all the living and the dead

@calliopesnow

calliope (kuh • lie • ope • ee) / 21 y.o. / capitolite, model, influencer, socialite bite me xx

32 posts

cress-meadowforge

Cress did not flinch when the guns fired, but she bent her head in reverence, eyes falling low. In Panem, one was only permitted the briefest period of mourning. Suffering was chronic; violence was for show. Nerissa's death marked the release of a breath the country had been collectively holding, and it cemented for Cress the realization that this was not a momentary tryst of rebels infiltrating the Capitol. This was the forceful overthrow of a nation, the destruction and reclamation of all they'd ever known.

Calliope's presence in the Tower mirrored her own. They were both trapped here, distrusted, their loyalties stated for them, selves not their own. And while Cress had chosen to fade, to take on spectral form, Calliope had blazed with fury, as sharp and as wicked as the woman from whom she was born. To see her crumpled felt taboo. Cress reached for her, fingers grazing flesh, maternal tenderness bleeding out like a war-torn wound.

The swipe was harsh, cutting through the air between them with force. Cress caught her wrist, expression shifting. Gone was the mother. In her place, the victor returned. Cress' grip tightened with Calliope's arm held between them, leaving them bent in odd, opposing forms. "Control yourself," the words low, a directive Cress herself had obeyed a hundred times. "Not here. Do not give them the satisfaction."

Cress' grip was strong, and Calliope tried once, fruitlessly to tug her arm away. Held fast at a painful angle, Calliope exhaled a whimper of protest that she hardly recognized as a noise sourced from her own throat. Pitiful. Pleading. She would hate herself for it later, no doubt.

The other woman's directions cut through the fog of panic, somehow, and for once, Calliope responded to another's authority. She froze, expression blank, though her cheeks were still wet with fresh tears. That couldn't be helped; even if she tried, they would not stop flowing. She stared wide-eyed at Cress and was silent for several seconds before the shock subsided and she found a shade of the anger that defined her.

"Get your ... filthy fingers off of me." She ordered, mirroring Cress' intensity. Then a hiss: "Now."

maverick-montana

Maverick had been on the way somewhere -- somewhere important, to find Alder -- when the news came on. Everything seemed to somehow narrow then, the entire world growing smaller and somewhat sharp. While he was officially on the Vox's side now, doing whatever they'd allow him to, trying to find his place in this new world, he still felt a small part of him that was loyal to Snow. So when he saw her daughter, who he recognized right away, he went over to her, placed a hand on her shoulder to try to provide comfort -- only to be scratched, withdrawing his hand. "Sorry, sorry," he said, "I just... wanted to see if you were okay." Stupid thing to say -- of course she wasn't.

Calliope scrambled away until her back hit a couch; never in her life had she felt so like a cornered animal. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she struggled to process what she had witnessed only moments before, fear and devastation tumbling through her body like a rockslide. One thing, she understood: The world she knew was gone. Truly, irreversibly gone. Her thoughts were a panicked rush of unintelligible noise, interspersed with desperate cries for her dead mother. "OK? OK? They -- they murdered her -- murdered her! They -- they kept me here, they didn't even let m-me -- I never got to--..."

Say goodbye. It was pathetic, and Calliope couldn't spit out the syllables. And what now? Would they execute Calliope next? Was this the man they'd sent to do it? Her voice came sharp and high-pitched: "Who are you? What are you doing?"

Calliope flinched at the sound of gunfire. Nerissa Snow, mouth set in a resolute line, is struck by several bullets in the ensuing spray, and scarlet blooms erupt across her bright, white blouse. The former president's body collapses to the ground in a droopy lump.

Calliope had conducted herself with admirable poise during her capture, pacing through the tower like a beast of prey. With the way she moved and held herself, you would never have guessed how rattled and out of her element she really was throughout this long, dark, and muggy month. With her mother's murder, the bell jar that was keeping her perfect and untouchable shattered into a thousand shards of glass.

Calliope sunk, falling forward from a seated position to her knees on the carpeted floor. Her chest heaved as she remembered - and longed for - her flawless and unflinching mother. Nerissa Snow's death felt impossible; there wasn't a bullet in existence that could pierce her mother's skin.

Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, and horrible, sputtering gasps left Calliope's throat. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she swung violently around, raking her nails across the air in a defensive arc. "Keep your hands off of me!"

#mtostart #she can scratch your char or miss - up to you!

