Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter for Bombs and Bullets, Chapter #18: Oasis of Victory, where we find out the training scores from the gargantuan chapter I posted last time for the private sessions - still not sorry about that, expect long word count chapters to be a consistent thing in any of my stories from now on! - where Valencia saw every tribute, all twenty-four of them, perform. We've got four POV's coming to ya today, seeing Tach from District 3, Sage of District 7, Rodric of District 10, and Maren of District 2, and I am very excited to move forward as we're really close to the start of these tributes being killed - god, that sounds terrible, forgive me for my excitement - and I'm right on track, which helps. I hope you all enjoy Chapter #18: Oasis of Victory.
~ And so sayeth the Lord, wash me clean of my wounds so I can be battered and bruised for you all over again.
Tach Andon: District 3 Male P.O.V (16)
Make an impression they say. Try to look super impressive they say. Try to have them remember you years down the line... all these phrases the mentors tell these poor tributes and Tach Andon is entirely incapable of going out there and doing just that. He paces the third floor of the training center living room, barefoot, biting on his cuticles and his lower lip, ripping away skin and feeling copper splash over his cheeks, the sweet air hissing at the exposed undersides of his fingers. He hasn't been able to find Ciphra since she came back from her own session, perhaps somewhere around the halfway mark due to her last name. Tach is unsure whether or not she hears his greeting as she hustles past him, bursting out of the elevator doors like an exploded canister of fruit that has spoiled, mangy and reeking of fecal matter. She should be in her room, but Tach has literally been incapable of finding her, as it has been two hours since the sessions were over and the scores would be getting announced soon.
He rubs a hand just underneath his jaw, at the lining of the muscles at his throat, on the right side, fingers slowly trailing around the circular implant placed there. Tach knows a lot about the tracker system in the arena, as every tribute requires one, but normally - of course things are not normal, especially after an Avox cries for rebellion on the big screen - they go in the arm during the tribute launching, not- he gulps at the thought... not after the private sessions. He believes it is the end of all things, moreso his life being snapped like a twig, when the two Peacekeepers rush him on both sides, holding him by the shoulders and forcibly moving him down to his knees. He isn't so sure now if he started crying or yelling in the middle of it, but when the technician - Tach sure as hell is not calling them a doctor by any means - in some sort of lab coat that looks like it had been freshly painted, chipping off and running onto the tile, walks up to him.
One of the Peacekeepers grips the hard bit under his jaw, wrenching his head back so hard the tribute swears vertebrae in his back popped. He's shaking his head back and forth in the blizzard dog's grip, while the technician soothingly places one hand on his shoulder, whispering sweet sexual nothings - Tach actually isn't sure what is said, but it all sounded terrifying so he doesn't care how it is classified anymore - before showing the needle that would place the tracker into his arm, but before he is able to reply, the plunger is driven into his neck, and he feels it travel into him like a scarab beetle. He crawls like one as well, with their onyx shells, the moment he is released onto the floor, scrambling away from all three Capitol rats and into the corner. The technician sighs something to themselves sadly, before walking over and explaining the process that had just been done.
Tach's mouth feels like he's swallowed spoonfulls of honey and yogurt as there are many questions he wishes to ask while lying there, but he doesn't, it simply sits in his throat, humming.
Why the jaw? Why now?
The technician calmly explains, hands still folded, that every tribute will have this happen to them, not just Tach, so he's nothing special - gee, way to rub it in, guys - and he's sent on his merry way. No one is on the floor when he returns, given that Ciphra has yet to go, and both of their mentors and escort are at the sponsoring booths, which he finds folly, unfortunately in the perspective of being realistic, as he knows the District 3 team is not having sponsors line up round the building like One and Six. Tach twiddles with his thumbs for a few minutes, but since he's first, and Ciphra is in the middle, he'll be waiting for her for at least half an hour on the upend of forty-five minutes. Now, with the sessions being over and done with, the quickening pace in his heart has yet to cease, as if it is only getting faster and faster. He finds it extremely odd that no one besides his district partner and the Avoxes always kept on end will be the ones to witness the scores, as he expects that the people trying to keep him alive would want to see them too, but it only has him laughing. Come see the momentous District Three and all of their failing glory!
There's never been a rule he's been unable to bend - not break, his confidence does not go that far - and he's never asked his parents how much the surgery cost, except that it cost a lot, as he signs up for tesserae twice at fourteen and luckily, with fingers twisted around one another like a pale ouroboros, his new name is picked up out of the bowl. "Last year was poor Deacon," he thinks to himself sadly, "And this year, me. Doesn't look like our track record is anything that impressive, I suppose..." The self-defecating humor needs to stop, but Tach knows that to remain inside the boundaries he has selected with various sticks, he needs to constantly rib at himself or otherwise he'll forget himself and maybe decide to take a skittish leap too early off of the plate and set off everyone's mind field. That- that would be quite the way to go, wouldn't it?
Tach stops by one of the arms of the couch, its leather shining beautifully in the sun, like the slicked back grip of a microscope or- his mind blanks for a second, as he is no longer thinking of anything scientific in the cellular mode, but in the technological one, gaze snapping directly to Ciphra who has emerged from her room, cheeks stained a fresh and bright cardinal, tears streaking and staining the otherwise flustered flesh in single divots of light. Her robot, Veracity, is what comes to his mind, with oil slicks dripping off of the mechanical cogs, immobile devices that clunk together, loud enough where Tach can hear it - him? He's not so sure of the pronoun usage - walking in the Longsdale house while he's asleep, or trying to go to sleep. He has no idea where the obsession of the robot really came from, nor the insane idea of wanting to do a banshee swoop into Ciphra's bedroom to steal the robot away, but the less he speaks of it, the less he needs to confront the issue.
"Hey!" he greets her, flashing an iconic smile of his, Tach's best attribute or so he's been told by the thousands of people that have been on the receiving end of his smile. "I couldn't find you earlier. Are you okay?"
