Fulvia Stone

Lee snorted a jolt of aggravated air out of his nose. "They don't have time for enjoyment," he said. "This isn't malice." He softened his voice, recognizing how lucky he was that he was simply a prisoner and nothing more. He was no person of interest outside of being a Victor, and the Vox didn't expect him to have any inside information. He was allowed to simply sit in a cell while his profile was processed.

Fulvia’s eyes flicked upward at the sound of his scoff, her brow creasing in mild frustration at his inability—or unwillingness—to believe her. He may not have been tortured like she had, but the marks on her body told a clear story, one he refused to acknowledge. It baffled her that he could insist they didn’t take pleasure in it, as if he knew better than the one who had endured it firsthand. But she couldn’t muster the strength to argue the point. She was far too drained—too weary for clever comebacks or heated debates. All her remaining energy was focused on one thing: survival.

Something buried deep within, planted there by a cruel hand, made her flinch as the other woman knelt before her. Her eyes dropped to her fingers—bruised, cold, trembling in her lap—and she nervously rubbed them together, a habit that had lingered through it all.

Though weighted by sorrow, her own grief heavy, Cress felt the magnitude of Via's suffering and found its depth infinite, complete. "Slate is in Twelve," words carefully chosen, but the inverse was implied: gone away without his partner and child. "He's been called there by the Vox, for--" Her confidence slipping, like the strap of a dress over skin. "--for an undetermined amount of time."

Cress’s words hung heavy in the air, met with only silence as Fulvia’s brow furrowed in bewilderment. Her brother, Slate, had been freed long before her, yet he hadn’t even thought to rescue her. Not only that, but he had left Kya and Cress to fend for themselves amidst the chaos. In her eyes, Slate was no better than her father—no better than the men who would abandon any woman, no matter how dear to them, in their ruthless climb toward power. While she languished in a cold, barred cell, bruised and broken, somewhere in District Twelve, he was draped in fine clothes, eating well, and making hollow promises to the citizens—pledging change while indulging in the very power he claimed to oppose.

Lee drew a breath in, taking a moment to look over Fulvia. If there was anything he could offer her to help, he would have - but he was left just as useless as anyone in the various cells. He could only provide companionship when she wanted and silence when she needed.

Cress eyed her with a hollow sadness, a familiar agony. As fearsome a creature as Cress was, terror was not what she sought to evoke here. She lowered herself down, dress pooling as her knees pressed into the filth of the cell's ground, but she did not recoil, did not flinch in disgust. They needed to be on the same level. Fulvia needed to see her as more than a proponent of this hell.

Something buried deep within, planted there by a cruel hand, made her flinch as the other woman knelt before her. Her eyes dropped to her fingers—bruised, cold, trembling in her lap—and she nervously rubbed them together, a habit that had lingered through it all.

"I'm not here for information," Cress replied, tone even, though she felt insistent. The guard unlocked the cell, drawing back the door. Cautiously, Cress crossed the threshold, and though she didn't voice it, a part of her worried that the cell would shut behind her. That she'd return to a Capitol prison, her child taken from her again, leaving her waiting.

Fulvia watched as the woman crossed the threshold between freedom and confinement, her steps carrying her forward with a subtle effort that would escape most eyes—yet it was the same effort she summoned each time they opened the cell door and shuffled her back into her bleak sanctuary. Once again, Fulvia found herself relating to the woman before her, but something within her stirred, causing her to recoil, pressing her frail frame deeper into the cold wall of her cell.

Weeks had passed, and Cress had been deliberate in her work. As reluctant as she was to concede, to lend credence to an argument other than her own, Slate's words clung to her, weighing more heavily in the wake of their ruined affair -- and, ultimately, his notable absence. The work was not -- and would never be -- easy, but perhaps there was a place for her in this new world. And if there wasn't, Cress was bright enough, cunning enough, charming enough to carve one away.

Fingers trembled as they struggled to lift her frame from the floor, but like so many before her, she could not rise in the presence of Cress Meadowforge, even if she had wished to. Her mind had long since lost track of the other woman—Cress and her brother had become mere phantoms in her memory. She had operated for months under the belief that they, too, were prisoners, and that was why they had allowed her to suffer at the hands of the Vox—because they had no choice. But now, confusion clouded her thoughts as Cress spoke, claiming she had come to release her. How long had Cress been free? How long had she forgotten about Fulvia Stone before deciding to retrieve her? What did she want, what need had driven her to finally show interest in freeing her from the crimson grip of her captors? There must be a motive; this act could not have sprung from the earth on a whim. No, her brother and his lover had left her to suffer, whether out of ignorance or indifference, they had allowed her to endure this torment.

