# SNOWFULS : affiliated with eventiderpg ⎯⎯ a dependent safe haven featuring cordelia "cora" snow & enobaria ismene as adored & brought to you by peach .
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Days had been long and work had been busy. There where days wher he forgot he had even slept or ate. There was much to be done and frankly they were understaffed. The idea of getting refugees to work in the department, fill int he gaps, made him more nervous than having to carry the load himself. Explaining to them how things worked in District 13 has already led to the most ridiciulous conversations he'd ever had in his life. Apart from that time he heard his mother had died, of course. Or when his younger brother died only days after. The ridicule of those conversations could never be beaten.
"That's not a serious question, right? That can't be a serious question." He tried to keep any exaggeration out of his voice. Unfortunately there was not much he could muster due to exhaustion, lost patience or any other explanation that would be acceptable.
there’s nary a day in thirteen that the snow granddaughter doesn’t spend at plutarch heavensbee’s side. be it a few, fleeting hours before he’s called away on business elsewhere or entire afternoons that the pair of capitolites soon find bleeding into the evening. all the same, it’s time cora cherishes. the elder man having established himself as her greatest ally here and in turn, taken her under his revolutionary wing. such sudden camaraderie had manifest in a myriad of ways but most discernible ( and surprising ) of all was the paternal way in which he’d come to regard her now. the knowing chides and gentle stare deemed a far cry from coriolanus ii’s abject disinterest and truthfully… it only deepened her appreciation for the rebel commander more.
he’d done much the same today. tutting over her solitude as he sometimes did whilst she pored over her journal. each new entry addressed to constantinus. each new entry a letter he’d never read. the thing itself had been new for the quarter quell and despite finding she was writing more in the subterranean district than she had back in the capitol, still hadn’t any reason to beg necessities for a new one yet. but of course, in his bid to see his protégé socialise, plutarch had request she find her way down there anyway. though the excursion scarcely seemed for her benefit at all when he’d be the one to reap the reward : fresh paper for his chronology.
finding her way around wasn’t what caused cora strife however, rather the energy she seemed to create was. hopes it would improve dashed time and time again as “snow spawn” had begun to catch on. as if they could all see right through her… and the man she thought to be from necessities was no different either. exasperated words and a furrowed brow prompting the girl to sigh and heavily at that, ❛ well, i’m not exactly meant to… wander around so, if i’ve come to the wrong person, i do apologise. ❜ and she did. earnestly too! the upheaval here since the refugees arrived had been great and the toll it was taking on its citizens even greater, so she suspected. eyeing the man deferentially, her request seeming more and more trivial the longer she stood there, ❛ only, mr. heavensbee would like some more paper. ❜ it’s urgent, she almost feels the need to add.
Eno: [Character Building] Within her cell, what kind of thoughts does Enobaria have?
enobaria dissociates. until prompted or prodded, she’s disconnected from the grave reality of their situation — feeling outside of herself, as if she’s observing from a distance. a defensive action reaffirmed by the fetal position she’s forced into behind the bars of her cage, sorely wishing to protect what shred of pride remains.
when the mind does wander, the thoughts are sombre and self-doubting. thinking back on the years of wasted loyalty; how desperate she’d been for validation and acceptance in the wake of a desolate childhood, that she’d never once blinked an eye at the capitol’s harm until they turned their weapons on her. the devotion she thought she’d rightfully earned through the brutality of her games crumbling in a bloody instant. decidedly empty. enobaria had surrendered herself to their desire to make her a weapon, equating her worth to the amount of pain she could inflict and now, here they were declaring her a monster for it. the dehumanisation firm and unwavering. restless anger collapses, fizzling out to a deep-seated ache as she contemplates the widespread disgust being unleashed upon her all at once. in captivity, there’s no escape from the clutches of uncertainty she’d fleetingly experienced as a girl… so unsure of her place in this world until the academy had plucked her from obscurity and explicitly informed her of it themselves. leaving no room for doubt either. without the hunger games, without the capitol, without the bloodshed, who was she really?
back at square one. just as she thinks she is when she notices the feeling beginning to fade from her legs again. regularly pulled to her feet by guards, the confinement of enobaria’s cage is doing lasting damage to her body. her mobility in particular. another of her defining traits gradually being ripped away by those she’d foolishly thought of as equals. if there is a future for her, outside of the capitol and the four white walls she inhabits now, enobaria fears the personal confrontations it holds.
