Later on the day of the reaping of an innocent soul and an equally as cold one, the latter was seated in a room of extravagant fabrics more so than she had ever truly seen, leaning back without a single care in the world.
As usual she was alone in there, surrounded by finery to the point she had never seen, even in her first home. The walls, the floors, everything there had been a plain gray when, instead, here, she was surrounded by color. It splashed against the fabrics with a startling sign of something most of those in the district could not hope to afford, instead left with browns and grays, the occasional black to be found on special occasions.
This room had everything one could hope for, something that truly showed how well compensated the mayor was for their loyalty to the Capitol and willingness of the mild slaughter of their people for petty crimes. Said petty crimes should not have been considered crimes at all if one really thought about it. But it was the way it was.
There were deep blue velvety curtains strung up in a perfect kind of way before the expansive windows filled with more glass than any one person had in their home, what looked to be gold adorning it's decorative tassels and the bar that held it to the wall. Most other metals reflected that statement though there was the occasional silver to be seen amidst other brilliant shades of red that seemed akin to the blood poured upon the land visible through the windows.
It was quite a sight, she had to admit. Even if she had seen these very same fields and orchards most days for what, nine years now? It never looked quite as magnificent as it did now. Perhaps it was the atmosphere or the extravagance of it all but the greens were deeper and the yellows seemed brighter, even as brilliant as the sun she'd dare to say.
She found herself despising the mere thought of beauty in a clearly beautiful land. After all, if she were to be completely honest even if it wasn't too hard to figure out, it only remained so because she and so many others were forced to tend to them year after year. They received nearly nothing from their efforts and, sometimes, deaths. If someone were to attempt to take some fruit from their labor, sometimes literally as they swiped an apple or something of the kind, then they'd be beaten to death.
They lived a harsh life out here and so she pondered how they remained so strong and kind, how they remained a unified family through it all as she had noted before. Even though they were starving, when Nivea showed up out of the blue one day seemingly lost and afraid they took her in and proceeded to care for her very well-being up until then when a sacrifice was needed to be made for a better future. District 13 had been wise to send her to such a place unified by the bonds of peril.
But there was something else about the paragraph before this one. She found a bit of humor in the better future they wished for. From what she had heard before, their idea of a better future was not something they'd dare to set on too extravagantly.
They simply wished for more food for the children, better schooling when they were allowed to do so, and the protection of a young and seasoned Victor such as herself if she were to make it. What they didn't know was that her thoughts were not aligned with theirs, as her idea of a better future was more along the lines of a changed Capitol ruled by none other than the one she owed everything to.
Nivea, despite her surroundings and how she ran over plans in her mind, began to grow bored the longer she sat there in silence with only empty extravagance for company. No matter how many times she ran through how she would outmaneuver a career and sink her weapon of choice into their chest or throat, nothing could help it. She had even taken to humming to fill the silence, lips occasionally moving to form silent words of the song or further help solidify her plans. Her mind was filled with images of death and destruction caused by her hands.
There even came a point when she placed her district partner in the place of the career to be killed, a strange feeling filling her even in the mind-made simulation that halted her motions and got her killed swiftly. There was just something about him. Maybe it was the fact that he was only two years younger or he came from such a clearly loving family in a wonderful community that would mourn him no matter if they knew him, but it wasn't as easy to kill him as it had been the others.
Perhaps it wouldn't all be lies when she won. And so she sat there, instead adding him to the equation of being by her side as they struck down tribute after tribute, accommodating for her lack of knowledge to his capabilities by giving him a new skill each time.
Nivea had very highly doubted that there would be anyone visiting to wish her a goodbye and good death as she sat there, considering an alliance. That was why, when the door creaked open, she jolted and let a small "Shit" slip.
Warrun slammed the fancy door closed behind him and crossed his overly muscled arms over his chest, that familiar scowl she would even dare to say she would miss in the next two weeks settling on his lips. "Language."
Nivea only sighed an emotionless one, flipping him off with a splayed arm in his direction. "Fuck off."
His glare intensified on command, soon drifting to scrutinize how she lay on the armchair. The arm of the chair was in the crook of her knees as her legs swung, back resting against the one behind her. The hand that had so graciously gestured to the man in the room was stretched out and hanging limp, for the most part, whilst the other lay draped over her stomach.
Despite the way she was curled in another's chair, somehow it seemed as if she belonged there. Perhaps that was because, with the cold aura she practically exuded, she seemed, to the unknowing eye, almost aristocratic. It looked almost as if she belonged and always would in a place of riches that thrived off of the suffering of others. This was most likely because that wasn't entirely too different to what she had been preparing to do all of her life in 11.
What was she trying to do but fulfill her greater purpose by killing 23 others and theirs?
That and she had been trained to give the Capitol what they wanted. It had been found that they enjoyed those that could blend in with their posh lives with ease, and so she was the perfect choice. Even as a child she was not one known for smiling or stiff formalities.
Warrun said rather bossy-like, "Sit up."
She did and, though she did so very begrudgingly inside, she showed no sign of it in any way besides the light tapping of her index finger on her thigh, a tell only practiced liars would take the slightest notice of. "Sir yes sir."
He rolled his eyes. Suddenly he became even more serious than before. How, she hadn't the slightest idea. "Don't get killed."
"'Don't think any of us want to."
"Nivea."
She glared, somehow exponentially more frightening than she had been mere seconds ago, as if she had flipped a switch. "Don't test me."
"Why shouldn't I? It's my job, is it not?"
