SELF MADE MYTHOLOGY.

STILL THERE ARE DARKENED PLACES DEEP WITHIN MY HEART what once was blazing light now there's a tiny spark private thg multi-muse.

[valtsv]

nothing in the world makes me more evil than just being kind of annoyed

[devilwomcn]

The beginning of the Games are always filled with opulence, and parties like this are a reminder to Eden of what she fought so hard to achieve. She’s been showered with praise all evening, and to say she doesn’t love this part of her job would be a complete lie. But it’s the aftermath of a night like this, when she’s called to the highest bidder all because she’d shown herself off a little too well, that flips her stomach in knots despite the fact that she’s been bred for it. It’s far too early for that, though — which is why every muscle in Eden’s body tenses when an arm comes to wrap around her waist, but her relief is clear when she realizes it’s just Owen and immediately, she’s scanning the crowd. There’s a time and a place for his public displays of affection and that all depends on who is around. Eden’s got eggs in many different baskets and she’s not delusional enough to think each one of them thinks they’re special, but they all like to maintain appearances.

No one’s really looking at them now, though, so she allows Owen’s arm to linger around her waist as her own wraps around his neck — allows herself to lean into the kiss he plants on her cheek more than she would for a normal, fleeting hello. Her lips even pull into what might be considered a genuine smile, but it doesn’t last long. Eden’s public persona is never anything less than perfectly crafted, and showing real emotion isn’t in the script. “You too. I’m surprised you’ve got time to say hello to me,” she all but murmurs the words back to him, keeping her head close to his ear. Anyone watching will just see some very innocent flirting but nothing too scandalous — at least, that’s what she hopes. “Bringing someone new onto the team is always a challenge. Even if it's someone you know.” She carefully avoids mentioning the word sister — not only because she’s got no interest in hearing about his family dynamic, but he might try to equate his situation with her own this year and that’s not a topic Eden wants to touch on in front of a rabid crowd.

[selfmademythology]

It's not often that Eden goes for any display of affection -- At least, not in a public setting quite like this. So Owen is happy to take what he can get, unable to help the smile that finds him when she remains close, and doesn't subtly push his arm away. He gets it, even if there will never be a discussion about it. It's not like they've given whatever is going on between them any official name or stature. Still, he likes seeing this side of her -- When she leans into his touch, doesn't hold in him the delicate way she does every other man who flirts with her. Clearly, he's more into this than she is, but he'll take anything he can get from her. Even if he's certain Nico will have a snide remark to send him way once they're back in their respective apartments. "I'll always make time for you." The words come out far too sincere, though his tone remains casual. He grateful that she's still close, speaking at a volume that only he'll hear. He knows it's to keep up a facade, but he likes to think he's the one who gets a glimpse past it -- That they're close enough that he can get to the real pieces of Eden, and not just the ones she puts on show. It's wishful thinking, but Owen can't help himself.

His arm remains around her waist, thumb moving against the expensive fabric of her dress. District One's colors suited her well, and their prep team always made sure they'd get noticed -- Maybe it's his own rose-tinted view, but she'd been the first person he saw when he'd entered the room. A brow arches as she speaks, feeling as though someone reached into his chest and started to squeeze at his heart. Any mention of Shay tended to do that -- Send him in something that was a mixture of panic and protection, ready to push back and defend his sister if needs be. No matter how passing the comment may be.

"I feel better knowing all of my family is in the same building." He finds himself admit, a comment regarding Eden's sister on the tip of his tongue -- It dies there, knowing better than to bring up the younger Vale in a place like this. He wonders if the sting of Opal's death still reaches Eden. If he lost Shay in the Games, Owen's not sure he'd ever recuperate. He's barely been able to piece himself together after Ezra. He takes a moment to long to respond further, not sure what else to add if not a comment about Silena. Instead, he simply gives a small smile and comes up with the first thing he can think of. "At least I've got someone to help me annoy Nico, huh?" It's a lame answer, one he knows will surely earn him an eye roll, but it's the best he can come up with. The safest he can come up with.

[fclseconfidence]

Legacy tributes were nothing new, especially for a place like District 4. Though Jeremiah figured that with the age increase, and the fact that plenty of citizens were just not having children so they wouldn’t have to potentially watch them die — it was statistically improbable for the reaping to not pull from the same family multiple times. It just hurt when siblings of his former mentees were pulled from the games. Usually, he dealt with the male tributes and whatever female victor that was working with him that year took the women, but when he heard Flynn, he knew that he was going to mentor Nadia. 

Which shouldn't have been his first instinct. Nadia’s family had blamed him for her brother’s death. It wasn’t anything new. Families often took their grief out on him and he let it happen. Father’s who punched him, mothers who screamed, and siblings didn’t understand  and tugged on his arm asking when their brother or sister were coming back. They were allowed their grief, and Jeremiah didn’t say anything as it happened. Though, Nadia’s father was his face’s last straw. This last break was what kept his nose at a slight angle, and though the District escort begged him to go to a plastic surgeon, he always refused. The sign of family grief wasn’t something he was going to allow the Capitol to erase. 

He also wasn’t going to leave Nadia out on her own because her parents lost their son. Jeremiah hadn’t had a chance to say as much until they were alone on the train, so he couldn’t say he was fully surprised when the woman finally spoke. More to her plate than him. “The fuck you mean?” Jer asked, the question coming out a little more tense than needed. Clearing his throat, he started over again. “Look. If I gave up on tributes every time a family reacted to the death of another child…I’d be retired a long time ago. If anything, your father breaking my nose is going to make me just work harder. So don’t go startin’ on that you’re gunna die in there bullshit because it’s my job to at least try to prevent that from happening. You went to the academy right? Tell me what you excelled at, we’ll start there.”