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setting: cells, right after peeta's second interview
with: enobaria & peeta @snowfuls
The best thing about today was the food.
Peeta had gotten more than he'd bargained for, when asking for water from Domitila. It almost made him like her more once she'd offered it but, lately, there hasn't been much for him to like about anything.
Now, he feels itchy from the make up they'd left on his face, though he's changed from the suit back into the Capitol-issued gown that everyone down here wears. He expects to be thrown into his cell, where he'll tear at his hair until these shiny images go away. He'd tried to fight them off during the interview and, for a time, he had. He'd been able to talk to Caesar Flickerman, though he's not sure how much of it made sense.
But now that the interview is over and the only eyes on him are the guards, it's harder to control. Flashes of nothing - something - everything - move in and out of his vision as he's roughly turned to the side, thrust towards a cell that isn't his. The door bangs shut behind him and he jumps, looking around for a moment, eyes darting until he looks down.
Locked in a cage, curled in a ball, is Enobaria. He doesn't really know her, though remembers her name written in his handwriting, facts about her fighting style underneath. While he's studied her, he doesn't know her. "This is where you've been?" he asks a bit too bluntly, eyes narrowing as he looks at the cage. "You - you - you..." What's he trying to say? Why can't he find the words?
He shakes his head, raises a fist to bang it against his temple. All it does is make his vision blur and he sits on the ground next to the cage to try and clear it. "Have they let you out?" And, as though on cue (probably is, he knows they're watching), the cage clicks open. It must be controlled somewhere else.
Peeta scrambles back.
Have they put him in here so she can kill him? Rip his throat out with her teeth?
with scuffed knees pulled tight to her chest, dark brown hues bore holes into the wall with aimless intensity. time drags… or does it fly? it passes all the same as enobaria imagines being able to claw her way out of this hellscape through that very wall. through the hole she’s made from her mean glare. it’s an expression that goes unchanged as the familiar commotion unfolds behind her, prompting embarrassment to rise in her chest and its bruised skin to crawl in subsequence. they’ve dumped somebody inside. a visitor… but despite the blonde hair she’ll glimpse in her peripheries, enobaria knows it’s not thea here with her again and if it’s not her mentor…? well, enobaria barely cares to know who it is at all — conveying as much with an exasperated huff until the door of her cage suddenly swings open once more.
it’s only then that the victor turns, albeit begrudgingly, on her side to see peeta mellark rushing to retreat. a frantic, fearful mess and his presence here draws enobaria’s brows together in bemusement. she doesn’t know him nor did she ever care to. still the capitol’s golden boy, he’s been taken away and spruced up just as thea had. was that it then? another twist of the metaphorical knife. confuse him and throw the treatment of the more susceptible in her face as she’s forced to linger in filthy containment? with the cage open, it feels like purposeful provocation and his stuttering questions only aggravate her further and thusly, go ignored.
did they want her to hurt him? the thought crosses her mind. killing him. it’d be so easy too! like putting some poor, hurt creature out of its misery ( was she no longer the animal here? peeta certainly looks at her as though that’s not changed. ) sure, the boy has a metal leg and a year ago, one might have considered him the stronger of the two but in his current state? dazed and confused and cowering at the mere sight of her… it’s as though they’re goading her with the idea. put there by her very own mentor no less. for, is that not what brutus was telling her during the quell — about twelve being the real enemy in all this? had enobaria been suffering the same lapse in mental stability that others in the block were, she could well have still believed that too. welcoming the opportunity to kill their beloved baker’s boy with open arms and bared teeth. every bit the willing, wrathful pawn she’d always been. only now, as static from the collar around her neck so violently reminds her, things had changed.
