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The hall is lined with mirrors, each one of them designed to alter a person's image in a new and exciting way. With every step, you can appear taller or curvier or twisted beyond repair. Many Capitolites bounce from mirror to mirror, giggling at the joy of their reflection, but Theta largely ignores the scenery. She's been to hundreds of these parties over the years, each with their own special gimmick designed to hide the slimy underbelly that lurks just below the surface of this society. Very few of these parties have been appealing, and Theta is rarely an enthusiastic participant. This one is no different. Instead of joining the masses, she sulks in a corner, drinking glass after glass of champagne until her world glimmers with hazy stars.
Not far from where Theta stands, her male counterpart, Koschei, is draped lazily across a plush armchair with a brightly dressed woman in his lap. They are both wearing a rather dreadful shade of pink, coated in feathers. It's toxic and sickly at the same time, a far cry from the deep shades that Koschei normally wears, not that Theta pays attention. No doubt the ghastly affair was the woman's choice. It occurs to Theta that she ought to know her name -- the circle of people who are invited to these kind of parties is dreadfully tight -- but for all her half-hearted, drunken efforts, she can't seem to summon a single letter.
The nameless woman seems to have no such thoughts in her head. From the looks of it, she is mostly concerned with both the man beneath her and the many, many mirrors that reflect their twined image back at them. Koschei, however, does not share his paramour's focus. His eyes keep drifting.
Most unpleasantly, Theta repeatedly finds them turned in her own direction.
Theta tries to ignore his stare the first couple of times, burying her attention in the bottom of her glass and the profoundly unalluring spectre of her own reflection in turn, but despite her efforts, their gazes keep meeting over and over again -- grappling in midair like a pair of falcons caught in contest before falling away.
Rage builds in Theta's chest, intensifying with each and every brush of contact. Though they have been the sole victors from District 3 for years, Koschei barely speaks to her. He discarded her when he was her mentor, choosing instead to focus his attention on the male tribute that year, and he has never once apologized for it, never once admitted that he might have been wrong, never once exhibited any hint of change or remorse. If anything, their dynamic has only become increasingly contentious over the course of their separately evolving adulthoods.
They may work together, but there is no trust between them -- only bitter silence and bared teeth.
After too many glasses of champagne, with her blood afire and her head reeling, Theta finally lunges forward, closing the distance between herself and her rival with several strong steps.
The woman seated in Koschei's lap flinches at Theta's approach, turning to him in hope of protection, but he offers her nothing. His grip on her body slackens. She slips from his lap and lands upon the unforgiving marble floor with an indignant squeak.
"What do you want?" Theta snaps, ignoring the fallen woman. The entirety of her focus is directed at Koschei and Koschei alone.
So, too, is Koschei's attention completely on her.
The forgotten paramour struggles to her feet, mumbles something about coming back later in Koschei's direction, and promptly flees the scene. Theta doubts she'll ever have to speak to that particular Capitolite again. The Capitol's resentment of her aside, lovers have a tendency to float in and out of Koschei's public life at great speed. Almost every night, there's a new person on his arm.
Theta, meanwhile, always leaves and arrives in solitude.
Koschei leans forward, bracing his elbows on this insides of his knees as his fingers meet in a perilously unsteady steeple. It would seem that Theta is not the only person who is drunk tonight. His image is reflected back at them in a half dozen mirrors, hands and fingers multiplied so many times that the room suddenly feels much, much smaller than it had a moment ago. Theta is utterly surrounded by him. It makes the tiny hairs on her neck stand on end.
"To be left alone, love." The pet name drips from Koschei's lips with unbridled contempt. A single feather shakes itself loose of his suit coat, drifting to the ground in silence.
"You weren't alone before I got here," Theta challenges, casting an eye towards the narrow corridor down which the woman vanished. Not a hint of her garish pink remains, except for the blush of anger in Theta's own cheeks.
A shadow slips across Koschei's face. It is a shocking enough change from his usual demeanor that Theta almost stumbles backward. For a person who gained infamy by way of slashed throats and stabbed torsos, Koschei rarely looks either terrifying or terrified. He is known as a master of charm. The entire Capitol is in love with him, and he greets all its denizens with the same glowing smile and a sense of social ease that radiates from every pore of his being. Everyone aside from Theta, that is. She receives only cold shoulders and cruel stares.
And mocking pet names, apparently.
Koschei quickly regains control of his expression. The fleeting shadow lifts as he tilts his head slightly. He flicks his gaze over Theta's body, sizing her up. "Jealous?"
Unlike Koschei, Theta doesn't feel the need to hide behind a mask. A scoff hits the back of her throat. "Of her? What is there to be jealous of? I'm doing just fine, thanks."