[selfmademythology]

Nadia had been old enough when her brother died to know it wasn't Jeremiah's fault -- But part of her found it a little easier to blame him, in the beginning at least. It was better to have a tangible thing in front of her to put her grief into than sit and stew over the system itself. Only now when she looks at the older man and the slight angle of his nose after her father confronted him, she's filled with shame. What she said had been the truth -- He's forced to watch kids die every year, her brother had just been one of another twenty-three in the grave. If he didn't want to train her because of her parents, she wouldn't blame him. This is the hand she was dealt, no matter how hard Nadia wished she could have escaped it.

Jeremiah's answer confuses her, to say the least. Brows knit together to make the emotion clear on her features. Nadia was usually better with maintaining some sort of a poker face, but there didn't seem to be any point in skirting around honesty anymore. In a matter of a few weeks, either she'd live or die. It was as simple as that. She opens her mouth to say something in response, but stops herself as he continues. There's a sense of comfort that comes from his declaration, one that pulls her away from daydreaming about diving off the back of the train. She can't help but feel stupid for having said anything at all, but her proclivity for assuming the worst had a way of consuming her. Nadia can't help but stare at him for a moment, probably a second too long, as the gears start to turn in her mind. She'd been so set in assuming the worst, that actually talking strategy required a second for her brain to catch up. "I uh --" She starts, then pauses, still a bit dumbfounded at his desire to actually help her.

"I'm fast." It sounds stupid the second she says it, even if it's the truth. "Quick on my feet, I guess." She'd be able to win plenty of sparing matches purely by being able to dodge hits. "I can fish. Which I guess is a given, considering." Nadia shrugs at that, knowing just about everyone in Four could fish. "Obviously I can swim, too." She adds, suddenly struggling to rack her brain for any skills she possessed that would be useful. "I'm good with a spear, too. Never miss." She added, though any pride she feels is drowned out at the thought of having use said spear on another person.

[brutcllysoft]

While Clementine has a hard time making friends back home, she's fond of most of the other victors. Even the ones that she may not be particularly close with, she at least has a bit of respect for given their mutual circumstances. Cyrus, despite all of his faults (and he has many of them, most of them aggravating) is someone that she considers to be a friend. She likes him well enough and she's always felt more of a connection to Districts Ten and Twelve anyways, given their status in the grand scheme of things. It's easier to relate to them rather than those from the wealthier districts most of the time.

She rolls her eyes, lips twitching up into a grin. She's used to his antics by now and it's a little refreshing compared to everyone else treating her like she's a bomb ready to go off. "My leg makes me faster than you," she points out with a raise of her eyebrow. Despite hating the Capitol, she has to admit the technology in the prosthetic they'd given her is impressive. "I could hear your knees cracking the entire way over here. You should ask them to give you a couple replacements while you're here." She doesn't bother responding to his happy hunger games comment, knowing they'd both rather be just about anywhere but here. "Yeah, well, if only every district was allowed to have an academy." Training for the games is technically illegal, after all, but everybody knows what goes on in One, Two and Four. It's only mildly infuriating.

[selfmademythology]

In the time they've known one another, oddly enough, Cyrus has picked up on the similarities between him and Clementine. They're paralleled in plenty of ways, from the poverty of their homes and the strange feeling it gave each time they were in the Capitol; The lack of love from their district towards their few victors. It gave him some strange sense of contentment, knowing he's not alone in that kind of isolation -- Though he doesn't have any intention of sharing those feelings, nor does he want to share much else with her. He'd never admit to it, or let himself linger on the subject long, but the idea of losing a child in the Games sent a chill down his spine. It created a confusing mixture of fear and anger in him, one he didn't want to ever know. It made him think of Dinah, though the thought was quickly dismissed at the idea of how terrible of parents they would be anyway. Plus, it's not like that was a future he wanted. Kids were a bad idea, a liability.

A smirk finds his features at her response, shrugging a shoulder. "Pretty easy to snatch away, too. Can't exactly yank my left leg off when I'm not looking, ya know." He points out with a look of seriousness, as if this is a concern she needs to be aware of. Eyes narrow at the mention of his knees, the fact that he's getting older is something Cyrus hates. Years of ware and tear are finally catching up with him, despite his chagrin. "Fuck you, at least I got both of 'em." He rolls his eyes, laughter quickly following. Something tells him if he went off asking the Capitol for knee replacements, he wouldn't wake up from the surgery. "Rather deal with my crunchy fuckin' joints than ask them for any favors." Cyrus points out, unable to help the bitterness that floods his tone -- A bitterness he knows Clementine shares.

He leans against the horse set to pull District 11's carriage -- Or well, tries to, the noise the animal makes at the movement, and slight kick of it's feet has him stepping back. All jokes aside, he didn't want to end up with a prosthetic like Clem. "Yeah, well it still makes for fuckin' idiots. You see the tributes for One? I'unno if the girl realizes she's not in a pageant." Cyrus points out as he steps, giving the horse a dirty look. "M'pretty sure everyone's too scared'a looking at 12's tributes for two long, give 'em too much attention." He mused, eyes rolling at the thought. He'd been there in the aftermath of Katniss Everdeen's bullshit -- 12's tributes never stood a chance, and no one wanted to give them one, either. Just to be safe.

[devilwomcn]

Thea accepts him instantly, one hand holding his head gently against her shoulder while the other finds his back. It's odd, because Thea's never been one for comforting — she is sharp and cold, only melting when she's around Ezra and even he gets a taste of her frigidity when she tries keeping him at an arm's length. This is different, though. Thea would never claim to have any kind of maternal instinct but if she did, the evidence of it would be shining through in this moment with Owen. Despite the dirt and grime that covers him, the blood and tears that are surely soiling her very clean and pristine outfit, Thea will hold onto Owen for as long as he needs to feel grounded. And longer after if he asks her too, because she knows what it's like to come out of the Games afraid and unbalanced, and she refuses to let him falter without guidance.

