Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Bombs and Bullets - never gonna get over that amazing artwork Thorne made, hot damn - Chapter #17: Locked Out of Paradise. Last chapter we were introduced to the final four tributes I had yet to fully cover: Audhild Olthono of District 9, Cambric Vogel of District 8, Satin Spinel of District 1, and Ponty Carr of District 6. This chapter, my dear readers, is the Private Sessions. As I did in Sheep Led to Slaughter, this chapter will feature all twenty-four tributes and their session, given a paragraph or more - nothing too obscenely large, but some are shorter than others, how it goes - viewed from an outside source of point of view, a Capitol character, last time it being Bonnie. I am very excited to get to show off everyone in a habitat of strength, and I can't wait to roll out the scores next chapter. Since this chapter is unbelievably long - it wouldn't feel right not giving everyone the same amount of attention - that if there is a tribute you wish to read about and not the others given the word count, you can easily find them, as they're in ALPHABETICAL order by last name, not district order traditionally. Please enjoy Chapter #17: Locked Out of Paradise.
~ And so sayeth the Lord, do not weep and gnash your teeth when you are locked out of the doors of Paradise everlasting... perfection does not suit you.
Valencia Shale: Victor of the 100th Hunger Games P.O.V
This is not how she's been expecting to spend her day, or at least the early part of her afternoon. Valencia does not sleep in the bed offered to her by Bonnie in the presidential mansion last night, she choosing to go back to her glimmering silver palisade off in the back of Sector A, snuggling up into sheets that she's missed for four days straight. The moment the victor slinks back underneath the covers, it is as if she is back in the arena, lying on her side staring into the fire, Persephone's arms wrapping around her front, hugging her tight, a gentle kiss placed against the back of her head, and a single promise, 'I'll never let you go, my darling, never', and although Valencia is sure the now dead Career from District 2 upheld her promise, she is unable in determining whether or not she has let hers go, if the promise has been broken.
The sleep is gentle and quiet, although her heart roars in her chest after arriving on Criston's floor in the Training Center. Luckily, the tributes are out, and she is able to express her convictions clearly, but as she rolls over them in her head, everything muddles together, like paint with way too much water smearing the canvas until is incapable of being used. Criston's palms are warm and sweaty, thumbs pressing into her wrists, highlighting over her veins she sees faintly underneath the veil of pale flesh, and that she'll be approached, as with what the District 6 victor calls it, 'assignments' later at a time when she's needed, whisking her back out of the elevator, for another ping goes off at the time, the District 6 tributes returning. Another slot opens up, Valencia disappearing behind the slate cube to take her back down to the ground floor, but she knows she's been seen by the female tribute, eyes locked on squarely, a chilled look, cold, battle-hardened, and above all else, vile.
Everything beyond that moment is a blur, Valencia not sure who she went and saw or what she did, let alone remembering if she's had lunch or not, finding herself simply milling around a few of the fountains, trailing her hands into the water, sloshing up the rather expensive blouse she is wearing, until dragging her feet back to her home. She's a grown woman - no she isn't, she has just turned of age - and a victor of the Hunger Games; the president does not need to know where she is, nor it is any of the woman's damn business. In bed, Valencia keeps on rubbing over the spot where she had been slapped, the shockwaves pulsating from the epicenter, aftershocks that spiral through her cheek, sharp stabs of pain that flare up in the gut. It is more than the slap, it is much more than that, but the victor wants to see Madam Rodney's hair, that flaxen gorgeous Rapunzel hair go up in smoke, cinders to the wind, with Bonnie's dying scream breaking on the airwaves. It is the other image she keeps in her head, a decaying Bonnie in some sort of ivory colored clothing, until the knock on her door hours and hours later.
It is how she finds herself now, in the Training Center ground floor, sitting up high where the Gamemakers would sit, Head Gamemaker Constantine beside her, the older woman's gray hair in a frizzed bun, two strands poking out on either side and pointing downwards, gliding against the woman's cheek. When Valencia opens the door to her tiny sunshine shack, she does not expect Constantine to be the person standing outside, waiting for her to get the morning paper - "What's a morning paper?" Valencia asks, apparently to the Head Gamemaker's amusement by the way the dodderer giggles to herself - and it is no happenstance accident as to why the second most powerful person in Panem is seeking her out. The newest orders from Bonnie, to sit with Head Gamemaker Constantine Fallorne and watch the private sessions of the tributes.
Valencia stirs uncomfortably in her chair. It is just her and Constantine in one vast room on their platform. The other trainers stand by at their stations, silent and unmoving, stone statues without a hint at humanity in them, the other Gamemakers given the day off, and there isn't an Avox in sight, which Valencia finds odd. A cool chill flows through her body, she shaking some, clenching onto the armrests on her chair, a padded one of sorts with a velvet back that feels quite lovely. She does not know where to place her eyes, as the last time she had even stepped foot on this level had been for her own session, all those days and days ago, with spears, leaves, dummies, a noose, and something other than that results in an 11 ensuring that Valencia Shale becomes the head of the Careers.
"And look what good that did me..." she thinks to herself, rather sardonically.
Constantine looks over, noticing that the girl is giving the good ole' grip of death onto the chairs. "Valencia? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she lies through her teeth, painting the sweetest smile she could, but it looks as if the paint had been muddled with too much water, spoiling the canvas.
The Head Gamemaker pulls out a clipboard from a side table, and a pen out of her pocket, clicking on the end piece, the clicking a sharp ping to Valencia's stomach, as if the end piece of the pen had been stabbed into her gut. Constantine scribbles a word or two on the top that she cannot see from her spot, and then looks up at the victor. "So, like I said, Bonnie wants you to sit in with me, alone, like she had done last year and watch the Private Sessions made by the tributes," her eyes sparkle. 'It's been a direct year, hasn't it?"
"Yes ma'am," Valencia says, but she swallows heavily after Constantine's sparkle turns into a lightning bolt crash.
"What was your session?" Constantine hitches at her skirt, and a razor edge adds itself to her voice, gaze slightly lowering, a hint of melancholy hiding behind a plaster of curiosity depicted as innocence. Valencia has seen enough Capitolites to know how their pupils betray them, the way the lip will twitch, or a finger will bend into a bit of a talon. "I wasn't in the room last time, you know," Valencia is sure she'd never forget seeing Constantine had she been in there last time. The victor lifts her head, eyes narrowing in. She much prefers Lewlyn to this grandmother, although she has only known her for five days. "And Valencia, don't call me ma'am. We're friends, Constantine is fine." We are not friends. We are not a first name basis either. You and I are not so familiar.
The memory is a transfixed period in time, sitting in a crystal chandelier that is incapable of being shattered. Valencia's throat quivers under the pressure, she shutting her eyes for a second, opening them with a peal of thunder. All of it, that day, just a year ago when the most famous attribute she is given is being the female from District 1 for a Quarter Quell... that spot hadn't been something well contested in earlier Quells. For the 75th, the 3rd, Cashmere is killed halfway through, not exactly the best, and then for the 50th year, the girl makes it all the way to the final two... Valencia's legacy sits on the brink of a knife. All of it, her entire victory, it may perhaps rest entirely in that eleven she scores. She hitches her skirt down some, throat seizing up as if she's swallowed a tracker jacker hive.
"I made some sort of trap with leaves and spears, a noose, and then used my sword to destroy the dummy," she says, as flatly as possible, seeing it clear as day splashing back in her eyes. Valencia's arms erupt in goosebumps, she rubbing her flesh till the heat starts to hurt, as if she is scraping guts off of a tree branch with a knife.
Constantine nods her head, humming lowly in her throat. "It must've been something to see, huh?"
