[ chapter one, good little monster ]

*⍋*

Usually, when she wakes up from a nightmare, Astoria waits out the fear. She stays in bed, tracing the faint lightning patterns along the ceiling to calm the pulsing of her heart. Tonight, the ghosts in the edges of her room have taken up the graveyard shift, and out-waiting them feels pointless.

It makes sense, Astoria supposes. The nightmares always return with a fervor during times of stress, and her biggest concern always falls around the same time each year. The dread of President Snow's scheduled announcement does nothing to ease her. Astoria has no reason to be so frightened. She is safe now. (Except no one is truly safe in Panem—not the districts, or the victors, or even the very people who believe themselves to be untouchable. Astoria is no exception. They were born and raised unsafe.)

Regardless, lack of sleep will only worsen Astoria's jitters. But her nightmares refuse to be kept away, and her eyes resist falling shut. Astoria admits defeat and pushes the covers off her body. Though her socks serve as a barrier between her bare feet and the hardwood floor, Astoria can feel the cold penetrating the fabric. It sends chills all over her body to tell her it is real, it exists, it is not a figment trapped in an overbearing imagination. 

Astoria takes the thinnest blanket from her bed to wrap around her. Tomorrow night, once the nerves have reverted from a pounding thud back into an omnipresent whisper, she will let Olive turn on the heater, utterly useless for nine months of the year, and sleep with the windows open. Astoria turns the doorknob to the hallway slowly and pokes her head out first before fully leaving the room. Olive is not a light sleeper, but her room is only a few feet away and the loose screw in Astoria's door makes it creak loud enough to disturb her.

She trudges into the kitchen, flickering the light on. It smells of cinnamon biscuits and apple butter, Astoria's choice of a late night snack before bed. The basket is empty–she finished them late the previous night–so the only option is to open the fridge and take out the sole cup of tart cherry juice.

The older woman who runs the fruit stand at the market, Dolores, told Olive that cherry juice helped soothe insomnia. And Olive, who has been fond of Dolores ever since she inserted herself into their lives the summer following their father's death, brought back a pitcher that same day. She was sure it would help with Astoria's restlessness, as she called it. Astoria didn't have the heart to tell Olive that there is no remedy for nightmares spooled of blood and a guilty conscience. Cherry juice isn't the magic anecdote for all that is wrong with her.

There is no anecdote, no cure, no way to fix it.

But Olive still tries. (It's been a year now, since Astoria woke up from a nightmare so bad, the panic crept into reality, since they pulled the knife from their bedside table and held it to Olive's throat, acting on instinct and believing her to be the enemy out to get them, since Olive began keeping her distance whenever Astoria veers too close, since their little sister realized, finally, how completely, irreversibly damaged they are). For the last year, Olive has been trying to fix Astoria.

And Astoria lets her. (What else could they do to make up for something that should never be forgiven?) She drinks the tart cherry juice, despite the fact that it never works, and she never explains to Olive that some toys are simply broken forever.

Astoria holds the cup of juice under her nose, sniffing to make sure it is still edible, and tries not to gag when it washes down her throat and leaves a bitter trail in its wake. She places the cup in the sink and tiptoes over to the small window nook in the living room. The curtains are drawn closed so the Peacekeepers at the gates cannot see in, but it wouldn't make much of a difference.

Two of them have been posted in front of Victor's Village for weeks now, with the supposed purpose of protecting the victors from any "unauthorized personnel." Astoria thinks it's more likely they've been sent to monitor the personnel inside the gates. (Drawn curtains or not, Peacekeepers or not, they, of all people, know how closely their missteps are watched.) But the Peacekeepers face away from the houses, and it's not like they have eyes on the back of their helmets. So Astoria tries not to panic every time she leaves the house. 

Astoria sits with her knees pressed to her chest, leaning her head against the wall to peak through the small gap between the curtains. The Peacekeepers are exactly as they have been for the last weeks, still and forward-facing. From this angle, the moon is partially blocked. In its near absence, Astoria counts the stars she can see and tries to find Stella Maris. A gust of wind rattles the window; the whistle quiets as the wind rolls past.

The solemnity of nighttime calms Astoria, lulls her to the point where she feels stable enough to close her eyes again. Falling heavy, Astoria finds herself in the familiar state of mind-numbing somnolence, and she figures it'd be a good idea to tell Olive that the cherry juice finally worked.