And then, the way he looks at her breaks her heart almost completely. Did he make her proud when he prevailed to the end? Did it make her proud that he was forced to slaughter twenty three other children? (And they are children, even the older ones, no matter how well they've been trained or how mature they seem.) The real answer is no, but not by any fault of Owen's. Pride is the only thing driving most of the tributes from Two when they enter the Games; pride and a misguided sense of what glory should look like. It might be better if she tells him now that this — victory — is a fraudulent hoax curated by the Capitol to make killers of them all. But Thea isn't that cruel, and the hope in his eyes won't allow her to do anything to take away from his good fortune just yet. "Of course," she nods, letting her hand cup his cheek gently so as not to startle him. "I'm proud of you for surviving."

That, at least, is the truth. In the few years she's been mentoring, Thea's never wanted a tribute to win so badly and she is proud of him for making it out alive. She'll be proud to deliver him back to his family in one piece, and she'll be more than willing to stand by him when the more difficult parts of being a victor catch up to him. But that's a conversation for another time, and right now they need to focus on keeping him in the present. "We'll be back to the tribute center soon, and they'll want you to clean up a bit before we start celebrating," she looks at him then, forces her face to remain neutral so as not to betray how sickening the thought of a celebration seems to her. "I can hold them off for a bit if you'd like me to — maybe a day or two so you can get reoriented. And I'll stay with you... but only if you want, of course."

[selfmademythology]

He's not sure he'll ever fully adjust to being in the light. Owen turns his head to bury it in Thea's shoulder, shielding him from the bright lights surrounding them. In a matter of seconds, he's gone from a mighty victor to a small, scared child, clinging on to any sense of safety he can find. He holds on for dear life, clutching Thea like a life line -- It's exactly what she is, isn't she? A mentor, fellow victor, someone who's traumas mirror his a little too well. He's never been more grateful to her than in that moment -- Where he'd been a fierce some killer before, Owen had no idea if he'd ever be able to climb back out of the darkness. Figuratively, maybe literally too -- Either way, he forces himself to put all the focus he can muster on the woman in front of him. Right now, he's a live wire, and she's the one thing keeping him from sparking.

When the question passes his lips, part of him is afraid of what her answer may be. It's over, Owen. Three words float through his mind, now sounding like Thea's voice rather than his own. Somehow, he believes them more, coming from her. It's over, Owen. It's over, Owen. It's o -- Of course. Her words pull him out what the stupor he's fighting off, keep him from choking on the reality that's set in. He's not sure when he lifted his head up to look at her, or how long he's been standing there with her. I'm proud of you for surviving. Six words and he begins to lose the last piece of resolve he has. His heart picks up his pace, slamming against his chest just as it had when he was in the Arena. Only now, he's not fighting tributes in the dark, he's struggling to breathe. His hands move to Thea's, holding them tightly. He doesn't know if it's enough to hurt her, but it's enough to keep him from hitting to the floor. "I --" He starts, words caught in his throat.

Emotions weren't a strong suit for Owen -- He had always played the role of a tough older brother, brave and brazen no matter the situation. A smile ever present at his features, chin held high as he glided through life. This was when he was supposed to feel the excitement, right? The thrill of bringing glory to his home and his family, of being a victor? Unshed tears gather in his eyes, every sentence he tries to string together getting caught in his throat. He's never been more grateful for Thea than in this moment, when every piece of him begins to crumble and he's left with shards to glue back together before they reach the Capitol. Eyes blink furiously to try and push away tears, though it does nothing -- His cheeks are stained, chin wobbling. It reminds him of running to his mother after a nightmare, hoping she'll be able to shoo away the monster under his bed. Owen knows Thea will do just the same, until he can get his feet back under him.

He barely registers what's being said to him, but the word tribute sends him right into the dim glow of the arena -- The heavy weight of a machete in his hand, blood splattering on him with ever swing. Blood that's already dried on his skin. "I can't --" He tries again, shaking his head as a new layer of fear settles in. "I can't go back there, Thea." Owen manages to get a full sentence out, trying and failing to take a deep breath. It's over, Owen. This isn't how it's supposed to be, he can't help but think. He's spent years dreaming of this moment -- And now, all he wants to do is curl into a ball and disappear. "I can't -- Please, Thea." What he's pleading for, Owen's not sure. Hopefully the woman in front of him will be able to decipher what he's trying to say. "I can't go back there." He's not sure where there is -- If he's meaning the Arena, the Capitol, any of it.

[m-anarrr]

[selfmademythology]

Hold on, I know you're scared / But you're so close to heaven Eyes shut tight / Just pretend you're like a feather

[selfmademythology]

STARTER FOR: @brutcllysoft | owen & shay. LOCATION: training center apartments.

He felt like he had been sleepwalking all day. It was routine, each year since he was 20 years old: The Reaping, the train ride, the tribute parade. It's easy to stay busy during all of it -- But this year, rather than simply shuffle about and keep himself busy, all he can focus on his sister. It had been simpler, two years ago, knowing she was safe in District Two. Now she sat beside him, among the rest of the Victors. Even so, they've barely had a moment to speak to one another -- His attention has remained on her the entire day, silently wish he could read her mind. He remembered his first games -- There was an excitement that washed over him, given that Nico was his tribute and he had Thea by his side. But in the moments he'd found himself alone, no longer putting on a show, there was an ache in his chest that threatened to swallow him whole. He knew Shay was surely feeling the same sense of dread, haunted by thoughts of Ezra and the arena. He knows he is.

Only every time he tried to get to her, he'd end up shuffled away for some bullshit task. Unsurprisingly, it's not until they're all shuffled back to the training center apartments that's finally, finally able to get to her -- No longer having to watch his sister from afar, hoping she's not on the verge of losing her shit. Or worse, fully lost herself to grief like Thea has. Owen's almost afraid of the answer as he knocks quietly on her bedroom door, not bothering to wait for her to answer before sticking his head in. "Shay?" He calls out, brow arched as adds: "You uh -- decent?" Owen asks, attempting to diffuse his own anxieties.

