Sol Zolotov

Vice President of Panem

he/she

Of all the presidents Sol could've served under, he certainly seems to have chosen the most repulsive.

Or so she likes to tell herself, ruminating in the corners of the 80th Annual Sponsorship Gala (in other words, a place for the richest and most important members of the Capitol to feel like they have any impact on their beloved tradition).

The President, or Laurent, as she calls him, is occupied with some ludicrous woman dressed to resemble a tropical bird. He coos and grimaces compliantly at her increasing gestures, nodding violently when she grows passionate.

And they say we're a dictatorship, Sol thinks sourly.

As she makes her way to snatch a third (or a fifth?) flute of champagne from a nearby server, she notices Laurent escape the grasp of the macaw-shaped woman and head towards her.

Christ.

He offers her a slimy little smile, and she gives a far prettier one in return.

"Sol!" he says. "So glad you showed up!"

Where the fuck else could I be? she genuinely wonders, but she nods. "You know the parties have always been my favorite part!"

He gives that uncomfortable laugh of his, closely resembling Sol's cat when it coughs up a hairball. "Very true! Honestly, this is such a great turnout." He leans forward, as if letting her into a little secret. "The people are absolutely adoring Constantine's new plans. They're so excited for this year!"

She hums noncommittally. "That's good."

"Well, only if he gives them a good show, of course." Laurent's voice grows a shade somber. "You know him better than me, don't you? I hope he knows how badly things would end up if we were to waste our donors' money."

Sol tightens her grip around her glass, just slightly. "He isn't the kind of man to disappoint."

"Why of course! I'm sure he has something special cooked up for us."

"It'll be better than last year, that's for sure," Sol says, hoping to steer the conversation away from threats against Constantine's life. He's about the only genuine friend she's made in this hell hole, and she's in no rush to see him die at the whims of a human carpet.

Laurent sighs, ever the dramatic. "Last year was positively catastrophic. We still need to figure out what to do with the… situation in Four."

The situation, of course, being the Chosen of the Sun Tide, some sort of religious movement that had taken Four by storm in the last few years. They'd dismissed it as crazies being crazies - the Peacekeepers could keep things under control, until some scrawny teen from their ranks volunteered as tribute. This crushed, obviously, a loyal trainee's entire dreams, but most importantly the entire Career betting system that the Capitol elites reveled in.

In short, it was a veritable disaster.

Worse, even, was this girl claimed to have been chosen by God to become Victor of the 79th Annual Hunger Games - and won.

The idea of divine intervention being laughable, it was nonetheless impossible to refute her claim, and the risk of more fanatical volunteers only grew.

"Is the girl adapting to life in the Victor's Village?" Sol asks.

Uneasy, Laurent shifts. "Our agents report that Scylla hasn't moved out of her house since she was dropped off - a whole week. I'm not sure I want to know what's going on there."

Swallowing back some remark about him being the President and him being scared of a nineteen year old, Sol takes a careful sip of her champagne.

(Truth be told, she isn't fully reassured by Scylla either. She'd seen the girl's Games, seen her cut into people with her bare hands, armed with nothing but a stick and her nails, an angry wraith of ice and blood. She still feels a chill in the back of her spine at the memory.)

"We need to make sure she stays under our control," she finally says. "Make sure we know the end goal of this cult and stop them from volunteering further."

Laurent breathe-laughs again. "Easier said than done. They've gone completely off the map since her victory." He paused, then lowers his voice. "Listen, the Victor's Gala will be next week, and she'll be forced to attend. It would be great if you could do me a favor and go too, see if you can get anything out of her."

Finally something interesting to do. Sol gives him another charming smile. "I'll see what I can do," is all she says.

"Thanks so much. I'll see you around!"

And with that, he was finally gone.

Truth be told, Sol's glad to have been given a task. Paperwork was hardly what he was here for, and hours in his suffocating office approving the merchandise of rocks from Two was really not fulfilling.

A good story, however? He could work with that.

As he likes to believe, anything you say ends up in his ear by the end of the day.

