#febuwhumpday7

Aunt Tilde stopped her after services the next week, expression unreadable as she examined the irritation, and then she pulled Mirabel's father aside. If Mira were maybe closer to the door she might make out words, but as is she heard what sounded like a poorly hushed argument. Her father never argued with Tilde, no one did. What had she done to warrant so many problems? Finally the door opened, and her father mumbled that she was to follow them.

She knew there was a basement in the Chapel. That it was a form of storage, even. She knew they kept Murnau's very own Angel close to heart, she just didn't realize how close they meant.

"Christ bled for our sins," Tilde reminded her as she folded her hands around something sharp, much sharper than sewing shears or her mum's good kitchen knives. "This is the same as that."

The Angel's tomb was dark. Mira almost didn't know where to look, but the space had little to focus on. The walls were stone, as was the floor, and basically straight ahead, several more strides for her shorter stature, was a pile of fabric and chains and--

There were statues of the Angel all over the Chapel. A girl even smaller than Mirabel was now, with long curly hair and a serene face. Her hair was long, dark enough to blend in with the shadows. Mira couldn't see her face, even what little of it wasn't hidden under her hair. There was something dull and metallic in the way.

Her eyes were just as pale and blank as the statues had been. Even from here that could be seen. She couldn't tell if the Angel was looking at her, was even awake. She didn't even breathe loudly enough to tell if she was alive.

She tried not to think of the duality. Angels were supposed to inspire awe and fear, not anything close to pity. Where she landed right now, as Mira dragged her feet closer…

The pile shifted. Something metallic clinked, almost like bells, and one of the Angel's hands was reaching for her. It was covered in scars.

What would one more be?

She took the hand, gripped tightly so her hands wouldn't shake, and ran the blade over the meaty part between the thumb and wrist before pulling the wound to her lips to drink.

She only managed a few sips before the hand was snatched back, and she made a blind grab to take it back before remembering herself and stepping back. She muttered a half remembered prayer and rushed back to the door so quick she almost tripped on the rough laid stones.

Father made a face when she stepped out, squinting against the basement lights. "She made a mess."

"Children often do," Tilde chided. "Come Mirabel, I think I have a blouse that will fit you. I'll clean you up in the restroom."

She had half a mind to rinse her mouth out at the tap, but the older woman was set on doing it all herself. Her eyes wandered over to the mirror as she tried to follow instructions and she couldn't help but light up.

"My rash is gone!"

"Very nearly." Tilde traced around the area her cross usually sat, collecting a stray bead of blood in the process, and popped her finger into her own mouth for a taste. "Is it not quick? Our own Angel, so generous with her gifts."

It wasn't so beautiful, most of the time. Wasn't anything. Manufactured, identical trash printed to please demand — no artistry permitted, no joy derived. Body after body beaten bloody and bruised for the sake of warning or punishment or covering their tracks.

It wasn't that he didn't think his Purpose was beautiful. He didn't dare think otherwise. It wasn't even that he didn't enjoy the work he did for it.

Still, over time the artistry was lost. He could only truly indulge on occasion — everything else was just… the same as ever.

He hadn't even noticed the change until Erik was his canvas. Purple and blue on honey-brown skin provided such rich contrast he wasn't sure he had ever truly seen colour before. The crimson was velvet draped over silk so smooth he was sure he'd be chasing the feeling for the rest of his life. Every breath he stole was a piece he never wanted to return.

He would cut, and Erik would writhe. Tears would streak glittering paths across Erik's cheeks even as their lips pulled into a pained smile. Blade would grip his throat a little too hard and Erik would choke out a shuddering sigh like the hand of God was upon them. He would bite and they would arch like their body couldn't be close enough; like the bruises were markers on a map that always led to him.

Sometimes they would make art together. He would watch Erik slice and snap and Blade would cut and bruise and the bodies they left in their wake were statues paying tribute to the carnage. Erik's craft was brutal and swift. They did not take their time the way Blade did. But the flow of his body made the violence a dance; the glint in his eyes a spotlight he directed where he pleased. They were a pleasure to watch — a stage show to accompany Blade's carvings.

