The Bloodbath

[Wander Sibley D4M|X | intro | no dice]


The first thing Wander says to Jizav, with one protective hand against the side of vis head, is "You can't cut my hair."

Jizav raises his eyebrows at that in a way that makes Wander lift vis head a little higher to keep from standing down. "And they're sending me stylists, now? No, that's up to me, Sibs." Then, grey eyes sweeping across Wander's blouse and down to vis mother's old shoes, he frowns. "Lucky for you, your hair is the only presentable thing about you."

"Um," Wander says, trying and failing to decide whether that's a compliment to Cadenza's work bundled in an insult or the other way around.

"Sit down and move your hand, I have work to do. I swear they comb the District for the scruffiest boys around."

"I'm not a boy," Wander says as ve perches hesitantly on the indicated stool, because even if that conversation has already started to catch in vis throat like an errant bone—even if the background irritation of balancing the value of a moment's pride against the goodwill of every cashier and every friend of a friend has suddenly exploded into the wrenching pain of doing that over and over and over only for one more abrasively chipper television announcer to say it sounds like that was his brother, even if it's day one and Wander is tired—it's at least familiar .

"Hmm." Jizav doesn't even look up. "Girl?"

That's... more promising than Wander expected, after the rest of this day. "Nope."

"As long as I don't have to fight Harlem for you." He lifts Wander's left arm; Wander, increasingly mystified, allows it. "Trust me, you get the better end of that deal."

And that's that.

---

If anyone could walk Wander to the Arena, ve'd rather it be Leon. That wouldn't be fair to Annie, though, and for at least the next few minutes, Wander still has the luxury of caring about that.

So if it had to be a Capitolite, ve doesn't mind that it's Jizav. He's caustic and finicky, but as likely to lay into his own assistants as to insult Wander, and single-mindedly focused on his job in a way that has made Wander sit up and pay attention despite how much ve still thinks ve would pay for one of vis own old pairs of cozy shorts. "You're an eldest sibling. One of us has to make you look sophisticated," he hissed when he found Wander on the third day without vis hoop earrings, and something in the intensity of his stare more than his words themselves made ver put them back in. It had felt more like genuine urgency about the image Wander presented than empty grousing about a smudge on the reflection of his own career—and hey, Wander wouldn't have picked sophisticated as vis own angle, but ve doesn't argue with Linares about star charts, does ve?

Well, maybe a little. "You know I'm still gonna rip this in, like, two seconds, right?" ve asks as Jizav fusses with a bowtie the same color and texture of the dress lining.

Ve misses the lighthearted tone ve's aiming for and earns a scolding flick for tilting vis head to frown up over Jizav's shoulder. Obligingly ve relaxes vis neck and shoulders again, but one hand plucks restlessly at the hip of vis lace overskirt, sending tiny waves down the fabric.

Miles away, the kids will be glued together in an anxious pile. Their parents will have tried, and failed, to convince them to eat; their parents will have tried, and failed, to convince each other of the same. That's all Wander knows for sure; ve doesn't know whether Cadenza is still angry, or whether Teresa has been too worried to eat, or whether Nate is letting the rest of the family keep him from burying himself away. Ve doesn't know who in the crew pitched in for the ring swimming eternal circles on vis finger, or what they might be saying right now, if anything at all. Ve might never know.

Ve needs to know.

"Yes," Jizav says dryly, "but try to keep it intact, will you? It's shorter than the other one for a reason."

It's still by far the longest skirt Wander has ever worn, with a small train sweeping against the floor behind ver, but ve can indeed walk more easily in it than in the first version. (Jizav had taken one look at Wander in that and said "Oh god, no, you've never worn a skirt in your life, have you?" Wander hadn't had time to retort that ve owns two entire skirts, so excuse him, before he pulled out the contingency plan: intact lace skirt, solid underskirt sliced and re-sewn into flowy pants. The added difficulty getting into the finished product, a bizarre cross between a jumpsuit and a proper dress, is well worth the ability to—mostly—take normal steps.) "Uh, I'll try."

"Good." Jizav gives the bowtie one more adjustment, then holds out his hand for one of the assistants to pass him a shawl. That spends so little time over Wander's shoulders that ve barely registers the mesh before he whips it off again, grumbling, "Nerva, I told you that was a mistake, give me the other one. Arm!" Wander obligingly lifts one hand and then the other for a jacket made of the same mesh—what became of the shawl from the second dress, ve guesses.

The final flourish is a cream blur that Wander only recognizes as a hat because it spends a second and a half on top of vis head while Jizav studies the way it floats on vis hair. Then he waves, muttering something about hairstyles, and one of the assistants whisks it away to wherever the shawl landed.

Wander touches vis hair experimentally. In the time it takes one of the assistants to notice and whack at vis arm, ve finds a raised braid not entirely unlike the one Cadenza arranged not so many mornings ago, only added texture along the edges there to remind ver that a professional did this one.

No one says anything when ve rubs vis eyes.

To Wander's relief, the rest of the team stays behind when ve and Jizav head into the tunnel. The rest of them aren't intolerable, compared to everyone else from the Training Center, but they wouldn't let Wander chatter uninterrupted; Jizav does, only raising his eyebrows and occasionally rolling his eyes as Wander coughs out disjointed, increasingly inane observations on everything from vis shoes to vis family to the nondescript tunnel they're in—anything, to keep from keeling over then and there.

"Alright, Sibs," he says when they reach the plate and Wander's voice finally fails ver. "You have a plan?"

Wander's lungs remember how to breathe before ve's all the way back on board verself. "Yeah." Go left, find Eve, find Bette, find Temple, get out isn't much of a plan, but it's more of one than Wander is used to having. It counts.

Jizav doesn't ask, only nods with the same bizarre intensity he had in the argument over the earrings. "Good luck up there."

Wander holds up vis crossed fingers—the right hand, with the ring; dolphins for luck—as the plate begins to rise.

[Wander Sibley enters the Bloodbath.]