Plucking yet another drink from some avox, he makes his way towards the only interesting person left in this room.

"Dr. Constantine Athanasios! Long time no see," she greets playfully.

The imposing man lurking by the appetizer table turns around, bored expression turning kind at her sight. "Mr. Zolotov! I'm glad to see a familiar face in this crowd."

Sol rolls her eyes. "Christ, are you still gonna call me that?"

"I prefer to be polite."

"Evidently."

Con's mouth wavers into a slight smile. For a man as charismatic as him, he's certainly very content in not displaying much of it. As far as she could tell, he's been cloistered in the corners of the room, an awkward child without a friend, avoiding the most boisterous guests, leaning against his cane as if trying to disappear.

"Not a fan of parties, huh?" She teases, downing another glass. She's starting to feel a little giddy, the flashing lights of the room resembling sparkling stars to her eyes. Maybe she should stop, but apparently you only live once.

"Not a fan of the people, more like," he responds with a pained sigh.

She frowns. "They don't have loud people back in Three?"

"Oh, they have those anywhere," Con says with the air of a connoisseur. "No, I simply have a strong distaste for the people I'm supposed to bootlick. The money people, if you will."

"Aww, well you like me, don't ya, Con?" she trills, scanning the room for another glass, or with a bit of luck, something with more kick. What passes as liquor around these parts is positively baffling.

"Unfortunately."

"And anyways, these people are all here for you. And your art."

"Which is ridiculous," he says, voice now sharp like a knife. Con's gaze has gone dark, and Solo realizes she's treaded too far. "I don't understand why we need these cronies to pay for the Games. It's the main tradition of our country, for fuck's sake!"

Uneasiness growing in her stomach, Sol knows the Games have never been an easy topic for Con. Winning one at the cost of his left leg, only to become the maestro of a next… she'd rather not imagine the logic he's operating with.

(And she's heard of the rumors, of course. Of his labs, and his experiments, and his inventions.)

(She might have the power to see him executed, but no amount of legislative powers could save her from whatever horrors he's concocted.)

(He's simply not the kind of man she'd like to see angry.)

Brushing everything aside, Sol switches to a topic she knows will brighten his mood. "So, how's Anansi doing?"

"Ah, you know," Con says, though his expression softens immediately at the mention of his lover. Sol would find that sort of sentimentality endearing (perhaps even tempting) if she didn't know the details of their partnership. "He's… dealing with it. It was supposed to be our grand opening, as you know. Us, together, as gamemakers - finally. Only for him to get chosen for mentoring duty at the last minute."

Sol's never been particularly interested in the details of the mentorship process, as it was mostly Victors already out of fashion relieving some bad times, but it did sound tedious. Especially coming from Three, that only seemed to produce flighty little twigs. It was a miracle the District had managed to win consecutively, though of course Anansi's win could largely be attributed to Con and whatever sorcery of his he'd performed.

"Hopefully next year, you guys'll be able to run together," she says, still trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Con gives her a sad smile, as if destiny was simply bound to hurt him. "I'm afraid not, since next year will be my turn to teach some child to survive." Finally stepping out of his melancholic musings, he draws a little sigh. "But ah, I mustn't bore you with my tragic soliloquies. It is a party, after all."

"Oh, trust me, you don't bore me at all," Sol winks for good measure.

Constantine returns it with one of his little half-smiles. "Well," he says, beginning to turn away. "I'm afraid I must be going - my laboratory isn't a very patient creature, and I've still work to do if I want to impress these people in a few weeks. It was quite good hearing from you, Mr. Zolotov."

With that, he makes his way out of the room, dignified despite his bad leg. Sol watches him walk away, bemused. What a strange little man.

Then, she turns her attention back into the bustling technicolor heart of the party. She still had a thirst for something with a bit of kick that hadn't been quenched, and the night was still young.

Sinking into the melding mass of people, Sol resumes his eternal search for something worth his while.

