shattered edges glisten | lux 88th
Jul 12, 2021 14:58:13 GMT -5
Post by alex 🐺 on Jul 12, 2021 14:58:13 GMT -5
When the lioness from One is the first to fall, well, fate's a bitch, isn’t it?
But it isn’t until the camera pans to Love’s stupid smug face that Lux finally sees what she’s been wanting from her brother for the past three weeks. She sees him smile, a crack in the carefully constructed mask, glittering with diamonds and shards of glass.
He’s celebrating Emerson Le Roux’s death, if only for a moment. It’s over in the blink of an eye, obviously, the mask firmly slipping back into place and with it all of the artifice that he’s cultivated for weeks. The anguish of a lost tribute, Emerson’s blood on his face and his uniform. His hands stained red and the promises that drip from Emerson’s lips. Her dying words are about her stupid fucking cousin. Boring. So fucking boring.
And he plays the part of the dutiful ally. He grabs her body and runs away from the Bloodbath and even lashes out, hurling his knife towards the camera trained on his alliance and District Two sees a momentary flash of darkness before the screen is lighting up with the fucking wealth alliance picking through their spoils like the vultures that they are. All theater, really and the Districts, they’ll eat it up. Love’s been the lovestruck paramour for days now, trailing after Julian Le Roux like his fucking shadow. But Lux can see the way he sucks his teeth in and clenches his jaw if only to bite back the acid, swallow the retorts that ache to burst forth from his stupid perfect lips.
It’s what they’ve been taught, after all. Who they’ve become.
She traces the diamond outlines on her ribcage, fingers coasting over black ink like reading lines of braille as she watches her older brother, heir to the throne. Remembering the trials that shaped her, that pressed her into the shimmering, shining, hard girl that reclines against the lounge in the sitting room, eyes unfocused on the television. Lux skips the scars that sit next to the tattoos. Memories of her failure one Formation still burns bright and the sizzle of flesh and flash of pain are branded in her mind the same way the diamonds are branded onto her side. Permanent reminders of triumphs. Permanent reminds of her failings.
“Come on, brother dearest, do something!” Lux yells at the television, glued to the twenty-four hour broadcast that dives deep into the alliances, picking them apart and dissecting intentions. It earns an eye roll from the twins and a scoff from Ira.
“What? He’s boring. I’m borreddd.” Lux draws out the o’s and the d’s, sighing loudly.
But the thing is—they’re all wrong about Love and Julian. Every single one of them. The Capitol wants to see a love story. They don’t want to see a parasite clinging to his host and dragging along an unsuspecting girl from Eight who would no sooner see the crown than the wrong side of a spear. At least they got something right—Love and Emerson did have the best banter. Caesar chalked it up to a sort of fucked-up cousin or sibling rivalry but Lux knew the glint in Love’s eye when he was able to get under someone’s skin, burrowing in like a leech. It would have been worth it to see Love suck her dry. Too bad Seven got there before him.
Lux watches as Love whispers in Julian Le Roux’s ear, like the snake tempting the maiden, all silver-tongued and sweet the night after the Bloodbath. It’s a clever ruse. Why not bed your toughest competitors, forge an alliance of steel and gold, the lion and the chameleon? Julian Le Roux isn’t to be trusted. He’s angry at the loss of his cousin, but Lux can see the way that it straightens his shoulders and gives him purpose. Good, Love can use that. Love can turn the lion into a killing machine and then discard his body at the end, wearing the hide of the lion as he lifts his tarnished crown.
Dad paid someone off for Love’s birthday party, Lux is sure of it. Whatever hands he had to grease and probably some kind of call to Vanya’s boss’ boss’ boss. It’s not every day that a tribute celebrates a birthday in the Games, but the moment that Love opens the box to reveal the red icing, Lux is up on her feet, anger wrapping around her like armor. Maybe this time she’ll actually spew the words she’s thinking, her righteous fury burning bright to defend her brother. She finds Dad in his study and he just levels her with one of his looks that brooks no arguments. He had failed, simple as that. It was written across all of the lines of Dad’s face and Lux just glares at him before edging back out of the room. It’s not that she can’t stand up to Dad. It’s just—its better to pick your battles, you know? And her jaw still hurts from the last time that she talked back to him. The welt from his ring had taken weeks to heal.
And then—Love’s anger over Chad Chapman’s death is—it makes no fucking sense. He was a shield, an oaf, pure comedy designed to lure in children who wanted to see something pure and true in the Games. Chad Chapman had no hope of winning and Love Bellisario should never mourn his death. Ever. What the fuck did he care about a boy from Five when he’s from District Two? And even fucking so, the fact that none of them even went for the dipshit from Seven that murdered Emerson was—what the fuck were they all playing at?
Lux paces, biting her nails and furrowing her brows because Love’s sending cassette tapes out to other tributes and it’s gotta be some sort of ruse. It can’t be truth coming from the diamond-skinned boy. They haven’t been truthful about themselves ever, and the Arena isn’t the place to start having feelings for once in your fucking life, Love. Fuck no.
No, he’s doing the same thing to the other tribs that he did to Julian. Play dead, roll over on your stomach. Show them your tender spots and lure them into a false sense of security. Lux sees it all in startling technicolor—the way through for Love, the way he will sit atop the throne as the Capitol’s golden boy.
”Finally,” she says to herself, kicking her feet on up on the coffee table, as Love grabs the baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire from the girl from Two, a sort of trade that could only happen between District partners.
