POV – Hazel Redford

7:45PM

Hazel fidgets nervously as her stylist continues to spray paints her. She keeps her eyes firmly shut, the warning her prep team gave her playing over and over in her mind. Apparently, they could seriously blind her if she opened them, it's incentive enough to keep them closed. After a few minutes, Hazel eventually can feel the difference between limbs with paint and limbs without. The coat of paint feels odd on her skin. Heavy, like a second layer.

"You may open your eyes now darling," the stylist says.

Hazel does so, tentatively. She meets the beaming smile of her stylist. Her eyes trace lower, towards the mirror in the woman's hand. Her face reflects back to her, a vibrant light green.

Her dark brown eyes widen at her transformation. They made her green! She looks at her stylist questioningly.

"We have a costume to go with it my dear, do not be alarmed," the woman explains.

Hazel finds that the snippet of news doesn't placate her worries at all. She doesn't voice her opinion though and instead nods slowly. The stylist practically skips away in eagerness, leaving Hazel to receive some polish from the rest of the prep team.

The dab at her with brushes and massage something into her hair. She finds herself getting overwhelmed, at least this time they didn't do anything painful to her. Just the thought makes her shiver, the moment she stepped off the train, she and Locust were rushed to the prep team, where they proceeded to wax, pluck, alter, maintain and or do whatever they could to make minuscule changes to her body.

It was a haunting few hours.

Some auburn hair falls before her eyes, drawing back her attention. She absolutely hates having her hair in her eyes, too annoying, distracting even. She likes to keep it behind her for that reason.

She slowly reaches for her hair, only to receive a chiding slap on the back of her hands. She instantly reels them back and stares at the prep member through her hair.

"Don't touch, we're not done with you yet."

"B-but… my hair, it's-"

"Exactly where it will stay," the same member responds, he falters marginally looking at Hazel's expression and continues more softly, "don't worry, we'll make you look stunning."

Hazel frowns slightly, she doesn't care about that. She just doesn't want her hair in the way. She doesn't attempt to voice her opinion again, visibly discouraged. They spend a few more minutes, adding minor patterns to her skin with a paint brush. She feels a bit like a canvas. Eventually, the prep team peels out of her personal bubble.

"Please slip this on," the lead stylist says, returning from the other room.

She carries a dress. The first thing Hazel notices is all of the green. Then would be the patterns. The skirt section seems to be made of leaves being layered over top each other. Kind of looks like a tiled roof would. Slightly above, there appears to be vines coiling around her waist like a belt. The top half of her dress on a first impression simply looked green. But looking more closely, she could make out the midrib, lateral and sublateral veins. It's supposed to be one big leaf.

"Here, these accessories really make the whole ensemble," The stylist continues, thrusting a crown made of branches and a rose corsage.

Hazel manages not to break either of them as she takes the items off her stylist, she does fumble a bit and needs someone to catch her before falling. She murmurs a quick apology as she puts the accessories on.

"Perfect! Now you look just like I envisioned it, creatures from old legend."

"Forest nymphs, from old mythos, right!" Hazel exclaims excitedly, happy to relay her trivia.

"Correct darling, you're more learned than I thought," The woman says warmly.

Hazel beams at her with a positively blinding bright smile.

"Now, I'll have someone from my team escort you to the stables. Smile like that, and you'll have the whole Capitol swooning for you my dear," Her stylist says.

The prep team agrees.

Moments later, Hazel feels someone gently pushing her through the door. She takes the hint and starts walking on her own. She's ushered through multiple hallways and down an elevator. She loses track of where she is, thinking this place similar to a labyrinth. Eventually, she's brought through a door and enters a massive room.

She feels a breeze and can quickly tell why. On the other side of the room, like a gaping maw, lies an opening for the chariots to ride through. Torch fires line the exit. The chariots are lined up in the center of the room, already attached to their horses and facing said exit.

A hand gently presses onto her back, prompting her to walk into the room. She turns and sees the prep member waving as they leave. She hesitates but turns back to face the chariots. She notices multiple other people in fancy or weird costumes like her. The other tributes, she wonders if she should go introduce herself.