Ciphra nods mutely at him, sinking into the leather of the couch as she sits down, absorbed into the veil of darkness. She has been crying for a long time, he's sure, given the state of her eyes, and her state causes Tach to take a step back as he didn't think there'd be another side to his district partner besides her generally effervescent and bubbly self, instead of this melancholic monster that has taken ahold. He could sense something troubling behind her stare at breakfast, where she mumbles her answers to questions asked round the table into her oatmeal, spewing a few flakes onto the decorative lining, but she doesn't seem more deterred than that; he wonders what could have possibly changed in there, with Head Gamemaker Fallorne and the new victor. Tach is afraid to admit his insecurity, but having the Career victor of a Quell watch the private sessions, since it is not something relegated to any of the tributes beforehand as far as Tach knows, almost has him walk out the other side.
He doesn't, obviously, but he knows he most certainly underperformed.
His district partner has her hair tied back into a simple ponytail, nothing elegant of the sort, she pulling at a few strands so hard, Tach is afraid she might just rip her entire head clean off and he has no idea how he'll deal or recuperate seeing that happen. "I was hiding underneath the bed. I-" Ciphra clenches her jaw shut, turning her head to the side some. "It doesn't matter what I was doing, actually..." she shakes her head some, Tach furrowing his eyebrows together, as he's entirely unable to read her facial expressions. "How did you do, you think? What did you do?"
Tach rubs the back of his neck, his skin feeling sticky as if his hand would be attached to his neck like a wad of gum. "I dunno. Going first doesn't have its perks when it is someone as unremarkable as me," he says, half-jokingly, but he notices the way Ciphra raises her own eyebrow at the wounding statement. "I made the Head Gamemaker laugh, though, and I don't know if that'll be a good or a bad thing, you know?" He'll hear that woman's laugh in his head until the end of time, and if he is to die in some sort of cursed arena or a bombed out stronghold or even if it means he dies of old age in a withered state with sheets clinging to a fragile form, Tach does not want the Head Gamemaker's laugh to be the last thing he recalls until Death slices his throat open. Or Satin's knives. It doesn't really matter, but the point still stands. "I narrated myself going through the obstacle course," he grins again, showing pearly whites, trying to smirk. "I made a total ass of myself and I think she ate it up. What about you?"
Ciphra runs a few of her fingers of her right hand up against the arm of the couch, fingernails digging into the material. "I tied a lot of knots and then made a snowflake..." her voice is solid, dead serious, and when she looks up at Tach with a complete expression of resignation, Tach has to bite down on his tongue to stem his own amusement. "I'm serious, Tach! I made a snowflake. How the hell is that going to get me anything?"
He shrugs. "Maybe Ms. Fallorne likes art? I bet you'll get a twelve."
Some of the old light seems to return as Ciphra smiles at him briefly, not showing too much curl in the lip, she wiping away at the tears. A warmth spreads in Tach's stomach, but not one of disgust or vomit, a warmth out of kindness, for it is surely that smile evoking the reaction taking place. He's been told to have that aura about him, a sweetness not often found in District 3's scholars and engineers, everyone focused on the science of it all, of being one impressive enough to garner the attention of the Capitol in the hopes of improving their station and their livelihood, but Tach has not been focused on any of that beyond simply being a decent human being, and he sure hopes he lives up to that rule.
"I'll humor you just this once," Ciphra says, keeping that faint smile.
Tach sits opposite her in one of the wooden chairs that is moved into the corner by an Avox just as he walked back onto their floor after his private session, his throat still humming with the live tracker placed underneath the skin. The chair is rather uncomfortable, but looks remarkably well-done, as if a god came down from the heavens and touched the rather bleak presentation and exploded it with gifts of an artisan nature. It creaks whenever he shifts his weight, dispelling the awkward silence that passes between the two of them. He looks over at Ciphra, she locking eyes with him, and he's about to say something about the robot, about Veracity, a question perhaps, when her face darkens again, lips pursing, and a chill races through Tach.
He's caught her doing that a few times, since the train rides, and he recalls it vividly once during the tribute parade. The two of them are having the time of their life, when all of a sudden Ciphra looks over at him amidst all the noise and bustle, her eyes dimming as if someone flipped a switch inside of her, the smile vanishing into an open look of fright, and her fingers began to tremble. Tach goes to ask her what is wrong when his district partner squeezes her eyes shut for a few moments, whispering something to herself, and then a few moments later she's standing still as if nothing has happened, and Tach decides not to bring it up again. He's caught her doing it several times during training, not just when looking at him, but also looking at Audhild, Magdalena, Zola, Jules, Roanoke, and a few of the Careers, but he's not sure if her looking at the Careers minus Jules is more just out of fear of being skewered to death.
"What do you do that for?" Tach asks, sitting upright. He is normally not confrontational, but there is no way he is going to go another day without finding the truth, as it is starting to weird him out, why any sort of pleasant interaction he has with Ciphra is tainted by some sort of darkness he cannot see, for whenever he looks at her when she is in one of these states a chill glides over his body, hugging him in a gelid embrace.
"Do what?" Ciphra asks, blinking at him as if she didn't hear him, which he'll call absolute bullshit on given she looks over at him at the sound of his voice.
"You look at me all nice like, and then all of a sudden your face changes into horror," he explains, and she continues to presumably override him, but Tach wants to know, and damnit, it curiosity didn't kill the cat, huh? "It's not just me I've seen you do it to. Audhild, Zola, Roanoke, and a few others too, when we're training," Tach shakes his head back and forth, a lump building in his throat. "It's the worst thing I've ever seen, Ciphra, and it scares me."
