{more than I do // closed

{bio}

I need a hero
I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night
He's gotta be strong
And he's gotta be fast
And he's gotta be fresh from the fight

Rovena Mephistopheles —[/i]

Nursing a broken heart was a favorite weekend activity of Rovena Mephistopheles's; or, if not a favorite, it was certainly something she did on a regular basis. Her little sister had once upon a time informed her that the older girl operated like clockwork: Saturdays were spent moping; Sundays were spent scouting; Monday through Thursday were spent giddily and blissfully in love, and by the time Friday night rolled around, she was single again, ready to repeat the cycle. Having no good rebuttal to this remark other than the fact that she'd had a handful of relationships that were at least two weeks long, as opposed to following the hebdomadal cycle that Cerise had proposed, Rovena had opted smack the tween upside the head before angrily storming out to brood over her latest failed relationship.

She and her siblings were vary rarely on speaking terms; no one in the family, it seemed, saw eye to eye on anything. If they didn't stay out of each other's way, this would've posed quite a problem; but fortunately their house was rarely occupied by anyone besides Cerise, who was always doing Ripred knew what in the basement with their father's old printing equipment. Their mother spent much of her time working — always had, since their dad was executed — and Rovena and Derringer, Cerise's twin, both spent as much time as possible away from home, Rovena fawning over some man, and Derringer working out, trying to force his twelve-year-old body to become one (or, at least, that's what it seemed like to Rovena, who could barely wrap her head around the fact that anyone would want to compete in the Hunger Games — he insisted he'd be a Career tribute.)

On that particular Saturday, Rovena was up to her usual sulking. She sat at the edge of the footbridge that overlooked the small, polluted river — the most romantic spot that the highly industrial District Three had to offer. Her legs dangled over the edge, the wind repeatedly tossing her hair in front of her face. For awhile, she struggled against the breeze, trying to keep her dark tresses out of her eyes, but eventually realized the futility of her repeated batting at it and simply gave up. It would be so much easier if the wind would just blow one direction. That way, she could just turn to face it and let it sweep her hair off her shoulders and away from her face, the way it did in the magazines from the Capitol — the ones she was forced to keep stashed away, since Cerise had taken up tearing them apart for the print collection she kept in the basement. Rovena sighed. How nice it would be to have a normal family.

And how nice it would be to live in District One, with all the glitz and the gemstones and the nice, normal, charismatic people who appreciated beauty. Or District Two, with the big, muscled boys, the handsome ones with the almost-too-confident faces. Or District Four, with their deep tans and the sea breeze that she was certain blew everyone's hair in the proper direction (unlike the stupid six-ways-at-once wind that was presently plaguing her.) And if all the guys in District 10 looked like Mace Emberstatt, count her in. Anywhere but stupid District 3, where the people were scrawny and quiet and bookish, and where everyone looked at you like you were stupid or something if you couldn't do square roots in your head. Like she was supposed to remember those. How nice it would be to live in the Capitol, where the only thing you had to worry about was if your dress from last week was out of style and if you had time to get your skin recolored before the big Day-That-Ends-In-Y feast that evening.

She didn't kid herself that moving there would be possible, of course, so she maintained her reasonable aspirations of the nearby districts. Rovena, of course, had no idea how she'd make the move happen, but she knew everything would work out. Maybe she could even date a victor some day, a big handsome muscled fellow with a few lean scars and all the money and status she could dream of. That was an attainable goal, she was certain of it.

The oldest Mephistopheles child stood up slowly and dusted herself off — it was a good habit of hers, just in case there was dust on her clothing — disappointed that she hadn't yet been whisked off by some tall, dark and handsome knight in shining armor, or that she hadn't been joined by even a nice boy with a decent face. She'd never admit it to herself, but Rovena's standards were not all that high — if they even existed at all — and she wasn't above a tiny bit of manipulation to get someone's attention (though she wasn't bright enough to be effective at this for any long duration.) Especially since she couldn't play hard-to-get; it took too long, and quite frankly, she wasn't. She could, however, play damsel in distress.

She gathered her courage about her and made certain that she wasn't too terribly attached to the clothing she was wearing that day, then began walking along the wall on the edge of the footbridge, arms outstretched to feign balance (though she had no intention of keeping steady.) The rest was made simple for the girl by her lack of coordination: gradually, she leaned to one side, throwing herself off-balance, until at last, she gave a high squeal and tumbled into the murky water below.

The water was much icier than Rovena had projected. She gave an involuntary gasp when she pulled her head above the turbid water, a shiver working its way over her body. Still, in no way did her scheme strike her as idiotic; she was certain someone would be around to rescue her soon, though she kept her cries for help in reserve for the time being — no need for anyone to think she was desperate.
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