in retrograde | stella 83rd oneshot

s t e l l a   b l a k e s l e y.

It’s pouring rain by the time Stella makes it back to her apartment. She had always figured that the Capitol would have a moratorium on such things (messed up hairstyles and clothing and surely Snow didn’t want his precious roses ruined), but the sky had opened up somewhere around the third mile and she had quickly been soaked to the bones.

She hadn’t gambled on rain, but nothing else seemed to be going right tonight. And yet, there was something calming about the storm pouring down above her,  and all around her, unhindered and uncontrolled.

She had eluded her keepers around the fifth mile, but as she rounded the turn back in the City Center, the black SUV was waiting, a sign that she was never, ever truly alone.

Never, ever truly free. Perhaps only for a few miles, but never anything more than that.

She was a walking billboard after all, and you never fucked with the merchandise.

Ex had given her some headphones, small and white that could fit in her ears and the music swirled around her like a symphony.

Ever since it all, ever since the Training Center, she couldn’t bring herself to listen to classical music. The sounds she could hear now were all man made - synthesizers and drum beats that echoed off of the clouds and buildings and reverberated through her chest.

She liked it better that way, at any rate. Silence always felt like the walls were closing in on her. Silence felt like death. 

She had shrugged off Teddy’s questions and concerns with a look after Reggie had died. Mickey had no words either and so far, he had been the lucky one. Nico was no doubt drowning his sorrows because it was inevitable that he would shoulder the guilt, the weight.

Instead, she had used the many miles of fog and streetlights to throw her anger, her frustrations out to the sky.

How could they keep doing this year after year after fucking year?

Guilt burns inside of her, hot and raw.

And yet, her body exhausted, her legs shaking, she had no solution. She had to do this year after year.

She had to hope, against all other outcomes, that someone would survive, someone would come home each year. The odds were never in her favor.

She gasps for air, a stitch in her side before making her way through the atrium. She peels off the jacket she was wearing, hair slick to her forehead as water droplets fall to the marble floor. She nods to the Avoxes, as if to say that she was safe, she hadn't run off.

Revulsion burned in her throat - revulsion at herself, at the system, at the memory of those lost. District Twelve gained two more dead tributes this year and the cemetery would need expanding.

Ex was asleep because her demons never manifested themselves as zombies and dead friends. They wore disguises of a different sort.

A kiss to her temple because Stella needed that anchor, that touch so much tonight, and she flees from the room, taking a pile of clothes with her.

The shower calms her more than she can say and her heart rate had almost returned to a normal tempo. There was something to be said for the cleansing power of water. The renewal.  If she had been religious, it was a sort of baptism. But Stella knew she had been baptized in ice and steel and blood. That would never wash off. 

Hair wet and limp and curling all around her, dressed in a too-large sweater and leggings, the blonde curls up on the couch. The television is already on the channel because, of course, she couldn’t watch anything else. Not that she was even allowed to. 

She sees Delaney, strong and fearless and so terribly brave. She sees Milo fall and her head hangs limp. The replay of the day goes on for hours and she watches the light burn out of Reggie's eyes time and time again. 

Muting the television and pouring herself a drink, Stella settles into a corner of the large sectional and watches and watches and watches.

The picture is out of focus but it’s only because Stella’s eyes are shining with tears as day breaks and the final eight begin their fights, begin their dances once more.