His district partner stands up from her seat as if a bolt of lighting has been jammed in between her shoulder blades. "I can't tell you, Tach, I-"
"You can tell me," he insists, getting to his feet as well, moving over to her. "And you're going to tell me now." Tach hesitates between allowing his demand to do enough talking, or if he should grab her wrist, and before he can even process what he is doing, he's reached out, gripping her by the wrist, stopping Ciphra should she try to flee. She seems to rut in place, like a moment of static dancing between the folds of space and time. Her eyebrows are furrowed together, emerald eyes alit with shock, but she stands still, he letting go of her wrist. "If we're gonna be district partners, Ciphra, we can't keep secrets from each other," and he knows full and damn well he's spoken a lie into existence, for there are things she'll never learn about him, and he wishes to keep it that way.
Ciphra wrenches her arm free, a scowl on her face. "I'm not telling you a thing, Tach, and especially not if you're going to speak to me that way."
Perhaps he's overstretched his boundaries, for a lot of the words he wishes he could say, the apologies among them dying in his throat with a squeak, a mouse stabbed to death on paper plate with a toothpick pining its pitiful little pink tongue to the scratchy surface. Ciphra brushes past him back into her room, probably to go back under her bed, but Tach does not follow, for he knows when he is not wanted. Following... he might as well let her kill him here and now if he had a death wish. The apology is spoken to the walls instead, and his heart is yelling at him for his foolishness.
He believes he is to be getting somewhere with her, even so to the point to admit his own mistakes too in the light of day, but he's taken a single step forward and a thousand steps back.
Tach Andon surely isn't special, he knows that now, and he doesn't need a Capitol technician to tell him that.
Sage Dagoba: District 7 Female P.O.V (17)
She has no idea why she did it. Well, actually that's a lie, she knows full and well why the hilt of the axe went flying out of her grip towards the Head Gamemaker, but there's no reason for her to have to admit it, and especially not to Roanoke, who is standing over her, hands on hips - it is quite the ridiculous look for him, and one that does not do him any favors in the slightest - and asking over and over again why a Peacekeeper escort forces her into the District 7 apartment, practically uncouthly vaulting her onto the floor and leaving her there in a plume of dust, a look of rage etched across her face. Sage stands there, inside that training center, doing quite well for herself, getting the bulls-eye with a couple throws after all, hearing the way Constantine - excuse me, she could practically hear the old lady prattle on and on, Ms. Fallorne, you stupid girl - laughs and jokes about her other tributes while she is doing her own session. Sage knows it is also unrealistic to expect anyone, and even more so given Ms. Fallorne's- oh screw it, she is going to call her Constantine... residency. Sage has discovered that the citizens of the Capitol have the attention span of an ant, and not a very large ant at that.
The woman is a bully, a bully that needs to know their place, for Sage knows that the Capitol is a viper's nest full of venomous beasts and lying mortals that all wish to beat one another up for fame and notoriety that washes away the moment they return to the Earth. Sage leans back against the seat of the couch, she sitting on the floor, sighing heavily as she can practically imagine her girlfriend's hands - Jane, oh my sweet Jane - moving into her back, kissing her slowly in the nape of her neck, and Noel - Noel, oh my darling Noel - standing in front of her, raking fingers through her hair, but her boyfriend and her girlfriend are not speaking sweet nothings in her ears, as those days are long gone the moment she is reaped. "There is too much anger in you, sweetheart," their voices are a harmonizing front, warping together and dissipating like water cascading over a rock. "That anger blinds you to all else who moves."
"Shut up..." Sage hisses. "Shut up, the both of you..."
Roanoke, who is pacing over in the kitchen, making himself a ham sandwich, stops his monologue, something she is half-heartedly listening to for she cannot hear anything else over the roar of blood in her ears, her district partner going on and on about reputation and the necessity of looking good for the Capitol citizens, and if Sage is allowed to be completely honest, she doesn't give a rat's ass about reputation or her image. All she needs to do is swing an axe blade, kill a few vigilantes in the arena, survive Bonnie's wickedness long enough into old age, and then at the age of seventy, slash her own throat open in a bathroom with the door locked... she doesn't care who else goes after her in that process, they all specks of dust free floating in the wind, a few of which Sage occasionally has to bash out of the way.
Her district partner sets down his knife that he had been using to spread mayonnaise over the bread - "Eww... mayo," Sage shudders to herself at the idea of consuming that unholy white liquid - with a frown. "Did you just tell me to shut up, Sage?"
"No, I didn't, I-" she stops herself. Telling her only ally that she can occasionally hear the voices of her lovers in her head might send him running for the hills - not that Roanoke could survive on his own in an arena, if Sage is any judge of that sentence - is not what she wants to do, but all she can feel is the burning of her skin from where she trails her fingernails. A heat builds just at the layer where the blood vessels billow, Sage breathing heavily, in and out of her mouth, before she goes over and stabs Roanoke in the throat with his own mayonnaise knife. It is a death he would surely deserve, putting something like that on a sandwich.
Roanoke opens his mouth to say something else, perhaps an apology or another non-sensical statement about violence, but whatever it is that he would wish to say is interrupted and cut short by the sudden turning on of the TV just a few feet away from her in the center of the living room. She sits up somewhat, so at least her posture is straight - the imaginary massage is helping, too - as a processional trumpet fanfare echoes in the room. Roanoke joins her, sitting in one of the chairs nearest back to the kitchen, but he does not fully sit down, rather hovering in the air.
Replacing the noise, which has begun to quell down, is the face of the Master of Ceremonies, Pollux Aetos. Sage smirks to herself. She's found the man handsome, given he is the face of Panem and she has never gone a day without seeing his dark hair and liquidous blue eyes somewhere on a screen, but she has Noel and Jane, and he is nothing compared to the likes of her boyfriend with his auburn hair, thighs that could choke a bear, and- Sage stops herself from going down that train of thought as she does not need Roanoke looking over at her like she's lost any more marbles out of her jar. However, in just a few short hours after he's done, she'll be on stage with him, inhaling his scent, seeing how his forehead glistens up close underneath the stage lights, and she'll breathe it all in, just before she cuts his throat.
