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Jan. 2nd, 2012 02:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
insufficientThey always looked so alike, in the past. Before Mikaela dyed her hair that gaudy, brassy blonde. But it was gold, as if that made all the world of difference. It did to Mikaela, because gold was the color of the winning medal. Gold was the color of victory, of money, and of power.
It might not have been the color Mikaela's hair was when she was born, but it had always been the color of her spirit.
Now they looked nothing alike, as if a simple hair color could change everything. As if it could reveal the difference there had always been between them. Mikaela had been born a winner. Siran knew even if she hadn't bleached her hair the night she ran off and entered her name for the games, she would still have won. She would still have dazzled the crowds with her physical prowess and her glamorous casual disregard for limitations.
He knew why. He'd stolen mother's credit passwords (years before, actually, just to see if he could - but never had he put them to any real use) to purchase complete, uncensored 24/7 access to watch his sister. She had been a female Mars, standing among the corpses and the cold ruined streets. During the final fighting her hair had come undone from it's multitude of layered braids, and the cascading mantle of gold thread over her shoulders had become flecked with the blood of her opponents.
He'd been paralyzed with fear the entire time. Mikaela was stronger than he was, faster, much better at sports and casual childhood fights and at putting him in a headlock just because she could. But there were so many other competitors, criminals and mutants and members of the under classes. Surely, he'd thought, there was no way she would survive. Mikaela might have been good at fighting, but Siran was good at statistics. And the odds had not been in her favor.
Mikaela had never had any use for the odds; they only held her back from doing what she wanted.
And the odds apparently had no hold over her.
He'd cried himself to sleep the two nights before her flawless victory. She had never feared, in all the time he'd watched. She never cried or despaired, because back home her weak, worrying brother did for her the only thing he'd ever been good for so she didn't have to. He'd cried out all the tears he had in him, so by the time the final night came and Mikaela was still standing, he'd had nothing left to give emotionally. He'd wondered, if she'd actually died, if he would have been able to feel anything anymore, or if he'd spent it all frozen with fear already. If he had spent all his grieving prematurely, and would have already accepted her death once it came.
But it did not come, and he'd watched the fireworks alone in his comfortable room on his large screen completely numb. Siran had felt so hollow inside, as though he'd been so little of his own person that the idea of losing his sister had drained every paltry flicker of personhood from him that had ever been.
Mikaela went on with her life, after the games. She came back to her family, with a peck on the cheek for mother and a hug for father. She'd stood over Siran and given him that weak little smile she always did when she got him into trouble, or when she hurt him. And then she'd moved on, a celebrity in her own right with her own influences. And Siran had remained Siran, son of the actor, Siran, son of the Chief Risk Officer of Bank of Arcadia. Only now he was also Siran, brother of a Champion.
That was when the nightmares began.
He'd seen that arena in his mind more nights than he could count. It never became an old friend, but rather, the familiarity of the bogeyman made it worse.
When his name was selected, Siran finally understood.
It might not have been the color Mikaela's hair was when she was born, but it had always been the color of her spirit.
Now they looked nothing alike, as if a simple hair color could change everything. As if it could reveal the difference there had always been between them. Mikaela had been born a winner. Siran knew even if she hadn't bleached her hair the night she ran off and entered her name for the games, she would still have won. She would still have dazzled the crowds with her physical prowess and her glamorous casual disregard for limitations.
He knew why. He'd stolen mother's credit passwords (years before, actually, just to see if he could - but never had he put them to any real use) to purchase complete, uncensored 24/7 access to watch his sister. She had been a female Mars, standing among the corpses and the cold ruined streets. During the final fighting her hair had come undone from it's multitude of layered braids, and the cascading mantle of gold thread over her shoulders had become flecked with the blood of her opponents.
He'd been paralyzed with fear the entire time. Mikaela was stronger than he was, faster, much better at sports and casual childhood fights and at putting him in a headlock just because she could. But there were so many other competitors, criminals and mutants and members of the under classes. Surely, he'd thought, there was no way she would survive. Mikaela might have been good at fighting, but Siran was good at statistics. And the odds had not been in her favor.
Mikaela had never had any use for the odds; they only held her back from doing what she wanted.
And the odds apparently had no hold over her.
He'd cried himself to sleep the two nights before her flawless victory. She had never feared, in all the time he'd watched. She never cried or despaired, because back home her weak, worrying brother did for her the only thing he'd ever been good for so she didn't have to. He'd cried out all the tears he had in him, so by the time the final night came and Mikaela was still standing, he'd had nothing left to give emotionally. He'd wondered, if she'd actually died, if he would have been able to feel anything anymore, or if he'd spent it all frozen with fear already. If he had spent all his grieving prematurely, and would have already accepted her death once it came.
But it did not come, and he'd watched the fireworks alone in his comfortable room on his large screen completely numb. Siran had felt so hollow inside, as though he'd been so little of his own person that the idea of losing his sister had drained every paltry flicker of personhood from him that had ever been.
Mikaela went on with her life, after the games. She came back to her family, with a peck on the cheek for mother and a hug for father. She'd stood over Siran and given him that weak little smile she always did when she got him into trouble, or when she hurt him. And then she'd moved on, a celebrity in her own right with her own influences. And Siran had remained Siran, son of the actor, Siran, son of the Chief Risk Officer of Bank of Arcadia. Only now he was also Siran, brother of a Champion.
That was when the nightmares began.
He'd seen that arena in his mind more nights than he could count. It never became an old friend, but rather, the familiarity of the bogeyman made it worse.
When his name was selected, Siran finally understood.