"I suppose so," Valencia hitches at the end piece of her outfit. "It got me an eleven after all, solidifying me as the leader of the Careers..." her eyes flash a sharp sterling silver. If she does not get the highest score out of the Careers, she does not become the leader of them. Being the leader of the Careers has her targeted by Blake, where she is saved by Marcus. Because Marcus gets a kill he proves to himself he can do what he needs to do to win, thus the deaths of Hero and Maisey. Carrion's injury, then not being able to fight a trash can monster to the death. Annabellina's sacrifice, Milor's slow descent into madness as Carrion withers away... Valencia bites down on her tongue to stop the tears from stemming free. "How's today going to go?"
The Head Gamemaker pulls over a platter of strawberries sitting on a cart having been put there by an Avox, biting down into one, vermillion juices streaking down her chin. "If every tribute takes the full time of their allotted four minutes, should be over just after an hour and a half," and then Constantine locks eyes with Valencia. "We'll have a few buffer minutes like always, as there is a new protocol step Bonnie is wishing to initiate, but it shouldn't be too long," the woman runs a hand down her own skirt, pulling at it until it seems like it'll tear. "Any questions?"
"The order? Last year it was-"
"Alphabetical, a change Lewlyn and our sweet late Calhoun decided upon," Constantine finishes the thought. "I liked it, actually, stepping out of the order," Valencia witnesses the Head Gamemaker shudder visibly, as if being overcome with some sickly chill, jaw locking. "I hate order, it is too boring. Chaos, however..." a slight hint of pleasure rises through the veil, Valencia absentmindedly sitting back some in her chair. Chaos? Wouldn't going in alphabetical order still be an order...? She doesn't want to get into the logistics, especially with her. "Instead of the typical district order, where the District 12 female would be dead last, alphabetical by last name," and at Valencia's further nodding, Constantine licks her fingers, flipping through a page of notes. "Tach Andon from District 3 would start, and Vivian Whiplash of District 10 would be the last."
"Sounds fine enough," Valencia lies through her teeth, but she knows every vein on her body is simply popping out as if it has no place to return to, to hide.
"Would you like any say in the session?" Constantine asks. "Lewlyn offered Bonnie this, and Bonnie partook in it some. You'd be allowed to dismiss them early if you think you've seen enough, and if need be, you can help me decide the scores."
The amount of pressure that would be settles onto Valencia's shoulders like a cinderblock, all of the air in her lungs being whooshed out, she leaning forward at the possible idea of holding any of these tributes' fates in her hand by a measly score. Her score led to her survival, but that meant twenty-three other doomed souls beyond that... does she have the capabilities to willingly do it again? She shakes her head in dissent. "No, no, I am just here to watch. This is your domain, Constantine."
"Then let us begin," the Head Gamemaker agrees, and setting her clipboard aside to rest on her leg, she claps her hands twice in quick succession. Valencia's blood turns to ice, and the doors swing open, some female automated voice announcing the first tribute.
...
...
...
Tach Andon
Valencia hates to be mean, but the moment she sees the first tribute step through the double doors, her heart sinks. He's no fighter, he's no warrior, no Career or outer district contender in the slightest. Tach Andon's eyes are wide, she able to see it from here, Constantine giving the kid some sort of command, but she's drowned out all the noise in the room, only listening and paying attention to the thaw of the air conditioner that has turned her skin into brittle porcelain. Tach wanders over immediately to the obstacle course, Valencia remembering that back in her heyday as vivid as can be, with all of the trainers in leather, a brutal club to the back, and a nosebleed from tripping on one ledge. Tach turns to them, giving a slight bow - Valencia is confused, he seems nervous but is bowing to them? - and then, clear as day, shouts some sort of warrior cry at the top of his lungs.
Constantine bursts into hysterics, guffawing like a mad woman. "I'm gonna do the obstacle course and probably fail miserably!" the kid shouts out loud, and then he books it straight down the alleyway, roaring as he goes, and the Head Gamemaker continues to laugh louder. The kid is skinny and wiry, but he apparently must look intimidating as he flat out barrels into the first trainer, knocking the man off of the perch. Constantine is supposed to be calling off the session immediately as the trainer isn't a sparrer, but she's wiping at her eyes laughing to even notice some sort of foul. "Yeah, that's right!" Tach shouts at the trainer. "I kicked your ass, how does it feel?" and then he continues onwards. Valencia is impressed at the way he does seem to keep his head above water decently enough, ducking under two trainers, vaulting onto a higher perch than she had been able to reach during her own joint exercise, and then he makes a next goofy step, his feet falling out from underneath him.
"Oh shit!" Tach shouts out, but that only seems to make Constantine giggle louder, until Tach lands on the floor, getting nearly halfway through the course, in one piece, but nothing to probably warrant a high score. The trainer he had hit gives him a glare, a ripple of shock gliding through Valencia. No one here in the Capitol, maybe besides this crazy woman sitting next to her seems to have any fun. Tach does not wait to be dismissed, some sort of dawning emotion crossing his face, and he scampers out.
Roanoke Arkus
It is an odd pause that Valencia does not expect, the moment Tach leaves, she expecting this Roanoke kid to step in immediately, but he doesn't. There's a good belabored pause, probably about thirty seconds or so, and in that time Constantine writing notes that she cannot see during intermittent laughter. Then, after what feels like an eternity of anticipation sticking to her skin, the next kid comes in. Although the two truly look nothing alike, Valencia's mind straight away thinks Linden Hazel as the boy wanders in, dark ashy skin, long black hair, and a sweet smile, before wandering over to one of the back stations.
Roanoke collects some twigs, and in what feels like record time, a fire goes erupting out of the wood, something certainly not natural as no beginning fire should cause an explosion that Valencia can feel underneath her seat. The kid from Seven then turns towards a tent, assembling it in forty seconds, as Valencia counts in her head, also keeping an eye on the timer sitting in the corner, its digitalized numbers in a blocky font, a shining emerald out from the wall, counting down. The shelter looks great, with the vivacious fire billowing next to it, but she knows that shelter making is a good skill, the concept of building a fire in an arena... it is an immediate way to get killed. The light, the smoke... Valencia knows she and her alliance made one, but that had been the alcohol speaking to them.
Constantine dismisses Roanoke after staring into the blaze for a few moments, transfixed by the flames, but she's not sure that'll improve her score at all.
Cyril Barther
A Career already. Valencia sits up straight as she sees Cyril enter the center. She's seen him before, she actually being in his year, being the same age as him. She's always found him handsome, hiding in his father's shadow, with his immense good looks that are immediately downplayed by the hideous spider excrement sitting on his face. Valencia hates to be harsh, but she's physically trained with the kid before, sparring and narrowly getting beat. Constantine seems to be perked up as well, actually setting her pen aside, as she had been, in between the guffawing, physically been writing notes all throughout Tach and Roanoke's session.
Cyril makes his way over to the sword rack, picking out a medium sized blade about the length of his forearm, and with his back turned, Valencia sees his muscles rippling through the training outfit. She is surprised to know he is single, as he honestly has every other quality girls back home in One would be drooling over. Unless he isn't into girls, but she shouldn't focus on that idea right now. He turns over to a dummy, and as if he hadn't even moved, the dummy is beheaded, the plastic appendage clattering onto the tiled floor, a ghastly echo. She saw Gaia Whisp's head roll, bile rising in her throat. Cyril then destroys the arms of off a different dummy, before kicking it to the floor. He rushes through an amount, about three or fire, slicing off different parts of the dummy, but it always ends the same, with a beheading.
There isn't much form to it, despite the strikes being clean and swift, Valencia finds that they're not entirely practiced, not defined enough, and he's worked up a sweat with it, Cyril breathing heavily by the time he's finished, shirt soaked to a dark gray. He leaves the sword on the floor after Constantine dismisses him.
Magdalena Bertha
It is mean to say, but Valencia's crossed that point she's pretty sure: the girl looks much more competent at winning than Marina Penweather. Magdalena wanders over to the knife throwing session, throwing two blades in a rather quick succession, one slicing through an arm clean, the other getting stuck around the hip. Valencia looks at her, as the girl from Eight then decides to hobble closer over towards them, she frowning. Why is the girl approaching them? She needs to be focused on the situation. Although Magdalena hides it fairly well, Valencia's eyes spot it immediately as a debilitating weakness. She's got a limp.
"Was that good enough to get me an eight or higher?" Magdalena asks, directly looking at Constantine. Valencia stirs, slightly perturbed that the girl won't even acknowledge her existence, as if she isn't even there.
Constantine had been scribbling something down, but the question causes her to halt. "Excuse me, young lady?" she asks, the voice sweet, but as razor sharp as a blade.
"Will I get an eight or higher with that?"
The Head Gamemaker peers over at the dummy. "It is better than most from your district, but not a Career score, young lady."
"I think it deserves to be an eight or higher."
"You cannot tell me how to do my job," and Constantine sits forward some, Valencia terrified out of her mind that the older woman will throttle Magdalena, as if she'd leap over the railing like some caped crusader. "Unless you have something else to show me, besides mediocre knife skills and trying to manipulate me into giving you a good score you don't deserve, I suggest you leave, Miss Bertha."
Apparently so, Constantine's threat is enough, and Magdalena has nothing to show her.
Mirek Bosco
The comparisons have to stop, but Valencia is entirely incapable of helping herself, the moment Mirek walks in she sees an already more competent version of Colt. From his height and bulking muscles that ripple underneath the training uniform, had she been back in Hunger Games Career mode, she'd go to him straight away, begging for him to join the Careers. "As if Hero and Victoria had done anything good, after all," she thinks to herself bitterly, biting down on her tongue. Mirek makes his way over to the pickaxes, something she knows that the miners in Twelve have to use to work, so he must have some sort of practice. Although it must be a bit heavier than what Mirek expects to use by a sudden strained expression on his face, he swings it above his head with enough expertise to bury it into the chest of a dummy.
When he wrenches the pickaxe out, he asks Constantine - once again, Valencia is ignored as if she doesn't even exist - a strange request, one that has both she and the Head Gamemaker looking at one another confusedly. However, Constantine grants it, and then, to Valencia's horror, a rabbit of decent size is placed on a pedestal in front of Mirek, he clenching onto the hilt of the pickaxe so hard that the veins in his arm begins to bulk. She has to look away when Mirek swings at the animal, but Constantine does not tear her eyes away. There's a horrific guttural noise that comes from the rabbit, clearly slaughtered, and when Valencia looks back at the carnage, her mouth dries up.
Mirek is covered in the animal's blood, it having splattered across his chest, getting in his curls, and it looks like there is a puddle on his right cheek, but there is no light in his eyes, not even a darkness like she expects. It is something solid, as if there isn't any sort of feeling Mirek could feel. No remorse or shock at killing an animal, but she supposes, if he can kill a harmless and innocent pet, he'll be able to kill a harmless and innocent tribute in his way for survival. He does not wait for Constantine to dismiss him.
Seth Cables
Valencia's skin begins to crawl when she sees the next tribute walk in, unbelievably more competent than Edwin had been, but Edwin hadn't been some sort of loathsome creature, but a scientist. She sees no sort of intelligence bursting from Seth's demeanor, not after he hightails it to the knife rack. Constantine has to tell the kid to hurry the process up, as Seth stands there in front of the collected assortment of weapons, running his hands along the handles, and a shiver runs through Valencia. She had heard stories from the footage of Caiden, though she never got to physically see his evilness, but there is something in front of her that she doesn't like. Constantine clears her throat, jostling Seth out of his stupor, he giving a crooked smile to both ladies sitting on the veranda.
He wanders over to a collection of dummies, now placed in a ribald circle, and some trainer blows a whistle, Valencia watching with wide eyes as Seth shreds the dummies into a rainfall of plastic. A wave of blue covers his section of mats as Seth finishes wrenching the knife out of the neck of the last remaining prop, and although a bit of objectified horror sits in her throat, she has to admit, she's impressed. There is no way this Seth Cables kid learned here how to do that, but he must've known, from the precise way one stab entirely obliterates an artery in the neck, or the perfect stab to the kidneys that would disable even the burliest man.
Constantine has to tell Seth that before he leaves that he needs to place the knife back, he trying to walk out of the training center without it. Seth looks down at the weapon, he frowning, and then walking as slow as he can back to place it on the rack. Valencia locks eyes with him momentarily, another shudder going through her. She is not sure what causes her to feel such repulsion, but she's never met someone around her age she's never appreciated, liked, or tolerated. Him?
Valencia would rather kill Peri over and over again for a thousand years than sit in the same room as Seth.
Ponty Carr
The Carr name is something familiar to her, and as Valencia finds out while her glass house is being constructed, all of the windows... so her entire house, has been designed in District 6 by the Carr family, from where he hails from. He's a rather attractive man, a year younger than her, but she has her eyes glued onto him the moment he steps into the center. Ponty wanders over to the black sheep rack of weapons, her mouth going dry immediately the moment Ponty's hands encircle around the end of a war hammer. Valencia grips the edges of her chair, a wave of nausea about to roll over her. A glimpse of gorgeous, ethereal Persephone Castor flashes behind her eyes just briefly, she squeezing her eyes shut. When she opens them, Ponty has smashed the sharp end of the hammer into a dummy's head, breaking it open like a watermelon, industrial brain matter splattering over the floor.
He drops the war hammer, perhaps getting bored with it, and then picks up a weapon that has Constantine muttering to herself. A blowdart gun? Ponty stands with his feet together firmly on a place mat, aiming somewhere off into the rigging. A sandbag holding one of the stage lights, which illuminates the entrance. Ponty loads a dart into the bamboo tube, and then exhales, firing a dart. It slashes through the rope holding the sandbag up, it coming undone, the rope flittering away, and the light crashing down onto the floor. Valencia goes to open her mouth, perhaps to speak about not causing property damage, but Ponty continues firing, knocking out a bulb a good fifty feet up, at least half a football field away from him, shattering it.
Ponty finishes his session then, Valencia turning to Constantine with a raised eyebrow. "How did he have the lung power for that?"
"The Carr family is a glass making, glass blowing artisan family," Constantine explains. "Ponty is supposed to carry on the legacy," and then her lips curl into a smile. "Supposed to."
Anahita Cascade
Valencia hasn't heard the news around the town explicitly, but there's been rumors that Anahita Cascade has been kicked out of the Careers, and maybe rightfully so. The new victor watches as the girl - goodness, she is small - stalk over to the black sheep rack of weapons once more, seizing one of the more fancy blades: a kunai. Valencia has never dabbled with one of the fancier swords, preferring the classic type given the weight, but Anahita swings it around like it is a mere stick in her hands. She must've started young, she surmises, just from the adept way that Anahita then skewers through a set of dummies like carving through cake. Anahita slashes this way and that, obliterating another dummy, before leaping on it, tearing away at the plastic.
Despite the nearly looking animalistic rage that comes from Anahita, Valencia sees an odd hesitancy to her decisions, whether it be a quick glisten of her eyes, or the quivering of her lower lip, that there is an impulsiveness hidden behind the action, her mind at war with itself. Constantine is sitting upright, paying full attention to her. Valencia wants to say something, the hypocrisy of the Head Gamemaker only devoting her full attention to Career or Career-esque tributes, as Valencia can see right away why Anahita is not admitted into the alliance; she wouldn't allow her in either, for being too young, and youthfulness is a liability at an age where one might not be able to fully process exactly what it is they are doing, especially with human lives on the line.
