision. If she wants to make it to the elevator unscathed, she needs to go now.

With a long step, she shifts her body toward her escape. "I'll see you at our next public event. Okay?"

Ptolemus straightens at the term, and at the hollowness in her tone. Something about it makes him try harder. His shoulders slump, and he reaches for her again. "Sage."

It builds up and builds up, threatening to drag her down to the shallows. The waves are bowing and rising, and her head is barely bobbing above the surface for a breath. When she turns back to him, all the harshness in her voice falters. Instead, she sounds like a pleading little girl.

"I need to go home."

She pushes the elevator button, and thankfully, it dings open quickly to their floor. Practically jumping inside, the doors shut behind her fleeing figure, leaving Ptolemus to stare at his reflection in defeat. Before he can even soak in her words, sort through their meaning and his feelings, a sticky pair of lips kisses him on the cheek. He jumps in surprise, peering down at a familiar figure that causes him to recoil.

"Congratulations, handsome!" Priscilla coos, her claws preparing to sink into him all over again. When she smiles, her lipstick a dark hunter green, he notes the emeralds glittering in her teeth. "I knew you could do it!"

Her arms latch around his, and she reaches up for another kiss.

Ptolemus's skin crawls, and he slips out of her grasp. "Priscilla, stop." Saying such a thing almost causes him to flinch, and he uneasily peers around.

The Capitol woman pouts. "Why?" She reaches for him again. "Surely, you've missed me."

He backs away from her, almost stumbling over a side table. It doesn't seem to deter her as she prowls closer. He uses the back of his hand to wipe away her lipstick stain on his cheek. "Flattering, but in case you've forgotten, I'm seeing someone."

Priscilla's eyes darken at that reminder, and she snorts in disbelief. "Still? Didn't look like it to me." Her gaze flickers back to the elevator Sage just went down. Then her green lips tug upward into a smirk as she stares past his shoulder. Uneasily, he follows where her eyes seem to point. The sight of the looming paparrazi causes his heart to drop. "Nor to them."

When Ptolemus turns back to her, she's seemed to close the distance more and more, looming only a foot away like a waiting vulture. Suddenly, he's an eighteen year old boy again, only a few days after his birthday, the Capitol throwing him their idea of a party to celebrate. She's looking at him with the same glint in her eye that she had that night.

"At least I would've been properly happy for you."

━━━━

Returning to District Two lacks comforts of home one would expect the place they'd grown up to have. Reporters are everywhere, covering every waking moment they can. Enobaria doesn't seem to mind the attention, expressing herself in a steely cool fashion, the twinges of pride tugging at her lips each time she answers one of their prodding questions. Marcellus does the best he can to keep up, but it's clear it's overwhelming as he shakes away the lingering effects of the Arena. Ptolemus recites his responses as if reading from a teleprompter.

However, whenever the reporters ask about Sage, a blurry snapshot of their conversation near the elevator plaguing the screens, he settles for silence. The headlines almost cause his eyes to roll right out of their sockets.

"AN EPIC SHOWDOWN BETWEEN TEN AND TWO IN THE ARENA... AND IN THE CAPITOL?"

"LOVER'S QUARREL AFTER THE BATTLE OF THE YEAR!"

"IS THIS THE END OF SAGE AND PTOLEMUS?"

His ears are still ringing from stepping off the train and standing upon the stage of the Justice Building, the familiar battle cry of the citizens cheering for their victory. The "HA-OOH's" echo even now a week later. Leftover reporters still crawl around, covering the parades, the festivities, and interviewing anyone they can find who might've had a singular interaction with Marcellus over his lifetime. They managed to even track down his pre-school teacher, interviewing the mousy woman while Ptolemus cooked himself dinner last night.

All things considered, Marcellus appears... okay— whatever that can mean for a Victor. The Capitol healed his wounds, fed him well, polished him like a new trophy and after presenting him to the country shipped him back home seemingly unscathed. Now, he's another hero of District Two, his mother and him quickly packed into the house next to Ptolemus's.

It's once the world slows down that the relief to be alive will likely wear, and the nightmares will rear their ugly heads. That's how it worked for Ptolemus anyway.

There's a cheerful hum to the morning as he navigates the streets of Two's Capitol city, Ravenna. It's typical to see numbers of people out and about on a Sunday, the only day anyone in Panem doesn't have to work their fingers to the bone. Except today— according to Mayor Cicero— isn't just any Sunday. Marcellus marks the fifteenth Victor of District Two, the most of any District. In order to celebrate and commemorate this great feat, he's ordered a parade and festival for all of Two's living Victors.