*⍋*

The sun filters through the curtains, beating down on Astoria's face. Her body jolts. For a moment, she isn't able to tell if she is in another dream of her own creation—a blurred limbo of sand storms and dissipating river beds and bodies dropping like flies—listening to the voices who taunt her hollow existence. One stands out among the rest; this time, repeating the same vain and belligerent reminder, "I have a little sister." (So do I, they always respond.)

But the soft humming is not in her head. It comes from outside, and it does not even remotely resemble the buzz of mutated insects pinching at skin. Astoria takes a deep breath to orient herself to her surroundings. From across the room, a grandfather clock and a spiraling bookcase fade into view. As do the framed photos mounted across the walls. Astoria pulls back the curtains to properly see Victors' Village in the daylight.

She spots the source of the humming: her next door neighbors, Phoebe Wattson and her six-year-old daughter, Luna. There are four other residents who live in District Five's Victors' Village, but Phoebe, in her late-thirties, is the only one with a child. They seem to have tossed a ball into Astoria's yard by accident and have entered to retrieve it. Instead of fetching the ball directly, Luna darts across the lawn, giggling hysterically with Phoebe chasing after her.

Luna has been coming into Astoria's yard for months. Phoebe would apologize when it first began, but Astoria told her it didn't matter, Luna was welcome to play in her yard whenever she liked. Then last month, Phoebe confided that Luna liked to go over because she hoped to catch Astoria one day and ask her for dance lessons. Apparently, Luna saw reruns of Astoria's old interviews and showcases on the late night television segments, and she latched onto the idea ever since. At that point, it was too late to rescind the invitation, so Astoria now makes sure to stay inside whenever Luna wanders over.

Phoebe snatches her up in seconds, and as she carries her off, Luna makes eye contact with Astoria over her mother's shoulder. Luna waves with a toothless grin on her face. Astoria waves back. Beyond them, Astoria sees the Peacekeepers standing guard, as stoic as they were last night. (The daylight, the little girl, the Peacekeepers, each remind them of all they cannot have. Each tell them the dream is over, but the nightmare is unending.)

Astoria finds Olive chopping fruit in the kitchen. Olive looks her over and offers a smile. "Morning."

Astoria rubs her eyes. "Hey."

"Did you sleep well?" Olive asks, digging to get an answer as to why she caught Astoria asleep in the living room instead of her own bed.

The only one Astoria gives her is: "Well enough." She steers the conversation in another direction before Olive can ask her follow-up questions. "What's this?" Astoria points to the plate on the table where half of an unpeeled citrus is carefully placed.

"Grapefruit," Olive tells her, and she scoffs when Astoria squirms and pretends to gag. "It's good for you," she says very matter-of-factly. "Besides, sugar intake affects sleeping patterns."

Astoria huffs. She asks, aware of the answer, but desperate to keep Olive from prying, "Where did you hear that?"

"Dolores."

"Of course," Astoria mutters and takes a seat. Grapefruit: another hopeless treatment. (Dolores: another stomach-churning reminder of what they can never be.) Olive hands her a spoon. Astoria says with a light tease behind her words, "You take such good care of me."

Though Olive really does care for her, even if her attempts to help are more futile than worthwhile. She keeps Astoria alive. She's the reason Astoria tries to stay alive.

Olive rolls her eyes. "Eat your breakfast."

"Yes, ma'am," Astoria responds with a mock salute and scoops a piece of the grapefruit. It's worse than the bitterness of the cherry juice. The acidity is heavy on her tongue and numbs the roof of her mouth. Olive turns around, and Astoria reaches for the bowl of sugar in the center of the table, sprinkling a spoonful on the grapefruit.

"The announcement is in a few hours."

"Huh?" Astoria gets out through the sugared grapefruit in her mouth. It tastes no better, but at least the granularity of the sugar offers a pleasant distraction.

"The announcement," Olive repeats and spins back to face her. Her eyebrows are scrunched up, and given that she refrains from pointing out the trail of sugar leading to the plate, Astoria knows she's worried. "What do you think he'll say?"

"Don't know." Astoria winces when the words come out small and in a stutter. The next lie slips out with a stilted ease. "Probably another bullshit history lesson before he gives away the Quell's theme. Nothing to worry about."

     News diffuses across Five like the windstorms in mid-spring—it took less than an afternoon for the whole of them to learn of the program set for this very day. Even less for the schoolteachers, second only to the mayor and the Peacekeepers as informants of the Capitol, to spread rumors of its likely content.

"Right." Olive clears her throat. "It's probably nothing."