the world might be burning but in here, the games are ongoing. with peeta, the unwilling tribute and her, the capitol muttation. it’s what he expects from her. so much is written plainly across his made up face and enobaria is far more considerate of that wide-eyed panic than she intends — shakily rising to her feet, considerably more eager to stretch her limbs and feel blood flow than she is to spill it. the movements all cautious and calculated, just as they’d been in the arena. it’s only the motivation that’s lacking. ❛ did you upset them? ❜ she’ll quietly inquire, keeping her distance though a permanently stormy gaze casts suspicion. the victor from two can’t know what goes on outside these four walls, only that it’s being televised and closely monitored. so she assumes. the likelihood being that whatever it is they’re doing to him has begun to affect his ability to perform. when snow values utility above all else, if peeta mellark is to be branded “futile”, what does that make her — ❛ am i your punishment? ❜
Eno: [Snow] Miss Ismene, it's been a while since we've last seen each other. Apologies for the handcuffs. I know without your... modifications and how tired you are, the restraints seem redundant but alas. This must be especially true with the shock collar. Interesting color they chose for it. I hope it hasn't been causing you too much trouble?
it’s the same old song and dance they’ve been doing for… weeks? months? at this point. the click of her cage swinging open, the buzz of her collar assuring enobaria’s submission as she finds herself secluded from the others once more. what awaits her is surely another round of repetitive questioning that’ll only frustrate her and tire them. any solitude is ephemeral here, for shortly through the door comes more peacekeepers than the usual two or three and the surprise certainly doesn’t end there — forcing a captive enobaria to stifle her shock as coriolanus snow himself follows them all in, posing pleasantries as he does so. ❛ president snow. how i’ve missed your company. ❜ eno greets, rather stoically, as if no time has passed at all, not like he tells her it has. as if her voice isn’t hoarse from recurrent disuse, as if she isn’t confined to a cage with a shock collar bolted around her neck, as if she’s not bound before him now.
all things he appears to take great pleasure in pointing out to her to be true. obligingly, there’s a dismissive shake of her head in response to the cuffs. in lieu of being able to actually move her hands. they’re not redundant. rather, they’re expected. the way they’ve further chained the victor to the chair even more so. disallowing her the room to move just as they do with the cage, leaving very little doubt in enobaria’s mind that they think of her as a liability… and a violent one at that. she may lack her claws ( something he’s also taken note of ) but sharpened teeth remain intact and they can’t risk the president’s life, now can they? one must never get too close to wild animals kept behind panes of glass, danger lies just beyond the threshold… especially for frail, old men such as the one sat across from her.
predators are said to smell blood after all and oh, how panem’s president simply reeks of it.
only in this moment, he’s not the president at all. not her president, not a rotting corpse masquerading as a man. no, he’s nothing more than the sort of agitator she’d taken glee in besting at the academy. the sort she’d have to face down as quick judgements formed in their eyes, so unfazed by her scarce size and stature. enobaria finds herself doing the very same thing now. breath heavy as she gathers what little strength she does have, resolved not to shrink in front of the man responsible for all of this. the puppet master himself — still ahold of her strings despite such boney grasp.
readily, she feigns indifference at his line of questioning. paying no mind to how he’s surely overseen this torture himself. she won’t give him the satisfaction of her suffering in person. collar and its inane golden sheen be damned. the condescension washes over her ( or appears to, at least. ) ❛ well… i do have a high tolerance for pain. you and i both know that. ❜ a quiet kind of indignation to enobaria’s rasping words as she tiptoes around the sordid truth behind the life she’d come to know in his fair city. capitol coin in exchange for acts far more sadistic than pleasures of a victor’s flesh. ten years and she’d become quite the prized weapon in his arsenal.
“Romeo is banish’d; and all the world to nothing, That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the county.”
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for vesper: did they have a rebellious stage as a teenager? what did it involve? / how do they handle being upset/angry? do they yell, cry, go silent, etc? / would they describe themselves as beautiful/handsome/etc?
did they have a rebellious stage as a teenager? what did it involve?
not in the conventional sense. i think her nature and interests may have been perceived as being rebellious because they’re such a far cry from what’s expected of somebody growing up in as industrious and impoverished an area as vesper did in six. she probably skipped work on occasion to go and paint or dance but truthfully, she was a good girl with a good head on her shoulders who just wanted to set a good example for her younger siblings and teach them to not limit themselves to the conventional life laid out for them by the capitol.
how do they handle being upset / angry? do they yell, cry, go silent, etc?
