Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Sheep Led to Slaughter, Chapter #3: Negative Intelligence. Last chapter we met the Head Gamemaker, Lewlyn Davis and her crazed brand of totally messed up (go and read it if you haven't to see what I mean) and this time you'll get to look at two new characters, ones I am very excited to reveal. As I am writing this AN, I only have ten tributes submitted... and I really need submissions - usually I have more than what I know to do with - so if you could help me out and get submissions in, it'd mean the world. Enjoy the third chapter, Negative Intelligence.
Hale Cornerstone: Victor of the 87th Hunger Games P.O.V
She wishes she had a bottle of whiskey in her hand. Not that she specifically likes whiskey, it is moreso the first drink that pops into her head. She also doesn't want the drink just so she can a take a swig or fifty out of the bottle to help with her headache. Hale Cornerstone, the victor of the 87th Hunger Games, more than anything, wants to grab a whiskey bottle and smash it over a few of the Capitol citizens' heads that are around her. Their incessant babbling fills her ears like static white noise, blaring trumpet sounds that hail a new coming era of bloodshed. It's been thirteen years since she's picked up a sword, but Hale still knows how to swing it. If only she could have one right now and cut these foolish hens right in half.
It is partly her fault that she is surrounded by all these matriarchs of the Capitol, the Head Gamemaker non withstanding since Lewlyn Davis doesn't have any children of her own. Hale does not mind staying in bed, in her luxurious Capitol bed with the velvet sheets and the lime-scented linens, or the Avoxes that give her foot rubs when she needs it. However, she hasn't gone anywhere to get any sort of grocery so her fridge is practically empty, simply non-existent. So Hale picks herself out of bed, sluggishly puts on a bathrobe and slippers, and makes her way to the downtown world of technology and warped ideology.
There are countless restaurants and bars for her to pick from, yet she decides to sit in the worst place on the planet that she can find, while still dressed in a bathrobe. Hale hears all the things these old crones with witch-like, hawk-esque noses are saying. Their fingers are all dried up, like a tomato left out in the sun too long, necks with sagging skin off their fifteen chins. Some are dressed a bit plainer than others, but their hands are covered in jewelry, clunky rings full of fake stones and beads that droop down to the spare tires in their stomachs. Birthmarks and moles act like chickenpox, perhaps being distant cousins to the disease...
Hale wants to glare at them, but that doesn't matter, it won't do anything. She could march straight into Calhoun's office and demand retribution for these hags who dare mock her all because she's wearing a bathrobe, but that'll only cause trouble, or a hand on her thigh to close to the rest of her body. Hale wants to scream, she wants to go grab a sword, she wants to do all of these things... but she's just a victor from District 2. Not even then is she allowed to just go killing and hurting whomever she wants.
She's also not drinking, which is definitely a surprise to her. Yes, it's around midday. Yes, she knows that means she might be an alcoholic, but honestly, who even cares? Hale doesn't, clearly.
Yet, in a way, she does care, as she orders water, and then a glass of orange juice along with her crepes, digging in like some Seam boy who has never seen food, let alone Capitol food.
It is on her fifth bite into the cream cheese crepe that she realizes it's Reaping day, and she's not back home in District 2 like she's supposed to.
Hale promptly spews food all over the table, earning her a look of disgust from the bartender. She's also pretty sure these witches will have something else to say now, about her bad manners, but they could all go lie down in front of a truck.
She places a hand to her forehead in disbelief, starting to sweat. "Ellison is going to murder me..." she whispers to herself, her other hand clenching the napkin, a bunched up white ball of terror, the crease lines in her worried brow mirroring that of the balled up napkin. Hale closes her eyes, leaning her elbows on the countertop, pushing the plate slightly out of the way.
"It's okay," she tells herself, in her head. "You can do this. You'll be fine. It's just being late to one reaping. How bad could it be?"
On the contrary, as Hale is telling herself this in her mind, trying to massage relief and relaxation into her troubled soul, the horror stories she's heard from veteran victors in District 2 that miss the reaping, especially when they're helmed to mentor someone, dies in some way, shape or form from the elder District 2 victor, Ellison, who is nearing eighty years old and is still as fit as he had been back in his forties. Ellison Herring is the victor of the 38th Hunger Games, and sixty-two years later, he's still kicking, outliving Brutus, Enobaria, and all the others before / after him.
Hale, despite being a good fighter, is not someone who is good at keeping her blood pressure low. Not only will Ellison personally drive a spike in between her eyes, President Calhoun will probably rip all the skin on her hands clean off. Even though Calhoun is not the most bloodthirsty man she's met, he's a practitioner in tradition, and whenever a victor does not show up for their designated reapings... hell hath no fury like a scorned president of Panem.
"Hey, Hale... you okay?" a voice asks behind her, out of the blue, causing her to look up.