Astoria nods in agreement, but she keeps a careful eye on Olive. She looks exhausted, weary, not at all like a newly nineteen-year-old. It's Astoria's fault her little sister has been forced to grow up quicker, she knows that. But Olive is still a kid in every way that matters—gentle and kind and so desperately hopeful for some semblance of escape from this world.

"We don't have to watch it," Astoria says before she can process what it is she's suggesting. Her words are not treasonous, but they very well could be.

Olive perks up at the offer. "But it's mandatory."

"How will they know if we skip out on it?" Astoria shrugs. (They'll know. Of course they'll know. But the smile on Olive's face is worth the risk Astoria might face and more.) "We'll pretend we're heading to the market to watch it there and go on a walk by Gila instead." It's a half morning trip to their old neighborhood, which is time better spent than withering on the couch while they wait for the program to start. And it's about the only place in Five, aside from Victor's Village, where the air is mostly clear.

     Olive frowns suspiciously. "We haven't been there since..."

"I know." Astoria drums the spoon against the plate to the beat of her pulse. "Remember how pretty it would get this time of year? It'd be nice to go see it."

Olive hesitates. From the gleam in her eyes, her resolve is crumbling.

"Come on," Astoria goads, drawing out the words. "Doesn't fresh air help with sleep?"

Olive snorts, but she looks pleased, and Astoria beams. "Alright," Olive agrees. "We'll go."

"Good," Astoria says, and she takes another bite of the grapefruit, forcibly swallowing it. "Leave the dishes in the sink for me, yeah? I'll be right back."

"Where are you—"

"Elio's," Astoria cuts her off, standing to her feet and pushing the chair back. "I'll only be a minute."

"You haven't finished your grapefruit!" Olive calls out.

"I'll finish it later!" Astoria shouts back, half-way through the living room. She grabs her sweater from the little closet in the hallway and slips on her shoes.

Elio Solace lives in the house directly across from Astoria's, amid a garden of roses and tulips and grown-out weeds because he claims they're better that way. The rose bushes are a difficult species to keep alive in this season's climate, but Elio is meticulous with his care. Vibrant red and in full bloom, they offset the dullness of the house itself. Not unlike Phoebe, Elio has managed to make his silver cage into something of a home.

Astoria only has to knock once before Elio answers. He asks, like he expected her to show up today, "What do you need?"

As Astoria's mentor in the Games and the closest she has to a consistent, real friend, Elio is accustomed to doing her favors by now. In return, Astoria is accustomed to trusting his word before all others. She steps closer to peer into the house. "Do you have any biscuits?"

"What?"

"Or more of those raspberry cookies? I'm good with either, really."

Elio stares at her blankly, waiting for her to say something that would justify letting her in to steal cookies and biscuits.

Astoria sighs. "Olive has me on a sugar-ban."

"Of course," Elio grumbles and steps to the side. "Cookies are on the kitchen counter."

Astoria mumbles her thanks and rushes towards the kitchen. She finds the tin tray next to a bouquet of marigolds. An acoustic guitar lays against one of the table legs. Elio rarely plays in front of others—at least, not of his own free will. Astoria has only heard him play the same song a handful of times for the cameras.

Luna is the exception. She is allowed to request as many songs as often as she'd like. Astoria knows when Luna has wound up on Elio's porch because the giggles and melodies can be heard from across the way. It's payment, so Elio claims, for Luna's handiwork on his cane. She stole it from under him once, when they were all gathered around Phoebe's dining room table to decide on the year's mentors, decorating it with multicolored squiggles and abstract shapes. Two years later, and the colors have yet to fade.

Astoria has never asked how exactly it happened—Elio doesn't like to talk about the details, and Astoria respects it as he does her open secrets—but his Games left a permanent damage to his lower back. The cane helps on the days when the pain is particularly bad and he needs the support to stay balanced, and these days occur at a more frequent pace than they did years ago. Elio's knuckles clench around the handle as he slumps into his seat.

"How're you feeling today?"

"Fine," Elio answers, and Astoria knows he means it is no better than usual, but there's nothing he can do to change it. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

Astoria murmurs, "A bit."

Elio nods, because he knows Astoria means she pushed through the nightmares, but there's nothing she can do to stop them. "Well, Snow's making his grand announcement this afternoon." He says it as if that's the reason she hardly slept last night. And he's right, not that Astoria will tell him that. "It's got most of us on edge, especially with everything stirring lately."

Everything, as in Katniss Everdeen and her fiancé, Peeta Mellark. Katniss's existence has sparked a light across Panem. A humanity the districts haven't seen in far longer than Astoria has been alive. (It worries Astoria to know Katniss Everdeen has stirred something within them. Hope is a danger they can't afford and have no deserving use for.)

"Glad to know I'm not the only one," Astoria responds half-heartedly. "It's a good thing I won't be watching it." She bites into a cookie. "I told Olive we'd go on a walk."

Elio doesn't bother to remind Astoria that the program is technically mandatory. He just watches her quietly, expecting her to fall apart with one wrong word. "Well," he says, "I'll let you know if you miss anything important."

Astoria manages a genuine smile. "Thanks for the cookies." She grabs another and shows herself out. "And the rose!"

"I didn't—"

Astoria closes the door behind her, half-a-dozen cookies in one hand and an urge to pick a flower for Olive in the other.

To keep Astoria out of the neighbors' gardens when she was young, their dad would tell her that one prick from a rose thorn would send her into a wormhole of misfortune. Astoria thinks it was either that, or some dramatic tale about the all-seeing owls who lived among the wilted flowers to punish mischievous children. He was so animated, so larger-than-life, it was hard to take his stories as real warnings.

     (It is hard to remember what exactly he would say. It hurts to hear his voice, as it does to see their mom, for too long.)

     Whether fabricated or real, when a rose thorn leaves a small cut on her thumb, drawing a speck of blood this time, Astoria's heart thumps louder. She leaves the rose behind and hurries past the steel gates.

     By mid-morning, the weather is warm enough to wear the sleeveless dress in the back of Astoria's closet. The Peacekeepers at the gates don't bat an eye when they leave, but Astoria makes sure they walk through the more secluded backroads to keep from running into any who would take issue.

     "You were right," Olive admits once they've neared their old neighborhood, swinging the picnic basket packed with their lunch. She nudges Astoria with her elbow. "It is nice this time of year."

     The houses are small but long, each with a set of rooftop solar panels and a parcel of dirt lawns. Their front porches are empty, and Astoria assumes the residents have either resigned themselves to their living rooms or gone to the Bolt, Five's inner city, to watch the announcement. With springtime near, the naturally-supplanted cacti are surrounded by freshly blossomed ajo lily. The neighborhood is no great wonder—it never has been, really, and how could it be?—but there is life in its quaintness. 

Bell-shaped cardinals, ranging in shades of crimson, have become a food source for the hummingbirds by the dwindling creek that runs not far from the homes. Their own, abandoned and full of nothing more than memories, sits somewhere among them. They only stay by the creek for as long as Astoria figures the announcement to run, after they've had lunch and until she has enough under the exposure of the sun.

     On the walk back, Olive links her arm around Astoria's. She is careful not to recoil and startle Olive with any sudden movements, and she pushes against the need to pick at her own skin to keep it that way. Astoria's hands eventually relax, even when she notices two additional Peacekeepers at the main gates. The splitting sobs, shattering dishware, and strings of curses in close proximity are not entirely abnormal. Victors' Village has always felt more barren than the rest of Five. Always isolated and unnatural, minus the only two homes in a row of houses.

     It is finding Elio on her steps when they return, trembling on the verge of tears, tapping his foot to the rhythm of what she can only assume to be a song, seeking her help when it has always been the other way around, that takes the breath out of Astoria's body.

     "What's wrong?"

     He stops tapping. Elio says nothing, has no need to, because as soon as he looks at her and the dam of a sob breaks, Astoria knows. No amount of cherry juice or grapefruit will chase away the nightmares, not ever, not this time. The cut on her finger stings like a slap to the face. A reminder that safety, fortune, peace, hope will forever be far beyond Astoria's reach. A fantasy that will never be hers to realize.

     Her pricked finger is a wake-up call with one simple message: the odds have never been in Astoria's favor.

*⍋*

aaaaand scene.

there's so much i want to say, so little coherent ways for me to express it all. i didn't change too much besides some details and additional characters, and updating the weaker pieces.

i made this note in the previously published second chapter, but i've moved it here: astoria and calliope are both nb, but citizens are reaped on the basis of biological sex, not gender identity. textually, panem still functions on a binary system, and that's pretty self-explanatory, i just wanted to make it clear.

also, the district five (+ four) lore will be expanded on in the second act, but there are lots of hints here about what the geographic, social, and (vaguely) spiritual culture is like!

now that my spiel is done, let me know your thoughts, questions, concerns, etc etc please and thank you 🫶