Sweat still cakes his body from his run and brief session at the Academy. In his hands, he carries a paper bag stuffed with groceries for a casserole. Beside him, Gunnar's shoulder brushes against his, his best friend clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth as they pass several workers tinkering with one of the floats.

"Look, I think that one's yours."

He follows his friend's stare to a gleaming silver float resembling titanium. Three chairs that look like thrones stand sleek and tall. Engraved on the sides are the numbers 40, 41, and 69. The sight of his parents' years nearly makes him groan. "They're making us share?"

"Looks like it." There's some sympathy hidden in his tone, before it eventually returns to its typical lightness. Something Ptolemus doesn't mind as Gunnar cracks a grin. "Do you think you can throw some extra candy in my direction? Those kids can be real grabby. You know licorice is my favorite."

"I don't think you'll have to worry about anyone fighting you for it," he scoffs, wrinkling his nose. The two boys turn a corner toward Gunnar's family's apartment. "Only psychopaths like licorice."

He beams like it's a compliment. "See my problem? Those ankle-biters are ruthless. On Holy Tuesday this one kid kicked my shin over a chocolate."

"That's because you snatched it right before he was about to catch it."

"You snooze, you lose, kid."

Ptolemus chuckles as he shakes his head. The lanky boy smirks, lips parting to add another remark. Something causes his focus to drift to a block in front of him. Quickly, he clamps his hand on the Legacy's shoulder, spinning the two around. Ptolemus barely notices the familiar sight of a Capitol reporter looming in the distance as he catches one of the tomatoes rolling from the top of the paper bag. The boys quickly change course to avoid any more questioning. Luckily, the indigo-haired man doesn't seem to notice them.

"Curse Ares, they're crawling all over the place," Gunnar mutters. "Don't they get exhausted from sticking their noses in everyone's business?"

"They feed off it," Ptolemus grumbles, stuffing the loose tomato back into the bag. Even though he's staring at the bright red coloring of the produce, the images of all the tabloid covers play across the screen within his mind. He swears there's been a new one every hour with another outlandish and confusing headline to match.

"How's Sage doing?"

Her name sends an uncomfortable twang in his gut. "Haven't talked to her since the Crowning Ceremony. I'm trying to give her some space."

Gunnar nods thoughtfully. "Makes sense." His voice drops several octaves, and a merchant wipes down his front window until it reflects the sky as crisp and clear as a cool lake. A portrait of Marcellus bores into them. "That ending was... brutal. I'm gonna be honest, I thought the kid had him."

Everyone did— even Ptolemus. He thought for sure he'd be attending another funeral of a fallen Tribute from Two, not rejoicing and celebrating a new Victor returning home. Of course, he's grateful for the outcome, but that doesn't mean any of it is easy. Kleo is still dead. So are twenty-three other kids.

And one thing about Marcellus is he isn't one to brutalize his victims. He's clean, quick, efficient and businesslike, which is a strange way to describe killing, but it's the truth. Unlike most of the students at The Academy, he's disciplined, bloodlust and thirst for glory docile compared to the rest of them. Ptolemus can respect that. He tried to be that in his own Games— much to his parents' dismay. To see him forced into a position of grisly, gory, messy and violent murder, crushing a kid's skull in so he can go home and hug his mom again, it's sick.

Then there's Sage. He feels stupid for thinking he could protect her from any of this. He's thankful Shep didn't allow her to watch all of Marcellus's gruesome strikes against Mateo.

He wants to call her, but he knows it's too soon. Who's to say she'll answer him anyway?

They're passing the floats again. Ptolemus's eyes linger over the three numbers on his family's again. There should be four. 40, 41, 65 and 69. There's a bitterness burning in his gut, exhaustion already causing him to dread this upcoming evening. One of the workers painting the finishing touches of the Pierce engraving catches his staring, and smiles and waves. A flat and awkward grin tugs at his lips as he picks up his pace, glaring down the sidewalk again.

"What are the odds I skip out on this shit tonight?"

"But what about my licorice?"

"Seriously?"

"Sorry, poorly timed joke." Gunnar raises his brows and shrugs. "Knowing you? Fifty-fifty shot. Hundred percent chance that if you do your parents will disown you though."

Ptolemus grins wryly at that. "Well now I'm definitely skipping."