[beneathoaktrees]

@selfmademythology

It was no secret that Owen and Nico are best friends. When Nico had gone into the Arena he'd practically gotten sponsors almost solely because of it. Not just because he'd trained his whole life. They saw him as someone who would bring the same strength and the same energy to the Games and while they both came just as fucked up as each other out of the Games, it was still just as fun as when they were twelve. He was grateful for his best friend-- he was one of the sole reasons that Nico wasn't shoved away into foster home or an orphanage. Owen and Nico's show of promise in the Academy did. Still he spent more time with their family than his foster family.

Nico was always keeping a watchful eye on his friend, despite his lethality. It was just how he repays and protects his people. This courtesy wasn't reserved for Owen either, Nico had always protected his parents and most importantly Shay. Despite the bond between the pair, neither of them have really wanted to broach the topic of the fact that they almost lost her. Not to mention losing Ezra. They were more of the kind of friends where if one of them did something fucking stupid, the other would be happy to give them a black eye to match it.

Gliding himself along the hallway of the Capitol bullshit, Nico grins to himself finding Owen's back to him. He moves silently, hoping to not spark Owen's paranoia as he leaps over the couch that he's sitting on and swings on his neck. "Hey asshole. What're you doing all alone? You look to pretty to do that-- wait-- did they actually put make up on you?"

[selfmademythology]

Nico is Owen's best friend, no question about it. More so, he's practically his brother -- The two have been inseparable since they were kids, made even closer when Owen served as Nico's mentor. It's a comfort, them both being here. It's necessarily needed, given that only one of them needs to take up the role of mentor -- But having him close, along with Shay and Thea, puts him at ease. A pang of guilt stays with him when the four of them are together, knowing they're missing the fifth piece of their fucked up family. He'd do anything to have another moment with Ezra, to see his family whole once more. Being together, feeling any sort of joy or lightness, it feels wrong, knowing Ezra isn't there with him. It's hard not to let it consume him, let it pull him to Thea's room every chance he has, just to make sure some piece of her is still with them.

It's no question that when it came to their make-shift family, Nico's the rock. Not in just a literal sense -- He's the one who seems to keep them afloat, always looking around every corner to ensure their safety and security. At his core, Nico's someone who will protect his family. It's something Owen has always admired, tried to emulate himself; Something he failed to do just a year prior, a debt he can never repay Nico for -- Shay leaving the Quell as a Victor rather than just another dead tribute. Even if the cost nearly destroyed all of them. One he's reminded of far too many times now that they've found themselves dragged back to the Capitol for another year of the Games. It unearthed emotions in him that Owen had spent the last twelve months pushing down, burying under anything he could find, putting it in a small box on a high shelf. Everything he refuses to let himself dwell on makes good on the promise to choke the life out of him, leaving him feeling paralyzed when he finds himself alone. Owen tries his best to remain busy during the Games; Doing whatever mundane task Birdie asks of him, annoying Shay to pass the time, checking in on Thea, or this -- His go to, almost quite literally falling right in his lap: Starting shit with Nico.

His best friend's presence pull him out of whatever stupor he'd fallen into, snaps him back to reality so fast he may have whiplash. "Avoiding you, dick head." Owen answer with a laugh, now more at ease in Nico's company, though his shoulders still remain tense. A hand moves to slap other man upside the head as he speaks, eyes rolling. He gestures to himself, sitting up a bit taller in a way that is clearly meant to mock their prep team. "It's to bring out my features." Owen points out, though there's no question he's counting down the minutes until he can scrub this shit off his face and feel like himself again. He's supposed to do an interview at some point, put a bright smile and talk about how hard District Two is training. It's easier to put on a show, say what they want to hear, than to be left to his own thoughts. "What -- You jealous, pretty boy? Not my fault Flickerman is obsessed with me."

[fclseconfidence]

She hadn’t spoken loudly, but when Birdie addressed her, Monroe nearly jumped out of her skin. The stylist had been so focused on finishing the hem that she barely acknowledged someone else was in the room. “Fuck,” She cursed as she set the fabric down and closed her eyes. A long, slow exhale escaped her before she finally turned to look at Birdie. Her boss. Mentor of sorts. They’ve worked together enough for Monroe to think of the older woman as a friend, but in moments like this she couldn’t help but feel like the woman didn’t trust her. “Yes, Birdie. I’m fine,” She said, hoping the exasperation in her voice wasn’t as obvious as it felt. Every year, as they got closer to the start of the games, she felt Birdie’s eyes on her for a little longer, like she was waiting for her to crack.

Sometimes she wondered if her parents had filled Birdie in on all of it. Their plan to get her onto a stylist team, and why they did that instead of sending her to the University like she wanted originally. And there was something about this year in particular — maybe it was the Quell last year, maybe it was seeing Nico have his episode the day before — but she finally turned to Birdie and asked. “But it feels like you have something you want to bring up considering you’re looking at me like I’m going to break. So go ahead and ask whatever it is you’re thinking.”

[selfmademythology]

Birdie couldn't help but cringe as Monroe jumped, not having intended on scaring the other woman -- She's assumed the tap of her heels would be enough to warn the younger woman of her presence. "My apologies," she holds up her hands in surrender, brow arching at Monroe's tone. Birdie can't blame her, each year around this time, she can't help but worry about her team -- And specifically, Monroe. It's not that she doesn't trust the younger woman's ability or skill. It's quite the opposite, Birdie holds the youngest member of her team in high regard. Anyone can see Monroe is talented, and this is the first stop on a very long career. But, she knows her well enough to see that Monroe doesn't view the Games like a typical person from the Capitol would. She clearly sees it a far more human light. It had taken Birdie years to truly hit that point, empathizing with the younger woman. And with what was coming this year... Even if Monroe didn't know, she had a feeling the younger woman could pick up on the shift in the air.