If she had her way, no one in the Capitol would live, and that's the honest truth that Sage will never tell another living soul.
"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, to all of you in Panem. I am Pollux Aetos, your Master of Ceremonies, and as you know, today, the eve of the Hunger Games, our 101st year, the tributes have just finished their private sessions. Over the last three days, the tributes have been preparing for the 101st year," Sage takes a moment to notice that there's some sort of look in Pollux's eyes, out of the professionalism he usually exudes, almost like a fright hidden behind his generally stoic stare... she's seen the look enough times at kids back home before the Jovanski family found her huddled by the stairs, but she decides not to dwell on it any longer. "The tributes were watched and monitored by our newly promoted Head Gamemaker Ms. Constantine Fallorne, after the sudden departure of our previous Head Gamemaker Lewlyn Davis," Sage raises an eyebrow at the statement. Is- is Pollux tearing up? "After these three days of evaluation, it has culminated today where each tribute has performed for Constantine to be evaluated and given a score of competency for their skills on a scale of 1-12. Here are these scores now..."
Sage wonders what Pollux's lips taste like. It is an odd thought, but she knows what Noel and Jane taste like whenever she kisses them: spring water, sunflowers, rust, pockets of sunshine, and cherries. After all, she's thrown an axe at a Head Gamemaker and the victor of the 100th Hunger Games. What would a kiss on the lips to the Master of Ceremonies be considered? Honestly, Pollux might be lucky, getting kissed by a girl.
Pollux taps his list of cards, there being twenty-four in his hands, going through the list one-by-one, the portraits of each tribute flashing by as their score is announced to the world.
Cyril Barther: 10 - Ten
Satin Spinel: 9 - Nine
Aris Lindel: 9 - Nine
Maren Johnson: 8 - Eight
Tach Andon: 6 - Six
Ciphra Longsdale: 3 - Three
Jules Harper: 11 - Eleven
Anahita Cascade: 7 - Seven
Seth Cables: 7 - Seven
Sophiana Delarosa: 2 - Two
Ponty Carr: 6 - Six
Amaris O'Hara: 11 - Eleven
Roanoke Arkus: 5 - Five
Sage Dagoba: 0 - Zero
Cambric Vogel: 12 - Twelve
Magdalena Bertha: 1 - One
Jason Lacey: 4 - Four
Audhild Olthono: 6 - Six
Rodric Oxford: 5 - Five
Vivian Whiplash: 10 - Ten
Vanya Vasiliev: 10 - Ten
Zola Taonga: 5 - Five
Mirek Bosco: 8 - Eight
Bloom Estrada: 6 - Six
Pollux finishes reading the cards, having done his job, congratulating the scores in the high places, and then his face disappears, the trumpet fanfare signs him out, and Sage and Roanoke are both sitting there stuck in the thaw of what the fuck just happened.
Sage scoffs to herself. She cannot believe what she had just seen, the scores staring her blank in the face as they had gone scrolling by. First off, what the hell did that Cambric kid do to score a twelve? Or Vanya Vasiliev? How could some grungy backwater girl from Six manage to score as well as a pudgy Career? How could a Career like Jules get such a high score? Roanoke got a five, and-
Her mind completely stops at the next thought, as she realizes the number that had flashed across her own screen, and the burning rage settling just underneath her veins roars to life, she wrenching herself to her feet. "A zero!" she roars indignantly at the screen. "A zero? Are you kidding me?" It is a single stupid throw at a Head Gamemaker, as if that entirely erases everything else she had done up to that point, scoring so well as she did with her tosses and throws... it is not like the woman had been in any danger! It is not as if Head Gamemaker Constantine Fallorne just forgot that there is a forcefield protecting her from the outside...
Roanoke collapses into his chair, having been stuck in his hovering position for a good bit, as the actual revealing of the scores took about ten minutes total. The fight in Sage cools the moment it erupts, she letting out an anguished sigh, squeezing her eyes shut. What would Noel or Jane tell her to do? She doesn't have her guitar, nor does she feel like singing any sort of ballad about the woes of misery and failure, for she is the lowest scoring tribute out of the entire roster, when there are many tributes that she is just like, if not better than who are going to be celebrating their asses off right about now. She shouldn't have thrown the damn axe, she shouldn't have thrown the fucking axe!
"Well, Roanoke, congratulations," she says half heartedly. It is a fake moment of praise, for he will not be happy about getting a five, something so middle of the road that is laughable, for she doesn't see a victor when looking at her district partner, however cruel that might be.
"What did you do?" Roanoke asks, eyes wide, mystified almost, at the possibility of someone screwing up as colossally as she did.
Sage shuffles off of the carpet and onto the cold wooden floors of the apartment, the air smelling of hickory and Jane's perfume. "I lost my temper," she says, one hand gently braced up against the wall rounding off to the bedrooms. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go scream my head off into the pillows. I might break a few things... I'm not so sure yet..."
Roanoke calls after her, but he does not get up, and even if he were to follow, Sage is sure she'd just punch him in the mouth. She wants to be left alone, but better yet she wants to go back to sleep and imagine Joel kissing her again, or Jane sitting up against her shoulder to shoulder as they lie on her bed, feet kicking in the air, both girls laughing while they are perched above a notebook with pencils in their hand, writing a mixture of their first and last names as a combination together, and although Sage claims she isn't a girly-girl like that Ciphra Longsdale, or heavens forbid, as she gags on the thought, Satin Spinel, she has drawn several hearts over the collection of names.
Better yet, however, as Sage closes the door, unleashing a roar into her fist, she'll want to see nothing more than her axe actually hit Head Gamemaker Constantine Fallorne in the head, painting the linoleum floors in a sea of blood, a vermillion bath for Sage to bathe in, all the while conjuring lyrics up about a ferocious battle.
Yes, Sage Dagoba would very much like to see that happen.
She'll do anything to see that happen.