"Hey, you know I think this crap is as stupid as you do. And you know I'm not one to shy away from a chance to give your parents the finger."

Another shop window, and a television is replaying an interview between a reporter and Nero and Petra, gushing about their pride for their son bringing a Victor home for the glory of their District. It makes Ptolemus want to punch the screen in. They just keep walking.

"But is it really worth it?"

"Yes."

"...You were supposed to say no."

"Yes..." A heavy and tired sigh. His shoulders ache, and it isn't from carrying the stuffed bag of groceries. It comes from bearing something else. He adjusts his grip, shrugging and rolling them in hopes of some relief. "But you know I'll still go."

Gunnar eventually peels off back home to his parents waiting for him, and when Ptolemus finally returns home to his empty Mansion, he has several hours before he'll be dragged to the parade for more shiny appearances. Maybe it wouldn't seem so daunting if he knew he wouldn't have to stand alongside his parents.

Parts of him are tempted to wallow, exhaustion creeping up on him like a shadow. He thinks about sleeping, but he knows he can barely sleep to begin with, so he dismisses the idea. Although, it would be perfect if he happened to oversleep through the entire parade. That would really delight his parents.

There's always his pottery. Yet, as he eyes his sunroom, the thought of the mess persuades him to focus elsewhere. When his gaze drifts toward his landline, there's another whisper urging him to call the girl who fled from him in the elevator. He shuts it away quickly as he takes a lazy step toward the kitchen counter instead. He settles with unpacking his groceries.

The casserole is one his sister always liked. He remembers the days that he and her were stuck in The Capitol with no one but Deverra, their Escort, to accompany and entertain them. Shut away in those condos all day, dressed up and brought out to accessorize their parents on stage only to be stowed away again like special-occassion jewelry in a drawer, it was too easy for them to catch homesickness.

He remembers the specific day very vividly. Alessandra and him had accompanied his parents for another interview with Caesar after Enobaria had torn her way to victory. Petra and Nero were Two's Mentors that year, which meant more trips to the Capitol than usual and more time away from home, paraded like show ponies over and over again. It must've been gnawing his sister to bits, because she had snapped during her and Ptolemus's brief public appearance, to which Caesar gracefully painted as teenage spunk!

While Nero and Petra laughed and smiled with ground teeth on screen, once the cameras were off, they beared their fangs like wolves. He didn't see them hit her, but he did hear her crying, and there was a red mark on her cheek once they returned from that closed door. She refused to tell him what happened, like always, but of course he knew. After all, there were plenty of times he left the room with red marks on his cheek too. Then they locked the two of them away again to attend another rich asshole's party in the name of the Games.

Deverra said nothing at first, but to see her in the kitchen rather than lounging with another one of her magazines prodded curiosity from the children. The enchanting smell was woven with tomatoes, garlic and mouth-watering nostalgia, ceilings and corners of home packed neatly inside. It wasn't often Capitol aristocrats cooked for themselves— they really didn't have to, nor to create something so modest. That's partly why it was such a delicacy to Alessandra and Ptolemus Pierce as they chewed happily on the comforts of Two in a place that felt more like a prison than a haven.

Eight years. It's been eight years since he's eaten this casserole, and it's been eight years that his older sister has been gone. The wounds have scabbed, but never scarred, always failing to reach that point of healing. One wrong bump, scratch, or poke, and he's bleeding again, wondering how he's supposed to survive this life built for him by his parents, by The Capitol, by President Snow, without his sister. After all, when this destiny was written for him, it was written for her too.

They were supposed to do all this together.

No. The guilt makes him flinch as he gnaws on the inside of his cheek. The casserole is in the oven now, and he tosses his dirty dishes into the sink. Hot water pours from the faucet, almost stinging his hands.

If they were still doing this together, that means Ally would've lived the life of a Victor. Something he knows is no life, but a purgatory, a limbo of torment. So what was best? To die in the Games or to die every day in a life forged from victory? What would've been most merciful for his big sister?

Both options reignite the ache. The cutting board slips from his grasp, clattering into pots below the soapy dishwater. Suds and water spray, and he grimaces with a clenched jaw. The splatter blends with Ally's blood as she gaped with a trident in her chest.

She wouldn't be dead if it weren't for them. If it weren't for their chiseling, carving, hammering and whispering as they forged their children into weapons of their liking to carry on their legacy. All that pressure. All that pressure with no permission to crack despite unforgiving laws of nature.

