Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter for Bombs and Bullets, Chapter #28: Stepping Up to the Plate. This is going to be a chapter solely focused on the tribute perspectives, of course with our Capitolites linked up in there somewhat, furthering their shenanigans as we approach the end of Day 2, with sixteen of these kids still kicking and screaming and living, but expect that number to go down sooner than later, I'd warn. Last chapter, plans were divvyed up for the tributes in the Phoenix Company sans Seth, the trio of Hale-Hector-Kevia has gone rouge on their own mission, and Bonnie has executed Rodric for turning him into a hostage... she's not playing by anybody else's rules. So, here's Chapter #28: Stepping Up to the Plate. Enjoy!


~ And so sayeth the Lord, if you don't play by his rules from heaven above, count the stars as they dwindle from your life.

Cyril Barther: District 1 Male P.O.V (18)


Gray, gray, gray, gray, gray. Cyril swears he's seen enough of the gray walls and the bleak shadows of the Capitol to last him a lifetime, should however long his lifetime actually be, of course. He's always found it strange, actually, that the Capitol is only one real color: platinum, and a lot of shimmering from the sun hitting the reflective tile. In District 1, the variety in colors is as if a rainbow had puked all over the surrounding vicinity, where his side of the district, the more affluent side due to his father's sustained victories in the Games - he blanches a bit at that, biting down on his lip - is a swathing lane of emerald and vermillion and brightly blue painted lampposts - why blue? - so to be in a world that is drowning in one bland shade of a precious metal, he might as well yawn.

He has no idea how far they've walked, and listening to Anahita, Jason, and Maren for the last few hours has somewhat been ingratiating, he having half the mind to turn around and snarl at them. It isn't that he doesn't want their company, far from it, now that there's no arena that he has to worry about, but them constantly talking about who knows what feels counter intuitive to the situation at hand. Vivian and Ponty are ahead of him, leading the way to somewhere, as he can tell by the look on Vivian's face that she actually has no idea where she's going, but it wouldn't be fair of him to judge... he has no idea either. The moment she volunteers herself to lead them, a group of six tributes who would never get along in the first place if not for the strange conditions pushing them together, Cyril's appreciation for her goes up.

Yes, he thinks she's attractive, and saw her fight decently well, getting the same training score as him - he could still take her down without a second thought, however; it's Satin that would be the one to look out for, in before he'd have a knife in his throat - but it is the selfless bravery that sticks out to him, sometimes that selfless bravery bleeding into a more headstrong recklessness which could get them all killed, but he doesn't raise his voice on that. Satin's right; he's a coward, always shunning to the other authority, always allowing the others to speak for him, always, always, always. At what point is it enough, standing in the shadows and being quiet for the silence to overwhelm him? He's not certain when or how that'll happen, but he expects it to, his father even warned him about it.

Cyril tries to shudder away from the memory of his father, he only being eleven years old at the time, after finding his mother knocked out on the bathroom floor soaked in wine, Emmet's voice slurred and musky with a vintage red, places a hand on his shoulder and tells him what he'll never amount to. "Me," he hears the voice whisper in his head, but it is no longer the voice of his dead, drunk victor father, but his own, a heavier tone filled to the brim with venomous disgust. "You'll never become me," and out loud, as Cyril doesn't realize that voices could echo in the maintenance tunnel they're walking in, "Thank God," he utters aloud, causing the three tributes behind him, and the two tributes in front of him, to cease their conversations, all before they turn to look at him.

He jostles slightly at the sudden unwanted attention, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. Vivian frowns, furrowing her eyebrows together. "You alright, Cyril?"

"Yeah- yeah, I'm fine," he answers back, his throat suddenly dry. There hasn't been anything to drink since they woke up, and Cyril didn't think to take a water bottle with him out of the fridge when Vanya invites him down to the tribute center, along with every other tribute nearly choking up the available space in the elevator.

