you want blood and i promised | vennera

Beneath the sugar and tang was a stinging that dug into Vennera's throat as she downed another drink. Once it was done, she went to set the glass on the counter but ended up slamming it down, her muscles only capable of performing the most exaggerated motions. She tilted her head back and blinked slowly, willing her eyelids to stop twitching for long enough so she could focus. Focus on what, she couldn't tell. She just wanted the room to be still.

She had found that she wasn't particularly keen on going to bars, but it remained one of the main places where people actually went to socialize rather than run errands, and therefore remained a place to frequent. Sure, sometimes she'd sit at the counter and nurse glasses until they fogged with her breath instead of actually speaking to people, but at least she was out. Being around people other than her own family was unnerving yet refreshing, as she only had first impressions to worry about rather than maintaining the same image. The drinks were an added bonus, because they gave her the courage to talk to people, allowed her to momentarily forget her reasons for being there in the first place, and deterred the men who would only approach to offer to buy her a drink, because she already had her own. She was always in control.

"Like another refill, miss?"

Vennera's head snapped downward so she met the eyes of the bartender, who was in the midst of wiping down a glass with a once white towel. "No thank you," she said, scooting her stool back. "I think I've had enough."

She could never really have enough of the fancy drinks they served, but her liver definitely could. Her knees trembled as she slipped from her perch, stumbling onto the crowded dance floor. The white strobe lights made everything seem unreal, etched in thick pen lines from her own sketchbook. She crossed her wrists above her head and swayed as she walked, willing herself to not fall over as she had the first time she'd come here. Vennera had almost fallen into a routine in the chaos - drink, dance a little bit, and wait for someone to notice her. And, like clockwork, someone did - a girl with long, dark hair and full cheeks that visibly reddened under the lights. Vennera began to make her way across the dance floor, stopping in the center of the room as the other woman joined her.

Her name was Dahlia Dehaven, and the way her eyes sparkled when she said it indicated pride in whatever lineage she'd inherited.

"I'm Vennera."

"Got a last name, Vennera?"

Even before the 83rd, the name Le Roux had prowled behind her in a way that left her on edge. In the aftermath, she had learned to be especially careful of who she revealed herself to. Once she had stumbled home behind someone she had met on the other side of the district, champagne giggles spilling from her mouth. Her limbs tangled themselves in the fabric of her shirt, which was sticky with the drink she had spilled down her chin, as she fell backwards onto the ruby red couch. Then more garments were gone, and her partner was telling her to close her eyes, that she'd be right back. After some time, she was greeted by the feeling of someone placing both legs on either side of her waist and the tip of a knife pressing into her throat. Her eyes snapped open, and the sly smile on her partner's face made her stomach drop.

"I've always been a fan of using knives," the woman purred, twirling the blade against Vennera's skin. "You're just as strong as Ridley, right?"

Vennera remembered pushing the woman off of her lap, wobbling to her feet, saying something akin to, "I'm not drunk enough for that." She didn't remember redressing herself or walking home, but she remembered weeping on her bed until she fell asleep. That should have been enough for her to avoid using her full name, but it was only after countless nights of seeing the raised eyebrows and changed expressions that came with the name Le Roux that she finally stopped.

It wasn't even Ridley herself that caused Vennera such angst, she realized. It was the idea of being constantly haunted by something that was beyond her control, which she learned while watching some Capitolite talk show host recap previous Games. The red hair caught her eye even before she heard the host say her name - Quest Hertz - and in seconds it became clear that the woman who had spun her on the floor at the peacekeeper gala was someone who had fought and died and lived in the same fucked up system that Ridley was now privy to. A single tear had rolled down her cheek, and as she turned off the television she plunged herself into darkness.

And now she stood in the lights of the bar, a smile dancing across her face as she answered Dahlia's question. "No."

If she could only escape for one night, then so be it.