"No, it's not. You and I know full well my parents only wanted you to keep tabs, train me of the ways of the world or whatever, and make sure I stay on the right track." It was a clear ruse to the pair, a tactic of wordplay to make it seem as if it were her deceased parents that were behind his actions when it was, in fact, a much higher form of government. They both knew her parents were long dead so it would make no sense otherwise. "They said nothing about testing me."
"Did you ever stop to think they wouldn't tell you everything?"
"Yes."
That surprised him, the scowl upon his features forming a frown.
"I'm not a little girl anymore, sir." In truth she was a bit of a soldier in an army not yet formed and he was the one of higher command charged with preparing her for a war not yet ready to begin. Nivea was their greatest and only spy and she would not let them believe otherwise any further, "I just hoped it wouldn't be the case; I prefer to know exactly who and what I'm going to be dealing with."
"Are we still talking about the same thing here?"
"I don't know, are we, sir?"
"You tell me."
"I..." She shrugged, uncaring beyond what was most considered a normal amount. "I suppose not, sir."
"What's with all the 'sir's?"
With a simple shrug, again, Nivea smoothly reverted to her previous stance upon the softest cushions she had ever felt beneath her, letting her head lull to the side to rest on the back of the armchair, eyes closing of their own accord. "I know you hate it."
Warrun scoffed, his hate for her seemingly refueled to the rim. He grumbled, "What's your plan gonna be?"
She took that moment in which her eyes were closed and she was alone in the darkness to envision the games and plans she had already begun to compile. It certainly wasn't pretty so she simply said, before her innocent image even through all they had been through could be tarnished, "Win."
His grunt turned her head back around and pried her eyes open. "Tell me. Now."
A dark eyebrow rose cryptically. "Aren't you bossy." But she continued soon after regardless, fighting the dark look he had sent, with a stubborn air. "What needs to be done."
"Which is?"
Frost threatened to form on all whom her words touched, "Whatever it takes."
Warrun opened his mouth to say one more thing with an extra dark look added to the already dark look on his face when the room's door opened once more to reveal a peacekeeper. "Time's up."
The man in white began to haul him to the door and the last question asked was surprisingly normal and actually contained human sympathy, "You have a token, right?"
She nodded, quite frankly concerned for his well-being to actually care about her, and he was gone. Nivea lounged back in the chair once more, eyes darting around the room of riches in deep thought of things not even permitted for herself to truly recall, even as another peacekeeper came to take her away. Her cold brown eyes, as if a trick of the light shining in through the window dimming with a rare passing cloud, seemed to inexplicably warm for the smallest instant before they fluttered shut.
As her lips parted and she filled her lungs with the last of this cool aristocratic air she seemed to belong in more than she would ever admit, a finger made its way to trace the soft ribbon lacing through her braid as a constant reminder of what she owed and where she truly belonged. She was Nivea Vida of the thought-long-lost District 13, daughter of Hyacinth and Dimitri Vida.
With her she carried the burden of her home and all of Panem's fate on her shoulders. In her heart lay the grief of a parental bond never shared nor felt with those she had never truly met. Her eyes held a frigidity that could have only come from the hardships she had faced on the path to her greater purpose and laced between the brown strands of hair she had been gifted from her mother was a cheerful yellow ribbon her very own parents had used in their wedding ceremony.
That ribbon she cherished so, held the promise of two souls tied together. It was the custom 13 had adopted as its own shortly following the attempt on all of their lives. With her she carried the district she believed she would never grow tired of calling home no matter the things they had done to get her where she was.
She truly believed it was for the greater good.
And even if it killed her she would work hard to contain that believed truth and those that made it as such. That was why. That was why, as yet another hand wrapped around her arm, Nivea decided that it was finally time to leave her soul behind. She had done this before, yes, in moments of weakness and determination, but never for good as she was now.
It was becoming clear that she had held on much too long at that point, memories still containing the slightest bit of recollection to a time when it was not asked of her to leave it all behind, remaining like a chain to a wall. Even through everything she clung to that, to the last bits of warmth, sympathy, and wish for almost anything but death by her blood-soaked hands. But, now that this had all come crashing down on her, she decided it was time for what had been the inevitable.
So she proceeded to let go and her grip slackened over what she had been clinging onto so desperately. Her poor excuse for humanity fell into the shadows of the impenetrable depths of her mind, never for to hope to regain it again. With this, Nivea became something she could never reverse, something she had known for a very long time she already was. Denial was one of the stages of grief, even this wasn't necessarily so, after all. Some things were permanent and there was no doubt that this was one of the many that seemed like she could never hope to reverse.
Nivea Vida stood with a grace that didn't exactly match the peacekeeper trailing by her side and proceeded to walk away without a care in the world, not a glance spared to the room so seemingly meant for her. The grand room of thick velvet curtains, plush royal thrones of the finest fabric formed by the hands of District slaves in one of the many, sparkling clean carpets, and something foretelling what she truly was fading away into a mere memory.
The door slammed shut, and she was on her way.
Well hello there again, reader(s), it truly is fancy seeing you here.
How'd you like chapter numero three? I took the main outline I originally created in chapter two and added more and most definitely made it better with some good old fashioned editing! Whoop whoop.
If you liked this chapter please vote, it honestly makes my day a thousand times better, and leave a comment with whatever you feel you need to say whether it be a question, comment, complaint(I can very well tell you to stop reading if you get a little too personal too often) or any other really.
Big warning I edited this when I was just barely managing to think straight due to lack of sleep and am still struggling with staying awake so, when I return to this in the morning, I will see what I can improve.
See you later guys, gals, and non-binary's! 😊
Word Count: 2,478