Lux was sure she would see it sticking out of Two’s back in the next few days, because, well, she buried her own grave, didn’t she?
Things are just starting to get interesting.
It’s about fucking time.
But it isn’t until the camera pans to Love’s stupid smug face that Lux finally sees what she’s been wanting from her brother for the past three weeks. She sees him smile, a crack in the carefully constructed mask, glittering with diamonds and shards of glass.
He’s celebrating Emerson Le Roux’s death, if only for a moment. It’s over in the blink of an eye, obviously, the mask firmly slipping back into place and with it all of the artifice that he’s cultivated for weeks. The anguish of a lost tribute, Emerson’s blood on his face and his uniform. His hands stained red and the promises that drip from Emerson’s lips. Her dying words are about her stupid fucking cousin. Boring. So fucking boring.
And he plays the part of the dutiful ally. He grabs her body and runs away from the Bloodbath and even lashes out, hurling his knife towards the camera trained on his alliance and District Two sees a momentary flash of darkness before the screen is lighting up with the fucking wealth alliance picking through their spoils like the vultures that they are. All theater, really and the Districts, they’ll eat it up. Love’s been the lovestruck paramour for days now, trailing after Julian Le Roux like his fucking shadow. But Lux can see the way he sucks his teeth in and clenches his jaw if only to bite back the acid, swallow the retorts that ache to burst forth from his stupid perfect lips.
It’s what they’ve been taught, after all. Who they’ve become.
She traces the diamond outlines on her ribcage, fingers coasting over black ink like reading lines of braille as she watches her older brother, heir to the throne. Remembering the trials that shaped her, that pressed her into the shimmering, shining, hard girl that reclines against the lounge in the sitting room, eyes unfocused on the television. Lux skips the scars that sit next to the tattoos. Memories of her failure one Formation still burns bright and the sizzle of flesh and flash of pain are branded in her mind the same way the diamonds are branded onto her side. Permanent reminders of triumphs. Permanent reminds of her failings.
“Come on, brother dearest, do something!” Lux yells at the television, glued to the twenty-four hour broadcast that dives deep into the alliances, picking them apart and dissecting intentions. It earns an eye roll from the twins and a scoff from Ira.
“What? He’s boring. I’m borreddd.” Lux draws out the o’s and the d’s, sighing loudly.
But the thing is—they’re all wrong about Love and Julian. Every single one of them. The Capitol wants to see a love story. They don’t want to see a parasite clinging to his host and dragging along an unsuspecting girl from Eight who would no sooner see the crown than the wrong side of a spear. At least they got something right—Love and Emerson did have the best banter. Caesar chalked it up to a sort of fucked-up cousin or sibling rivalry but Lux knew the glint in Love’s eye when he was able to get under someone’s skin, burrowing in like a leech. It would have been worth it to see Love suck her dry. Too bad Seven got there before him.
Lux watches as Love whispers in Julian Le Roux’s ear, like the snake tempting the maiden, all silver-tongued and sweet the night after the Bloodbath. It’s a clever ruse. Why not bed your toughest competitors, forge an alliance of steel and gold, the lion and the chameleon? Julian Le Roux isn’t to be trusted. He’s angry at the loss of his cousin, but Lux can see the way that it straightens his shoulders and gives him purpose. Good, Love can use that. Love can turn the lion into a killing machine and then discard his body at the end, wearing the hide of the lion as he lifts his tarnished crown.
Dad paid someone off for Love’s birthday party, Lux is sure of it. Whatever hands he had to grease and probably some kind of call to Vanya’s boss’ boss’ boss. It’s not every day that a tribute celebrates a birthday in the Games, but the moment that Love opens the box to reveal the red icing, Lux is up on her feet, anger wrapping around her like armor. Maybe this time she’ll actually spew the words she’s thinking, her righteous fury burning bright to defend her brother. She finds Dad in his study and he just levels her with one of his looks that brooks no arguments. He had failed, simple as that. It was written across all of the lines of Dad’s face and Lux just glares at him before edging back out of the room. It’s not that she can’t stand up to Dad. It’s just—its better to pick your battles, you know? And her jaw still hurts from the last time that she talked back to him. The welt from his ring had taken weeks to heal.
And then—Love’s anger over Chad Chapman’s death is—it makes no fucking sense. He was a shield, an oaf, pure comedy designed to lure in children who wanted to see something pure and true in the Games. Chad Chapman had no hope of winning and Love Bellisario should never mourn his death. Ever. What the fuck did he care about a boy from Five when he’s from District Two? And even fucking so, the fact that none of them even went for the dipshit from Seven that murdered Emerson was—what the fuck were they all playing at?
Lux paces, biting her nails and furrowing her brows because Love’s sending cassette tapes out to other tributes and it’s gotta be some sort of ruse. It can’t be truth coming from the diamond-skinned boy. They haven’t been truthful about themselves ever, and the Arena isn’t the place to start having feelings for once in your fucking life, Love. Fuck no.
No, he’s doing the same thing to the other tribs that he did to Julian. Play dead, roll over on your stomach. Show them your tender spots and lure them into a false sense of security. Lux sees it all in startling technicolor—the way through for Love, the way he will sit atop the throne as the Capitol’s golden boy.
”Finally,” she says to herself, kicking her feet on up on the coffee table, as Love grabs the baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire from the girl from Two, a sort of trade that could only happen between District partners.
Lux was sure she would see it sticking out of Two’s back in the next few days, because, well, she buried her own grave, didn’t she?
Things are just starting to get interesting.
It’s about fucking time.
