Hey guys, Paradigm of Writing here again with a brand new chapter for Sheep Led to Slaughter, Chapter #36: Matters Best Left Alone. This will be a continuation of the Capitol OC storyline from #34, set during Day 5 of the last arena chapter, which was #35. This is a three scene chapter for the Capitol storyline, and we're gonna be getting places, ladies and gents. I am so happy to finally be on summer vacation till August 25th, and it is in my prerogative to have Sheep Led to Slaughter done before then, and maybe even done before August, and nothing like the present to get that done. Enjoy Chapter #36: Matters Best Left Alone.
Hector Merviere: Victor of the 77th Hunger Games P.O.V
"And to what do I owe the honor?" Hector asks, smiling as nicely as he can, accepting the glass that President Calhoun hands him. The glass is cold to the touch, on his fingers, pads lightly chilling up at the sensuous feel. Calhoun matches the smile slightly lower than that, rather a simple lifting of the lips, going to his seat in front of him. Hector rubs his cheek, having freshly shaved, loving the feel of stubble run over his fingers; he hates how quick his beard returns, but alas, the troubles of manhood. He survives an arena full of bloodthirsty tributes killing for other people's amusement and his arch nemesis in life is stubble. Is he failing to see the irony in this?
"I didn't know it was an honor," Calhoun clears his throat, straightening his tie. The president is dressed rather handsomely in a dark suit, fitting on his nature, Hector supposes, but he pays more attention to the tie, in the delightful, almost Roman-esque red and yellow, alternating bands that represent the Panemian colors, and it brings out Calhoun's strength, whatever strength that there may be.
It is starting to become late in the day, the sun starting to set over the Capitol skyline, where the amaranthines dance in the clouds, on the roads of bright halcyon and sunburst orange, as the clouds become a tight knit tide of black and navy blue, and where the nightlife noises get louder and louder; Hector can feel the buzzing of the Capitol populace on his earlobes, a tingling that encircles the entire air and makes his head vibrate.
"It's not very often the president requests a singular private audience, either," Hector points out. "Did our guys' night bother you, a few days ago?"
"Not that," Calhoun shakes his head, pulling a bottle of whiskey off of the table and uncorking it. The sound of a bottle being opened has always been pleasing to Hector, oddly enough, and he is unsure if he can even blame his old habit of alcoholism for that. The satisfying sound of glass sliding over glass, with that pop, the release of air... it might be what sends the chills down his exposed arms. The president pours himself a bit of the amber liquid, but Hector keeps his close to his hands, passing it back and forth with the light pushing of his fingers. Another yanking at the tie. Hector tilts his head to the side somewhat, pursing his lips, but he doesn't say anything. He's known Calhoun long enough to know this; he pulls at his tie more than once in quick succession, it means he's nervous. "Actually, I thought you would've declined my invitation."
"Why's that?" the victor furrows his eyebrows.
Calhoun pauses, his eyes fliting up to the man from District 10, whose face is a bright and sunburned red, with his tanned skin, and awash in a face of guilt, long hard winters, scorched summers, and the blood of his enemies that drips off in driblets off of long curly locks of his hair. Calhoun corks the bottle of whiskey back, settling it down lightly, the tray it rests on rattling with the movement. "I thought you would've gone home after Victoria was voted off, given you were her mentor and all," he wipes at his nose, and Hector notices the way the president's hand seems to shake. Calhoun never shakes. "And with Hero dying yesterday to Marcus's betrayal, I assumed you and Arizona had no reason to be here."
Hector palms the arms of the chair. "Arizona wishes to stay for Hale and Kevia, given that their tributes are alive."
"And you?"
"I'm still here because I have to make sure my brother doesn't do anything stupid..." he gives another light smile.
Calhoun's eyes twinkle dangerously, and he picks up the glass, the whiskey sloshing inside the clear prison. "Such as?"
"All sorts of things," Hector does not elaborate.
He is not about to play snitch on his brother to the most powerful man in the country. Hector Merviere is many things: victor, brother, celebrity, killer... but a fool is not among his many traits, and betrayal is not one of his many talents, he knows that for certain. It becomes dangerous, he realizes, for people, who overestimate their intelligence, and for those that fall in the dragon fire of his mistakes, the people that pay for them. How many innocent people died due to the failed rebellion of District 13? How many innocent men, women, and children died to Snow's iron hand that crushed the rebels? How many innocent children have died in the Hunger Games due to the mistakes of their father, of their forefathers, and the forefathers before them back in the Dark Days?