"Do you want us to include you in our conversations?" Anahita asks him, and Cyril swears he's never felt his heart melt the way it almost does from her sweet, idyllic innocence. He's seen the girl from Four create a graveyard of shredded plastic, but he forgets that she's just a small thirteen year-old who has consumed too much sugar.

He smiles, abashedly. "No, that's not it," Cyril rubs the back of his neck, suddenly noticing how little oxygen there feels to be in the tunnel, pulling at the collar of his shirt.

Ponty opens his mouth, about to say something, when it is Jason that interrupts him, the boy from Six frowning, about to object again, as the mayor's son takes a step forward. "What's that?" Cyril goes to say something too, but everyone follows Jason's gaze, which is extended by him pointing a finger down a beaten path. Vivian matches up to his level, and before Cyril can truly comprehend what's happening, everyone else is pushing past him down the hallway out in front of them. He's not sure who he didn't notice it, but it is another hallway that has seemed to creep up out of nowhere.

Cyril slowly walks down the hallway, but it seems to be that Anahita and Maren are buzzing with energy and excitement, Vivian and Ponty calling after them to keep their voices down. The sides of the hallway transition from a more calcite gray to a mix of gray and blue, a weathered navy, strips of white mixing in the paint, the floor transitioning from a concrete form to that of linoleum. He still has no idea exactly where they are, but Cyril feels that he'll let Vivian, and by proxy Ponty lead them to wherever their next destination is, for whatever may come round the bend.

He's the last to reach the structure that is imposing off of the ground, a husk of metal and twisted steel, and there's a button in the center of the console, but no matter how many times Anahita presses the button - which is a lot, as she seems to be very trigger happy - nothing happens, and the console sits silently. It is the only thing at the end of the corridor, no other service exits to the outside, and no sort of lockers or closets or anything. There are a few things on the ground - is... is that a hammer? - that has Cyril frown, but beyond that, nothing too remarkable, and they should go back the other way; he doesn't like to linger, lingering means stewing in feelings and thoughts, and he's been on the run from those all his life.

"What is this?" Ponty asks the million dollar question, examining the metal. "It's very durable..." he hits it with the butt end of the hammer he's holding onto, but notices the actual hammer down on the ground as well. He picks it up, heftily holding it back and forth.

"If I'm not mistaken," Maren points out, crouching down to touch some papers that have piled up in the corners of the room, picking one up, a layout of some kind. "It's a Peacekeeper substation."

"Peacekeepers?" Jason cries out, physically recoiling away from the walls, dropping his spear to the ground.

"I'm sure of it," the girl from Two nods her head. "It just happens to be off," but she looks over at Anahita pointedly, who is still firing away at trying to get the system to ping. "Anahita, I'd stop doing that. The last thing we need is to turn the abandoned station on, we'd alert every Peacekeeper in the city to our position."

"Then we should leave," Vivian says, authority creeping in her voice. She pulls at the red ribbon holding her hair back absentmindedly, Cyril thinking she doesn't even know she does it, like a nervous tic, but the faces of Ponty and Anahita, which have morphed into frowns, speak otherwise.

"What are these things, though?" Cyril asks, kicking around a few of the items on the ground. He isn't quite sure what they are, but he and Vivian both lean down to pick up the same thing that catches their eye, some sort of cannon-like object, cylindrical in design, gleaming a lustrous silver. His hand brushes over hers briefly, he recoiling away from her, trying to not look at her, but he sees that she doesn't move, entirely unbothered by it. Vivian picks up the object, tossing it over in her hands.

She frowns, testing its weight. "I'm not sure what it is... it's not that heavy, though."

"I can hit it," Ponty offers, holding up the hammer, and then when everyone looks at him, he gives an abashed grin too. "It's my job, guys; to hit things."

"Sure, knock yourself out," Vivian relents, without giving too much of a fight. Cyril has noticed that in her, in their fearless self-appointed leader. Without a second thought, holding the device in his hands, Ponty slams the hammer down on it, startling Cyril. He's about to utter the notion that breaking what looks to be expensive ass equipment nor creating all of this noise would be good for their secrecy, but the expression dies in his throat. Coward, coward, coward! Satin's voice overwhelms his head, he having to press himself into the far side of the wall alongside Vivian.

