IV.

absentis — absent, missing, gone, away

Petrova Avolett, 20
Gamemaker; Co-Head of Muttations.

It feels a relief to have the night off.

At first Petrova had been loathe to leave the Control Room, even to sleep. Of course she could trust Torryn to handle things in their department while she was gone, and of course it was sensible to spend some time away from the place. Now getting away seemed as if it couldn't happen often enough.

The constant visits from the President, from those closest to her, the eyes watching their every move, every breath. Petrova felt as if any moment a knife was going to be plunged between their shoulder-blades.

For once, watching the progression of the Games wasn't the most nerve-wracking thing about being in that room, no matter how far along it got.

Petrova resists the urge to bury her face into the pillows when she hears a knock at the door—there's only two people it could be, and there's no use in avoiding either of them. "What?" she mumbles, eyes remaining closed as the door creaks open, slippered feet crossing the room to her bedside. Without asking, Naevys slips her hands beneath the cover and scoots beneath it until their shoulders are pressed together, breathing too-loud for the otherwise comforting hum of the room.

Her sister's rabbiting pulse is evident through the flimsy silk that she calls a nightshirt. "Just spit it out, Nae," she insists.

"I don't want to bother you," Naevys whispers.

"You're in my bed."

"Is that a crime?"

"I'm trying to sleep!"

"Then sleep!" Naevys insists. As if she has any shot at that with all the constant fidgeting. Petrova rolls over, jabbing her sister hard in the arm.

They do this often—the waiting, the staring, practical competitions to see who will give first, if one of them will give at all. Soft-hearted though she may be, Naevys has more resolve than people would typically give her credit for.

Not more resolve than Petrova, of course. But not most people do.

"If she tells the victors tomorrow, for real…"

"She's going to," Petrova answers.

"So…"

"So what?" she asks, bordering on exasperation.

"That will make it real," Naevys says finally. "Once the victors know, there's no going back. Even if they're made to keep quiet, you don't think they'll tell someone? Even their families? That type of spread doesn't get put under control ever again."

Because it's not supposed to. Because the President is serious, has been since she first interrupted their day and told them all in the first place. If the inner-workings of the Presidential circle are already in the loop, then the victors are simply the next step.

She's going to end the Games, regardless of what anyone else wants or wishes for.

"Why do you sound so stressed, Nae?" Petrova wonders. It's a miracle her sister hasn't worried herself to death, simply imploded because of everything spinning out of control around them. She'd be the type. A perfect example, really.

"How can you not be?" Naevys tosses back. "You've seen Elide. She's hell-bent on making sure this goes on, which means we have to—"

Petrova kicks the blankets aside—tries to, at least, but her legs only wrap up in them further. She throws herself as close to the side of the bed as she can imagine, just barely managing to flick the lamp on. Soft yellow light washes over the room, and still Naevys squints. She splutters wildly as Petrova grabs a hold of her arms, dragging her upright.

"Listen to me," she insists. "Are you listening?"

"I'm listening," Naevys manages, blinking away the hair clinging to her eyelashes.

"We have to do nothing. Not for Elide, not for anyone else. We're going to go along with whatever the President says and we're going to fucking smile while we do it. You hear me?"

"I do, but…"

"But nothing, Naevys," she repeats. "You're not an idiot. If Elide keeps on like this, we all know what's going to happen, and I will not let the same thing happen to you."

"I don't want it to happen to any of us," Naevys whispers.

"That's not in our control, and you—"

She freezes as the hall floor beyond her vision seems to creak, just the slightest noise. Naevys as well straightens, blinking owlishly, as if remembering for the first time that they aren't truly online. "She was asleep when I left—"

Petrova hushes her, sliding off the bed and inching towards the door, pulling it open only enough to peer out. The hall remains dark and empty, but the couch that Theora often crashes on during these infrequent off-nights is strangely devoid of her. Instead she is silhouetted in the neon lights of the apartment's front window, head bowed as she speaks into her phone.

They meet each-other's eyes at the same time. Theora goes stiff, lips ceasing to move as she realizes she's being watched. She feels the sick thud of her heart in her chest, as if she's witnessing something wrong, something unnatural.

But Theora turns away, and she can see no more. Petrova closes the door and wipes her face clean before she turns around, as if having seen nothing at all.

"Are we okay?" Naevys asks.

"We're not doing anything wrong," she hisses. None of them are. Whoever Theora's talking to, whatever conversation they're having in here… is self-preservation so cruel? It has been Petrova-and-Naevys, Naevys-and-Petrova, for too long now. If she has it her way it will continue to be so long into the future, regardless of what happens around them.

These people around her, she loves them. But before her now is her sister, the only blood that remains to her, and like hell if Petrova isn't going to prioritize that above anything else.

"We will be okay," Naevys says quietly, her voice small. "Right, P?"

In that moment they're nine years old all over again and their parents and dead are gone and her little sister by seven minutes is clutching her hand, whispering under her breath. It sounds suspiciously like an ancient prayer, like something that should not exist. As if she's begging to make it.