When Blade went under the knife, over and over in service of the boss's art, he did not feel like a canvas. He did not feel malleable. No amount of crimson and blue could make his ashen skin a landscape. For a time, Erik had looked at him like he was. Erik would tend each cut and bruise and crimson trail like he was made of delicate painted porcelain. Admire the mottled, mangled shape of him like he was meant to be that way.

When Erik left, so did the artistry. Without the dance, the carvings meant nothing. Without brutal, his artful was flat and empty. Beauty became business. Colours faded to the same muddy dimness they always had been.

He tried to convince himself he was still an artist. Tried to find pleasure in the torture. Convinced himself delirium was the same as euphora. Fear was the same as worship. Stabbing was the same as carving.

Johanna thought it would be done now. That there was nothing more they could do to her. There were no more loved ones to threaten. Nothing to push her into the bedroom of some high-ranking Capitol citizen.

So, when the 74th Hunger Games began, she expected to hole up in whatever room they gave her and eat and sleep until it was over. Technically, she was supposed to mentor, but that was a lost cause.

She had tried the first year. Ruby Alder had been seventeen—basically her age. She showed some promise. But it was hard to focus on mentoring when every night she had been dragged out by peacekeepers, shown footage of her sister or father in pain, and then shoved into the arms of a stranger.

Honestly, it was better for her that she got a quick death at the Cornucopia. Ruby was too pretty to be a victor.

Last year, she just tried to be nice to her mentee, Tamara Falls. She wasn’t going to make it anyway. Johanna was saving her from a worse fate.

By then, they had known that she was “difficult.” A peacekeeper stood in her childhood best friend’s house with a gun to her head. Johanna had tried to play nice, but she could never hide her disgust.

Now she had no one. But neither did they.

It was late on the night of the parade. Cherry—her lost cause—had just gone to bed. So had Blight and his mentee. She was just thinking about heading to bed herself when the door opened and three Peacekeepers entered.

“No,” she said. “I’m not going.”

Wordlessly, they grabbed her arms and dragged her to the door. She writhed and kicked but could do nothing against their armour.

“If you put me in a room with someone, I will kill them!”

The third Peacekeeper smiled. “That’s exactly what we want you to do, sweetheart.”

They were underground, Johanna was pretty sure. The elevator ride had been long. The hallways were nondescript, but she thought she could hear shouting in the distance.

“Where are you taking me?”

The Peacekeepers said nothing. Images of a large crowd of partially undressed, drunk, horny Capitol citizens made her feel sick.

At last, they opened a door and pushed her inside. It was barely big enough for all four of them to stand inside, and the wall ahead of her was barred like a cage.

The shouts sounded from beyond the door. Johanna took one step forward, then jumped back when a body crashed against the bars. The crowd cheered.

The person with their back to the bars slumped to the ground, unconscious, and Johanna caught a glimpse of who had defeated them.

Lyme, an imposing woman from District Two, was a victor from before Johanna could remember. She stood just beyond the bars, barefoot, in a sleeveless shirt and loose pants. Her knuckles were bloody.

“Galateia Lyme is our winner!” an announcer’s voice boomed. “Please collect your winnings at the betting booth!”

Johanna turned around and looked at the Peacekeepers. “You can’t make me fight her.”

“If you don’t want her to kill you, I suggest you do,” said the third, most talkative Peacekeeper.

“Take off your shoes,” said one of the other two.

She looked back through the bars. Lyme walked around the ring, not egging the crowd on, but certainly not cowering either.

Johanna weighed her options. If she let herself get beaten easily, would that be the end of it? It certainly wouldn’t be entertaining. Or would they keep sending her out against other victors until she did fight? How many other victors were there here?

Was this what happened to the victors who weren’t pretty enough for the beds of the Capitol? Or just the difficult ones?

She wondered which of those two Lyme was.

She took off her shoes.

“We have a new challenger here this evening, ladies and gentlemen! One of the youngest we’ve ever had, I believe. You’ve seen her wield an axe like nobody’s business, but you’ve never seen her fight up this close! Johanna Mason!”

