nothing gold can stay // sera/andres

The mission is to lay low.

Easier said than done when you’re being toted as, and I quote, “the hottest thing since Nixie Summers.” And I know that’s just a commentary on the whole sexualisation of females in power, but I feel for Lionel Estrada. He’s probably real cut up about not getting that accolade.

That’s all anyone seems to care about here, though. The fame, the fortune, the A-list status. Not like I didn’t know it before – but then I think about Jupiter, and how he must have known what was waiting for him on the other side of the crown I stole from him, and the thoughts come creeping in. He’d belong here. He should be here. Why am I here, when truly, I can’t stand it here. Wanna be home in a house of my own making where I can sit on a chair without fear of leaving a grimy, District Six stained imprint on the plush leather.

No matter how many titles and tiaras get thrust my way, I’m never going to escape the roots of myself. A girl raised on the underground pipeline from orphanage to graveyard to hospital and back again.

Maybe that’s why I’m lingering in the Training Centre, keeping a close watch on Georgia and D’Arcy. I hadn’t made the best of first impressions with them, as I’d been reminded by Flynn. And Teddy. And Elijah. Probably Silva too, if he’d even bothered to show up. And I don’t think I owe anyone anything – would probably be pardoned for being a pretty shitty mentor my first year – but I remember how foreign everything felt a year ago. How out of place I still feel even now. And maybe I’m just trying to be a pillar of familiarity for them to seek out when needed. They’ll catch my gaze from across the room; I’ll turn away before they have the chance to form any kind of connection, but they’ll feel it.

Meanwhile, the only thing I’m feeling right now is a rush of wind past my head, and the sharp intake of my own breath as the room around me comes into sudden, sustained focus.

It doesn’t take long to spot the pint-sized girl across the room: eyes wide in horror, body stiff with shock. I guess she’d been aiming for the target I’m standing about three metres clear of, but her knife ends up somewhere closer to my left ear than the bullseye she was undoubtedly striving for.

I hadn’t flinched. Hey, if the wayward dagger of a twelve-year-old is the blade that finally puts an end to my life, who am I to question it? Death is death. No point being possessive and sentimental about it.

But no. I’m not murdered in cold, unsuspecting blood – at least for another day. Instead, I watch the knife clatter to the ground, sounding like the loudest thing in the world until the girl lets out a noise somewhere between a yelp and a sob before running from the room altogether.

If at first you don’t succeed... give up, I guess.

Bending down to pick up the blade, I hold back an involuntary shudder at the feeling of cool metal in my hands. It shouldn’t bother me – I never killed anyone with a knife. And yet.

A shadow moves into my line of sight as I bring myself upright once more, my grip loose around the hilt of the discarded weapon. For a moment, I fear it’s the girl come back to retrieve her lost knife and indeed try, try, try again. So despite my reluctance for tribute interactions, I’m actually pretty damn relieved to see an unfamiliar face. It’s probably better that nobody loses any limbs today, you know?

“Sup.” I nod my head once in greeting. Not quite friendly, but not quite dismissive either. I’ll say my pleasantries, put the knife back in as safe a place as you can find in a room designed to hurt, and be on my way.

I wave the knife at the boy, a warning masquerading as an acknowledgement. “Careful. I’m armed.” And a killer, these days. Apparently that means something around here.