Denver weighed her options. She could give her favorite earrings, the only true possession she, well, possessed, over to Calliope Snow. Or Calliope Snow could call the Vox soldiers on her. It would probably win Calliope favor, too, turning over a trespasser. Denver was sure even if Calliope was a member of the Vox she’d have to do a lot to overcome who her mother was. So Denver could give up her earrings, or be caught by the Vox. And no one, or at least neither her nor Monty, was entirely certain what the Vox did to loyalists, other than that it wasn’t good. The options, therefore, were weighted heavily against her earrings.

Denver took the earrings out, and stared warily at Calliope. “And you’ll let me go?” she clarified.

Her patience had officially worn thin. That's what I've implied, she wants to hiss, and only just manages to hold her tongue. Calliope had absolutely no intention of honouring any bargain with Mouse. This girl had no ammunition to work with; why should Calliope spare her? What, because Calliope's word was her bond? What a joke; as if! "Yup, simple as that."

"Then beg," Cat scoffed, nose scrunching up in disgust at Calliope as a human being let alone the fucking Capitol elite. Hell, even Cress when she first met her hadn't been this deluded and she was one of the Capitol's favorite, if not favorite Careers. "Air time?" She asked, her voice tightening up, "You know, you're all kinds of crazy right? Like batshit insane?"

Cat cocked her head to the side once more, mouth agape, trying to crack Calliope, understand what her actual problem was, beyond the obvious.

"I'm not stupid, givin' orders versus, like, oh I dunno princess, is different than doin' it yourself," She hissed, brow narrowing at the other woman's words, "Too bad I'm a lot more than pretty, wish I could say the same for you." Cat huffed and gave a click of her tongue. She could feel herself trying to appear bigger; squaring her shoulders, righting her posture to stand as tall as possible. "Okay, so you're warnin' me, and what would someone as oh-so-lowly as myself want to do with your good graces, your highness?"

"Envious, unimportant people are always calling enterprising women names. Are you just like the rest of them?" Calliope pouted, slid forward in a fluid curve that might have invoked a serpent in a watcher's mind. She smiled, relishing the telling hints that she had rattled her opponent. "What's-a-matter, tiger? Not feeling so playful anymore?"

Wish I could say the same for you. She was unshaken by the insult, and framed her face with her hand in an elegant, model-esque pose. Mhm, whatever you say. Calliope was beautiful - that was undeniable - but it was far from from her only becoming feature. What would someone as oh-so-lowly as myself want to do with your good graces, your highness?

"Oh, I don't know," Calliope hummed, rolling her shoulders back. "I guess that kind of depends on you. On your imagination. I shouldn't have to do all the work... Suffice to say, friends of mine love to be friends of mine."

"Oh, wow breakin' fuckin' news to me," Cat laughed, a slow stupid grin peeling across her lips. Self-preservation was not something on Cat's radar to begin with because nothing mattered anymore, if someone held a gun to her head at this point she'd probably just tell them to shoot.

She pressed a hand to her chest, listening intently to what felt like a pre-prepared speech Calliope clearly had practiced for the moment someone asked for it. Cat nodded along, pretending to feign some air of concern. "See that kind of mind-games shit don't work when people lack shit to lose, people t' lose," Cat began, just tickled pink, maybe a little delirious from the situation, "And the Vox got some people I care about locked up too, so, either way, I'm losin' – and okay, this also presumes you're gonna like, fuckin' survive this long enough to tell anyone, babes."

"And it's not like there's gonna be Peacekeepers left, no Gamemakers, no one to do your dirty work for you 'cause someone hurt your lil' feelings?" Cat bit back, "You probably ain't ever seen any of that shit in person, real fuckin' different from just watchin' – you ever kill anyone 'cause I definitely have and it ain't 'xactly pretty."

Take in all the provided information, recalibrate, strike again. Calliope was as tactical and systematic in her approach to domination and control as you might expect any shrewd politician to be. "I beg to differ. Death is always pretty. That's why the Hunger Games is Panem's crown jewel, our cultural pièce de résistance. Who woulda thought that giving you air time and post-traumatic stress disorder would be so lucrative. Your life's worst moments are my very favourite ones.

"Yes, for the record - I have seen to it that people are tortured. Killed, too. Why wouldn't you think so? Think the president's daughter has little influence on the machinations of the Panem government? Are you ... stupid, or something?" Her voice softened to something nearly sultry, "Waste of a pretty face."

Everyone was exploitable. You only had to find the way inside the coop, and the poor, shrieking hens couldn't flap away quickly enough to keep blood off their feathers. Calliope explored every avenue for weak points. "I only meant to warn you, and you can do whatever you want with the warning. Listen ... don't listen. I warn that anything can happen, so maybe you watch your footing."