Rodric Oxford: District Ten Male P.O.V (17)
How does the saying go? Disappointment is in the eye of the beholder? Or is beauty? He can never quite remember the specifics. Rodric stands at the counter in the kitchen, barefoot on the tile, a half eaten grape in his hands, the other half being swallowed while he stares at the screen in disbelief. A five? The best he receives from the Gamemakers is a five? He knows he hadn't done anything spectacular or amazing or anything of the sort, but this must be some sort of joke, there has to be no other way to think about it. He's an Oxford, rich blood flows through his veins and he's been scored as low as other outer districts. Even the twelve year-old scored higher than he did! Audhild has no right to be receiving some sort of middle of the road number, he doesn't feel she deserves it. Rodric knows, he recites it so much the crows fly home, that he hadn't impressed Constantine - huh, clearly, a voice snarks inside his head, probably his own with a few vodkas in his stomach - and this is the fallout.
Vivian is lying prostrate on the ground, maybe looking up at the etchings in the ceiling; he's not quite sure what she's doing, but she has all the reason in the world to not be doing anything given how well she's scored. Part of him flares up in jealousy, though he wishes he wouldn't, as Rodric has never found him to be an irate sort of guy, it isn't in his nature. He doesn't even have a drink in him to feel even slightly bitter, but he has to admit, it is a bit hard to look over at someone who is clearly his better besting him at every step of the way. Besides Amaris, as he's asked Lance Viel, the District 1 victor stepping in for the absent Hector and Arizona - not absent, Lance whispers to the two of them over shared bowls of salad, as Vivian prefers to eat in her room, but disposed of, and that sends chills down his spine - she is the one with the highest odds for victory, underneath Aris and Satin who have taken the highest points. Rodric doesn't remember where he falls, but it is in the latter half, the twelve that take place in 13-24. He is lying to whoever asks if that bothers him, as he knows it is illegal to know the betting information, but Lance divulges it for a reason, clearly.
His mind wanders back to what his mother said, as he's kept the wedding rings he is given in his pocket the entire time, having half a thought to wear them, but he finds that inappropriate should he do it, and there's no one back home for him to think about in that manner, but that might be because he has no idea what he wants, or who he wants. If some things are certain in his life, however, he does not want Vivian who has been cold to him every step of the way ever since he came to her room late that night on the train after the reaping. Always the cold shoulder, sometimes even glaring at him, never laughing at his jokes - well, perhaps your jokes aren't funny, Rodric, says the voice - and never spending any time with him, although he is not necessarily begging for anyone to give him company, not having his district partner eat breakfast, lunch, or dinner with him is starting to sting a bit, especially given that this might be the last normal day he has in his life before he is murdered in some sort of arena. Unless whoever the Phoenix is comes swooping in like a bat of hell, but regardless, he knows that doom is on the horizon.
Rodric finishes the grape he had bene holding onto, the flare still burning in his chest as he puts the fruit back in the refrigerator, wandering over behind the couch, hands resting on the cool leather. "Congrats, Viv, on your score," he winces to himself the moment he speaks. "Viv?" he taunts himself. "You called the one person here in the Capitol who hates you by a nickname?" No wonder he is single, given the way he just crashed into the brick wall for that interaction. Rodric swears it must be the alcohol that keeps him sane, but if his sanity means the Oxford name is sullied, then he doesn't know what to do beyond that.
His district partner sits up, her hair pale like a winter's storm against the backdrop of the dark carpet, some sort of brown and black color mixed together to represent District 10, but Rodric thinks it looks like absolute shit, but his opinion doesn't seem to mean anything. He cannot read the expression on Vivian's face as she turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, but it is not a nice expression if that is what he is after. "What did you call me?"
"Nice job on the high score," he glides over the nickname usage. Maybe he is the one overstepping his boundaries; he isn't sure. "What did you do to get such a high number?"
"Thanks," Vivian brushes over the question, folding her arms together. "How'd you get such a bad one?"
That is jab directly to the heart, thorned and all, stabbing deeply and gushing not blood, but ichor, the free flowing life of the gods, out onto his hands. He bites down on his lip to hold back the curse word he is saving for her, as animosity will not lead him anywhere except to an early grave. If he is unable to beat a wrestling trainer in the arena, who is only exerting maybe half of their energy, how does he expect to fight the famous Tigress, as Vivian seems to parade that title above her head like it's some sort of damn sign. "I tried wrestling with a trainer and I lost," he shuffles his feet on the tile, flesh prickling at the chilled sensations. "Note heavily on the try part," Rodric rubs his arm innocuously, biting on the inside of his cheek, spilling copper into the basin of his mouth. "Constantine actually booed me out of the center."
She tries to hide it as best she can, but he sees it enough, the way she smirks at him as he recants the afternoon ordeal, he lifting his head, feeling that flare blossom into more than: a steamy eruption that could scald skin off like peeling a potato with an axe blade. "Did you lose because you got distracted? The hot sweaty trainer make you uncomfortable?"
Okay... that is not the next thing he expects to come spewing out of his district partner's mouth. Rodric crosses his arms likewise, frowning, head jostling as he tries to process the question she just asked him. How would- how could... what? "I'm sorry, what?"
"Oh, don't play like that with me," Vivian coos lowly in her throat, he nearly throttling her then and there. "I see the way you look at Aris and Cyril while we train."
"How do I look at them?"
"Like you want them to be your next meal," she says, lifting her head too, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "You think they're attractive."
Although something like that shouldn't bother him, it does, he shaking his head back and forth. "You're making things up, Vivian," he notes not to use the short nickname again, but he is sure as hell not calling her Tigress; he swears that her ego is the size of the entire damn training center, the way she walks about with her shoulders thrown back, head high, a gaze sizing up everyone as some sort of competition with their only sole purpose building towards eradication. "Besides, who I'm attracted to is none of your business, nor is it anyone else's."