Lee's eye was still smarting, but at least the swelling had gone down. He sat in the cell of the jail, leaned against the cold wall. He took a moment to assess himself, and tutted in disappointment - he hadn't noticed that someone had ripped a small hole in the side of his shirt. How annoying; this was one of his favorite sleep shirts.

The walls around her felt cold, like she had been thrown into a deep snowbank and left to freeze. Her fingernails were turning purple, and her fingers paled as she tried to flex them, desperate to regain some feeling. The lights above beat down on her, harsh and unforgiving, a constant reminder that she was far from safety. She squinted her swollen eyes against their blinding glare.

"I know, but hey, we share DNA, right? Half of it. Even though we've known each other for less than a year... well, a more spiritual person would say we've known each other for a lot longer." He made a face, as if making fun of what he'd just said, though he sort of believed it. Cress would say that, a lot of the wise women from Twelve would say it too. And it did feel true. "Maybe it's just that we're sort of alike. But either way, it's true."

Fulvia rubbed her arm uneasily, her skin growing red and raw from her scratching as she listened to him. She had never really felt important in her family—not in the way most people likely did. She was just another branch of the family tree and nothing more.

People didn't always understand the politics of the Academy, and why should they? But it would make it harder for people to see why he had waited so long. "Well, I was supposed to volunteer for 122," he explained, "that was gonna be my time. I won all the trials at the Academy, I was set. But Everett went ahead and volunteered for me, and then... well, you know. Died. So that kind of... fucked me up for awhile. I became a trainer instead, and when I was ready to maybe volunteer again, the Academy said that no, I'd missed my chance. Now's sort of an extra shot." It was an honest explanation, and he wasn't sure what it was about her that provoked it in him.

Fulvia absorbed his words, nodding slightly as her fingers tightened around her crossed arms. His words struck a chord in her, resonating in a way she doubted most others would understand. Growing up in District Two, a career district, was different from the other districts—she had been privileged and shielded from the Games. She had never worried about being reaped; even if her name had somehow been pulled, someone like Maverick would have stepped forward to take her place—out of duty, but also out of respect for the elite families who couldn't spare a child for the Games.

She wasn't sure how she hadn't pictured fulvia with children, but maybe that was just because she'd only spoken to her a few times. and Ellie was one of only a few children who frequented the tower, so it made sense that she'd never seen Via bending down to that level before, in a physical sense.

Fulvia almost laughed at the thought of being paid to babysit. She had always had plenty of money growing up, though she realized her friend likely didn't know that. Still, the idea of earning her own money—money not tied to her father or family name—was appealing. It would be hers to spend however she wished.

"It was hard." she nodded. They were still getting to know each other. it was good, at least, to be able to share something Fulvia didn't know about her. they were both learning. it made her feel less out of the loop, more like they were both introducing themselves to each other. "My dad happened awhile ago. He died when I was a teenager. My mom'd been injured for awhile, but she tried to go back to work to feed El when I got reaped. she died before I got back." it had been a horrible thing to discover, it wasn't something she was over. she missed her mom.

There was something about Linden that set her apart from nearly everyone else Fulvia had met in her lifetime. Despite barely knowing Fulvia, Linden had given her a birthday gift during one of the most terrifying periods of her life. Even while facing certain doom, Linden had taken the time to care for her. Now, as Fulvia struggled to heal from the horrors of the arena, Linden was still there, comforting her over issues that seemed trivial in comparison. Linden was a woman Fulvia admired deeply, someone she aspired to emulate, and the only person she trusted at this point.

Linden didn't understand. In seven, there was nobody who was capitol. there was the mayor, but they weren't capitol, they were just rich seven, and fancied themselves worth more than the rest. But linden was pretty sure the mayor knew that if he were capitol, he wouldn't be the mayor of seven of all places.

Fulvia suddenly realized that her only friend, Linden, knew very little about her. Fulvia had learned most of what she knew about Linden from the games, but where would Linden have gotten any information about her? A wave of regret washed over Fulvia, the feeling that she had come to the wrong place seeping into her bones. But where else could she have turned? She hadn’t made any other friends in the Capitol, and in fact, she had actively avoided forming connections with those around her—so Linden was her only option.