Well, Ally cracked. And like sculptors ashamed of their work, they've left her memory to collapse into ruin. They didn't mourn a daughter. They crumpled and tossed a failed creation away.

Like an excruciating itch, it gnaws and nibbles at the edges of his sanity, and he thinks about hurling a pot into the wall, white knuckles clenched. Ptolemus is still trying to keep his sister alive, to put the broken pieces of her back together, to enscribe her name in history each time his parents wash her away again. Hot, furious tears are stinging his eyes, oozing out of him like lava, and he scrubs harder against the dirty dishes. The harsh gales and pounding thunder mounting inside him swell, and his chest heaves as attempts to stow away the storm.

Thirty minutes and relentless scrubbing of every dish later, the timer for the oven finally beeps. Its pitch oddly reminds him of his sister's laugh, and he swears he can hear her say, "Munchin time, soldier." The memory of her saluting him at the table with a fork gleams in the reflection of the oven door, and as if relieved from his post, he sighs as he starts forward.

With potholders, he lifts the steaming casserole out of the rippling heat and carefully onto the counter to cool. When he glances to the clock, he realizes he probably has two hours at most to package the dish and deliver it to Kleo's family.

The second the casserole is safe to wrap and touch, he gets going to a neighborhood not far from Gunnar's. When he passes his parents' Victor's Mansion and his childhood home, he averts his stare to the ground, afraid to even make eye contact with the windows in fear that they might report him to their owners. He swears he can still feel his mother's stare searing into his neck like a scar.

The streets are even more lively than they were this morning, food stands opening and vendors selling knock-off Victor crowns. Ptolemus cringes when a father buys one for his son, the boy proudly placing it onto his head like a king. It reminds him of all the times he imagined the gold gleaming on his head in the mirror, the prize of his parents' conditional love making it twinkle brighter.

Now that he has a crown of his own, it's nothing he pictured it to be, only dull, rusted, hollow and lifeless.

Worthless.

It's clear Kleo's family wasn't expecting visitors today, their door locked and shutters slammed shut. He must knock five times before he thinks about just leaving the casserole to rest on their front porch. Clearly, they just want to be left alone in their grief. It was insensitive for him to come here. What was he thinking?

Just as he's turning to leave, the door creaks open, two weeping figures bending like willows in mourning. Mr. and Mrs. Fēng hastily straighten, tucking their tears back into their surprised eyes and stilling their quivering lips. From the way they look at him, it's clear he is only one of few visitors.

"Your daughter fought bravely." His words taste sour, and he stifles a wince. Carefully, he hands them their dish. He wants to kick himself. Your daughter was slaughtered on live television, and she's never going to grow up, but hey, here's a casserole to soften the blow!

Ptolemus ducks his head in shame. "I'm sorry."

Mrs. Fēng sniffles and bows her head in gratitude, while her husband shakes his hand firmly. Silently, the proud but broken family cower back inside the confines of their home.

It's clear he's late when he returns to the Victor's Village, most of the camera crews sorting out their places and various stylists prepping and pruning their Victors to satisfaction. The floats loom outside the gates in sequential order of each victory. For the deceased Victors, a picture frame shines in the sun in place of their throne. It feels like the dark eyes of Perseus Dowel, Victor of the Fifth Hunger Games, are watching him when he notes a more unsettling pair boring into him from his porch.

Nero glowers beside his door, silver suit tailored to his frame and arms folded across his burly chest as he trails his son's figure up the steps. "Oh. How nice of you to finally show up, princess."

Ptolemus's nostrils flare. He plasters a sickeningly sweet smile on his lips, practicing a sarcastic bow and gallant wave of his hand. Unamused, his father reaches for him. To his luck, his front door opens instead, the shrieking and cooing of Eudora and her prep team intercepting whatever he had planned next.

"Ptolemus! Where have you been? You know excellence needs time to be groomed!" his Stylist questions.

Gratefully, Ptolemus excuses himself and strides past Nero.

"Would love to catch up, but I need to be polished, so..."

His father's eyes narrow. It doesn't matter anyway as Eudora herds him to her work station she's propped up in his living room. While she does offer him some chastising, it's much more tolerable, her hands plucking and pruning him like a rose rather than beating and grinding him into a mold. She shaves away his stuble and carefully draws a silver lining around his eyes. It's not long before they have him dressed in his typical black suit. The silver on his lapels and handkerchief unfortunately matches the silver of his father's.

"Isn't it amazing?" Xenon gushes, combing Ptolemus's sandy mop one last time. The orange fingered man grins, reminding him of a clementine. "Fifteen Victors! Fifteen! District Two is the first District to require more Mansions in their village to be built."

"Imagine how many houses they'll need by the fourth Quarter Quell," adds Mellona, a woman as tall as a beam with skin as white as the moon. She's always reminded Ptolemus of a swan. Perhaps that's the point, matching white feathers always woven into her hair. She pinches his cheek teasingly. "At least one for each of Ptolemus's future little ones. Isn't that right?"

Ha! Children? Ptolemus will never have children. The Pierce Legacy will die with him, and that's the greatest mercy he could grant to the kids he'll never know.

"But will they live in Ten or Two? Certainly Two, right? I hear Ten reeks of manure."

They talk around him, their conversation whirling around like a breeze he can hear but can't feel. When Eudora offers him a comforting squeeze of the shoulder, he just shrugs, peering impatiently at the stairs. Once they're finally finished polishing him like the trophy he is, he weaves through the glamourous chaos and ascends to his second floor. He finds exactly what he's looking for within an instant, and he clutches it close to his chest as he emerges back out into the Victor's Village. Eudora follows after him, insisting she needs to redraw his silver eyeliner.

Most of the Victors have mounted their floats already, a few stragglers like himself readjusting their accessories and barely standing still long enough for their Prep Teams to add their finishing touches. Terra Alexander — Victor of the Fifty-Seventh — curses at her Stylist for her dress being several buttons too tight. It sounds like she might add another tally to her already high kill count, highest of a Victor from Two in the Games, when Enobaria pulls the fearsome woman to her float. Marcellus's mother nervously clings to her only son at the end of the procession.

Gravel crunching beneath his feet, Ptolemus finally encounters his family's float, that familiar silver gleaming like a blade sharp enough to pierce. Rather than following after Enobaria, he's moved up in the succession in order to stand beside his parents. The Legacies of District Two.

Brutus has already mounted his float, and they bid each other quiet and respectful nods when he locks gazes with his former Mentor. In front of them in the precession, Lysander Clevin, fusses with his rings, paying no mind to a half-blind Bellara trying to acquire his attention.

"Ptolemus, let me check that eyeliner. Are you really going to make me walk all the way out here in these heels?" Eudora pleads, stumbling on the gravel.

With a sigh, he turns back to the woman, adjusting his grip on his prized possession. She must not notice it, her meticulous gaze merely focused on her handiwork. She adds an extra coat of eyeliner.

"There. Now was that so hard?"

"Thank you."

Petra and Nero Pierce almost pay Ptolemus no mind as he climbs up on the float. Almost. The brassy glint of the picture frame catches in the sun, clashing with their cool and chilling silver. Petra's eyes narrow, and a muscle above Nero's lip twitches like a pitbull. Ptolemus ignores them as he finds his place in front of his empty throne. He feels nothing like a king or prince or Victor. Just a puppet, a different pair of hands pulling at his strings each day.

His father yanks one of them now as he clamps a large palm on his shoulder. The weight bears down into the bone. "What are you doing with that?"

"They wanted us to stand as a family." Ptolemus shrugs his father's grip away, adjusting Ally's portrait so that her blue eyes will beam out to the crowd. "I'm just making sure we're all in attendance."

A wry and dangerous chuckle crackles at the back of Nero's throat as he eyes his son incredulously. There's an unnerving glint to them, and Petra sidles up on the other side of Ptolemus. He just stares straight ahead into Lysander's balding scalp. Only five more minutes until the procession is to begin, the familiar murmur of Two's crowd echoing like war drums.

"Put it away, Ptolemus,"  his mother demands firmly. Unlike Nero, Petra's composure remains chilled and unnmoving. It's like she's made of ice.

He shakes his head. "No."

Nero scoffs, almost laughing yet not. He grips down on his son's shoulders again. "Do you try to piss us off? Or are you just stupid?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Stupid it is then."

The arrogant smile evaporate from Nero's features. That mad glint in his eyes returns. It's what he was known for in his Games, of course. His utter brutality with a spear, skewering two Tributes at once and murdering his District Partner in cold-blood while she slept.

He reaches for the picture frame of Alessandra.  "She's dead. She isn't a Victor, so she isn't going on this float. Save your sentimentalities for all those times you spend brooding over your clay."

