you can always bleed a little more.

I'm beginning to know myself; I don't exist.
I'm the space between what I'd like to be /
and what others made of me.

ALVARO DE CAMPOS / FERNANDO PESSOA

﹙chapter twenty four, act two ﹚

city circle, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    WHEREVER SHE TURNS, THERE IS ALWAYS SOMEONE WAITING FOR HER. She's lost count of how many days it's been up here at the Capitol, and how long the games have gone on. All she can really think of is how many half burnt envelopes are sitting on her bed. This is the third social event she's attended ─── or maybe the fourth. It's hard to tell as every night is the same: dress herself up into some hideous outfit, prepare some lines about Oren. She used to try and talk about Sommer, but where did Mara's help get her? A coffin. Hail a taxi and arrive, and she either melts into the shadows, waiting for an apt target to convince as a sponsor, or is the centre of attention due to her special status as a mentor. And as the only one at this party, there's always something to push the knife further into her chest.

                    It should end the way all the others do: meaningless promises and a pounding headache from all the drinks she's taken to distract herself from her own misery. Mara won't stay for long. These long nights of no sleep are starting to get to her. The Capitolites swarm to her like they're flies and she's covered in honey; their words blend into one long screech. Everything is dark, hazy, like those few days leaving the arena and coming back to the real world, except this time she isn't high as a kite on pain meds. Part of her wishes she was ─── she hates this all more than words can express, and starts to understand why Seeder is so hopeless, why Chaff is so dependent on alcohol. What wouldn't she give to forget all this?

                    The mansion hums with music and energy. Though many Capitolites have gone outside to clear their heads and now dance out in the gardens, there's plenty keeping her occupied. Plenty to make sure she never gets a moment alone. It's not a rager, as Septimus ─── who has yet to leave her side this evening ─── has been quick to correct her. Not like what comes to mind when she thinks of Capitol parties.

                    It makes her head throbs more than ever, but she doesn't let it show. A soldier doesn't show weakness. Therefore, neither can she.

                    Her one recluse is the food tables, heaps and heaps of more food than she's ever dreamed of. The meals on the train, which she had thought to be gluttonous, were prepared for a few people ─── this is for several hundred, and it shows. Towers of tender fillets, huge brass pots with rich chocolates individually wrapped, pastries filled with meat and spices. Bite-sized sandwiches filled with things she's never heard of. Sparkling wine swirling around thin-stemmed glasses, carried around by a legion of Avoxes. Anything and everything she could possibly want.

                    That's just what she's sampled so far, trying to distract herself with as many flavours as possible. It could feed the entire population of Darkmoor for a week, and most of it remains untouched.

                    "Nice food, isn't it?" Septimus asks her. She'd managed to shake him off for a few minutes, but he's reappeared out of nowhere. Smile unfailing, his dark eyes bore into hers, and for all the colour he can paint onto his face, it doesn't change that they're like tunnels with no end. It's unnerving how he has barely let her out of his sight from the moment they were introduced. Those dark eyes always trained on her. "I was expecting more from the Avoxes, though. They could at least try to make a proper feast."

                    He doesn't wait for a response, spearing a leg of chicken with a wooden toothpick, daintily eating it with careful bites and wiping his too-full lips with a napkin. "Are you not hungry?"

                    "No." She says stiffly. Something about him makes her want to hide in an empty room for days on end. It's an easy lie ─── something she's found herself doing more and more.

                    "That's what we have these for!" He plucks a champagne glass filled with a pale pink liquid from the tray of a passing Avox. Then points a finger in the direction of a cubicle just outside. "Why let it stop you? It's the only way to really enjoy everything."

                    They throw up merely to eat more. There she is, starving ─── there are the districts, dropping like flies ─── and yet, gluttony is all the rage here. And children still live and die and grow up with not enough space between skin and bone. Mara tries to inch away from him, disgusted, but he continues to approach with more interest, to the point where his breath fans on her face. "Oh." She says. "I wasn't aware."

                    Septimus grins, laughing to himself. "Of course. You're still very new here, I understand."