It's the polite thing to do, she decides, psyching herself up. She slowly, cautiously makes her way to the chariots. 12 is empty, same with 11. However, when she lands on 10, she notices a boy her size leaning on the side of his chariot. He looks from the chariots to her, then back to the chariots. He then quickly snaps his gaze back to her with wide eyes. She smiles ruefully, green skin will be pretty eye-catching she reasons. Despite that, he gives a small nod in greeting. Hazel smiles in turn, he seems nice.

"Hello, my name is Hazel, what's yours?" She greets.

"Cooper, nice to meet you Hazel," He responds, standing up from his leaning position.

"Likewise!" She says happily.

Although Locust isn't rude, he's still hard to talk to, his mentor even moreso. Her own spends so much time in the washroom that she rarely even gets to talk to her and Roadkill's a bit eccentric. So, to find someone around her age and also easy to talk to is a welcomed change.

"Green skin? Your stylists really went all out," Cooper says.

She nods, "yeah, it was crazy, they had to spray paint the stuff on me."

"Is that safe?" He instantly asks with a quirked eyebrow.

She shrugs "they said they could blind me if I opened my eyes, so I guess not?"

His other eyebrow raises, "huh, well that's cool."

"Your costume looks cool too, a cowboy right?"

Cooper winces as he readjusts his hat, "yeah, very cool."

"You don't like it?"

"I mean, I probably can't come up with anything better, but it's not very original, ya know?"

"Ooh, I get it. Well, if its uniqueness that you worry about, why not try to do something to stand out?"

Cooper tilts his head, but his curiosity is obviously piqued, "like what?"

Hazel furrows her brows, "well, what if instead of riding on the chariot, you rode the horse instead?"

Hazel admittedly hasn't watched the hunger games, so she doesn't know how original the idea is. But, she doubts it's done often, the horses don't have saddles. But, if anyone can ride them, it'd be people from 10, right?

"I mean, cowboys aren't fully complete without their hat or horse," Hazel explains when Cooper remains silent.

"You know, that doesn't sound like a bad idea. There aren't any rules that say you can't. None that I know of. A little adventure won't hurt anybody. Thanks, Hazel!" Cooper muses before blurting out a thanks.

Hazel smiles warmly, "no problem!"

POV – Remy Cartwright

8:12PM

Remy sighs tiredly as he gingerly plays with the plastic gladius in his hands. Its weight is all off, throwing him off more than he'd like to admit. He grew accustomed to wielding the real deal during training.

Still, he thinks it's better than the alternative. His gaze shifts to the side, where his district partner is fumbling with the scales given to her. Gods and goddesses from ancient times is the theme 2 went with. He gets the sword, she the scales. The gladius looks far more tolerable now. The scales are clunky as hell as if made of clay or something. They look heavy too. His district partner seems to be festering in her own embarrassment.

"I feel ridiculous," she confesses.

He chuckles at the remark, yeah, he doesn't envy her. She's wearing revealing clothing, they both are. As their stylists put it, "bodies like yours must be on display". Remy doesn't really care, okay with having his chest bare. But his district partner constantly fidgets and readjusts her robes. They cover her chest at least, but he's given the impression she wasn't allowed to wear a bra. If her hands constantly crossing over said chest is any indication. Which, in his experience is.

He doesn't envy her.

Both their outfits are the equivalent of draping white curtains over one another and calling it a wrap. They both wear wreaths too, which is probably the only thing Remy doesn't find to be strange out of the entire ensemble.

"Anyways, I'm going to go meet up with 1, have fun streaking for all of us," Remy says offhandedly, jumping from the back of the chariot.

He hears some angry grumbling, but he can't make out what she says. Probably for the best given her death glare. He smiles easily as he waves, knowing full well it'd piss her off. He turns before seeing her reaction and walks up to district 1's chariot.

His smile falls as he dons on a calculative gaze. These two are the others that make up the career pack. That being said, he won't shy away from dropping them like a sack of flour if they aren't good enough. He won't accept anything but exceptional.