Anahita finishes scrapping up dummies, some of the plastic guts hanging off of her arms, and with a sneer, she wipes them off, and before Constantine can dismiss her, she's scampering off. If the Careers do not allow her in the alliance, depending on what her score is, and underestimate her... it may be the doom of them all.
Sage Dagoba
If one thing is for certain, Sage Dagoba is not going to need a strength serum from any president to make her even stronger than she already is. Valencia believes that Sage must be one working in the fields already, chopping down trees or acting as some sort of breadwinner. A wicked gleam dances behind the girl's eyes as she beheads a dummy, then throwing one axe, the blade shining a moonlit silver while she throws. However, as Sage then turns to grab another axe, the girl pauses. Valencia frowns, sitting up somewhat, she finding herself also falling back into the throes of relaxation, her back already becoming sore. She has no idea why Sage is pausing, given the throw she just did had been pretty accurate - there is too much forward thrust of the elbow, not perfect, not a Career stance in the slightest - and she sees the girl mouthing something to herself, and then loud enough to hear, an expletive and 'them'. Valencia is sure she can guess what the girl from Seven just uttered.
A cry rips free from the victor's lips as Sage then turns, grabbing the second axe, and chucks it directly at the two of them. Valencia ducks, throwing herself out of her chair, but Constantine simply gets to her feet, voice booming. There's a godawful crashing noise, steel scrapping against something more advanced and technological, Valencia opening her eyes and peeking out over the edge. The axe blade lays in a smoldered ruin at the bottom of the slope, Sage standing with wide eyes, and then a burning anger focusing in her eyes instead, glaring Constantine down, who matches step for step.
"Please remove Miss Dagoba from the Center," Constantine orders, voice thunderous. A few Peacekeepers grab Sage by the arms, not too roughly, but it seems that the girl doesn't even put up a fight, keeping her glare directly focused on Constantine. There's a belabored pause after Sage is removed, only two and a half minutes into her session, Valencia hearing the roar of her heartbeat more than the thaw of the air conditioner now.
"Will-" she asks after some more time passes, throat incredibly dry, "Will she be punished?"
"Define what you mean by 'punished'?" Constantine says, and then she looks at the victor, those eyes of hers loosing all of their cheerfulness.
Valencia swallows a rock into the pit of her stomach. "Killed?"
The Head Gamemaker shakes her head. "No, we won't kill her. Bonnie explicitly said she wanted the tributes to receive no harm, so no harm will come to them," Constantine sits back in her chair, picking up her clipboard and pen, which had fallen into her quick standing up. "If Katniss Everdeen managed to fire an arrow at Seneca Crane and get an eleven, and she not being punished by Coriolanus Snow, then Sage Dagoba will not be killed by me or Madam Rodney for throwing an axe at you and I, especially with a forcefield between us," she sighs heavily, clicking her pen, and then shouting with the reverb of a snare drum, "NEXT TRIBUTE!"
Sophiana Delarosa
The shock has yet to wear off on Valencia, she returning to her seat, shaking, trembling. No one has thrown a weapon at her in ages, it being Peri and her boomerang axe as the last time any sort of blade has been sent in her direction. She squeezes her eyes shut, but Constantine seems to be entirely engaged, speaking to the girl from Five, Valencia unable to even concentrate, the sounds of the arena booming over her, Peri's axe slicing the air, the igniting of the flames, and Valencia's own cries and gasps of terror as she ran for her life.
When she opens her eyes, Sophiana is on the rock climbing wall, trying to get up as high as she can, but she has not made it very far. The girl looks extremely frail - not sickly, however - and there is a rugged determination in her movements, but it doesn't seem to be enough as Sophiana only perhaps gets it a few feet up, maybe about thirty or forty percent of the way there before she lets go by missing a rock, and crashing hard onto the floor. Constantine doesn't say anything, doesn't even jostle in her seat, but Valencia wants to leap to her feet, to rush over and pick the poor girl up in her arms, as the fall looks like it hurt more than it should have.
Although Sophiana does not make a noise as she lays there in a circled heap on the ground, she physically does not move for the remainder of her session, needing a Peacekeeper to nudge her up and to her feet, being helped out by them, eyes glistening with the fresh crystal creation of tears, but Valencia gives the girl credit. Sophiana Delarosa does not cry, the girl stays stalwart somewhat in the mask of her failure.
Bloom Estrada
Another rumor, as Valencia is concerned, looking at the new tribute, Bloom Estrada, she being some sort of freedom fighter or champion of the people back in Twelve. Rennie is highly interested in her for some reason, a crash course lesson given by Criston when she arrives on his floor. She raises an eyebrow too, seeing the girl move into action, as Bloom gets straight away to moving over to the mechanical traps, something she did not know even existed before. The girl starts picking up some metallic objects, digging through the mess, before finding exactly what she needs, and rips it out, Valencia raising an eyebrow. A bear trap is what sits in Bloom's hands, and then Bloom immediately launches it at a dummy, part of the metal snagging onto the plastic flesh.
Bloom squeezes some sort of trigger and the bear trap immediately closes around the dummy's stomach, she wrenching it back with some immense sort of strength - Valencia isn't actually sure how the semantics of a bear trap work, or even if they're that heavy - and some of the dummy guts come flying with it. Bloom throws the trap down, and then she makes her way over to the trainer ring, being the very first to spar with anyone. Constantine unclicks her pen, setting it aside, scooting up some, and there is another whistle. It is a flurry of fists and blows, the girl throwing some sort of jab a few times that leaves her exposed, but Valencia can tell right away that this is not Bloom Estrada's first foray into the melee scene.
She does not win the fight, however, getting suckered to the upper right side of the body, slightly just below her heart and at the ribcage. The trainer does not strike her unbelievably hard in the slightest, but it is not a blow to take lightly. Bloom goes down to one knee, out of breath, and taps out. Good, Valencia nods at the action, she can see a losing fight. Constantine dismisses her, but Valencia sees for the first time, as Bloom makes her way out, a smile cross the woman's face. It isn't one like her laughing at Tach's humorous commentary on a rather stressful situation, but a smile full of opportunity.
Jules Harper
The rumors are full and abounding with this group of tributes, as Valencia watches the next Career come stepping in through the doors. Valencia has heard, though she won't betray who said it, that Jules Harper is not male, despite being reaped as the male tribute from Four, but a girl. It is a forbidden rule, as opposite sexes and genders cannot volunteer for a reaped friend, that being a rule put there since the dawn of time, but somehow as she looks at Jules standing down there, they've broken through the ranks. However, as far as Valencia is concerned, Jules Harper is a man, not a woman, and he's more than welcome to be in that spot as long as he lives to tell the tale. Jules is smaller, a lot stockier, but Valencia knows why that is, but it doesn't even seem to cross Constantine's mind.
Jules makes his way over to the sword station, picking out two similarly sized blades. He calls over two trainers, and then, without even sudden warning, the trainers rush him. Valencia watches as Jules parries both strikes heading his way, both arms lashing out and swords clanging with clubs - the blades are dull, to prevent injury, but Valencia's mouth dries up all the same - Jules kicking one trainer away onto their back. He dashes in a quick two swipe at the next trainer, they having to duck and scramble away from his onslaught. The trainer he had kicked recovers to their feet, swinging for Jules's exposed side, but he throws his sword in the air, catching it and then parrying the blow with both swords together. Valencia's eyes widen, as he's a much better fighter than she could ever be, but there's something in Jules's eyes that cause her skin to burn with an ire... a greediness or a cockiness that she has seen a thousand times over bring down potential candidates over and over again. Should he be incapable of reining that in, it'll destroy him.