The crowd roared as the bars slid to the side and the Peacekeepers pushed her out into the ring. Johanna stumbled but quickly regained her footing.

“Place your bets! Lyme or Mason! Our reigning champ or the newcomer!”

Johanna watched Lyme from across the ring. She was a great deal taller and certainly stronger. She wished she had seen more of the previous fight to see how quick she was.

They began to circle each other. The crowd quieted, though the occasional shout still rang out.

“Get her, Lyme!”

“Fuck her up!”

“Let’s go, Johanna!”

Someone was betting against the odds, Johanna thought.

No point drawing it out. She leapt at Lyme, dodging her first punch and landing a solid kick to her gut.

It hardly fazed her; Lyme grabbed her leg and flung her across the ring.

Johanna landed with a grunt as the crowd hooted their appreciation.

She was on her feet in a moment, but not fast enough to dodge Lyme’s fists; she got her in the stomach and the chest before she could react. She just barely blocked her next strikes to her face. Her breath came short and fast.

Seeing an opening, she dove between Lyme’s legs, rolling and hopping up behind her. She punched her twice in the back and side before she turned around.

Johanna shuffled back, out of her reach. Or so she thought. A beautiful roundhouse kick slammed into the side of her head and knocked her over again.

Her vision swam. This wasn’t going well.

Lyme was on her in a second, straddling her legs. Johanna managed to grab her arms as they bore down on her. But she was so strong.

Their faces were close together now. Sweat dripped down Lyme’s face, though she likely hadn’t exerted herself much in this fight. How many had she already fought tonight?

“Was this long enough?” Johanna whispered.

“What?”

“They want a show; was it long enough? Can I tap out?”

“Honey,” Lyme grunted, getting both Johanna’s wrists in one of hers. “You don’t tap out yourself. Someone taps you out.”

With one solid strike to her head, Johanna’s vision went black.

Johanna woke up in her bedroom in the Training Center. She was sore and had a headache, but otherwise was fine. Someone was knocking on her door.

“Johanna?” It was Cherry.

“Yeah?”

“Um, training is in an hour. Shouldn’t— Shouldn’t we talk about strategy?”

“I’ll be out in a minute.” Johanna groaned and slowly sat up. It was going to be a long day.

After Cherry and the other one went to training, Johanna spent her time researching past victors. She ignored the ones who were popular with the Capitol; surely those wouldn’t be tossed to a fighting ring. Same with the pretty ones. She knew what they did at night.

It was the more obscure ones that she focused on. The ones she never saw on TV. She watched recaps of their Games, their fighting styles, their personalities.

If she was taken again tonight—which she almost certainly would be—she was going to be more prepared this time.

The same thing happened that night. After everyone went to bed, she was escorted down to the holding room by the fighting pit.

“Before our main event—Lyme versus Hector!” The crowd cheered. “Something to whet your appetite: our newest fighter, Johanna Mason, against our beloved veteran, Axle Carson!”

This was a more even fight than last night, but even though Axle was well into his fifties, he was still as brawny as he had been in his Games.

Johanna woke up in her bed the next morning, once again to the sound of knocking on her door.

It occurred to her that Lyme must be staying somewhere in the Capitol. She wasn’t a mentor—Enobaria was the female mentor for Two.

Johanna didn’t have free reign to wander the Capitol looking for her, obviously. But she did have an invitation to lunch with the other mentors and “other victors.”

As she expected, it was mostly careers at the luncheon. But Lyme was technically a career. Johanna wandered around the large room, picking at the snacks on trays, surveilling the group.

When she did spot her in a far corner by herself, she was surprised she hadn’t spotted her sooner. She was one of the tallest people there.

She made her way around the room slowly, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She sipped a glass of wine and ignored anyone who tried to talk to here—not that many did. Most just whispered when she had passed by.

“I should come to these more often,” she said when she stood near enough to Lyme that she could hear her—but not so close that it was obvious they were talking.

“What do you want, Mason?” Lyme sounded tired. “I’m not going to give you any tips on winning.”

