[vxsellie]

𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐘𝐍 ──── s!her ⊹ sapphic ⊹ ellie williams’ girlfriend ⊹ atheist ⊹ hozier’s wife ⊹ maladaptive daydreamer ⊹ astronomy enthusiast ⊹ art history lover ⊹

pinterest. spotify. masterlist. ao3. alt. hozier.

𝐌𝑶𝑺𝑻 𝑹𝑬𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲 . 𝑪𝐔𝑹𝑹𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝑺𝑬𝑹𝐈𝑬𝑺

genocide awareness ⟡ tlou ii background ⟡ daily click

©VXSELLIE 2024 ! all works published on this blog respectively belong to vxsellie. that having been said, please do not repost, translate, copy, etc. elsewhere without my permission.

[trigona-necrophaga]

Shakespeare referencing his hit fanfiction ‘The Tragedie of Julius Caesar’ in his other hit fanfiction ‘The Tragedie of Macbeth’

[pregnanthudsonwilliams]

not naming names but some of you are so creative and talented it's an honor to have you in my phone

[vxsellie]

❛ POWER ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔩𝔵𝔵𝔦𝔦𝔦

wc. 6 821

⊹ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⊹

07:15.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

You did not sleep for more than a few minutes through the night. Each time, you’d wake up gasping and screaming. Your legs would kick out and your hands would fly to your throat, ensuring that you can breathe. Each time, you’d be disappointed to find that you are alone.

Ellie and Ruben were both forbidden from leaving their compartments through the night, as Marlene did not wish for them to lose any sleep before this morning’s big mission. Unknowingly, all she accomplished was condemning them both to restlessness—Ellie due to Oakley’s wails, and Ruben due to his own inability to relax when he’s alone. 

When two guards file into your room with a metal tray of food, you find yourself curling away from them. Their masks are identical to the Peacekeepers’ only they’re a different color; you wonder if Marlene is aware of this, or if it’s just a horribly ironic coincidence. The guards which frequent your room are well aware of your distaste for their masks, and so they typically remove them prior to entry. Not these ones, though. These ones approach your cot with the masks firmly over their faces.

“We won’t hurt you, little light.” Says one of the guards as he lowers the tray onto your lap. The metal is cold. His hand lingers on your thigh for a moment, causing the other man to chuckle behind him. “We’re on your side now, right? We’re on your side.”

You have been in this situation more times than you can count during your stay in the Capitol. But only in the beginning, as Fedra quickly learned that you don’t play nice with touchy Capitolites. 

These men simply haven’t learned yet, you tell yourself. They don’t know.

Sometimes, Capitolites would visit you and touch you but they would eventually leave when you did not reciprocate. You hope that is what these men will do: leave once they are disappointed. Unfortunately for them, they push onward. 

The man’s hand travels higher up your leg as the shield over his face reflects your face back at you. It is oddly disturbing, looking into your own eyes as someone does this. He doesn’t get far, however, before your hand snaps up to grasp his wrist. His uniform is padded all around, but bones are bones and they break just as easily regardless of fabric. He shrieks with pain, staggering backward as he clutches his own awkwardly-bent arm. You are admittedly shocked by how easy it was to send a rebel-trained soldier away crying. His friend is not so facile.

As the first guard slumps against a nearby wall, speaking frantically into his walkie, his counterpart grows rough. He does not make the same mistake as the other man; this one does not underestimate you. He braces one knee on the side of your cot, sending the metal tray clattering to the ground and your breakfast spilling over the floor. He grabs at your shoulders, shoving you down into the pillows. He straddles your lap and leans forward. 

“You’ll have to try harder than that.” He whispers. “We were expecting to get a little sunburnt.”

You thrash your legs and buck your hips, but the guard does not falter. He holds your firm by the shoulders—but that is precisely his mistake. He should have held your arms down instead. Focusing on your shoulders means that your hands are free. 

You bite your tongue until you taste blood. Then again until you start to cry. You wait until he leans forward again, this time to coo something seductive and mocking into your ear. While his face is close, you take the opportunity to reach up and yank his mask from his face. He gasps, scrambling for it. But you have already dropped it to the floor beside your breakfast tray.

You look him in the eyes. The same guard who has been so sweet and gentle to you since your arrival is now pinned you to a bed. You are not shocked so much as disappointed. 

The man bares his teeth, reeling an arm back. He punches you across the jaw once, twice, three times before you gather sense enough to surge forward. Your forehand collides with his and he groans, but does not stop. So you move to the side, just slightly—and just quickly enough that he does not notice until it is too late. Until his head is gushing blood and you are spitting his ear onto the ground. He screams, grasping at his own skull and stumbling backward as his voice goes raw.

“You are both weaker than any little girl I’d ever met.”

Before either can react, your door is being thrown open, the handle banging against the wall. A triad of soldiers file into the room, all their masks already removed. They take one glance around the room: you, smiling with blood drooling from your mouth, and the two guards, both on the ground writhing in pain. 

It doesn’t take long before you’re being handcuffed and escorted to Marlene.

08:21.

THE CAPITOL.

Ellie is not a soldier today, she is a character in Marlene’s play. 

Squad 451 was informed this morning that they would not be fighting in the Capitol for their country’s freedom; instead, they would be flashing smiles and pretty words at a camera—as usual. She really shouldn’t have expected anything different, but she’d been hoping to be of importance in the chapter of the Capitol’s official downfall. Everyone else remains moderately composed, though Ellie is seething.

“Lighten up,” chimes Jesse as he approaches her. She’s currently pouting, sitting on the ground as she flicks pieces of gravel into the grass. He sits down beside her, nudging her shoulder with his own. “Perhaps we won’t be risking our lives to save a ton of ungrateful Capitolites– so what? We get to spend our time getting pampered, instead of trying not to die.”

She sighs heavily; perhaps dramatically. Her head falls between her knees and she stares at the little spikes of grass growing between cracks in the pavement. “You don’t get it, Jesse. I’ve been acting like a goddamn symbol of peace for the past year and a half. But if I’m being completely honest, peace is the last thing I want.”

“I do get it.” His voice is suddenly much more serious than it’d been when he first approached her. She risks a tilt of her head. She rests her temple against her knees as she watches Jesse struggle to straighten out his thoughts. “I have a son now, and he’s waiting for me back in Thirteen. I don’t want to shake Fedra’s hand and ask for a royal pardon. I want his head on a spike and his dick on a kabob.”

She laughs at that, unable to help herself. Jesse smiles, tipping his head back to gaze at the sky—clear enough that he could drown in it. She watches as his smile slowly evanesces, replaced by solemnity. 

“JJ deserves to live in a world better than the one we grew up in.” He tells her. “One where he doesn’t fear his twelfth birthday, and he doesn't have to watch his friends get murdered on television. I want him to blow out birthday candles with a smile. I want his television to show bright colors with hand puppets and talking animals. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Neither did we.”

For a long time, they sit in silence. On the curb of an abandoned street in the Capitol, they allow the weight of such a truth to stretch and expand in the space between them. Ellie wonders, for the first time in a long time, what her life would be like without the Games. 

Riley would still be alive, and she would be laughing. Maybe they would hunt on the weekends, or maybe they wouldn’t—because, without the Capitol starving out the districts, they would never have had to learn how to hunt to survive. They would get into petty arguments about who stole whose shirt, instead of their fights ending with an axe to the brain. They would have been able to laugh in the woods without fearing a Peacekeeper shooting them dead. Ellie would have been able to see what Riley looked like when she grew old.

Marlene would perhaps not hate Ellie so much as she does now. Without the rebellion stuffing her full with an insatiable hunger for power, perhaps Marlene would be a pleasant woman. Somehow, Ellie doubts it. 

Or maybe, if Ellie were to go even farther back into her past than that, she would never have had to be raised by Marlene if her mother never died. And, without the Hunger Games, perhaps her mother would have had access to a hospital in District Seven and the childbirth would not have killed her. Ellie has long since overcome the grief of not having real parents but, for some reason, the wounds now feel fresh—like a bruise which only aches when pressed on. And, boy, did she press: thinking about an alternate reality in which she had loving parents, all while caged away in the capital during a civil war. Yeah, someone needs to teach her when to stop pondering on shit like that.

“Gather ‘round!” Tommy shouts from across the field. 

The group isn’t as small as it typically is during her campaigns, but it’s not nearly as large as the other troops which were actually sent here to fight rather than smile. Marlene almost refused to send Tommy on the mission for fear of losing her most trusted advisor but—upon his and his wife’s insistence to not be separated—she acquiesced. Robert and Maria are both present for the sake of having the propaganda footage be collected properly. Alongside them is a crew of about five stylists and three cameramen. Dina, Jesse, and Ruben are all here too, of course. All the victors are; even those who should perhaps have not yet been dispatched from the medical bay. 

Yasmin was not taken by the Capitol, but if you ask Ellie, she has always had a screw loose. One which would prevent a less influential person from accompanying on a mission which could very well change the tides of this war. But alas, Ellie was not included in the planning for this particular job. Stephen and Cecil were also both brought along, for appearance’s sake. Being the faces of District Twelve, Marlene thought that their insight into the tragic destruction of their home could make for some good footage. 

And, most controversially, the triad of maltreated victors: Thea, Penelope, and Abigail. The three of them have improved drastically from when they were first brought to Thirteen, but they’re not entirely yet whole. Thea is the most improved, though she was deemed the least impaired from the start. She seems almost herself, bar the severe flinching at abrupt movements and sounds. Penelope—despite now being mute and partially blind—is also pretty resemblant of her past-self. So, really, it’s Abigail who is the main issue. Ellie is biased of course, but no one could possibly deny that she is the least sane of the three. She still mumbles in her sleep about god, and cannot walk without pausing to rest every few minutes. 

And that’s the golden group. Honestly, as much as Ellie wishes she could fight, it would be an absolute nightmare if she were to attempt it with this particular crowd. She might as well jump off a mountain—the likelihood of survival would be around the same.

“Listen up!” Tommy shouts again once everyone has formed a circle around him. “I ain’t gonna pepper y’all with kisses ‘n tell ya this’ll be easy ‘cause it won’t. We might’ve been put into Marlene’s pretty lil’ propaganda unit, but we’re still in an active war zone. There are landmines everywhere and some of the buildin’s have even been infested with spores, which are a dangerous and poisonous gas that’ll kill ya if ya breathe it in. Which is why everyone was given a mask on the way here.”

“Also,” Maria chimes in, “we have reason to believe that the Capitol might have released mutts into the outer city. We will not enter this city until tomorrow morning, but it is a good thing to keep in mind.”

A few of the non-victors shudder at the notion of having to face something like this. The stylists appear especially shaken by the image, eyes blown wide and jaws slackened. Ellie wonders if their group will truly face these atrocities or if Tommy and Maria are simply hoping to scare the group into something more formidable. She would not blame them for the latter, considering most of the members have been gallivanting around like headless chickens unless a camera is on them. But to imagine the former—to imagine facing a clicker or man-eating mountain goat after so long of believing they were left in Ellie’s past—is almost too terrible to bear.

08:55.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“I received an extremely disturbing report this morning.” 

Marlene is standing on the opposite side of the room, seeming to not desire lowering herself to engage with filth like you—which is hilarious considering she was born into rags and poverty while you were born into an aureate crib flooded with praise. Your parents would loathe to see you like this: chained like vermin to a concrete wall, being stared down by a poor little woman from Seven. Perhaps all of their fears were not so unfathomable as you’d have believed them to be. Perhaps interacting with Seven as you did is what got you here, but you cannot recall very much from that time and so you must merely trust that your past-self did what was best. You must trust that it was worth it—worth this.

“I cannot recall anything very eventful taking place this morning, can you?” You respond, tilting your head as though this entire thing were vaguely amusing. It’s not, of course, because it reminds you far too keenly of the Capitol. But you would rather drown than allow Marlene the pleasure of knowing that her scare tactics are working. Plus, you think she already knows. 

Your wrists are manacled to a length of chain that pulls them toward the ceiling. Similarly, your ankles are bound together with the same thick metal. You think it’s rather overkill, if you’re honest, but you Marlene would know nothing of that. Considering she has never had to fight a day in her life, she does not know how to gauge what your strength means. So she treats you like an animal, for fear of you behaving like one. If you were to strike her, she could do nothing to defend herself. All of her defenses reside purely within her guards. And all of her best ones are currently fighting a war in the Capitol.

“You bit a man’s ear off.” 

You grin at her, the lower half of your face still stained crimson. You lick your lips and the man’s crusted blood flakes onto your tongue. It’s horribly disgusting, even to your standards, but you hardly mind when the outcome is exactly as desired. Marlene visibly baulks, her entire body going rigid as her eyes trace the movement of your mouth. Good. You lean forward, ignoring the chafe of metal against your skin. “Did I?”

“Yes.” She flattens her hands down the front of her shirt. “Not only did my men find the mangled cartilage on your floor, but his partner attested to it. You acted completely demented and I cannot allow such insanity to run free in my district.”

“Ah, but it’s not your district is it?”

Again, she tenses. “What are you babbling about?”

“See, I’ve only been here for a few months and I’ve not even been permitted to leave the medical bay, and yet I can observe that the power does not reside wholly in your hands, Miss President. You are a rational and powerful woman, yes, but you are not a scary one. You elicit nothing in your people. Not the way Ellie does. She gives them hope for a life after this war. She talks to them and eats with them and, for that, they can see themselves in her. They love her. But you? Oh, you’re nothing. If you were to die in this war, it would be a minor inconvenience. Luckily for you, Ellie is moral enough to not immediately seize control of your beloved district. She would grieve your loss and that would be the only reason your people would spare a second to mourn you: in condolences to her. In the end, however, she would refuse power because she saw what it did to you. So they would hold an election instead. I predict that Tommy Miller would be elected president in your stead and, fuck, would he do a damned good job at it. Much better than you ever did, at least.”

Marlene’s thick-heeled shoes click against the floor as she approaches you. She is so poise and clean that, for a moment, you are naive enough to think that she would not dirty her own hands in hurting you. You expect her to say something snide, then call a guard in to do the dirty work of torture. Alas, Marlene is still a bit of a mystery to you. Her district is not, and nor is the corrupt power which is currently rotting away all semblance of humanity within her soul. But Marlene herself is wholly foreign to you. So when the back of her hand collides with your jaw, it is a mild shock.

Your head snaps to the side, and a bubble of laughter sparks from your chest. You cannot help it. She is so determined on being different than Fedra that she is unaware that even their hits feel the same. The same sting blooms across your cheekbone, the same line of blood traces down your skin, the same disappointed tut comes from their lips right after. She even calls a guard forward with a handkerchief to clean her hand off afterward, just as he does.

“You have threatened my guards and, in doing so, you have threatened my district as a whole.” She speaks plainly, but you know that she is trembling. You doubt anyone has ever spoken so bluntly to her as you just have. She takes two steps backward and you lift your head to meet her gaze with as much dignity as you can muster from so far below. “If you were anyone else, I would have you exiled from my district. You would live in the deadly woods which surround this place, struggling for food and for shelter until you eventually die alone and cold. But you are a victor of the Hunger Games and therefore would likely thrive in such an environment. I do not wish you to thrive; I do not wish you even to live. But you are stubborn, so you will anyway.”

You laugh at that, deliriously pleased to know that Marlene is aware of your resilience. But that’s before she calls a second guard forward. This time, with a small boy waddling beside him. Every ounce of valor drains from your chest and you are reduced to a pleading mess. You thrash against the chains, screaming as Marlene lifts Oakley—your son, your boy, your baby, your life—into her arms. 

She runs the sharp nail of her index finger down the side of his soft face. He squirms away from her, already beginning to whine. You beg her through sobs to set him down. You promise that she can hurt you all she wants, that you will tell her what the Capitol did so that she may repeat it. You yank and yank and yank against the chains. Oakley watches you with wide eyes, clearly unsure what is happening. He starts to cry, rivulets of tears running down his rosy cheeks—rosy like Remy’s.

“You see, I do have power here.” Marlene nicks Oakley’s cheek with her ring, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. It drips slowly down his pale, porcelain skin. “And, because you are far too stubborn to die, I will make living just as bad as death.”

She hoists Oakley into the air, holding him under the arms as he squirms and whines and cries. You cannot breathe. You hunch over, gasping and choking on empty air. But you refuse to take your eyes off your son for even a moment. Ellie lived here for a year with Marlene, during which you assumed she’d been docile and obedient to her parental figure. You had not even imagined that she was doing it to protect Oakley. 

“It’s great to finally meet you, Oakley.” Marlene coos as her fingers dig into his sides just hard enough to make him wiggle. “I’m your grandmother, though I doubt either of your moms ever officially told you about me.”

“Please–”

“Shh shh,” Marlene holds up a finger in your direction to silence you. Pathetically, it works and so you fall quiet at her mercy. “I won’t hurt him, little light.”

Everything suddenly falls into place, doing so too quickly for you to catch all of the pieces. 

The men at your door were never randomized. In the beginning, they were on a rotation so that Marlene might avoid you growing too comfortable with any. But then she saw merit in doing so. Because, if you felt comfortable with two men entering your room thrice a day, that gave her an immense amount of power—enough so to elicit an assault from you. One so bad that she would have reason enough to punish you. Oh, and she timed it perfectly: Ellie and Ruben are both away on a trip, Oakley is left completely defenseless.

“M-momma…?” is Oakley’s final cry as he is taken away in the hands of a monster.

19:35.

THE CAPITOL.

The day wanes on in increments, like a snail with nowhere to go but forward. The work which the group is forced into pulling through is not hard but it’s tedious. Recordings upon recordings of Ellie shooting an arrow, only for Robert to remain unsatisfied with the footage. 

They march through the Capitol, slowly making their way toward the outer ring of the city. Despite having been walking all day, it remains far in the distance—unreachable. The sun beats down on Ellie’s shoulders, dragging sweat along her hairline and her brow. And her heavy black uniform does little to help. She feels drowsy with heat exhaustion, but her job is not to sit in the shade and drink water, it’s to stand right under the sun and shoot these damn arrows until Robert is pleased.

“That was closer,” he says while replaying the most recent shot, “but not yet perfect.”

Ellie groans, thudding her head back against the trunk of the tree she is propped against. Ruben is beside her, fanning her face with an oversized leaf. He turns toward Robert with a deepened frown. “Why don’t we all take a break and get some rest? I understand how important this is, but you’re overworking everyone here.”

Robert, for all his faults, has grown less rigid in the time Ellie has known him. No longer does he lash out at the smallest criticism; no longer does he pull her aside to demean her. If she were being wholly honest, she would have to admit that he’d become a decent enough guy. He’s learned how to laugh and smile and take a joke; he’s even started to see that Marlene is perhaps not the perfect goddess he’d formerly deemed her to be.

“Fine.” He surrenders with a wave of his hands. But when he passes by to grab a bottle of water, Ellie can see that he’s just as doused in sweat as she is. He slumps against the crumbling wall of an abandoned building, breathing deeply. “Just for a few minutes, though.”

Ellie takes what she can get, allowing a small smile to crawl onto her face as she relaxes against the tree trunk. The sun is not so vicious when she is hiding under the canopy, but she is admittedly peeved that this is not a species of tree that can be found in Seven. She typically enjoys being near foliage, as it reminds her of the time she’d once spent with Riley in the woods. But this tree is an anomaly; a Capitolistic abomination.

The group relishes in the momentary rest period, though Ellie was the one doing almost all of the work—aside from Robert and his trio of cameramen, who had to run around to get different angles of the arrow being released. But, if you ask her, it’s their fault for becoming cameramen. They signed up for tedious exhaustion, she signed up for none of this. And yes, she is in a bit of a foul mood due to the heat. But nothing she is thinking right now is particularly wrong, it’s just a bit crueler than she’d typically be.

“May I sit here?” 

Ruben and Ellie lift their heads in unison, wearing equal faces of shock when they find Thea to be looking down on them both. She holds her prosthetic left arm in her right hand, allowing it to dangle from her fingers in a rather grotesque manner. She is looking down at Ruben, eyes sharpened to a point. He does not immediately move at Thea’s request; instead, he turns to Ellie and waits for approval to leave her alone with Thea, who, no doubt, despises her. Only when Ellie nods at him does Ruben finally stand from the ground with a grunt and meander away, providing them privacy but remaining close enough to attack—if need be. 

Thea takes a step forward before lowering herself into the grass beside Ellie. There is a long pause during which neither of them are brave enough to speak—that, or neither is yet certain on what to say. Or maybe not. Knowing Thea, she likely already has an entire speech prepared and is just biding her time in order to unnerve Ellie. If that’s the case, it’s working. 

She picks a blade of grass from the soil, turning it over and over in her hand. She spins an invisible ring around her index finger, round and round again. Really, she’s just scratching at her skin because there’s no actual band around her knuckle. Finally—finally—Thea begins to speak.

“You never watched the footage from the Quell, did you? You never saw how horribly your absence affected her.” Thea does not need to clarify who she is referring to; they both already know. “My memories are a bit skewed, but I still know reality from fabrication. You were everything to her—and you left. Because of that, she was taken by the Capitol and tortured for a year. And now that she has returned, she is treated like a monster. Like something to be isolated and caged, to be feared. You expect her to forgive you and accept you back into her arms as a loving, doting wife. You don’t deserve that. You should be the one isolated and caged. You should be the one everyone fears.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” Ellie’s voice is hardly above a whisper. She stares down at the dirt beneath her fingers and tries to convince herself of her own words. “It wasn’t my fault that she was taken.”

“No?” Thea laughs. “I’ve watched the footage from the Quell. I’ve watched it over and over, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. And, each time, I arrive at one single answer: when you left. Had you stayed by our side, everything would have been different. Y/n would not have gone insane after Ruben lost his leg if you were there to console her. So then she would have been more level-headed and better fit for combat when the Peacekeepers arrived. So then she would not have gotten taken so easily.”

The logic is a bit disjointed, but it makes sense enough that Ellie cannot materialize a sound argument against it. If she were by your side instead of chasing fruitlessly after Abigail, your entire experience within the arena would have been ameliorated drastically. And, if she were to go by Thea’s logic, then, yes, it could very well have prevented all of this. 

“There’s no way to change the past, Thea. What’s done is done, we can only move forward.”

Again, she laughs. “Is that what your therapist told you?”

“I’m just saying that there’s no point pondering how things could be different. We need to accept what has happened and try to overcome it. Otherwise, you’ll just end up in a bottomless pit of regret.”

“There’s no point? Really? Do you truly think I calculate all of these variables because I deem them to be worth my time? I do it because it is all I can stand to do. I’m not sure if you noticed, Ellie, but I have no family left living and no friends left sane. Waking each morning is a battle against myself which I desperately hope that I lose. That way, I might find a semblance of peace in death. I might reunite with my mother and my little sister, I might see all of my friends again, and I might feel a sliver of contentment.” Anger bleeds through her voice, seeping in each word that flees her lips. “The medics say I got off lucky because I didn’t go insane in the Capitol, but they don’t understand what it’s like to live with the burden of all which I’ve survived. They don’t understand that I would have preferred to be a babbling mess like Birdie because at least she isn’t able to comprehend the complexities of the world. Maybe once a week, I hold a knife in front of my heart but cannot bring myself to push it through my ribs. I don’t fear the pain, nor do I dread death. I fear that I won’t push it deep enough, that I’ll be brought back and I’ll have to face the world once more.”

Ellie doesn’t know what to say. She wants to cry and offer advice, but she knows that’s not what Thea needs—nor is it even what she wants. Nothing she could say would make any of this better. Her entire family is dead and her only friend in the world has gone insane. Thea has no one left to love, and no one left to mourn.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re still here.” Ellie says, to which Thea scoffs and prepares to leave. Immediately, Ellie reaches out to grab her arm. “You didn’t let me finish. I’m glad you’re here because you mean a lot to me as a friend, sure, but I’m also glad you’re here because you deserve to watch as Fedra is killed. You deserve to live in a world that he no longer occupies. You deserve to breathe air that isn’t shared with his lungs. Thea, I promise that all the people you’ve lost will be rightfully avenged.”

She pulls her arm out of Ellie’s grasp, but not as rough as expected. In truth, she appears to be more disappointed than angry. “You cannot possibly promise such a thing. Not in a world like–”

“Get down!” Tommy’s scream is louder than the gunshots that suddenly echo across the block. 

Peacekeepers, she thinks, they’ve found us. Windows shatter overhead and fickle walls crumble like sand. Everyone in the group is suddenly diving behind the nearest structure, or under the nearest cover. 

Ellie wastes no time in grabbing Thea by the shoulders and dragging her into a dilapidated building. It reminds her keenly of the first arena, what with glass crunching under her boots and the tangy scent of rot filling her nostrils. She tries not to tremble as she presses her back against the wall, listening as the Peacekeepers search the area for the rebels they tracked down.

The sour air suddenly is too thick for Ellie to inhale. She breathes heavily through her mouth, shutting her eyes in an attempt to place herself somewhere else—anywhere else. A few bullets crack through the air, and it’s all she can do to hope that they were not fatal. She thinks of Ruben, lying dead in the grass. She thinks of Jesse and Dina, bleeding out somewhere they can never see their son again. She thinks of Tommy, always so similar to Joel, with his head bashed in the side.

A firm hand on her knee brings her back to reality. Thea holds her gaze, steady and unwavering. Ellie manages to nod, assuring that she’s okay. Thea removes her hand, but it’s clear that she’s struggling with all of this as well. Her lips are thinned and her posture is rigid. But if can have a sound enough mind to persevere through this, so can Ellie.

For a long time, there is only silence. Ellie counts her breaths, measuring the time as it passes. Thea remains tense, even though the Peacekeepers have likely long since moved on.

A sudden pair of footsteps are heard approaching the building that they’re in. Whoever it is, they’re running. Ellie reaches for an arrow, unsure how helpful it would even be against a Peacekeeper who’s practically wearing a suit of armor. In the end, the person isn’t even able to cross the threshold before a bullet has wedged itself in their skull. Their body falls forward, thudding against the floor—half outside, half inside. Their blood, thick and warm, seeps slowly toward Ellie’s feet. 

When her eyes fall onto the victim’s face, she has to press both of her hands against her mouth to stop herself from either screaming or vomiting; perhaps both. Still, she manages to elicit a small sound that causes Thea to also press a hand over Ellie’s mouth. Together, they stifle her sobs as best they can with Jesse’s blank eyes staring back at them.

02:43.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

When the door opens again, you dread the face staring back at you. For a moment, you allow yourself to believe that it’s someone benign—someone who does not wish to see you hurt. Instead, as always, it is Marlene standing in the doorway. She is holding a piece of paper in her right hand which is neatly folded into a small square. You wonder if it bears the mark of her approval to have you exiled; or, even better, publicly executed.

She remains in the doorway, allowing the blinding light from the hall to pour in around her silhouette. You blink furtively, trying to let your eyes adjust to the sudden light after so many hours spent in the dark. Even when the guards were sent to douse you in water and shock you just for Marlene’s amusement, they did so in the dark. You’ve long since dried, but your nerves continue to twitch and spasm—though you’re used to that by now.

“I received this letter from Tommy a few hours ago. I knew immediately that you would be interested in its contents. Alas, I waited until nightfall before relaying the information simply because, well, I have the power to. That, and I enjoy watching you squirm.” 

She unfolds the paper, clearing her throat before beginning to read at a deliberately agonizing pace. Her words are slow and careful, taking time purely for the sake of pissing you off.

“‘To Marlene, I won’t waste time with pleasantries because, frankly, I don’t care for ‘em. But also ‘cause this ain’t the time nor place to be wastin’ any sort of time. I’m writin’ to you to relay news of the deaths of six of our group members. They’ve all been shot ‘n killed by Peacekeepers. We didn’t know that some of the security cameras in the evacuated towns still worked. But they do. And, because of that, we lost six good men. I hope that you’ll provide the necessary compensation for their families’ losses. Here are the names of those who were killed: Nerwen Harte, Catell Isley, Ludo Lave, Ascall Petley, Taviel Rowdon, and Jesse Woodward. The first four of ‘em were stylists who gave their lives fightin’ for the rebels even though they were raised in the Capitol. Taviel was a cameraman from District Nine. He has three daughters, a wife, and his older sister all livin’ in Thirteen. And lastly, Jesse. A good friend of mine and a two-time victor of the Hunger Games with a wife on mission ‘n an infant son livin’ in Thirteen. You’re a good woman, Marlene, so I expect you’ll do the right thing: give these families your condolences ‘n send aid as soon as possible. From, Tommy.’”

Marlene folds the paper back into fourths, taking her time to slide it into the breast pocket of her blazer. All the while, she keeps her eyes trained firmly on you. She watches every little expression that crosses your face. You know she is disappointed, too, because you were taught to hide your emotions from a very young age—you let nothing show. So, in a need to always have the upper hand, Marlene steps closer.

“Imagine how poor little Ellie feels.” She says, her voice dropping to a musing coo as she walks back and forth in front of you. “Watching one of her best friends get shot in the head ought to be hard. I wonder if it happened in front of her. I wonder if she wished it were her in his place.”

You grit your teeth to stop from shouting at her. Marlene wants to hold all the power, and it’s your fault for antagonizing her into holding this quantity of loathing for you. Had you kept your damn mouth shut, she’d probably have left you here to rot without caring to torment you. Had you kept your mouth shut, Oakley would not be in such danger as he is. At the thought of his chubby little face, you bite your pride and give her what she wants: you pretend to cave under her taunts.

“Please.” You drop your head between your shoulders, practically bowing down to her—the picturesque display of submission. “You win, Marlene, just– please just don’t hurt me anymore. You win.”

Her heels click against the floor as she stalks forward. You listen to the fabric of her pants shuffle as she crouches down in front of you. She grasps your chin between her fingers, lifting your eyes to meet her own. You bite your tongue in the same spot you’d bit it this morning: just enough to draw tears to your eyes. For good measure, you tremble your lower lip. 

She tuts, “oh you’re such a pitiful little thing.”

If Oakley’s life was not on the line, you’d bite clean through her thumb. Instead, you continue to cry and let her wipe a tear from your cheek. It’s pathetic, really, how easily fooled she is. Considering you faked your way through your first Hunger Games, she should know by now how adept you are at falsification. Alas, power—like decay—does strange and terrible things to even the brightest of minds. 

“Luckily for you, little light, you’re going to be reunited with your estranged.” She says, patting you on the cheek. “You are going to serve on a very special mission. While the rest of squad 451 are on direct orders to behave as a propaganda unit, you are going to be my little soldier. You will wear a camera and microphone on your vest at all times, allowing me to keep eyes and ears on the group. If you remove or damage either of them, Oakley will pay the price for your misdeeds. You will be tasked with the job of killing Fedra, but you will allow the rest of the group to believe that you’ve merely been sent as retribution for the loss of Jesse Woodward—a replacement, of sorts.”

She releases your chin and calls for her guards. Two of them file into the room and hastily unlock the cuffs around your wrists and ankles. You collapse against the floor, your body spent and fatigued at having been suspended for so long. 

“Any questions?” Marlene asks.

You lift your gaze to find her staring down at you, head tilted. You consider killing her right now. You could probably do it, too. It would be so easy to wrap your hands around her throat until she suffocated; or snap her neck like breaking a stick. But, on the off chance that you fail, it would be Oakley who’d have to pay for it. So instead, you remain in the frame of that picturesque docility.

“No,” you respond, “none.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos

[vxsellie]

hey i just wanted to say how much i love slt, its genuinely the best fic ive ever read from the vocabulary to the descriptions!! more people need to read this asap since its lowkey changed my life 😭 im also super grateful to ur weekly chapters, on wednesdays u bless me and if you have no fans then im dead!!

omg thank you so much - this means more to me than you'll ever know!! i'd love to hear what you mean by saying the story 'changed your life' if you're comfortable sharing 🤍

[vxsellie]

Any book recommendations??? 🫰🏻

oh yes.

NOVELS

i. The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde ii. A Little Life by Hanya Yanigahara (check TWs) iii. The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang iv. Hamlet by William Shakespeare v. White Nights by Fydor Dostoevsky vi. Galatea by Madeline Miller vii. I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream by Harlan Ellison viii. Animal Farm by George Orwell ix. The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins x. On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong (currently reading)

POEMS

i. "Ithaka" by Constantinos P. Cavafy ii. "Sonnet 29" by William Shakespeare iii. "I Felt a Funeral, in my Brain" by Emily Dickinson iv. "The Convergence of the Twain" by Robert Fielding v. "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

[vxsellie]

i'm supposed to be studying for finals, but i keep thinking about the recent slt chapter (and slt in general). holy shit i've genuinely never been so impacted by a fanfic before. omg i'm sorry if this is weird, i just love it so much.

also, a question! once you finish writing, is there any chance we'll get a peek at their life afterward? or are you really ending their story there? 💘

hii! it's not weird at all - falling in love with someone else's art is the most human crime you could ever commit

after i finish writing slt, there might be a few peeks into their lives afterward, but the ending won't leave much room to wonder. the story will be closed fairly seamlessly but, if i ever think of something i wish to digress on regarding their future, i would LOVE to revisit my babies 🤍

[vxsellie]

GUESS WHOSE BIRTHDAY IT IS

[vxsellie]

❛ IT'S ALWAYS SOMETHING ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔩𝔵𝔵𝔦𝔦

wc. 5 670

⊹ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⊹

18:00.

THE CAPITOL.

The color gold is prohibited in the Capitol. All the aureate utensils have been replaced with silver; all the gilded architecture has been felled. No longer does there reside an inch of gold in Fedra’s Capitol, because no longer does there reside an inch of a threat to Fedra’s Capitol.

Each of the lower districts have been overcome with spores and mutts. The rot has infested all sorts of animals, both big and small: dogs, cats, deer, mice. Thus, there is no possibility that any of the residents have survived—which alleviates a burden from Fedra’s chest. He is now able to sleep at night knowing that there are no little girls training to destroy him in Four, nor any little girls rising to dismantle the Capitol in Seven. With no districts intact, there are no threats. With no threats, there is no chance that his empire will fall.

“A sennight ago, Ellie Williams was shot while fleeing District Nine.” Says Commander Lysander, raising his silver glass with a flourish. His yellow eyes meet Fedra’s, convivial. “The rebels’ symbol is dead, sir.”

A ripple of support washes around the table. The other officials take to raising their own glasses with their own thin smiles. Fedra does not reciprocate. Once the officials notice his stagnancy, their smiles drop as well as their hands. They sit in silence for a long time, waiting for someone to break the tension; to explain why Commander Lysander’s comment is undeserving of presidential celebration.

“The symbol is dead, you say?” His voice carries through the room without needing to be raised. He lifts his glass to his mouth, and no one dares to assume it is a jubilation so much as a mock.

“Indeed, sir.” Commander Lysander’s tone is much less confident in the face of contradiction. He attempts to remain firm in his gaiety, but Fedra sees right through him. Right to the marrow. “If her wife had not killed her, her own arrogance did.”

“Of course.” Fedra places his glass on the table with a light clink. “This is the same asinine thinking which led you to send our best Peacekeepers into District Nine, foolishly hoping to neutralize both Miss Williams and Miss L/n in one clean sweep. But it was not as clean as you had hoped, was it? Although every last one of those Peacekeepers fell to the rebels that day, the rebels are not who condemned them. No, that was you. Commander Lysander, you have quite the habit of burying people before they’re dead. If Ellie Williams were gone, the rebels would already be using her as a martyr.”

The air sits stale and silent around them. No one dares glance at one another, though it is obvious that they want to. They want to gauge their peers’ reactions so as to better hide their own. And this desire only multiplies when Commander Lysander begins choking. 

“It will not be long before the rebels make a move on my Capitol.” He must raise his voice now in order to be heard over the commander’s gags and wheezes. He gazes around the table, gauging the officials’ reactions in a way which they can only wish to do. “We shall evacuate the outer city and let them in. I want all aircraft defenses ready so that we are secure from the sky. Lure them close. Then our Gamemakers shall make them pay for every inch with blood. I want every camera watching. We will turn their pacifistic revolution into a celebration of suffering.”

When Fedra stands from his chair, an Avox is already rushing forward to pull it back for him. Each person around the table watches as their president crosses the room toward the hallway. His steps echo against the pristine tile flooring. When he is halfway out the door, Commander Lysander Estrada takes his final breaths with his face pressed against a glistening table. 

There is a Peacekeeper standing sentry outside of Fedra’s office when he reaches it. 

“Send for Commander Lysander’s family.” He says while brushing past the uniformed man. “I want his wife, his children, his brother, and his father all executed at dawn.” 

“Yes, sir.”

19:06.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“The world believes that you are dead.” Marlene’s voice is disgustingly excited about that fact. The footage of Ellie being shot in the back was filmed by a tiny camera pinned to one of the Peacekeeper’s uniforms. From there, it has been shown all across the country. Everyone is under the same assumption that the rebels’ symbol is dead. And Marlene, in particular, has been obsessing over it. “We can use that, Ellie. We can–”

“Stop.” Ellie leans forward, her ribs aching at the motion. “I will not listen to someone who risked mine and my wife’s lives last week. You sent us to District Nine knowing we’d likely not make it back. If you put no value on my life, why should I listen to you?”

Something in Marlene steels at that. All prior excitement in her voice fades away, leaving room only for the stern intonation of a ruler—a tyrant. “Had you permitted me to finish, you’d have understood that this plan will benefit more than only myself. You will be sent to the Capitol; you will be given what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want, Marlene.” She sneers. “You know nothing about me.”

“No. But I know this.” Marlene’s eyes narrow into small slits which resemble that of a snake moments before it strikes. Ellie wonders, sometimes, how bad it would be to simply allow herself to be ruined. How bad it would be to just give up this endless fight and die. “Since the moment you were brought to District Thirteen, you’ve been begging at my feet to be sent to the Capitol. First, you wanted Y/n back. And so I rescued her for you. Now, you want vengeance for what they’ve done. And so I am offering you this: a mission to infiltrate the Capitol and help bring ruin to Fedra’s regime.”

She wonders what it would be to give up. To stand from this chair and shout every last insult she’d been storing for the past year. She wonders what Marlene’s face would contort into upon hearing the truth. She wonders how many guards would be called in to seize her—to bring her to the basement and torture her the way they tortured Alice and Tilly. She wonders whether it would be worth it, to risk everything for a moment of satisfaction. 

And perhaps she might have done it: given up everything she’d worked so hard to maintain solely because she is so fucking tired of being the symbol to a war she never wanted to fight. But she doesn’t. Because you’re here. And she knows Marlene would not stop at physical torture; she would need to break Ellie’s mind and spirit as well. And what better way to do that than to torture you in front of her? To kill you in front of her?

But there’s another reason, too. And it’s also affiliated with you.

Last week, Oakley said his very first word. Since then, he has not stopped babbling on and on about his momma. It was endearing at first, to listen to him talk about you as obsessively as Ellie thinks about you. It was so beautiful to hear his voice after so long of fearing that it would never be found. But the repetition quickly got old when he would not sleep or eat without crying, “momma, momma, momma!” so she did the only thing she could think to do: she brought him to his momma. 

And then, as one might assume, he fell silent for the first time in three days. He sat in your lap with a contentment that could never be found elsewhere. His head fell onto your shoulder and he slept for the first time in two nights. You cuddled him and cradled him and cooed at him. But, oh, you were so fucking scared. 

Ellie could see it in the way you breathed and the way you blinked. Every little action you took was done in fear of breaking him. You rubbed his back without really touching his skin; you kissed his head without really daring to look. When he woke, you’d not slept a wink. You’d stayed up all night watching him, making sure your body didn’t try to hurt him. It didn’t—which felt obvious to Ellie, who knew your body must recognize him; but was shocking to you, who no longer trusted yourself to touch anything without shattering it.

Every night since then, Ellie has to bring Oakley to your room in order for him to sleep. Otherwise, he will happily keep her awake all night as he cries your name without reprieve. And, each night, she has watched from a chair in the corner as you slowly grow used to the weight of your son in your arms. She typically falls asleep in the chair, waking each morning with a kink in her neck. But sometimes, you’ll whisper-yell her name until she jolts awake. And she tries not to be frustrated when you ask, “will you stay awake, please? I don’t want to hurt him. But if you’re awake, I know you’ll stop me if I try.” 

Needless to say, sleep very seldom visits Ellie’s restless mind. If it is not Oakley keeping her awake, then it’s you. But she’d be lying to say she wanted it any other way. Even when sleeping in an uncomfortable chair across the room, she sleeps more soundly in your proximity than she has in years—since before the Quell.

“The mission will commence tomorrow morning at dawn,” Marlene is saying. “I want you to be there.”

It’s not a request so much as a decree. Ellie knows she has no power to deny Marlene anything. The propaganda campaigns can be done without her, what with Maria’s and Roberts’s conjoined skill with technology and cinematography. They could film those campaigns using anyone who has suffered at Fedra’s hand—which is quite literally every single person in Thirteen, if not the entire country. But the worst part is that Marlene knows that Ellie has no power to deny her. So when they argue like this, all ruthlessness and wrath, the winner is decided before it even starts. 

“Right.” Ellie turns away from the desk and pushes out of Marlene’s office. The guards bracketing her door are different from the ones who were here when Ellie first arrived. They must have a rotated schedule. She wonders how many guards are on this shift—how many people waste hours of their life standing at Marlene’s door. She wonders how many of them have spouses and children they’d rather spend their time with. 

She thinks of this all the way to the medical bay. Her feet carry her there without much thought, weaving through crowded halls of people and pushing through creaking doorways. By the time she reaches your room, Ellie has arrived at the conclusion that there are probably hundreds of soldiers on that schedule. Hundreds of families disrupted for Marlene’s personal gain. No one has even tried to attack her before, so having two guards outside of every door in her quarters is unreasonably cynical. 

She walks past each of the empty cots lining the walls of the med bay, knowing that they’ll likely all be filled after tomorrow’s mission. Infiltrating the Capitol is no easy feat, and will likely require an enormous platoon of soldiers and medics accompanying the usual group. There will be more hovercrafts deployed than they’ve ever done before. And, when they return, there will be a great many patients occupying these cots; and even more casualties to be accounted for.

When she passes Abigail Anderson’s cot, the curtain is open. Normally, the medics make sure to leave it closed in order to protect any passersby from suffering Abigail’s reverent rambles. Someone must have forgotten today. That, or they collectively hate Ellie and knew she would walk by and have condemned her to this.

“Ellie?” Still, the sound of Abigail’s voice grates at her nerves and sets alight an old rage she’s not yet learned to wholly overcome. “I know that you are helping Her, and I thank you for that. She does not scream as She used to.”

“Abig–”

“I know you think I’m crazy. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.” She almost appears to be tearing up—which is a repulsive thought. Ellie glances toward your door, yearning for an escape from this conversation. “I know my god is not worshipped by anyone except for me, but that does not mean She doesn’t deserve to be worshipped, does it? She deserves to be helped and heard and saved, doesn’t She?”

Ellie shuts her eyes and sighs through her nose, “she does.”

“I knew you would agree!” 

Abigail leaps to her feet, a blanket falling to the floor to reveal the scars that litter her body and the tubes that protrude from it. She is dressed in a thin hospital gown that does very little to hide the horrors which she has endured. She favors her right foot, putting almost no weight on her left. Still, despite the pain which must be overcoming her, Abigail is smiling. She grabs Ellie’s hands, squeezing them between her own. Ellie winces, her entire body tense with the urge to fight. 

“My god is not real, Ellie, I know that, but– but I still worship her for the help she provided while I was in the Capitol.” Abigail’s words rush from her mouth almost too quickly to understand. She is shaking. “She is not a god, she is a girl. I know this, I do, but– oh, but I knew you would understand! She helped me when I was enduring the worst pain of my life. She– she helped me remain sane. She helped me measure time, and count names. Without her, I would have killed myself.”

Ellie flinches at that, yanking her hands out of Abigail’s grasp.

“You–” she shakes her head, trying to breathe. “You are crazy. Y/n isn’t a god, nor is she your savior. She was being tortured the same as you. The screams you were hearing were not to help you, they were her own pain. And– and you offered her nothing in return.”

It’s not fair of Ellie to blame Abigail for what you suffered, and she knows that, but she just can’t handle this anymore. Being around you and seeing the difference in who you’ve become due to the Capitol is hard enough. But to face Abigail as well—to see that she has suffered worse at the hands of Fedra, who had no reason to hate her, than she would have at the hands of Ellie, who hated her more than anything else. It’s too much to stomach; too much to bear.

Abigail drops her hands to her sides and gapes. Her eyes are blown wide and her mouth is parted. She stares at Ellie with such horrible pain that she almost feels guilty. Instead of allowing herself to assess what she has done, Ellie turns on her heel and walks straight toward your door.

“You’re a terrible person, Ellie Williams.” Is the last thing she hears before she enters your room.

20:37.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Water, water, water, water, water—and more water.

You cannot breathe around it; you cannot see through it. The liquid seeps into your lungs as the salt stings your eyes. Every limb is thrashing and every nerve is in agony. You’re crying, though no one can hear you over the sound of crashing waves. Your feet graze the sand and you hastily push upward, only to be yanked right back under the surface. You cannot swim, you cannot breathe. You are dying.

A hand grabs your wrist, hauling you out of the water. Their grip is bruising and your shoulder aches under the weight of your body. You blink furtively, trying to see through the water and through your tears. A man is standing in front of you: Ruben.

He is holding you by the arm, looking so much larger than yourself. He is shining and golden where you’re dull and rusted; he is large where you’re pathetically small. He is everything you’ve always yearned to become. He is everything you will never be. 

“You are the worst thing that ever happened to me.” He says, yanking you toward the shore. You cannot keep up with him, your legs stumbling and tripping in the sand. You slip multiple times. He does not look back. “I wish you had never been born. You have ruined everything. You have tarnished everything. I cannot wait to be Reaped so that I might spend some time without you ruining my life.”

You’re crying again, and this time you’re heard. Only, he does not care.

Ruben is watching you from across the room. There are dark circles under his eyes, but he does not dare fall asleep because he knows you prefer to have him awake. He watches as you rub Oakley’s back and smooth your hands through his hair.

You wonder if he remembers that day on the beach, if he remembers what he said. You try to forget it—to pretend that it never happened—but it’s so real, so vivid. And whenever you see your brother, that is one of the first memories pushed to the forefront of your mind. You can still feel his hand around his wrist; you can still feel your tears staining your cheeks; you can still taste the salt in your lungs. He wanted you dead, you know that, but you loved him anyway. You loved him because he was your brother and he was the kindest thing in your life, even when he hurt you. But still, he left you. He abandoned you and didn’t care when your parents hurt you.

But how can that be right, when Ruben is watching you so lovingly right now? How can he look so fond of the little sister he never wanted? You start to think of what everyone has said about your memories, how you cannot trust them. But memories are what make a person who they are. How can you distrust the very fiber of your being without unraveling yourself completely?

“I was seven.” Your voice grabs his attention, snapping his head up to look at you. “We snuck down to the beach while our parents were away on a trip to the Capitol. I begged you to go and, finally, you relented. Do you remember this?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah, you got sucked out to sea. You were screaming for me, but I couldn’t hear.”

“But you eventually did. You yanked me from the water, and you said that I was the worst thing to ever happen to you. You said that you wished I was never born.” You watch his expression, all the tiny shifts in his face as it contorts into horror. “Do you remember this, too?”

“That’s not what happened.”

Ruben stands from his chair, shaking his head. He walks over to your cot, slow and careful. When you flinch away from him, he does not pretend to be surprised. Oakley continues to snore on your chest as Ruben kneels beside your cot. He rests a hand on your arm more gently than anyone has touched you in months. You look at him, unsure whether you should push him away or pull him closer. You look down at his hand and remember the way his fingers—so much smaller back then—had wrapped around your wrist until there were purple spots on it for weeks afterward. 

“You are the very best thing this life has given me.” He says, never looking away from your eyes. “The first time I held you, I knew you would be my best friend. I promised to always, always protect you and I have failed and I am sorry. I am so, so fucking sorry. I should have been there to save you; I should have been there when you were growing up. I have failed at so many things in being your big brother, but I have never ever stopped loving you.”

You know why he wasn’t there when you were taken: his leg had just been chopped off. 

All of last week, you spent hours upon hours watching the Games. When you requested a television be put in your room, a pair of guards wheeled it in on a cart before handing you the remote. Since then, you’ve spent very little time doing anything else. Your days are split into two junctures: when you are all alone, watching the Games; and when you have company, trying to solidify your own existence.

You started with the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, during which you met Ellie. It was an odd thing, hearing yourself talk in the interviews and watching yourself wave during the parades. You were such a different woman back then—so alluring and beautiful, but also so calculative and smart. Now, you spend your days lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself. 

Ellie was right when she said that the two of you were ‘a lot of things’. In the beginning, you were enemies. This is because Ellie had insulted your family during the interviews. And, considering what she said, you assumed that you would spend your time in the arena hunting her down and feasting on her bones. Instead, you found her curled up in a costume shop beside her best friend’s dead body. It was the perfect opportunity to strike: her back was turned and she was weakened. But you didn’t do that. You welcomed her into your group and divided your supplies. It was completely insane. You would never do that, now; you would kill her, now.

Slowly, the two of you learned to coexist and survive together. It was like watching a character in a film rather than yourself. She was so confident and strong; she is not you. Now, you would never form a soft spot for a little boy; now, you would never develop a bond with the enemy. But that’s not right, is it? Now, you have formed a soft spot for a little boy: Oakley. Now, you have developed a bond with the enemy: Ellie. 

You decided that it was easier to stomach the Hunger Games when you pretended that the woman on the screen was not you. That way, you do not have to process the fact that she is so vastly different from yourself; you do not have to process all the things which make you vary and which make you similar. 

Through a screen, you were reintroduced to Remy Wilson and his beautiful soul. His chocolate eyes and ash brown hair, his crooked teeth and rosy cheeks. You do not remember him, in your memories. Try as you might, there is no recollection of that boy in your mind. Instead, you find only a shadow of a child running through a field of grass—but you doubt that is a reputable memory, so much as one implemented by the Capitol. You miss him all the same, though. Something deep in your chest cracks at the sight of him: something carnal and uncontrollable. You miss him like a limb. You miss him like a son.

Through a screen, you watch yourself mourn a great load of people you will never remember. Selene Jones and her doe-like gentility which grew fangs. Ariadne Evans and her striking strength which softened over time. Dahlia Hart and her unshakable naivety. 

Each of these people deserve to be remembered and mourned, but you cannot find it in yourself to do it. They are characters on a screen; they are not real to you. But that is just the problem, isn’t it? With that mindset, you are no better than the Capitolites watching characters die in the Games. Perhaps that was Fedra’s goal all along: turn you into one of them, so that you may never become yourself again.

You lost everyone. Your friends, your allies, your son, your brother, your parents, your lover. And, in the end, the last person you lost was yourself. And you can mourn none of them.

“You used to love this stuff,” Doctor Fulmer laughs while pumping your veins full of death. “Morphling was once your salvation, you know. You L/ns always get addicted to something, in the end. Whether that be to a drug or to murder, it’s always something.”

The door to your room swings open to reveal Ellie standing in the doorway. Her hair is all mussed and her chest is heaving unsteadily. She leans against the doorframe, struggling to hold herself upright. 

You watch, more curious than anything, as Ruben leaps to his feet and rushes to her aid. He guides her toward the chair in the corner and tells her to breathe. He reminds her that she’s safe, that you’re safe, and that everything will be okay. So, really, he’s lying to her. But she must believe him anyway because, eventually, her breathing evens out and she calms down.

Ruben remains by her side, a hand kept on her shoulder at all times—possibly to ground her in the present, possibly to make sure she doesn't run. The former is more likely what he is doing, but the latter is more likely what he would do if it were you in that position. When you wake, screaming from nightmares, or when you are assaulted by a memory that sends you into a spiral, people don’t help you because they care about you. They help you because they don’t want you to kill them. They speak in gentle tones, but their voice shakes with fear that they might not be able to soothe you; they offer soft touches, but their hands tremble with fear that you might lash out despite their attempts.

“Sorry,” Ellie drops her head into her palms as she hunches over herself. “It was my fault, anyway. I got all riled up with Abby when I shouldn’t have. She just– none of this is fair on anyone. Shit.”

She is now wiping roughly at her face, but you’re not sure whether she is crying out of frustration or sorrow. It doesn't matter, though. Tears are tears and they spill regardless of what elicits them to—same as blood.

You watch Ellie with a much different eye than the one you watched her with before. When you first arrived from the Capitol, you watched her in hopes of catching her off-guard and finding a way to kill her. You watched her like a predator. Now, you watch her in hopes of finding something different than what you saw in the footage from the Games. You want her to be a different woman so that you might not feel so guilty for being the only one who has changed. You crave evidence that you’re not alone in your moral stupor.

Alas, she is the same girl that you’d loved so long ago. Her hair is a bit longer than it was in the arena, but you can tell she cuts it herself because the ends are all scraggly and frayed. Her eyes are much more tired than they were, but they carry the same empathy and valor as they did before. Her hands and skin and ears and nose are all the same, only with a few new scars. Her body is thinner than it was when you first met her, but that can be caused by the stress and lack of appetite which accompanies all war-beaten soldiers. 

Even her mannerisms haven’t changed. She still buries her face in her hands whenever she feels ashamed of something. She still walks with the quiet precision of a hunter. She speaks a bit more eloquently, but you pride yourself in thinking that’s partially your doing.

“What did Marlene say?” Ruben asks, standing shakily from the floor and massaging his thigh. He leans against a nearby wall, sighing relief at taking the weight from his leg. “Nothing good, I presume?”

“No, of course not.” Ellie lifts her head from her hands and scowls down at the floor. “All the districts have been swayed to our side, which is good but– well, now the only remaining territory to seize is the Capitol itself. She’s planning to deploy all the soldiers tomorrow at dawn. It’ll be a fucking bloodbath. She isn't communicating with anyone, just informing them to be prepared by morning. There’s no plan, either, just– just ‘go in there and try not to die, or do I don’t care’. She doesn’t give a fuck who she loses so long as she manages to control the Capitol in the end. It’s all power to her. There’s really no humanity left in her reign.”

Ruben sits with that information for a moment, thinking about what to say. But when he opens his mouth to respond, you beat him to it. Your voice comes out raw and slightly rueful. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

Ellie blinks, shocked. “Um, yeah, but–”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t give a timeframe. She just said when we leave and to–”

“Are you going to come back?”

“I mean, I intend to but–”

“Ellie.” You shift Oakley in your arms so that you might lean forward to portray your sincerity. He squirms but remains soundly asleep. “You have to come back. If you don’t I– I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t raise Oakley on my own, and I can’t– I don’t know how to live without you.”

The candor of that confession is wholly too much for you to bear thinking about. The only days in which you’ve not been visited by Ellie at least once throughout it are while she is on campaign. And, during those times, someone else always steps forward to take her place—Ruben, Dina, Jesse, Tommy. But no matter who attempts to fill her shoes, none of them feel nearly as right as she does; nearly as warm. While they struggle to hold a conversation and keep their distance, Ellie never falters away from you. She sits right beside your cot, even when she knows you might attack her. She speaks about the hard things, even when she knows you might shout at her for it. She is the only person here who knows exactly what you need and exactly how to give it.

If she does not return from this mission, you don’t know what you’ll do. Every aspect of your day will change for the worse. Oakley will have lost a mother, Ruben will have lost a best friend, and Tommy will have lost a niece. Everyone in your life will mourn her, but none so much as yourself. Although you may not wholly understand your own relationship with Ellie, you know that your bones and your sinew crave her. You know that, when she is around, nothing feels so terrible as it does otherwise. She makes the world brighter and the facts make sense. Without her to visit you each day and remind you that you’re loved, you may very well forget. All the progress you’ve made since arriving in Thirteen may very well be reduced to nothing. And then Oakley will have lost both mothers alongside his biological parents. And you can’t– oh, you can’t bear to do that to him.

“Hey, hey.” Ellie is suddenly in front of you, a hand coming to rest on your shoulder. And when you pull away from her, she does not appear offended. You turn to find that Ruben has left, likely to provide the two of you some privacy after hearing such an unadulterated avowal. “I’ll come back, okay? For you, I’ll come back.”

“I don’t–” Your voice cracks and you realize that you’re crying. It annoys you—not the fact that you’re crying, but the fact that you hadn’t noticed it. You’re so out of tune with yourself that you can hardly process your own damn emotions. And if you can’t understand yourself, how could you possibly understand how to raise an entirely separate person? You exhale a deep, shaking breath. “I can’t do this on my own.”

“You won’t have to.” She tries again to touch you and, this time, you allow it. Her hand settles on your forearm and she glances down at the point of contact, breathing slow and steady. After a moment, she looks back up at you with a determined mien. “I will always be here for you, okay? After this mission, there won’t be any more. After this mission, I won’t ever leave you again.”

You nod, sniffling. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You L/ns always get addicted to something, in the end. Whether that be to a drug or to murder, it’s always something.” 

Doctor Fulmer was right about one thing: L/ns always fall prey to addition. They’re raised to be independent, to put faith in their own abilities rather than anyone else’s protection. This way, they’re ready for the arena when it inevitably comes for them. So, really, who’s to say that they’re wrong for becoming dependent on something? Who’s to say they’re evil for wanting a reprieve?

Your father’s addition was to alcohol. Your mother’s was abusing those closer to her. Theodore’s addiction, just like his brother, was to alcohol. Ruben’s was to the Capitol—always seeking, always needing its approval. Penelope’s was to blood, cruelty, violence, that sort of thing. Elina, like her mother, was addicted to that same cruelty. Yasmin’s was to manipulation, using secrets like weapons to destroy the lives of Capitolites. 

You, as many would assume, became addicted to Morphling. And, while they wouldn’t be particularly wrong to assume that, they’re not wholly correct either. Because you fell victim to a much more compelling substance: love. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos

[vxsellie]

Can you add all that’s been released of arc 3 to the series masterlist??

YES!! I’m so sorry that hasn’t already been done! I completely forgot about the masterlist 😓 but I’ll go fix that right now—thank you for letting me know

[vxsellie]

Every Wednesday I come to browse your profile lol

Baby me too

I browse your guys reactions each week like it’s my favorite newspaper

[vxsellie]

hii!! i don’t use tumblr much but i read slt on ao3 and i just wanted to tell you how beautiful i think it is and it’s honestly always my favourite part of the week, and it’s the most incredible thing i’ve ever read !!! i’m going to miss is so much when it’s overr 😓😓 but anyway you’re so so insanely talented and seriously an amazing writer !!!🧁

Thank you so much!! I cannot explain how much it means to me to read this 🤍 I’m so sorry for not responding sooner, pls know that this means the world

[vxsellie]

oh god i knewwwww reader was going to have that plot from her time being tortured ):

okay but i’m so here and ready for the slow healing era. falling in love again ): i just hope ellie won’t give up on reader. i don’t think she will, though, i think ellie loves her too much for that

Oh baby, I wish I could assure you, but I don’t want to spoil anything ☹️ just pls know that it’ll all be so so worth it in the end & these girls will find peace—in a vague sense of the word

[vxsellie]

a song that has been reminding me of slt these past few weeks is lavinia by the veils, i can’t pinpoint exact scenes like i would usually do when i make connections but its just the overall feeling of the song and i thought i would point that out!! specifically:

see, my sun will just send you to war if the battle doesn’t kill you … and all the years buried under the floors and the wounds in the parlour would have come up to greet us before if it weren’t for my heart

anyways a gorgeous song that i had to point out bc i relate anything and everything to slt!! my favorite part of the week i swear, i could go on and ON

Oh my god. I just listened to the entire song & I feel indebted to you for having introduced me to such art

Wdym this ART PIECE reminded you of MY story?? Like I’ve never been so honored 🤍🤍 I could go on a tangent about how well it resonates with slt, but that would take all day

This is so perfect

[vxsellie]

❛ THE SUN IS MEANT TO BURN ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔩𝔵𝔵𝔦

wc. 7 930

⊹ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⊹

01:59.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“You sent them on a fucking suicide mission!”

It’s been so long since Ruben was this angry. It almost feels good, to experience an emotion void of complexity—just raw, unadulterated rage. His hands are shaking and he can hear his own heartbeat thumping against his skull. The anger envelops him like a wave washing over him, dragging him under. And he lets it.

Across the table, Marlene watches him and appears unamused as she does it, almost bored. Her hair is pinned back into a neat twist, making her cheekbones pop. She looks like a skeleton. Finally, after allowing his words to settle in the entire room around them, she sighs. “I evaluated them. I tested Y/n’s loyalties, ensuring she would not flee as soon as the opportunity was presented to her. Shockingly, she did not. At the same time, I tested Ellie’s immunity, measuring the lengths to which her body would survive while others would not.”

“And you risked their lives doing it.” Ruben seethes. “They could have died for your damn evaluation!”

“But they didn’t.”

“No thanks to you!”

“Everything I did last night was calculated and efficient.” She speaks evenly, as though she were risking a dummy rather than two sentient human beings. She taps her nails against the table, eyes still dull and listless. “I knew what would happen and I was willing to gamble for the results I desired.”

“You didn’t even offer them a chance to deny you!” His voice shakes and he hopes Marlene knows it’s due to anger rather than weakness. But whatever she thinks, she keeps it to herself. “They didn’t know what they were being put into. You knew the Peacekeepers would show up and you didn’t warn them! You knew they had gas bombs and you didn’t give them masks! You knew there would–”

“That is quite enough.” She holds up a hand, successfully silencing him with a single gesture. He feels his cheeks heat at his own compliance. 

He wishes he were brave enough to defy her, to continue shouting despite her refusal to listen. Alas, he does not. Because there are far too many people he cares about whose lives are placed wholly in Marlene’s hands. His insubordination would do naught but risk their lives. You, Ellie, Dina, Jesse, Tommy, Maria, Birdie, Avner, Noam, Cricket, Oakley, JJ. He is not foolish enough to jeopardize any of them for the sake of his pride.

The table which separates Ruben from Marlene is long and glossy. They are at least twenty feet apart despite both residing on opposite ends of the same furniture. But he knows why this is: Marlene enjoys placing herself on a pedestal, displaying blatant symbols of her own power so no one dares question it. And this table is no different. It represents how she holds everyone at a distance for her own protection, not willing to place herself among her own people for fear of them turning on her. Or worse, plaguing her with their mundanity.

“You are excused, Mister L/n.” She says with a wave of her hand before dipping her head in a false display of respect. But he sees the way her eyes never leave his face, always pinned to him. Without caring to provide his own fake respect, Ruben turns and leaves.

The guards outside the room are strong and solid, but hold expressions of pity as he passes. Everyone knows what happened last night: you and Ellie were sent on a solo mission under Marlene’s orders. And it went terribly wrong. When the hovercraft returned to Thirteen, calamity ensued. Medics and doctors were running toward the hangers, carrying as much medical supply as possible. He ran alongside them, somehow knowing it was related to the two of you despite not yet knowing anything. Sure enough, when he arrived, you were unconscious and hardly breathing while Ellie was struggling to hold herself upright.

You’ve both spent the whole night in the medical bay, swarmed by medics. Ruben has visited more times than he can count, but only managed to catch slight glimpses at you both. And, now that he’s been removed from Marlene’s quarters, he knows where he will go. Again.

On the way to the med bay, he stops by his compartment. Ruben peeks his head inside the room, making sure everything within is running smoothly. Thankfully, it is. On his bed, Birdie is fast asleep with her two younger brothers flanking either side of her. 

Over the past four months since the victors’ recovery from the Capitol, Avner and Noam have slowly grown used to Birdie’s condition. It was hard at first—of course it was—but those boys are strong. There is not a world in which they would allow Fedra to come between their relationship with their big sister. And Ruben is glad to see it because, despite Birdie’s mental complications, she knew something was missing. She knew there was more that she wanted from Thirteen than Ruben’s attention. And ever since Avner and Noam’s acceptance, her happiness has become palpable. She is smiling more often than she is not. She makes noises of contentment and movements of glee. It absolutely warms his heart to see her happy, even though she cannot fully express it.

Ruben pushes the door to the med bay open, wishing the damn hinges didn’t announce his presence because now the medics will be prepared to turn him away. He’s realized, in the past few hours, that the only way to sneak a glance at you and Ellie is if the medics are not aware of his peeking. Alas, the door has other plans.

“I apologize again, Mister L/n,” says one of the medics as she notices his approach, “but you cannot–”

“Please.” He begs while standing on his toes and attempting to peer over her shoulder into the room. She is shorter than him, so he is able to snag a look at your face. There are tubes hooked up to your nose and mouth, extracting something from your lugs. Something with particles in it. He does not have to assume what it is, judging by Marlene’s descriptions. It’s the spores. 

After the seventy-fourth Games, the Capitol realized that they’d overlooked a significant factor of their strength: the Games. For over seven decades, the gamemakers have been designing horribly dangerous tools for the arena. And, for over seven decades, these tools have only ever been used in the arena. Now, as the war wages onward and the tides begin to shift, the Capitol grows desperate. Fedra, hoping to soothe such desperation, has begun to use the gamemakers’ tools as war armaments. Primarily the spores from yours and Ellie’s Games: fungus-infected particles which are lethal without a gas mask to filter them. 

And, according to Marlene, Ellie might just be immune to these spores. Seeing as Ellie was bit by a clicker in the seventy-fourth Games then cured by Capitol doctors, Marlene thought she might have formed a resistance to whatever fungus was used in creating the mutts. It was a complete assumption and one based on absolutely no proof, but Marlene took the risk anyway. And, miraculously enough, she was right.

But she risked both of your lives in proving a baseless theory. Doing so resulted in your hospitalization after inhaling way too many spores, and Ellie’s hospitalization after being shot in the back. 

“Ruben, listen to me,” beseeches the medic. Finally, he tears his eyes away from you and spares her a glance. He recognizes her. She is the same woman who sat with Birdie a few months ago when he needed to calm Ellie down from a panic attack. She is looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “If you stay in the med bay, I might be able to help sneak you into one of their rooms. But you would have to be complacent and quiet while you wait.”

“How long?” He asks.

She frowns in thought, then, “I don’t know.”

He hesitates, glancing over her shoulder again toward where you’re lying. There is a heart monitor beeping steady at your bedside: the only indicator that you’ve not yet taken your final—toxic—breath. It’s rather difficult to not shove the medic aside and rush to you, but he manages to stay civil. Not only that, but he manages to nod in agreement to her offer. The medic exhales a sigh of relief before guiding him toward a chair to occupy while he waits, then reentering your room.

The med bay, aside from the bustling nurses tending to you and Ellie, is rather tranquil. It smells of antiseptic and bleach: a stark contrast to the rest of Thirteen, which smells of dirt and stone. Ruben’s leg bounces impatiently as he waits, watching the closed door for some kind of sign that the medic is about to appear from it. When no such sign occurs, he wonders if she lied to him—offered a false hope that he’d be permitted inside solely to keep him from causing further issues. A smart decision, if so. Just when he begins to stand up with full intentions of bursting into the room, movement catches his eye.

His head snaps toward the door, but it remains firmly shut. He turns, jolting to find Thea standing over him. Her priorly beautiful platinum hair has been chopped from her head in a messy fringe. Her skin, in some places, is torn like paper to reveal the flesh beneath. Burn marks. In other places, there are clear slashes from a whip, and he seethes at knowing the Capitol hadn’t even bothered trying to hide it. Slashes down her arms, across her chest, over her throat, on her legs. Her left arm, beneath the elbow, has been removed; she does not wear the prosthetic with which Thirteen has provided her. On her right foot, however, she does wear a prosthetic, perhaps not willing to appear so weak as to be limping around, yet still defiant enough to not want to be half concealed by metal. A shame there are no prosthetics for her missing ear. There, he can see the clean cut of where a knife had severed it from her skull.

“You are scared.” She speaks slowly, as if to sample the taste of each word before it leaves her mouth. “I remember when Ellie left us, when she broke your sister’s heart and you had to reassure her that she did not deserve to be abandoned. I think you remember it, too.” Thea leans forward, head tilting ominously to the side as she examines Ruben as closely as possible. “So why are you scared for them both?”

He leans back, tensing under the scrutiny of her gaze. Somehow, the gray of her eyes feels like the sharp edge of a steel blade: enough to slice the throat of any man. He wonders how much of her has changed. Unlike most of the other victors, Thea has managed to return with the majority of her mind intact. Which means something else ought to have been damaged in its stead. He wonders what that is. Her pride? Her sympathy? Or perhaps her soul? 

“Ellie made mistakes,” he agrees, “but they were mistakes anyone else would’ve made if they were in her shoes. If it were my sister who was slaughtered by Abigail, I’d have left Birdie to avenge her. And I dare say there would have been a time in which you’d have chased Y/n across the arena to avenge Thalia.”

Something in Thea’s eyes flashes, that silver hue glinting under a ray of sunlight. But he cannot tell whether it is rage or sorrow which he has shined upon her. Thea takes a step closer, leaning forward until her hands are rested on the arms of his chair, her nose an inch from his own. He can smell her breath and taste her ache. He shivers, trying to squirm away only to find that there’s nowhere to go. 

“I will mourn my baby sister for the rest of my life. She is my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night.” She doesn’t dare move away from him even as she speaks; or perhaps she doesn’t care to. “But I have come to terms with the fact that Y/n did Thalia a favor. Because if she’d let Thalia live, I’d have had to watch my sister get tortured in the Capitol; if she’d let Thalia live, I’d be you. I would rather die than be you.”

He opens his mouth, intending to ask whether that is pity or hatred on her tongue. But he’s interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Thea shifts away from him, not bothering to look toward the door before she exits the med bay, vanishing as quickly as she’d appeared. Ruben’s breathing is heavy as he stands from the chair and approaches your room.

“Was that Thea Thatcher?” Asks the medic, voice pitched with curious hope. But Ruben doesn't answer her, pushing his way into the room. He’s a few feet from your bed when the medic grabs at his arm. He turns toward her to find her eyes wide, blazing with a hunger for answers. “What did– Thea has hardly spoken a word to anyone since she arrived. What did she say?”

He yanks his arm from her grip. “If she wanted you to know, she’d have spoken to you.”

07:12.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

“I love you.” In Ellie’s most beautiful dreams, she can hear herself saying it.

She can smell the candles you picked out, and she can imagine the beaming smile on your lips as you picked them: shoving them into Ellie’s face, excited to get her opinion. She can hear the distant chatter throughout Seven coming in from the window, voices of families as they wake up and start their day. She can feel the heat of your body pressed in a seam against her own, bare. 

In these dreams, you are both lying naked in bed together. There is nothing lustful about it, though. Just the innate intimacy which accompanies human nudity. She knows every inch of your skin, every scar and where you got it. She knows the hills and valleys of your form, having memorized all her favorite parts. There is a reason all the best statues are naked, for sculptors knew how to best turn stone into art. And that's what you are to Ellie, in the end: art.

Her face is nuzzled into your hair, breathing in the fragrance of your existence. She can feel your heartbeat thudding against her own, the two of them perfectly in sync. She can feel your breath fanning across her clavicle, though you are not asleep. She can feel her hands rubbing up and down the hills of your spine, yours playing with the ends of her hair, twisting and turning them between your fingers. And she can feel her mouth shaping around those three words which she never had the valor to truly speak aloud: “I love you.”

She always wakes before she can hear your response—how cruel is that?

The moment her eyes open, agony is ripping through her body. It traces tendrils through her nerves, setting alight all which it passes. Her entire back is screaming for a relief she doubts will ever come. Ellie peels her eyes open, only to wince at the immediate intensity of the room around her, all white and bright. She squeezes her eyes shut against, breathing heavy at the effort it took to open them. How pathetic: the rebellion’s symbol can hardly open her eyes without wanting to cry. Which makes her think—why does she hurt so badly? 

Ellie lies in bed for a long time, wracking her mind for recollections of the day before. They come to her in pieces. She remembers watching you through the window, as she always does. She remembers speaking angrily with Marlene, though the words are all jumbled. She remembers entering a hovercraft, and waiting for you to enter behind her—that’s weird. She remembers flying for a long time, not knowing where she’s headed. She remembers holding a conversation with you at some point, though she cannot make sense of the subject matter. She remembers descending into a ruinous district—Nine, she thinks, or perhaps Ten. No, it was most definitely Nine. After that, however, her memory seems to fog.

Ellie peels her eyes open again, staring up at the blank white ceiling and trying to breathe through the agony in her back. She presses her nails into her palms until they bleed, hoping to focus on that spot of pain instead. It doesn’t work as well as she’d hoped, so she goes back to trying to recall yesterday’s events.

There is a clock ticking somewhere in the room, measuring the passage of time. She listens to it, thinking she has been lying there for two hours before she can clearly remember everything which happened the day before: the gas bombs, the gunshot, everything.

“Miss Williams!” When she tries turning her head, everything spins and she grumbles in pain at the throb which instantly elicits within her temples. “Sorry, I hadn’t meant to frighten you. We just weren’t expecting you to wake until later this afternoon. How are you feeling?”

“Bad.” Her voice is rough, grating against her throat like sand against a chalkboard. She attempts to clear it, but that only makes her pain intensify. 

She watches through hooded eyes as the medic bustles around the room, pressing buttons and examining vials. Then, the medic is filling a syringe and bringing it over to Ellie’s bed. She wants to thrash and scream and refuse, but her body is far too weak to obey any of her commands. She can only manage to make pathetic whining sounds as the medic approaches, causing her to tut sadly before sticking it in Ellie’s arm.

The effects are immediate. All the pain in her back ebbs away, leaving her mind fuzzy with a sense of vague pleasure. She hums with delight, and the medics laughs before stepping out of the room. 

Ellie looks up at the ceiling again, watching as the white panels swirl around one another. The clock continues to tick, tick, tick away. She wonders how much time has passed. She wonders how many years have passed. She shuts her eyes and dreams again of you. When they open, her head is throbbing and the pain in her back has returned.

Stupidly, she tries to sit up—a foolish instinct that only causes her to cry out. To her surprise, a hand is quick to settle on her hip and ease her back against the pillows. She blinks blearily at the person before Dina’s face comes into focus. The gauntness in her face which was present during her labor has long since left, but Ellie still expects to see it for some reason: expecting the pain in her body to be reflected in everyone else. But Dina’s face is full and rosy and blooming with life. 

“I don’t–”

“Shh.” Dina smoothes a hand through her hair. “Don’t try to speak. You were shot in the back. Had you not been wearing that bullet-proof vest, you’d have died on the spot. Their aim was impeccable, would’ve gone right through the heart. You have, um, two broken ribs, bruising in your spine, and a damaged lung. But– but you’re alive.” 

That’s when Ellie realizes that Dina is crying. It’s a silent and solemn affair, but there are tears nonetheless. She moves her hand toward Dina’s face, hoping to console her but results only in patting weakly at her cheek, nigh slapping her. Dina laughs at the attempt, wiping roughly at her eyes. She inhales a deep breath through her mouth before addressing what she knows Ellie is yearning to hear: not her own condition, but yours.

“She’s okay.” Dina says tearily. “Apparently, Marlene knew this would all happen and– oh, I shouldn't stress you out. I’ll tell you all of that when you’re not so drugged. But– but yeah, Y/n is okay. She inhaled a lot of the, uh, gas, but she’s okay. Medics tended to her for five hours straight before they were able to fully drain the toxins from her lungs.”

“She–” Ellie winces, trying to speak even as her throat and body renounce it. Dina tells her, again, to stay silent but she refuses. “She wouldn’t– y’don't think she’d, y’know… want t’see me?”

“Oh, baby.” Dina continues to rub her hair, her other hand holding one of Ellie’s firmly. She presses a kiss to her knuckles before starting to cry again. The tears soak into the back of Ellie’s hand and she wishes she weren’t so drugged so that she might be able to offer some comfort. Dina eventually manages to regain herself before apologizing. “Sorry, I don’t mean to burden you with my tears. You’re the one who needs comfort. Blame the hormones, I guess.” She laughs weakly. “Y/n would be lucky to see you, Ellie, but I don’t know what condition she might be in. I don’t know how she might react to seeing you, and I don’t know how well you’d fare against her if need be.”

“I can–” She coughs, which sends pain all through her chest and back. But she pushes onward. “I can handle ‘er. I’ve always handed ‘er.”

Dina hesitates but, after a moment, she nods. She presses another final kiss to Ellie’s knuckles before standing from the chair beside her bed and leaving the room. When she returns, it is with a trio of medics to assist her in walking to your room. Ellie frowns, not knowing why so much help is needed. You should only be a few yards away. 

She realizes the answer when she sits up. Instantly, she is dizzy—which one of the medics claims to be caused by painkillers when Dina asks. She is instructed to sit on the edge of the bed, legs dangling, for a few minutes while the dizziness wears off. Ellie has to resist complaining the whole time as she is itching to see you.  After a while, she is finally helped to her feet by the medics. Dina walks a few feet behind, wheeling an IV pole and oxygen monitor. Ellie feels terribly embarrassed to have so much attention on her when she is so used to being perceived as a strong, impenetrable symbol of rebellion. More a visage than a human.

The medics answer Dina’s questions on the way to your room. Due to the slowness of Ellie’s gait and the insatiability of Dina’s curiosity, there are a lot of questions. Firstly, her damaged lung should heal within two weeks, her ribs within two months, and her spine within four weeks. Secondly, movement is advised in order to promote the clearing of fluids and mucuses from her lungs, prevent clots in her blood, and reduce muscle stiffening in her spine. Thirdly, she should keep a pillow against her chest when walking or coughing to prevent any sharp pains from her lung damage. Fourthly, she should– well, if she’s honest, Ellie stopped listening after the third question because it was beginning to grow boring.

Finally, after spending an eon walking to your room, the medics push the door open. You’re sitting up in bed, your back braced against a wall of pillows to keep you upright. At your bedside, Ruben sits with his head rested against your knees. He is sleeping and you are watching him very closely, as if trying to decipher a puzzle of which no one else is aware. 

When Ellie enters, you lift your head toward her. Your expression flickers but remains primarily in that same puzzled contortion. The medics leave, allowing Dina to assist her toward the other chair beside your bed. By the time she is sitting down, her heart is racing and her lungs are heaving for air—though she assumes one of them is doing most of the work. Dina is considerate enough to stand on the opposite side of the room to offer a semblance of privacy, but not yet willing to leave her alone with you.

“Is Oakley here?”

The question shocks her, not only due to the roughness of your voice—which, truly, shouldn’t be surprising—but also because of the desperation behind it. There is a certain amount of pleading that you will allow yourself to reveal to people you don’t trust, and this question has certainly surpassed it. Which either means you finally trust Ellie again, or, more likely, you are that desperate to see your son.

“No, but–” she has to speak between her heavy breaths and pain in her chest. You don’t seem to mind, watching stoically as she catches her breath and tries again. “No but, I could– I could ask t’have ‘im sent here.”

“Yes.” You nod instantly, even leaning forward a bit like you can hold him without him actually being present in the room. “Yes– yes, I’d like that.”

Ellie turns toward Dina, who nods before poking her head out of the room and requesting for a medic to have Oakley sent to the med bay. Dina reenters the room a few moments later with a small smile, signifying that the medic agreed to the request. 

When Ellie turns her attention back toward you, there’s a slight narrowing to your eyes. You glance back and forth between her and Dina and, well, Ellie knows you intricately enough to recognize when you’re calculating something. However, before she can build the courage to inquire, the expression is erased—as though it were never there to begin with. You look down at Ruben, seeming to have turned your calculations to a new equation. But then–

“Do you love her?” The question comes rough from your throat, but the words are even enough.

“What do you–” Ellie begins.

“Not you.” You interrupt her before lifting your head toward Dina, eyes sharpened. If she’s shocked by the sudden attention, she doesn't show it. Her posture and expression remains wholly unmoved as you stare at her. Then, just for good measure, you repeat the question: “Do you love Ellie?”

“Yes.” Dina responds. Ellie turns to her, opening her mouth to deny the implications that she’s certainly put into your head. But Dina continues before she has the chance to say anything. “Everyone loves Ellie, if they have the privilege to get to know her well enough. But no one loved her more than you. No one ever held a candle to you.”

“Why?” There’s a hunger to your tone now, one which you don’t bother trying to hide. You lean forward despite the wince it elicits. Your eyes are wide and frantic—desperate, she realizes belatedly. 

For all Ellie once prided herself on knowing you, she’s rather out of practice now. She never stopped to consider how this might be affecting you. She thought of the physical aspects: how your wounds and traumas might be fairing, how your appetite and tremors might be healing. And, well it’s no secret that you’ve always been so good at concealing things, but she never thought she would have to look very deep. She’d gotten to know you better than anyone. If you were hurting, she thought she would know. 

But this hungered despondency is new to her. She thought you were so permanently affected that you didn’t care about the gap in your memories. Not much, anyway. But she forgot how painfully intellectual you are. No amount of torture could rid that from you, as it’s an integral piece of your soul. When you don’t know something, you ache for it. She can hardly imagine how badly you’re aching at not knowing your own life—not knowing yourself.

“‘Why’?” Dina repeats the question like it’s hard to imagine you’d ever ask such a thing. Her eyes flick between your famished expression and Ellie’s pained one. “You mean, why did you love her?” 

“Yes,” you nod, “why?”

“Oh, because you couldn’t help it.” A small smile tugs at the corners of Dina’s mouth, sad yet reminiscent. “You tried to refuse it, of course you did, but– but your affection for her was just too great. As terrible as the Games were, the evolution of your guys’ relationship was rather entertaining to watch. You were both so angry all the time. And you were taking it out on anything and everything you could get your hands on which, more often than not, was each other. For anyone else, that’d have surely resulted in murdering one another. But… you soon learned that you were angry because you loved her. And because she loved you.”

Ellie can feel her cheeks heating up, not a particular fan of being talked about like she’s not in the room. She lowers her head into her hands, trying to cool her face down. It doesn’t work, of course, but she keeps her head there anyway, so as to resist looking either of you in the eye.

“These Games were recorded, no?” You ask, voice almost sounding small—shy. Ellie assumes Dina nods because then you continue. “Is there… well, is there a chance that I could watch them? Would it be, you know, an accurate representation?”

“Mm,” Dina hums in thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t deem it an entirely bad representation, but I wouldn’t advise you to base your entire perception of your relationship on it, either. The most reliable source would, of course, be Ellie herself.”

She can feel both gazes turn toward her and she shivers, knowing she cannot hide in her hands any longer. Slowly, she lifts her face from her palms and meets your eyes. They’re not as desperate as before. Instead they carry a mix of confusion, apprehension, and—dare she say—fear. Fear that she might decline the offer to tell you the truth; fear that she is what the Capitol made you believe her to be. 

Ellie tries to keep her gaze as steady as possible, tries not to think of that beautiful dream in which she can feel every breath you take and every inch of your skin. She takes a deep breath, then: “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

09:27.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

Jealousy is a vicious beast with which you have very little experience. 

Growing up how you did, there was no purpose to be found in envy. Sometimes, you wished you were as strong or as quick as Ruben, but those were fleeting moments. This, however, is a festering wound that you fear will soon begin to suppurate.

You hate Ellie. Your deep loathing for her is one of the few things of which you're wholly certain—or, rather, you were certain. Lately, it’s become more nuanced than that. The warmth radiating from her body is almost enough to distract you from the synthetic memories of her brutally slaughtering everyone you’d ever loved. Almost. Sometimes, when you’re lying awake in bed, it is all you can think about: the swing of her arm, the length of her blade, the blood on her skin. It drives you crazy. But what drives you even crazier is that, when you see her, all the anger seems to evanesce. 

Dina loves people easily. It comes naturally to her, like breathing or blinking. For that, you hate her; for that, you envy her. But it’s not the mere ease with which she loves people, it’s who she loves also. You’ve seen the way she whispers to Ruben, offering him comfort when you’ve hurt him. You’ve seen the way she touches Ellie’s skin, being gentle when you’ve only ever been harsh. 

For some people, that would be reason enough to want Dina dead. But, of course, nothing is so simple with you. There are layers—there are always layers. And, with Dina, there are plenty. Including the little infant she gave birth to a few weeks ago.

JJ, you believe his name to be. You only caught a short glimpse of him during Dina’s hospitalization in the medical bay. She was so happy and he was so small. His skin is tan like hers, his hair is black like hers. But his eyes and his lips are his father’s: Jesse’s. For the rest of the day, you could think of naught aside from JJ and his perfect little self. You wanted to hold him and coddle him and kiss him; you wanted to strangle him. 

How is it fair that some babies are born with two loving parents and a plethora of kisses on their head, while other babies have watched both parents die and been forced to live underground with stunted growth? 

You envy Dina for the ease with which she loves people. You envy Dina for the people she has chosen to bestow her beautiful love upon. And you envy Dina for the life she is able to provide JJ—a life which you’ll never be able to give to Oakley. 

“Sunlight.”

You had not seen sunlight in a long time. You wondered if it is even real. You wondered how it would feel on your skin. You wondered how it would burn your retinas. You wondered how something so lethal could be so beautiful. 

Before you could come to any conclusion, Doctor Fulmer approached. His white hair fell over his shoulders like snow: an enemy of the sun. Snow refused to melt under the sun’s power. Snow was defiant and cold and miserable. The sun was powerful and hot and valiant. His skin was overly wrinkled and you wondered if it was due to long days spent under the sun. Back before his head was covered in snow.

“You were once deemed the sun.” He spoke like everything was amusing to him. “I doubt you remember that, though, do you? I doubt you remember dousing yourself in liquid gold, dancing around the Capitol with your pet moth. I doubt you even remember her name.”

You were sitting in a chair. There were leather straps binding you to it. They secured your ankles and your wrists, keeping you still. You wondered what Fulmer was planning. Whatever it was, it could not be good. His plans were never good. When it was another doctor treating you, it was not so bad. They would electrocute you while you were held underwater. They would hang you by your neck with a rope before untying you at the very last second. But their methods had been done before. You knew what to expect from the other doctors. Doctor Fulmer was spontaneous. He was the one who tested the new methods. He was the one who created the sessions. He was the one to fear. 

“No matter.” He said in a sing-song voice. “You needn’t recall your own treacheries in order for them to be atoned for. You won’t like this, my dear, but it will be rather fun for me!”

He turned around. He messed with something on the table behind him. You craned your neck to get a better look; to no avail. When he turned toward you again, there was a wet cloth in one hand and an odd-looking metal box in the other. A lighter, perhaps. 

Fulmer stepped forward before removing your clothes. You were nude by the time he started to rub the cloth over your skin. It smelled terribly of chemicals, burning your nostrils. The stench was all you can focus on while he rubbed it across your chest and down your arms and over your thighs. A mistake. You should have been watching his hands.

When Oakley is brought into the room, you instantly feel whole again. After so many months of floating aimlessly through a life in which you do not belong, he provides stability. An anchor to an estranged vessel.

The medic is kind and gentle as she enters the room, pushing the door open slowly so as to announce her arrival. But you can see the weariness in her gaze as she looks at you, like she’s not quite sure whether you should be trusted with the boy. You hate her for that; you are grateful to her for that. 

Oakley’s hair has grown to his shoulders, all dark and wavy and thin. He is dressed in a pair of dark cargo shorts and a shirt with a dinosaur on his chest. His feet are bare and dirty, patting lightly across the tile as he is brought into the room. His bright blue eyes stare at you, unsure what to think, before turning toward Ellie for support—support which he does not think you can offer him. Perhaps you can’t.

“Thank you,” Dina says to the medic as she ushers her out the door. The medic lingers, her eyes pinned to the scene as though trying to commit it to memory to tell to all of her friends later. 

Oakley walks over to Ellie, wasting no time in climbing onto her lap. She winces but does not deny him, attempting to situate him on her thigh in a way which does not cause her pain. He appears wholly unaware of her issues, though, those big eyes pinning back onto you again. Perhaps you should smile or wave or say something. Instead, you hold his gaze with an equal ferocity. He does not cower from you—which is odd, because most people do. Especially children. They find your appearance disturbing, and your composure eerie. He seems not to mind it, like he’s used to it. And, if what Ellie said is correct, then perhaps he is.

“Does he speak?” You don’t know why you ask it. Maybe hoping the answer is yes, so that you might have another ‘reliable source’ to inquire; maybe hoping the answer is no, so that you might never have to suffer his audible judgement. But when you raise your eyes to Ellie, she looks pained. Like the question is a sensitive topic to her. You look back down at the boy to find that he never looked away.

“No.” She responds, voice rough. “He should. Being two years old, he– he definitely should be able to speak coherently. But he– no, he cannot.”

You push up from the pillows to get closer before tilting your head at him. Oakley mirrors your actions, leaning away from Ellie and tilting his head at you. There are light freckles dotting his nose, which remind you keenly of the ones that cover Ellie’s own skin—envy, envy, envy. His stomach is rounded, still carrying that ‘baby belly’, which elicits a sense of fondness to flare in your chest. You wish you could remember him when he was smaller, when he was growing his first teeth and struggling to hold his head up on his own.

You do not realize that you’re crying until a tear drops onto your blanket. You look down at it for a moment before rubbing at your eyes roughly. Oakley continues to watch you, his chubby face contorting into a frown—then into a pout. Then, within a few moments, he has begun to cry as well. 

“Sorry–” you turn away from him, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. Your shoulders shake with your silent sobs and you wish desperately that you could shut all your feelings off. You wish you could gaze upon your life without any ties to personal emotional burdens. Your crying seems to wake Ruben from his nap, because you can feel him shifting while you attempt to compose yourself.

“What–” His voice is groggy as he assesses the situation, but he seems to understand quickly. “Oh.”

You don’t even know why you’re crying, not really. Seeing Oakley is always a sorrowful affair but during every moment in which he is away, you crave him. You want to see his face and hear his footsteps. You want to breathe his air and kiss his head. So, really, it shouldn’t be so difficult to face him considering he composes a vast majority of your thoughts: how did he celebrate his first birthday? How did he celebrate his second? When did he take his first steps? Were you holding his hands? How old was he when–

“Do you want to hold him?”

All of your thoughts stagger to a sudden halt, your head snapping up. Ellie isn’t joking, though. She is staring at you with such sincerity that you’re afraid that speaking might shatter it. She doesn’t acknowledge the sound of trepidation which rises from Dina’s throat. Nor does she look at Ruben for acceptance. This is a question meant solely for you, and thus your opinion is the only one she cared to heed.

You look down at Oakley. He has stopped crying, having long since stopped mimicking you. But he is still watching you. For some reason, you expect him to stand up and leave. You expect him to shoot an anxious glance at Ellie. You expect him to hit you, to grow fangs and rip your throat from your neck. But he just continues staring, waiting for you to do something; to say something. You wonder if he knows what you guys are saying. Perhaps he’s deaf and that’s why he cannot speak. Or perhaps he is just so severely traumatized that his body would rather spare him the agony of engaging in conversation.

He is not nearly as small as JJ is, but his body still holds a certain fragility to it. His bones are tiny and thin, his organs are still forming in his gut. His skull is frail and easily damaged. His entire hand is the side of your pinky finger. It would be so easy to hurt him; to kill him.

“I don’t–” You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your chest. The action causes you to start coughing, but you hardly notice. “I couldn’t.”

“It’s your choice.” Ellie’s voice is so gentle, so soft—envy, envy, envy. You wonder how a person could ever be capable of such vulnerability. You wonder if, at some point, you were capable of it, too. You assume you had to have been, or else no one could ever have loved you. No baby could ever have trusted you. 

You look at Ruben, only to find that he is wholly indifferent to the situation. He cares, of course he does, but he is still half-asleep and rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. You look at Dina, who is practically buzzing with anxiety but, when she catches you looking at her, she is quick to give you a nod. Despite her own fears regarding Oakley's safety, she knows—as a mother herself—how important it is to connect with one’s child. Then, finally, you look at Ellie. Her hands are rested gently on Oakley’s torso to keep him steady, her wounded body kept a safe distance away from him. But then she’s giving you a small smile and all of your anxious thoughts are suddenly washed away.

Hesitantly, you agree.

After soaking your skin with his cloth, Doctor Fulmer wasted no time in moving on to the ‘fun’ part. He examined the metal box before flicking it on. Yes—you thought belatedly—a lighter. You began to thrash against the restraints, your body convulsing as the realization settled into your thoughts and plagued your mind with fear. 

“Shh, shh.” He smoothed a hand over your hair. “You’re the sun, remember? The sun is meant to burn.”

Oakley situates himself in your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him. 

His legs fit perfectly between your own, his back reclining easily against your chest. You try not to cough, but cannot help it and eventually descend into a fit as your lungs heave. He looks at you over his shoulder, eyes wide with panic. You assure him that you are okay, then you rest a pillow between his spine and your recovering chest. He leans back, humming in contentment. He shuts his eyes, his thin black hair spilling onto your collar. You try not to cry at the sheer delicacy of him.

“If I do anything,” your eyes remain firmly trained on the top of Oakley’s little head, speaking to everyone in the room. “If I try anything, take him from me. Kill me if you must.”

You can hear Ruben shifting awkwardly beside the bed, not brave enough to speak. Dina also remains silent, and you wonder if it’s because she knows what it’s like to be fearful of hurting your own child—you doubt it; she’d never hurt JJ. Ellie is the one who sucks in a sharp breath, saying, “I couldn’t–”

“No.” You snap your head up, scowling at her. “Promise me.”

Her eyes are deep with sorrow, but also understanding. They flick momentarily to where Oakley is lying against you, so small and so easily broken. She shuts her eyes for a moment, just breathing as she considers the weight of what you’re asking of her. Then, finally, she opens them but she doesn’t meet your gaze. “I promise.”

The sun is not gentle. 

It rages and it seethes and it burns everything in its path. 

Some deem it to be a beautiful mother, kissing the skin of children and leaving them pink with love. But that is only because it is too far away to kill them. If given the chance, the sun would not hesitate to burn all Earth’s children to ash. They would be reduced to a pile of soot. And no one would be left to mourn them.

The sun is not gentle. It is angry, and it deserves vengeance.

Oakley looks up at you, eyes bright with adoration. You look at his cheeks before anything else, checking them for burns. He smiles, flashing a mouthful of gapped baby teeth and pink gums. You return the smile, though it feels much less familiar to you than it might to him.

His expression begins to shift and you frown, thinking you might have frightened him. His mouth is moving and pursing and trying to fit around a sound. You think he might start sobbing. You look at Ellie for help and she begins to move forward. Her arms are already outstretched toward him, prepared to scoop him from your arms and console his cries.

But instead, he makes a noise. Something akin to a word. Ellie freezes, her eyes flaring wide. You look down at him, and he is still staring at you. His face is firm with concentration and his mouth is still moving oddly. Like he cannot quite figure out how to use it. Then he makes another noise, like a long ‘o’ or perhaps a wide ‘ah’ wound. You watch him, suddenly interested in what he is trying to say.

You wonder if this happens a lot: his body trying and struggling and failing to speak. His mind being so overwhelmed with words that he cannot express. If so, that would be terribly depressing for a two-year-old to endure. But perhaps the other option is worse: that he has never before conjured the confidence or will enough to attempt speaking. You’re not sure how you would feel about the latter; how you would feel being the object of his bravery: the thing which pushed him over the edge. Should you be flattered or offended?

Then, clear as day, as though he’d been speaking for years, Oakley looks at you and says: “Momma.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos

[vxsellie]

❛ WARM ❜⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔩𝔵𝔵

wc. 8 247

⊹ 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⊹

04:33.

DISTRICT THIRTEEN.

After Odysseus returned, did Penelope spend the following year just staring at him? Did she watch as he slept, trying to convince herself that he was real? Did she wonder, over and over, what he had endured while she waited? Did she ask—and did he tell her? Did she learn, after hearing of the atrocities he’d faced, that it was better to have remained ignorant?

Ellie watches through the window as you move across your room. She feels like a creep—watching you like this—but she cannot find the strength to stop. From afar, she has gotten to know you all over again: all the new habits you’ve made during your estrangement, and all the ones you never forgot. 

You still narrow your eyes when trying to puzzle something out. You still get frustrated at yourself when your hands start to tremor. But there are the new things, too, of course. Like the way you’re unable to lift your left arm nearly as high as your right. And the way you touch your ribs when you move too quickly, like your haste has been punished. And the way you grab at your neck every time you wake from a nightmare, like you’ve been held underwater too long—or like the noose has just been removed.

She wonders what other little habits you’ve formed of which she is not aware. She wonders and wonders and wonders. Oh, but she’s fucking sick of wondering. She wants to go in there and force you to remember; she wants to grab you and shake you until all the truths come pouring back into your skull. And she doesn’t care if you kill her for it, because she will die happy knowing you were the last one to touch her.

“It is for the best.” Marlene’s voice is close behind, but Ellie has come to expect her to always be somewhere lurking. Somewhere watching. She doesn’t bother turning to face her, because she knows her expression will reveal nothing of her intentions. “I know that you do not particularly agree with my decision, but I assure you: it is for the best.”

“She’s not ready.” Ellie hears herself say, gaze still pinned on you. Favoring your right arm, touching your ribs. 

“Miss L/n has been in Thirteen for four months.” Marlene’s voice has taken a harsher edge, never quite fond of being questioned. “You always knew this was bound to happen. The time is now.”

At that, Ellie turns, eyes ablaze. “The country is enveloped in war, Marlene. You can’t throw her on the front lines just because you’re impatient! She’ll–”

“She’ll be fine.” Marlene cuts her off with a sharp wave of her hand. “If not, she’ll die. And her death will be unfortunate, but not fatal to the rebellion. Plus, she’s hardly any use to me like this.” She gestures toward the window, where you’re being helped into a bullet-proof vest. You glower at the guard, wincing every time his hand grazes your skin. “She has been bedridden for four months and I refuse to waste any more time waiting for you to feel comfortable with my plans. Because as much as I appreciate your input, I am the president.”

“Interim president.”

“Interim or not, I remain of a higher rank than you.”

Ellie stares at her, trying not to cower under her gaze. With each day, Marlene becomes more sure of herself—more comfortable in the throne she has made, and therefore less comfortable with anyone who tries to remove her from it. And Ellie, never having been one to listen, hasn’t stopped trying. Marlene is powerful and has better morals than Fedra, but she is malicious and selfish and does not deserve such a throne. 

The country deserves someone who would die for them—who would protect them—not another damn president who would sacrifice children to obtain power. She’s beginning to grow frustrated with history’s repetition; she thinks it’s time for some fucking originality.

“Get to the hovercraft, Ellie, before it leaves without you.”

But as much as she loathes both presidents, Marlene is right: she hasn’t the power enough to stop them. Not yet, at least. 

So for now, she will continue to oblige. She will offer Marlene a curt nod which they both know is insincere before leaving the room. She will walk through the echoey stone halls of Thirteen until she reaches the hangers. Then she will clamber inside of the hovercraft, buckle herself into her seat, and wait for further directions. Or orders, or decrees, or executions—whatever Marlene is in the mood for this morning.

She isn’t the first one on the hovercraft because Robert is fucking insane and has probably been ready for this campaign since midnight. He is sitting in the cockpit, but she can see his extended legs and the laptop placed on his thighs. His fingers are clicking rapidly at the keys, like he would sooner die than slow down.

The next person to board is Tommy, who smells of coffee and fatigue. He wipes at his eyes, yawning, as he sits down beside her and buckles in. He’s not wearing a protective vest, though, so she is able to make the—educational—guess that he won’t be joining the crew being deployed. 

To be wholly honest, Ellie hardly knows anything about this campaign aside from the fact that you’ll be accompanying her on it. Marlene gave the order only last night, saying that she thought it would be beneficial for the rebellion if the two of you were seen as allies: a united front. Ellie argued, of course, saying that you were nowhere near ready to be thrown onto a battlefield. But Marlene did not heed her, instead waving a hand and declaring that her decision was final. Ellie sulked the rest of the night, refusing even to speak with Ruben.

She knew it was childish when she was doing it, but what else was she meant to do? Seeing you through the window is hard enough. Watching as you struggle to dress yourself and bathe yourself and eat without tremors knocking the food from your fork—that’s hard enough as it is. She can hardly imagine watching you bear witness to the atrocities of the rebellion. 

She can hardly stomach it and she’s been in the center of it for over a year now. No one knows how you’ll react. But as long as there’s a show, Marlene will be happy. It all feels so eerily akin to the Hunger Games: being shipped from home without an ability to decline, being thrust into battle and fighting for an undetermined amount of time, having all of your interactions and expressions broadcasted across the country, then brought back home and expected to pretend none of it happened. It makes her sick.

By the time you’re escorted onto the hovercraft, everyone else has already arrived.

It’s worrying, the lack of people. Ellie thought Marlene would send a squadron of guards to ensure you wouldn’t act out, but she has done no such thing. Alongside you, herself, Robert, and Tommy, there are only six other people: the pilot, two medics, and three guards. It places a weird feeling in her gut, like she’s not entirely sure what she’s signed herself up for. Even though she didn’t even sign up for this.

You sit in the seat directly across from her, allowing the guards to secure your harness. She tries not to stare, but fails miserably. You’ve been prepped to look presentable, your hair and skin styled into something less tortured. You look almost civilized, for the first time since before the Quell. If it weren’t for your clothes, she could almost pretend none of this had ever happened. Alas, you’re dressed in the same all-black uniform that she is. With a thick vest and a black sword at your hip. She wonders if you’d rather have a different weapon—or no weapon at all. She doubts anyone asked your opinion before shoving it on.

It’s a long time before anyone speaks. The blades are whirring loudly overhead, so that’s part of the reason. But also because the air is so thick everyone seems to prefer staring at the ground rather than address it.

You’ve not removed your eyes from Ellie’s face, while she tries to look anywhere but your face. She looks at the floor, at the ceiling, at the cockpit, at her lap. But you keep watching; keep staring. If it were anyone else, perhaps she could ignore it. But she knows the exact weight of your gaze, the exact hue of your irises. She knows what it is to meet those eyes and she knows what it is to watch them shift. She knows how they look when you’re crying, when you’re laughing. She knows how they look when you’re angry, when you’re in love. How is she meant to ignore the most powerful thing she’d ever known?

“I will not kill you.” Your voice is not loud, but it carries. It can be heard over the blades and over the thrumming of Ellie’s own heart—perhaps with the thrumming of her heart. She lifts her gaze and meets your eyes, trying to remember to breathe as you stare right back at her. “I will not kill you because you are too far and I am strapped to a chair. So you can stop fearing me.”

“I don’t fear you.”

“No?” You tilt your head, only slightly. Like a wolf assessing its prey. “You should.”

She almost laughs, so keenly reminded of your guys’ first meeting before the Games. When neither of you were yet brave enough to say what you truly meant. When she’d gotten pissed at you for running off after your first kiss. She almost laughs; she almost cries. “Why should I?”

“Because I want you dead.” A fact. “I want to see you bleed. I want to hear you scream.”

“You already have.” She says, trying to keep her voice steady. “You’ve already seen me bleed, but you spent hours trying to staunch it. You’ve already heard me scream, but you spent hours trying to console me. If all you want is to see me in pain, you can rewatch the Quell.” Then she shrugs, “or just look a little closer.”

You don’t say anything to that, just staring. She tries not to shift under your gaze, but she struggles. And, after a while, she fails and begins to fidget with her index finger. At the feeling of its vacancy, her eyes snap to your own hand, searching. There, wrapped around your own finger, resides the thin metal band with a moth engraved into it. It sits perched on your knuckle, having bore witness to every single one of your encounters: all the quiet moments, all the rugged arguments. That moth knows all. And yet it stays, unfalteringly loyal—or perhaps it’s trapped. Either way, she finds comfort in its presence.

“They didn’t take your ring when you were in the Capitol?”

For the first time, your gaze moves away from her face and drops down to your hand. You flex your fingers, only for your wrist to twitch at the attention like a keening cat. Your jaw ticks at the spasm, sighing deeply before looking up at her again. “They took a lot, but I did not allow them to take this.”

“Do you remember where you got it from?” 

There’s a hopefulness in her voice which she doesn’t even care enough to try to shield. She no longer is a fool enough to attempt protecting her dignity. At the question, there comes a long pause. The blades whir and the silence stretches. For a moment, Ellie thinks you didn’t even hear the question. Then, finally, your voice cracks through the quietude like the first break of dawn.

“No.”

When they arrive at their destination, Ellie can already hear the cries of man as the war wages onward. She tenses at the sound of struggle, but does not shy from it. 

She is already unfastening from her harness when she casts a glance in your direction. Your eyes are sharp, your entire body tense. But you, too, do not dare cower at the sound of agony. Even in such a state as this, your body is attuned to pain—perhaps especially in such a state as this. 

You meet her eyes and she nearly staggers backward at their force. You’re both free and no one would be quick enough to stop you from shoving her out the crew door. She knows you’re considering it, she can see the calculation in your eyes as you weigh the cost versus the reward. No one else would have noticed the tension, had they been preparing for descent. But, for some reason, they’re not.

“Ya can kill ‘er after the war is won.” Tommy urges you toward the door, brusk but gentle. You scowl at him but oblige nonetheless, heading for the latter. There is a brief moment of hesitation before you begin to climb down. Once you’re out of ear-shot, Ellie turns to Tommy.

“What is this? Why aren’t you guys preparing?”

He shakes his head, almost pitying. “We ain’t comin’ with y’all.”

“What? But we need your–”

“I know, kiddo, but Marlene was insistent that y’all were the only ones to go down there.” He rests a hand on her shoulder and she tries not to think of Joel. “But listen, if anythin’ goes wrong– anythin’ at all. Say the word ‘n I’ll be down there as fast as ya need me. No matter what Marlene’s fuckin’ orders are.”

She nods. “Yeah, okay.”

He offers another few words of advice before urging her, too, toward the door. She glances down the latter, seeing where you’ve just thudded against the dirt. She gives Tommy one last assuring smile before heading down after you—always after you.

Part of her wishes Ruben were here, purely for her own selfish consolation. Over these past few months, the two of them have grown inseparable. Since their rekindling, they’ve always clung to one another. But after you came back, the codependence has only tripled in size. Jesse insists that it’s unhealthy and that they should spend some time apart, but Ellie thinks he’s dumb anyway. That, and his hormones have been all off-center since JJ was born. As if he were the one who gave birth.

That day was a mess. She was woken at two in the morning by a frantic Ruben. At first, the panic in his eyes made her assume danger; but then she saw that he was smiling, and she relaxed. When he grabbed her by the hand and hauled her to her feet, she had no choice but to follow. They ran through the halls and, once she realized that they were headed toward the medical bay, she knew. Dina had been claiming that her water would break soon. She knew it was coming; they all did. But not that night! 

When they arrived, Jesse was a fucking mess. He was pacing back and forth in front of the door, her screams muffled but echoing. He gripped at his hair with nails bloody from biting. She grabbed his wrists, gently tugging them from his head, but it did nothing to soothe him. She knew it was futile, but she tried to offer as much comfort as she could. Because for now, all they could do was wait.

Ellie ended up falling back asleep in one of the chairs, her back aching when she was roused by Maria, who was beaming. She guided a half-asleep Ellie toward the door, opening it to reveal everyone already crowded around the new mother and infant. 

Oh, he was so perfect. The most adorable little thing, the size of a potato—a name which Jesse wasted no time in coining. Dina started bawling the moment she saw Ellie enter, which was confusing. And a bit worrying. She sat at the side of the bed, comforting her cries without understanding why she was so emotional. She assumed it was the hormones. That is, until Dina explained: “His name is JJ. Short for Jesse Joel.” And, just like that, Ellie was bawling too.

As said, the day was a mess. Ellie and Ruben were expected to continue with their duties by Marlene, but they were both reluctant to leave the med bay. Dina assured them that she would be fine, and said that it would be better for everyone if they didn’t cause any issues with the tyrant—which earned a laugh from only Ellie. Everyone else found it to be a rather dangerous statement from such a weakened woman. But that’s why it was funny: only Dina would be so brash.

From there, JJ only grew. His eyes started to follow movements, his limbs becoming less jerky. She introduced him to Oakley the moment Dina was released. Which only revealed how big Oakley had grown while she wasn’t looking. How could her baby look so large? She could have sworn it was only yesterday he couldn’t hold his head up on his own.

“Nine?”

Her entire body turns at the sound of your voice. She tries not to think of Orpheus, because it hurts to know you likely don’t recall who he even is. So instead, she looks out across the horizon and casually assesses the surroundings; or what she hopes is casual. And, boy is this place a mess.

Last time she visited District Nine, it was an entirely different atmosphere. They people were impoverished, but the fields were lush with grain and production which no other District could dream of accomplishing. The farm stretched so far into the horizon that she thought they never ended—just mile upon mile of endless efficiency. How often are the tributes from Nine acknowledged; how often is the District honored at all? Very seldom, Ellie would guess. And yet they play such a vital role in keeping the entire country fed. If she were the mayor, she would sever all ties with the Capitol out of pure spite. But, alas, that is probably why she isn’t a mayor.

Now, District Nine is little aside from a wasteland. For some reason, the Capitol has chosen Nine as one of its primary targets for bombing. Fedra has hit nigh every District at this point, but of course he has favorites: Twelve, Nine, and Four. And, regardless of what Fedra’s reason may be, Nine is suffering. The ground is barren and blanketed with a thick dust. The air is tangy with the miasma of smoke, causing her to cover her nose to filter out the ash. The homes have all been reduced to rubble, not a single building left whole. There are a few walls that still stand, but even those are pathetic excuses for a structure. The people sleep, eat, and live on the hard ground with no roof over their head. And she doubts food is easy to come by.

“What did Marlene tell you about this campaign?” She asks, hoping to not come off as desperate. Not only for the sound of your voice, but also for answers. Again, she didn’t remain in last night’s meeting long enough to hear what this whole mission is about. As soon as she heard you were going to be on it, she started an argument that resulted in her leaving the office. 

“Marlene is your mom, is she not?” You scoff. “Why did you not ask her yourself?”

“My mom died before I had the chance to meet her, actually.” Ellie says, trying not to sound bitter. She doesn’t care about the assumption; lots of people in Thirteen thought Marlene was her mom in the beginning—back when Ellie still clung to her as a semblance of familiarity. No, what bothers her is the fact that you are the one asking about it. Her fucked up family was one of the first things Ellie ever confided in you about. And now it’s yet another one of the things which she has to start over from scratch. “So, no. She’s not my mom.”

She doesn’t know why, but Ellie doesn’t quite expect the sheer apathy which you offer her. She knows better than to anticipate an apology or condolences, but perhaps a sympathetic hum or nod. Instead, you just barrel onward, completely disregarding her loss. Not that she feels any grief over it. She’s lost far too much since then to still be upset over the death of a woman she never knew.

“Marlene did not tell me much.” You say, beginning to make your way through the rubble. She hurries after you, knowing you’d not care enough to wait up. “Only that I would be joining a troop tending a political campaign in District Nine. She said that you would be there. And Tommy. She said you and I were meant to present a ‘united front’ and to be seen as allies.”

Ellie hums. She wonders how confusing this is for you: being told to put on a show. Maybe it comes naturally, despite all the fragmented memories; or maybe this entire concept is foreign to you. This is what drives her crazy more than anything: not knowing. For all your guys’ differences and collisions, one single fact rang true: she knew you. She knew you backwards; she knew you upside down. If all her senses were removed, her body would still react to your proximity. Like a magnet. Like a moth.

She kicks at a random pebble, watching it skid across the dusty ground before landing easily in the soil a few feet away. There is no grass here anymore, no life. She doesn't know where all the people are hiding, but she doesn't expect they’ll be entirely difficult to find considering there is no shelter to hide inside of. 

She glances up at the sky, trying to puzzle out its conditions. Ellie has always been rather gifted when it came to predicting the weather, but she’s out of practice. Apparently, being confined underground will do that to you: make you forget all the skills you’d spent the past two decades learning. She wonders how long she could survive in the woods surrounding Seven if she cannot even decipher the clouds. She tells herself it’s due to the thick smog of recent bombings, but she’s not entirely convinced.

“I don’t like her.” You blurt out after a few minutes of walking in silence. She turns, trying to read your expression only to find that it’s equally as illegible to her as the weather. You’re staring straight forward, shoulders back and chin raised—just how your parents taught you. 

“Who?”

You spare her a glance, brows twitching as if she’s just as illegible to you as you are to her. She wonders if it gnaws at you the way it gnaws at hers. “Marlene. I don’t think I like her very much.”

Ellie doesn’t want to push. She doesn’t want to attempt to make conversation with you, only to find that there are lines you’ve drawn. Firstly, it would break her heart to have palpable evidence of the space that’s formed between the two of you. Secondly, she fears how you’d react when she steps on those lines. Would you snap at her, all vicious cruelty with sharp teeth—or would you go straight for the kill, having finally been offered an excuse to be rid of her?

“She is not nearly as terrible as some of the people I’ve encountered, but she is not a very pleasant woman either. She speaks quickly, almost angrily, even when I’ve done nothing to anger her. She stands firmly, almost bracing for an attack, even when I don't yet have any reason to attack her. She watches–” You cut yourself off so suddenly that Ellie thinks you’ve been shot. But when she turns toward you, you’re perfectly fine. Only your eyes are sharp and cutting, scowling at her like she’s done something horribly wrong. “I don’t want you to mistake this conversation for friendship.”

She almost smiles. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good.” Something flashes behind your eyes at that, something vaguely recognizable. Curiosity, perhaps, or amusement. “I do have a few questions for you, though. If you’re willing.”

“Willing to what? Answer them?” She asks. You shrug in response, like it’s no big deal. But this is the biggest deal she could ever dream of. Throughout the past four months, she’d heard your voice maybe a handful of times. And now you’re engaging in conversation—that’s not regarding her impending death—and you’re wanting to ask her questions! She reminds herself to not mistake the conversation for friendship, but finds herself giddy all the same. “Yes, yeah, of course. Ask away– I mean, anything you want.”

“I am well aware that the Capitol has tampered with my memories, or– or maybe they’ve just rearranged them? I’m not entirely sure what they’ve done, but I know everything is skewed. Out of place, per se.” Your voice isn’t quite vulnerable despite the touchiness of the subject. It’s more tactful than that, like you’re proposing a diplomatic decree rather than confiding about your experience being tortured for seven months. “I don’t know who is an enemy of mine, and who is a friend. They have changed my perception of people, too. I know that. They made President Fedra appear benign— gave me memories of his warmth and consolation. But I knew they weren’t real because he is evil. And evil people are not warm. So, tell me–” You stop walking and turn to her fully. Your entire body is facing her now, your eyes wide with that insatiable curiosity she’d come to love so much. She struggles to swallow. “Tell me, why do you feel warm to me? If you are my enemy, as they’ve made me believe, why do you feel warm? What were we, before all this? Because I don’t think you’re evil.”

Ellie has to bite her tongue to stop herself from crying. She tastes blood in her mouth at the same time that she feels her eyes begin to prick. She blinks rapidly at the sky, trying to keep her composure. Because you deserve an explanation, not the half-assed riddles everyone has offered thus far. But she just— fuck, she doesn’t know if she can do this.

“Sor-ry.” The word sounds weird in your mouth. She’s heard you say it so many times: to her, to others. She knows that it shouldn’t sound so peculiar, but it does. Like the Capitol has changed the very sinew of your throat so that it doesn’t quite fit around civility. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She releases a shaky laugh, dropping her head into her hands and trying to collect herself. She shouldn’t be acting like this—not when you need her. For assurance, for clarity. It takes a while, during which she inhales big long breaths and exhales them in equal measure. You taught her that, though she doubts you’d remember. 

“We were–” she doesn’t even know where to begin. “We were a lot of things.”

You hesitate, waiting for her to digress. When she doesn’t, you wave an impatient hand. “Such as?”

“We met in the seventy-fourth Hunger Games. You, trained to kill from birth; me, only ever having killed animals. We butted heads a lot in the beginning, but we– we were always meant to fit.” She takes another deep breath, steadying herself. “I like to think that I was never evil. At least, never to you.”

07:57.

DISTRICT NINE.

“Who is this?”

The memories are all blurry now. Nothing is quite linear. You know colors; you know shapes. You do not know people; you do not know truth. Doctors come and doctors go. No one stays. No one cares. No one speaks, lest it be for another session. 

Images are inserted into your mind. They flash and fizz and fumble. A woman: short auburn hair and green eyes. A man: all the same features are your own. A boy: crooked teeth and rosy cheeks. The last one feels particularly painful, though you’re unsure why. You wonder if he is your brother. You know you have a brother, but you’re a blank slate now. The doctors have made sure of that.

Some days, you want to die. 

When your mind does not quite behave as a normal person’s mind ought to, you wish it would just cease altogether. You wish your brain and heart and soul would all make the simultaneous decision to just quit. Their jobs are too hard anyway. You would not blame them. No one would, you think. 

And no one would blame you, either, for aiding them. No one except Ellie. 

She is such an odd woman. You can feel her watching you sometimes—which became much easier to stomach after you figured out that the mirror in your room is actually a window. It explains why you always feel someone’s eyes on you, even when you are alone. It was scary, at first, but you quickly became familiarized with the weight of different peoples’ eyes. When it is Marlene looking in, your skin prickles and you feel cold all over. When it is Ellie looking in, however, your heartbeat steadies and you feel warm all over. Which makes no sense.

The only memories you have of Ellie Williams are terrible—too terrible to name. She slaughtered your friends and family over and over again. She killed your brother, only to bring him back to torment you. She drove your favorite uncle, Theodore, to commit suicide. She killed a little boy named Remy who you’d loved like a son. She set fire to your home, causing all your pets to die in the flames. She killed Mister Alden while you were away, making sure to mail you a limb for keepsake. She is violent and cruel and she needs to die. You want to kill her more than anything; you want to avenge those she’d hurt. So why does she feel so warm? Why does your body react to her like a cat stretched under the sun?

You asked one of the guards one night, driven mad with the idea that your entire life is something unknown to you. The guard ordered you to get away, but you did not heed them. So they grabbed you, strapped you down to the bed, then injected you with that weird syringe that makes you sleep. When you woke, you knew better than to ask for their assistance, though you’re sure they know. You think everyone knows about you—your past, your present, even your future. But you cannot imagine why. Had you no privacy?

“What happened here?” You ask after walking for far too long without seeing a single soul.

Ellie shrugs, her face still blotchy red from crying. “War.”

Just then, a scratchy noise blares straight into your ear. You wince, clawing at your own ear to be rid of it. Ellie grabs your wrist to stop you, pointing at her own ear to show that it’s not going to attack. You yank out of her grip before looking at the small black piece in her ear. Identical to the one which Tommy gave you this morning. He said that it would be scary: a loud static before his voice clears. You suddenly grow irritated with yourself for having forgotten. You want to break something—or someone. Maybe then, someone would finally understand how shattered you feel.

