FAILURE TO COMPLY ┃ f. odair

1.1 fear the reaper

Yellow. What a hideous colour. At least to Calypso, it was disgusting. The mustard fabric clung to her form as though it were a second layer of skin, one she'd grown into over the last few years. Sentimental or not, she hated it. There'd been no point trying to dress differently each year and drawing even more attention to herself. Child of a victor, and yet here she was on her 18th birthday, dressed in a yellow dress chosen by her mother before she disappeared. Just this one more day, and she'd be free of the worry. Their small family would be free to move on from the torment of the games, and from the torment of Snow.

Roman Silva had never wanted children. He'd never wanted to care about anyone again after his games. That woman had been a fluke. This girl had been a fluke. But he loved her. He loved her. How ironic it was that her birthday fell on Reaping Day, just one more stab in the back from the omnipresent Capitol for his once defiant nature. Calypso had never once been able to celebrate it.

"You look beautiful, honey," the single father said solemnly, those four words being far too familiar. Every year, without fail, he told her the same thing. It had become so predictable that he found himself mouthing her own words as she spoke them.

"I look passable," Calypso replied. At twelve years old, she'd spoken it with such anxiety in her voice, her first year in the Reaping as a victor's child. It had meant something terrifying but equally fascinating. Now, she spoke it only with tiredness and irritation. "Exactly how we like it."

"It's better that no one takes notice," he sighed. Roman's hands moved to rest gently on his daughter's arms, and she gripped his forearms in return. "We've had enough eyes on us. Get through today, just one day, and we can move on with our lives."

"Maybe," she mumbled, though her hopes were not high. Her father had won his games nearly thirty years ago, and the torment for him never ceased. It was a generational trauma that Calypso was now old enough to understand they could never escape. "We should go."

"Hey," Roman stopped her as she turned from the mirror. Now, he wanted to see her directly, fully. "I'm proud of you. I love you. You've been so strong despite everything that's happened to us the last few years. You just need to be strong a little while longer."

Just a little while longer. How many times had he said that? How many times had he urged his innocent young girl to steel herself against the horrors of the world, because he knew nothing he could do would ever be enough to actually protect her? No. She'd been taught to be her own first line of defence.

"I love you too, dad."

Victor's Village in District Five was quiet. It was a cold day, just a light brush of out-of-season snow coating the dead grass and seeping what little colour they had from the landscape. At a young age, Calypso had believed it to be cursed, considering the last two victors they had, of the 53rd and 66th games, had killed themselves. The peacekeepers removed their bodies and hadn't touched the houses since. Even now, as dawn broke, they carried an eerie shadow around them that was almost supernatural.

On the eve of her twelfth birthday, the young girl had walked into Bobby Davies' house and so insistantly spoken to his ghost. Seeing that dried blood stain on the carpet had scared her, but the idea of being reaped scared her even more. There she sat, trying to ignore the lingering metallic smell, and spoke to empty air, begging for advice for how to win the games. The only response that had come was her father's arms wrapping around her and pulling her away. It was the one time he'd screamed at her for intruding upon his old friend's space. She never set foot in there again after that.

The other victor, Riley Mallard, hadn't even made it long enough to go on her victory tour. The urge to slit her own throat had apparently been too much.