through years of bending to the capitol’s will, vesper’s all but trained herself to keep any upset quiet. she’s most definitely a crier but takes herself off somewhere first, usually behind closed doors before letting any emotion out. she always thought of it as easier to cope with when she was using. everything tended to melt away then whereas periods of withdrawal led to considerably more volatile behaviour. that’s when vesper becomes a little more unpredictable and has been known to get physically distraught as reality hits and memories come flooding back. she’s taken it out on a few dressing room mirrors in her time too.
would they describe themselves as beautiful / handsome / etc?
no! growing up, she was described as all manner of things: from odd to delicate to mousy but never beautiful. she was told she created beautiful things, “works of art” they’d say but such compliments could never be extended to vesper herself. there was a time, just after her win, during which she almost let herself believe she was but vesper looked so unlike herself that the feeling was all too fleeting. her self-esteem only dwindled further once she began abusing morphling. nowadays, “beautiful” is something rare and precious. not so much something to chase but finds it creeps back in when she happens to fall under zelus’ gaze.
for cora: describe their dream vacation. would they take anyone or go alone? / what they wanted to be when they grew up vs what they do now. / are they an affectionate person? how do they feel about pda?
describe their dream vacation. would they take anyone or go alone?
for as long as cora can remember, she’s always wanted to visit district four and experience the sea for the very first time. before the revolution began, she’d never once left the “safety” of the capitol and was often quite envious of family members who got to do so. so, she looks upon all of panem as her oyster but district four is most certainly at the very top of her list to go and visit. she’d like the serenity of the open ocean, especially at sunrise or sunset and the endless possibilities she thinks lie beyond the horizon line. it would fill her with hope because i think most of all, she seeks learning and adventure, to expand her life experience beyond that of the sheltered one she’s known growing up under her grandfather’s watchful, judgemental eye. it’s because of this that she’d probably go it alone too — delighting in meeting new people, building character and distancing herself from the family name.
what they wanted to be when they grew up vs what they do now.
well, cora did not foresee herself becoming a rebel, that’s for sure. for a snow, she was rather aimless growing up. given that the role models within her family were somewhat lacking… what, with her grandmother who always seemed to have somewhere better to be and her mother, artemisia whose disdain for women she didn’t have to please led to the agonising neglect of her only daughter. all whilst the (snow)men chased power and fought to maintain it. often to cruel and even murderous effect.
there were fleeting moments when asked what she’d like to do, or rather, when pressed that cora would blurt out all manner of things. the one that stuck: becoming an escort for the games. but that was far too lowly a position for a snow and everyone knew it. she had to aim high. impeccably high. so, passively, she became a socialite in capitolite high society for her family but rather than commit to a “dream job” at all, she secretly aspired to freedom instead and threw herself into her studies to pass the time until she could make that particular dream a reality.
there’s still much more she’d like to do though… become a philanthropist proper, fund the arts and publish some writing. all the sort of pipe dream she’d not have told a soul about, out of fear of social condemnation.
are they an affectionate person? how do they feel about pda?
that’s a complicated one! although she couldn’t have known any better at the time, love and subsequently, affection were both incredibly transactional and superficial in the snow household growing up. being the doe-eyed, little girl in the family, the innocent, it wasn’t uncommon that cora was utilised as a walking, not so much talking pr strategy. she’d be requested to make public appearances, sat on her grandfather’s knee or stood proudly beside her family, any visible show of affection towards their darling girl in order to soothe or distract from ruffled feathers in the districts. a united front. behind closed doors however, her parents were apathetic whilst her grandfather, oddly enough, was the most affectionate of all — something she once treasured him for, given the indifference of her parents but that eats away at her today, along with the rest of it. she knows what it is to be used, to have affection withheld, something reserved for show yet cora does deeply desire the real and selfless love she knows exists out there. the sort she expected to receive from her family and naively thought she once had with them but knows now that she must look elsewhere to find it.
