shit. fuck. god, where was he again? his head swam, and the lights of the room danced around him. oh, that’s right. eira’s gambling den. was he on the up? ambrose leaned forward, cards held tight against his chest. “am i doing well or very poorly?” he slurred, squinting to try to straighten his vision as he stared at the men around him.
“you’re all out, mr. st clair. you said it yourself–all the cash you could offer is gone.” ambrose considered this for a moment, something in the back of his mind warning him that byron would be very, very angry if he suddenly owed a debt to the gambling house. he probably wouldn’t allot him more allowance either. he glanced at his cards. even though they swam in front of him, he was sure it was a winning hand. he needed that money back.
he stood, swaying dangerously. “i’ll throw in the clothes on my back!”
“you’ve already tried that once, st clair! nobody wants to see you naked,” someone chuckled. “sit down!” others shouted.
“oh no,” he bemoaned as he plopped back into his seat, cradling his head in his hands. he really did feel awful. perhaps he’d had a few too many drinks . . . it was just so easy to get caught up in the whole thing.
on the table sat a pence coin. ambrose picked it up, heart starting to race as he thought about what a waste his cards would be if he quit now. if he could just play one more game, he’d win. ambrose rolled his head back, glancing around the room. he’d be an embarrassment if he quit now. he flipped the coin over and over again, anxiety climbing in his chest. he knew better–walk away, rosie, echoed in his head. walk away. walk away. walk away.
he surged forward in his seat again, slamming the pence down on the table. “this coin right here represents my sister’s hand in marriage. valuable enough?” his table had gone quiet, a few of the faces swimming in front of him looked at him in shock. others, eager to take the bet. “shall we then?”
As she strode down the hallway of her college, the insistent buzz of her phone against her leg grated on her nerves. It was unusual for her phone to ring during the day, if at all, so she had no inkling as to who was so desperate to reach her.
Retrieving her phone from her pocket, she glanced at the caller ID—her father's name glaring back at her. She dismissed the call, only for it to repeat immediately after. Exasperated, she silenced the device and tucked it away in her backpack, eager to avoid having to talk to him - especially since their last conversation had not ended amicably.
Entering the classroom, she couldn't shake the feeling of scrutiny from her peers. Whether it was the fatigue etched beneath her eyes from her time in the districts or the weariness of experiencing life's harsh realities that drew her eyes to her, she couldn't be certain. Nonetheless, she settled into a seat at the front, beside a familiar face from previous courses.
The intensity of the girl's stare prompted her irritation. "Can I help you?" she snapped, her arms folding defensively. "What are you looking at?"
The girl hesitated, leaning in conspiratorially. "You mean you haven't heard?"
"Haven't heard what?"
A pause hung between them before the girl finally spoke, her voice trembling with apprehension. "The Capitol Voice… they… well, they've circulated a rumor about you. They claim you're Slate Skylar's illegitimate sister."
Fulvia's world seemed to tilt on its axis. The room fell eerily silent, the fluorescent lights blinding in their intensity. Hastily, she gathered her belongings, her movements frantic as her classmates looked on. This revelation threatened not only her own identity but also the honor of the Stone family name. With trembling hands, she stumbled out of the classroom and into the corridor beyond.
Retrieving her phone from her backpack, she was greeted by a barrage of missed calls from her parents—
Deafening was the silence which enveloped her, so much so, that she found herself wrought in desperation, wanting only someone to speak, to hear another’s voice to fill her world with fragile company. It was a desire that was foreign to her, one which she had rarely had throughout her life. Fulvia had always basked in the silence that lingered within the darkness, blending herself into the world that was forgotten only to avoid the light which her family had tried so hard to shine upon her. She did not wish for the attention, the frills, or the notoriety. She wished only to be herself, to be left to her own devices and to decide her own fate - though this was a luxury not often afforded to those residing in Panem, she had found.
Her apartment offered her no comfort, the dim lights blinking against the inky blackness that seemed to be sewn to her heels lingering among her possessions. Her hands moved towards the remote, pressing buttons that felt stiff beneath her fingers to turn on the small television in her home. The display flickered for a moment, vacillating between blackness and images, her eyes moving from the set to guide her toward her kitchen. She needed something warm to fill her weary frame, to will herself to go on.
The noise the television produced was welcomed, the sound drowning out the anxieties she had gained only that morning. She moved to add oats to an ornate bowl, slowly following them with hot water, staring at the oats as they soaked the liquid in and grew before her.
Yet, something interrupted her process, a sound she did not expect to come from her living room. There was a loud crash and something which sounded of a mix of fire and screaming. Her chin snapped upwards, eyes wide as they took in what was broadcast. Fulvia’s breath hitched in her throat, the skin there tightening until it felt impossible to breathe. The world began to spin, her apartment suddenly feeling as though it was closing in on her. Her feet dragged across the tile, moving her from beyond the counter, her knees growing weak, shaking as she went.
“No.” She muttered weakly as a wave of familiarity coursed through her.
A stately man, tall and regal, stood at attention in District 12, his fingers commanding the strikes which would end hundreds of lives. Her father, his eyes reflecting her own, leading a charge against civilians without a flinch.
