you can always bleed a little more. 

The loneliest moment in a person's life
is when they are watching their whole world fall apart /
and can do nothing but stare blankly.

THE GREAT GATSBY / F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

﹙ chapter eighteen, act two ﹚

city circle, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    MARA STARES AT THE SIGN OF THE BUILDING. The Playing Inn, written in neon lights across the doorframe. Another place that profits tremendously when the games roll around each year; toy weapons on sale in the front window and various posters about the tributes plastered on the windows. Who to bet on ─── for both dying and surviving. She stands just outside the threshold, trying to collect herself. Even if one of them lives, the expressions her tributes had during the train ride ─── and, in fact, whenever they look at her ─── are seared in her mind. Mara exhales shakily, keeping iron control on her breath. She can't do this. Why was she stupid enough to think it was over as she lay there in the forest of the arena, watching the sea and half dead, when the last cannon fired?

                    The chariot rides were yesterday. Opal moved on from being a stylist after Mara's victory, her popularity skyrocketed to the point where she could launch her own fashion brand, so she has no need to dress up little children anymore. She still sees the logo and she's both pleased and sickened by it. Pleased that Opal got what she deserved for her talent and the hard work she put into her costumes paid off. Sickened that it took the games to get there, and a little resentful as it seems the stylist has forgotten her.

                    Mara doesn't know who the new stylist is, but the outfits draw attention, that's for sure. Nothing as brilliant or bold as what she was dressed in, but they're not as bad as the pair from District Twelve. Covered only in black dye and coal dust; they must be humiliated beyond belief. It drew disgust even from the Capitolites, and the images are everywhere, even on the window of this inn. Sommer and Oren had a flower motif between them and most of their skin was covered. They stood straight, unbent and unbowed, which is better than some of the others. Disgust coils in her stomach as she realises she's already thinking like one of them, but what else is there to do? To talk to some of the Capitolites and see what they think of Eleven's latest harvest?

                    Somebody crashes into her from behind, somebody much larger and heavier than her. She falls forward, but catches herself and wheels around, tense, fists already clenched and gravitating upwards ─── she's been caught off guard. Somebody has snuck up on her and could very easily kill her. Isn't it so frightening how mortal she remains? The knife is at the man's throat before either of them can blink.

                    "Woah, woah, sweetheart." He raises his hands in the air, one palm flat and open, the other wrapped around a flask. His whole frame stumbles. "I'm afrai . . . we don't have rooms!"

                    "I'm not here to stay." She hisses, backing him against the window but restraining herself from pressing too hard. She doesn't want to spill more blood.

                    He's very drunk, not dissimilar to Chaff. It reeks from him. She's become very good at deciphering drunken words these past months. In an instant, he becomes more serious. "Now get away from me."

                    She recognises that flash in his eye, muted by the drink but still there ─── the misplaced fury threatening to snap.

                    "Haym─── what are you doing?" She recognises the third voice in a heartbeat; it's Chaff, and he sounds honestly surprised given the way his voice is ever so slightly higher than usual. She turns her head to see him, and he almost laughs at the sight. "Don't be so tense, kid. This is Haymitch. My friend."

                    She puts the knife back up her sleeve, cool metal comforting against her forearm, but doesn't take her eyes off the man. Haymitch, a name she vaguely remembers. "I didn't know you had friends." She says coolly, watching the man carefully for a reaction.

                    Chaff's face slackens but Haymitch bursts into uproarious laughter, hitting her on the shoulder. "Oh, good one. She's right, isn't she?"

                    "Who are you then? My next door neighbour?" The victor grumbles but doesn't disagree. In all honesty, none of them have particularly fulfilling lives. "Let's just get this over with."

                    And though she doesn't want to, Mara follows them in through the door.

                    The first floor is a front and serves as an actual inn, but Seeder has told her not to worry about it. They usually don't have many guests, and an agreement with the owners ─── for a hefty sum of money, though little more than a fraction of what the victors are showered in ─── means they own the second floor. It's the closest you'll get to discretion, she'd told her. Remember: windows have eyes and the walls have ears. Nowhere else is truly private.

                    Chaff checks his watch and punches in the access code, which changes every hour. Mara keeps her head down for fear of being recognised, though it's become usual for victors to frequent this place. She follows Chaff and Haymitch up the stairs, almost afraid they'll fall over and onto her with the way they're swerving around, but she gets to the top with no further crashes. Another door, with another code, and they're in.