“Oh, I already have a winning strategy, no worries.”

“Give them a show?”

“That’s all they want.” Johanna sipped her wine. “So, what do you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Next time we meet, are we gonna give them a show?”

She thought she saw Lyme smile out of the corner of her eye.

“You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, Mason. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Johanna nodded and walked away. There were only three days until the Games. Then, however long the Games took, hopefully no more than two weeks. If she was going to make it home in decent shape, they would have to put on some good shows.

They would have to play the damn game. Again.

"Your hands are still shaking, Vins."

"Shut the fuck up."

Vincent had never really imagined his life coming to this point, locked in a shack in the middle of the woods in Lousiana, in very close quarters with a man he'd only met a few weeks ago in a local speakeasy. His name was Alastor, and to say he'd caught the young news anchors attention was an understatement; he was completely capivated from the moment he laid eyes on the cajun man tapping away at the piano.

The two of them were currently hovering over the lifeless body of their most recent victim, trembling hands clutching a knife that the charming host had promsied was sharpened to perfection.

Sure, Vincent had killed people before‐ that wasn't the problem in the slightest. He had just never butchered a human being, especially not for the purposes his strange friend intended; to serve the poor sap up as a nice meal for just the two. He could admit he'd agreed to the little endeavor without really thinking it through, his heart racing and blood immediately rushing to his head at the idea of a "dinner date" with the mysterious man.

"If you're going to take so long, just give me the knife. You're going to ruin the freshness."

"Stop rushing me! It doesn't even work like that. I told you I've never done this before."

"Prepared food?"

"Prepared people for food! You ass."

Grumbling to himself under his breath, the incredibly disheveled Vincent did end up handing the blade over to his companion, watching with wide eyed fascination, and a little nausea, as he cut away at the flesh, sectioning off edible meat.

Was he attracted to Alastor? Undoubtedly. Was he willing to admit or process that in the slightest at the moment? Not really, he'd rather delude himself into thinking it was normal to admire your friends this way. It wasn't like he'd ever had many of those anyway, nobody he felt like he could really relate to– that was until the eccentric radio host came into his life. He wasn't even supposed to be in Louisiana this long, compelled to keep coming up with excuses to stay just a little longer.

So lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed Alastor grabbing himself a fork, stabbing it through a small piece of meat he'd managed to cut away from the body. When he did finally notice, it was because the slender man before him had suddenly closed the distance between them, standing with that fork hovering near inches away from his face.

His stomach dropped, eyes going wide as the color drained from his face, understanding almost instantly what Alastor intended to accomplish, especially when one of his hands came up to cup Vincent's clenched jaw.

"Open up."

"Mmm-mm!"

"Vincent, didn't we agree this is about the experience? And that you were going to obey what I told you to do the entire time? I'm already having to do the cutting for you, the least you can do is let me share this specific experience with you."

"It's fucking raw!"

"Vincent."

"Ugh.... Fine."

As soon as he parted his lips he regreted it, as Alastor wasted no time shoving the little morsel past them, grinning from ear to ear the entire time, watching Vincent with a wild look that definitely helped drive him to keep trying. It was cold and irony, he chewed slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as full body shiver made it even harder to swallow.

"Good boy!"

The glowing feeling those words gave him unfortunately only lasted a few fleeting moments washed away near immediately the strongest sense of revulsion and waves of nausea he'd ever felt. The contents of his stomach erupted quite violently from his throat, fruitlessly trying to cover the stream of vomit with a hand as he hunched over, shoulders shaking as his guts spilled themselves on the floor of the man he'd so come to admire in such a short time.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes, unwilling to live his gaze and face what he'd done, jusr staring at the puke now staining Alastor's well polished shoes. Then, a hand rested on his shoulder.

"Oh you pathetic thing."

Did he sound amused? Had he been expecting something like that, trying to humiliate him on purpose? Head spinning with confusion and disgust, he lifted his eyes just enough to take in the other man grinning down at him in a strangely soft fashion, a wicked excitement behind his eyes.

Ah, so he had done it on purpose.