Cat rolled her eyes and relaxed into her hip. She chewed on her lower lip and shook her head at Calliope, more amused than even vaguely threatened.

"Says the bitch on lockup," Cat reminded, raising a brow. Though, Cat knew this whole thing could really go either way – she had nothing left to lose so it would've been moot if she were locked up or executed anyway.

"I'm not rushin' you're makin' it real easy," Cat said letting her hands fly up in a defensive position, "Didn't you couldn't fight back either, I mean, c'mon is the best you got really 'oh you're gonna get executed', who gives a fuck about that? We could die tomorrow, dude."

Bitch. Calliope hated that word. Her expression sharpened to a glare for a moment before relaxing back into something approaching irritation. "When it comes to threats, most people find painful death pretty compelling, but you're right: I can do better."

She straightened slowly, gaze never drifting from Cat. Calliope had admired Cat's performance in Games well enough, but she wouldn't tolerate that level of disrespect while playing nice. "So, your life has no value, and you have no instinct to safeguard it. Might have been wiser to keep that to yourself. Now I feel called to remind you that making a bad impression on me won't only affect your life, when this silly rebellion is over."

Calliope was eerily still, like something made of rock. "Picture this: Everyone you've ever known, anyone with the slightest kind thing to say about you, detained under suspicion of co-conspiracy. That's all will be reported publicly; it's impractical to publicize all the delicious little tricks they'll be subjected to from the Capitol's most inventive - and let's face it, sadistic - minds. We won't have to show you what's happening to them; you'll fucking dream about it," Calliope hissed. "But let me give you an idea anyway -- picture emaciated bodies strapped in windowless rooms, being stuffed stupid with tracker jacker venom, blubbering like babies for their mothers."

#Cat #really spicy o-o

There was something so strange about being in the tower and feeling like she was getting away with something. The radio gave her some, well, Cat guessed diplomatic immunity from the Vox – even though she hadn't done a broadcast in months. She floated around where they kept the prisoners locked up, trying to keep an eye out for any familiar faces – well just one – Holland. What she hadn't expected was to see Calliope fucking Snow.

"Oh, no fuckin' way, this is too good," Cat found herself laughing, as she turned around, catching herself in her step. Maybe she was only amused because her nerves were beyond fried, maybe it was because she hadn't had a cigarette for the past four days and was about to chew through all the drywall in the tower. She didn't know but god she was all over the place. "Thought your mommy would've had you in some sorta fancy anti-rebel bunker," Cat said, arms crossing over her chest, her head cocked to her side as she took in Calliope for a second, "Guess not." She'd only really ever seen the other woman in passing, at a ball, or at some godforsaken Games event so this was about the closest she'd get to taunting goddamn Nerissa herself.

@calliopesnow

"Smart move. Talk big now, be executed for treason later." Calliope shot back, instantly bristled. A reminder that the future was fluid and unpredictable was usually enough to spook the more sensible Vox, and swing the pendulum back in her favour. She had negotiated gentler treatment several times since her capture in this way. There were still insurgents with the nerve to strike her or spit on her, which Calliope hated more than anything else about her new circumstances. No one dared ever touch her that way before, and Calliope herself would confess, she did not have much of a tolerance for pain. She was similarly unaccustomed to fear, an obstacle that had persisted like a lump in her throat for days and days.

No one could have guessed how vulnerable and terrified Calliope felt, here. Her façade of cool, unaffected power was perfect, even with bruises marbling her milk-white face. Despite being unable to quash her fear, she was proud of her conduct, and imagined her mother would be, too.

Where in the fuck are you, Mom?

... What happened?

Calliope froze, a shiver running up her spine in spite of the stale and sweltering tower air. There were things she couldn't afford to think about right now. "Don't rush to fuck with me, Cat Millers. I'm not the one."

#ooh yay first bit of layered character development for miss icy sn-hoe #Cat

“Earrings?” Denver repeated, and lifted a hand to her ear. In horror she realized what she was wearing. They’d been a gift from her mother for her twelfth birthday. She’d been wearing them the night of the attack on the Capitol, and had run out with them. They were the only thing that she was currently wearing that belonged to her - everything else had been scavenged from dressing rooms in the club. If she could never go back to her apartment again, they were the only things she had left that were truly hers. And she didn’t even know if her mother was alive or not.

“You want my earrings?” she asked again. She didn’t know what purpose earring would serve the first daughter of the Capitol. She didn’t understand how they weren’t on the same side of this situation. And most of all, she didn’t know what came next, and didn’t want to find out.

Calliope's gaze drop pointedly to her open palm, held up between Denver and she, and back to Denver. Not only was Calliope cut off from her lush walk-in closets, they had confiscated most of her possessions, as well. They had given her four over-large white tees and two pairs of grey pants to cycle through, and with the power out, she was washing these pieces by hand. Somehow, this wrinkled ensemble still looked chic on the tall and slim Calliope. She'd like to have the earrings, a nod to her wealth and prestige, two things which were immutable in her mind. When Denver didn't move, Calliope replied in an impatient voice, "Mhm."

There was a twinkle in Calliope’s eye that sent a chill down Denver’s spine.

No. Snow, please, no.

But there was no Snow to throw a hope toward - that Snow was Calliope’s mom, missing in action and unlikely to take Denver’s side against her daughter even if she weren’t.

“This is all I have,” Denver said. “Please, I can’t give you anything. I have nothing you need. I’m no one. Please, just let me leave.” The begging came quicker than Denver would have thought, but as it turned out, fear was a powerful motivator. The only other time she’d felt fear like this was when she met Enna in the Capitol Arena, before she knew Enna wasn’t going to hurt her. But Calliope wasn’t Enna. The two of them had no history together. It wasn’t a night of war and riot. Calliope controlled every part of this conversation, and all Denver could do was beg.

Calliope heaved a self-satisfied sigh. How quickly and completely Denver had crumpled! Poor little thing. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong cat. The begging - though sweet - was not likely to move Calliope in the slightest. Never in her life had pitiable cries, no matter their source, aroused anything at all in her. She wasn't familiar with the pang of empathy.

For many long seconds Calliope was silent, expression blank. This was when she noticed that Denver was wearing charming yellow gold, ruby earrings inlaid with small diamonds. They were exactly to her taste; though Capitol-born, Calliope's fashion was understated. At least, compared to other Capitolites. Like her mother before her, she knew there was power in beauty, and she strove for a timeless elegance.

"You know, I like those earrings," Calliope finally said, and raised her hand, palm up, in front of her chest.

You know talking to the younger Snow, it sorta made sense why so many people didn't like their family. How many Capitolites he had listened to say they were awful people, he wouldn't be surprised if some of them had a hand in helping overthrow their government. Still, he didn't wish harm or anything against of the Snows. They were, Colt was sure, just doing what they thought best for everyone.

"Yeah, the store ran out of my usual conditioner so it's been a bit of a struggle there. But you know now that the war is basically going to be over pretty soon, I'm sure we'll start to get shipments of it back here, and in Ten."

"Uh huh? That's swell." Calliope said with wide eyes and too much enthusiasm, suggesting - to the keen listener, at least - that she was being sarcastic. While Calliope bragged of many virtues, patience for pathetic (though admittedly pretty) men was not among them. "Of course I'm not here by choice. No sane person would be. Nothing but brutes and pansies here."

There was a moment where Denver thought it was over. She thought Calliope would let her go and move on. But if Denver was the mouse, Calliope was the cat, batting her around, letting her go only to catch her again. And catch her Calliope did. Because Calliope was right - Denver didn’t want to be found. She couldn’t be found. The only person she wanted to find her was Cain. She understood the Vox’s mission. She even believed in it at this point. But she didn’t trust it, and more to the point didn’t trust them. They were new to power, and history showed exactly how a new regime would hold anyone they deemed a threat to that power accountable.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Denver said, after too long of a pause. It was a lie, and it sounded like a lie. She used to be better at this, at talking her way out of danger. But her parents’ ire hadn’t been real danger. Denver knew that now. She knew what was at stake.

"You don't?" Ding ding ding, we have a winner. A surge of pleasure accompanied her discovery; God, she loved that feeling. A relaxed, if mischievous smile came across her face. Calliope didn't care whether or not Denver was found out and arrested for her trespass; not really. She only cared insofar as this information could be leveraged. So Calliope wondered, doubtful, if Denver could offer anything tasty enough to satisfy and save her own skin. "Just in case you find this interesting, for whatever reason ... this tower is teeming with Vox grunts. In this place, I don't think you're ever more than a room away from one of them."

Calliope tilted her head, eyes bright with new interest. Go on. Gnaw your own leg off. Dropping pretence, she asked, "What do you have on you? Just the clothes on your back?"

"Of course you will, I think everyone is beautiful in their own way. I just thought you'd be the type to care about that kind of thing." Sheen smiled, slowly pulling his hand back when she didn't seem interested in taking it. He chuckled a little, which caused him to groan.

"I know you are, I was trying to be polite. I'm more surprised you don't know who I am, considering how often the Capitol plastered my face on everything. Though I have no clue how many of my posters and billboards are left after Vox and all this fighting." Maybe Vox would ask if him to do some more posters, though he'd need to see what their dreams for Panem were. "So uhh I take it you aren't here by choice."