                    It's a large room, with the windows tilted open to let in some of the hot summer air. Though the Capitol is much further north than Eleven, with much milder heat in comparison, it's still hot enough to be uncomfortable and sweat a little. She's glad for whatever tiny breeze reaches her face. It's mostly empty, with just a few people drifting around. A game of cards sprawled on the sofa and a table dedicated to drinks.

                    Haymitch, who seems to have forgotten all about her despite the fact that she held a knife to his throat only a few minutes ago, gravitates there immediately and after picking up the nearest bottle, he gets dealt into the game. Chaff seems to want to follow him but stays around for a while to introduce her to the mentors. She recognises some of them from the past few years, and her victory tour of the districts where she dined with them, but that was so long ago and she was so muddled in her own pain that she's mostly forgotten.

                    There's Cecilia and Woof, the pair from Eight. She vaguely remembers Antonia and Cecilia spending so long talking about her newborn children that they didn't leave until close to midnight during her victory tour. Woof is so old he's almost completely forgotten that he has two tributes, not just one. Porter from Five ─── who, she realises with a sickening lurch, must have mentored Amira back in her games. But the brace-bound woman holds no grudge about that. In fact, none of them mention the games at all.

                    "There's others." Chaff says, though he keeps on eyeing the game and the drinks. "The more popular ones . . . they're hardly here though. Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria, Finnick."

                    "Just go and play. Don't wait for me."

                    "Seeder told me to keep you company while she isn't here," he sighs. "To show you around."

                    "And I've seen plenty." Mara says tartly, her skin prickling and feeling too tight over her bones. The lie comes easily but is bitter in her mouth. "You've done your job. Is there a balcony I can go sit on? For some fresh air?"

                    He waves his amputated arm towards another door and she doesn't waste another moment. Cecilia stops her. "You alright, dear? You seem . . ."

                    "Distracted." She says, paling as she realises how this mirrors the dream of her mother. Her mother. Cecilia unknowingly quoted her ─── Mara shrinks away from the maternity. She hasn't been a woman's daughter in years and she hates feeling like that again. Hates how her kindness seems to cut her more deeply than a knife. "I'm fine though."

                    There's something in her grey eyes that knows Mara is lying, but she nods graciously and leaves it at that.

                    Mara goes out onto the little square out in the Capitol air. It's tainted like everything else but on the first floor, it's high enough for the wind to properly pick up. She sits on the railing, legs over the edge. There's no barrier here to stop people from falling off ─── they're not tributes any more. They're already been used for entertainment and if she were, hypothetically speaking, to fall, she'd probably break her legs and die. It seems like a good idea until she thinks of Mercy and Alec. How they're trusting that she'll return.

                    How if she dies, Mercy and Alec will be evicted from Victor's Village.

                    Time passes. Morning gives way to midday. She should be collecting sponsors, she knows, but later, she says. It's easier to watch the day go by.

                    A voice comes out of nowhere, so sudden that she starts and almost falls. "And who might you be?" The rich, honey-like voice asks. She recognises it immediately and scowls. "No one else goes here. You could say it's my place."

                    She turns her head, already glaring at him. "I don't see your name on it."

                    "Mara!" Finnick croons delightedly, face breaking into a grin. She hates how awfully handsome he looks when he smiles, even more when he knows how it winds her up. How she knows it's fake. "I haven't seen you───" He points from himself to her while he speaks, "───in ages. Please don't jump."

                    "If you don't stop talking to me, I might." She says, though both of them know it's an empty threat.

                    Finnick walks over, every movement fluid like water, and sits on the railing too, nudging her with his shoulder. "First time at the party? You should know it doesn't end." She edges away from him, shuffling over for maximum distance, trying to ignore him. But there's something about Finnick, about the way he acts and speaks, that simply demands attention. "Surely I'm not that repulsive, sweetheart."

                    "Trust me, you are."

                    "You see," he says, taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it, "this is why you have no friends."

                    "Then why are you talking to me?" She asks without dropping a beat, leaning towards him. He offers her a drag and she curls her lip, and sneers: "Go away."

                    Though it all seems to be a joke for him, she really does mean every word she says. He hasn't changed a bit; glowing bronze skin, charming and calculating eyes, a face that draws attention from all angles of the room. And, of course, his voice ─── the one that cemented her brother's death in history, still that odd mix of relief and terror and confidence which Mara can detect, but never quite understand. She knows it quite well ─── how couldn't she, because whenever she thinks of her brother, invariably her thoughts shift to the boy who took the ticket home.