                    The rest of what he says blurs into one long whir, scratching against her skull. Everything quietens. Mara feels as if underwater, the noises blurred and muffled, and though any kind of water invariably has her sent reeling back to the arena, she is strangely at peace. Detached from her misery as Septimus talks and talks and it doesn't end. She doesn't stop him, though ─── if she's busy in conversation, then the other Capitolites wait their turn. And she doesn't have to bear more fake gushing. At least Septimus doesn't pretend to care about the tributes. It's clear his intention is to speak to her, about her, alone.

                    "Mhm," she nods, finally tuning back into reality. "Yeah."

                    "Great!" Out of nowhere ─── or perhaps it's because she missed most of their conversation ─── Septimus puts his arm over her shoulder and leads her onwards. She freezes under his touch, though it's not particularly invasive, and more because of how sudden this is. But what would she know? Mara hasn't had a friend since Avens died in her arms.

                    Avens, Avens, Avens. Why couldn't you be here? It would be wrong to replace him. She shrugs off Septimus' arm, not noticing how his smile drops for the briefest of moments. Her legs only start moving a beat too late, as such he leads her across the hall, and she follows. "To start with, there are several people I want you to meet. Then I'll send the money over."

                    She can't remember a word he says, or what she's doing here. Has Mara really lost touch with the world? Has she really gone mad?

                    Mara recognises one of the women Septimus leads her to, Arachne, from a previous party. Wickedly sharp features and an even sharper tongue. She reminds Mara a little of Desiree, the career tribute from her games, who had that same vicious look in her eyes. Even in death, it was etched onto her face, and if she'd won, perhaps this is what she'd look like. Her breath shortens a little as thoughts of Desiree lead to the other Careers, to the arena, to the blood she drowned in ───

                    She pulls herself out of such thoughts and laughs when the others do ─── it probably wasn't funny, but it doesn't matter. Mara has her part to play. And while they talk, she ignores how Septimus' gaze still hasn't left her, because when she arrives back at the tribute tower an hour later, the transferral of money has already been made. She looks at the feed of Oren, a meagre pile of wood in front of him while he huddles against a tree, breath misting before his face. Then at the prices ─── and almost screams in delight when she realises that between Lucille and Septimus' generous donations, there is just enough to scrape an actual sponsor.

                    The matches reach him in minutes.

                    Night falls, and with it, comes some semblance of peace. Mara lets herself recline on the sofa, mindlessly flicking through the channels on the television, watching a soap opera for a few minutes and then to footage of the games, though it's all playbacks of the bloodbath since the ensuing days have been so boring ─── a reminder of what will happen should the districts forget their place in this world. A plaintive little frown settles on her face while Antonia joins her, commandeering the remote and switching to some reality show. The two watch the show in silence, the latter occasionally breaking it to make comments.

                    The channel then switches again to the ten o'clock news, and the presenters, Caesar and Claudius, are sitting at a table. Caesar sports a purple wig and matching eyebrows, gems inlaid around his eyes like a mask, and he looks older than ever.

                    "And Reeve will most certainly be the one to watch out for at this upcoming feast!" Claudius says, clapping his hands together eagerly. There is cheering off-camera. "Though the other Careers will surely prove that they too are worthy of───"

                    Antonia turns off the television.

                    In the last two years, Antonia kept up with every outfit and theme that Caesar Flickerman chose ─── now, compared to him, she seems positively drab. It's the first time she's seen her without makeup or ornate dresses of any kind; and the escort could be considered pretty. Her skin isn't dyed this year, though there are still remnants of violet paint she hasn't wiped away. It leaves her soft features bare, and perhaps it was the makeup that hid the anger that simmers around her. Something Mara always thought she was too foolish and shallow to be capable of.

                    "I know this is hard for you." She says, voice still high and twanged with a Capitol accent, though there seems to be some purpose to her words now. Not just fawning over compliments or reprimanding etiquette. "I know that mentoring is the most difficult thing to do. I've been doing it for the past five years."

                    "No, you ─── " And then she cuts herself off mid-sneer. Hasn't Antonia been more than just an escort? She initiated the practice interview questions on the train while Mara arrived at the Capitol for the first time. She kept going over and over, long after Seeder had given up. It was Antonia, not herself or Chaff, who gave last year's tributes the advice on how to deal with the bloodbath, it was Antonia who tried to broker deals. It's her who taught Sommer how to sit straight and control her volume, to drag her out of her room for those very lessons she hated so much. It's Antonia who was out last night talking up the tributes while Mara tried to hide in the corners of the room. "─── you have."

