A body collapsed into the armchair opposite him, but Simon paid it no mind. It would be Sam, no doubt; it was certainly too bulky to be Gwen or Izzy, and the rest of the older victors at least had the luxury of getting the fuck out of this perverse little apartment complex right off the Circle's goddamn "Theatre". And it wasn't like it was going to be any of the bastards in the Circle; if there was one good thing about this place, it was that they at least left him the fuck alone here.
"You okay?" came the unavoidable question, and Simon just rolled his eyes as he brought his tepid can of beer back to his mouth. Of course he wasn't fucking okay. "Wanna talk about it?"
"No."
Sam Noble was victor #120 to Simon's own #123, and for all the years he'd been here, reduced to nothing more than a plaything of the Circle, Simon would've thought he'd know better than to ask if another victor was "okay"--or at least to take no for an answer when it came to talking about why it distinctly wasn't. But, perhaps rather expectedly since the rest of Simon's life had already gone to shit anyway, he didn't; the other man pressed on, a look of concern on his face that might have been subtle if Simon didn't already know what game he was playing at.
But Sam Noble was not going to make him feel better. The idea of feeling better was a pipe dream at this point; there were few things more unlikely than that.
"Who were you with?" he asked, playing the role of pushy bastard perfectly. A qualified therapist he was not. "Not Donahue?"
Simon shook his head, fully intending to put as little effort as possible into this. Perhaps if he was sullen enough, Sam might just go away.
He had no such luck. "Who, then?"
For a moment, the words "go fuck yourself" were right on the tip of Simon's tongue; Sam neither needed nor deserved the answer, and Simon didn't have any real reason to share his shame with this veritable stranger. But, in the end, he was only trying to help; he'd been here for years, after all, and he hadn't gone insane yet. Perhaps there was something Sam knew that Simon didn't; he should probably put a bit more effort into hearing him out, at the very least.
"Frost."
Sam nodded. "Ah. New Chancellor. That explains why you're looking so..." He gestured vaguely toward Simon's person, and Simon raised a skeptical brow.
"So what?" he demanded, not really caring to hear the answer but put off by the accusation nonetheless.
"Shell-shocked," the other man answered simply.
"And how does that explain it?"
Sam shrugged. "He just jumped to highest position of power in the entire Circle. Of course he's taking advantage of all the little... perks of his new job. At least it's not Donahue."
"He's not much better," Simon said bitterly, staring down at his can. "Donahue's a bastard, but this guy's almost worse. Donahue just uses you; Frost..."
"I know. Though he hasn't taken as much interest in me or Gwen as he has you and Izzy. I'm sure it's that he knows I'll be leaving soon, assuming nothing goes wrong with the next Cull; you, though... well, I suppose I'm not really helping anything pointing that out, am I?"
Simon took another drink. "I don't suppose you are."
"I would try to say 'look on the bright side'," Sam said with a sigh, "but that's bullshit. We can look on the bright side all we want, but that doesn't change a thing. Even if a few of them bother doing things we don't mind--even if one or two of them lets us do what we enjoy--we're still being raped. We're still fucking slaves. The only bright side here is that once they start to lose interest in us, they'll eventually let us go."
Simon let out a tiny, derisive snort. "And then what?" he demanded. "What am I supposed to do after that? Pretend this never happened? Pretend they can't just call me back here whenever they want, do whatever they want to me all over again. There isn't freedom after this. How many victors end up married to the Circle or become some kind of... kept lovers, anyway?"
Men [1/?]
"You okay?" came the unavoidable question, and Simon just rolled his eyes as he brought his tepid can of beer back to his mouth. Of course he wasn't fucking okay. "Wanna talk about it?"
"No."
Sam Noble was victor #120 to Simon's own #123, and for all the years he'd been here, reduced to nothing more than a plaything of the Circle, Simon would've thought he'd know better than to ask if another victor was "okay"--or at least to take no for an answer when it came to talking about why it distinctly wasn't. But, perhaps rather expectedly since the rest of Simon's life had already gone to shit anyway, he didn't; the other man pressed on, a look of concern on his face that might have been subtle if Simon didn't already know what game he was playing at.
But Sam Noble was not going to make him feel better. The idea of feeling better was a pipe dream at this point; there were few things more unlikely than that.
"Who were you with?" he asked, playing the role of pushy bastard perfectly. A qualified therapist he was not. "Not Donahue?"
Simon shook his head, fully intending to put as little effort as possible into this. Perhaps if he was sullen enough, Sam might just go away.
He had no such luck. "Who, then?"
For a moment, the words "go fuck yourself" were right on the tip of Simon's tongue; Sam neither needed nor deserved the answer, and Simon didn't have any real reason to share his shame with this veritable stranger. But, in the end, he was only trying to help; he'd been here for years, after all, and he hadn't gone insane yet. Perhaps there was something Sam knew that Simon didn't; he should probably put a bit more effort into hearing him out, at the very least.
"Frost."
Sam nodded. "Ah. New Chancellor. That explains why you're looking so..." He gestured vaguely toward Simon's person, and Simon raised a skeptical brow.
"So what?" he demanded, not really caring to hear the answer but put off by the accusation nonetheless.
"Shell-shocked," the other man answered simply.
"And how does that explain it?"
Sam shrugged. "He just jumped to highest position of power in the entire Circle. Of course he's taking advantage of all the little... perks of his new job. At least it's not Donahue."
"He's not much better," Simon said bitterly, staring down at his can. "Donahue's a bastard, but this guy's almost worse. Donahue just uses you; Frost..."
"I know. Though he hasn't taken as much interest in me or Gwen as he has you and Izzy. I'm sure it's that he knows I'll be leaving soon, assuming nothing goes wrong with the next Cull; you, though... well, I suppose I'm not really helping anything pointing that out, am I?"
Simon took another drink. "I don't suppose you are."
"I would try to say 'look on the bright side'," Sam said with a sigh, "but that's bullshit. We can look on the bright side all we want, but that doesn't change a thing. Even if a few of them bother doing things we don't mind--even if one or two of them lets us do what we enjoy--we're still being raped. We're still fucking slaves. The only bright side here is that once they start to lose interest in us, they'll eventually let us go."
Simon let out a tiny, derisive snort. "And then what?" he demanded. "What am I supposed to do after that? Pretend this never happened? Pretend they can't just call me back here whenever they want, do whatever they want to me all over again. There isn't freedom after this. How many victors end up married to the Circle or become some kind of... kept lovers, anyway?"