                    The one that stood before Eleven's battered Justice Building and delivered a hollow speech supposed to honour Lian.

                    How she wishes Lian were up there instead of him. Standing on a raised platform designated for the families of the deceased, it's like all the cuts viciously reopen the moment the bronze-skinned teenager walks on stage. As her mother always said ─── there's a difference between healing and simply not bleeding anymore.

                    It's impossible to ignore him. A ten-year-old Mara looks young for her age, short and thin with permanently tangled hair, and doesn't understand the cost of the games. But she's old enough to know what Finnick Odair's survival means. Enough to hate him for it.

                    It's also impossible not to notice the way his gaze flickers to her, dropping to guilt for a moment. The pause as he sees the tear stains streaked on her cheeks, the angry glare that tells him exactly what his victory costs. How can she ignore the rain that falls as he dines with the Mayor, the smell of food wafting over to the streets?

                    If only it were Lian instead of him.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

the study, snow's mansion.
july, 72 att.

                    THE LETTER ARRIVED LAST TUESDAY. Pure poison sealed with white wax and smelling strongly of roses. She didn't tell Mercy or Alec about it, hiding it in her room until a few days later, when she had gathered the resolve to open it. They found out about its contents the next day: the President wished to speak to her, face to face, before the games began.

                    Alec tore it to shreds, ripped paper scattered over the kitchen floor. "They're not taking your future as well," he had said, furious, but it hadn't mattered much. She had to get on that train and here she is, sitting in a study; waiting, waiting, waiting.

                    What could be so important it couldn't be summarised in another letter? What could the most powerful man in Panem want from her, even after playing her part in the games?

                    Speak of the devil, and Snow shall appear; moments before he crosses the threshold into the room, there is a cold waft of air heralding his approach. She stills in the chair, just as stiff as she had been while he crowned her. Though, she could just be imagining things ─── Mara is so jumpy, so attuned to the finest details. Every flake of paint on the walls; every petal of the roses in the vase. Every beat of her heart, thumping in time to the President's footsteps.

                    "Miss Cayden," he begins, voice raspy and unsettling, yet a certain twinkle in his stony grey eyes. Truly; it takes a moment for her to figure out that he's jovial, smiling, deepening the lines on his face. If she didn't know better, she'd say he looks more like a rich grandfather than the leader of the nation. Than the puppeteer orchestrating the Games.

                    But she knows better. And so does he ─── what does he want from her that he cannot merely demand?

                    The moment of silence stretches too long; she rushes to cover it. "Mr President." She greets. Then, an afterthought: "Sir."

                    He chuckles, taking a seat on the other side of the desk; leans back, sunlight shining through the window and illuminating his pale white hair. But a snake is a snake, no matter how much it may look like a flower, and the tension won't let go of her. Tension is an instinct of danger, and she may not trust her mind, but she will follow her gut. He wants something from her, and this is merely a game to get it ─── she doesn't want to play anymore, but when has there ever been a choice?

                    "I do sometimes wonder what it is to be a victor." Snow says, studying her carefully. Mara fights the urge to turn away. "To be plucked out of the masses, and yet, survive."

                    "It doesn't end there." She says bitterly. He doesn't like that; the quickest flash of anger crosses his face. Who is she to interrupt him? It passes, but she sees she has the right to anticipate, to fear him.

                    "We have become friends, have we not, since you won?"

                    Her first instinct is to run. Run, far from this man with his laced words and genuine discomfort radiating from him; leave this place and whatever he wants along with the star-studded skyline of the Capitol. The next is to shoot him down. Though, the security guards found the knife in her sleeve when they frisked her on the way in, and no doubt, she's been watched by more than one pair of eyes right now. "Yes, Mr President." She forces out, thinking it better to agree. "Sir."

                    He tilts his head slightly to the side, as if she has already fallen into the pit of snakes rather carefully skirting around it as she had thought. "Then, as friends, I will be frank with you. I need your help. Do you know what a desirable is?"

                    "No." Mara has never heard that word used in such a context before, but really, she knows. They are people like Finnick Odair and Cashmere; like Enobaria with her sharpened teeth and Gloss, Brutus, the rest of the young Careers. So brilliant, so blinding, so wanted by everyone in the room. They are the furthest removed from the districts, though it's where they came from. And generally, not from the lower ones.