She grabs her sister's knotted hands from where they lay in her lap, squeezing them tight. "We will be. I promise."

Petrova is not a perfect person. She creates monsters and she unleashes them on people. She has never done good the way people are supposed to. But she keeps her promises.

There is no failing in that.

Araceli Robinette, 19
Citizen of District Four

The day is strangely overcast, too-brisk for a place like Four.

She can see in the eyes of the Capitolites that arrive on their front stoop that they, too, are unused to it, unable to conduct themselves in typical fashion.

It's not that cold, she wants to tell them. Suck it up.

But she doesn't. Araceli opens the front door as expected and beckons them inside, the flock spreading throughout the entryway and living room and kitchen in a matter of seconds. Her brother lurks in the shadow of the fridge, though he's not small enough to be hidden by it entirely. He never has been.

A member of the prep team reaches out with a wandering finger, crooking towards a strand of the curly hair that nearly brushes his shoulder, and Tarisan only just manages to jerk out of their reach.

"Is this everyone?" the man holding the largest camera asks, looking between the two of them as if expecting more people to appear out of thin air.

They haven't even introduced themselves. She doesn't know any of these people, and yet she's expected to invite them into her house, to talk and get along with them, to speak of her little brother as if he's some sort of revered hero.

He's twelve. He's in over his head and Araceli can only wonder when he's going to die, and yet they don't want the truth.

She swallows, crossing her arms. "My mother is—she's not well. She's in her room. If she has to speak, I ask that you let me go get her, and explain to her—"

"Oh, miss, nothing to worry about!" the man exclaims. "Whatever you need to do, we're here for you. Don't forget that."

Araceli blinks. Still at the opposite side of the room, Tarisan frowns.

They've heard stories, of course. It's hard not to. Four has kids in the final eight all the damn time. The Capitolites are pushy or they're vulgar or they're downright awful and very rarely does anyone come out of it with anything good to say. Araceli has been dreading this day since the moment Bob got up on that stage.

"I… thank-you?" she tries. The man nods, his smile undeniably gracious.

She remains still as the crew begins to unpack, lights unfurling into the corners of the room, cameras being positioned everywhere she can see. Tarisan edges up beside her, still with that same frown on his face.

"This is weird," he mutters, and she nods silently, watching as the chaos swirling about the room gradually begins to settle. The closer they get to their set-up being done, the more inevitable it becomes. Araceli has sat up night after night rehearsing things to herself, repeating her family's story, and yet it never sounds quite right. Bob had made it sound so simple, so easy. How could he have that gift, up on a stage in front of thousands, when Araceli couldn't even say it in their living room?

Dad gone two years ago. Mom fading for over a year now, less and less of her recognizable by the day. And the cowardly daughter at the heart of it all, who should have sacrificed herself last year for the good of the family and yet couldn't bear the thought of it.

She wouldn't have had a chance. Not against twenty-three other Fours, and not in that final arena. She was never the fastest, the strongest, the most ruthless.

Then again, neither was her little brother.

He's in that arena because of her. No matter who tells her that Bob was capable of making his own choices, she'll never believe otherwise. If Araceli had just done her damn job maybe everything would be halfway to okay.

Tarisan yanks at her hand, curling her fingers into her palm before she can continue picking at the skin at her knuckles until they're raw. "Go sit with mom," he commands. "I'll bite the bullet and go first."

She doesn't argue—most who see them would assume Araceli to be the oldest based solely on how they carry themselves, but it's in rare moments like these that she hears the authority in his voice, the protection. Araceli flees down the hallway as if being chased, tucking herself away into the safety behind her mother's bedroom door. The woman who lives in here may be but a shell of who Araceli knows she can be, but she still feels security in these four walls, as if she could crawl into bed beside her mother and be well-protected from nightmares.

That she cannot do. She takes her usual spot instead, the horrendously flower-patterned ottoman in the corner, balancing precariously atop it as she crosses her legs. Her mother lies unaware, asleep, and Araceli prays it remains that way. They don't need to speak to her. It would only cause her confusion and further pain.

Mom used to call Bob her happy little accident. An accident he may have been, but he truly was the most joyous part of their lives. He was so rarely upset—even as a baby he hardly cried, preferring to babble and coo the better part of the day away. Where Araceli worried and Tarisan grumbled, Bob was simply their ray of light.

She did not want to lose him. She didn't know if she could lose him.

"Come home," she whispered to no one. Even if her mother was listening, she hasn't asked about Bob since the day he left. Perhaps she's already forgotten him. Everyone around Araceli is preparing for the worst in one way or another.

A universe presents itself in which it is simply her and Tarisan, the rest of their family dead and gone. She wants for a better future, but she's not sure if one can exist.

Besides, it's too late to hope for one. They're all already gone.

Oh, to be two young people on entirely opposite sides of the world. In theory. Or something.

I guess this one is less... info-dumpy than the others, but idk. It felt right to include some POVs that are still attached but less focal. Unsurprisingly nasty monster girl Petrova has always been my fave little background Gamemaker and Araceli, well... that was just kinda funny, if you know how that all ends. I know funny is a choice word though.

Until next time.