Ponty smacks the cylinder a few more times with the hammer, chewing on the inside of his cheek. For a second, there's nothing except the sound of all of their bated breaths, Anahita going to look at what else is on the floor, but then the cylinder starts to shake it, Ponty nearly dropping it. Cyril isn't quite sure what is happening, as the cylinder begins to glow a warm and austere red, a sweet amber that he can almost taste on his tongue, like a drop of honey, when they're all forced back against the wall. Some sort of material shoots out of the cannon into the other wall, blowing straight through it, leaving a mess of brick and dust as the projectile dissipates a few layers in. Everyone's gazes flit to the device with a sort of mystified awe.

"Is- is that an air cannon?" Jason questions, Maren looking at him suspiciously. "He's talked about Peacekeeper weapons for security," and then frowns at the rest of them, especially Vivian and Ponty. Cyril can feel the disappointment bubble to the zenith of his veins. "What? You think Peacekeepers only use guns? It's just the only thing we see them use, and I know it for sure."

"We're taking it!" Ponty declares, without preamble.

"No, we're not," Vivian bites back, hotly, and this time Cyril looks at her as if she's grown a second head. "Do you see what that thing just did? It blew a hole in like, three walls," and she points down at the path of destruction that the cannon left. "Who knows how loud that was too. It's like Maren said, we don't want every Peacekeeper on our heels."

"But wouldn't the rebels need something like that?" Anahita points out, perking her head up from rummaging through the papers of non-descript importance. "Maybe that can be an advantage to them! I suggest we keep it!"

"Find anything else cool down there?" Jason asks, leaning down next to her.

"Let me look!" Maren exclaims, rushing down to them. Ponty grins, handing the air cannon to Cyril, who fumbles with it in his hands, leaping into the fray as the four of them rustle through the collected papers and scraps of who knows what resting on the ground.

He leans further into Vivian's space, crossing his arms with a smile, as she shakes her head, but she can't hide that short smile peeking from her lips. It is entertaining, as Anahita pushes Jason out of the way gently, for some sort of gleaming metal wedged between in the corner where the walls meet, while Maren grabs a file and stuffs it in her back pocket. It's like watching children play, even though Maren and Jason are just two years younger than him, and Ponty is a year younger than he is... it's entertaining.

"It's like watching kids in a candy store," he comments to Vivian.

She nods her head, but still has a frown on her face. "What's a candy store?"

Cyril looks at her, eyes widening momentarily, eyes averting to the floor. He scratches at the back of his ear, hearing how the exhale he takes echoes around the antechamber, careful to not drop the air cannon in his hands. "You-"

"There are some things other districts don't have, y'know," Vivian mentions, and he winces. He knows what she means, but he's never been told that before by someone else in that manner, not in her own special way. And goodness, she makes him crazy. "Some of us aren't as... privileged," she says after a drawl, taking in a shaky breath.

There's no good time like the present, as Cyril has heard from Lance Viel over and over again in the short history of getting to know the victor, and he finds it equally pertaining to the conversation at hand. "Y'know, Vivian, I was actually thinking of inviting you into the Careers last night, after the interviews were over, but you disappeared before I could find you," she looks at him, but he cannot read the emotion shining in her eyes. Pity, perhaps? "Jules kicked Satin and Aris out of the alliance for their attitudes, but I knew we'd be toast without them, and you got a ten, so..."

"I don't know how I got that ten," Vivian admits, a faint blush rising on her cheeks. "I've picked up a bow here and there, sure, and I guess I'm a good runner, but I'm no Career," she picks at a scab on her arm, while Jason pushes Anahita back for pushing him, which knocks her into Maren, getting all three of them riled up. "I would've said no, Cyril. I'm not a Career."