Hector shakes his head. Thinking of these things in front of the president of Panem might not be the smartest move, but he'll be entirely honest, he's never thought of himself as that smart.
"Are you doing alright?" Calhoun asks. "With them being gone? I got the feeling you were closer to her and him this year than some of the tributes beforehand."
It is a harmless question - well, perhaps not entirely harmless, as Hector winces inwardly when the words pass over his ears - but it has him gripping the edges of the chair, it creaking under his weight, and he closes his eyes, twisting his tongue inside his mouth, feeling the appendage slide over his teeth, like a snake, a slick snake. When he hears their names spoken out to the dust particles, perhaps their last companions, with their bleached out bodies, pale skin, sagging cheeks, teeth that'll rot out with years of lacking care, their dark hair to turn into weeds... a gasp gets caught in his throat as a choke. Hector clamors at his own throat for a second, Calhoun's eyebrows rising in alarm, and he - Hector - reaches over the desk, grabbing the whiskey.
Fuck the glass.
Use the bottle.
Hector puts the bottle to his lips, drowning in the amber liquid, it splashing down his throat and burning the pipe as it passes through. Calhoun, if he has any reaction, does not seem to make it more than middle level concern. The victor keeps on chugging and chugging, not caring if he goes through the entire bottle. Hero and Victoria were both fifteen, with futures way ahead of them in life, as possible victors, perhaps had they been eighteen, or District 10 officials, and maybe even Capitol officials if their paths were set straight, but when Hector views them, alongside his brother, there are stars in his eyes, literal stars, supernovas that explode and dance, and force dreams and beauty, and it's what he wants... and what he's wanted has led to their deaths.
The last drop of whiskey disappears down his throat, past his lips, and with a sobbing gasp, Hector sets the empty bottle on the desk, all while Calhoun has his eyebrows raised, mouth parted open to speak, but nothing else. Hector wipes at the back of his mouth, a few tears following, but he sits up as best he can, coughing some to get the congestion and pain out of the way. "Arizona and I watched them both grow up," he says. "We trained them to be ready to fight against any occurrence, but I suppose betrayal and mirrored hallways didn't count," he shakes his head. "I'm not married, and I don't have kids. Hero and Victoria have so far been the closest thing to a son or daughter," Hector locks his jaw, looking away. "And now they're dead..."
Calhoun reaches a hand out to him, and the victor looks at the limb as if it is radioactive. He has known the president for a very long time, and while there can be a bridled rage inside of the man, that rage is indeed put under control and seldom shown. Calhoun has a heart of gold, thrust into a political position he truly didn't want, but over the years, his ambition turned into reality and into truth. Traditions that have bore into his soul have made a bit of the sparkle darken, deepen the glimmer somewhat, but not enough to wash out all of the shine.
The president pats Hector's hand, nodding his head. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry that the arena did this. That the Games have done this." He clears his throat once more, straightening that same damn tie - it does not go unnoticed by Hector's ever watchful eyes, even after downing half a bottle of whiskey that will reappear in the toilet in a few hours, certainly - before resting his hands flat in front of him, equidistant from another, equidistant to his elbows. "I wanted to speak with you about something. Something dangerous."
That perks Hector's attention. He may not be stupid, but dangerous is very well his middle name. He swallows, his eyes meeting Calhoun's and he sits up as straight as he can, the chair creaking underneath the movement. "Dangerous? What kind of danger are we talking about here?"
Calhoun bites on the inside of his cheek. "The stability of the entire nation..." and then, another moving of the tie, the president's fingers nimbly taking the knot apart, pulling the tie free from around his neck, "Perhaps even a third war. A new Dark Days, even."
That really has his attention.
Not necessarily great, though.
"Who else knows about this?" Hector asks.
"Lewlyn. She's the only other one," Calhoun answers, and the victor's eyebrows rise in alarm. He does not trust Lewlyn Davis, Head Gamemaker extraordinaire with a ten foot pole, even if he could somehow see past her faults. It has been the whispering and gossip of the Capitol circle lately that she is trying to turn over some new leaf, amend relationships and try to extinguish the fires of her burnt relationships, but that is a process that is more easily said than done, despite her efforts, and although Hector has never been on the blunt end of her rage or insanity, he can only imagine how hard it must be to forgive a she-devil such as Lewlyn. "As crazy as that sounds and as insane as this sounds," the president continues, "I trust her with it."
