Invicta Veritate

It was a delicate balance, this existence between two worlds, and it wasn’t for the weak-minded. Jericho found himself standing in a chamber of the enemy’s heart, dressed in their clothes, scented with their oils, polished like a piece of silver flatware — and it was all he could do to keep his fists clenched in his pockets, and force a gritty smile when one of them touched his arm, or straightened his lapel. His banter with them always went the same way. It started out playful, and passably good-humoured, before winding up bitter. He was thankful (if not lucky) that his bright temper and flaring passion resonated with the Capitolites. They seemed to adore his rough edges, and bristling demeanor with all the enthusiasm one might regard a de-clawed beast in a cage. He amused them, and that pissed him off even more.

The woman curled around his arm at the moment was encumbered by a corset so tight, her fainting spell was constant. Her hair was bright red, and coiled in Medusa-like ringlets around her face, a stark contrast to her painted complexion which was ghostly white. She batted glittering, gold eyelashes at him, and gave him a tug with gloved hands. “Come now. Ask me to dance before someone else does.” Jericho tried to hide his wrinkling nose. It was the last thing he wanted to do, particularly with her. “Wouldn’t that make you jealous?”

His nostrils flared as he forced a laugh. “I think you’d be better off with Norris,” was his rebuttal as he gestured toward the flamboyant television host whose drinking habits had turned him into a spectacle. “He’s got some nice moves. And, well, I’m liable to break you in half.” The words were meant to be delivered in jest, but his clenched jaw drew the humour from them. Fortunately for him, she’d had one glass of champagne too many, and she dizzily laughed at him, pawing his chest with silk-wrapped fingers. “You’re wicked, Jericho! Now, don’t move from this spot. I’m going to visit the powder room.” 

As she spun away from him, he about-faced with every intention of finding the nearest shadow into which he could disappear, but his escape route was interrupted by a fishtailing waiter who’d cast a tray-full of crystal into the air. Jericho wasn’t one to lose his footing, and probably would have made it out of the collision with his balance and integrity in tact without help. That said, he was thankful for the firm grip on his arm that kept him from eating it right on a blanket of shattered glass.

A careful step navigated him out of the minefield, and he met the face of the Peacekeeper that’d plucked him out of it. A raw swallow rippled down his throat as he wrung the sleeve of his shirt free of champagne.

“At least not until the next Victors’ Purge, right?”

Mars couldn’t help the surprise that that showed on her face, only for an instant, but long enough to be detectable. Usually the sight of her uniform was enough to make people nervous, make them stutter and speak in hurried mumbled answers. Yes officer. No Officer. Thank you Officer. And then they’d hurry off before she changed her mind and decided to arrest them. Jericho Havor was obviously having none of it. She had no idea how long he’d been at the party, but he seemed to have had enough of the whole charade. 

For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she should reprimand him somehow. Insist that she wasn’t to be spoken to like that. It was dangerous to be flippant with a Peacekeeper; plenty of her coworkers had beaten civilians over far less. But then she decided that maybe they could have that conversation later, if everything went well now. She didn’t want to seem petty to him, or more like a bully than her uniform and badge would imply. And with all the glass on the floor, hadn’t enough of a scene been made? 

She took on aloof expression and picked up her communication device, pressing a button and alerting someone to get a cleanup crew on this mess before someone did actually fall and cut themselves to pieces. Then she turned back to Jericho, as though she had just heard him speak. 

“I don’t believe Coin has announced anything about another Victor’s Purge,” she said calmly. “But I have no doubt you’d be able to do just fine,” she dropped her gaze to his hand, the one he lost in the showdown with the girl from District 1. She remembered that well, the large scenes in her office displaying the arrows protruding from Jericho’s chest, the way the girl had crumpled under the weight of a mallet. It was one of the most vicious one on one fights the arena’d ever had. Mars had memorized it. 

After staring at his hand for one second....two....she looked into his eyes. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Havor.” 

The event was in full swing, and Brynn was starting to lose steam. So far, it had been an almost unanimously unsuccessful event, with mostly only awkward and bizarre interactions. The general lack of success, socially, was a harder blow to bare than quite a few of the hardships she had to endure. At least, if felt like that lately. Now more than ever, she found herself trying to figure out what it had all been for. 

Her parents pushed her to become a Victor to advance themselves, but they were gone now. Years of training and isolation to achieve one goal, and she’d have everything she could ever want. It seemed so promising then, but now it just felt unachievable. She had spent her early years focused on one thing alone, convincing herself that accomplishing that goal would cure her of her loneliness, but it didn’t. Even before the rebellion and Coin’s ascent, she always had that feeling of emptiness that she was starting to wonder if she would ever be able to fill. 

Feeling her heart drop even further in her chest, she looked around for the nearest waiter with a drink on their tray. Just as she moved to grab an enticing looking champagne glass, however, there was a sudden flurry of activity, and Brynn found herself knocked to the side, a pair of strong hands catching her and preventing her from falling into the pile of shattered champagne flutes.

With a slight laugh, Brynn ran a hand through her hair as she righted her self, a slight smile on her face as she turned to address her savior. Her smile faltered and a chill ran down her spine as she recognized the voice of the woman standing across from her. Instinctively, she took a step back, but forced a polite smile onto her face, taking in the other woman’s appearance. She’d never seen her, but Brynn knew she’d never forget the voice of the Peacekeeper who took her prisoner and interrogated her relentlessly during the rebellion.

“Th-thanks.” She murmured, her voice cracking slightly as she forced her eyes down. Brynn had no idea if the Peacekeeper remembered her, but she definitely didn’t want to remind her.

During the rebellion, Mars’ coworkers used to joke that she excelled at the ability to break a person. She could get someone to talk in record timing they said. Sometimes she’d walk into the interrogation room in civilian clothes with a cup of tea and cause them to accidentally tell her everything she needed to know before her tea cooled. Other times she’d enter a prison cell in full uniform and exit with her hands stained with blood after hours of interrogation. Whatever the case, she got results, and that was the main reason why her career has thrived so quickly. 

Sometimes she thought about why she was so good at what she did. Maybe it had something to do with her training as a teenager, the times her instructors would hold her head under water for a minute at a time to get her used to the feeling of drowning, the time she would have to fight off five adults at once, leaving her bruised and bleeding. Or maybe she was a sociopath. She decided not to dwell on it too much. 

She never forgot a person she interrogated. Her job required her to learn as much about a person in as short time as possible, to create a full picture of their life and then prod at their weak spots until they gave her everything she needed. The other peacekeepers liked to keep their helmets on, beat people with batons, use electric shocks and brute force. Mars took a more personal approach. She had turned interrogation into an art, as one of her instructors had once said. 

So when she saw that it was Brynn Galloston she’d kept from falling, she took a step back to give the other woman some space. Brynn had been one of the dozens of faces during the rebellion. She thought of the cold prison cell, her days pouring over everything the Capitol knew about Brynn’s life. She had interrogated her, sure, but she didn’t think it was fair to claim she broke her. 

“You’re welcome,” she said cooly. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, “Brynn Galloston, isn’t it? I hope you’re having a nice evening. After all, this is celebration of all Victors in a way.”

Colors seemed to fade in the bleak landscape of Coin’s totalitarian society, outgrowths of light ringing artificial in a way that seemed almost bittersweet. In some ways, Aspen’s funeral attire blended in with the mise-en-scene, though juxtaposed to the Capitolites’ outfits and those of the other Victors…her attempt to blend in perhaps painted a larger sign on her back. It would be fine— probably. Call it retribution for being forced into orange for the last month and a half.