                    "Yes," she says. "you're remembering, aren't you? The little things I've done that add up to far more than your half-hearted attempts."

                    "Half-hearted?" Suddenly she's seething. All this suffering and Antonia thinks she hasn't even bothered. "You think I've done nothing, you stupid . . . ! I just sent Oren some fucking matches with deals that I made. Money I gathered."

                    Antonia's lip curls into a frown, but her look is more pitiful than anything else. "I know you're trying," she gestures to the tablet Mara used to send the sponsor only half an hour ago. "But you don't know how to do this yet. Matches . . . they're temporary relief ─── now there's nowhere to hide and a massive flag on his location."

                    Mara is silent, and downs the rest of her glass to chase away her guilt. She trembles, and whether it's from rage or guilt or incoming tears, she doesn't know. What does it matter? Was Finnick Odair right about her after all? Is she really so helpless, so useless, that even her best attempts only worsen her tribute's odds? Nothing works. Nothing is good. Lucille, for whatever reason in spite of her bearing the name Snow, donates to every tribute ─── does it really count as Mara's deal, then? And Septimus, whatever his motives, hardly even knew Oren's name. She refills her glass, throwing her head back to take it in one swallow.

                    In a sudden move, the escort reaches over and knocks it from her hands before she can finish: the wine spills over her shirt and onto the sofa. Her breath spikes at the outburst. "I . . . I needed that."

                    "You don't, Mara. Please don't end up like Chaff. Quit while it's easier." She says, and her gaze is a unique mix of pity and resentment ─── how the two can exist at once, she doesn't know.

                    "I'm not an addict." She sneers, though her iron grip on the empty glass, knuckles pale from the force, says otherwise.

                    Antonia continues: "You didn't mentor Juniper and Alder last year. This is," she pauses, "your first time. I don't expect much from you right now. Observe and learn and lower your expectations. You'll do a little better each year, and then between us we might be able to bring one of them home."

                    Mara has killed, inadvertently, another tribute, and probably another one soon: first it was Jaya, in the panic of the bloodbath. Then Hestia, leaving her behind to drown. Mikayla, in the darkness of night and Amira, perhaps the only one she really wanted to kill. Now Sommer, and soon Oren. Names and faces and lives cut short because of her. She looks at the escort, madness in her gaze, because there are now ghosts surrounding her. A whole room of them.

                    "Well? Say something." Her kindness is something she's always taken for granted, and she's not going to stop now.

                    "Leave me alone. Leave." She hisses, more to the ghosts than Antonia, but how would she know that? The escort has never looked so hurt before, and realises there is yet another name to add to the long list of people she's severed away from herself. Another bridge burned.

                    There is a moment of dreadful, hanging silence, much like the one that arose moments after the last cannon fired.

                    Antonia claps twice to turn off the lights as she retires to her room. Mara is left in a dark room, with booze spilled all over her and self-hatred gnawing at her: another prison of her own making.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

the playing inn, the capitol.
july, 72 att.

                    MARA CANNOT STAND HER OWN SKIN. The night should be a bit more calm for her, but after everything she's said to Antonia, every spiteful word, she can't bear to be in the tribute tower. She leaves, despite wanting to sleep, and walks to the Playing Inn. The air does little to clear her head, choking her with those faint traces of fumes, but it's good to give herself something to do. To go through the motions of walking instead of replaying the earlier exchange. She wraps her arms around herself, though it's not at all cold, and stares at the pavement.

                    So much so that she crashes into Chaff while he stumbles out of an alleyway, in a similar sort of daze. She's barely seen him while they've been at the Capitol, and he doesn't look well. Gaunt and haggard even if he's one of the richest in the district. He reeks of vomit and holds on to Mara as he rights himself.

                    She rips herself out of his one-handed grip. Part of her pities him, part of her is furious with him. The rest is afraid.

                    Please don't end up like Chaff.

                    She remembers how much she hated him as a tribute, how she resented his ineptitude. "Why send matches?" She asks him. "Why send the fucking matches?"

                    "Huh?" He asks, staggering against the wall, eyes unfocused and bloodshot. He looks like he can hardly think.

                    Mara doesn't know whether to scream or sob ─── who is she really talking to here? "Why?"

                    Chaff doubles over again, and she just stands there, the dam she'd built for herself flooding. Everything goes in and out of focus, and she feels her knees going limp and weak. She catches herself before she falls, and buries her face in her hands, taking several deep breaths. It's almost like she's back home, fourteen again, with a drunk man to take care of instead of herself ─── except this man is not her father. Truthfully, she owes Chaff very little. He has kept himself away from her, he's drowned himself in drink, by all means ─── this is a prison he's built for himself. She's half-tempted to leave him here and let the Peacekeepers arrest him for disorderly conduct; then come to bail and collect him from jail. She doesn't care about him.

                    ( Some small part of her remembers the softer moments. ) She bears him a debt; he sent her a sponsor during her games. However much she may dislike him, she owes him that at least. Mara pulls herself together, looping her arms around his stump and hauling him to his feet. He's far too large and heavy to carry.

                    "Get up." She tells him, tugging. "Get up."

                    Slowly, painfully, he gets to his feet with her help. She walks him out of the alleyway and onto the street, the old embarrassment faded at this point. He's made scenes like this before ─── even the people of the Capitol pay no attention to him any more. The sad drunk's legs cannot quite match her pace, and he stumbles behind her. If he falls onto her, she'd be crushed under him. Mara slows down a little.

                    A puzzled expression dawns on his face. "Never have sent matches," he tells her as the Playing Inn is finally in sight. "It's suicidal."

                    It must have been Seeder, then. But Mara has a sinking feeling she was and still is too wise to do that. She'd know it's better not to spend money on them and save it for something else ─── though, as she miserably defends herself, she never did send anything else to other tributes. Other tributes. She said it herself: between Avens and herself, they'd chosen to try bring him home first and her second. Seeder sending them makes no sense.

                    But then who possibly would?

                    She nods to the innkeeper behind the bar, an old contact and friend of the mentors, as they pass the bar on the way to the stairs. Chaff is not easy to drag, but he's compliant enough to take up the stairs without falling over, though he does sway unsteadily. She abandons him on a couch and makes straight for the drinks table. It hasn't been replenished yet and she rifles through it desperately, even shaking the empty bottles to see if a little remains. Hardly any does, and she feels an icy panic beginning to claw through her veins. There isn't any left.

                    The fear only settles its claws in her throat when Chaff makes some strange noise as he passes out on the couch, and she realises exactly what she's doing. Please don't end up like him, Mara. But hasn't he already led her down this path? Wasn't he the one to give her the first drink? She's torn between sobbing and glaring at him, since she knows from experience that no siren or alarm could awaken him from that. Given he's a much more heavy drinker than her, he must be out like a light.

                    She sits on the one furthest from him, spreading out her limbs and wishing the cushioning would swallow her whole. The feed from the arena is remarkably quiet this late at night, only the howling of the icy wind whispering in the background. The games have entirely been boring this year, as Septimus put it to her earlier. After the bloodbath, the tributes have done little more than huddle around their fires and try not to freeze. Even the Careers, even Reeve ─── who had seemed so vicious, so promising ─── have been less active than previous years. They've hunted, but not so efficiently. Not so ruthlessly. To deal with that, they've announced a feast record breakingly early in the run time.

                    That night, the tributes without fires succumb and drop like flies. Their cannons keep Mara's sleep shallow and disturbed. She has barely seen snow like that, having grown up in sweltering summers and mild winters, an arena that slowly roasted her alive. She's only ever seen it fall, a soft flurry of flakes, while she visited District Twelve on her victory tour ─── it had seemed so harmless back then. Now it ruthlessly kills more than any Career.

                    She remembers how they tore apart that boy from Four ─── she now knows that his name was Landen ─── and wonders if it's a small mercy. But to be whittled away to numbness is perhaps a torture she underestimates as the feast begins the next morning.

                    Mags is the first to walk in that morning, and sets herself down on the couch next to her. Since Mara is still learning the very basics of her language of hand gestures, she spells out the words with her fingers ─── it takes a while, much longer than Finnick who is absolutely fluent ( annoyingly brilliant, as always ). Since Mags aged, she's no longer adored by the Capitol, and her days mentoring are mostly to spare the other victors from having to do it. She spends most of her time in the Playing Inn, and already knows better than to ask if she should wake Chaff.