Part of Hector wants to advise Calhoun to stop trusting some psychopathic redhead with a trigger-like mindset, but if he's being told this dangerous information, he surely must've already spilled the beans to Lewlyn, who knows what he - Hector - is about to find out right now. "Why am I the second person you're telling? If this involves the safety of Panem, I can think of a few who are more suited for this information."
"I trust you, and you're also one to help temper the worst of the impulses," Calhoun explains. "Lewlyn, with her new take on life and seeking to improve herself took to the idea immediately. Out of all the victors, as this does concern you, I trust your opinion more than anyone. More than your brother, more than Hale Cornerstone, more than Kevia Janelle, and even more than old Ellison," the president's gaze is very serious. "More than anyone's Hector."
"What is it, then? What is it you want to do that is so dangerous?"
The president doesn't bat an eye, and Hector is really glad he drank that entire last half of that bottle of whiskey, as he is about to nearly chuck it all back up his windpipe, and perhaps he can blame the next statement that comes out of Calhoun's mouth up to the delusion of being tipsy, mayhaps even drunk.
"How about the end of the Hunger Games? Is that dangerous enough?"
Bonnie Rodney: Head Designer of the Mutts P.O.V
She does not want to spend her evening back in the mansion. The largeness of the building gives her anxiety, and with her husband's constant coddling over their presumable child makes her want to puke. She's pregnant. Bonnie isn't deathly ill, and she most certainly isn't incapacitated. Instead, Bonnie finds herself wrapped up in a dark black shawl, as it is surprisingly cold outside, and she knocks on the door to Pollux's room. There's the sound of swearing that happens shortly after her knock, and maybe the sound of something tipping over, but shortly soon after the door is opened and there he stands, there stands Pollux in the doorway.
"Oh, uh... hello!" he exclaims rather surprised, draping one arm over his chest. Pollux is shirtless, and Bonnie's eyes drape all over the man. Perfectly toned, even moreso than Calhoun, and she has always enjoyed her husband's physique. However, perfection bores her. It has always made her yawn; it feels too artificial, it feels too fake. She finds that rather hysterical, actually, at how her job with the Hunger Games is to design monsters that look a thousand percent perfect, yet when there is perfection plastered onto a human being, it bothers her.
"May I come in?" she asks.
"Certainly; come on in!" Pollux invites her in, pushing his door all the way. He keeps his arm draped over his chest, and she gives another quick glance at him. The bruises around his neck are starting to fade, as it has been a few days since she's last seen him. He's been prepping for the final eight interviews, which Bonnie is certain will begin sometime very soon, mayhaps even tomorrow, as the tributes have been dropping like flies rather quickly, at a much quicker rate than what has happened before, with one or two dying a day, things move faster.
She almost cannot believe she even thought that.
"You gonna put a shirt on?"
"Does it bother you?" Pollux frowns.
Bonnie smiles, but there is manticore venom hiding behind the moving of her muscles, where her teeth sharpen into fangs, where those fangs will rip flesh into shreds and pieces. "I'm married," she says, as if that is some sort of good reasoning; a many people cheat on their significant other regardless of them being already sewn at the hip. She has a bit of class, a bit of decorum. "I wouldn't want anything to do with you," and there's a slight raise of Pollux's eyebrows at that, to which she quickly adds, "I didn't mean anything negative by that."
"I'm sure you didn't," he shrugs his shoulders, closing the door, and wandering off into his bedroom to get a shirt.
Bonnie is pretty sure that the Head Interviewer is gay as is, and last she's checked, there hasn't been a line of homosexual men waiting to get a chance to sleep with her, as if she'd ever allow that. She unravels her shawl around her neck, setting it on the couch, sitting down shortly after. There's a slight crunching noise that the couch makes when she sits on it, as if there is something beneath her being crushed. She frowns, running a hand down in between the cushions, her fingers dashing over something seemingly jagged. The president's wife hisses lowly, sure that she just cut herself, but it is nothing serious. Fishing out the strange object, Bonnie holds to the light a shard of glass.
What are shards of glass doing beneath his couch?