After all, this is his alliance. No one else. As if it could be anyone else's. Kyra doesn't seem to care, and she doesn't have a single bone in her for leadership. He's perfectly okay with that, quite happy with it. As long as she does as she's told, they'll get along swimmingly, He might even keep her around past the final 8, who knows?

But he digresses, he examines the two tributes from 1. The boy glowers at nothing in particular, clearly unhappy to be here. The girl on the other hand, looks quite indifferent. Their costumes are pretty standard, more fitting found during the interviews. The girl wears a silver dress adorned with pretty gems, the boy a suit. Vanilla as vanilla can get, their stylists played it very safe. Admittedly, what he's wearing is considered safe for 2 as well, despite how risqué is it in nature. Both, however, carry themselves with the confidence befitting a career. That's a good sign at least, if not a small one.

"Hey there, enjoying yourselves?" Remy asks, casually strolling up and leaning against their chariot.

"Can't you tell, flipping elated to be here," The boy answers dryly, twirling a finger lazily for emphasis.

"Mischa Morrigan, pleased to make your acquaintances," the girl greets professionally.

"Spoken like royalty, as expected from a Morrigan Sister," the boy comments, chuckling to himself afterward.

Remy's gaze shifts from him to Mischa, her mouth thin at her partner's remark, but she doesn't say anything. Remy raises an eyebrow, their dynamic is interesting, history between them? Is this how they flirt?

No, Remy dismisses it immediately. He knows what flirting looks like. The guy's just being annoying for annoying sake. Not that said behavior bothers Remy, he's pretty similar in that regard. But, what really debunks the flirting theory is the patience coming from Mischa. It's not one you'd have for someone you hold affection for, but rather a child you need to babysit. He's familiar with that look, came from Memnon one too many times, to be honest.

Their dynamic is interesting. So long as it remains that way and doesn't become a liability, he could care less how they treat each other. Hell, it'll be interesting to watch her snap and kill the guy.

"Sorry to interrupt your lovers spat, head to floor 2 after the parade. Oh, and after you make up that is," Remy teases.

He breaks into laughter looking at the dual deadpan stares he receives. Now they seem to agree on something? What a nice reaction. Remy waves as he heads back to his own chariot, mirthfully laughing as he hauls himself up beside Kyra.

She looks at him questioningly, expectantly, which is funny given how she's also trying not to flash him. He knows why. Just looking at her it's obvious to tell. She's got a thing against 1. He can't blame her either, 1's become cocky over the years. It makes even less sense since they haven't won recently. Unwarranted confidence pisses him off.

He wouldn't oppose to putting them in their place. He turns to face his black-haired partner. She, in turn, stares at him unblinkingly, marginally nudging her head forward, beaconing him to say something. So, he does.

"When it comes down to it. We can take them. Easily."

POV – Harvest Henderson

8:51PM

Harvest readjusts the straw for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. To give him the authentic scarecrow look, they stuffed straw into his clothing. It pokes out, from the tunic he's made to wear.

The design is simple, he likes simple, reminds him of home. He can't say the same about Sela's costume. He can't actually tell what approach they were going for. She's dressed in all black. Long black eyelashes, heck it appears they even dyed her hair black too. She doesn't appear too uncomfortable about it though, so he applauds her for having an open mind about things.

He probably wouldn't care too much about his own appearance, but he's been told that's something girls normally fret about.

"Have you tried talking to the other tributes?" Harvest asks.

He knows the answer, of course, she has. They've been on stand by in this room for nearly an hour now. The Parade starts at 9, preparations need to be completed by 8, as the stylists kept reminding him. Prevent any emergencies or the sort.

He's spent his whole time by the chariot, not really wanting to talk to others. He spoke when spoken to mostly. The boy from 11 seemed very professional. Not too friendly, but not openly hostile. The boy from 12 was very friendly on the other hand. Harvest couldn't help but be guarded.

Whereas the former could be hiding something with his neutral approach, the latter is trying to distract him. That he's certain of.

Either way, Harvest made sure to greet them, and answered their questions as best as he could. The conversations quickly petered out. The two of them were very respectful when they excused themselves at least.

"I did. The pair from 8 are nice, but not taking the situation very seriously," Sela answers.

Harvest tilts his head in confusion, "what do you mean by that?"

The only response he receives is a point of the finger. He follows it and looks in front of him. The two tributes from 8 are dressed up as balls of yarn. They're talking quietly to themselves before suddenly the boy wraps some yarn around his neck, pretending it to be a noose. The girl rolls her eyes but laughs at him anyways.

Harvest remains perplexed, he coughs, masking his confusion and moves along with the topic.

"What about the others?"

"I didn't talk to the girl from 10, she just seems a bit unapproachable," Sela explains.

This time, the two of them turn to look behind them. The girl from 10 is sighing tiredly as she talks to her partner about something. For whatever reason though, they're not on the chariot but besides the horses.

Still, she carries herself very aggressively, so Harvest doesn't fault Sela for not talking to her.

"Anyone else?"

Sela shakes her head, "I mostly spent my time with 8, we did go up to greet 6. But, the girl's kind of prickly. Boy seems nice, he liked the attention. But, I don't believe they'd make good allies though," she says softly.

"I see," Harvest says.

He doesn't trust her entirely, he doesn't trust anyone so easily. But, he doubts she'd lie about this. Her resolve to win these games is steadfast, almost inspiring even.

Sela seems done with her report, so he goes into giving his, "Boys from 11 and 12 spoke to me, 11 is respectful. 12 is friendly. Both are better at expressing themselves than I."

Sela nods in understanding, "that's good, we can talk to them tomorrow."

"Agreed. 12 looks thin, 11 abled. Might want to pursue an alliance with 11."

"That's good! We can approach 8 or 11 for an alliance. Maybe even both, a group of 6 would certainly improve our chances," She says happily, clapping her hands together.

"I concur. Tomorrow during training then, we can split up and approach them? Or do you want to do so together?"

Sela furrows her brows as she runs a finger through the tips of her new black hair. She seems far too deep in thought for what Harvest feels is an innocuous question. Regardless, he patiently waits for her to answer.

"Together. If we show a face of unity, they might be more inclined to take our proposal seriously. Well, more so than they already would," She says eventually.

"Very well. Who do you wish to approach first?"

"8, If only because I've spoken to them a bit already. They seem easy to get along with," she explains.

Harvest nods his head. He personally doesn't mind who he adds to their alliance as long as they don't actively worsen it. Even those with aggressive personalities would be fine. He knows the games are stressful and wouldn't fault them for it. He believes Sela would feel the same.

What he wants in an alliance is just people who can help him get through the bloodbath. Statistically, the first minute of the Games is where everyone has the last opportunity to interact with one another. The last moment all 24 tributes will be alive. The chances of survival are low, but they improve if fewer people are out to target him. Allies who need him as much as he needs them, that's the alliance he wants. He doesn't believe he'll ever trust anyone during these games. However, he can trust people's intentions and motivations, those tend to be quite honest.

"Tributes to your chariots, the opening ceremonies will begin in one minute," a feminine robotic voice sounds throughout the room.

Harvest snaps from his musings. He starts to look around the room, trying to make out where the voice comes from, but It sounds almost as if it emanates from underneath him.

"Remember what Aspasia said," Sela reminds him.

Harvest nods. Smile, first impressions are essential, and looking confident is crucial in forming a good one. Wave to the crowd too, that'll make them at least interested in him. He takes a steadying breath as the chariot lurches forward.

The Parade begins.

POV – Calder Lynch

9:01PM

Just breathe. That's all he needs to do, breathe and keep his eyes straight, ignore the cheers, ignore the crowds, the flashes- just breathe.

Calder grips onto the chariot like a lifeline. His throat is dry, he won't deny it. He's nervous. Scared even, he's being presented to his killers like livestock. His life has a price tag to it, and he can't help but feel as if people are eagerly betting on him, or against.

Definitely against.

A reaped tribute from 4 is usually frowned upon, but to have 2 is sending a message.

Disposable. Worthless. Bloodbaths.

It frustrates him. Why couldn't a suicidal dumbass volunteer for him? He shakes his head and crushes the thought. He realizes how entitled it sounds.

He goes back to staring straight ahead, whenever his eyes wander to the sea of people, he starts to sweat, his hands getting clammy and his flight or fight instincts flaring. He just wants to duck or throw himself off the chariot. Unfortunately, they're going too fast, and well, he'd probably get shot for that kind of stunt. His family too if he's thinking about it seriously. It makes him frown.

"Pretend they're naked, it'll make it easier. Besides, they're probably doing the same to you," Cyrus says from beside him.

He splutters then shivers at the thought, his eyes lingering from 3's chariot to the crowd again. His gaze traitorously soaks up the audience. The manic gazes, the ravenous cheering, the rosy cheeks, and caked faces. They look like clowns, he huffs as he returns his gaze back to the front.

He hears Cyrus giggle as she smiles and waves to the crowd. He frowns seeing it. She's way too easy-going about things. It's like she's happy to be here. It creeps him out, reminds him too much of the psychos who volunteer for the games. He wouldn't wish anyone to go die in the games, but the fact those psychos volunteer to do so wins them absolutely zero sympathies from him.

Maurea probably wouldn't approve his quick dismissal of Cyrus. But he doesn't want to chance it. She may have been reaped, but what's to stop her from being trained, being eager? She looks eager right now. Her smile is glowing, she's eating up the attention. Would a reaped tribute normally behave like that?

Calder shakes his head. No, he won't be allying with her. Anyone like that can't be right in the head.

Unfortunately, with his thought done, he's forced to pay attention to his situation again. Being literally paraded for all of the world to see. His embarrassment and nervousness return twofold.

He wants to hide his face under his hands. He almost instinctively does but has to remind himself not to. The scaly gloves he's wearing are rough to the touch, he'd probably accidentally scuff his skin. His stylists would tear into him if he did. The thought makes him grimace.

The chariots eventually reach the end of the path, they slowly line up from 1-12 in front of a large building. Almost 3 or 4 storeys tall, Calder squints as he makes out the shape of a man slowly standing and marching up to a podium.

The man raises his hands, suspends them for a second before slowly bringing them down. When doing so, he manages to silence the crowd. The deafening cheers subside. Yet, for Calder a low ringing lingers in his ears, the crowd was simply that loud.

Calder soon realizes just who this man is. President Nova, leader of Panem. Bastard that's ruining district lives daily. He scowls at the man, his fists clenching and going white at the knuckles.

"Greetings tributes, we welcome you to the Capitol!" President Nova introduces with a joyful tone.

Cheers erupt from all around him. It makes Calder sick. All of these people are insane, to enjoy the blood sport, to go into a frenzy at the mere thought of it. But none are sicker than the bastard at the podium, he's the sickest of them all.

"Happy Hunger Games to you all! May the odds be in your favour," he finishes with a deceptively innocent smile.

Calder glares frigidly at the man, not that he notices. The president seems to be soaking in the cheers as if he's said something warranting such a reaction. As if proving his defiance, Calder refuses to peel his cold gaze off the president, even after the chariots move again and enter another building.

The chariots stop at a designated spot and he hopes off unceremoniously, simply glad to be done with the whole ordeal. He rips off his gloves and tosses them at the back of the chariot. He felt ridiculous wearing those things. He sits at the end of the carriage and starts to work on his boots too. He notices a few people approach him from the corner of his eye. He recognizes them as his mentors, escort and stylists respectively, his mouth thins. He has a feeling he's disappointed them.

He immediately curses himself for feeling that way. He knows he wasn't cooperative and didn't cater to the Capitolites, but why should he? Those sick bastards don't care about him, he shouldn't do the same. Sure, he won't actively screw his own chances, but the mere thought of smiling at those psychotic freaks is enough to make him gag.

"Good job Cyrus, people love you," Coral says.

Cyrus beams at her, "thanks, that was a pretty nerve-wracking experience though,"

"Yeah, I can remember my own opening ceremonies like it was yesterday. It's pretty overwhelming if you aren't expecting it right?" Florian adds.