WHEN: day 7 of the games, just before sunrise
CLOSED for @snowfuls
wakefulness always greets him with little class. he struggles to surrender to sleep on a good night, though here, in the comfort of soft capitol sheets and his senses flooded with her, it catches him unassuming. he watches the flutter of vesper's eyelids, traces the sweet curve of her neck with his fingertips, counts her breaths, and he's out like a light. dreams don't always follow -- they have pills for that. asleep is always a state zelus welcomes to be in, peacefully resting a body that's often otherwise pulled taut with stress, the only time the crease in the middle of his brows seems to soften. and waking up always feels like being struck with reality like a lightning.
what registers first is that the bed doesn't have its comforting dip or the warmth of vesper pressed to his skin; second, is the noise coming from somewhere else in the room. every danger alert in his brain fires off at once. he pulls himself from slumber with a startled gasp, sitting up in bed in a flash, eyes wild until they settle on the familiar figure. the air leaves his lungs in a relieved sigh, dizziness catching up to him then, and he has to rub a hand across his eyelids to lift some of the weight from them.
"hey. you're up early," he murmurs, voice carrying unmistakeable disappointment at the observation, too honest in the haziness of barely waking up. it's still dark out, though he won't check the clock to know what time it is, too busy keeping his eyes on her while he still can. they're no strangers to sneaking in and out, this is something he knows. "last night was that bad?" an out of character joke, overcompensating for the also familiar pang in his chest that anticipates watching her leave.
his body is tense and her mind suffers a similar affliction. drawing her in and out of sleep with little remorse as it races at the anarchy the day beginning to break just beyond the threshold will bring. coupled with the immense magnitude of it all, such mounting pressure doesn’t help signs of withdrawal starting to creep in either. symptoms gnawing away at her as usual, so achingly familiar but this, vesper doesn’t mind particularly. not when she’s with him. the singular instance in which she’s come to prefer the clarity it provides. how it allows her the ability to cherish these fleeting moments they share and commit each one to memory — shading them in with the colour lacking from an existence as illicit as theirs, gilding them. now more so than ever before. taking particular care in how she peels herself away from zelus’ still sleeping form. marvelling as she often does at how hands prized for the havoc they’ve wrought always seem to reach for her with such resounding tenderness.
the morphling’s communication device has been buzzing intermittently for a while now. she’s unsure if it’s that that wakes him or the slight commotion she causes trying to slip back into the dress lying discarded on the floor from the night before. the sort of silvery, skintight number they’ve not stopped dressing her in for seventeen years. the sort she doubts she’ll ever have to wear again after today. with it on ( at last ), she has half a tired mind to up and leave at once. having reasoned a hundred times over that perhaps knowing nothing might just be the safer alternative here… but vesper can’t bring herself to do so. his survival not something she’s willing to chance. humming a pouty, playfully offended ❛ hey… ❜ as the joke he utters takes her by surprise and the conviction she had to leave along with it. the uncharacteristic nature of the thing appearing almost like an omen of what’s to come. the day promising to be a most uncharacteristic one.
bare feet soon carry her back to the bed. subconsciously delaying her departure as vesper feels compelled to be close to him as she divulges her treachery. hoping perhaps ( in vain ) that it will soften the impending blow. persuade him to the cause even. anything to help him understand and thus, assure his safety come 8pm tonight. ❛ you know it wasn’t. it never is. ❜ she finally replies, gently nudging his shoulder with hers before pressing a kiss to the very same spot a moment or two later. allowing herself time to breathe before looking up at him through pleading eyes, drinking him in like this is the last time. it won’t be. ❛ i just have to get out whilst i still can. ❜ her voice barely above whisper now, quiet words are spoken with a weight he can’t have been expecting. laying waste to the jest that’d brought a smile to her freckled face not two minutes prior. it takes everything in her not to crumble then and there, willing a particularly urgent ❛ and you should too. ❜ from parted lips as she searches his face desperately for the instant understanding she knows won’t come.
name : vesper quinn da silva.
meaning : latin , " evening star ".
nickname : vess , espie , morphling.
age : thirty two.
birthdate : year forty three att.
gender identity : cisgender woman , she / her.
orientation : bisexual , biromantic.
place of birth : district six , panem.
current residence : district thirteen , panem.
occupation : victor of the fifty eighth hunger games , mentor & rebel.
𓂅 * ⋆ 𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 .
face claim : mia goth.
height : 5'7".
hair : naturally mousy brown , bleached a warm , honey blonde along with her eyebrows following the games, worn down with very little styling day-to-day.
eyes : big and brown , sore but still inexplicably bright.