"You're right about that," Vivian enunciates the sentence heavily, leaning back on her heels, running a few fingers through her loose ponytail, her pinkie wrapping around the ribbon that holds the hair in place. "But then that means the other reason why you lost is because you're weak, and I don't think you want to admit that to me, do you?" she blinks at him, trying to smile sweetly, but it only comes across as more arrogant, more selfish, more in-your-face.
Rodric sneers at her, the nice guy façade dropping immediately. "Y'know, Viv," screw it, gloves are coming off now, bitch, "You aren't exactly a thousand bucks either."
She gestures around her, face that of slight mockery. "Not worth anything?" Vivian leans forward, hands poised on her hips. "Rodric, I tied to be the fourth highest scoring tribute. With a Career."
"And a Capitolite rat," Rodric snaps back without hesitation. "I wouldn't make that your first value to determine self-worth."
"You're just upset you scored so terribly," she sniffs.
Rodric locks his jaw, widening his eyes in anger, taking a few steps towards her. However, in his head, his mind telling him the exact opposite of what he physically wants to do: grab Vivian by the throat and choke the life out of her until she's a pale corpse lying in their living room, and then when that is over, pound her face in with the chair she collapses next to, but his thoughts are reaffirming what she's telling him, the weakness, the weakness that pins him in place. "You know what, Vivian?" he hisses, and she throws her head in a 'yeah, what you got?' gesture towards him. "I am sick and tired of your 'I'm so better than everyone' attitude. No one here likes you."
"I am not here to have anyone like me, Rodric," Vivian says, getting in his face, although he has a few good inches on her. He wants to lift his hands up to strike her, but something holds him back, he unable to do just that, like he's made out of cinderblocks or something. "I'm here to survive and outlast the other twenty-three of you. If you have a problem with that, I'm sorry, but I am not dying just so you can continue being an entitled rich prick!"
"I'm entitled?" Rodric repeats the accusation incredulously, raising an eyebrow in astonishment. "That is rich coming from you!"
"You are so full of shit, I-" she shouts back at him, but he's not finished, Rodric Oxford is not going to get yelled at over by a girl who thinks she's so tough because she's wanted by Peacekeepers. His family, and specifically himself, has worked hard to get where they are, without any sort of ass-kissing, nor any need to step out of line as if they have something to prove.
"Look, I know we're not Hero and Victoria," to which Vivian snorts, and interjects a quick 'Thank God for that', and he clenches his hands into fists at that, "As they were in love," to which she interjects, 'And idiots for volunteering' and he has to agree with her on that, if he is going to agree with her on anything. "But is it going to kill you, kill you to be nice to me? To pretend you don't hate me? I mean, my god Vivian, we're district partners and you're treating me like a second class citizen!"
"That's not going to happen!" Vivian throws her hands up in the air, wrapping herself around the couch, which he finds odd as he seems to be the one on the retreat here, for she is bulking herself up to appear more intimidating. "I am not going to force myself to like you, and I don't want to!"
"Why not?" Rodric asks, shaking his head in disbelief. Never, in his life, has he met anyone as stubborn as she's been, especially in dealing with how someone else feels about him. You know, the sad part is, for Rodric, Vivian is honestly quite attractive without her terrible attitude to boot.
"Because of what you stand for," his district partner answers, and she makes her way back up to him. "You come from all this money, because your family owns some sort of ranch. You've admitted to me that you spend your free time getting wasted with friends, blowing money that your family makes on alcohol," as Vivian is saying this, a seed of guilt buries into Rodric's stomach. It is the truth, and he has said this to Lance while eating lunch, apparently loud enough so she could hear him. His parents have never said anything, and it seems that he's lost his chance for them to even confront him about the issue. "You have never once thought about using that money for anything else but selfish gains, and you know it," Rodric furrows his eyebrows together as it seems like it is causing her great pain for her to even tell him this, as her breathing has gotten shaky, her hands physically trembling. "You never had to apply for tesserae. You never had to worry about being picked for the reaping until four days ago... you lived in your own world and now that it has been ripped away from you, you don't know what to do..." Vivian shakes her head back and forth. "You're drowning, Rodric. You're just too scared to admit it."
He twists his hands together, fingers locking over one another. "You have no idea what I have to deal with," she scoffs at that, but it only causes the flare that has now consumed his entire body to burn brighter, like a supernova exploding on the back of his skull. "Maybe I like to drink to just forget, okay?"
There are tears in Vivian's eyes, fully formed tears that are gliding down her cheeks at this point, her voice raspy like she's smoked a cigarette. She prods him straight in the chest, some miniscule little swat that has him rock on his heels. "Well, next time Rodric, maybe you need to drink heavier so you can end it."
Rodric has no idea what comes over him as her words come flying out of her mouth, but all Rodric recalls is getting directly in her face, poking her in the same exact spot, but doing so with enough force that he is practically shoving her out of the way, teeth gritted, his voice barely rising above a hiss, eyes slit like a viper's. "You better sleep with one eye open, Vivian, because I'm gonna strangle you with your own fucking ribbon in your sleep."
He stalks past her without another word, Vivian turning to glare at him, his body engulfed in flames, burning with the ire of a thousand suns, and he has never hated anyone else in his entire life more than her at this exact moment, even moreso than how he's ever felt about himself.
It isn't like his day could get any worse, nor is he expecting it to.
He doesn't have time for this, he has Interviews to prepare to tonight.
And he'll make sure that all he does, if he wants to be successful about it, is drag Vivian Whiplash's name down into the mud alongside him.