I think everyone is beautiful in their own way. Calliope snickered, rolled her eyes. "Tsk. Love that for you, Hallmark." She offered in syrupy voice.

"Strange for you to presume you have the fuzziest idea what I care about." The remark was biting, but her tone had reverted to neutrality. It wasn't like she was unaccustomed to having people believe she was small-minded and vain. Though irritating, it was something that could be and had often been employed to her advantage.

She raised an eyebrow when next he spoke, peering at him more carefully. He did look familiar, now that he mentioned. Colt Morrow... Realization dawned, and she nodded. "Oh. It's just that you look like shit in person."

#Colt #ya I guess there are still hallmark cards in thg universe I just made it canon #SWEET COLT I AM SO SORRY SHE IS A PRICKLY PEAR

Wiley laughed. so hard she snorted, then groaned at the vague pain it caused in her gut. "Gone? gone? Bestie, what the fuck are the hunger games?" She laughed, couldn't stop laughing. "We reaped rebels in the districts. then you reaped people they knew, when they got too old. then their children, and their children... what the fuck is panem if not punishment for our parents crimes???" She'd only been in the bowl so many times because of her parent's folley, being born poor, wasting their money on the very drug in her veins right now.

"You know- you know... hold on." she was cackling, had to laugh, and had to wait for a few aftershocks to subside before elaborating. "You know the best part? I wasn't a rebel before any of this. I was just some factory worker. now rebels love me, and I love them. look at what you did with that. and you couldn't even kill me."

"Don't know if you noticed, given you're here and not - you know - dead," Calliope replied flatly, unamused by Wiley's apparent hysteria. "But rumour has it the Games are ended. For good. It isn't true, of course-- cross my words, you'll all end up there, and I guess we'll see what your love gets you then." She exaggerated the next part as if she were speaking to a slow child: "I was pointing out something ironic. I-ro-ny."

Calliope groaned, tugged at the tubing in Wiley's arm so the I.V. bag could be seen from where she sat. "Boo. You hog, you must really be floating with the pink elephants. My wit is wasted here."

And with that, Calliope cut her losses and rose to take her leave.

And there it was. the blatant threats felt comforting. direct, open. Calliope was going for a rise, or for a moment of fear. her strange eyes wanted to see Wiley cry, or flinch. So instead, she shrugged, closing her eyes and pretending that she couldn't vividly picture the future Calliope wanted.

"That's your little dream?" she asked, feigning unbotheredness. "that sucks. you know you're only alive to lure your mom out. once she's dead, they'll kill you too. she might even be dead right now. do you know?" Wiley shrugged, because she didn't know what was up with the former president.

"Ooh, good one. But not likely. My only crime is my last name, after all, and gone are the days of barbarity when we executed children for their parents' crimes. No matter what happens, I come out smelling like a rose. Naturally." She couldn't speak confidently about her mother's circumstance, however. Wiley's words didn't upset her; she had heard worse from Vox scum. Calliope was comfortably buoyed by the truth*: Her mother and she were un-fucking-touchable. Gods among men.

(*as she imagined it.)

"And how would they take it, the people? I've admirers, heaps of fan mail and gifts, the cover of magazines, billboards, interviews on talk shows, profiles listing my countless accolades ... even testimonial thanking me for my," she smirked, "charity work. I'm a walking, talking piece of history. Who are you?"

It had been about a week or so now of being back in the tower, his swelling had gone down a little, but his face was still covered in butterfly stitches, and his lip was still cut. His body also ached and his bruises were still there, but he was glad that he could be in his tank top and pajama shorts and not the prison uniform anymore. He was making his way down a hallway when he saw an absolutely miserable blonde, so Colt smiled and decided to try and cheer her up. In times like this, all they could do was smile right?

"You know, my mother told me scowling like that would cause my face to freeze and get stuck like that. But even worse, I read that frowning causes wrinkles." Offering her his hand, "I'm Colt, I don't think we've met."

@calliopesnow

"I will be beautiful every day for the rest of my life, with or without wrinkles." Calliope assured him, meeting his unsuspecting gaze with her steely one.

"You don't know who I am?" She asked, tone neutral. It didn't matter to Calliope if some Vox low-life lived under a rock. She had had the world on a silver platter, alongside plump, purple grapes, halved figs, and honeycomb. It would be that way again someday soon. And when that happened, it wouldn't matter a lick where or who this pointy-faced man was. "Hm."

all the living and the dead @calliopesnow - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag