FAILURE TO COMPLY ┃ f. odair

1.2 tributes and tribulations

It was Calypso's own fault really, that she hadn't considered the tribute she'd just declared her enemy was going to end up being mentored by her dad. She was glad to have Porter with her at least, but the idea of her own family conditioning an enemy to kill was a scary thought, to say the least. Roman Silva was a deadly man, and he could make a deadly man out of Payton if he tried.

Stopping in the Justice Building hadn't really been necessary for her. She'd sat in that room silently, waiting to see if her father or Porter would come to see her. They didn't. They didn't need to. After the time was up and the peacekeepers pushed her towards the train, they were already back within her sight, not a word uttered between them.

"Well, you're a quieter pair than I expected," Monica commented, gracefully sitting herself down on one of the many comfortable armchairs. She reached over to the coffee table and skewered a cherry on one of her long red nails before popping it on her mouth. "This is all for you! You should enjoy it!"

"All for them, in exchange for their lives," Roman retorted, more anger in his voice than he intended. It was only when he looked at his daughter that he caught himself. Her quietness was hard to decipher, and that was his fault, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that she was hurting not only because she had been reaped, but because he was there. "I know you're new here, Miss Feather-Creed, but it shouldn't be hard to understand that this will be hard for them both. Comfort doesn't always compensate for cruelty."

The woman considered his words carefully, then hummed quietly as she sank deeper into her chair. In that moment of silence, everyone took the chance to take in their surroundings. In this one carriage alone, there was a large table full of more colourful food than Calypso had ever seen, a dressed table ready for a large meal, furniture gilded with bronze and gold, and a plush sofa at the far end facing a large television with the Capitol symbol idling.

It was Payton that took the first step further into the train. He hesitantly reached for a polished red apple, not exactly a rarity in their district. But, as the first bite passed his lips, he let out a deep moan of satisfaction.

"That good?" Calypso questioned, choosing a fluffy pastry for herself, filled with dried fruits. It melted on her tongue. "These are better than an apple."

"You're forgetting not all of us have daddy's murder money to keep us fattened," he retorted harshly, though softened his features when Calypso appeared genuinely taken aback. "Don't you think it gives you an unfair advantage? You've probably got combat training and everything."

"It's no different from the careers," she reasoned. "In fact, I'm probably worse off than them. I know how to wield knives from being taught at home. I didn't go to some big-shot academy. Besides, you're going to be mentored by my dad."

"But it's still something. What are my odds?"

Enemy or not, Calypso felt bad for the boy. He was right in saying she had an unfair advantage compared to the likes of him, whose name was only known by the locals as the school charmer. He was no stunner, yet his humble charisma got him everything he wanted back at home.

"You just have to make people like you," she said. "Not a hard thing for you, I'd say."

"You'd say?" Payton echoed, eyebrows quirking upwards. "Do you like me?"

"Undetermined," she replied, but her attention was pulled elsewhere. While the two youngsters had been chatting, her father and Porter had already set themselves up in front of the TV. His solemn face as he began to watch the reapings broke her heart in two. It was a miracle he hadn't wept for his daughter yet, but that was the Silva way. Save the tears for never. "Come on. Let's go see who our competition is."

Taking a seat between Roman and Porter, Calypso finally dared to silently communicate with her father. The avoidance was not uncommon, something they'd both grown used to in times of stress. However, as she tucked her hand in the strong grip of his, he gave a firm squeeze. They were both here, and it sucked, but they'd get through it together.

"District One," Roman remarked, lifting their joined hands to point at the screen. "Harrison Garrick and Lola Sharpe, both volunteered. It seems he's one of the latest and greatest achievements from the Academy, but looks like he volunteered specifically for her."

On the screen, the two tributes stood side by side on the stage, hands joined and fondness in their eyes, more akin to lovers than killers. It was a terrible combination, deadly and loyal, but prone to be each other's weakness. If the Garrick boy had volunteered for the Sharpe girl, it probably meant he just wanted to see her come out alive, even at the cost of his own life.

Many more faces, and then something unexpected. District Four had seen many daring and dashing victors, none more well-known than the current 21 year old Finnick Odair. In the reaping, a name was called that had the camera panning to his ghostly face: 14 year old Maisie Odair.

"Oh, that poor girl," Porter muttered to herself, hand instinctively reaching to gently grip Calypso's wrist. It was hauntingly similar to her own situation, being forced into the arena, as if punishment for the otherwise untouchable victors they called family.

Watching their own reapings was strange, and Calypso cringed when she heard herself yell at Monica. She looked across the carriage and mouthed a silent apology, but it was waved away with an unbothered smile. Their own was followed by several more than blurred together with terrified and confused faces, including the 17 year old Poet Lively volunteering for an unknown 12 year old in District Eleven, an act of true selflessness rarely seen in any of the districts.

By the time evening rolled around, they were already nearing the Capitol. Calypso made her way to her own room, far more impressive than her bedroom at home. Despite the size of their house and the fact they lived more comfortably than most in their district, she was glad her father had taught her that humility was more important than luxury. That didn't mean she didn't didn't enjoy the softness of her covers and clothes as she curled herself up.

The soft knock that came belonged to only one person. Roman let himself in quietly. The fact she didn't send him away the second he entered was enough to know she wanted him there. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he reached for a folded blanket and gently draped it over her body.

She was small despite her age, which would be both a help and a hindrance in the arena. If she didn't have strength, she could at least have speed and agility in a way many other tributes wouldn't. It was why he'd taught her to wield knives like he'd done once. To the Silva's, a blade was an extension of their own bodies.

"Stop strategizing," she whispered, not bothering to look at him. All her energy was focused on the soft hum of the train moving across the tracks. "Your silence is so obvious. I want to spend at least a little while trying to enjoy myself before I start thinking about my imminent doom."

"What choice do we have, Cal?" he replied, just as lost as she was. "If you think I'm going to send you in there without doing everything I can to help, you're wrong."

"You're Payton's mentor, not mine."

A harsh truth. Roman considered the statement, and decided almost immediately she was worth compromising his morals for.

"If you're not going to ally with him, I'll find a way to set him up for failure."

"No," she scolded, finally sitting up to face him. "Then his blood will essentially be on my hands. If I'm going to kill, I'm going to do it the right way."

How cruel a fate it was to be someone that had to decide whether there was a right way to kill. Calypso's bottom lip wobbled, but she hid it almost immediately. This was life. This was Panem. Death was just an old friend waiting to knock on everyone's door, some earlier than others. Surely, when it came down to it, she'd know the right way to keep him at bay.

"How am I gonna survive this, dad?" she asked. The question had been both genuine and rhetorical, and Calypso hadn't expected an answer. But Roman knew he had to say something, and had to make sure she understood it in its simplest terms.

"By any means necessary."

-

a/n: remember those words. they are important. calypso is heavily influenced by her survival instinct, but is also ultimately led by her heart. it gets her in trouble a lot.