Pollux reemerges from his bedroom, dressed in a light white shirt, almost see through, most likely to be cheeky, as Bonnie makes special mention of the notion. How he dangles the carrot in front of her face, only to rip it away, right? Bonnie wishes she didn't feel so ambivalent about everything in her life; it'd make stalwart decisions that much more important.
"Can I get you anything to drink?" he asks. "Wine good?"
"No, thanks," it must be the apocalypse if Bonnie Rodney, the Capitol darling, refuses alcohol. She pats her belly, now a week into her pregnancy, and all the signs have been proven; all the signs are showing a child, and she couldn't be happier. "It wouldn't be good for the baby."
He nods, letting out a light sigh. "Ah, right. I keep on forgetting," Pollux shakes his head, scoffing.
"What?" Bonnie frowns.
"It just feels surreal, is all," he says. "You having a child. You having a child with Calhoun."
She sits back on the couch some, grabbing the shawl and running the fabric through her fingers. "Is that an insult to me or Calhoun?"
Pollux shows her a smile filled with teeth. Razor sharp teeth, like that of a shark from those in the scientific picture books she sees in the presidential library. Bonnie has always had a fascination with nature, and it is in part why she is so eager to jump into the driver's seat in being the head designer for the mutts over the last few years. "Take it however you want."
He continues to talk, but Bonnie isn't listening to what he says. She rather drowns him out, watching his lips move, a flaring seed of jealousy burns within her. She cannot seem to stop looking at his lips, rosy in color, liquidous and succulent, as Pollux brings a glass of wine to his lips, watching the murky violet liquid vanish beneath a curtain of bliss. The flaring seed erupts into that of an volcanic release, as she connects the wine to a different color, to a brighter red. To Rennie. How Rennie Davis has kissed those lips, how Pollux Aetos has killed Rennie Davis's lips, and Bonnie can't seem to get a single peck in without being pushed away. She's never known Rennie to have some sort of deviant thoughts - she is not condemning the ex-Avox's actions, only puzzled by them - as Bonnie has always been sure that Rennie fancied her, and fancied her alone and never fancied anyone else beyond that.
Only to find out just a week ago that the two men slept together, then to find out a few days later of Lewlyn's involvement - any time Bonnie thinks of that red-haired bitch her blood begins to boil; she's never felt a more direct hatred to anyone else in her life, how someone can break all the rules and her judgmental husband does nothing to stop it - and the divide that causes, the ripples that flow. Bonnie can feel those same ripples underneath her own skin, watching as moles and birthmarks move a few millimeters over. Her pulse is a roaring flame, a fire that dances in the wind, and that fire consumes her entire soul, where the edges of her vision are lit aglow in an amber color.
The Head Interviewer offhandedly says something, and that breaks Bonnie out of her immersion.
"What?" she shakes her head.
Pollux purses his lips, one hand running through his hair, which he pauses said motion. God, Bonnie quakes in her outfit. "Something wrong?"
"What was it you just said?"
"I said that I'm honestly very happy for you and Calhoun. Everyone is," he smirks, finishing the rustling of his hair, going and taking a seat across from her. "Even Lewlyn."
Bonnie raises an eyebrow. "Even Lewlyn?"
"Even her," Pollux takes a sip of his wine. "The entire administration wants to jump up and down because you two finally have a child. Thought of any names?"
"Some," she admits. Bonnie hates all of them. None of them please her, as it is what Calhoun wants their baby to be, and not the other way around. Rosaline. Jacki. Hinson. Evan. Marcos. Quincy. All of these names are ones her husband thinks of when he is in his cups. Bonnie wants something airy, something light, something that simply rolls off the tongue, but a name also unique enough without getting outlandish or into the sort of dichotomy of District 1 names... because who names their child Quartz? Apparently, as Bonnie is aware, some in District 1. "None of them have stuck yet."
"I just can't believe you guys will be parents..."
"I'm still pinching myself," Bonnie smiles lightly. She looks away for a second, down at another cushion on the couch, and remembers that she is sitting on glass. Walking on glass. Tiptoeing on glass. "I don't know how happy I am about it, though," and this seems to break the record playing in Pollux's head, at which he frowns, about to open his mouth. That came out entirely wrong. "I mean, of course I'm happy, I'm pregnant and we've been trying since forever. I guess that is what makes it bittersweet," she rubs her arm. "Calhoun has always made me feel pretty terrible about not being able to really conceive children. We'd get started, and I'd lose the baby soon after, just a few months in, because all the signs went wrong. We'd get our hopes up and then... well..."