To hasten quietly, be the observer instead of the observed…it seemed a much more comfortable role for Aspen. Most were already drunk, her, vaguely intoxicated, but compared to some of these people… not at all. She wondered, almost despite herself, if any same person could make it through the night sober. A flash of movement. The red man. Wide and bulbous, she’d seen him try to sloppily drug another Victor, slipping drugs into the glass from which she’d been drinking. Clumsy. Slow. Obvious. As if her first warning hadn’t been enough.

A lynx-like snarl made its way over her face, canines bared as she melted into the shadows. Lithely, she extended her foot, tripping a waiter and watching the tray of drugged champagne explode onto marble. Asshole. He deserved the scene and all the mortification that came with it. The Victor moved to make a quick exit, stumbling on a wet shard of glass and then… falling.

Careful.

Her descent was cut short, conscious prickling at the idea that she, champion of the arena, could get hurt. With brows narrowed, she was about to snark back when she linked eyes with the Peacekeeper that’d caught her. Shit. Her goddamn parole officer. She was just running into everyone she wanted to see tonight, wasn’t she?

“Thank you. Officer. Ma’am,” Aspen replied, attempt at pleasantry coming off more like she’d eaten a basket of lemons. Stone. Great. A woman she’d been introduced to briefly upon her release, but one that had probably read all the bull Coin had filed away on her, if not Ackerman’s files as well. She was the sole lackey who, if Aspen so much as tiptoed out of line, could send her right back to where she came from. Dazzling. “Are you um, having a good night? Ma’am,” Aspen added, smalltalk something she found herself a bit rusty on. “I’m sorry if my clumsiness caused you any trouble.”

Once Mars was sure Aspen wouldn’t fall, she immediately released her and took a half step back, clasping her hands behind her. Mars had been in awkward situations before, but this was shaping up to be a particularly uncomfortable relationship. She and Aspen were only a year apart, but recently Mars had been put in charge of one of the most volatile Victors in the city. She was still finishing her way through Aspen’s files, rewatching Aspen’s hunger games interviews and time in the arena for good measure. This was a huge responsibility that some of her bosses didn’t think she was experienced enough to handle, but if it was good enough for Coin, no one who valued their head on their shoulders objected too loudly. 

“I’m fine, you don’t owe me any apologies,” she assured her in the flat, mostly emotionless tone they taught you to speak with when dealing with civilians. She had to be careful with her. For one, all of Aspen’s files seemed to indicate that she had been suffering psychiatric issues recently (Mars reminded herself to get in touch with a counselor, a good one, not the ones who claimed getting a new skin modification would fix your entire outlook on life). For another thing, she was reckless, impulsive. Mars eventually striking up friendships with other Victors might be excusable in the future, but someone under her own care? It would look incredibly suspicious. Still....she couldn’t help but tease her though, just a little. 

“Your clumsiness only seems to have an effect on waiters,” she said lowly. “What was that about, Miss Li?” 

A throng of people - way too many. Before his Victory Tour started, the largest gathering of people he had ever been around made a whole of five and most of them doctors or government officials. But alas, Alma Coin did let him off the hook, no, he was supposed to do things and interact and act like he wasn’t falling apart at the seams. How did the other victors cope with it? How had he never heard of them killing themselves before their first year was over? But he knew. Mercury was flawed, he was weak but he wasn’t stupid. Death may have been an option to him but the people he loved and cared for would be the ones at stake if he walked out of the line. 

Still, the only way they had managed to keep him standing upright until that point was by drugging him and coaching him ever minute of every moment. Shake hands, smile at the sponsors, sign magic cubes, hear people making lewd offers quietly by his ear, all sorts of things that belonged in a world he had never known. He liked the perfectly tailored suit his stylist had wore him with, it felt nice, perfect, like a suit of armor. Like he was safe from whatever people would throw at him - though one look at the ice-sculpted minotaur in the center of the room quickly reminded him, he was the most vulnerable of them all. 

As two sponsors fawned a little over how nice he looked, how Mercury could be a model because he was so thin, because of how sharp his jaw looked. Weird conversations as he stood there awkwardly and smile - some celebrity person he did not know who, stumbled around, babbling and almost shouting, making him flinch in reflex. His sponsors let go to try and reign in their friend, so Mercury tried to slip away only to be caught and scared shitless by the breaking glasses and reek of spirits, then stumbled on his feet. 

Of course he was caught by someone so impressive. She had strong hands and a beautiful face, a bright smile that somewhat baffled him for a second as he stood there, shakily. The sharp noise of shattered glass and people startled making his blood run cold, making his heart pound with anxiety and cold sweat run down his face. Still, he smiled awkwardly back at her. “You have very strong hands, are you a soldier?”

Ah, Mars thought as she straightened, releasing the boy––and he really was just a boy, awkward and thing and so visibly uncomfortable. So here he was, the Victor of honor himself. Mars hadn’t met him yet of course; everyone wanted to get their hands on the new Victors before the shine wore off, before they became so bitter and traumatized that they weren’t fun to be around anymore. And of course they’d have plenty of security on their Victory Tour. It would look strange for Mars to sign up to be part of his personal security detail, and she wanted to fly under the radar as much as possible when it came to the scrutiny of her bosses. 

He looked terrified, and she noted the slight tremble in his hands, the sweat that slid down his cheeks. She thought that maybe the meek thing had been a ruse, that his pre-games interviews and low scores were all part of some scheme. After all, after Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark tributes tried to become even sneakier than usual, revealing the most skillful parts of themselves after the games began. It made for a juicier story that way. She’d followed his games closely, the way she followed all the games, and she remembered Mercury bringing the knife down and stabbing the other tribute in the eye. How could someone who seemed so nervous now pull that off? 

Right now, his fright was genuine. Maybe it was having all the focus on him, or the exhaustion of a Victory Tour. Whatever it was, it didn’t make him forget his manners. He gave her a smile, awkward but a smile just the same, and complimented her. She could work with that. It was much better than simply running away or looking at her with disgust, like many did in response to Peacekeepers talking to them directly. 

“You’re very kind,” she said. “I’m just a Peacekeeper,” she said, because she didn’t think saying secret police would sound very good. “Agent Marsanna Stone,” she introduced herself, nodding towards the badge on her chest. “Would you like to step outside for a moment?” she asked, taking in his wide eyes and slightly panicked expression. “We could go to the balcony. I’d make sure no one bothered you.” 

It was her first time seeing all the Victors together under one roof. Sure, she knew all their names, their districts, the way they won and their track records as mentors. And during the war, she even met a few of them, under the harsh lights of an interrogation room, asking a few questions of her own. But here they were, in all their glory, dressed to the nines and barely able to move without someone fawning all over them. In the dim lighting of the room, you could almost imagine that the grimaces on some of the victors’ faces were smiles. Almost. But Mars knew as good as anyone else, there were few reasons to be happy in President Coin’s republic. 

She was posted on the side of the wall, hands clasped firmly behind her back, staring straight ahead. After the war, the peacekeepers had decided on a variety of different uniforms to choose from for different tasks, a break from the harsh white of their former uniforms. Those were too much of a reminder of Snow’s fallen regime. So tonight she was in a deep blue, and without all the heavy armor of the traditional uniforms. All she had were a few knives hidden in her boots and of course, her Vektor CP1 in her thigh holster. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a tv personality stumbling around drunk, causing a bit of chaos in the tight crowd. She didn’t move her head an inch, but she made quick mental notes. He was only a few yards away, and she could get to him in a little over a second. Then she could pin him to the wall, away from the light, so too many people wouldn’t be disturbed....

Then, two things happened very quickly. In the fray, a waiter dropped his tray, sending a dozen champagne glasses shattering on the floor. And then, someone was knocked off balance, almost falling right into the mess of broken glass. 

Mars’ hand shot out and grasped the person’s arm, and when she caught a glimpse of their face she smiled. First impressions were everything, and wasn’t this an especially important first impression? 

“Careful.  Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”