Maren Johnson: District 2 Female P.O.V (16)
It is rather comical, she supposes, watching Aris stalk their floor, going into the bathroom to talk to himself in front of the mirror, and back out into the living room muttering to himself. Something to deal with first impressions, leading, and other bullshit, but Maren is now focused entirely on his movements and not on what he is saying. They are some of the first to go, and have to sit through twenty other unfortunate - or maybe not so unfortunate - souls getting their numbers, and Maren is surprised at the extremely high skewing of the numbers, for exactly twelve tributes get a score of seven or higher, the other twelve having a score of six or lower. Maren's just glad that her session being cut short still kept her in the general range for a Career, although an eight is pushing it. Aris and Satin getting nines causes her to laugh, as it is just the icing on the cake listening to the two of them never shut up about leading and needing the highest score to prove themselves to the others as if a single number is going to mean that much to anyone else but themselves. The rug has been thrown out from underneath them.
Maren is leaning up against the counter, elbows pressed into the granite, she still in her training outfit which she should be stripping out of, as the Interviews, or at least the decorative procedures in getting ready for the Interviews is about to happen in another half hour or so, and the uniform is starting to stick to her like taffy off of a tree. Aris has changed out of his uniform, but only the top half, he walking around bare chested, and she's surprised to see how skinny he actually is, there not being an unbelievable amount of bulk to him, but she supposes that looks could be extremely deceiving, because he had her fooled. She's not upset with her score, especially with having Ellison's hands on her shoulders, constantly telling her how she'll underperform to the point of failure. Yes, she's the lowest scoring Career - Anahita doesn't count, but she still is getting a seven at thirteen years old, and Maisey received that score last year as well, so why isn't she part of the Careers again? - but the five of them have fallen into rank after the other, taking up the scores from eight to eleven in a nice filed line.
Who cares if it isn't good enough for anyone else, may it be Ellison, her mother - her mother is certainly screaming into her pillows right about now how a Johnson has underperformed so terribly for the Head Gamemaker, in which Maren will respond snappily that the Academy is much easier to impress - Aris, or any of the other Careers. What matter is that it is good enough for herself, and at the end of the day, that is all that should matter. She smiles to herself at the thought, for the last few days have not been filled with that same exact dosage of optimism, what with having Aris over her shoulder every five seconds declaring his greatness, or Anahita's anger swarming the training center grounds as she rips dummies to shreds, all the while Jules, sweet and short Jules is arguing for his district partner's case.
Speaking of district partners, as if right on cue, Aris bustles out into the living room, still shirtless, he having worked up a sweat with his incessant pacing. He shakes his head back and forth with a scowl on his face, rubbing his hands together like some idiotic villain, a wild look in his eyes. Maren is incapable of suppressing the laughter that comes from her at the sight of him, that being enough to draw him out of his crazed stupor, like a frozen picture in time with bursts of static fraying about like rambling jolts of lightning.
"Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?" she asks him, trying to hide her smile, failing miserably at that.
Aris blinks at her as if he's just noticed her standing there, when Maren has rooted herself up against the counter feeling the air conditioning on her back for the last half hour instead. "Not now, Maren. I'm thinking?"
"Yeah?" she crosses her arms together. "Thinking about what?"
"How to venture forth in becoming the leader of the Careers. A nine might not be the best, but it's just a minor setback and-" her district partner is starting to ramble, and good lord, when the kid starts he doesn't seem to be able to stop, Maren rolling her eyes and sighing heavily as Aris's tirade continues. She doesn't like him, if their tiny interaction on top of the chariots is anything to go by with their frigid first encounter, but she has to admit he has his own entertaining personality when he's not acting like a world grade douchebag, as she saw the way he approached Bloom and Mirek on the first day of training, fighting against Cyril's best efforts in slitting the girl from Twelve's throat open. "If I steady the course, and apologize to anyone I've disappointed and-"
"Aris, give it a rest!" Maren blurts out, and he blinks at her again, as if the command is not computing. He looks at her like a puzzled dog, and if she were to cock his head to one side, the simile would fit perfectly, and that has her biting down on her tongue for the next statement so she doesn't laugh again. "You got a nine, get over it. Cyril and Jules scored higher than you, get over it."
"But I was the one supposed to lead the Careers!" he protests like a little child, face starting to redden up, as if her very mentioning of the events going on his head, or the well... reality staring directly at him is an abomination not be viewed upon in the world, and it is absolutely asinine to comprehend. "That was my role, Maren! That's what I was made to be!" and Aris now jumps an octave or two, knocking over a vase resting on the windowsill next to the TV. Maren flinches at the sudden shattering of pottery, not expecting such a harsh outburst from him, and it seems that the preoccupied nature of his as all but flown away into the wind, and the gilded King Midas stance returns. "Not Satin! Not Jules! Me, Aris Lindel!"
She holds her hands out some, a lump forming in her throat. It seems as if the anger exploding out of him has reached a new height, one she didn't know is possible, for she's only seen glimpses of it from her father before, well... Maren doesn't want to dwell on that, or her mother's outbursts when one of her throws is not executed perfectly, but her voice is starting to dwindle even shortly after the diagnosis. "Aris, getting upset isn't going to change anything, just-"
"I know that being mediocre is all fine and dandy for you," Aris snaps, running a hand through his short hair, "But it is not good enough for me. My family is revered back home and all I'm gonna revere to is a nine?" He shakes his head back and forth, scrunching his nose up like he's gotten a whiff of moldy cheese decaying away on the counter. "Not gonna happen."
Whatever words Maren has to try and help soothe the situation die the moment his barb flies directly to her brain, she choking on the pleasing phrases she pulls out of thin air. Maren coughs, clutching her chest, balancing herself on the counter with her elbow, before twisting her face into a scowl. "Mediocre? I am not mediocre!"
"I should be the one leading," Aris hisses to himself, totally ignoring her prattling, pacing back and forth in a square in front of the TV. Maren's blood boils just looking at him, reminded of why she hates him so, and it wouldn't hurt if she were to go running forward and push him into the screen hard enough that a few shards will find the back of his skull and maybe end his miserable little life. "That should be me doing it; we'd all win if I were to be the leader!"
"You?" she barks a harsh laugh, his eyes finding hers, emeralds flaring up in an animalistic rage. "No one would want to follow you, Aris, for a leader."
"Says who?" Aris challenges back, locking his jaw.
"Cyril can't stand you," Maren points out, counting on her fingers, raising her eyebrows at him in a telling manner. "Satin wants to lead herself. I find you to be the biggest jerk on the planet, and I know Jules agrees with me. No one wants you to lead, and you've lost that chance the moment Jules and Cyril outscored you!" She's yelling now, but Maren has the reasoning to. She can her mother egging her on in the background, like she's tuned into the conversation, agreeing with everything she is saying, beyond the familial blood relationship.
Aris lifts his head back and cackles. Cackles, and Maren takes a step forward so she can wring her hands around his throat. "Jules leading the Careers? Everyone besides Audhild and Anahita are taller than him! Him being a commander? He has as much personality as a wet paper bag."
"If she was in the alliance, Anahita wouldn't want you giving her orders either," Maren says, and then, with a more inquisitive tone, "Actually, with Jules being the highest scorer, and thus being de facto leader, I suppose he'll probably put Anahita back in the alliance, huh?" She sees the way Aris's eyes ignite in anger at her words, for she's heard his sermons on how the grand and mighty Aris Lindel is a paragon of his own kind compared to the others, that there need not be an arena and that the victory crown should be placed on his head the moment he takes the stage, but only being two points higher than a fledgling tiny girl from Four while claiming to be the next infamous Career victor in the history of the Games... it would be like rubbing salt in an already open wound.
Maren thinks back to the very first day her parents threw her into the training academy. It had been a summer day in the middle of July, she being seven years old, her parents both failed Academy wannabes back when their hair wasn't gray and their cheeks not sundered in from years of smoking cigarettes, ambition digging its way into her mind, and her mother's fingernails pressing hard into her shoulder blades, a forceful reminder of what must be expected of her. Whenever she's introduced into any strangers that come over for parties and such, Maren Johnson is no longer daughter, but opportunity for greatness, the fingernails still ever pressed into her back. Her mother had been a tempest in her own special way, with her Aris-like sermons on glory and the need to pick up the mantlepieces that had been dropped by Johnson predecessors in time's past, but it had been her father early on who lashed the whip and kept his throat hoarse from all the screaming.
Paraded around like a trophy wife, a victor of the Hunger Games, the 103rd year, and now Maren finds herself volunteering two years earlier than expected, a whole lot less experience under her belt, with the next Narcissus looking over his mirror as her separation between life and death, all because a woman she shouldn't care about for what she has done to her over the years now needs money to cure a demon killing her from the inside out. She is not going to have all of this derailed by an immature brat with a size complex.
Something Aris says snaps her back out of the reverie, a much needed break given he is simply going on and on about ideas of grandeur and foolish expectations. "We're exactly alike, Maren, you and I."
A hard shudder passes through her, Maren gagging on the very idea. "We are nothing alike, Aris."
He smirks at her, that smirk holding the gleeful arrogance of a thousand and one King Midas's combined. "You can deny that all you want, Maren, to put yourself on some sort of pedestal, but we're not that much different than each other," he advances on her from his position in the living room, but she has nowhere to go, having pressed herself up against the counter. "We both are trained in the Academy, trained to be killers, in which I can certainly do what is needed when the time is right," his eyes sparkle, a venomous glance that causes her blood to turn to ice, like her skin is being pulled tightly down and sewn near her jaw bone. "You can pretend all you like, that you're better than me, but you're actually worse, volunteering early when clearly you aren't ready..." he has reached her by now, she wanting to leap out of her body like being in a lucid dream, if only to never return to her physical form. "Even though I want to lead the Careers, Maren, it won't matter in the end, as I'll be the one winning with or without your help or anyone else's," he finishes taunting her, he practically standing atop her, eyes glistening with a sudden fervor, life revitalized back into his soul.
Maren swallows heavily, like a rock splashing into her stomach acid, looking up at him, directly in the eye, her jaw trembling. She's... she's nothing like him, and the very conception on them being similar... Maren is disappointed that that he is able to somehow rip the good feelings she had been experiencing away from her like an IV stitched into her arm. "Your words are poison!" she spits out, but is a weaker insult than what he has just given her, but it is all she has, the well run dry, and her parents are both screaming at her again to find the perfectionist in her, to find the Johnson girl they know as the next victor, and not the Johnson girl who gives into the whims of bullies and arrogant pricks.
She wipes away at tears that are starting to form, pushing past Aris, her arm erupting in goosebumps as she comes into contact with the side of his chest, a hideousness crawling up and into her elbow, squeezing her eyes shut as she makes a direct march towards her room.
Perhaps he's right.
Perhaps Ellison is right.
Perhaps her parents wasted their time in trying to create the daughter that could be the envy of the district, a shining star in a sea of hopelessness, another name erected to the hall of Victory infamy.
Is she way in over her head?
Is Maren Johnson just another mediocre, soon to be forgotten name like all the other unopened reaping slips in those glass bowls?
Alright everyone, that was Chapter #18: Oasis of Victory. I am so happy to have this done as I wanted to make sure I finished before 11 PM, and here it is at 11:58 when this will be getting posted, and I wanted to send off the New Year into 2020 with an update as I always seem to manage to do so. Next time I post, it'll be 2020!
Training scores have been revealed and are up, and I hope that you are all happy with what your tribute received based on what I wrote. Any that you were surprised by, expected, or were underwhelmed with? Let me know, I'm curious for your opinion! Also, on the physical tribute front, it seems that there is no lost love between Vivian and Rodric nor Aris and Maren, but that might've been known from the getgo, while Sage and Tach have made ventures into their own stories as well... what demons do you think Ciphra is battling?
Everyone else will have their povs spread out in the next three tribute chapters (20, 21, and 22 for reference), as next Chapter, #19: Mirage of Closeness, is going to return to the Capitol storyline, and then Chapter #20 is Interviews, which I am always excited for. Please review; I'd love to hear from you! Have a great day! Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm