FAILURE TO COMPLY ┃ f. odair

3.2 birthday blues

In the weeks since the announcement, none of them had much spoken about what was to come. At least, Calypso and Porter avoided the topic. Roman tried to speak about it and grew frustrated when the women tried to ease him out of that talk. It had grown to a point where Calypso told him exactly how it was, that two of them were going back into the games and there was a chance she would be the one going with him. At some point, he had to accept that.

It was an impossible situation. He was dying either way. The only question was who would die with him? His daughter, or his lifelong friend and mentor. Not that he knew it, but the pair had already come to terms with it all. They'd come to the reluctant agreement to not volunteer for each other, considering they both wanted to volunteer. Fate would decide for them instead.

The morning of the reaping, Calypso spent far too long focused on herself instead of her father. She pulled a muted blue dress from her wardrobe decorated with floral lace on the bodice and a layered tulle skirt that flowed like delicate waves of the shore. She had yet to wear it, as the day Finnick gifted it to her was the day she decided to reserve the colour blue for him. The blue of the ocean and the blue of his eyes. No client in the Capitol had seen her wearing the colour since.

But today, she was wholly aware that he was going to be watching her on a screen once his reaping was done with, whether it be on the train or his television at home. She hoped for the latter, but a gut feeling told her otherwise.

By the time she was ready, Roman had already gotten himself out of bed, though the weariness of effort lay heavily in his features, despite how hard he tried to muster a smile. Be strong, he'd always taught her, but he'd been struggling so much to abide by his own lessons. Calypso had taken them in stride these past months. He hated himself for that.

Outside, the Silvas met up with the Porter, and the trio walked silently to the town square where they would face their doom. On some level, Calypso was ready for death to take her. On another, she had so much fight left in her and no direction to point it in. Perhaps in the Capitol or the games, she could finally find it. A blade in a heart of tribute or a tyrant was all the same to the unruly beast she became in the heat of battle.

"Welcome," Monica greeted the crowd, though her voice had none of its usual enthusiasm. As her extended family ascended the stage, she locked eyes with the cousin she'd come to love. There was nothing but steel in Calypso Silva's gaze. Steel and strength. "We are here in celebration of the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell... First, we shall pick the female tribute."

As the Capitol woman moved to the bowl, she was able to observe her cousin's expression closer. In the light, her eyes shone with unshed tears miraculously held back. Calypso gave her cousin the tiniest nod, letting her know that the anger in her look was not meant for her, that the two girls had love between them despite all their differences. In that moment, Monica's heart broke and reformed into something she couldn't quite figure out. She wanted to scream and cry and tell the people of her home that they were wrong. They were all wrong. This was all wrong.

But she remained quiet. Her hand entered the bowl, chose one of the two small envelopes, and her feet carried her back to the centre of the stage despite her heart's protests. Very carefully, she tore away the seal with her long red nails and unfolded the paper. Her tiny shaky breath was picked up on the microphone, echoing throughout the square.

"The female tribute from District Five..." she announced. "Calypso Silva."

The crowd was quiet, as it had always been. Never once in the years that she'd stood amongst them did Calypso ever hear anyone cheer. The silence was deafening as she moved towards Monica, only for a hand to grab her wrist before she could. Porter pleaded silently with her eyes, as if anything could be done. Calypso replied in turn, expression hopeless and warning. They'd made a promise to each other. Fate had chosen.