                    "A desirable is someone who keeps the Capitol company during the months between the games," he says, with that jolly smile never faltering. "I want to see if the people of my city will take to you."

                    "What?" Her voice is brittle, weak; she doesn't quite understand.

                    "We don't generally associate with the people of Eleven," Snow continues, "and up until now, I never had reason to doubt that." There is a certain disgust laced in his voice now, more menacing, and she is frozen in her seat, helpless as the snake swallows her whole. "I propose an experiment."

                    All she can do is blink slowly, stunned, as the details fall into place. As she realises what he's alluding to. He is in control now; an amateur was forced into a game with the chessmaster. "You will attend every social event you are invited to. Every single one, Miss Cayden, and I will know if you don't turn up."

                    She swallows. "I'm just a kid." She says, trying to deflect what he is requesting of her ─── no, demanding. She cannot say no to the President.

                    That throws him off, for some reason, if only for a moment. "You are seventeen."

                    Her brow creases, shaking her head. "No." She says simply, "I can't be."

                    "You turned seventeen last April, Miss Cayden." He says, raising a brow at her delusions. "Not that it matters. It's the perfect time to test the water."

                    Part of her wonders what will happen if she refuses. The other knows. "What else is there?" She asks hollowly; a mistake.

                    His eyes narrow, and the smile drops. The air around her plunges to subzero, and the fear she felt in the arena ebbs at her. "Don't ask those sorts of questions, dear. You might discover the answer. If they like you, I shall have no choice. If not," his gaze sweeps over her dismissively, "you will have served your purpose."

                    She cannot do anything. That's the problem, she supposes.

                    "You may leave now."

                    Mara does not move; two Peacekeepers briskly march in and grab her around the arms. They drag her out, and she does not fight back, letting them pull her out and away, away from the pure poison she has been forced to ingest ─── Snow watches from his desk, his kindly smile propped up on his face once more.

                   She is thrown, without care, onto the floor outside his study; the soldiers shut the door and march off, to torture some poor soul who doesn't deserve it. Then she realises this is not Eleven, and citizens aren't constantly punished. A shadow looms over her, tall and blonde, but she doesn't have the will to get up.

                    "Hi, it's Mara, right?" Cashmere asks, but her charming smile seems ever so slightly dull, if she looks more closely. Which she doesn't. She tilts her head, looking down at her with a mix of amusement and concern, still with some reservations. ( When Snow demands to speak to a victor, it never ends well ). She extends a hand, reaching down, and she surprises herself by taking it. With Cashmere's help, she makes her frozen limbs move until she stands, and immediately leans for support on the wall.

                    The expression on her face must be more visible now, because her amusement fades faster than twilight on a summer's night. Leaving nothing but shadows the sun hid away for so long. "What did he want?"

                    She shakes her head. Cashmere's eyes bore into hers, with something she never thought possible for a Career. Sympathy. The moment passes, and she shakes her head again. "I have a chance to get out of it." She murmurs, over and over, neither of them realising how unintentionally cruel her words are.

                    "Wait, wait." She says, as her name is called from the other side of the door. "What do you mean?" But just as Mara was dragged out, she is escorted in, and does not come out for a long time. She waits a while, but more Peacekeepers threaten her as she loiters.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

tribute tower, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    MARA WALKS NUMBLY. A little like how she did when she was reaped, numbly and robotically going through the motions of foot in front of the other. Misery festers in all the hollow parts of her heart. Every word said in that study bounces around her skull. She can think only of three things:

                    One, she is seventeen. Almost eighteen ─── how? How is that possible, that time has marched on without her? She is now older than Avens ever was or will be. It doesn't seem right that she gets to age when he doesn't. How did she let this happen without ever realising it?

                   Two, she must be one of the most unpopular victors if she's to escape what's been laid out for her. She remembers Annie Cresta, last year's winner, a redheaded girl who witnessed her district partner being beheaded ─── and after a flood, she was the only one left swimming. The gap between victory and the parties were so long, as the doctors tried to piece her mind back together, that by the time she was stable enough to be crowned, there wasn't as much interest in her. Even now, hardly anyone knows anything about her. She can't afford to entertain the notion of someone wanting her. She'll have to exceed her capacity for self sabotage ─── because nobody likes a mad woman.