A brow arches as Monroe speaks, arms folding across Birdie's chest. The look on her face could only be compared to a skeptical mother with her daughter. She lets out a small sigh, leaning against the counter top. "Is it so strange that I worry about your well-being?" Birdie counters, brow arched as she gives the younger woman a knowing look. Monroe isn't exactly high on the chain of command for the Rebellion, nor is Birdie confident the younger woman knows anything about it. "We've spent the last year preparing. I want to know how you're doing. We've got quite the show to put on."

[brutcllysoft]

Dinah has lost count of the amount of times she's cleaned Cyrus up over the years. It isn't even something limited to their time in the Capitol. There have been many times her brothers have had to carry him into their home in Victor's Village and sprawl him out on the sofa or the kitchen able so that she could patch up the array of wounds he'd acquired. She rotates between being furious at him for being so stupid to sympathy because, really, this is all that he's ever known. The two of them hadn't crossed paths until she was Reaped but she was vaguely aware of the reputation that he had more for himself in District Twelve, the one that had gotten him Reaped in the first place. Of course, she hadn't bothered to give it much thought. Whatever sad backstory their one victor had, it wasn't high on her priority list. Not when she had four hungry mouths to feet at home — five if you counted her father. Six if it was during one of her mother's brief stints in their Seam home. She was too busy trying to keep them afloat, she didn't have time to keep up with District Twelve gossip.

And then her name had been called. She shouldn't have been surprised. Her name was in the Reaping bowl a borderline absurd amount of times, having taken tesserae for all of her brother's in an attempt to keep them from wasting away to nothing. It hadn't been an ideal choice, but what other choice did they have? What other choice did anyone in District Twelve have? Even their wealthier class was poor by the standards of the closest district. They were all just trying to keep their heads above water and Dinah had no choice but to hope that everyone else's multitude of reaping slips would keep hers from being picked. No such luck. The minute they had arrived in the Capitol she told Cyrus he needed to get his shit together and figure out how to make her a winner. She'd been scrawny with no combat training, a far cry from a potential victor, but she was willing to get her hands as dirty as she needed to in order to come home — and she had. Thanks to him. The two had gotten close while he mentored her and now she finds her life completely intertwined with his, the two connected by something that no one else could really understand. She alternates depending on the day whether or not that's a good thing.

She scoffs, honeyed eyes rolling at his words. "One guy did this to you?" She asks, already taking mental stock of the injuries. "You really are getting old. It used to take at least two to get you this fucked up." She's seen him in worse states than this, a memory of his back torn apart from a lashing playing somewhere in the back of her mind, but she refuses to let herself dwell on it. She pulls him into the bathroom, pushing his shoulders gently to sit him down on the edge of the bathtub. One of her hands finds his jaw, tilting his head so she can look at the bruises littering his cheek bone and temple. "Your eyes are all fuzzy," she points out, "You probably have a concussion. You wanna tell me what happened?"

[selfmademythology]

If his head wasn't throbbing and the room wasn't spinning, Cyrus would have insisted he kicked their ass -- That this was nothing compared to the beat down he'd given, claiming not one but two men were lying bloody in an alleyway. It wasn't uncommon for him to embellish, depending on what his ego warranted. (Even though Dinah easily saw through his bullshit stories) "Fuck you, I'm not old." He insists instead, grumbling as he spoke. There's not much heat behind it, given the state he's in, but it offends him regardless. She's not wrong, but he doesn't want to hear it. As far as Cyrus can tell, he's going to be on his own until the day he dies; He can't slow down. Even if he's pushing 40 and his knees weren't what they used to be. It's not like he'd exactly been kind to his body over the course of his life.

Cyrus wordlessly follows her lead, a combination of the exhaustion settling into his bones and knowing exactly where they're headed. This bathroom may be far nicer than hers at home, but it's the same means to an end. He'd lost count years ago how many times he'd shown up at her door with various injuries. At least she didn't have to drag him in by the ankles this time. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub steadies him, gripping the cool porcelain with his hands. It's oddly comforting, given how many times he's been in this position -- Knowing that the next step is Dinah grilling him for details while helping put him back together again. He'll always be grateful for, finding a deep sense of comfort that he doesn't dare speak of each time. Too tired to fight back, he leans with her as her hand on his jaw moves him for examination. He already knows he's going to be stuck hearing a whole monologue from the District 12 Escort about how irresponsible it is to get into a fight when such an important event is about to take place -- Before being covered in a pound of make up by their idiot prep team, to hide any bruises.

"My eyes aren't fuzzy," He quietly insists, staring up at her with half-lidded eyes. It's far too instinctual for him to deny things, to push back against even the simplest comments. Now, it's more half assed than anything -- He's in no state to try and act sober and uninjured. All he wants is to crawl into bed and never leave. It wouldn't hurt if Dinah was there with him, too. As cliche as it is, he'd rest easier knowing she was only inches away. He knows better than to voice that thought, though. "M'sure I'll be fine by morning." Cyrus shrugs, his grip on the side of the tub keeping him from falling over. He leans into the touch, savoring the feeling of Dinah's cold hand against his warm skin. It grounds him a bit, keeps him from doing his typical means of dealing with injuries. (The 'If I just fall asleep instead I don't have to deal with it' route.) His nose wrinkles at the mention of what happened, a wince following. "Some asshole got what was comin' to him." He answers simply, as if that explains anything. "Peacekeeper was lookin' at me wrong so I set 'em straight." He elaborates a bit further, before pausing to close his eyes and take a deep breath. "My head is fuzzy." He points out, brow furrowed. "Do I need stitches? I don't want stitches."

[beneathoaktrees]

@selfmademythology

She had heard what Hayes had said. She needed to make friends and she needed to make them fast. The problem was that Jocelyn really isn't the type. She has very few friends when she's at home, let alone when she's in the Capitol and is on her way to a cruel death. Jocelyn is still processing in phases that she will probably be death within the next few weeks and making allies seems like a cruel joke. Still she heeds the Victor's warnings and lingers around the Training Center, learning as much as she can. When she finds herself at a station with the girl from Four, she sighs internally before looking up at her. "Hi," she finally says. Wow good one Jocelyn, she scolds herself, award winning friend making right there. Hell, even worse when Jocelyn finally gets a good look at her-- she's a pretty girl. Perfect, just another person to alienate. "You know if you eat that thing you're about to put as edible you bleed from your eyes, right?" she comments. "Then again, if you're trying to outdo One and Two for scary-ness, you'd definitely win."

[selfmademythology]

In the days following her conversation with Jeremiah on the train ride to the Capitol, Nadia is feeling -- Well, cautiously optimistic. The more time she spends in the training center, the more she realizes she's got an upper hand on a lot of the other tributes. Mostly those who aren't from Career districts, who didn't have the benefit of training at the Academy. She's not delusional enough to believe she could win the Games, but maybe she's got a chance. A slim, minute, barely there kind of chance. So, she sorts through various nuts and berries -- Sorting what's edible and what's poisonous, try to give herself a shot at surviving whatever fucked up arena the Gamemaker's have cooked up. Secretly, she hopes that it's something like Jeremiah's games -- All water and caves, something that'll give her an upper hand. Nadia's still not sure what to fell, but at least the plan to toss herself out of her bedroom window feels less tempting. She's hopeful, though she's not sure how long it'll actually last.

The sound of someone else's voice pulls her out of her own thoughts, shocked to find the girl from District 5 standing in front of her. "I uh -- Hey," she returns, embarrassed at the way she'd already stumbled over a simple greeting. So much for making alliances. Nadia couldn't deny she'd noticed the other woman before they formally met -- She was cute, finding her sarcasm and brash personality refreshing. Everyone (with the exception of the tributes from One and Two) looked like they were going to shit themselves with fear at any moment, it was refreshing to see someone bring a bit of levity to how surreal this all felt. "It -- What?" She furrows her brow, needing an extra second to realize what was being said. Eyes turn to the berries in hand, immediately dropping them back down on the table. "Shit," Nadia curious, quickly scribbling them out of the edible column. "It'd be a hell of a way to go out, at least. I'll keep it in mind." She finds herself say, silently kicking herself for the connotation. "Might as well make a show out of it, I guess."

[devilwomcn]

THEA + OWEN / @selfmademythology​ WHERE & WHEN: the hovercraft, post 86th games

The waiting, Thea has come to find, is the worst of it all. At first she assumed it’d be the final moments — she’s had a tributes make it to the end, but none have come out alive. None until now, and despite the obvious grief she carries for the tributes she’s lost, there’s part of her hadn’t been angry about that. If she wasn’t producing enough victors they wouldn’t hesitate to replace her when the time came — and watching children she’s meant to protect die each year has taken a larger toll on her than Thea ever expected it to, so perhaps replacement wouldn’t be such a bad thing. But Owen was a different case. There was no world in which Thea was going to allow this boy she’d practically watched grow up die a meaningless death in the Games. So she’d worked harder than she ever has before, and it paid off — he’d triumphed over all of the other tributes, and he’d won.

Now, she waits. The buzzing of the hovercraft as it makes its way to the arena does nothing to calm her anxiety, her hands wringing in her lap as she sits properly in her seat. She had, of course, watched intently as Owen made his final kill — she’d seen the look of elation that spread across his features, had witnessed the pride he seemed to feel when he realized he’d won. Will he carry that with him in the aftermath? Thea hopes to God he does, because the realization of what she’d just done after her own victory had been one of the worst moments of her life. It’s been over a decade since then but she still remembers the wave of emotions that had flooded through her — the grief, the anger, and the betrayal because winning the Games had been all she’d worked towards since she was five years old. And she’d been forced to push all of that away, to let them pump her with silicone and anti-depressants and become the Capitol’s newest porcelain doll.

Thea won’t do that to Owen if she can help it. He’ll need to put on a brave face for the cameras, of course — she can’t protect him from feeding the monster no matter how much she’d like to. But she won’t force him to bury his grief, or his anger, and she certainly will do whatever she can to keep them from morphing him into a plaything. The hovercraft lurches and Thea realizes it’s time. Her hands brush against the skirt of her dress as she stands, shoulders rolled back as she makes her way to the space he’ll be lifted into. Any anxiety she’s been feeling quickly melts off of her once she sees him, her first victor, pulled onto the hovercraft from below — but Thea doesn’t make any sudden movements. She only forces a small smile across her lips, holds her hands out gently so he knows he can take them if he’d like to, and speaks softly so she doesn’t spook him completely. “Congratulations,” she says, and then as an afterthought just so he can be completely sure, she reminds him — “It’s over, Owen.”

[selfmademythology]

He's not sure his heartbeat will ever even back out, nor that the ringing in his ears will ever cease. Owen isn't sure if it's fear or adrenaline, maybe a mix of both -- He's spent the last week hunting down other Tributes in the dark, fighting for the crown that he's coveted his entire life. This should be the happiest moment of his life, but instead he feels like his skin is crawling. He barely hears the sound of the cannon, too caught up in trying to think of whether or not he's killed all the Careers or if he's missed one -- He can picture the devastation on his mother's face if he got this far, just to get killed by a tribute he missed at the eleventh hour. Backing himself up to what he assumes is a tree, Owen holds out his machete, ready to swing if he needs. It's not clear to him how much time passes before he's greeted by the bright lights of the hover craft coming to pick him up, but he's pretty sure its the first time in the last week that his shoulder's relaxed. It's over, he thinks to himself, though he doesn't really hear it.

It's a blur of blinding lights, getting from the darkness of the arena to the carrier. He can't help but squeeze his eyes shut the entire time he's being lifted, only half convinced the Games are over. His heart is still beating too fast for him to relax, his hand refusing to let go of his machete for fear of what could happen next. It's over, he repeats, though the words fall on deaf ears. He's spent every moment of the last week fighting to stay alive, while he can barely see his own hands in front of him. No mantra is going to help pull him off this edge. His eyes still struggle to adjust while he's brought into some kind of waiting area, part of him worried this is some final test. Truthfully, Owen can barely see properly, let alone register what's actually happening around him -- All he knows is that he needs to keep a tight grip on his machete, just in case.

And then -- There's Thea. He blinks once, twice, three times, begging his blurry eyes to properly adjust. They do well enough as she comes closer, the sight of his mentor and long time friend helping calm his rapidly beating heart. The sight of her helps him breathe easier, the unbreakable trust they share proving to him that he's no longer in the arena. He doesn't say anything immediately; The adrenaline has begun to ware off and he's left with the reality of what happened in the last week. Eyes glance down to see how much blood still clings to him -- To his tattered clothes, his dirty hair, practically imbedded into his skin. He'd murder people he called allies, slaughtered other tributes like they weren't actual people. It had been a game to him, something to bring him pride and glory, but in that moment all he could muster was a guilt and shame that threatened to pull him under. At some point, he drops the machete by his feet, taking Thea's hands in his own. He can't seem to muster the right words to say then -- He feels dizzy, a headache forming behind his eyes and the need to scrub his skin raw starts to settle in.

Congratulations. She sounds like she's underwater, words muffled by something he can't quite name. Owen had always dreamed of this moment, of the way he'd feel -- The swell of pride, the excitement to return to the Capitol for a crown and victory tour. All the riches that await him and his family back in Two. Instead, he's left feeling small. Part of him got left behind the darkness of the arena, and now he's leaving without it. It's over. Two words he'd been saying to himself finally land when they pass Thea's lips -- It's over, Owen. The bough breaks with three words, yanking him out of his stupor and back into reality. He lurches forward, pulling her into a hug. While his demeanor hadn't necessarily been calm moments before, it certainly isn't now -- A wave of emotions hit him, a mixture threatening to choke him if he's not careful. He holds on to Thea for dear life, not caring if his grip is too tight or if he's getting blood on her clothes. She's the only thing that's tethering him to the ground right now. It's over, Owen. It's over, Owen. It's over, Owen.

The passage of time has been unclear for the last week, and now is no excuse. He's not sure if he stood there with her for minutes or hours, but he refuses to let go. Instead, his eyes squeeze shut once more and shaking arms remain around his mentor. He opens his mouth to speak, only no words come out -- His head feels like it's spinning, stringing together any sort of sentence has become a struggle. Owen tries three different times, though all he's met with is wet cheeks and his entire body shaking.

Finally, he finds his voice, leaning a small distance away from Thea so that he can look her in the eye. His voice comes out soft, smaller than he'd care to admit to -- Like he's a child, looking for validation from his mother after a nightmare. There's no excitement, no pride, just a boy seeking to fulfill his duty. "Did I make you proud, Thea?"

[selfmademythology]

starter for: @beneathoaktrees | cyrus & nico. location: just outside the capitol celebration after the tribute parade.

Cyrus hated the Capitol, and everyone in it -- But he couldn't deny the silver lining that luxury provided. Namely in the form of cigarettes. Back in District 12, he'd get stuck rolling his own with whatever shit tobacco he could get his hands on. In the Capitol? Anything he wanted, he got. The bonus of Capitol citizens being obsessed with the 'Bad Boy' persona they'd created for him was the fact that he could get his nicotine fix with ease. It's a good enough reason to get him out of an overly crowded party, leaning against the railing of an over-the-top balcony. Eyes roll at the sound of someone approaching, as he takes a deep inhale Cyrus turns to see who's intruding on his moment alone. Personally, he'd hoped it was Dinah -- But was met with disappointment when Nico came into view. Admittedly, it's a bit surprising the District Two victor had even shown up to the party at all, considering he always seemed to be one wrong comment away from throwing someone across the room.

Taking a deep inhale, Cyrus doesn't bother starting a conversation with him at first. Instead, he enjoys the buzz from the nicotine and shares a silent moment with the man. At least, until his curiosity gets the best of him. "So --" Cyrus starts, taking one last inhale before dropping the butt of his cigarette on the ground. "How we kickin’ this shit off, Cap?" He knows they both stand on the same side of the rebellion, and Cyrus can't help but look to Nico as some unofficial leader. Mostly because the other man seems to have a better ear to the ground in Two than Cyrus does in Twelve. He crushes the butt of his cigarette under his shoe, turning towards the other man. His question is innocuous enough, but what follows could be pretty damning for the both of them, if the wrong person heard. So, Cyrus leans closer -- He may have little regard for most things, but he's not about to shout about the rebellion from the roof tops while at the Capitol. "Blow the whole Capitol up?" He asks, brow arched. "'Cause I could be into that." The older man laughs lightly, but keeps his voice low enough that only Nico would catch his question.  

[selfmademythology]

starter for: @brutcllysoft | cyrus & clementine. location: by the horses, right before the tribute parade.

While Cyrus doesn't care for most Victors -- He's become fond of District 11, namely Clementine. (Foster was too grumpy for his taste, always giving the side eye whenever Cyrus and Clementine made a comment about the President or the Games.) Maybe it's proximity, maybe it's the fact that they share the same vocal hatred for the Capitol. Given that they're always stationed next to one another, Clementine has become a friend since her win fifteen years ago. There seems to be a certain understanding between them, a connection that comes from being unlikely Victors from overlooked Districts. Attempting to make trumpet noises, Cyrus cups his mouth and puts on his best version of a Cesar-Flickerman-Announcer voice. "Ladies and gentleman, it's the One Leg Wonder from District 11!" He laughs at his own words, though Clementine may not find it as entertaining. "And the crowd goes wild!" He continues, followed by whisper-screams of a crowd, with plenty of 'oh my god''s and 'I can't believe it's added in the mix.