Scylla Isvara

Victor of the 79th Hunger Games

she/they

It's been 168 hours, 32 minutes since Scylla has been dropped off in this cursed place, and she still can't shake off the feeling that someone's watching her.

The nights are the worst part.

When the soft buzz of cars driving past and people walking dogs slowly fades out, taking the sun with them. When the shadows of her new home grow, tangle, shift behind her eyes. When the corners blur together and the walls loom to close, taking the air out of the room, suffocating against her chest.

It's strange.

The arena felt better.

In a place meant to kill them, they still felt alive. When the ice would numb out their skin and reach their bones, when their mouth was filled with bloody stubs instead of teeth, when their nails found flesh to make a home in, they at least knew they were still breathing.

(Just barely. But still breathing.)

But here, in this suburban paradise nestled atop a hill, Scylla couldn't tell you if their heart was still beating. Maybe they'd died after all, cut down by some teenager more rabid than her, and she'd bled out all nice and crimson on the snow.

Yet, the sun still rose after hours of feverish dreams and trembling and waiting for monsters. So no such luck, it seemed.

Just now, a glimmer of light peeked through the blinds she'd shut the night before (that way she can't be watched), painting a sickly rose color onto her home.

Home was a generous word for it. Though it was her new official residence, and it was evidently better than whatever filth she lived in back home, nothing about it welcomed her with open arms. Its ceiling stretched high above her, taking bends that surely had no necessity. The living room was a nice mahogany table and a couch the color of steel, and their bed a color of ash. It was as if it waited for Scylla to give it a touch of their own, blank canvas waiting for their paintbrush.

Which was fucking nice, but nobody'd bothered to give them any damn paint.

As far as they were concerned, the most important part had been to get out of the arena alive and breathing, no matter the cost. So they'd taken a branch and hunted through a frozen wasteland, searching for signs of life and warming herself on their blood. She killed and slaughtered till she forgot what it meant, she uttered a prayer when the sun was weak in the sky and let it carry her through the day.

They'd done everything the Chosen had asked for. They'd excelled beyond Adrien's wishes, they'd shown Panem what a fucking saint looked like, and here they were. Drowning alone in a pretty little mansion.

She'd been promised salvation and she leapt for it like a dog desperate for scraps.

(And with five bodies behind her, she still wishes someone could come and save her.)

Scylla knows they shouldn't doubt Adrien's promises. He'd said that they were the one meant to win the game and she had. She'd withstanded temperatures no one else could, gotten out alive even when the Gamemakers decided they'd provide no weapons and covers. She hadn't turned to ice when everyone else did, when everyone else should.

If that's not divine intervention, then what is?

And Adrien had warned them that getting to them after their victory could take some time. Surely He was just dealing with the repercussions back in Four. Sun knows the people there aren't receptive to the Speaker's words, and they're probably all busy holding witch hunts instead of focusing on the fact that one of their people won. As prophesied.

Scylla knows all too well that humans prefer to doubt than trust, fearing the fall more than faith.

Biting their lip, they curse under their breath. Of course, they're being stupid and giving in to their skeptic instincts. Of course Adrien will come. He promised.

(He'd told her that her mind was a gift, a powerful thing. That she didn't give in to every word people spoke, and she made sure to distinguish truth from lie.

He'd also told her it could lead her astray from her path. That'd she'd begin doubting her salvation and the words of the Sun.

Her mind was a gift she needed to keep under control.)

Drawing a sharp breath, Scylla rises hesitantly from her little fort on her couch. She hadn't been brave enough to sleep in bed just yet, where the shadows could get to her and she would be trapped and choking. She preferred the living room, where she could be sure she could run.

The sun seemed to have gotten higher in the sky now, pale rose turned golden yellow. The pressure in their chest lightens just a little, allowing her to have some air. They make their way to the windows, lift the blinds.

The sunlight dapples on their skin, warming her up like reverential kisses to her body.

(Sun-kissed. She likes that word.)

Muttering a quick thank you to the Sun for allowing her to be here today, Scylla inhales the first full breath she's let themself have since last evening.