                    Three, what was Cashmere doing there? She assumes it was about an upcoming interview or something like that, but it's no secret that the blonde is well-liked among the Capitol. Has she ever been asked something similar? Mara doesn't want to think of such things ─── in all Seeder's preparation, she never even alluded to something like this ─── but she keeps on wondering.

                    She is let into the Tribute Tower and doesn't see anyone as she goes up the elevator. Part of her is still childishly excited as she shoots away from the ground, the people on the street shrinking down to ants, but it's muted. She fiddles with Finnick's lighter, twisting it between her fingers and clicking it to watch the flame spring forth from the little metal box. Then blows it out and relights. Maybe she's wasting the gas in it, but she doesn't care. She doesn't know why she stole it, or how he didn't notice.

                    Once the elevator slows and the doors open, she checks if anyone is on her floor. A quick check of knocking on all the doors proves she's alone. But just to be sure, she shuts the door of her room, taking a chair and pushing it up against the handle since there's no lock. For several moments, she stands there, chest heaving up and down. She wipes at her eyes, absolutely refusing to cry. She's not the scared little tribute or scarred victor who can hardly bear to exist anymore.

                  She does anyway.

                  Waiting for her, on the bed, is a pile of white envelopes. With trembling hands, she picks the first up, almost assaulted by the strong smell of perfume emanating from it. The sickly smell of roses. The heavy parchment is addressed to her, and as her eyes scan down the invite, is addressed for this evening. She screams, though there's no one to hear it. Mara takes the lighter from her pocket, flicking it open ─── the motion already smooth from practice ─── and alights the flame onto the envelope.

                     It's satisfying to watch it burn, to see how the paper curls and browns. But as if this changes anything! She's still trapped under the proposition. She could burn every invitation but it wouldn't change that she must still go. And suddenly she is afraid. She drops the half destroyed letter and puts it out with her bare hands, burning herself. It sings with pain in a way she has not been familiar with since the arena.

                    She gasps, hurrying out to the main area of the floor ─── almost doubling over as she has to lift up the chair to move it out of the way ─── and runs her hands under cold water. While she stands there, she slowly calms herself. One breath, then another. She stays there longer than needed, letting the water run over her hands until it doesn't hurt any more. She lifts up her palms, pale splotches on her skin. Tender to touch, but not so blindingly painful as it was.

                    Mara dresses herself. Though she may hate the clothes Antonia has sorted out for her, they're exactly to the Capitol's standards. Her self-sabotage will have to wait. She's not going to fail her tributes again. 

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :

( 4,221 words! )
delving right into the capitol and a ton of lore
about how the mentors operate. + mara meets
haymitch and puts a knife to his throat !! he'll
be more important as the timeline continues,
and until the 74th games he is essentially chaff
but from district 12. they're friends, it's canon,
and very similar. though it was only a small 
interaction,, i hope their history & dynamic was
made clear !! (note that i am a haymitch stan b4
sunrise on the reaping comes out <3) && mara 
then talks with finnick on the balcony and they
have an entirely new sort of relationship in 
this rewrite bc i was not seeing the enemies in
enemies to lovers. they're in for a rollercoaster! 

and,, snow's proposition. this was hard to write
not just because snow is an absolutely terrible
person,, but the concept of what he wants and 
what the victors go through. HOWEVER, i have
realised that sort of storyline would serve no real
purpose for mara or anyone else beside really
making inured dark. which i don't want. it's a v.
serious story, but i don't do things for the sake 
of them. INSTEAD, mara's rebellion comes from
actively seeking a way out of this, aided by the
elements of racism surrounding district eleven.
 it doesn't necessarily reflect what we see irl, but
it's there. most of the capitol thinks that people
from eleven (predominantly african americans)
are sub-human and therefore mara is not worthy
of their affections because of this. they'll still talk
and invite her to social events because she is a 
victor, but most won't desire her this way. 

i want to say that this doesn't reflect what would
probably happen in real life. fetishisation and 
exoticisation are real things that will be explored
but not to the point where mara is sold. it is very
awful, i know, but it's writing out that storyline.
i don't mind saying now that sort of thing won't
happen to mara because i don't want to write it.
in terms of finnick's character, which is canonical
it can't be avoided and will only be alluded to by
his reaction, thoughts, and what he says.

after a very long and serious author's note,, i 
hope you all have a lovely day❤️!!