His greeting is the only thing that pulls any attention towards them -- Most prep teams and Escorts were busy fawning over Career districts and their tributes. "Happy Hunger Games, Thorne." He continues, his words dripping in sarcasm. "How's my favorite gimp holdin' up?" It's not the most kosher greeting, but he says it in the hopes of pissing her off. "Your tributes look fuckin' stupid, just like mine."

[selfmademythology]

starter for: @beneathoaktrees | elias & birdie. location: capitol celebration after the tribute parade.

There's a new found fear that plagues Birdie each time she crosses paths with her cousin. It's something she'd never admit to, or dare to name -- But each time Elias comes into vie, her stomach knots, concerned he'll be happily announcing a new horror he'd dreamed up. His role as Head Gamemaker is a coveted honor in the Capitol. It's turned him into a celebrity, but anyone who is more than a spectator of the Games knows he's an executioner. After the Quarter Quell, it's clear that nothing is off limits -- If you want to stay alive, you need to make the right friends. For Birdie, she had luck on her side -- Elias is family. She's not naive enough to believe he'd give her some sort of advantage, but the fact that she already has a relationship with him is far better than most. There is less of a need to put on a show in the hopes of being noticed. (And there is a small, small sliver of hope that their shared connection will cause a misstep, and leave her with something of value to take back to Nico and the other Victors.)

"You made quite the spectacle last year," Birdie points out, both knowing the unspoken truth of the Quell -- No one is safe. No Victor, and certainly not their loved ones. If she'd stood on a different side of the metaphorical fence, she'd find it ingenious. The last Quell had sought to do the same, but sparked an ill-fated rebellion. This one had solidified it predecessor to a new generation in the Districts. "You have big shoes to fill," She continues with a shrug, a small bit of laughter passing her lips. "Even if they are your own."

[beneathoaktrees]

@selfmademythology

It's no secret that Alba has no interest in fitting in with the other escorts. It's not like she made an effort to be their friends or work alongside them as they strategize. Instead, she prefers to work the outskirts of the room, wondering if she's making the right choice. The kids this year deserve her help but she'd much rather spend what little she has of a social battery on the Sponsors and the people that actually matter. Besides, alliances in the outlying districts rarely help. She sighed and runs a hand down her dress, smoothing out the black stretchy fabric over her thigh. As Alba moves, she bumps into another person, her eyes finding Birdie of all people. Birdie had the privilege of attending to District 2-- it must be fucking nice. It must be easier knowing you won't get attached to people who are most certain to die. "Sorry," she says, though it's low and not particularly apologetic. Of course, Alba would get herself noticed. "I like your..." she pauses, trying to find literally anything that she likes about Birdie's over-the-top outfit. "Aura," she mentions, figuring why lie about the clothes? "Feeling confident this year?"

[selfmademythology]

Birdie has never been sure what to think of Alba. The can admire that the younger woman has always remained true to herself regardless of the repercussions -- Though, the demotion all the way down to District 11 from District 8 is embarrassing by any standard. The entire goal as an Escort is to move upward, not turn backward. Though, Birdie couldn't help but wonder if that had been Alba's goal -- Move through the Districts, then return with an advantage. Or maybe she just doesn't care. Birdie can't quite decide which it is. Either way, the other blonde had nearly managed to knock Birdie over -- The collar of her dress was large enough to mess with her center of gravity if someone wasn't watching where they were walking. Somehow it doesn't surprise her that it's Alba who she's crossed paths with -- The other woman is at least more competent than District 12 Escort. The latter could barely stand on two feet without knocking into someone else.

Birdie simply nods in response to the apology, knowing there's no sincerity in it. A remark about decorum dies on her tongue, knowing any sort of scolding would fall on deaf ears. "My aura?" She can't help the laughter that passes her lips at the word. "Should I be offended, or consider that high praise?" Birdie asks outright, eyes narrowing at the other woman. "Of course I'm feeling confident," It's almost pavlovian for her to answer with those five words, her tone conveying as if the answer were obvious. "District Two has continued to prove itself to be the most tenacious. I don't see how this year would be any different."

[selfmademythology]

starter for: @devilwomcn | cyrus & eden. location: capitol celebration after the tribute parade.

Needless to say, there’s no love between District One and Twelve. There’s a glaringly obvious difference between the two, it doesn't take much to figure that out. Eden and Cyrus are no different. He finds the blonde to be insufferable, with an over inflated ego that he enjoys poking holes in. She's everything he hates about the Capitol, the Games, then entire system. Sure, she’s ended up in his bed on more than one occasion — He hates her, but Cyrus can’t deny that he’s a simple man. Despite how insufferable Eden is, she’s gorgeous, all legs and blonde hair. Once he’s had a few drinks (and typically when he and Dinah aren’t speaking), insults turn into tearing each other's clothes off. A means to an end. 

“Pretty fucked up that the guy who killed one’a your sisters is the one helping mentor this one.” Cyrus greets her, downing another glass of champagne as he approaches her. Looking her up and down, he's grateful his idiot stylist has always opted to just put him in black -- Rather than something so shiny it makes him wince, like the prep team from District One. Bit on the nose, if you ask him. “Hopefully it goes better this time.” Cyrus continues with a shrug, glancing over his shoulder at Silena across the room. He can't deny she's a frontrunner for the Games, given that she's the spitting image of Eden -- The younger and shinier version, who will certainly put on a show for the Capitol and sponsors. She certainly blows his own pathetic tributes out of the water.

"Or maybe that's your strategy?" He continues, smirk at his lips, hoping to get a rise out of the woman. "Off the other two so the Capitol will only pay attention to you? S'one hell of a way to secure your spot, Vale."