                    Mags reminds her a lot of how she thinks Mercy would be if she didn't cling onto her bitterness.

                    Why not sleep in the tribute tower? She asks ─── and that haunting similarity is the only reason Mara answers.

                    "I just didn't want to."

                    Bring a blanket next time then. To that, the corners of her mouth twitch upwards a little, and she nods. Mara goes to get food, hunger gnawing at her ─── and though it's never been as bad as it was before she won the games, it's still something she'd like to avoid. Mags asks her to get her some chocolate, and it's better to be out of the stuffy air in the Playing Inn. Away from the live feed of the games.

                    She later returns with a plastic bag of whatever she fleetingly fancied in the moment, as well as what Mags requested. When she does, the room is a little fuller with a few more mentors anxiously milling around, and Chaff is awake now. He doesn't deign him even a look, and he makes no attempt to talk to her. Mags is right where she left her, and grins toothlessly as she tears open the wrapper with deft fingers. Again, a smile plays at her lips, but she's quick to clamp it down when she sees Finnick next to her.

                    He pouts his lips and makes his eyes comically wide. "What? No sweets for me?"

                    It's more difficult to glare at him when he's cute like this, but Mara manages well enough. "Obviously."

                    She still sits next to Mags ─── Finnick Odair has a habit of ruining things just by being there, by being alive, but she is trying to let go of that. There are many reasons to dislike him, she tells herself, but surviving when Lian didn't is unfair. Mikayla had a sister, she recollects, with deservedly hateful glares and a head of identical blonde hair. So did Jaya, with her two brothers on that podium. Amira had a son. She will try to let go of that ─── but not for his sake. For her own, and for Lian.

                    Cross-legged, chewing on whatever chemically tasty breakfast she's bought for herself, the camera feed picks up and pans over the Cornucopia. Of course. Between guilt with how she treated Antonia, resentment towards Chaff and calmness with Mags, it escaped her thoughts that they'd announced a feast. That it would start this morning.

                    The third day of the games, and there are only nine tributes remaining ─── five of which are Careers, who mill about, bundled up after already starting to go through their packages. The rules dictate that they cannot meddle with the other packages, but there's nothing against the Careers preventing them from being opened by those they're for. Romy, Zure, and Mirror patrol the edges of the Cornucopia, stalking around the lake, while the rest of the pack keeps the packages secure. The main screen is dedicated to them, a wide shot of the frozen lake it all rests on.

                    Mara's eyes automatically train on the small screen showing the feed of Oren. He was almost caught last night, in the early hours of the morning, only escaping under the cover of darkness after throwing snow on the fire he'd lit. He's still just as withered, just as frozen as before. He has a knife, but his fingers are too frozen to use it. All have suffered the frostbite ─── particularly Lyra, a thirteen year old girl, covered in it. She never went far from the Cornucopia, burying herself in snow to stay hidden. It's a wonder she's still alive, a blue little thing, whippet thin and hidden in the bushes. As time goes on, and they all wait for someone to make the first move, her blinks get longer and longer, until she can barely keep her eyes open.

                    Then there's the only other alliance that has lasted until the final ten: Johanna from Seven and Kaia, Finnick's own tribute, who he now abandons. "I have to go see Lucretia," he says, standing up and leaving the room.

                    Mara doesn't disguise her scoff ─── Mags' reaction is out of the ordinary. The old woman glares at her, with malice she didn't know could exist, and she shrinks in a little on herself. Then it fades to disappointment, and Mara doesn't care, she doesn't care at all, dragging her gaze back to the live feed.

                    Johanna and Kaia, who've lit fires but never for long, far enough away to be undetected, wait at the edges with similar weapons in hand ─── after the Careers, they're most likely to win, though Johanna is shaking vehemently. It could just be the cold, or it could all be an act. Mara just can't shake that terrible feeling that she should've known, should've seen the signs. She can't afford to miss anything. Perhaps she should warn Oren through a note ─── but what if Johanna really is just a scared girl way out of her depth? She has every right to be.

