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Carson enters the lift alone and tries to control his shaking as he feels the mechanical whirr pull him upwards. Up towards floor six. He’s on his own now, there’s no reason to act strong if there are no cameras pointing at him or sponsors to encourage. But he still wraps his arms around himself, hugging his rucksack, attempting to soothe his own nerves.
I’m mature now, he thinks to himself, I survived and I’m maturer and stronger and I’m not afraid. Not anymore.
After all he’d seen and done in the arena... what could possibly be scarier than that?
He still finds himself flinching backwards when the lift smoothly comes to a stop though, dropping his bag and raising his arms in defence, stance ready, he braces himself as the elevator doors slide open to reveal—
Nothing. Just a starkly lit entrance hall. Carson breathes in a stuttering breath of relief, suddenly aware he’s been hyperventilating. It’s fine. Why’s he so jittery? There’s nothing there. He’s safe.
There’s nobody here to meet him.
There’s nobody here, at all.
It’s more frightening a thought than that of a lift ambush, though he’s not quite sure why. Not yet.
And of course there’s no one here, he chastises himself, always hating how childish and stupid he feels. He knew there wouldn’t be anybody, he’s the first of the decade, the first victor, the first inhabitant of floor six.
He looks out of the lift, across a sea of marble floor, uncaring mahogany walls with artificial lamps dotted along the side. There’s some furniture, but it looks decorative rather than functional. Carson is used to that. Further down the hallway there’s only darkness. It is the only direction available to him.
I’m brave, I’m strong now, he repeats in his mind, gathering all the will power he has left. He’d already proven himself, beaten the odds, and despite what Techno said, he wasn’t a kid anymore.
And with Techno in his mind and his pride on the line, Carson picks his bag up off the floor, takes in a huge breath, and finally steps out of the lift.
Credit to him, he manages to walk forward three paces before coming to an abrupt stop. Unsure and unwilling of where he has to step next. He hugs his bag to his chest again, allowing himself the childish comfort in return for being brave.
“Hello?” Carson hears himself ask, and cringes as it echoes down along the dark corridor, unheard. “Is there anybody there?”
He knows there isn’t. He knows that. He still wants to keep calling out.
He doesn’t know whether he wants the darkness to respond or not. Can’t tell which would be more scary.
Suddenly there’s a hollow bang behind him and he whirls around, pushing his bag forward as a shield, taking a stumbling step back to compensate for the incoming blow, as the tribute runs forward and— Carson blinks. Heart in his throat. It was just the lift doors shutting, noise amplified by the silence of the vacuum and his own paranoia.
Shit, that’s like twice in two minutes he’s gotten freaked out over literally nothing. What on earth is wrong with him?
Feeling his cheeks warm, embarrassed and alone, he scolds himself once again. Unsure of why he’s so agitated when he knows he’s safe now, from the arena, from the other tributes.
Because he’d already won. Because they’re all already dead.
Shuddering, and not just because of the slight chill, he turns back towards the dark hallway. Carson has always had creative ideas, his many ingenious projects. His teachers had described him as ‘imaginative’, though he’d eventually figured out that translated to ‘unintelligent’. Still, his creativity had always been his best characteristic, what he’d liked most about himself; and oh boy is his mind putting that quality to good use in imaging some very creative horrors lurking in that darkness.
“It’s fine, I- I can do this,” he whispers to himself. “I’m not scared,” he says and knows he is wrong. Carson isn’t good at lying, not to himself and certainly not to others. It just didn’t come naturally, no matter how hard Techno had tried to help him with it. He just couldn’t help but be himself; whether that was crying during his first interview or cracking juvenile jokes in his naming ceremony. CallMeCarson had always just been Carson King. His screen name an ironic jab at that informality that he’d come up with himself, after saying that exact phrase to countless tributes, capital citizens, interviewers and his own support team, and Techno had been really impressed with it.
Impressing Techno was all Carson wanted to do most of the time. He thinks he impressed him by winning, hopes so, at least, but when the older victor had briefed him the day after he won the games, he’d looked more relieved than proud as he placed his hand on Carson’s shoulder, offering him congratulations and explaining to him what would come next under the watchful eyes of several peacekeepers. He’d looked even more haunted though.