𓂅 * ⋆ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 .
myers - briggs : tbc.
zodiac sign : libra.
temperament : sanguine - melancholic.
moral alignment : chaotic good.
traits : freethinking , melancholy , perverse , reclusive , sincere & volatile.
song : maybe this time ( from cabaret ) by jessie buckley.
pinterest : here.
𓂅 * ⋆ 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘
tw : drug abuse , addiction , forced prostitution , murder , death + suicidal ideation.
they’ll say she was marked for sorrow from the beginning. too fragile, too precocious a girl for the cold, uncaring world the districts of panem are forced to endure. vesper quinn… or is it da silva? eldest daughter of a factory foreman and the bookkeeper with whom he began an affair (both with their own hushed up history of morphling addiction — what a self-fulfilling prophecy she’ll turn out to be), vesper was a girl who dreamt in soft watercolours, performed to music no one else could hear and found beauty in even the most mundane. named for a star, she’s nebulous as a child. a blithe but unnatural creature seemingly unaffected by the gloomy greyscale of the district to which she belongs, someone who took immense pride in the artistic pursuits she hoped would one day carry her away from six’s concrete cityscape. for when she wasn’t at school or working her job finishing paint jobs on capitol traincars and citizen’s automobiles, she’d be holed up in one of her hiding spots around the neighbourhood: the rooftop of their building, the decaying loft above her parents’ factory, the long-forgotten boxcars that had been left to rot in the railyard. vesper fashioned a studio out of each location and would spend hours upon end there, refining her art, teaching herself various styles of dance… performing to a crowd of ghosts. if nothing else, she could be a source of inspiration for her two younger siblings who were in desperate need of a parental figure after their mother walked out into the night following the birth of her youngest. their father burying himself in work and other vices to cope with the loss. though this was only the beginning of the quinn’s relationship with that particular feeling.
it’s on her second reaping day when vesper is just sixteen years old, stood in the square, fingers crossed behind her back, begging an entity she scarcely believes in to spare her, that her name is one of two called. it pours with rain in district six that day. indicative of the tears she sheds as her siblings come to bid her farewell, begging her to win so, she’ll be able to come home to them. it’s the beginning of a lifetime of jokes made at her expense too. japes about her weighing seventy pounds soaking wet are a dime a dozen. capitol citizens stuck callously dismissing her outright as images of the drenched, mousy brown girl from six play on their holos. she’s told not to take it personally, that it’s “par for the course” being from six (or any other outlier for that matter) but it’s hard not to, at her young age.
despite the cruelty, vesper is most earnest in her desire to survive the fifty-eighth hunger games. for her siblings, she feels she must. going as far as to surprise everyone in training by securing a score of seven and managing to endear herself to caesar flickerman’s wealthy audience as she tells him, bright-eyed, of her childhood dream to be an artiste in their fair city. having built a steady momentum, she’s something of a rising star now. a genuine sense of hope amongst the district six team that, for the second year in a row, they won’t be reduced to short-lived cannon fodder during the bloodbath as they so often are.
of course, their hope isn’t misplaced as paired with an arena that combined two varieties of wetlands, it lent itself (rather perfectly) to vesper’s deft and practical skill set. meaning that whilst other tributes fell victim to the elements or vast array of mutts released into the arena that year, vesper took to it with measured composure. unafraid to get her hands dirty, panem watched on in astonishment as the young, previously unassuming girl from district six utilised camouflage and hideaways to outmaneoveur and thus, outlast her fellow tributes. even as a day of acid rainfall wiped out five tributes in total, hiding out in a hollow tree with a dense thicket for cover kept six’s female tribute from harm. it was truly something to behold, tearful finale and all. for the games were not without heartbreak. vesper forced to take the lives of three inside their swamp of an arena. the blood, mud and sweat amalgamating on the freckled porcelain of her skin, congealing under dirty fingernails. it’s paint, she tells herself, just paint… her eventual victory dubbed “a masterpiece” in artful survival but one vesper will soon wish to see destroyed in every way something can be. the same way she will be.
