Bittersweet [Katelyn/Delroy]

k a t e l y n .

Staring out her window at the night sky was a terrible way to try to fall asleep, and Katelyn knew that, but she was doing it anyway. It was always hard for to sleep when there was work to be done. When she was back in this place, wondering if the years where it didn’t hurt as much were a sign that she was healing, or a sign that she was growing apathetic. There were hardly any stars to see, the illumination from the streets and city lights blotting them out. But they were still there. The stars she could see from home. The same stars she’d seen in the sixty-ninth arena.

That was seventeen years ago now, the same age she’d been when she’d won; knowing that latest tributes were younger than her week in the ice and snow made her feel very old indeed. She was history to them. Living history perhaps, but to a teenager, a thirty-four-year-old might as well have been born in the dark days. Kids like Neysa were secure in the immortality of youth and didn’t see any attempts to rein them in as help, never mind that the adults had been in the same situation not that long ago.

Katelyn had a heart to help people, though her head reminded her that she couldn’t help people that didn’t want to be helped. Some people, while not enjoying the hole they were in, could no longer fathom a life outside of it. But if she couldn’t help them out of that dark hole, the least she could do was toss them a flashlight.

Eventually, she gave up trying to sleep and decided to see if there was any tea left in the kettle. As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one seeking relief in the kitchen. Delroy was searching through the fridge for something. It was a snapshot she took with her mind, placing it next to her memories of Arabella, of Weaver and Jacob and Iain. Iona and Tamron. Rex. Remembering those kids for who’d they been before the games chewed them up and spat them into coffins.

She’d given up trying to get all their names tattooed on herself after Desimae and Drake. It never ended. The cycle of death. She would have cried, but she felt like she’d used up all of her tears on Opal and Ky. On Arabella and Cyro. It was a mistake to get too emotionally invested in her tributes, but it was a mistake she kept making anyway.

Delroy said that he couldn’t sleep, offered her some of his candy.

“Sure, thanks.” she said with a tired smile, breaking off a piece of the chocolate and popping it into her mouth. Bittersweet. As she turned the dial on the stove to heat the tea back up she felt obligated to say something. Anything. But she was so weary of being a mentor. Of being trapped in a job that chose her, that never got any easier. “You’re one of the quieter tributes we’ve had in a while,” was what she chose to break the silence with. “How are you holding up?”

k a t e l y n .

There was an undercurrent of bitterness is his tone. She didn’t blame him. But it was a loaded question. More loaded than he might have thought. Over the years she’d mentored more than a few idealistic tributes. Some going so far as to take vows of pacifism. That never lasted. In the heat of the moment, when faced with life and death, everyone chose their own life. Sometimes, like with Kirito, it worked, even if it shattered them in the process. Other times, like with Rex Antilles, it drove them to suicidal despair.

What was about eleven that bred martyrs so young?

“The short answer? Mentoring could mean the difference between riding home with one coffin instead of two.” Vasco knew how to inspire people with words, all she knew were hard truths. “The long answer?” Katelyn sighed. “Sandwich?” After he gave his affirmation, she set about getting all the ingredients out. Lettuce, tomato. A good sharp cheese, etc. The works. Put some bread in the toaster. Club sandwiches were a classic and if she could keep her mind on task, maybe she could get through spilling her life story to this kid without making a fool of herself.

“Pushing for change has…consequences.” She said it delicately, wondering if the bugs definitely hidden all over the apartment had video as well as audio. “I used to think one person could change the world. They don’t—“she cleared her throat when the bread popped up, slightly warm, crisped. “They don’t air my interviews from the early years anymore. Victors that become a problem are dealt with.” The spicy brown mustard usually had a good kick. She squirted a few dollops onto all the pieces of toast.

“I don’t know if you’re even old enough to recognize the names of these victors but, Arbor Halt? Patricia Valfierno? They took and took and took from him until he was a shell of the man he once was.” Cheese on the bottom. Slices of tomato next? Yes, then the meat on top. A nice good cut of pastrami. “Patricia vanished from the public eye for a couple of years. She's back but her fires gone out and there's hollowness in her eyes. Kirito lost a cousin about, hmm. Thirteen years back now?” Lettuce? Fuck. Iain would have been twenty-seven.