He wonders if Techno would be proud of him now, as the oh so great winner of the 60th games cowered before a dark hallway.
Yeah, Carson isn’t in the buisness of lying. He has only ever been himself in front of those hundreds of cameras and thousands of eyes. And right now, truthfully, himself is scared shitless.
But that is fine. He remembers what his mentor told him after he walked off the stage after that abysmal first interview, face soaked by tears, flushed entirely red in shame and heart cold in terror. In an awful moment of uncharacteristic and off-brand comfort, the warrior king himself had said, “It’s okay to be scared, that’s only natural, alright? Bravery isn’t not being scared, it’s being petrified, and staying on the stage anyway. And you stayed on that stage till the end, kid. It’s okay. It’s- it’s gonna be okay.” Techno had winced at the promise he couldn’t keep.
Looking guilty, he murmured “You’re so much braver than I was, Carson. Don’t forget how brave you are.”
Later, in better moments, Carson had joked with Techno that that motivational spiel was the only proof that the famed fighter was capable of stringing any complex thoughts together; said along with the usual jokes and jabs about how Techno was an empty headed career — to the older victor’s great offence and a lot of laughter.
“And to think,” Techno had shouted, sounding scandalised, and smiling, “I tried to comfort you! The betrayal!”
Carson snickers at the memory, the sound bouncing off the walls and reminding him where he is now.
I can’t do fearless, he thinks. He isn’t Technoblade after all. But I can do brave.
He finally steps forward into the darkness. Keeps walking down the hallway. He takes no more than five steps in before his movement is sensed and all the lights in the hallway flicker on, leading to more open rooms and closed doors.
Letting out a self-hating sigh, he keeps walking towards what appears to be a common room — the most stock photo common room he’s ever seen his life — and grits his teeth. Fuck, his teachers had been right, he really is an idiot.
—
Since he’s the first person here, and there’s no one to tell him otherwise, Carson gets to pick which room is his. A solid perk of being first he guesses, and tries to ignore the crushing silence.
In the end he doesn’t pick the biggest room as one would assume, doesn’t even go into each of them to make his choice, just simply picks the one closest to the common room and chucks his backpack on the bed.
He could pretend it’s for the ease of being close to the centre and nearest to the food, but he knows it’s really because the size of this floor makes him tremble, the empty sprawling corridors surrounding him making him feel exposed. Vulnerable.
So, he picks the room closest to the middle. The room is as extravagant and impractical for living in as the rest of the floor seems to be, it holds a large bed, an unresponsive computer and several showy bits of furniture that don’t look comfortable in the slightest. But it’s near to the common room.
The common room, though unused and stiff looking, feels like the most walled off and most protected area of the floor. The furniture is still grand, but it’s also useable, and he can imagine this large room holding nine other people, the space full and alive, messy and scattered, flexible and free. The room is warm in defiance to the rest of the floor’s chill. And so he makes it his outpost for now, his checkpoint.
He sinks into the long sofa, lays back and takes in the whole room. It’s still fancy, like the rest of the place. Everything looks like it’d cost both his parents’ entire life savings put together. The art is abstract, large screens lay upon the walls and even the lights have fancy fixtures surrounding them.
It’s luxurious, in an achingly familiar way. It reminds him of district one, of the factories and the luxuries they produced for Capital rooms such as this, reminds him of the similarly boastful and fancy houses of many of the well off citizens in his district. It reminds him of home.
All at once he becomes aware that he is crying. God does he want to be back home. He wants his friends. He wants his family. He wants his parents.
He wants his mum so so badly in this moment, to hug her, to curl up in her warmth safe from the world, that he has to stop himself from calling out for her. He doesn’t want to hear his sobbing voice reflect off the walls. He opts to cry into the priceless sofa cushions instead.
—
Unfortunately, crying gets boring quick, and Carson is kind of at a loss of what to do with himself next. What even was there to do?
His eyes fall upon the kitchen and his stomach growls, making him aware of the hunger he’d largely forgotten about.
Well that answers that question.
Padding over to the fridge, he realises that it’s mammoth. It towers over him, weirdly wide, his neck only just reaching past the top half of the giant structure.
Stomach groaning again, he pulls open the huge door with only a bit of effort, and is immediately overwhelmed.