Ptolemus just clings to his sister's portrait tighter. Like all those times she protected him as children, he vows to do the same for her memory.

"Your daughter has a name, you know?" His lips curl into a snarl as he raises his brows. "Or did you forget? Too busy scrubbing Ally out of history."

Two minutes until start.

Nero sneers as he yanks at the portrait. "No daughter of mine loses, and losers don't make history, son. Especially ones that lose to fourteen-year old boys."

Petra's icy fingers wrap around Ptolemus's bicep. She ignores her husband's remarks, only glaring at her son. Her eyes are barren, detached and cold. "Ptolemus. This is not the time. Put it away before you continue to make a scene."

Before he can fire back a response, his father snatches the picture frame from his grip, the corner awkwardly banging into the ledge of the float. Ptolemus whirls around to yank it back, but it's too late, his father heaving it against the Victor Village's fence. There's a splintering shatter, glittering shards cascading onto the gravel, Ally's picture buried face down in the dirt.

The fury is white and hot, blinding like lightning. There's a crack of his father's cheek beneath his knuckles. Ptolemus hasn't even realized he's punched him publicly until he winds up for a second.

But Nero is a Victor for a reason too, and his left hook still stings more than any blow Ptolemus has ever felt, his jaw turning and the momentum almost sending him stumbling against the railing. For once, warmth finds his mother's cheeks, scarlet tainting her flesh with embarrassment and outrage. There's footsteps pounding up the steps of the float as a wild-eyed Ptolemus and rabid Nero recompose themselves for another round.

The latter starts forward, and Corbel Guerrero, seventy-two in age with blood pressure problems and all, whips Nero Pierce away from his son like he were just a doll. The looming and beastly figure of Brutus intercepts Ptolemus's vision before he can lunge forward. He's quickly pushed away to the opposing side of the float, railing digging into his back while Petra stands in the middle of the group of men. She refuses to look at either of them. While Brutus shakes his head at his former Tribute like a disappointed teacher, there's a twinge of sympathy in his dark stare. Ptolemus's jaw stings and throbs like all the other times before.

Nero tries to shove past Corbel with a snarl. "Out of my way—"

The older man's tanned and wrinkled knuckles wrap around his suit jacket, holding him in place. Nero is taller, but Corbel is scarier when angry. "Sit the fuck down. You look like a fucking child."

Ptolemus almost smirks at the way his father cowers and obeys begrudgingly.

Corbel glowers between all the Pierces. His voice is harsh, but level in pitch, his warning holding so much more weight than any of his father's tempermental threats. "Keep your 'Happy Family' bullshit to yourselves, you got that?"

Ptolemus doesn't get to hear how his parents respond, the delicate fingers of Eudora reaching up from the below the float and turning his face. She stands on the tippy-toes of her heels, make-up brush wielded readily as she bends his spine down toward her. He grimaces at her grip on his aching jaw.

Her pink eyes widen at the sight."Oh my, Ptolemus! How am I supposed to cover this up? The parade is just about to start. Now, hold still—"

"Just do it," Petra commands with a hiss as she stalks past Brutus. She uneasily glances toward the beginning of the parade, the cheers of the crowd growing louder and louder.

Ptolemus's chest heaves. "No."

He jerks himself out of Eudora's grip, and the woman gasps. Trumpets blare, and Corbel and Brutus climb down from the Pierce family's float to return to their own. They make haste as Perseus's portrait prepares to march down the avenues of District Two. Despite his age, Corbel makes it back to the front before it's time for him to follow.

Petra attempts to block her son's path as he stalks toward the front railing again. His cold gaze mirrors his mother's as he glowers at her.

"Hurry up, Mom." He juts his bruised chin toward the moving procession in front of them. Lysander straightens and removes his stare uncomfortably. Ptolemus cocks his head to the side like a cat. "Don't want to cause a scene, right?"

━━━━
»»————-　♡　————-««

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to comment, I love hearing from you!!

Thoughts? Opinions? It's been a while since we've had a chapter mostly focus on Ptolemus but here it is!

How do you feel about him? About his family?

Also I hope you're not mad at Sage, she isn't trying to hurt him our girl is in mourning :(

Please feel free to comment your thoughts! I didn't proofread so I hope this isn't a hot mess. Also, any suggestions for a face claim for Gunnar? I'm still not sure how I picture him!

Here's what I imagine for Nero and Petra as teens and now!

Word Count: 6558