Koschei's response is both terribly quick and razor sharp. "I meant of me."
Theta's nose wrinkles. An invisible itch wracks her fingers as she wishes for another drink. She would turn around and hunt down a server, but that would mean breaking eye contact, and breaking eye contact would mean losing. The Capitol may have only begrudgingly allowed her the title of Victor, but she is no less competitive for it. Especially where Koschei is concerned.
"I'm even less jealous of you than I am of her. Didn't know that was possible, but you learn something new every day." The words almost take on the airy quality of a joke, but something buried deep beneath the surface twists the knife instead. Theta does not consider herself to be a cruel person, but that does not mean that she is incapable of pettiness, and something about seeing Koschei always brings her back to being fourteen, angry, and utterly alone.
Maybe if he had supported her, she wouldn't have had to do what she did.
Maybe there would be less blood on her hands.
Maybe she wouldn't scent burning flesh in her nostrils every time the wind shifts.
Koschei changes position slightly, and though Theta would like to think that she's made him squirm, his demeanor remains brutally calm. "Really?" he asks. A gloved hand slips beneath his chin as he regards her with a questioning gaze and raised eyebrows. "People normally reserve that amount of scrutiny for people who incite a certain level of envy."
He lingers on the last word long enough to stoke Theta's simmering rage into a veritable inferno. She acts on the surge immediately, breaching his air space without hesitation. Her hands grip the arms of his chair as she looms over him, daring him to push her aside.
A note of panic flits across Koschei's face -- there and gone as quickly as the shadow that preceded it.
"No one would ever be jealous of you." Every syllable brims with intense displeasure as it drops from Theta's lips, as if she has just stepped in something vile. "Not all of us are heartless monsters. Besides, you were the one who wouldn't stop looking at me."
"There is an entire room with which you could occupy yourself, Theta, yet you chose to bury yourself in my corner. Is that my fault, too? Am I holding you hostage now?" Koschei glances down at the arms on either side of his body as he speaks, as if pointing out the fact that Theta has caged him might somehow compel her to move.
Theta pretends not to notice.
"Not all of us want to be here, you know. Some of us have obligations. If you have a problem with how I fulfill those obligations, you can submit a complaint directly to the President. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to add another item to my list of sins. Maybe this'll finally be the one that does me in, and wouldn't that be pleasing for you?"
Koschei's eyes meet hers again -- brown, burning. He does not meet her argument in kind. Instead, he snarls, "Get off of me, Theta."
Theta only leans in closer. "Make me."
It's a stupid dare -- a game of chicken with a man who has committed a dozen murders on film and has more influence than she could ever dream of -- but she can't seem to stop herself from making it. She could blame it on the alcohol racing through her bloodstream, on the claustrophobic nature of the hall of mirrors, on the look in Koschei's eyes, but she knows that the real blame lies with her. She has spent her entire life dancing on a knife's edge. She takes unnecessary risks. She starts fights she cannot possibly win.
It's compulsive, and it's dangerous.
A kaleidoscopic shifting of color breaches the edges of Theta's perception. There's a crowd gathering around them, tittering gossips hoping for their next fix.
Koschei notices the audience, too. There's a flick of his eyes, a tilt of his head, a long moment of internal deliberation.
Theta quickly grows impatient. Restlessly, she shifts her weight from foot to foot and back again. "I said make me."
When Koschei finally meets her challenge, he moves fast. An open palm strikes Theta in the chest, sending her reeling backward and banishing the air from her lungs. The soles of her shoes scramble against the hardwood floor as her lungs burn. Koschei springs to his feet, grasps her wrist in his fingers and twists her arm behind her back, bringing their faces close for a second time.
"Don't do that again."
There's a flash of light multiplied ad infinitum. Someone whistles. But Theta's sphere of perception only has room for Koschei. Every shallow breath she takes burns and tears against her insides, running her ragged, but still, she grits her teeth at him in a feral grin.
Her voice is quiet, taunting, harsh, as she says, "Oh, look at that, the Master finally lost his cool."
Theta moves her left foot and leans her weight back, trying to break his hold, but Koschei is stronger than she is.
He watches her struggle for a silent eternity before he finally lets her go.
Gathered inertia carries Theta backwards, slamming her against one of the countless mirrors. She hears it crunch on impact, feels little shards of glass cutting into her back. Some of the many, many fun house versions of Koschei that had surrounded her disappear.
There are strange hands at her elbows as someone tries to help her up, but she shrugs them away. No one in the Capitol has ever pitied her before. She will not allow them to pity her now.
Broken shards of mirror fall to the floor like so many drops of rain, as she works her way back to her feet, each one making a slightly different sound as it strikes the tile.