                    "You have to distract them." The girl in question says, eyeing up the packages and watching how Mirror, the girl from One, is straying towards the edges of the lake. She too is impatient, waiting. Kaia takes one look at the axe laying in wait upon the snow and shakes her head. Johanna shows her shaking hands. "Oh, shall I do it instead?"

                    She's aware of her own inadequacy ─── is Mara reading into this too much?

                    She follows it up with another miserable comment. "We both know how that would go."

                    From across the lake, Mirror begins to stride to their direction. The camera focuses mostly on her face and tall frame, since walking on the ice is awkward. She must have heard them, but isn't sure. The Career walks carefully, slowly, making sure each step is quiet and terse. But she doesn't alert the others, not yet. Mara quietly exhales as she gets closer and closer ─── and she wonders if all this food she's had will make a reappearance. It wouldn't be the first time.

                    Predator is closing in on prey. Their choice is now, kill or be killed ─── Mirror has certainly seen them now. Her footsteps pound the surface of the lake as she gets closer, but she cannot properly sprint on the ice. Johanna springs out from behind the bushes and veers off to the left, keeping to the snowy patches where her shoes can find some kind of grip. Mirror changes direction. Kaia, unscathed, unseen, goes in the other direction while the Career is distracted.

                    Her surge triggers something in the other tributes, the ones who had remained hidden until now. On the other side of the lake, Oren charges forth with some knives ─── he'd been hiding the others in his boots ─── one of which lands cleanly in Zure's shoulder. Though it's agonising to again hear the screams of children, some small part of her is proud. She taught him how to do that. Then she doubles over in shame for thinking such a thing. 

                    Forging a child into a weapon is nothing to be proud of.

                    The small girl, Lyra, is unmoving. She makes no attempt to get up and run for supplies. But nobody notices, and she watches the feast from her grave of snow.

                    Johanna falls, and at first she thinks she's tripped over nothing, but the feed pans down and she sees the weighted rope around her ankles. She swears viciously, nearing a sob; she thrashes around as her large gloves make it harder to undo the ropes. It then flashes to Reeve, smirking to himself and nodding to Mirror. He's allowed her this kill. Mara feels sick, bile rising up her throat, but she forces herself to sit through this. She owes them that much.

                    Oren now attacks Zure, but his element of surprise is lost and she quickly proves that she's more than a pretty face with ebony hair. She sidesteps the push of his knife, breaking a nail with how harshly she holds his wrist ─── her expression doesn't change, falter, or show any sign of pain ─── and then snaps it. Mara gets to her feet, anxiously watching. Oren howls in pain, cradling his hand by his chest, and tries to punch her with the other. Zure moves to block it, probably with some technique she learned at her academy, but Oren is so much stronger than her.

                    Fueled with the terror of becoming prey, he hits her. Over and over, until the snow is marred with her blood and her pretty face is mangled. Through sheer brute force and bruised knuckles, Oren kills a Career. Again, Mara shouldn't celebrate her death, but it means he has just a little more of a chance.

                    But it was a mistake going after Zure, because where she goes, Elias will follow. The dance between himself and Elias begins, a barrage of steel and pure will. There is something about the way he looks at Oren that she can't quite understand ─── he is not fighting to save his life. He's fighting like she's taken something precious away from him. Like he must pay retribution, and pay he does. Elias is hacking and stabbing and slicing and he is guttural with his grunts and cries.

                    Oren is dead, the matches that were in his pockets spilling onto the ice.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 5,173 words! )
thoughts on this week's chapter?? a bit more
abt mara an septimus + some foreshadowing
as things between them only get worse from
here😔,, and some classic dissociation from
her part.

and the matches? they tend to do more harm
than good in the games───and they worked
for her,, so she didn't  know better. mara tries
to  mentor, which  is more  than a lot of  them
say but she's not very good at it. this triggers 
the outlash at antonia,, which ruins what had
been one of her few friendships💔(i wonder 
who sent the original ones👀)

and finally, oren's death while she wants him
to survive ++ does what she can, it still makes
her complicit in the games. she's turned him 
into a weapon───so he could live───but a
weapon nonetheless. ("you have destroyed &
betrayed yourself / others for nothing.") yeah,
she's not having a good time rn😣and neither
is he

don't forget to vote and comment!! it helps
more ppl find it!! see you all next week for 
chap 25 <33