Bile rose within her, her feet attempting to carry her closer to the television so that she might see something different - so that her desperate hope that she had been wrong would be confirmed. Father could not have done this, not this act so heinous. She told herself, in some feeble attempt to convince herself of it. No, he isn’t so cruel, he wouldn’t.
Yet there he was, among the others who were draping the district in flame, and she fell towards her couch. Her fingers dug into the fabric until they turned white, her body warning her that it would fail should she continue to consume what was before her. But how could she tear her eyes from the screen? From the carnage her father was orchestrating? This could not be the same man who had tucked her into her bed at night with a tender kiss on her head. It could not be the man who had brought her back books filled with preserved flora from his assignments. This could not be the man who had called her just a week before to wish her good luck on her exams. No, this was not her father, this had to be someone else wearing his visage. Lucius Stone could not be this cruel. Not her father, whose smile lit up a room, who carried such joy and life within his dark eyes. No, no, no….
These thoughts continued as the president’s face flashed across the screen to address the public, but the words that escaped her mouth did not enter Fulvia’s ears. She was deaf to the world, her fingers gripping so tightly on the fabric now that pain shot up through her arms - the only thing that grounded her in that moment.
When it was over, her television flickered to blackness for a brief moment, and she was left there to stare into her own eyes - that which stared back at her darker than it ever had been. She moved quickly towards the washroom, stumbling on the way, the walls the only thing keeping her upright. She fell hard against the tile in front of her toilet, emptying her stomach into it before leaning against the nearby wall.
She pulled her knees into her chest, her fingers running over her face again and again as tears made tracks on her cheeks. Fulvia realized then, she had not been born of a hardworking family of kind individuals, but rather, she was merely the spawn of monsters.
Lucky's hands were in the air as she approached the group of swiveling flashlights ahead, and in one swift movement they all pointed in her direction. It was blinding and she squinted, trying to make out the bearers' shadowy forms; how many guns were trained on her in that moment? She shoved the thought from her mind and took another tentative step forward.
"Stop. Don't move."
The voice was not one she recognized. It spoke with authority, but it wasn't Nick's, and in an instant all but one flashlight redirected their beams. A tall, bearded man moved toward her, his steps careful and his arms crossed in front of him, one hand holding a flashlight while the other held a pistol. "You from the UC?"
"Yeah," Lucky replied, and the man blinked, put off by her honesty. "But I got out."
"What the fuck does that mean?" he growled, and behind him Lucky watched the rest of the camp hovering nearby, likely straining to hear their conversation over the rain.
"It means I got out. Dipped. Nick here?"
"Who's asking?"
"Lucky." Shit, should she have used a fake name? Too late now. "If he's not here, you've got radios, right? Tell him I'm ready to come over."
The man moved closer, the pistol's barrel just inches from Lucky's face. "Why would you do that? And now, after we've snagged one of your own? Seems pretty fucking suspicious to me."
"You think they'd send me to get him back? Just me? I heard you were camped nearby and it seemed as good a time as any."
Lucky's pulse roared in her ears, and she had to bite down on her tongue to keep from flinching when a crack of thunder pierced the night. The pistol didn't move from her face; she stared directly down the barrel, fighting the urge to glance anywhere else. The last thing she wanted to do was give away the fact that she wasn't alone.
Just then, however, it was given away for her. A gunshot rang out from the far side of the clearing, and the man in front of her glanced back at it. This was her shot. During his split-second of inattention Lucky swung at his hands, and while he didn't drop the flashlight or the gun, she certainly caught him off-guard. There wasn't enough time to unsheathe her knife - instead she lunged forward and grabbed at the pistol. A bullet whistled through the fabric of the man's flannel, missing his flesh - the UC snipers - but it seemed he and Lucky were too mobile for them to do any real damage. More gunshots, shouts, and screams erupted around them. He was bigger than Lucky in every way, but he slipped in the mud and she was able to knock the pistol out of his grasp. It was too dark for either of them to locate it, which was just as well; Lucky slid her knife from its holster, but no sooner had she done so than she was knocked to the ground. She felt like she'd been hit by a truck. The oversized hood of her raincoat drooped over her eyes and she struggled to brush it back. The man in the flannel was on top of her, and everything that happened next was a blur.
Lightning filling the clearing with white light. The flash of a hunting knife not unlike hers. Both hands sliced as she tried to deflect it. The punch of the blade plunging deep into her side. A scream slipping from her mouth. The whistle of one bullet, and then another. Searing pain in her left thigh, but a pause from her assailant.
Adrenaline coursed through her veins, masking the pain. Lucky's vision was blurry, unsteady, but it didn't seem to matter; she lurched upward with another scream and knocked her attacker off balance. She couldn't recall ever emitting the sounds she was making now, panting and snarling like a wild animal. Her heart imbued her with another pulse of white-hot adrenaline and she drove the blade of her knife into the man's neck. And then again. And again.
He gurgled. Lucky's hands were warm and sticky, and with another flash of lightning she saw them coated in crimson. With every shuddering breath her side twinged, and when she tried to rise her knees buckled.
Smoke and ash drifted through his wandlight, reducing everything beyond its reach to shadows. Charles swore he’d heard something - a sharp hissing sound, almost like an intake of breath - and he moved purposefully toward it, defying the primal instinct within him to flee. Something moved just out of range of his ‘lumos maxima,’ and not a heartbeat later a wild-eyed young boy stumbled into the light, panting. He was holding his wand in front of him like he knew what to do with it, but Charles took note of his grip, the full-fisted hold that separated most first-years from their peers. Augustus hadn’t even had a proper lesson, but his will to survive urged him to try. Nonetheless, he lowered his wand at the sight of Charles, seemingly relieved that he wouldn’t have to resort to channeling powers he didn’t know how to control. His leader was here - his guardian - and Charles wordlessly reached out to grab his shoulder, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He was sure this was the boy he’d been looking for. Now that he saw him, so small and frail amidst the ash and crumbling walls of the east-wing corridors, he was absolutely certain he’d never forget what Augustus Riggens looked like.
“I-I tried to keep up...”
The eleven-year-old’s voice was hoarse, tiny, and Charles shook his head, giving Augustus’ shoulder a squeeze.
“Nevermind,” he interjected. “It’s not your fault. Come on, let’s get you back...”
-x-x-
Charles wondered how many of the Slytherins would rather drown than accept his help. It wasn’t a thought that should’ve been running through his head at that moment, not while he was already ankle-deep in frigid lake water, but it persisted all the same, nagging at the back of his mind and threatening to exacerbate his discomfort. He made a fist with his right hand; water flowed freely into his shoes, his socks squelching inside with every step, and he almost hoped his aching palm would distract him.The light from his wand shimmered on the water’s surface as he swept it back and forth, combing the area for any sodden snakes.
Since finding Augustus not three hours earlier, things had certainly taken a turn. The immense relief and elation Charles felt at locating the wayward first-year was short-lived, and even now, wading through the flooded dungeons, his mind’s eye registered Declan’s face in clear technicolor. “Will you fight for me?” he’d asked, and Charles didn’t hesitate. He was tired, harried, stretched thin and filled to the brim with worry, but he’d already answered Declan’s question years ago, volunteering himself the moment he entered the Aviators’ circle. He knew it wasn’t an easy question for Declan to ask, but he hoped his willingness offered some respite, prevailing over the lump in his throat and the sweat on his palms. Compared to most Gryffindors, Charles’ prejudice against Slytherin house was subdued; he found it easier than others to separate the Knights and their like from those made of ambition and cunning of the less harmful variety, and it was this that made traipsing into the fray seem worthwhile. In times like this, he believed, there were no Slytherins and Gryffindors - only people, and every one was worth something.
Just then, a deafening noise shook the walls, yanking Charles out of his head. It was somewhere between a groan and a roar, and for a moment he imagined himself in the galley of a ship, stranded at sea and at the mercy of a great aquatic leviathan. His instructions were clear: evacuate the stranded students. It might have been on purpose that Declan hadn’t asked him to face the squid head-on, but nevertheless his stomach twisted with worry, and he found himself peering desperately around at the black stone walls, his thoughts far away from the water in his shoes. After the squid’s angry roar (or whatever it had been), the flooded area around Charles was plunged into silence once more, his watery footsteps echoing off the walls. His heart thundered against his ribcage, and if he’d been trying to hide he was certain it would’ve given him away. He pressed on, turning a corner and descending a short series of stairs. Charles noted the fine clouds of vapor rising from his nose and mouth when he breathed; the dungeons were chilly at the best of times, and the water running in from the Black Lake didn’t seem to help. His descent deeper into the underbelly of the castle resulted in water lapping at his thighs, and he halted, biting down on the inside of his lip so as to brace himself against the cold. He lifted his wand, casting its light over the flooded corridor before him; all was quiet, and he was just about to turn back when he heard a splash.
He heard them before he saw them, their efforts to push through the (for them) waist-deep water weary but concerted. The silver and green of their neckties flashed in Charles’ wandlight, but he was looking at their faces instead - two girls, probably third-years if he had to guess, pale and wide-eyed. They clutched each other desperately, and at the sight of him the leader sped up, the other practically floating in her wake. They said nothing, but Charles thrust out his aching hand all the same; there was no hesitation in the way the first girl grasped it, just as there was no hesitation in the way Charles tugged them backward. He moved and his light shifted, plunging them into darkness whilst lighting their way. Suddenly, they were not lions or snakes but three children with sodden robes and chattering teeth, wading hand-in-hand through the dark.
boots splash against the little puddles created on the sidewalk as baekhyun shoves his way past the countless number of girls lined up against the wall in their short, short skirts- how the fuck are they not cold, again? all it takes is a glance in baekhyun’s direction before the bouncer automatically lets him in and baekhyun rushes into the club, looking in every direction and searching for the thing he’s here for- the mens restroom, because seriously, his bladder’s going to burst any minute now and baekhyun, no way in hell, is gonna do it in his pants.
