homecoming [chaos + elegant]

You wander.

You don’t know how far, or how long. Hours turn to days turn to weeks; time slips by, absent of you, and your broken fingers let it fall.

It’s hard being alone again. Luna’s constant presence kept the wraiths away — smothered the flames and chased the smoke, exorcised from the haunted house of your body. She made a home inside where only ghosts would gather, tended to the hearth, and ever so slowly you forgot the sharp-bright bite of fire.

But… never forever. It always came back. And now, without her gentle hands to cool your wounds, they bubble.

(Not that it matters. Not when it means it keeps her safe.)

You left her in the spring and it’s winter now, you think. Frost nips at your heels, always hungry, and you can’t outrun it anymore. Leaner and sharper than you used to be, it cuts through your threadbare clothing and into the animal quick of you.

You don’t realize you’d been walking somewhere until you find it.

District Nine hasn’t changed much from the outside. The fence is still rusted, ragged-worn, drooping under the weight of decades. Barbed wire still loops over the top, bristling with glistening teeth. Despite this, the ugly, unnatural cut of it against the leaves, trees still find a way to fan their long-fingered canopy over the other side. The familiarity is comforting, even if you’re loathe to admit it.

You struggle a little, climbing the tree you always do. Your grip isn’t what it used to be and you wrap your forearms around instead — inching yourself along the branch, agonizingly awkward, long legs picking up the slack that your upper body used to shoulder without issue.

When you fall, you land on your back. It knocks the wind out of you and you lay there in the dead grass, wheezing, sword-sharp air cold on your palate.

Home sweet home. Except… not really.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice the changes; it’s the air, first. It loses that crisp cleanness of months wandering the in-between, thickening, acrid in the back of your throat, and never leaves. No matter where you go, what you eat — it’s just… there. Sour.

That, coupled with the smokestacks that dot the horizon, put you on edge. Those first few weeks are the hardest.

Still, you fall back into old habits. Many of the people you knew Before are still alive, somehow, and well-adapted to this new reality. They look at your frame, battered and branded and blinded — their pity hurts more than your hunger, more than your hands — and allow you to slip into the places you used to haunt.

You learn a couple of interesting things about your new world. Namely, the location of the middle Victor’s house.

(Middle! Like there’s more than two— more than one.)

Some sort of— mechanical genius. Strange, but kind. Earnest. A recluse, even before he was Reaped, but… like all of them, changed. Inevitable, considering how Fate held his cards. You can relate.

After a week and a half, you break into his house.

It’s a surprisingly simple affair. He always takes the same path, zigzagging through the front like a soldier dodging artillery shells. You retrace his steps with a calm, sure gait, head down and fitting your feet into his; little bit of a pivot in the grass, here, avoiding the double trigger—

Your frame, a black shadow, slips around the back of the building. A little less exposed, less obvious— you lean into the darkness cast by the roof, winter sun licking your calves.

Lockpicks glint between your clench-curled knuckles as you crouch. Clumsier than you’d like, but… necessary adaptation, survival mechanism. Not enough manual dexterity these days. And yet still a thief, after everything: the sweet click of the window latch unlocking sending that same shiver down your spine.

You rise from your crouch and shoulder the glass up, checking first for alarms. Nothing except a simple wire easily uprooted and replaced.

That’s it? Here? Seems… risky.

Or forgetful.

It’s dark when you roll inside. Still. You ease the window shut and take a quick look around, heartbeat in your throat; no matter how many times you do it, that same, riotous rush in your belly never ceases. The thrill of the hunt, the stalk, never knowing if you’re predator or prey. It’s what got you your first fence, your first contract.

Your first kill.

You hold your breath in the silence until your lungs want to burst. Nothing. It’s just you and all the ghosts that keep his home company.

Okay, genius… where would you keep the goods?

Knife in aching hand, you make your way to the stairs. Bedroom, probably? In a place this big, you wouldn’t be surprised if he had a second room, a workshop, but you have time to be thorough—

— until you nearly step on the weirdest dog you’ve ever seen.

What the fuck slams against the backs of your clenched teeth but comes out instead as a soft-strangled whhggg. You catch yourself, kicking your foot up and over, your sole just-barely grazing its scalp(?) before you land on the other side. Awkwardly, back leg still on the stairs: stretched into split-stance so you don’t punt this thing down the hall like a small child.

Initially, seeing it leave the house from a distance, you thought it was a robot. Now? You’re not so sure.

You look down between your legs and it stares back. It’s— glowing, head cocking all the way to the side, empty eye sockets widening with the sound of whistling wind. Did you leave the window open?

“Shush!” you hiss, whisper-quiet. You’re so tall you have to fucking crouch to reach this thing, three-pawed hunch like an animal, knifepoint raised against what you assume is its cheek. It doesn’t quite touch but the threat is there, wicked-sharp in the half-dark. “Look, you seem—cute. I guess? In a creepy way. I don’t wanna hurt you, okay? Just lemme have a look around and I’ll get outta your weirdly shaped radius.”