Ziva Crimson, 27, The Capitol.
"It's the day of the reapings, you should be out celebrating." The other woman's soft caramel voice cuts through to the one who appears to be sleeping. She gets up from a hunched position, shaking out her arms at her sides. She feels her elbows issue soft pains at the position they have held her in for hours, she sigh deeply.
The standing woman's arms wrap around the one who just got up and their lips meet in a soft caress. "You know I can't" She tells her, looking down at the list of names she wrote out, it took her five tries to get the calligraphy just right. Even secret letters must be perfect in the Capitol.
Turquoise eyes blink down at her, scanning the names. "There are less than usual" she states softly, her voice is etched in surprise. The other woman nods back, continuing to stretch out her muscles, she has been hunched over in her own thoughts for hours. "Less unrest in the districts this year after the 8% rations increase."
Turquoise eyes squeal in surprise, but this time the good kind. "I told you that plan would work out."
She leans forward, brushing her lips against the others cheek "yes you did." She whispers into her ear, moving her face away she leaves a trail of goosebumps in her wake.
But her eyes spot a picture behind the two and she feels a familiar pang of guilt, it shows the woman's father and mother, locked eternally in youth inside of the portrait. The other woman is quick to notice "hey, its not your fault" she says, arms wrapped together she sounds as if talking to an injured animal.
She look into the women's eyes trying to believe her. She sees her own reflection inside of them, caramel coloured skin, dark chestnut hair and hazel eyes, a slim build and wrinkled clothes. She does not see the president of Panem.
"I never said goodbye" she whispers, her voice cracking. Her parents had left seven years ago on a cool morning, they went to get breakfast with the head game maker and some other important Capitol citizens. They wanted her to come, but she was running a fever the night before so they let her sleep.
She woke up to the news that there had been an accident. A car crash. Her parents were dead, so was the head game maker and she was to be the ruler of Panem. It all happened so quickly, she was never given the time to mourn. The youngest president in Panem history never gets a moment to herself. She thinks father was a lot better at the job, he was better at putting the Capitol citizens first. But this woman puts her people first, all of them. When she was appointed to this position she swore to protect all of her citizens.
She has broken that promise everyday since, she thinks that she must be the biggest liar in Panem. The wealthiest too. Anya understands this, she can see it clearly in her expression.
"They will understand" Anya tells her, the two women have had this conversation countless times but it still opens new waves of grief inside of her. They say some scars are too deep to heal, but hers run across her body like open wounds. She hopes her parents do understand when she see them again. But she's not sure if the afterlife exists, or that she deserves it. Not with the pageant that she puts on every year. 161 children dead on her watch. The number bounces around her skull threatening to crack to the bone.
"I need to deliver this" She nods her head toward the letter as she pull out of the woman's arms, their lips connect once more, causing butterflies to rise in her stomach and making them both feel like the luckiest woman alive. Anya's hands grasps hers briefly as she walks toward her desk, before she lets them lose, her arm falls by her side in the absence of hers.
"You're not a bad person" Anya says to her as she exits room, the President just nods, there are knots in her throat that are too large to get past. Shaking out her shoulders she puts on a stern face that commands power, she lets all traces of the woman she just was go and instead takes on the face that leads a nation.
She walks in the outfit she sat down in over twelve hours ago, stretchy navy jeans, a tight black shirt with a snake scale like pattern woven into and a hood attached, she pulls this hood up to cover her face. Combat boots on and her flowing hair falls in waves by her sides. Smudged makeup and bags can be seen under her eyes. It almost looks like war paint. This is not what a president looks like, it's what a woman does.
No one else is up this early, not on a reaping day. She makes her way down candy coloured streets, navigating a maze of houses like they are the back her hand. And they almost are, she has walked them so many times before, a route warn that is traced daily. Like spiderwebs her path cracks out, easily navigated by her, but dangerous for those who are not the spider.
She arrives swiftly at an elegant house. Marble pillars etched from the ground upward, on the porch sits statues meticulously carved. A fountain is placed in the centre, light up by soft lights that fade into each other in a rhythmic pattern.
A figure moves onto the porch, its Aetius. As head game maker she expects no less from him, she would not of been surprised to find out he not sleep last night, nor the night before. It is exactly what she expects from someone in such an important position as him, as it is only fair, she hasn't had more than four hours sleep in five days.
She knows its critical she is not seen this way, without her makeup or fancy costumes. So she moves around to the back of the house, his study has a porch that looks out to the back garden complete with a sliding door. She made sure of this detail when she arranged for a new house for a new game maker.
Her feet move from a spongy green lawn to hard packed marble as she walks to the door. Silently she opens it with a key she had made years before, she places the letter on top of a stack of paperwork on his large desk.
A soft smile grows from her lips as she sees the tiny sword she had made for him glimmer on a stand he has bought himself. It's not appropriate for her to give gifts in her position, only to receive them it seems. But she thinks she made it clear enough with who it was from.
Taking another moment to study the room she exits as swiftly as she arrived, locking the door behind her as she slips back out onto the street. These moments when she is alone are the best she feels, she doesn't have to be the president then. She can just be herself.
Not a woman placed into a position she never asked for.