"Nope, it's overwhelming regardless!" She shots back with a grin.

The two break into laughter. Calder can't imagine why; she didn't say anything funny. He doesn't even know why she's getting all comfortable with his mentor too, is she trying to sabotage him? He dismisses the idea quickly enough, she's just really talkative. It's just too strange for him to deal with, who's this talkative when at death's door? It just doesn't make any sense to him. He doubts it ever will.

POV – Adalyn Plumm

9:58PM

Adalyn paces anxiously around the room, fussing over the parade and her actions. She can't help it; the parade is to create a good first impression. She waved, she even smiled, but, at the end of the day, was it enough? She thought so at first.

But, seeing those from 10 ride their horses rather than their chariot. It was that kind of quick thinking that drew attention, that retained attention. What's a smile from a girl dressed as bee in comparison?

And boy, is that not another can of worms she'd rather not open. Just her wicked luck that Melissa knows her stylist. And that the two of them have a weird fixation on bees. Bees don't even play a significant role in her district. She's getting embarrassed just thinking about the ridiculous bee costume again. Antennas, wings and all. Harrison's barely contained laughter kind of pissed her off too. The fact he pretended to keep a straight face was what really frustrated her.

"Is something troubling you Adalyn?" Harrison asks, from the couch.

His focus remains on the book in his hands, but he still somehow manages to notice her. She's not being very quiet she realizes, and instantly laments how disruptive her behaviour is.

"N-no, nothing," She quickly says.

It seems Harrison manages to notice her strained tone and places the book down. He stares at her intently. The look reminds her a bit of an admonishing teacher, which both serves to embarrass and anger her. She knows its impolite to dump your own problems on someone, a stranger no less. She's being nice! Putting him first. His expectant stare makes her sigh. Fine, if he wants to know so bad, she'll tell him. But he better not get mad, he's asking for it after all!

"10 was the most creative district out there, they completely outshone us."

Harrison hums, "that is true, I must admit, playing their cowboy roles so literally paid dividends for them."

"Exactly! No one even noticed us," Adalyn says.

Harrison leans back into the couch and raises a hand, he teeters in back and forth, "not exactly."

Adalyn purses her lips as she quirks an eyebrow, "what do you mean?"

"Despite what you might want to believe, your bee costume was… effective," he pauses to find the right word.

Adalyn stares at him blankly, "You don't have a sense of humour Harrison, don't start now."

"Not my intention. When you compare your tracker jacker costume to my measly farmer overalls, you pop out, glaringly so," he says evenly.

She's not naïve though, a bit of frustration bleeds through in his tone. He's clearly unhappy about his costume. Frankly, she would have preferred to change with him. After all, the bee costume kind of solidifies the notion that she really did use tracker jackers to kill that man.

Her costume paints the picture of someone impishly dangling something just out of reach. It feels like she conned her district, lied to them. And now that she's in the Capitol, she's revealing her treacherous behaviour now that they can't do anything to her. She feels kind of guilty, regretting ever stumbling on the corpse.

Which she finds to be completely backward given how she hasn't done anything but be honest! Why is she even feeling guilty for something she didn't do? She was just the person to find the body, why is she punished for that? Seriously, the people in her district can be so flipping stupid it's unbearable!

She snaps her eyes close and takes a steadying breath. She starts mentally counting to 10, letting her bubbling anger slowly ebb away.

"As I was saying, you likely garnered some attention to yourself. The Capitolites hardly know your story, they simply think you look nice, or interesting, or at worst, better than me," Harrison explains simply.

Adalyn nods slowly, not sure if he's just trying to cheer her up or telling the truth. He does sound a bit bitter though, so he's probably being honest. It at the very least makes her feel much better about herself, and tonight's parade.

Just thinking back on it gives her second-hand embarrassment. Aforementioned bee costume aside, waving to so many people was stress-inducing. The ambiance, the loud cheers, and bright lights did little to make her feel at ease either.

"I… I see,"

"Glad we managed to resolve that," Harrison says, picking up his book again.

Adalyn watches as he engrosses himself in his book, seemingly nodding along to something he agrees with. She decides to sit beside him, sighing comfortably as she lays on the soft cushions.

"Hey, I know I'm disrupting your reading, but I wanted to ask you something."

Harrison folds the tip of a page before closing the book again. He turns to face her with a patient gaze. He nods his head slowly, signaling that he's listening.

"Okay, so I don't really know how to go about asking this bu-"

"An alliance, right?"

"Let me finish damn it! I-I mean, yes, an alliance, if you want?" she finishes lamely, appearing almost sheepish with her outburst.

"I don't oppose, but. I'll admit I didn't expect you to want to form an alliance with me," he answers naturally.

What the hel- okay, she can see where he's coming from. She nods her head in understanding. She also grimaces thinking of her recent behaviour. She really needs to reel it in. Sometimes though, she just can't help it. Her whole life she's been told to be a 'good girl', to do as her dad says, to keep her head down and appease society.

If society wasn't a serious piss off, she might have considered it. But, her ostracization at the hands of said society really turned her away from doing things 'for the people'. Her drunk dad did little to make her respect her alleged superiors either. Respect is something earned, not given, and that's all everyone ever expects from her.

To give and give. It only makes sense that she takes the most natural form of coping. Anger and frustration. It's so gratifying in the moment that she can't help but lash out from time to time. It doesn't make it right though. And given her situation, being in these games, not reigning in her temper could very well be the last thing she does.

"Sorry, I… I'll improve," Adalyn says resolutely.

POV – Vortex Senna

10:29PM

Vortex watches the TV numbly. He's bored out of his mind, all that's showing is just the parade over and over again, from different angles on the occasion, sometimes commentary from Augustus Flickerman, but otherwise nothing new.

Sure, it was interesting for the first few times. But he can only watch 12 chariots ride down a straight line from so many angles before it loses its luster. He sighs as he watches 5 ride down in their satellite get up.

"Ah, and here comes 6. They appear to be dressed as pilots, very nice reference to their district, the district of transportation," Augustus says.

That's all he says though before transitioning to 7. With far more vigor and enthusiasm. What is a nymph anyways? No one cares about 6 now when compared to the cutely dressed girl and titan looking guy. Their juxtaposition really brings out their more prominent traits too. His steadfast gaze, his meaty arms, his grizzled face. Her shy smiles, her petite stature, her child-like wonder. They couldn't be more opposite. It makes them stand out amazingly. Vortex feels anxious just seeing it. Augustus is lathering praise, happy to see a refreshing change for once.

It makes Vortex grimace, of course, he's naturally sidelined. People probably don't even give a shit about 6, why would they, it's the worst place in all of Panem. 12 and 11 may be poor, but nothing presents corruption better than 6. Going out alone is paramount to begging someone to mug you. And the drug wars that go on through the lower sections of 6 are so bloody, peacekeepers forego going there altogether. Peacekeepers don't do shit in lower 6, much preferring to stay in their barracks. It's laughable as much as it's reasonable.

They only leave when it comes to executing someone or getting in on the mugging themselves. If he had to choose, he'd honestly take his chances with the gangs, at least he can fight back without getting his family and friends executed in the process. Admittedly, he'd sooner off himself than waltz into lower 6, much safer that way.

Middle and upper 6 aren't nearly as bad, but drugs are prominent no matter where you go. His parents blow all their money on weed. There are worse drugs to be addicted to. Besides, he has a nicotine addiction, which is probably worse in the long run.

Well, it would have been. He doubts it'll matter too much now.

He runs a hand through his short black curly hair. Speaking of tobacco, he could really go for some right about now, would really help ease his nerves. He looks behind him, his gaze lingering at the bar.

Tabacco might be impossible to acquire now, but alcohol is easily attainable. He stares at the tantalizing bottles. It's tempting but he ultimately decides against it. Jaycee lived for getting shit faced, the backlash ultimately was left to him. Yeah, he wouldn't want someone else to pick up after him. Alcohol, he concludes is for the shameless, no offense to Jaycee. Although, admittedly she's as shameless as shameless come.