There’s a lot of parts of food. Packs of meat, draws of vegetables, bunches of fruit, unknown sauces, and unopened condiments. All of which looks delicious, none of which he knows how to make into an actual meal.
Carson retreats, shutting the door and stepping out of the cold air. Is he supposed to cook his own dinner? He anxiously looks over at the oven, and decides that’s a battle for another day. Chooses to try the cupboards instead.
Ruffling through the countless cabinets he breathes a genuine sigh of relief when he stumbles across cereal. He can manage that. He knows that.
Briefly, he considers locating a bowl, a spoon and grabbing the large jug of milk out of the fridge, before simply snatching the box of capital brand oats and returning to his sofa, munching on the cereal straight out of its cardboard package.
Eventually time must pass because his hand hits the bottom of the box, and he’s a little shocked but mostly just amused he managed to get through the whole thing in one sitting. He supposes he really is bored. Then he worries about when and how his food gets restocked, if it even does, which, surely it must. Surely.
Looking at the clock though, and feeling more and more sleepy now that he was full, he decides that it’s a problem for future Carson to worry about. This Carson is going to bed.
Except... he’s really rather comfy here, laying across the now crumb-strewn sofa, warm and safe. His room is near and yet it suddenly feels too far to travel. His eyes drift shut and before he can think too deeply about it, he’s dropped into the world of dreams.
They are not pleasant.
He hopes desperately that he won’t remember them when he wakes up.
Accepts that he might.
—
Carson awakens to strange hands on his shoulders, and it’s nothing but instinct as he thrashes out of the grasp whirls round and pounces for the attackers throat. Hands just big enough to grip around the entire neck. He attempts to squeeze, adrenaline pumping round his veins, it feels like every nerve he has is on fire.
He’s not going to die. He’s not going to be an easy kill. He’s not he’s not he’s not’s he’s—
He’s being dragged off the other tribute, pulled back in a painfully tight grasp by- by peacekeepers? What were they doing inside the arena—?
Finally waking up, from both sleep and his paranoid stupor, heart thumping noisily in his head, he looks on at the shocked face of his stylist, who is grasping at his own neck, looking shellshocked. Carson is being dragged back by two peacekeepers, who thankfully have not deemed it necessary to use the batons clinging to their sides. Choosing to just hold him up in a bruising grip instead. Small mercies.
“Wh-what—?” He begins, beyond confused, and still breathing far too fast.
“I do say...” his stylist mumbles, gold-studded eyebrows raised in disbelief, he sounds genuinely disturbed. “I’d never understood the need for peacekeeper presence before but—“ he is looking at Carson like he’s never seen him before.
Carson has to fight the overwhelming impulse to roll his eyes. This man and his neon eyes and pink hair has probably never experienced even an inkling of physical conflict before. Instead saving and revelling in watching the violence and bloodshed between children.
To the man’s credit, the stylist has never been outright rude to him... but he’d patronised him an unbearable amount. It felt oddly good, indulgent even, to give the Capital citizen a brief taste of the reality he so happily dresses Carson up for.
But what’s remaining of his conscience is ashamed that he attacked an innocent man. Not a threat at all. And he’d just pounced on him like some kind of feral animal.
Why was he so fucking on edge still?
He swallows, and focuses on letting that regretful and guilt-filled part of him show, “I’m- I’m so sorry!” He doesn’t dare try to wriggle out of the peacekeepers grip, he may be young, but he knows better, “I was having a bad dream and you, uh, you startled me.”
His stylist looks back up at him, and despite his previous shock, he melts in sympathy at Carson’s words.
“I’m really sorry.” Carson repeats, rubbing it in but meaning it.
“Ah it’s- it’s okay my boy,” his stylist sighs, hands finally leaving his throat, “we all have bad dreams, I can certainly relate to that.”
The words immediately drain most of the remorse out of Carson, who can only try his best not to let his anger show to the peacekeepers, stopping himself from balling his fists or tensing his body. This stylist could not relate less to Carson’s situation—
He chooses to simply clench his jaw instead. “Yeah,” he says, and then, “um, what are you doing here?” A good subject change, as far as Carson knows his stylist’s job of dressing him up to get sponsors and look like a more competent tribute is over. Unless he’s the man they send to restock the cereal—?
The stylist’s jewel threaded eyebrows knit together in concern, “Oh, Carson, my boy don’t you know? You have your gala later today. It’s your Victor’s Welcome! So exciting, yes it really is, and your brand has been newly picked out, and I don’t quite know if it’ll work myself but- well, they haven’t failed yet! Oh, I am so looking forward to seeing you in this.”
The man’s luminous eyes glance to a box on the common room table that Carson has only just now noticed. It’s cardboard and about the size of a cake box. He can’t help but let curiosity get the best of him.
“What is that?”
“Never you mind yet! You’ll see soon enough, now come along, if you two wouldn’t mind letting the boy down,“ the peacekeepers finally let Carson go, rather coarsely dropping him to the floor. “Splendid! Now we can begin.”
—
The suit seems to drown him, he is swimming in an ocean of purple silk and is dragged down by the flowing cape attached behind him, strangling his neck, and making him feel absolutely absurd despite the heaps of praise his stylist is sending his way.
He seems to think Carson looks grand, prestigious, powerful. Like he looks like real royalty. Carson thinks he looks like a kid playing dress up. Can’t see what he sees. Nothing feels like it fits, his costume looks to him to be just that: a costume. It doesn’t even go together. And Carson feels ridiculous.
That is, until his stylist reaches into the box sitting on the table finally, and pulls out a crown.
Carson’s mouth unironically drops open. It’s a beast to behold, made of gold so pure looking he expects it to start dripping honey, gleaming tantalisingly in the artificial rays, encrusted with blinding gems all around its surface, jewels big and flashy, and yet noble and aristocratic. It radiates power, and Carson can’t help but audibly swallow as it’s placed over his head. It has a distinct weight to it, heavy in a way he’s sure he’ll never forget. His stylist gasps in glee.
“I wasn’t sure- but they were so right,” he squeals in obvious delight. “My boy, you look perfect!”
Uncomprehending anything but the crown snaking around his skull, he nods robotically, mesmerised in fearful awe, a shellshocked reverence, as the crown doesn’t shift an inch. It’s cold weight now a part of his self.
Later, after his stylist makes him promise for the fifth time that he won’t touch his makeup or a single thread of his outfit he swears, cross his heart, and finally leaves, he runs to the bedroom — his bedroom now — where he knows a full length mirror sinks into the wall, to see what the man has done to him this time. To see what all the fuss is. To see the gold that’s made itself home on his head and doesn’t seem inclined on moving anytime soon.
Then he sees the reflection, and freezes. Because for the first time ever, he does not see himself staring back through the glass. He does not see Carson King, a happy district one kid, naive and ignorant and blissfully unaware of what future awaited him. He does not see CallMeCarson either, the scared but funny twelve year old that simultaneously warmed the Capital’s heart and made them roar with laughter.
Instead he sees an imposing figure, whose glasses obscure his eyes, in a suit and cape that suddenly seems to snap together with the addition of the glinting metal sitting stubbornly atop his head, making him look distinguished, intimidating. Beforehand, he had thought that the suit looked too big on him, with its regal colours and lavish silk, that it didn’t fit. That the cape was too long and too extravagant and looked too silly on someone his size. Someone still so small, still so young-faced.
But the crown, with its twelve damning and breathtaking jewels and their inescapable implications; the crown fits his head perfectly. He can’t deny it. It fits like a glove he’s unsure he’ll ever be able to take off. It is made for him, and him only, to bear.
He looks into the the mirror and does not recognise himself. But it is him. The latest version, the newest update.
He looks into the mirror and sees The King. A boy monarch that has been promoted through bloodshed. Weighed down by responsibilities and duties he’d never asked for nor wanted. The leader of a people yet to arrive. Ruler of a currently barren and lonely land. His last name has become a prophecy and Carson wants to take the cursed crown and snap it in half, crush it, throw it into the mirror and shatter both it and the horrific reality of the monarch that looks back at him through the glass in one fell swoop.
He does not though, using his bravery, and all the strength and fear he’s learnt over the last two impossible weeks of his life, he restrains his want. His want for violence, for revenge, for self indulgence. He reigns it all back in.
It’s just not what a King would do.