that grime-ridden mess of a girl who emerges, sopping wet, from the marshland arena is to be done away with immediately. reinvented, they say… and that she is. vesper would reemerge in the capitol, wholly transformed. made up to be every bit the victor she is — scantily clad, bleach blonde with those pale brows to match, she’s told she’s desirable now. branded a hot commodity by those whose opinions matter most: a bright, glistening buzz about her as she becomes the muse rather than the artist for the first time in her life. it’s hard not to feel as though she’s floating outside herself, unrecognisable as she is but such new found notoriety opens doors. her siblings are looked after, tucked away in the safety of six’s victor’s village, her hopes and dreams within arm’s reach now… and all she’d had to do to achieve it was survive the slaughter of twenty three innocents. only, that wasn’t all. that was never all when it came to the beloved victors of panem and she learns as much from the viper they call president, his words of warning, offset by the scent of rose, concerning a star and how fast they fade and fall go unheard by vesper’s unsuspecting ears. unbeknownst to her, it’s interpreted as a refusal.
less than a week later, her younger brother is killed in what can only be described as a “freak accident” by officials who attend the scene. his short, still growing form so easily torn apart by the machinery he’s said to have been caught under. the sight alone causes vesper to crumble then and there. the morbid understanding of why it happened comes later… when she’s ultimately called back to the capitol and put to work as was always intended.
clients she’s thrust upon are spirited. new money. they eagerly introduce her to babylon. where the city’s seedier underbelly meets and amalgamates with the glamorous nightlife belonging to their upper echelon. it's home to debauchery of each and every variety, the thinkable and unthinkable with vesper its latest inductee. there’s a stage inside, a spotlight and it’s framed as a kindness. the promise of a girlhood dream come true, that she might just be able to salvage something of her victory. the rose-coloured naïveté her parents never had the heart nor guts to beat out of her coming back to bite one last time as she walks so willingly into the future she’s to be entrapped in. forced to perform nightly for frenzied crowds, introduced to morphling to ease the burden and she’s left no choice but to let them do so… indulging them. for she knows that if it goes far enough, they’ll leave her be. the capitol never did deal in spoiled goods and for a while, it actually feels nice. the high and its unfathomable weightlessness. pleasant even. numbing the pain, quelling the guilt, taking her far, far away from where she actually is — bound to this exploitative duty she’d never once asked for. but eventually, dependency catches up to her. addiction soon after. it goes further than vesper ever plans and before long, she can’t seem to face a day of her miserable life without the aid morphling provides.
framed as an out of control starlet, a rogue party girl… she’s pathetically dependable. they call, she comes. club appearance or client booking, she ends up in an unfamiliar bed at nights end all the same and the high she chases provides an attainable escape from the bleak reality of it all. even in her most drug fueled of hazes however, there are moments of startling clarity. nights when the effects aren’t as desired, when she still sees their leering faces, feels their ravenous hands clutching at her skirts or bare skin as they beg raucously for more. she’s all days old eye shadow by then, perpetual dark circles from having smudged her eyeliner or sobbed away her mascara. since the day she won the games, she’s never once felt clean. never looked it either, if you were to ask around. even as prep teams agonise over dressing her in the shiniest metallics they have on hand, year after year. judgement passes so freely in panem and people around her simply watch on, in horror and amusement, as she deteriorates before their very eyes. vesper deemed the car crash they’re unable to look away from.
inevitable, she’ll dread further loss all the same, watching from afar as her sister severs ties. their father dying with her by his side whilst she’s shut out — altogether breaking the heart of the little girl entombed in what remains of their elder sister and daughter. too pretty a girl to be left alone in the gutter though… it’s in the midst of addiction that she gains a brother in arms. with whom she feels less alone in the drug-induced hell they both inhabit as victors. joined by their affinity for morphling, the pair become something of a “dynamic duo” as the mentoring team from district six for the past two decades… give or take. the morphlings, they’re known as. the people of panem deride and demean them year in and year out, discrediting their ability to mentor in spite of how earnestly the pair always try for their tributes and it means they’re continually overlooked. disregarded as being lost causes who have little more to offer the capitolites than their bodies. it’s a humiliating persona to be chained to but it’s truthful, vesper thinks. slice her open, peel back the blemished skin and all you’d find there is rotten flesh.
