girl on my throne. astrid, 93-94.

Statue, it sits on the bookshelf in your shared apartment. Not in the middle. A little higher, squeezed between two rows of art books and a vase of silver roses. Pretending it's insignificant.

Gamemaker of the Decade - it should be his name engraved on the award plaque but it's not. It's hers instead.

She tries not to think it significant. Elephant in the room. Hades had insisted they display it, that she'd earned it. She'd smiled forlornly, a thank-you between her lips - they both know she hadn't. Not really.

Because what had she done except accidentally catch an unexpected chance in her inexperienced hands? An accident, a never-should-have-been, prodige of Gamemakers Jeremiah, Elysium, Hades. Girlfriend of one. The youngest gamemaker in decades - sure, Seelies had been used since her stunt in the 87th and the Peacekeepers had taken her altered bullets and used them for warfare. But what was that but dumb luck? Ingenuity, of which every person who worked in that building also had?

Hades had this in his blood. Astrid had just received the right transfusion earlier than expected. By chance she was gifted something most worked their entire lives just to taste. And yes, she had taken it and run. Did rather splendidly for herself. Find that she enjoyed the chaos of it all, the shadows underneath her skin come forth. Found a kindred spirit in Hades Lochlan. But was that worthy, truly, of such an accolade?

She shuffles the decor around, moves the award up one more shelf. Moves it further to the left. No -- but she knows what it would mean for her. Do better this time. Somehow, someway, prove to us that it was not just beginners luck and Dr. Elysium Carter's mad brilliance that created the success of the 87th Hunger Games.

The call comes, knock at the door. Formalities and tea, crossed legs and documents signed. Gamemaker of the Decade, they say. Let's see what you can do. They tell Astrid that she'll be the one in charge now, two juniors under her wing. Never mind she is now the age of the average junior herself - she bids her twenties goodbye at the next quell. They don't even ask if she's up for the challenge. It's simply expected of her. They know that, she knows that, so it's not to be spoken of. No place for her to back out, back down, Astrid signs her name on the dotted line and that night she lies awake curled up in Hades' arms and whispers, shamefully --

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous.

She hopes he's fast asleep, regretting it as soon as she says it. Swallows down the sourness, lets it rot in her stomach, falls asleep to the familiar ache imposter syndrome brings. 

The next morning she wakes, terrible. Smiles, good. Something has grown from that rot, dark and deep.

So they want her to be terrible? Fine. Let her be terrible. That she can do. Gladly.

She kisses Hades' forehead once and gets to work.