"What makes this any different?" Pollux asks. He feigns a lighter expression. "Not to be negative, of course."
"It just is," Bonnie shrugs. "I can feel it."
She knows exactly why she feels better about this child then all of the rest, but it is not something the entire country needs to know; it very well might be a fact she'll keep to herself forever and ever, until she is old, weathered, and gray. Then, on her deathbed, will she tell her child a fragment of the truth, maybe... Bonnie isn't sure yet.
"Well, whatever you end up naming them, I know that you guys will choose wisely."
Bonnie nods, but once again, she isn't really listening. It has occurred to her, with she being away from the mansion, that she has no idea what her husband is doing tonight. Would she be back in her bedroom or the study like normal, everyone's comings and goings are told to her by the presidential guard. Being told what happens inside the mansion honestly does nothing good or bad to her well being, but Bonnie likes the thought put into it.
With her away, there's no guard to speak to.
Her husband could be creating the seeds of rebellion in his office right now and she wouldn't even know it.
Her husband could be aligning the upmost perfect murder and she wouldn't even know it.
In all honesty, does she even know Calhoun Rodney anymore? Did she ever?
Bonnie speaks without even meaning to. "Pollux," she says, sounding rather disturbed, and Pollux immediately freezes, wine glass in mid-tipping motions, "I don't think I want Calhoun to be the father of my baby..."
His eyes widen in alarm. "Are you saying that the child isn't his?"
She scowls. "I don't cheat!" Bonnie snaps. Then, with an at ease tone of voice, "Just... with how obsessed Calhoun has been about having kids, and a legacy and tradition... is that really the male role model my child needs? In a place where we foster independence and thought?" she bites on the inside of her cheek. "I just don't know if parenthood will be good for Calhoun. He's already father of the country..."
Pollux shakes his head. "Calhoun and I are best friends, Bonnie. I know him like the back of my hand," Oh I bet you do, Bonnie thinks smartly, how he tastes with his cock around your mouth, huh? "He's gonna be a great father, Bonnie, and you'll be an amazing mother."
"Thank you," she says. "Thank you, Pollux."
Bonnie doesn't believe one word that comes out of the Head Interviewer's mouth; it is his job to talk with a silver tongue, after all.
She doesn't even believe one word that comes out of her own mouth, at this rate.
Bonnie Rodney has no idea what she even believes in anymore.
Hale Cornerstone: Victor of the 87th Hunger Games
Even though she's heard the noise a thousand and one times, Hale still jumps when the elevator dings again after taking the step down from her floor to the first floor. She can feel the Capitol's very breath crawl up and down her skin, and it makes Hale want to take a bath and never ever go outside again, to be surrounded by the creepiest and ugliest of folk that she's ever seen. Hale hates them all, hates every single Capitol man, woman, and child, and sometimes that means she has to hate herself, since she often finds herself wrapped up deeply in cahoots with whatever schemes the outlandish citizens of the Capitol cook up.
If the entire place could go up in smoke and flames, Hale would very much appreciate that. Watching the platinum and diamond encrusted stone buildings go up in flame, when the embers dance in her eyes and the ash rises and billows into sand dunes in the streets, that'd very much bring joy to her heart. As much as she appreciates and likes the presidential royal family, she wouldn't mind watching them burn as well; watching as their corpses become simple bone, where even that can melt away. Call her a psychopath, sure, but Hale cannot even think of a single person in her life that would want to keep the Capitol thriving, the people that cheer for their bloodlust.
She misses Arizona - a rather non-sequitur jump, but she could care less - and that feeling has been very strong today. He's stayed somewhat distant from the Mentor Viewing Center for the day, which is understandable, since neither District 10 tribute is alive in the arena. Usually that means the victors go on home, since they have absolutely zero reason to stay in the Capitol, and the mentors of Districts 3, 6, 8, and 9 have all packed ship. Beyond that, it is just Hector and Arizona left, and they seem to be leeches, never wanting to let go, sucking the blood out of everything.