"Where do you get off?" she demands, approaching Koschei yet again. "Leave you alone? What about you leave me alone?"
Koschei's hand flexes as he brings it up beside his face. The muscles in his fingers tremble slightly as he fights back whatever urge possessed him to break his façade in the first place.
Theta watches his movement like a hawk. She wants him to break. Wants everyone here to finally understand him like she does. He's not the golden boy. He's the monster who looked a fourteen year old child in the eye and told her to fend for herself. There is blood on his hands and ice in his heart as chill as the peppermint that coats his breath.
So she pokes him. Again.
And she aims low.
Keeps her voice low, too, so no one else will hear. If they hear, then this becomes her fault. It'll just be another reason for everyone to hate her, another reason to hold her at a distance from the privileges that she rightfully earned.
"After all, isn't it your fault our tributes always die?"
Koschei's eyes widen. That trembling hand falls, curling into a tight fist at his side. He takes one step backward, and then another. Theta expects him to stumble into a mirror, like she did, but his back finds a soft landing against a real person rather than a ghostly reflection.
Figures. He has always had better luck than her.
But despite the cushion, the damn breaks. With a crowd at his back, Koschei drops the leash on his anger, and yells, "Do not antagonize me, Theta. You're not above me. You're not above anyone here. You're a disgrace to your profession. You're a disgrace to your District. If I never had to see you again, it would be too soon."
It shouldn't hurt. Theta asked for this, after all. She demanded it. She picked her words and weapons with care, but still, every blow makes her already broken breaths a little shallower and the scratches on her back a little bit deeper.
She bites back. "I don't think I'm the one who thinks I'm above this."
Koschei spits out a bark of bitter laughter. "You don't do anything except pretend that you're better than us. Why are you even here? Go home, Theta, and leave the rest of us alone."
The champagne infused stars in her blood are gone, snuffed out by a grim dose of reality.
A muscle in her jaw tightens, and Theta tries to rush forward again with the full intention of tackling him to the floor, but a glittering, teal-clad figure moves between them.
"Nope, don't you dare." Amy's hands are on Theta in a moment, holding her back. Theta had forgotten that among the many, many people whose names she doesn't know, there are people here that know her too well.
"Let her go, Amelia." Theta can no longer see Koschei, but she can hear him. The reflections that box her in are just her and Amy now, standing face to face, challenging each other to not do anything stupid. "If she wants to fight, let her fight."
Amy looks over her shoulder, red hair flying. "She doesn't want to fight, Koschei. Leave her alone for goodness's sake."
"She's a coward," Koschei bites back. "She started this. She started all of it. Why are you on her side?"
Amy seethes. "There wouldn't have to be sides if you two idiots kept to yourselves."
Koschei raises a hand, pointing accusatorially at Theta. "I was keeping to myself. She threw herself at me."
Theta disentangles herself from Amy's arms with a quick duck and a sideways step. She shouldn't do this, but she can't seem to help herself. Every bone in her body begs for revenge. She is so close to unseating him, to exposing him for who he really is. Why should she stop now?
"Maybe you've had too much to drink, Koschei. Why don't you go take a break and track down your girl? I'm sure she'll be easy to find, and I bet her bed is as pink as the rest of her. Better use of your time." She casts an almost lazy eye around the room. "Besides, looks like you might have worn out your welcome. No one likes a temper."
Perhaps Theta is hallucinating, but she swears that Koschei -- and the half dozen copies of him -- flinches at the words. Pain shimmers in the air in front of him, crystallizing in the corners of his eyes and the way his throat tightens as he swallows.
But he still has time for one last blow of his own.
"She is not my girl, but there is no point in staying when you've thoroughly murdered the mood. I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we'd all be better off without you, Theta. Enjoy your night. I hope it was worth it."
Koschei turns on his heel. The crowd parts. Normally, there would be people fawning over him, reaching out to grab his elbow or request his opinion on some petty thing are another, but in this moment, he is suddenly untouchable.
Of course, no one aside from Amy to Theta's defense either or dares to sing her praises. Even if she fooled them into thinking that she was right, she is still the ugly stepchild. They still look at her and see nothing more than a disappointment and a rule breaker. This is nothing new.
Koschei's retreated form is finally swallowed up by the darkness. It should be a satisfying sight -- Koschei brought low -- but Theta doesn't feel anything. No joy. No pride. No schadenfreude. She is an empty vessel, and her skin smarts from the insults that he slung at her. A snippet of those final words echo in her ears on a loop:
"We'd all be better off without you, Theta."
Though she would like to disagree, she cannot say she does.
That is, perhaps, the greatest hurt of all.
She catches sight of her shattered reflection in the broken mirror. The sight chases her out of the door and into the cold, neon darkness of the streets, where she can fall apart in private.