she comes to despise being seen in such a way. in any way really and in a sense, they’re not. unproductive, the president calls them. passing over the morphlings time and time again and this blatant negligence on snow’s part soon attracts the attention of the rebellion no less. their cause providing the pair with a purpose outside of one another and the children they’re forced to grieve together as each games season rolls by, faster and faster every time it feels like. the rebels speak directly to that young girl trapped within vesper too. the one who could always see the sun through dark plumes of smoke and saw fit to paint a destiny all her own. before it was destroyed by the monster atop the throne of panem. their close proximity to his capitolite elite proves most useful over the years, making the two morphlings invaluable assets as they work together to gain and feed intel to those underground.
time flies but there’s little improvement. periods of recovery come and go, stints in which she feels she must get clean and she does… for a while. people in the district offer help. a cruel, bittersweet irony to be found in the fact that the games are when she’s at her most sober. always unable to detach herself fully from the severity the situation so often calls for. the third quarter quell is no different but there’s so much more at stake than the lives of her adult tributes. a nation on the brink of revolution and vesper, the fallen star she is, finds she might just be alight once more.
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@snowfuls sent: “ can i ask… what happened? ” for beetee + cora!
it has been ten days since the outbreak from the arena. time has not frozen, rather events move faster. beetee latier has made contact with the capitol since then. he knows that constantinus hasn't perished, at least as of yet. there is a relief there. perhaps beetee does regard him as a friend, rather than a colleague and mentee like he'd previously thought. it will be sad when coriolanus finds no purpose for his grandson anymore. the mentor has worked out the scenerios ; for once, the odds seem to not be in con's favor. beetee seeks out his relative out of an unsaid obligation.
it seems she had been put in a family unit, which surprises beetee. near cora was a young children running about. as far as latier knows, the young woman doesn't have a son or more family here. he does not dwell too much on it however. she seems to be doing well ; he will have to relay that information to constantinus somehow. what does not shock him however is that the capitolite is inquiring about her family. the snow granddaughter is timid in her question, almost like cora is rhetorical. the victor wonders if she truly wants an answer.
" are you meaning why constantinus hadn't made it to thirteen ? " he asks, letting a pause linger for perhaps a moment too long. " nothing in particular to my knowledge. i assume he swapped his place here for you. he must have felt that you were a more optimal choice for thirteen. statistically speaking, i don't believe there would have been much chance for both of snow's grandchildren to get to this districts without causing a panic. these are only my assumptions though. "
no matter how eagerly she’d anticipated change, it doesn’t mean she wasn’t frightfully unprepared for it. cora knows this now. in leaving, she hoped to finally be of use and to a select few, she is but the snow granddaughter can't help feeling she's been reduced to the very same prop she was back in the capitol. still trapped in a cage, only it’d lost its brilliant golden hue. looking out now, the view was new. it’s not the comfort she’d thought it would be. not yet, at least. the one choice she'd ever made for herself ( had coming here ever really been a choice, cora? ) spun into yet another lie she's no ounce of control over. it’s a cacophony of hard truths and conflicted feelings cora can’t begin to quiet. made worse by the overwhelming sense of guilt that follows her around thirteen so unflinchingly.
he won’t mean to, of course but beetee latier’s words do nothing for her but feed into it. the list of people who should be here over her only ever seeming to grow with each passing day they spend down here. connie, peeta mellark, every other victor who's said to have been lost in the ensuing chaos, the perished population of twelve. cora had got her foolish, little dream. she was "free" but at what cost? the looks she receives within the halls of district thirteen, so captious in quality, suggest it was far too great and the girl’s heart bleeds in response.
❛ i'm certain connie… constantinus was always the optimal choice, mr. latier. but thank you. ❜ cora replies, politely as ever despite the sadness tainting her words. thankful to see no such judgment in the victor’s eyes, with him going as far as to entertain her obvious line of questioning in addition to the numerous times she’d poked her head into the control room over the past few days for that very same purpose. she understands the sacrifice her cousin has made for her, better than anyone else here ever will and whilst she doubts she’ll be given the opportunity to repay him for it, having as much laid out for her makes it too sickeningly real. threatening that world of fantasy she used to take refuge in, imagining a life far away from the capitol — the one that now accommodates a dream in which con lives to see the fruits of his labour. the questions that fall from her lips next, with such urgent curiosity, a shred of truth to how desperate she is to make that fantasy of hers a reality. ❛ and have you heard anything from the capitol? from… him? is that why you came? ❜