You focus on Tommy’s voice: “—disturb you. Y’all girls have been down there for almost half an hour, though, so we ain’t gonna be able to wait any longer. We jus’ wanted to give ya some privacy beforehand. The camera’ll be controlled by Robert, but it can be easily destroyed. So y’all gotta try to keep it moderately protected, jus’ in case somethin’ happens. We’ll talk to ya through the earpieces. If y’all need anythin’ don’t you dare hesitate to ask.”

“Understood.” Ellie’s voice comes both through the earpiece and the air, causing a slight unevenness.

You watch as she turns toward the sky, lifting a hand to her hairline to block the sun from her eyes. Then a shadow covers her face, the camera Tommy had been talking about slowly lowering itself between you. It’s a rectangular box, painted all black with buzzing blades that hold it in the air. The camera is large and protruding, almost scary with how easily it could poke out an eye. And there, as you’re watching it, a little red light comes on. 

It backs away from you, seeming to realize how close it is to your face. It stays a safe three feet away as you and Ellie continue your aimless trek through the city.

With no memories, you are not a person. You are a vessel to be pumped; you are a canvas to be painted. But you are not a person. Never a person. Because people have memories. People have friends and allies and a family. You have none of that. At least, none that you can remember.

This is when the doctors decide to start pumping; to start painting. Because a blank slate is the perfect victim. They break you to nothing, then rebuild you from scratch. A perfect mold. 

They insert memories that do not quite fit. Some of them feel familiar, like a scent that you cannot place. But others are wholly foreign to you. Fedra runs his hands through your hair, consoling you after the death of a man called Mister Alden. You do not know why you are sad, only that Fedra is who offers comfort. But when you are removed from the machine and the memory ceases, you feel disjointed. Your head feels too heavy, your skull feels too light. And Fedra is in front of you, looking nothing like the man who had once—allegedly—carried your grief.

“Where are all the people?” You ask. 

It feels like a stupid question, to be honest, as you doubt Ellie knows any better than you do. Especially considering that she’d asked you what Marlene said about the campaign. She tried to be subtle about it, but you could see the uncertainty pained into her face like carved marble. She isn’t as good at hiding her emotions as she thinks she is. You wonder if she was always bad at it, or if it is a habit she formed in Thirteen. 

You know she is not from Thirteen, because no one really is. You heard that from Marlene during one of her many attempts to secure your advocacy for her little rebellion. She’d called Thirteen a safe haven for anyone who sought sanctity; anyone who had ever suffered at the hands of the Capitol—which is where you probably fit in. After that, every time a new person would come into your room, you would wonder: where are you from? Oh, and what is it like there? Are there happy little girls wearing happy little smiles? Or is it miserable everywhere in the world? Stupid, stupid, stupid questions.

“I don’t know.” Ellie inevitably responds, which only proves how stupid the question was. “Maybe they were all killed in the last bombing, but I doubt it. Marlene would have told us. She would have–”

“C-co-c-come i-i-in?” Tommy’s voice is loud and crackling in your ear. You have to resist the urge to rip the earpiece clean from your head, then stomp on it a million times until your leg falls off. It grows less screechy the more he talks, but it is never truly pleasant. “We’ve jus’ flown over the District and ain’t seen any people. We don’t know if Marlene is aware of this or not, but our signal ain’t very good. Robert’s workin’ on it. We think it might start to rain soon, though, and Rob says the camera ain’t waterproof. So we’re gonna bring the camera back up here with us, but we’ll keep the copter over y’all. The soldiers will have eyes on ya the whole time.”

“Understood.” Ellie says, all uneven.

You press a finger against your own earpiece, wanting to try it out too. Just because you can and because it is rare for you to do fun things. “Under– understood.” You feel like an excited child as you hear your voice echo back in your own ear, just as scratchy and uneven as Ellie’s. It makes you feel like a soldier. Not one of the brutal ones from the Capitol, but a cool and honorable one like her.

The only memories you have of Ruben are vicious. 

He is kind to you while you are children. He kisses your head and sings to you sleep. But then he is Reaped in the Hunger Games and turns evil. You watch through a television screen as he slaughters children in their sleep. But it is okay because he is doing it to come back to you. 

But even after he is announced as the victor of his Games, he does not come back home to you. He leaves you all alone in your big, painful house. With your big, painful mother and her big, painful punishments. You watch him on TV. He is smiling with interviewers and giving compliments to pretty girls. And you are alone in your house, bruised and beaten and so very alone. 

You want to hurt him. You do not want to kill him, but you want to hurt him. Just as he has hurt you. You want him to feel the same emptiness you had felt when he left. You want him to feel the same sorrow you had felt when he did not return.

The rain comes down in sheets. You struggle to breathe through it, water getting in your nose and mouth every time you attempt to inhale. It sends panic flaring through your spine, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You refuse to think about the tremors rattling through your nerves, and the pounding of your heart against your ribs.

You focus instead on the woman in front of you. Ellie’s hair is soaking wet and clinging to her skin. She slips multiple times on the slick rubble and the muddy ground. She glances at you over her shoulder every few minutes, as though to remind herself that you have not left. As if there is anywhere you could go, even if you wanted to. And you definitely want to.

“Are you okay?” Ellie has to shout over the rain and, even then, her voice is barely heard.

You nod, but do not yet trust yourself to speak. Because you know it would come out shaky and weak, and you refuse to look weak in front of anyone—especially her. But, of course, Ellie catches onto your hesitation and she turns fully around to face you. Her eyes are bright against the dark contrast of the world around you. You want to gouge them from her face, just so you do not have to look at them any longer. She holds one hand over her eyes, the other over yours. You shake your head, stepping out of her reach. 

“Are you okay?” She asks again, just to be sure you heard it. 

“Yeah.” You respond but, sure enough, your voice cracks and shakes. So you try again: “yes.”

Ellie still does not quite seem to believe you. Her eyes rake over your body and you’re quick to stuff your hands behind your back. Perhaps, had you not done that, she wouldn’t have even noticed. But you did, and so she does. She steps closer and you resist the urge to strangle her—it’s a good thing that your hands are already behind your back because there is a cut of concern creasing her brow. And it makes you want to vomit, though your entire body feels warm under her gaze and in her proximity. Which only makes you more infuriated.

“Is it the water?” She asks.

You don’t know why, but you nod. You breathe through your mouth, only to end up drinking in a deep gulp of rain. It tastes bitter with smoke and smog; it tastes like war. You gag on it, tipping your head forward just in case you actually do vomit. Ellie steps closer, but keeps her distance enough so that you’re never touching. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, but your eyelids twitch and flutter with the same damned spasms that torment the rest of your body. Your toes, your fingers, your wrists, your stomach, your neck. Every last inch of you is consumed by the terror of being shocked again—of being shoved under the water and shocked. Over and over again while you’re questioned on Thirteen; and on Ellie. 

If she weren’t so warm, so familiar, she would be dead by now. If your body didn’t feel so at-ease with her, you’d have long since ripped the life from her lungs. Alas, the comfort which her proximity provides is seemingly the only thing keeping you from tipping over the edge. Without her here, you’d doubtlessly be on the ground. You’d be sobbing and screaming and shaking. But she is keeping you sane without even touching you. It makes you wonder how good it would feel if she were touching you. Repulsive, no doubt, but warm. So warm.

Just as you shift forward, your boot scuffing the rubble underfoot as you aim to close the distance, a blinding light is flashed directly into your eyes. It is so sickeningly familiar: being with Ellie in a decimated city while soldiers surround you. But you cannot place where the memory is from. Where the pain that blooms in your chest is rooted from.

Ellie seems to feel it too, because she wastes no time in shoving you behind her. You slip on the mud from her ferocity, having to brace a hand on the backs of her shoulders to steady yourself. She is rigid all over, fingers already grazing the fletching of one of her arrows. Your own hand twitches toward the sword at your hip, but it spasms and you’re cruelly reminded of your incompetence. You hope Ellie is a decent enough fighter. Because these soldiers aren’t wearing black. They’re all white.

“Ellie Williams,” says one of them, their voice coming tinny through some sort of a mask. “You are under arrest for conspiring and abetting against the Capitol. Under presidential decree, you are hereby subjected to imprisonment without a trial.”

She moves with an elegance which only an archer could embody. The swiftness with which she handles the bow and nocks an arrow is almost too quick to notice. And you’re standing right behind her. You wonder how terrifying she ought to be to the Peacekeepers, who can barely see through the rain and through their masks. You wonder if they even see the arrowhead pointed directly at them. You doubt it, seeing as you’re both wearing all-black clothing with all-black weapons.

“If you show signs of defiance, we will have to–” The arrow is sticking out of his throat before he can finish his sentence. The Peacekeeper gurgles, clutching uselessly at his blood-sputtering neck before collapsing to the ground. The rain will clean him.

The rest of the Peacekeepers are quick to react to the blatant attack. In unison, they each remove a metal sphere from their belts, pull a pin from the top, then roll them on the ground toward you. Ellie spins around, shoving you hard in the shoulders and telling you to: “fucking run!”

Of all things you’d been forced into forgetting, the time you spent with your mother is unfortunately not among them. You remember each session very vividly. Every weapon she’d thrusted into your hands, every step she corrected with the slamming of her cane. Among the weapons, there were never any of those: small and circular and seemingly harmless—until they explode. 

You ran as far as possible before Ellie tackled you to the ground. You thought she was attacking, so you elbowed her in the ribs. But she didn’t hurt you. She just kept you pinned to the dirt like your lives depended on it. Her arms were folded over your head and her heart was thudding against your back. Then, between one breath and the next, there was a loud poof! and the impact of something detonating. But there was no pain.

Slowly, Ellie eases off of you and begins to peer around. At the loss of her weight pressing on your lungs, you suck in a deep, relieved breath. But the air is thick and it catches on the back of your tongue. A million tiny pin-pricks begin to travel down your throat. You cough, struggling to breathe. You get to your hands and knees, coughing and gagging and trying to get the pain out of your neck. 

“What– fuck what is it?” Ellie’s hands are roaming your body, feeling around for wounds. You don’t have the energy enough to shake her off, you just keep coughing. The panic in her voice is tangible, almost as heavy as the poisoned air. “What is it? Tell me! Please, just– Where is it? Where do you hurt? What–”

You grab her hand, guiding it to the base of your neck. She feels around at the skin but there is no wound. You continue to cough and you do not let go of her hand: so warm, so familiar. It ground you as your lungs struggle and struggle to get air. You begin to feel lightheaded.

“No!” She is holding you, her hands tight enough to hurt. Your arms and legs start to tremble under your weight, you start to slump toward the ground. “No, dont– Fuck! What do I do? Just tell me what to do. Tell me– tell me how to help. You were– you’re good at this, at helping. Tell me how. Stop! Don’t– don’t close your eyes. Just tell me how to help. Please…”

She’s crying. And it’s the last thing you hear before the darkness begins to swallow you.

09:45.

DISTRICT NINE.

Ellie doesn’t know what to do. She rips a piece of her shirt and wraps it around your nose and mouth, trying to filter the air. But if the air were infected, wouldn’t she be coughing too? 

As soon as she is able enough to do so, Ellie calls up to Tommy through the earpiece, her voice sounding rueful even to her own ears. “Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me? There– there are Peacekeepers down here, and– Tommy, you need to come down here. They released some sort of a bomb and it– I don’t even know.”

“Ellie?” His voice grates at her eardrums, but she senses his fear all the same. God, through the speaker, he sounds almost identical to Joel. “Ellie, are y’all girls alright? Jus’ tell me if ya– fuck, we ain’t able to see nothin’ through the rain and smoke, but– but we’re gonna try to land. Follow the sound of the copter, okay? It’s loud.”

She lifts you into her arms, her legs both screaming their refusals. The first step she takes, her thighs feel numb and her feet threaten to slip. She walks slowly and carefully over the rubble, aware that the Peacekeepers can’t be too far. She thanks Marlene silently for having chosen black uniforms, knowing that she blends into the darkness much better than the Peacekeepers do. She will see them before they see her.

Once the whirring can be heard overhead, Ellie rushes toward it. She almost slips thrice, thanking the heavens times that she didn’t drop you, nor fall and crack her head open. As she gets closer to the lowering copter, she can hear the Peacekeepers flocking toward it as well. It is lit up like a lighthouse, beckoning all wounded ships forward. And oh, isn’t everyone a wounded ship when assessed closely enough?

Their flashlights flicker through the fog and rain, creating beams telling her exactly where they are. Not that she can avoid them anyway. She cannot dive to the ground for cover, not with you in her arms; nor can she get her bow for protection. Her only option is to run as quickly as the rain allows and hope that she reaches the copter before the Peacekeepers do. 

She can just barely make out the shake of the hovercraft before the gunfire starts. Thirteen’s soldiers are firing into the fog, aiming for the flashlights. Ellie does not know how many Peacekeepers there are, but she can hear a great many bodies dropping. And then, once they understand that the copter is not on their side, they start to return fire. Ellie tucks your head close to her chest, hunches her shoulders protectively, and continues to run straight for the copter. If it were just her life at stake, she’d have long since given up. But it’s yours too, and your life is the most precious thing to her in the world.

Her boots slide in the mud and she just barely manages to catch herself on the side of the copter before helping the soldiers to haul you inside. They are still exchanging fire as she climbs through the door, her movements slowed and weak. 

So, really, it should be no surprise when the bullet hits her in the center of her back.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist @luvsturniolo.     @ilovewomenfr.     @zzombiegirl.     @elliessweetheart.     @shawangel.     @defnoteleonor.     @fatbootymuncher.     @autisticintr0vert.  @ellieslittleslutt. @sawaagyapong. @firefly-ace

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 series taglist @kirammanss.  @dsybouquet.   @serraphinm.   @smellovie.   @sakiigami.   @opt1mistic.   @spacecinnamonbuns.   @clouded-whispers.    @sappicarribean.   @corpsebridenightmare.     @jaliyah-s.    @pixiec4t.    @chappellroankisser.   @mxquelo.    @vahnilla.     @moshuka.    @cupidluvzz.    @elliewilliamssrealgf.   @monki-nat.    @tmbpyv.     @prwttiestbunnies.    @jinxtheplanet.    @sevslover   @iheartclairo66.    @rxreaqia.    @abby-anderson-wifey.    @imdeletingthisaccount1. @sillyloafff. @d1psht. @chappellroankisser. @aphrodyk3. @lovececillie. @fleurdels. @avalovesmus1c. @201sweetgiverface. @lovestay-woozi17. @seasonsofchaos

[almadellie]

lazy mornings with ellie and how she's always cold, like, cold hands, cold feet, cold nose. she's cold like a frog!

ℒu's note ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ i'm almost three months late, sorry for the delay nonnie... didn't like how it turned out but i hope you do ♡ ݁˖ 488 wc

Ellie is brought back from her sleep, wiggling within her bed. Her eyelids are heavy. It's empty. Frigid. Her eyes flicker open with a nuance of vexation, eyebrows wrinkling with the discontent of noticing your absence. Sluggishly, she sits up, the sheets rustling quietly. Her gaze scans the room, rummaging for any signs of you. Her teeth start to chatter, when she perceives the faint noises coming from the kitchen— the sound of the water boiling in the kettle and the porcelain clinking are unmistakable, tied to your daily routine— you're likely making something to drink. Your favorite coffee, maybe. "Babe?" She calls, met seconds later by the sight of you. You parsimoniously pad into the space, holding a tea cup. The steam billows in mild, gentle waves— she can already envisage how hot the contact will be when you touch her, a longing sort of feeling spreading through her. You settle beside her, and she awaits you to leave the beverage aside to cling to you. Just like she had been in her slumber. The second you place the infusion in the nightstand, getting under the covers with her, she doesn't waste a minute— forthwith, her legs wrap around your hips, and while pulling the comforter over the both of you she draws you insistently near in order to rest her head on your collarbone. "You're warm," she rasps out. Her hands sneak under your shirt, relishing in the warmth of your dorsal region. The contact with your skin causes a violent shudder to permeate your body, it's as if there's two big ice cubes melting on you— even if her hands are tender and soft, the pleasant texture doesn't make up for the fact that there's no difference between hers and a reptile's touch. Not the best sensation on chilly days. "And you're too cold." You hug her tight, placing your hand in her elbow pit as an attempt to requite the heat loss— she's always warmer in there. Red blossoms in her cheeks. She nuzzles your breasts, hankering to hear the steady beat of your heart. "Because I don't hold you enough." She caresses the small of your back, the almost unnoticed hairs she loves to pet rising in response. You smile, hands finding solace in the fabric of her sweater. Slowly, you rub her sides. She knows it's no use— the moment the friction stops creating heat, she will revert to normal— but your attempts at keeping her warm are winsome. You only want her comfort. She buries her face in the crook of your neck, lips pecking you. Her nose presses against your throat, inhaling as though you´re a source of fresh air— the faintly sweet scent, a gentle mix of perfume and your unique essence, was indeed the purest form of air she could consume. A content hum slips past her mouth as you shiver, her temperature gradually beginning to equal yours.