The fight ends with Jules standing triumphantly over both trainers who have been downed with an underfoot sweep, swords placed gently underneath their necks, the trainers tapping out. Constantine gets to her feet, clapping excitedly, but Valencia doesn't want to clap. She knows that if Constantine has her way, he'll get a twelve. Jules is dismissed, and she does not hold her opinion back the moment he vanishes.
"Don't give him a twelve," she says.
Constantine blinks in surprise, frowning. "Why not, Valencia? He earned it."
"Speaking from experience, if you give a Career a twelve, they stop wanting more, they stop desiring improvement," Valencia says. It is something she briefly, beyond briefly considers for a moment after earning her eleven... since she didn't earn a twelve, that she isn't perfect and there is something for her to improve on. "If a Career believes they're perfect, they believe they're unstoppable, and no one is unstoppable or perfect."
It seems as if the Head Gamemaker wishes to argue with her, but they're not on a first name basis. Valencia will never admit it, but it might, just might also be jealousy poking through the clouds too.
Maren Johnson
Once again, another Career follows suit, going next. Valencia hopes that the girl isn't the most amazing fighter in the world, as she feels unbelievably terrible for speaking her mind to Constantine just moments earlier, as if she's betrayed her own kind of people. Maren looks around at all the weapons at her disposal - does a Career always go for the weapons? Do they never try to use any other skill? - eyes seizing up at the ranged collection: spears, axes, bow and arrow, and the girl walks over to them. Valencia watches her the entire way, lifting her head. She sees a bit of Persephone in Maren, although neither girl look anything alike, but she supposes the comparison must be made. Pretty in her own right, but Valencia believes she'll never love again.
Maren's hands encircle around the hilt of an axe, the victor clenching the arms of the chair once more, Constantine clicking her pen again, eyes focused entirely on the Career down below. The girl from Two takes her stance, and then chucks the axe without much preamble down at the dummy. It collides straight into the plastic foe, cutting it in half, and Valencia jumps in her seat in shock. It is the same exact cut where Peri's own weapon goes the moment she swings it down at the poor girl from Seven, getting it stuck near the center of her chest. Valencia lets out a gasp, lurching forward, her breakfast threatening to reappear over her shoes. Constantine looks over at Valencia, worry spreading across her face, she raising her hand.
"Sweetheart, you can go," Constantine announces. Maren whirls around, eyes widening, mouth ready to rapid fire protest, but she's not budging. "It was a wonderful throw and I'll score you adequately, but Miss Shale isn't feeling very well. You should respect a Career victor, you know." The girl from Two stomps her foot, storming out of the Center, and Constantine immediately moves over to Valencia. She feels like a boiling pot of water has been thrown over her, scarlet coating her fingertips, flesh hanging onto the tips of toes. "What's wrong, Valencia?"
She is not even upset about the first name usage. "The axe throw was exactly how Peri died..." Valencia says shakily.
"Would you like me to stop the sessions until you feel better? Would you like to go home?"
Valencia shakes her head back and forth, bulking up her throat. She feels terrible now for sabotaging another Career session, as Maren didn't deserve her own maniac form of PTSD to rear its ugly head in. She can already imagine Bonnie's scathing remarks and fiery insults at Valencia's weak emotional stance. "No, I- I just don't think we can use another axe thrower for a while," she answers. "Call the next tribute in."
Jason Lacey
Valencia keeps one eye shut as the next tribute enters the Center, her gaze seizing up Jason Lacey from District 9, a mayor's kid. A backsplash of blood hits her throat, another glimpse of the Games flashing behind her eyes, as Blake's sword collides with her own, nearly slicing her in two, before Marcus's arrow finds his neck, Blake's own copper liquid spewing all over her, and Valencia swallowing her scream. She is able to say, looking at Jason down below in all of his skittishness, that he is no Blake Hanley, able to wield a sword or a scythe and do crazy damage. She can practically smell the privilege wafting out of the kid, although he seems nice and well-mannered in the same way Constantine would be considered nice and well-mannered, he is entirely unprepared.
Jason wanders over to the ranged weapon station again, she half fearing for her life that he'll pick up an axe - axes have not brought good fortune onto the inhabitants of the training center today - but instead he picks a spear off of the shelf, it being just under three and a half feet, as if he himself had been cut in half. Jason takes a running start after stepping away from the platform, throwing the spear forward, it soaring in the sky, but it only manages to strike at the leg of the dummy he throws it at. A look of sheer disappointment crosses his face, Jason biting on his lower lip, and this time he picks a lance, something much longer, and it seems he has a hard time picking it up and holding it horizontally. Constantine scoffs to herself, over at her perch, and then Jason goes back even further than before.
The boy from Nine makes another running head start, chucking the lance with a stronger, seemingly more sudden burst of strength, and the javelin lands elsewhere on the same dummy, skewering straight through to the liver, a much better throw, it poking out the other side. Constantine dismisses him warmly enough, but when Valencia looks at her rather fleetingly, she sees it enough, the look of disappointment that the Head Gamemaker is unable to hide, how her lip downturns into a frown as she writes some notes with the quick swiping of her pen.
Aris Lindel
Another Career, and Valencia is not sure if her heart can take it. She realizes, with a saddened heart, as Aris Lindel walks in for his session, that only one remains and she has no idea how she'll be able to face the reality of it. However, focusing on the one at hand down below them, something churns in her stomach. Valencia could just vomit looking at Aris, he standing tall and set back, somewhat thinner than she expects, but there's an attractive build to him, a formidable aggression she sees in the way he locks his jaw. She senses a lot of Milor in the kid, perhaps he even knowing him, but there's something behind this guy's eyes that sets him different from her old ally, now withered and decaying in the ground. It is a pride that glows like a glittering mound of gold guarded by a leviathan's bite.
Before he even starts his session, Aris steps up close to the veranda, nodding at Constantine, and even nodding at Valencia, her heart warming at the acknowledgement. "I just wanted to say thank you, Ms. Fallorne," the victor frowns at the title. How would he know about Constantine being a Ms.? "For the opportunity I get here, to have the privilege of performing for you."
"Such a gentleman," Constantine smiles, but there's a solidifying stance to her smile as she rests one hand on her clipboard. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, Mr. Lindel, unless you have skill to back it up." That wipes the smile away unbelievably quick, Valencia nearly bursting out in laughter at the immediate reversal in disposition.
Aris swivels away from the duo, practically stalking over to the sword station, wrenching one of the rack. She can tell right away that Constantine has gotten to him, her words settling underneath his skin with a prophylactic tenacity as Aris swings his sword with a wild, reckless abandon everywhere, hitting and slicing whatever metal is able to touch, and although he leaves a choking mess in his wake, Valencia is not impressed in the fact he is incapable of reining in his temperament and his emotions. She's seen the tapes. She knows how Milor died, caught up in his rage of fate and her destined doom that is never ordained.
She hopes that Aris does not succumb to the same mistakes.
Ciphra Longsdale
What Valencia notices the moment Ciphra steps over the threshold is the wild brightness in her eyes. District 3 must be some sort of entertaining theatrical pair, given their antics. The brightness behind the girl from Three's eyes is one of imaginative power, as she surveys the room, Valencia seeing that Ciphra's hands are constantly moving, her fingers bending back and forth as if she is playing a piano out in front of her. There is a skip to her step, a jolliness that Valencia hasn't seen replicated since Maisey's death in the arena, but she imagines - wouldn't that be ironic? - that Ciphra is somewhat more grounded in reality than Maisey, as the girl is looking like dead meat the more time passes, for Ciphra steps up to the rope station, which hasn't been touched yet.
The girl's fingers ably make a few knots, Ciphra showing them out to Valencia and Constantine with an appreciative ta-da in her hand movements, Constantine nodding her head and humming lowly, but there is the ever perceptible shake of her head as she does this, scribbling down a few notes. The girl from Three then winds all the knots together that she's made, presenting them in one large mural, Valencia impressed by the handiwork. Ciphra, however, does not seem to do anything else with the knots, having made a snowflake out of them, laying them all down on the floor like it is a fossil to be uncovered.
Unfortunately, Valencia noting this with an all familiar sense of disappointment in her head, rather unremarkable, rather Bloodbath material if she's wanting to bet. However, with the brightness she sees, there's always a hidden darkness just waiting to be revealed, and at that thought, as she looks at Ciphra and her swinging ponytail exit the training center, that thought hits her heart like an ice pick being wedged in between the chambers.
Amaris O'Hara
Valencia's skin bristles with electricity the moment the next tribute steps in, a vengeful look in her eyes, a muscle mass protruding from the uniform, and the victor sits forward with a startle at the similarity of their body types, which are rather similar indeed. Amaris has her hair tied back into a taut bun, fists already clenched by her side, and just from the way she stands on the mat, having taken her shoes off, being barefoot, that she knows how to scrap, or at least fight. It is what she appears to do, having two trainers get called over, and just like Jules, the moment the whistle rings, she's rushed. Amaris ducks into a dive roll, going straight through the legs of one of the trainer's striking them with the back of her hand across their head, they spinning around in a daze from the hit.
She blocks one punch to her chest with a hand, seizing the other with her left, and then sweeping the trainer out from under them, still locked onto their grip. Valencia watches the fight with wide eyes, Constantine matching suit, both women enthralled in the duel. Amaris does a quick two punch to one of the trainers in the chest, that knocking the wind out of them, they collapsing back and seemingly not getting up. She is struck across the face with a slap, she trying to wrench the other trainer into a headlock, but that only seems to enrage the tribute even further. Making an animalistic growl, Amaris knocks the trainer in the gut with a deft slug, that bringing them to their knees. Amaris's face is twisted into a rage, she grabbing the trainer around the neck with her elbow into their Adam's apple, and a chill snaps Valencia's blood cold, as the way the girl from Six has hands positioned, she could snap their neck like a twig. Her breathing is heavy, enunciated by the rising and falling of her upper body.
Constantine places her fingers in her mouth, whistling sharply, shrilly, breaking Amaris's concentration, but she does not release the trainer from her chokehold. "Miss O'Hara, you can stop now," Amaris grits her teeth, seemingly tightening her grip, but by that point the trainer is doing all he can to wiggle out of it. "Amaris, at ease," Constantine says again, but it is the exact order of at ease that seems to do it, and Amaris fully releases the tribute, thankfully not breaking his neck. Her face flushes scarlet without much preamble, she rushing out of the center before the Head Gamemaker could make another command.
Valencia looks at Constantine with a silent look of wonder. "Why'd she follow an 'at ease' command?" she asks.
"Amaris is one of the Peacekeepers for District 6," Constantine says, and that's news to Valencia's ears. Criston did not say anything of the sort when she saw him yesterday. "If a Peacekeeper, active and on duty or not, does not listen to an 'at ease' command, it is a punishable, often severe, offense," and then, with a hint of sadness on her voice. "They're all just trained dogs, Valencia, and even the best trained dog needs to be put down eventually."
Audhild Olthono
The girl is not going to survive. Valencia knows this deep down, looking at her from the high perch, as she wanders into the Center after her name is called. She has heart, a seriousness to her demeanor, and unlike what Valencia expects twelve year-olds to be like, she does not hesitate when looking around the options laid before her, as most would be paralyzed by the overwhelming flood of decisions, but it seems Audhild knows exactly what she wants to do. She steps over to the knife station, but instead of throwing them, she takes one off of the rack, going over to the dummies, and Valencia has mapped out the path she'll take just by this first step. Audhild stands in front of an array of dummies, after arranging them in a line, and then the girl closes her eyes.
Both of them hang onto the thaw of noise as Audhild stands there, seemingly muttering to herself as Valencia sees the girl's lips moving, yet she doesn't hear what is being said. Suddenly, after a long, belabored pause where Valencia is sure Constantine is going to shout at the little girl, the female tribute from Nine unleashes a scream, launching herself at the first dummy, knocking it to the floor. Valencia jerks back in her chair, but Constantine zooms straight up to the front, pulling her chair all the way to the edge where she can look over. Audhild makes the face of the dummy an unrecognizable mess of plastic destruction, shattered lines this way and that back and forth, broken up waves of tattered mechanical strips blowing in the wind.
Audhild tackles the next dummy, doing the exact same, stabbing it in the face and shredding it to bits, doing this for the next four dummies after that. Six all lie on their backs, shredded and torn like a tiger's claws slashing through wrapping paper. Audhild is out of breath, cheeks flushed in a harsh carmine tint, she slowly, but surely, moving back to the station, placing the knife down, and her session is complete. Valencia whistles lowly as she exits.
She feels bad for whatever tribute gets on her bad side in the arena, that's for sure.
Rodric Oxford
Valencia expects great things out of Rodric, simply by looking at him and his tall stature, bulking muscles, and the fact he calls over a trainer to wrestle. She isn't sure whether or not he'll be on the same level as Amaris had been, for some sort of devil must've possessed the girl from District 6, but it is over before it even starts. Rodric lurches forward, his foot getting caught on the mat, crashing unceremoniously down onto the leather, and Constantine boos. Damn, that's harsh. Rodric grits his teeth together, falling frontwards, and the trainer is on him like a dog to a bone, pinning him to the mat. The male grunts out in surprise, barely holding the trainer up by his hands, but there already seems to be a slight struggle in his movements, arms protesting. Valencia doesn't understand how there can be such a discretion between the appearance and physicality.
Rodric does manage to keep the trainer up and off of him for about a minute, but each passing second is a warzone hit, a bombardment of artillery shells to his gut, until he's put into a headlock, tapping out without even struggling out of it. He pushes the trainer off of him, a scowl on his face, and he doesn't need to wait for Constantine's dismissal to leave. She can say, without a doubt, thus has been the most disappointing session of them all so far.
Satin Spinel
Her mouth has gone dry the moment the last Career steps in for her private session, and Satin's eyes immediately lock with hers, a look of disappointment on her face. Valencia knows that if she hadn't been picked for the Career volunteer last year like she had been, by Kevia and Lance's searching eyes, it would have been Satin, the two practically direct competition for their age group, but Valencia manages to win out. Satin's blonde hair - she has blonde hair! How dare she! - flicks against her back, she making her way to the knife throwing station. Constantine's own gaze passes between the tribute and the victor, some sort of telling emotion in there, perhaps amusement, but Valencia does not have the time for it right now.
Satin picks up a blade, one very fine looking, takes her stance, and throws it quickly down the aisle. It hits the dummy straight in the chest, sticking out of the bulls-eye. It is her specialty - "The Spinel specialty," Satin would chirp with her arrogant voice that made Valencia want to hurl - and she's always hit the bulls-eye whenever she throws a knife, that having been the common occurrence for the last three years at least. Satin does another two throws just like that at the two adjacent dummies off to the side, and then grabs a fourth knife, the last on the stand. However, as Satin goes to throw it, her feet sweep slightly to the left, as if her shoes were stuck to the mat and unable to be ripped free, the blade ripping out of her hand in a sideways pattern, completely missing the dummy entirely.
"Motherfucker!" Satin screeches in anger, and without another word from Constantine, she stomps out of the training center.
A moment of silence passes over both women, Constantine looking at Valencia, a humor glistening in her eyes. "You're much better than her, Valencia."
She is not sure if she needs that stamp of approval.
Zola Taonga
Perhaps Valencia is exhausted, but she is already half asleep by the time Zola enters for her session, and she can see how people, these old Gamemakers stuffing their faces with food would be so tired from sitting here for what feels like forever, not moving, watching tributes either excel or collapse into the muck. The girl from Eleven steps onto the obstacle course, reminiscent of Tach from what feels like eons ago, and she takes at it, dodging underneath clubs and strikes, leaping over a few trainers with what has to be a dancer's touch, and she actually makes it to the other side. Constantine's face is one of disinterest, which might be a bit cruel, but Valencia does the honors for her, clapping and smiling slightly.
It is good, not many tributes are able to make it to the other side. But would that deserve anything higher than a six? It seems that Zola does not have any other plans, stepping away and out of the Center when she's done. No weapons training, no thank you's or even speaking... just running the obstacle course.
What would that even deserve?
Vanya Vasiliev
"It is wonderful to see you again, Mr. Vasiliev!" Constantine gets to her feet, applauding his arrival. Valencia recognizes his face, she's pretty certain, having seen him before during one of his ballet shows, the rather unfortunate roll of the wheel in being a chosen tribute for the Games. "Do you have a skill for us?"
"It might be rather unorthodox," Vanya admits, and gods, if Valencia hadn't had her heart stolen by Persephone all those days ago, she might readily admit to wanting to jump from the threshold and taking Vanya in her arms as he is exquisitely beautiful. Of course, is name seems to help as well. Then, as if she has been touched by lightning, Vanya takes off his shirt, showing a sculpted body like marble, muscled and tone, calves that could choke a bear... he stripped down to his underwear, and then, without even seeming to lift his feet off of the ground, did a front flip.
Constantine claps excitedly as Vanya tumbles and glides across the room, doing a dance routine as his session while the clock winds down. Valencia is entranced at his movement, like free flowing water, where his legs are able to be kicked to his head, an arabesque showing off the tone of his feet, so perfectly pointed they could be as sharp as the sword she had in the Games. Vanya ends the number by doing a fifteen pirouette turns without stopping into a glissade leap down to the floor, his arms thrown out behind him, body hardly having broken a sweat, and she's sure she's in love.
The Head Gamemaker is still applauding him and his delightful routine as Vanya puts his pants and shirt back on, the gorgeous body hidden once more by the veil of dark leather. Valencia knows that whatever score he gets, it'll be one Constantine would have to judge against all the others, as she's not sure where she'd put him given the rest of the stack. He's talented, sure, but other tributes actually did fighting...
Thank the heavens she's not a Gamemaker.
Cambric Vogel
Valencia nearly hurls the moment Cambric's session begins, a cry of alarm breaking from her throat, she leaping to her feet, Constantine likewise. "Relax!" Cambric shouts, unable to move his arms given the fact that the male from District 8 is currently stabbing a blade into his left arm. "I am stabbing myself in the way that I am not officially doing too much damage, nor will I be doing anything that causes any lasting hurt." It may not be a physical stab wound, but it is something about the size of a pin that Cambric is currently pushing through the middle of the arm. From their perch, Valencia doesn't see any blood or anything of the sort, but that's impossible... there'd have to be!
She knows, however, now, that they're probably overreacting. If a tribute wanted to actually end their lives in the training center, they would've, instead of being an asshole and doing it for an audience to see. Constantine has one hand hovering over the panic button as she watches, but as Cambric guides the needle through, it is almost awe-inspiring, especially when Cambric finishes, the needle now poking out the other end. "No blood," Cambric announces, and there's a wicked, genuine happy smile on his face. "I didn't cut a single artery or vein with this, and I promise you, it isn't a trick."
"I've- I've never seen anyone do that before, Mr. Vogel," Constantine admits, a look of pure amazement on her face. "I- please, though, before you make me sick, leave."
The boy doesn't need to be told anymore, and Cambric departs, being told to leave the needle behind.
Vivian Whiplash
The last tribute. The final tribute, and Valencia knows she's seen some impressive kids come through the sessions, now following in Cambric's footsteps. Vivian Whiplash - Valencia has to give credit for her parents, that is one badass name given to their daughter - steps into the center, clearly knowing she is the last to go, wandering over to the knife rack. She picks up a blade, combing through the choices, settling on one that is about half of her own arm - Valencia is partially afraid that she is going to shove the blade into her gut, and she's not sure if the Peacekeepers would be able to save her then, if that happened - and Vivian then throws the blade onto a dead bulls-eye. Her next stop is the bow and arrow station, being the very first tribute to even pick the bow up, firing two shots that take off both arms on the dummy.
It seems though, as she goes to do something else, Constantine tells her to stop, and before Vivian can protest, a Peacekeeper makes a motion towards her, that seeming to do the trick. Constantine Fallorne must be exhausted or overwhelmed by the talent, or both, as the Head Gamemaker sets her clipboard aside, rubbing her brow, rubbing her face, looking done with it all, as if she'd never want to witness another private session in her life. With Vivian disappearing, it is the end of the sessions, and Valencia never wants to do a thing like that ever again.
...
...
...
"Thank God that's over," Valencia says, collapsing back into her chair not having sat down from Cambric's session and remaining upright through Vivian's. Constantine moves the plate of strawberries over to her side, offering Valencia one, but she refuses, shaking her head with a soft smile. Some of them really did seem like contenders, such as Cyril, Amaris, Mirek, Vivian, and a few others, but she is unable to get out of her head the moment Sage took aim at the two of them. She has not felt her heart beat like that in forever, until Peri's own fire laced doom bears down above her, bears down before her. Then there are some, like sweet little Sophiana, Ciphra, Tach, Roanoke... where will they fall? Where will they go? Valencia squeezes the bridge of her nose, letting out a sigh. Seeing them all in quick succession before it is over, like that, it is profound. When she had been a tribute, exactly a year ago, she hadn't looked at the other tributes like that. She is the same age as a good chunk of them! She tries imagining herself being allies with the Careers of this batch, but all she sees is a heavy, thick, smoggy cloud resting over her eyes.
Something causes her to frown, though, as she sits there, stretching out her legs. It had been the belabored pausing. The pauses had been longer, surely, with her volatile reactions to Sage's throw, Cambric's needle presentation, and Maren's slice representing dead enemies of a bygone era, but it is the pause she notices after Tach, but before Roanoke, as well as for the other tributes between those without irregularities. Valencia remembers sitting in the quarantine - it wasn't exactly a quarantine, but it is the word Carrion uses, drunk off his ass from some stolen vodka out of the mentor's cabinet in the kitchen - and the moment one tribute is called and finished, the next is placed on deck. Constantine looks over at her, finishing another strawberry, dropping the end piece with a plop.
"So, what did you think?" she asks, and Constantine unclicks her pen for the last time. Valencia swears she'll hear that in her sleep for a millenia. "How were they looking to you?"
"Decently talented," Valencia agrees.
"Any of them intimidate you?"
"I'm not in an arena with them," she says, and Constantine's eyes narrow in on her, a predatorily gaze with razor sharp intent. "So, no, Constantine," It is odd calling her that, by her first name. She isn't even sure calling Bonnie, well, 'Bonnie' in conversation is appropriate. "They do not intimidate me. However," Valencia pauses, and the Head Gamemaker's eyebrows raise, hanging onto every syllable uttered. "Why the long pauses?"
"Pauses, dear?" Constantine frowns.
"Oh no," the victor thinks to herself, "You do not get to play stupid with me, you hag," and then aloud, "After each tribute finished, why the long pause? Last year everything was syncopated, immediate."
"Oh, it's nothing," the Head Gamemaker drawls out, tucking the clipboard underneath her arm. "Bonnie, wanting to speed the process up of transporting the tributes on the morning of launching, just in case anyone wishes to do them harm, has decided that when they are finished with their private session, that we put their tracker in now instead of later, to accelerate the procedure," Valencia's left hand immediately curls inward, her right hand tracing over the scar that dots her wrist, a speckled crimson dot, a trench of warfare and blood, and sometimes she can still feel the device, now long gone, pulsating underneath. Constantine's eyes linger on the touch. "Whoever the victor is will be feeling a different sort of phantom-like sensation," and Valencia looks at the Head Gamemaker in confusion. "We implanted the tracker just underneath the right side of their jaw," she shrugs after the statement, but her own hands go straight to her neck, almost unconsciously. "I have no idea why."
Valencia nods her head, all of a sudden overcome with another chill, one that makes her stomach churn like a witches' brew, she struggling to her feet. "Right... uh, thank you, Ms..." and she stops herself, not finishing the statement.
"I hope to see you again, Valencia," Constantine says, she pushing the platter of strawberries away, kicking the discarded buds over to the side, probably for some unlucky Avox to pick them all up with their bare hands, another shudder racing through the victor's body. "Actually, if you'd like, I could show you the Mutt tunnels. I'm sure during the Games you'll be too busy mentoring to even see them."
She pauses at the doorway, one hand laced on the outer block, she not daring to look back and see Constantine's face. "Mutt tunnels?"
"Oh, they're quite extraordinary, Valencia," her drawl is warm and sweet, but there's a malice hiding in there somewhere if Valencia could only taste it on her tongue, a sea brine coated in seaweed and a saltiness that turns sour, almost acidic. "It's where the mutts the Gamemakers and I create stay until we unleash them into the arena, as they're deposited into the dome just a few hours before launching. Any mutt that we decide not to use that year is kept down in the cages," and Constantine has made her way over to the other side of the platform, to head out the same exit. "You'd be amazed at the kinds down there."
"I'm sure they're magnificent," Valencia lies through her teeth, rather wanting to puke up strawberry ends all over the other woman's outfit. She steps back some, or moreso is pushed roughly out of the way by Constantine. Her arms feel clammy, as if someone has put too many articles of clothing over her skin, a heaviness weighing her down, where her feet are like cinderblocks, unable to be lifted any higher than an inch, she needing to shuffle out of the room.
The Head Gamemaker pauses, whirling around, causing the victor to stop in her tracks, a croak bubbling in her throat. "Actually, I'm curious, Valencia... you never asked."
"Asked about what, Constantine?" This is not helping her, this is not working, and she does not want to spend another second in this forsaken building.
"Me being a Ms. After I corrected you on my name, I thought you would've asked."
"It- it wouldn't have felt appropriate," Valencia has to bite down on her tongue to skip over saying 'ma'am', as she's sure Constantine would grab her by the sides and chuck her over the other side of the railing. "I shouldn't need to ask about-"
"It wouldn't be a bother in the slightest, sweetheart," Constantine flat out interrupts her, stepping back onto the platform some, Valencia shifting backwards, but she is not going to get close to the witch in the slightest. She only shows up and agrees to sitting with her out of the fact she does not need Bonnie threatening her anymore than she already has, and definitely no more slaps across the face. "Although I wasn't Head Gamemaker after Lewlyn's promotion that I was passed over for," the prominent vein in her forehead bulges out some, Valencia's eyes widening as Constantine goes the color of a tomato in the face, "I still was a Gamemaker for a good while, and that meant my husband had some privileges granted to him that some other socialites wouldn't have..." Constantine's eyes turn somewhat down, a sense of melancholy shifting her features the other way. "Many people wanted my job, and honestly, many people wanted my husband, and that means jealousy, you know. The doctors say he died of a heart attack, because it turns out I found him cheating on me with another woman, another Gamemaker on the team..." Constantine shakes her head back and forth, and then, as if she hadn't been sad in the first place, a smile creeps across her face. "You know what I think killed my husband?"
"No... I don't," Valencia says aloud. I don't want to know. Why won't you let me leave? Get me out of here!
"I think he was poisoned..." Constantine says, and as if that is a perfect note to leave the conversation on, she turns around to leave, Valencia standing there entirely shellshocked, lost for words at the weirdness presented in front of her. The victor goes to leave, but it seems that they're not done, as the Head Gamemaker rushes right back up into the room, scaring her half to death, Constantine hanging onto the walls, leaning forward like a rebounding slingshot. "Valencia, dear, be honest with me. Did you enjoy sitting with me? Are you enjoying your time in the Capitol?"
"Absolutely, Constantine," she replies immediately. She's learned that lying is the only thing that saves your skin here in the Capitol, where everyone else is already lying about something else: their weight, sexuality, marital status, drinking problems, the fact they can't have regular skin tones... what would one exact drop into the puddle do? It wouldn't create any wrinkles. "I absolutely love it here."
Constantine clucks her tongue, leaning up against the wall, smirking. "You don't have to lie, Valencia. I know you hate it here. I hate it here," and the victor furrows her brow in confusion. How- how would she...? "The truth is, everyone here in the Capitol sucks. Everyone here is a liar, or they are a murderer, or an adulterer, or a stealer... there's no one good or innocent that lives here, and it is okay to admit that. I don't want to live anywhere else though, milling with the peasants in the districts," Valencia's blood boils slightly at the comment. "I knew you would lie to me, if I asked you if you had a good time," the Head Gamemaker removes herself from the wall, patting Valencia on the back, she jostling under the touch as if a thousand volts of electricity went spiraling down her spine. "You know, Valencia, if you want people to believe your shitty answers, you got to stop looking like you think you've done something wrong. You've got to get that fearful look out of your eyes," and then, as if her smirk could get any worse, it lengthens out, "If I don't believe your answers, do you honestly think Bonnie does either?"
Valencia doesn't have a response to that, but it doesn't seem she needs to, either, as Constantine bids the victor goodbye, vanishing in a whirlwind of fabric and gray hair, and although she is sure it is her wild imagination at play, it is as if the Head Gamemaker is cackling as she makes her way to the elevator.
What on Earth just happened?
Her heartbeat roars in its chest, at the implications of the words just spoken to her since Vivian's session ended.
What sort of viper's nest has she gotten herself entangled in?
Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have reached the end of the Private Sessions... that was Chapter #17: Locked Out of Paradise, and this has been the longest chapter I have ever posted in the Slaughter universe, and actually the longest chapter I have ever written for a Hunger Games story - I have a good amount of chapters for my Smash Bros stories that are another 4k larger than this - and I am so proud that it took me only about four and a half hours to do so without stopping, because my insanity called for it.
We have gone through every tribute and now starts their second round of POVS, in which with only four tribute chapters, we're gonna have twenty four tribute POV's to get through, so buckle up as the 101st Games approach soon, very soon. Which sessions were your favorite? Anyone surprise you or underwhelm you? What do you think the scores will fall to? I have to admit I had a whole lot of fun with this chapter, and I cannot wait for the rest to come. Also, can't forget that Valencia and Constantine have made some bridges in their relationship, and perhaps not for the best.
Next chapter, Chapter #18: An Oasis of Victory, is going to be the revealing of the tribute scores, and these POVs are not going to be randomized, as I have decided who will be getting what POV per chapter. I am very excited for what is to come, and I hope you are too. Please review, and I would apologize about the word count, but I am beyond proud of myself, haha. I hope you all have an amazing day! I love you all so much! Bye!
~ Paradigm