She frowns, turning her head back, but not her body, straining the muscles in the neck. Wiping a strand of dark black hair out of her eyes, she's met with the more weathered, yet still handsome face of a man she hasn't seen in over a year. A slight scoff of surprise emits itself from her lips, before she rolls her eyes, going back to her crepe.
"I thought it might've been some Capitolite who actually cared about me, but instead, it's just you..." Hale says, with a twinge of disappointment reflected by the tone following suit.
The hurt party, hurt rather badly indeed, holds a hand to his chest, raising his eyebrows in mock pain. "Hale, you wound me."
"Nice to see you too, Ari." Hale takes another swig of her water, placing one hand against her chest. The thrumming noise of her heartbeat in her ears is soothing, calming, reflective... beautiful. Her pulse begins to slow down, and she goes back to eating her crepe. Worrying about Ellison killing her can wait for another few minutes while she is accompanied by this gorgeous chatterbox.
Arizona Merviere, Hispanic in descent, with his caramel skin tone, and all-knowing emerald eyes, is all too damn good for even a stalwart like Hale herself to resist. She cannot stop the motion of a small smile tugging at the edge of her mouth when Arizona takes a seat next to her, covered in a shroud of light from the window behind him. He, being the victor of the 88th Hunger Games, is right behind her in terms of victor year, from District 10, and someone Hale, in a million years, did not think would ever co-exist with.
He drums his fingers on the countertop, a bit of an annoying action if Hale is a good enough figure on the subject of common annoyances, one eyebrow raised as his interest is piqued. Hale is back to eating her crepes as if he hadn't found her hyperventilating, blood roaring in her ears, heart on fire, as if nothing ever happened. There is never time for Arizona and Hale when nothing ever happens between them.
His eyes fall over her for a second, noticing the bathrobe, which causes him to smirk. Ah, ever the charmer Hale is. She'd rather strip naked in front of a group of choir boys than actually put on clothes to go out among the Capitol citizens. If she's going to ever do it, it might as well be a bathrobe, right?
"So, you never answered my question," he starts, tapping the countertop again. "What's wrong?"
Hale has one hand wrapped around the end of her fork, the utensil slanted as she goes in to chip away at her breakfast, gaze directed down towards the granite bits of rock; she then sets the fork down, locking her jaw. "Totally just remembered that the reaping is today and that I am mentoring this year... and I'm not there..." she adds that last bit cheerfully.
"You afraid that old man Ellison is going to kill you?"
"You know of the tales too?"
"I talk to other people than just you, Hale. You aren't that special..." there's a twinkle in Arizona's eyes.
She knows that the last bit of his comment is just a jab at her to try and rile her insides up, and sad to say, it is working. Two years ago, Arizona Merviere would not have made that statement. That means familiarity is coming into play, a feeling that makes Hale want to jump into an entire now body of skin, bone, and soul. Familiarity is incorrect, it is incongruent, it is... terrifying.
"Besides," Arizona continues, "That Ellison is still alive? I thought he'd be dead by now."
Hale looks at her fellow victor with an ounce of shock added to her expression. "You act as if you hadn't seen him at the last year's Games. We both mentored last year... and same again."
He bats away with the criticism with a hand, scoffing. "I could care less who else was mentoring last year. I got to saw you, and that was enough."
She sets her fork down, placing the crunched up napkin, which had still been in her hands all this time, back on the table. This time, a mischievous glow appears in her eyes this time, striking cobalt rings surrounded by a plain of white and deepened by an abyss of black. "Besides, aren't you supposed to be in District 10 helping Hector? He can't mentor all alone."
"My brother will do just fine," Arizona shrugs his shoulders non-complacently, not having a care in the world. He's referring to his older brother, Hector, same last name and everything, who won the 77th Hunger Games, eleven years before Arizona did. "Besides, he knows I'm up here. I told him I had to do business."
"Business?" Hale's eyebrows shoot straight up, she lowering her head more directed down at her sternum, mouth slightly agape. "And what does that entail?"
"I'm currently doing it right now," and he gives her one of his iconic cheeky grins. Asshole. Bastard. Hale has already run out of insults... dammit. Why can't Arizona Merviere be an easy guy to make fun of? Instead, she's trapped in a flamenco with him, where he spins her in and out despite there being no actual choreography, holding her close while the fire snuffs out their brilliance.
That has to be an insult. "You're relegating me to business?"
"Well, what else would I call my wife or the mother of my two children?"
Hale's eyes immediately widen, head looking around at the other people in the restaurant. The bartender seems to not have noticed that Arizona even said anything, let alone that the victor from District 10 is even in the room. She snaps her gaze back at him, startling him somewhat, her pleasant face now warped and distorted into an agonizing feel of anguish, even a bit of pain. Hale has reminded him time and time and time again not to say those words out loud in any capacity in the Capitol when it is not just them two alone or just them two and a group of victors. Any other Capitol member takes notice... then that spells trouble.