Hale knows exactly why her husband has stayed behind: for her. For his wife. It is what a good husband does, but she cannot help but feel angry with him, since every second they spend close together puts their life in danger, a dangerousness that seems to creep closer and closer as each day goes by. Persephone is still alive - as of Hale thinking of this, it is only nine or ten at night, her tribute could very well die before the start of the new day - and that means Hale must stay, and wherever she goes, her husband goes too. It's headstrong. It's reckless. It's dangerous.
It makes her absolutely crazy about him. Hale cannot help but find Arizona even more attractive than when he does that, even though it means everything is on the line. She can taste copper in the back of her mouth.
The victor of the 87th Hunger Games steps into the foyer of the District 1 apartment. It is always disconcerting to her that the layout of every apartment is always the same on each floor, with every piece of furniture being colored the exact way. Somehow, the tiling of the granite countertops is even the exact same, as some victor with too much time on their hands focuses on this piece one day while waiting for the tribute to die of starvation. Hale likes to conjure up that perhaps it might be some gullible trick, but it is not. Exact.
To the T.
If Lance's words were to be correct, Kevia would be just now getting into the shower, and she'd stay in for a good lasting while, twenty minutes minimum, thirty minutes maximum. She'd lock her door, in case an Avox went snooping. Hale pats the key that Lance gives her, which is in her pocket, keeping one hand firmly around it so it does not jangle as she walks. The keys given to each victor work for every door on their floor, so Kevia's key opens Lance's, and his visa versa.
Get inside Kevia's room. Snoop. Discover evidence. Get out. All without the victor from District 1, likely to pull a knife on Hale's throat, finding out.
Piece of cake, right?
Hale killed kids. She should be able to do this.
She walks by an Avox that is standing in the dead center of the kitchen, and she nods as she walks by. The Avox mirrors the same motion, but deep inside, in her heart, although it makes her feel like an absolute piece of shit, Hale is so relieved that Avoxes cannot speak. A mute man can share no secrets, and she's sure they'd be too afraid to betray her anyways.
Her mind runs at all the possibilities, Lance's words vibrating in her skull. Why would Kevia even want to betray her to Bonnie? As far as Hale knew, and perhaps she's been wrong this entire time, then, that she and Kevia were friends. They may not have been the best of friends, but Hale knows herself as someone who causes too much damage to keep anyone that close to her heart in that manner. What would the victor gain for trading secrets? In fact, Hale wants to know, how would Kevia of all victors have this information? Besides Hector, there wasn't a single soul in the Capitol who knew of her and Arizona's marriage.
Hale has to pause, in the dead center of the living room in the apartment, letting out a shaky sigh. She can feel the forceps of Arizona's fingers opening her in two, down from the spot where her kidneys are, to traveling up the ribcage, he kissing lightly like a ghost. His lips slide over the ridges in her spine, swiping upwards at the ball of her neck, and Hale shakes.
She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to not sway over. She cannot get stuck in her own head right now. This is life or death right now, if Lance is to be true. This is life or death for her and her husband, and for her two children. Children that could end up in unmarked graves, or without a mother, or without a father. Hale looks back at the Avox she makes eye contact with, said Avox never taking their eyes off of her - she cannot tell their gender, looking too unrecognizable for her - and that stare bores into her skin. Judgment. Fright. Pain. Terror. Rage.
The victor steps down the hallway for the mentors, outlined by a fancier gleam to the shine on the wooden floors. The female mentor/victor door has always been on the left side. Unlike the tributes, the showers are not adjacently attached to their room, instead a shared one that continues down the hall. Hale steps up to Kevia's door, evidently noted by having the woman's name written on a gold colored plaque in black calligraphy.
Hale unlocks the door, hearing the sound of the shower distantly, and Kevia's voice rising on the wind. Singing. Kevia Janelle, a girl who slit people's throats... singing in the shower. Hale feels oddly disturbed at that, goosebumps sliding over her skin. She gently closes the door behind her, now standing in the corner of Kevia's bedroom. The furniture, as she noted earlier, is the exact same in every apartment. Mentors sleep in king size beds, on frames constructed by the hands of Daedalus himself, wrapping themselves up in sheets of velvet, breathing in the fresh scent of lavender and newly washed linens.
