spear my heart | stella oneshot

s t e l l a ; 

Head in her hands, a quick touch to her shoulder and a squeeze by Ex, and Stella was rooted to her seat. Ten minutes before the beginning of the eightieth games, her stomach in knots. She had sat before her stylist that morning, the light from the mirrors in the dressing room too bright. She was chewing on her lip, her fingers clutched to her necklace, her leg bouncing up and down withnerves.

Makeup splashed across her cheeks, smokey eyes and red lips, but not before a kiss from Ex that she was there, she would stay there, even after the chaos of the bloodbath. The noise was too loud and she was falling through space again. The cacophony of sounds and her heart beating out of pace.

Five minutes to go and Flickerman was recounting the biographies of the tributes, always ending with district twelve. Reminding Stella of her charges. Reminding her of her failures. Reminding her of her duty.

The day bloomed with an uninvited dawn that threatened the starlight and she was not ready. She had not had enough time. They were not ready, but perhaps that was the trick. Perhaps those fleeting moments, smiles, interactions were never going to be enough to save them. Their futures already written. Their fates sealed in the bitter taste of steel and blood.

Two minutes to go and the champagne in the flute she is dangling in her left hand is growing warm. She drinks it quickly as the cameras move into place. The tributes on their pedestals. Honored. Treasured. Sacrificed. 

The gong rings and Stella rises, the din of the room behind her falling silent as she stands, black dress too tight on her frame. Arms clutched to her chest as she tosses away the empty glass. Aranica is no doubt lurking in the shadows, watching everything. Ex is a welcome sight next to her, but Stella knows that the woman is itching for an interview from any of the Victors assembled nearby. In due time, love. In due time.

The stylists are already drowning themselves in a deluge of champagne as congratulations for a job well done and he games have barely fucking started and Stella wants to scorch it all. The melodic calm in the moments after the smoke clears and it is chaos. Shopping carts and stilettos and designer gowns for a funeral. For a reckoning.

Their hands, weapon-less, leaving holes on each other, craters of destruction as twenty-four scramble across the dark asphalt. Already doused in kerosene, they are all matches clad in blacks and golds waiting for a spark. Bright colors and costumes that are so impractical, of course the Capitol would make them wear that. Anything to get a laugh. Anything to tip the odds away from life and towards death.

Carter dashes in. Of course he does. His arms swinging as he picks up and axe and Stella feels calm for a brief moment. Until his steel finds the calf of Hell and the room spins. Stella curses, the fuck hanging in the air as the heaviness of the breath around her hangs, her mouth dry like sandpaper. Not that the girl wasn't asking for it. Foolish. Foolish girl. 

”What the actual fuck?” Her arms no longer around her chest, no longer grasping at her throat and she can taste the bile rising in her mouth. Carter is yelling to his district partner to stop, but the girl won’t listen. You have got to be kidding me. Her sword ringing through the air, catching on the thigh of the boy from Nine, but she is outnumbered. Carter and Max make easy work of her - Carter turning the feral smile of Hell’s cheek into a permanent gash, her blood disappearing on the black asphalt.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Stella chants. A mantra. A prayer. The ash in her throat curling around her tongue and she runs a hand through her hair, the tight blonde curls staying perfectly in place even as her brittle heart crumbles. This was not how it was supposed to go. 

And then too quickly, it is over. Hell flees, battered and bleeding. Carter follows shortly after - a rainbow flag tied around his neck that would serve as a tourniquet in a pinch. Pushing a metal cart that carries the bleeding form of an ally, they can rest and tend to their wounds for the night after abandoning the wealth. Their plan to stay until the end dissolving in a fight in which they were outnumbered. They wouldn't have had legs to flee on had they stayed.

Stella knew she had hands to shake and wallets to open to keep her tributes alive for another day. Mercy comes costly here, blood like gold, counted by the ounce. Its over. Its done. At least for now.

She collapses on a chair behind her, breath returning to normal, the leather welcoming and cold to the touch. An Avox approaches with a tray and Stella smiles, grabbing for a champagne flute. She tosses it back and rises, smoothing the dress as the television goes to commercial. The red fading to black. The first act finished.