Living to see another day. That's good enough.

She pads, barefoot, into their kitchen, hoping to find something to quell their hunger. Her stomach's still sore and queasy from last night's terror, but she'll manage, she always does.

They grab a slice of bread from the fridge and slather on some fruit jam with a knife. It's definitely not all that, but Scylla's never been much of a fuckin' chef and it's better than eating dirty twigs while you freeze your ass off.

Maybe, they wonder, I could get a private chef now that I'm the nation's jewel or whatever.

It is, honestly, the very fucking least they could do for her.

Chewing on the stale piece of bread, Scylla winces. Her new teeth still feel unnatural in her gums, like they know they don't belong in her body. In fact, the more she chews the more she remembers the taste of -

all the fucking blood and the skin and snow and the dirty and how flesh rips when you tug at it right and

fuck

They push away their plate. Scylla isn't hungry anymore.

Maybe they shouldn't eat red things anymore. Just for the time being.

Her pulse has become erratic again and her stomach is twisting itself again and the last fucking thing she needs is to run out of breath again or feel like she's dying again or or or…

She presses on the first thing she lays her eyes on, and her television flickers on. Some sort of cartoon is playing, of little inanimate objects trying to get a cat out of a tree. The colors are bright like the sun on a kaleidoscope, and Scylla feels just a bit better. Swallowing back the bundle of nerves stuck in her throat, she begins to swipe through the channels. If she's going to be living in this damn place, she'd better find something that she enjoys watching.

A blast of catchy music stops her on a channel, and she watches as the swaggering victor from Seven (what's her name again… Sylvia…?) enters a sparkling aquamarine pool in slow motion. Water drips down and around her curves as a saxophone plays, and she turns around for a pearly-white smile and a declaration that Idris Swimming Suits simply does it better!

Scylla doesn't remember much from that girl's Games, but she does remember an ax in a thirteen year old's head and some pretty flowery threats to the camera. She briefly wonders how someone as bitter as Seven is reconciling selling her body to the people who wanted her dead.

But honestly? Give her a nice paycheck and Scylla'd go for it too.

Laughing a little to themself as the channel switches to a gorey action show without any ado, they resume scrolling through channels…

Until, to their horror, they find themself staring right back at their own face.

Or is it even them? Scylla can hardly recognize the girl in the arena, crawling through the snow with bruises the size of scarabs dotting her face, a swelling on the jaw where her teeth must've been punched out of. There's something violent in her eyes as she scrabbles for grasp on the ground, something primal and animalistic.

They know far too fucking well what they're watching - a replay of their own finale. Their entire body tense with dread they know they should switch out the fucking channel before anything worse happens, but they're frozen in place, like the tendrils of ice from their nightmares have finally curled around her feet, around her arms around her heart.

She watches, breath cut short, even though she could recite by heart what happens next.

Scylla stumbles to their feet, finally, that beastly rage deforming their entire visage, a mutilated hand curled around a branch, a stream of sticky bloody saliva dripping out of her crushed mouth. She trips her way towards a shadow in the trees, towards the final piece of living flesh keeping her away from sanctity.

The camera zooms in, and she can almost feel the audience's trepidation in the way it narrows down, looking, hoping for blood.

The pressure in her stomach grows until it feels like a knife in her rib cage and she watches just long enough to see herself, with a scream only an animal can make, drive a branch into a trembling boy's head, and he begs pleasepleasepleaseplease -

Scylla shuts off the television and doubles over on the floor, the small scraps of bread and jam hurling out of her mouth.

Shaking, the taste of rot still in their stomach, all they can do is pray.

Please come save me soon.

Please.

tee hee ! sawry if this sucked i havent written in 4 years i will get better ummm with that said this is a full syot so submit if you want to ! all the info is up on my profile

no sol isn't into con she just acts this way with anyone she finds mildly interesting, yes con talks like that cause he's gay, yes this will have a lot of yaoi and yuri because im just a romantic at heart

Q1: your favorite succession character go