Last she recalls, Lance told her that Kevia had whatever she had been writing resting on the desk provided. She scans the room quickly for it, eyes landing squarely on a large piece of paper sitting there, all folded up nice and neat, like it had been ready to be sent to someone. Her heart jumps into her throat, and her pulse quickens faster than she's ever felt it. This is a scarier time for her than being pinned down by the Career girl from District 4, trying to impale her with a knife.
She picks up the letter, ripping open the official Panemian seal, and the paper is hot in her hands, and she nearly drops it, as if it is radioactive.
Hale begins to read the first line, and her eyes widen.
To whom it may concern, Bonnie Rodney,
As I said at the café, I did have information. As long as I can tell, for at least a few years, Hale Cornerstone and Arizona Merviere have been together romantically against the wishes of-
Hale does not get to read further, as she notices a very faint change in the times. She cranes her neck to hear it, and her blood turns to ice. Kevia's stopped singing in the shower. The shower has stopped running. Kevia's done with her shower. The victor crumbles up the letter in her hands, shoving it into her pocket, trying to keep it bunched up as she can without it being beyond obvious.
She closes Kevia's door and relocks it, scrambling away from the hallway as quick as she can, dashing back into the kitchen.
Her quick actions make the Avox jump, but at this point, Hale could care less about that. She squeezes her eyes shut, heart hammering in her chest. Someone knows. Kevia knows. Someone knows, and they're willing to tell Bonnie Rodney, someone who could most definitely do something about it. Kevia knows, and she's willing to tell Bonnie Rodney, someone who would most definitely do something about it to help her husband stay as president for as long as she could.
She wants to puke.
The sound of the bathroom door opening and closing makes its presence known in the apartment, Kevia whistling some sort of tune to herself that sounds awfully out of pitch.
Hale stands up, smothering her pants, switching the key from pocket to another.
"Hello?" she calls. "Anyone here?" Hale presses herself against the elevator door as tight as she can without setting off the sensor.
The whistling ceases, and stepping into the foyer is Kevia, followed by a wave of steam. The District 1 victor is cloaked in a white towel, her vivacious blonde hair thrown up into another towel on her head. She purses her lips, freezing at the entrance of the mentor hallway.
"Hale?" she blinks, frowning. "What are you doing here? It's late."
"Sorry..." Hale smiles sheepishly, digging into her pocket, pulling out Lance's key. "I went back to the Viewing Center to check up on Persephone and Milor; it looks like Lance had left his key behind, so I wanted to bring it back."
Kevia, still cloaked in her towel, walks over, and it takes all of Hale's mental will to not shank the victor with the metal object straight through the heart as she approaches. "Thanks, then," the woman's tone sounds realistic enough. "I'll tell him you stopped by." Their knuckles brush up against one another, and Hale recoils sharply. Kevia frowns, obviously seeing this, but she doesn't say anything. "Good night."
"Night," Hale nods, and then she hurriedly makes her way over to the elevator door, smashing the button with her fist.
Once inside the slate cube, Hale presses herself on the far wall, hoping for the metal to swallow her whole.
All she can think of is this.
She's been betrayed.
Her husband has been betrayed.
Kevia knows she'll be doing the betrayal.
If only she never ever met her husband that one stupid night.
The ding of the elevator swallows her screams whole.
Well everyone, that was Chapter #36: Matters Best Left Alone for the OC Capitol storyline, and this train is not stopping for a single person. Calhoun now has spilled the idea to Hector on ending the Hunger Games, Bonnie seems to have regrets, and the victors are going to be at an impasse. I know it would be amazing to have everyone just get along and stuff like that, but then we wouldn't have a story, right? I found it quite ironic, actually, that Valencia and Persephone - RIP - had such a beautiful relationship, and here we're with Kevia and Hale and the two women absolutely hate one another, to the point where Kevia is going to try and throw Hale under the bus and get her in legal trouble all to save her own skin. Wow, right?
Beyond that, Chapter #37: A Gaze Through the Trees is going to be another tribute centric chapter, with four POV's, and I am really hoping to have that out before the end of the month, which is the 31st, and I will work my ass off to reach that, as there's something big planned for that chapter ya'll, and when I say big, I mean, really big. Any late game predictions for the Capitol storyline? I'm curious as to what you all think. With digression, that was Chapter #36. I shall see you all very soon for Chapter #37. Please review; they'd really help me out with the direction of my story, and I really appreciate/enjoy having and reading the feedback. I love you all so much! Have a great day! Bye!
~ Paradigm