She has no wedding rings to own, nothing stored away in cute little boxes back home. There's no official documentation that has not already been burned by the both of them left in any drawers or safes. All she has got, to declare her love for the current annoyance that is her husband sitting beside her is what lies deep down inside her heart. The words that are not spoken, the glances that they pass along to each other, the warmth in their gazes that linger for a second too long.
Every other year, since their marriage after the crowning of the victor of the 93rd Hunger Games, in which Hale has to fake a terrible ailment that knocks her out of commission to mentor the 94th Hunger Games, the two swap children, since on the eve of the victory tour coming into District 2, Hale births twins: one beautiful little boy and one beautiful little girl. It is unfortunate, it really is, that both children know of one another's existence, but have not corresponded in any way. Not through letters, no pictures... just word of mouth.
She extends her hand, gripping Arizona's and pressing a finger into his wrist at the nerve point, jangling him somewhat. "You know you're not allowed to say that out loud, Ari," and her voice drawls out into a hiss, tilting her head slightly. There's nothing worse than seeing, on top of Ellison probably killing her, and Calhoun probably killing her, would be the president ripping apart the sanctity of their union together, as the president would claim it is for the good of Panem that no two victors ever intermingle from different districts in such a way.
"Fraternize with the enemy?" Hale scoffs to herself while in bed, alone, slumbering away without her everything by her side. "I'm no longer in the Games. I am not a tribute anymore, fighting for my life. I can be with whomever I want, thank you very much."
"No longer in the Games? Darling... we never stop playing the Game..." Arizona whispers to her in her unconsciousness.
Back in the bar, Arizona rolls his eyes, a soulful fire burning in her corneas as he does this. "Hale, stop overreacting. We're fine. I bet no one even heard me."
"It's too risky to take that chance!"
"Well, shouting out loud is not going to make the situation any easier, y'know..." he adds sarcastically, running a hand over his face.
Hale stands up from her seat, slamming the fork in her hands down on the table. "I am not going to sit here and let you endanger this..." she hurriedly packs the sides of her bathrobe, having brought her wallet to pay for her food. She slaps some currency down alongside the half eaten crepe, her glass of water, her glass of orange juice, and her bare heart for the world to see. "You're right... I have a reaping to attend to back home. I'm going to go back to my room, change and head to District 2 so I can head straight back here," she locks her jaw. "When you want to act like a mature adult who doesn't try to destroy the life he's built in the last decade, come and talk to me, and maybe I'll actually speak back to you."
With that, the District 2 victor straightens herself out, marching past him.
"Hale, wait!" Arizona shouts, turning around on the chair, hand outstretched in her direction, syllables beyond that trapped in his throat, only coming out as warm murmurs that seem to have semblances of earnest behind them.
"Goodbye!" she responds back, voice solidified and cold, jagged and uneven. It is a lance straight through his heart. He hangs his head low, sighing, then looking back at the rest of her breakfast. His stomach growls, and Arizona, against his better judgement, picks up the fork that is left behind.
Outside, in the sunlight, still dressed in her bathrobe, Hale marches over in the direction to her hotel, hot rage running through her body at the pace of a mile a minute. Sometimes... sometimes she just doesn't know what to think anymore, about what goes inside her husband's head. How Arizona is able to relegate her, joke or not, to 'business' between a brother, who already knows of their marriage. To sit, in a crowded place where everyone besides yourself is an enemy, and everyone is also your friend to go out on a limb and just roll out the red carpet... Hale is never given a moment to sit and breathe. She's too damn terrified that Arizona will open his mouth and ruin it.
It is not going to happen any longer.
She's not some little lamb, a little, small, frightened sheep that has a shepherd guiding her through a field of barbed wire. She's not some little animal that is about to butchered up and made into pot roast as long as she keeps her head on her shoulders, spine extended back, fingers gripped tightly around the blade she'll use to protect herself.
Hale Cornerstone is not some sheep led to slaughter, due to negative intelligence of the people around her.
If Arizona wants to go around the Capitol and act like no one is out to get them, or that no one is watching them, then he can be her guest, as long as she's left out of it.
The lingering feeling of his lips on hers never will go away, just like the taste in the back of her throat of tribute blood, poor lambs with the gun placed between their eyes.
Alrighty! Another chapter down, and man, I am happy to be updating it! I have never done a relationship between victors from other districts like we have where people write Katniss/Finnick or Katniss/Johanna, but between OC's, and I like where it is headed. So, what do you think of Hale and Arizona, even though the former is the pulling focus of the chapter? Any idea what my quell twist will be? I'm really excited for it.
Please submit, you guys, get those tributes in! I pushed the date back some, by a few days just to rein in a bit more than ending early, but I expect more on the way. If you've only submitted one tribute so far, submit another if you'd like! Thank you guys so much for reading, and please review, it'd help a lot to know you guys are following along and keeping up to date. I'll have the next Chapter, Chapter #4: Shadows on the Wall, out by Wednesday or Thursday. Love you all! Have a great night! Bye!
~ Paradigm