“Harbinger, several of his brothers. A sister.” Katelyn glanced at the scars on her hands, the ones that hadn’t come from the arena, running her fingers over her knuckles. “They took things from me too.” She said softly. “And they don’t just punish the victors that speak up. The careers? They’re the ones that are supposed to win, you see. Not people from backwater districts like us. And when they don’t bring their skilled tributes home, they and their families suffer just the same.”

She was quiet for a moment, and she told herself it was because she had to debate between sweet pickle slices and dill and not because she was thinking of Ky's stay in the hospital. Or Opal's missing finger. “I wanted to my survival to be worth it,” Sweet pickles it was. Maybe a sprinkle of black pepper. "Live a life that mattered for the ones who didn’t go home. I no longer think I can change the world, but if I can make a difference in one family’s life, then I’ll do my damnedest to do so.”

She stuck a pimento olive on a toothpick and gently pressed it into the top layer of the sandwich before using the knife to cut it diagonally. She slid the plate across the counter to him and went back to her kettle, pouring herself a new mug and dropping in two sugar cubes. Her own sandwich she left unsliced. It wouldn’t do to bring the secretary into this conversation. Odds were Olivia was spying on her specifically.
 
“A wise old man, a doctor who—“she waved her hand. “Ah, I don’t remember what he was a doctor of. He said that sometimes the only choices you have are bad ones. But you still have to choose.”

k a t e l y n .

“Yeah, I guess I deserve that,” she said dropping her gaze to the sugar cubes dissolving in her tea. It was too late in the fucking night to start having a crisis of conscience. “Watching idealistic kids die every other year has left me jaded.” The words he said though, they sounded familiar. Almost like Vasco. What was it like, being sixteen? Before the world beat the fight out of him? She supposed that she was at war with herself. Had been for years. Growing ever more cynical. Hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

He was right. They’d gotten into her head, beaten the fight right out of her. And she’d gotten so used to it that every time something bad happened she crumbled quickly. Couldn’t stand firm in the face of it for too long. Her spiritual stamina was all but gone. “You’re a good kid, Delroy. I hope you live to make that change. I want you to prove me wrong, I do.” The system was broken; she wouldn’t deny that. But she was doubtful that it could be fixed, and believed even less that something better could replace it. Because the people that wanted change, no matter their good intentions, were just as flawed as the people they railed against.

“Whoever gave you that advice was right too. It rings of that old adage. Lord grant me the strength to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.” She chuckled wanly. “You know, I used to be a lot better at this whole mentoring thing.” She took a bite of her sandwich and mulled over their conversation. Ideals were a powerful thing. But they didn’t stop bullets. They required action and the status quo was very resistant to change. She’d learned that the hard way.

She could have asked him what he’d done for the faceless masses that he claimed to care about so much. Could have told him that she donated the unsold product from her bakery to those in need, that she funded the orphanage that Kassandra Nerys came from. That she spent a whole hell of a lot of time trying to look out for her self-destructive victor friends. That she helped the Mayor on outlining a better tomorrow for eleven. That she helped where she could; it may not have been flashy or even newsworthy, but it was help.

She could have, but she didn’t. It was difficult to explain how changing a few lives here and there mattered to her more than trying to change the world. She felt like Vasco would have said something about starting small and getting the ball rolling. She felt like she had it in her to tear Delroy’s ideals to shreds with the uncensored version of her life’s traumas and warn him how badly he was going to fall in the arena when it came down to life or death.

But she didn’t. It was better to be kind. That was what she’d forgotten, wasn’t it? All those years of trauma. Of battling the world alone, facing her demons alone, she’d forgotten what it was like to be a teenager. How at that age, little mattered more than knowing that your voice was heard, that you were seen and acknowledged. That you mattered.

“Well, I can’t help any of those people at this very moment,” she said simply, wearing a tired but vaguely amused smile. “But I’m going to work to get you and Neysa sponsors. How can I help you prepare? What do you need from me? What do you need to know about the games? It can’t be that helpful watching me dance around the cracks of my midlife crisis.”