(perspective) | d12 train

Stretching a leg out on the plush leather couch, Stella looked up, the gilded carriage yet another prison for the next few hours as a sigh escaped her lips. Her arms were crossed on her chest as the train carried them deeper into Panem and closer to the Capitol.

She was not ready for this and yet she had been waiting for this trip for months now. The simple fact that she was returning to the Capitol, that she was mentoring two new lambs for slaughter - two new tributes, she reminded herself, the morbidity of her thoughts bringing a dark smile to her face - was not enough to make the nerves in her stomach quiet. The butterflies taking flight as they had during this same trip last year, Alejandro by her side as they questioned Arbor Holt about the best ways to survive.

She was not Arbor Holt, nor was she Jacinta Salazar, or Teddy Ursa. She was not meant to have survived the Games, as the displeasure showed on President Snow’s face every time he had to be in the same room with the 78th victor. She was a fluke, an aberration, and she knew it.

Cassia and Gabriel were better off allying with a tribute from the upper districts than listening to whatever wisdom Stella could impart to them. She had not done anything out of the ordinary - she had survived, plain and simple.

Stella tries not to think too hard about it, because whenever she does it makes her already fragile heart ache and the freshly sealed cracks threaten to burst again. So she tries playing it cool, aloof. The crown of thorns on her head and the throne of bones she perched herself on in the Arena the only cage that kept her alive. The fur of the wolf, the spear of the murderer, the soul of the porcelain-skinned boy. She had feasted on them and emerged victorious. Her face marred, her soul as black as the night sky with twin moons watching over her like guards.

She had not left the Arena in one piece - she had been destroyed into a mosaic, shards of glass in her lungs and venom on her lips. Remade in the image of the Capitol. And now she was returning to see it all play out again. A different deck of cards, a different set of players - the same sick, twisted game. Stuck on repeat, an endless loop.

Admittedly, Stella had not exactly mastered the skill of "playing it cool", but she faked it pretty damn well. It had already been a year and she still could not bring herself to dance again. Her studio built on the outskirts of Twelve, but it stood empty. Abandoned. A tomb for the old Stella. Her victory had allowed her to do as she pleases, but the fabric of her life torn asunder. She tries not to start when the tributes join her in the train and it starts rattling towards the Capitol. A damaged mentor meant dead tributes. 

And the chaos in this moment helps conceal fact that Stella's brows seem to never cease furrowing in anxiety, or twitching with guilt, or that there seems to be a persistent despair in her eyes. She knows the tributes have a one in twenty-four shot of coming home, and those odds are bleak at best. Nothing is expected of her. Everything is expected of her.

(Do not fashion yourself into an anchor for them.
You will drown yourself.)

And that's where Cassia finds her, leaned up against the arm of the couch with her eyes closed and legs sprawled out in front of her. She doesn’t know how long she’s been lying there, the sun is setting though and she had hoped that she had been long forgotten about.

"I have too much to live for," Cassia says bluntly, eyes traveling over Gabriel who has yet to say anything. "I'm not sure about him." She adds, and Stella opens her eyes, swinging her denim clad legs to the floor, her black booties hitting the carpet noiselessly. She stands and circles the couch towards the bar. Never one to drink, not even now, she knows she needs to grab a hold of it to steady herself. This is all just too much.


"You don't need to tell us how hard it'll be. It's hard out here for a bitch, but bitch, I'm harder." A laugh, a genuine laugh escapes Stella’s throat as she crosses her arms in front of her, the light blue denim jacket over the black tanktop the only armor she can wear now.

There's a sincerity in her voice that causes an ache in Stella's chest, she almost asks her to elaborate on her words. Almost. Instead, she bites her tongue and tries to give a grin but it wobbles when she tries to lift it past her lips and the most she could manage is a small smile that shakes with artificiality. She's really glad that Cassia doesn't expect much from her. She’s damaged, damaged.

Stella’s afraid that she does not have much more left to give. Not when there are broken shards of Raven in her lungs that she never quite got to cleaning up, piercing through with every breath she takes. Not when Aeson is still burning through her veins, and she is still restlessly anticipating the exact moment the poison will finally sink in. Not when Finley is interwoven in the tissue of her heart, beating in sync in the tune of broken promises and forgotten dreams.

And even her, the girl in the Capitol, who runs through her mind and silently haunts her with everything they could be, should be, might be. Stella’s even more afraid of the damage she will do when she’s through with her. Heartbreak is inevitable at this point, for Stella as far as she's concerned, it's just a matter of time. And maybe who delivers the fatal blow.

But Stella, she has hope and she's holding onto it with everything in her so she doesn't completely submerge into thick, red pain already leaking in her heart. (Hope breeds eternal misery, is that how it goes?) .

”You really don’t need me for anything. No hope speech, no grand words that will help you to survive. I’m here to help you get sponsors. I’m the money. The rest is on you.” They did not need it sugarcoated. She respected them more than that. They were lambs for slaughter, not idiots.

“So choose your allies wisely, first step. Second step - don’t fuck up the private training session.” She glances at Cassia and then at Gabriel. “It may sound trivial, but it’s the difference between a weapon, a first aid kit, and maybe even clothing that will keep you warm at night. You need to convince everyone but me that you deserve their praise, love, their money.”