"Oh, Vortex? How come you're still up?"

His gaze peels off the bar to look at the hallway beside it. His mentor looks at him with a toothy grin as he waves. Vortex smiles at Icarus and returns the wave before patting the seat beside him. His mentor doesn't waste any time and plops onto the couch. He turns to face Vortex.

"You didn't answer my question by the way."

"Ah, well, you know, bored," he answers flippantly, waving a hand.

"Pesky boredom, I definitely feel you there."

"You do? What do you do to fix that then?"

"Meh, I mostly go bother people, like Karan or Coral."

"Everyone's sleeping right now though," Vortex says.

He's not opposed to annoying others. It can be quite fun when they react. Corolla isn't that fun to tease though, she's quick to anger can be quite scalding with her remarks. Karan on the other hand, that man is quite fun to torment. He pretends to be exemplary in front of Corolla too, so Vortex tends to catch him stuck between wanting to appear gentlemanly and furious. Those reactions are the best.

"Yeah, I suppose that's true. Oh, I know, let's talk about the Hunger Games!" Icarus exclaims happily.

Vortex throat constricts. If there's one thing he'd rather not talk about, it is the games.

"Uh, actually, I think I'm just going to go to-"

"No, you'll stay," Icarus says with a smile.

Vortex furrows his brows. He tries to stand from the couch regardless. A hand grips his arm, he looks at his mentor with wide eyes and is forcefully placed back onto the couch. Vortex stares at Icarus, trying to gauge his intentions. It's hard to read the man. The smile never falters, he doesn't even appear malicious, his eyes still sparkle with excitement.

"We're talking about the Hunger Games now, so stay," his mentor says jovially.

Vortex clenches his teeth, Icarus is acting strangely. It times like these that Vortex regrets not paying attention to his mentor more. He rarely speaks to the guy, he rarely knows what normal entails with Icarus. Regardless, Vortex can safely conclude that he's not liking the forcefulness, the almost controlling nature. He wants to leave, but he doesn't think it's best to run from his mentor. He doubts he can, he nods his head slowly with a guarded gaze.

"That's great! Okay, so. For starters, find some people to work with. You'd die solo. No ifs or buts about that."

Vortex wordlessly agrees, nodding with the assessment even if he doesn't like it. At the same time, he's making sure to at least appear engaging, as to appease his surprisingly eager mentor.

"Corolla might be an easy ally, but I recommend against it. She doesn't seem all that smart, nor that strong. Ultimately, she's kind of useless," Icarus finishes with a laugh.

'Ultimately useless'? Isn't Vortex the same. He doesn't have any skills to help him in the games, he's sociable, might be a good leader, but would it matter when say, face to face with the hulking guy from 7, or a bloody career? Vortex pauses and ponders it for a moment. What if he didn't have to face them at all. Is that what Icarus meant?

"An alliance with someone strong, like the careers?"

"No way, you're the kind of tribute they'd like to kill! Avoid those guys at all costs."

Vortex winces before nodding numbly. He knows he can't actually join their alliance; he was only using them as an example. He isn't sure how to feel about Corolla being blown off so easily too. Sure, they don't get along too well, but Icarus wrote her off as easily as someone would talk about the weather.

"Right, alliance, with people. Is that all?" Vortex asks, eager to leave this conversation already.

Icarus giggles, "of course not! You're bored right? We have so much more to talk about."

Vortex deflates and hardly listens to Icarus break into another string of tips and advice. He can't focus on what his mentor tells him. He's too busy wondering what brought on this kind of behaviour. It feels sudden, almost as if it came out of nowhere. He hears his mentor laugh, likely to one of his own jokes again. He narrows his eyes as he suspiciously looks over his mentor, he starts to see him in a new light, an unsettling one. What if Icarus doesn't joke around to lighten the mood or break the ice. Doesn't like teasing people out of boredom or isn't just an unnaturally joyful person. What if, his smiles aren't happy or warm.

They're unhinged.