celeste ström ; district one

"You're a strange one." The warden struggles to speak, voice nothing more than a wheezing whisper forced from between thinned lips. Even if it were meant to be an insult Celeste doesn't take it as one, leaning back into unyielding metal of the fold-out chair they'd set out for her. The cloth of the seat is torn, bleeding yellow from neglected stains. She had refused the seat at first but the white coats on either side of her made for a convincing argument.

"Five families in four weeks - a new record." Her simpering tone is, in fact, mocking. Celeste would have come to that conclusion even if the curl of the old woman's lips didn't make it obvious. "One of them called me in tears, Celeste. This woman fought in the war and yet I've never heard her sound so broken." Her eyebrows pinch together, an attempt at forcing pity where there is none.

They have that in common, then, a fucking cavern where their insides are meant to be. Only difference is one of them feels the need to fake them. She's a liar, then, Celeste doesn't have much patience for those. The warden shuffles toward her, lumbering steps in spite of fragile bone and build. A smile this wide, from this close, can only ever be a bad omen.

She squeezes her eyes shut so she need only hear the sound of a palm across her cheek, hoping that dulls the pain that follows suit. Acrylic nails dig into her jaw, pulling it up toward her bared teeth and Celeste only opens her eyes long enough to memorize the cruelty in that crystal gaze - "This next home will be your last. One way or another."

She still doesn't speak but her jaw clenches reflexively, "I implore you to remember that there's nobody left alive who cares about a sad little thing like you. Least of all Panem. It wouldn't be hard to convince a patriotic soul that the resources wasted on you are better spent elsewhere."

Celeste blinks, her eyes stinging and her throat heavy. "Do you understand me, Ms. Ström?"

She nods.

Of course she does.