"I figured that was the case," he smiles, stuttering an awkward laugh. "Like you said, privilege; that I'd assume someone would want to be a Career, especially just because that's what we are," Satin isn't here to chastise his decisions, but he expects Vivian could do that tenfold. "And after what happened with District Ten in the Career pack last year..." he hangs the rest of that sentence off, not needing to say anything else. He recalls yelling at his television screen for how stupid that decision seemed to be, when watching Carrion Bastion write down Victoria's name on a piece of paper, but in the end the vote didn't even matter. At least Valencia brought home the victory; that's all that mattered. "And now I just have to see if I can find Satin..." and Vivian rests a hand on his shoulder. "I'm a coward, and I know it, and she knows it too... and the last thing I've ever said to her was I didn't think we had a shot at winning the Games," he coughs into a broken laugh. "God, I'm such a dick."

Vivian sucks her lower lip into her mouth, as the riling behavior from their other companions seems to settle down, Ponty keeping the troublemakers apart from one another, but he's grinning, laughing, and smiling all the same. "You aren't a monster, Cyril," she says, and he looks up at her, mouth falling open slightly. "The torment is all over your face, but you aren't one," she shakes her head. "I've seen and I've fought plenty of monsters..." she shoulders the quiver on her back some, setting the bow on the ground so she can place her hands on top of it. "Rodric and I ended on some really bad terms; I said he should've drunk himself to death," Cyril searches her face for a glimpse of remorse, but he sees it in her eyes, the detached mistiness. As privileged as he is, he feels the need to judge her; he'd never say that to another person. "So... here's hoping we can all get out of this alive, and that maybe I find the closure I need," she says, trying to put a smile on her face.

Cyril doesn't know what to say, for once, finally, as it seems all the tussling is over, he handing Ponty the air cannon, as it looks like the device requires a strong amount of pressure to be placed on for it to fire. It belongs in the hands of someone he trusts; he no longer trusts his own hands. He locks eyes with Vivian, she wiping away at her cheeks, but he doesn't see any tears spilling from her eyes. Perhaps she's a crier with no outward expelling of emotion; he wishes he could be like that sometimes. She nods at him, and without another word, walks down the path from where they came from, the rest following suit.

The journey continues.


Seth Cables: District 5 Male P.O.V (17)


"So why should I support him?" is the first thing out of Seth's mouth, the moment the Master of Ceremonies, along with that fiery and hotheaded girl from Twelve enter his cell. Not a 'good morning' or 'how are you today', but the hard questions, the ones he's been trying to ask but never able to say.

"I beg your pardon?" Pollux frowns at him, pulling up a chair to sit across from him. Seth noteworthily makes it aware that he's scooting his own chair back, given the grind of the legs on the floor, which has the interviewer sigh exasperatedly. He won't be within two feet of the man, if he can help it, and it doesn't matter which 'side' he's on, whether it be for or against the Games, as the interviewer is just another scumbag sucking pig from the Capitol who has never had to work a day in his life, and that doesn't require a therapist or some extensive psychoanalysis, as Seth can smell it on the man and his perfumed jackets, quite literally.

"This is going to be the part where you come down here, interrogate me, and then try to convince me to join the rebel cause," Seth throws his hands up, a slight smirk on his face. "It's not the first time I've been on the receiving end, lemme just say that."

"Seth, please-" Bloom leans a bit off of the far wall, but he cuts her off with a decisive swipe of the hand, and a glare to boot.

"Save it," he interrupts her. "You're not the one in charge," and he has to hold the smile in while the tips of her ears flush a hot pink, a backsplash of color on her tan skin, but Bloom holds her trap shut, falling back into a lapsed state of silence. "If our good man Mr. Aetos here has a proposition for me, I want to hear it."

It's been around twenty-four hours or so stuck in the prison cell, but Seth wouldn't necessarily describe it as one. The room is fully see through, glass panes on all sides, and occasionally there are passerby's who will look at him whilst making their way around the cell. There's a bed, and several chairs with a table, but the table is hollow... Seth would know, as he banged his fist as hard as he could into it, and it didn't even make a dent with his punch or hurt his hand. Sometimes a few of the passerby's would look at him, maybe unwillingly, Seth smiling back at them with a crooked grin, occasionally a wave, absorbing the disgust sent back at him into his system. It seemed so easy to make others feel so repulsed, a special talent, perhaps.

Word must've gotten around for what he's done, as Valencia Shale, along with two other victors that were not Lance Viel come down... he thinks it's the guy from Six, and that blonde woman from One, who is always drunk, but there's a palpable look of disgrace passing back and forth between the occupants that are free and trapped. "Free," Seth muses to himself, staring up at the prison cell roof, where the lights are on all the time as there's no light switch or person to really hear him ask for it since he can't get any sleep, "Free is just an illusion. I'm not free, and neither are them, for they're just trapped in their own cycles." He's never considered himself to be a wax philosopher, but hard time can make a man do things they wouldn't normally do, such as philosophize about caged animals. He feels like a caged animal, but also feels the brunt of stupidity within him.

One of the reasons that the victors had come down with Valencia is so he can learn that his head won't be exploding like the others back in the training center - he does flinch when Jules's jaw splits open like a book on the opposite side of the spine onto the floor, blood can still bother him despite what others might choose to believe - which totally does him a world of relief. Not to say he isn't slightly worried when the rain of fire falls down striking Tach, Jules, Roanoke, Magdalena, Audhild, and Zola dead that it doesn't startle him and he wonders, just for a moment that he might be next, but it has faded come morning, and he's trying to move past it. He still doesn't quite know what is going through his head when all of sudden the woman he's told to kill via the Head Peacekeeper is in front of him, and it might be the only opportunity he gets to exact some sort of revenge that doesn't exist - "I'll never be free," he tells himself, in a singsong voice, a melodious hum - but announcing his presence... he wipes away a bead of sweat that trickled down his forehead.

In the present moment, Pollux shakes his head, sucking on his lower lip, smoothing out a crease in his pants. Seth tilts his head to the side, trying not to give away the humor on his face, which transforms into a frown, as he sees a speck of red just barely visible on the man's left ear, almost between the outer rim and the temple. It is a trivial matter, he imagines, maybe an itch gone bad, but he's started to notice the dead giveaways, where the blood appears, and why it appears there, as constantly touching your ear is only making it more noticeable.

He pats the inside of his pant pocket, still dressed in his training uniform which is starting to smell like the musk of the dried out basement compound bunker whatever the hell he's stuck in, fishy mold and blackberries, the oddest combination Seth's ever imagined in his life. "Fine, Mr. Cables-"

"Just call me Seth," he interrupts him too, seeing Pollux's nostrils flare with visible rage. He hides the smirk under the twitch of his lip; some people are just so easily moved by the flip of a switch. "Screw the pretenses."

The Master of Ceremonies locks his jaw, eyes widening, gaze burning into one of the glass panels, before he rubs a hand down his face, holding out on his lip and extra longer than normal. Something tells Seth that this must be the first time the man in front of him as ever had to do this; although he'd rather not, he'd rather talk to Bloom, Bloom would understand him at the very least better than whatever the bozo in front of him dressed in the peppermint jacket is doing. "Y'know, Seth," he says pointedly, locking eyes with the tribute, but Seth doesn't flinch; he couldn't be intimidating if he tried, "When I interviewed you, just last night, and saw those tears of yours, and hearing the story about your sister, I really felt moved..." he cocks his head to the side, furrowing his eyebrows together. "Now I'm starting to wonder if it was just an act."

No one talks about his sister except Seth. He grips the edge of the seat, something lightweight, and he isn't sure to the extent what fighting skills Bloom has, so he only tightens his hands around the right angles made by the chair legs. "You listen here!" he hisses, through clenched teeth, his jaw grinding like a hammer to a nail.

It is Pollux's turn to interrupt him by holding up a hand. "You didn't strike me as a murder, maybe just a tough guy who thought he was a bit more than he actually was, given how many people I've interviewed over the years for the Games," Pollux flaps one of the sides of his suit over some to cross over his lap, Seth's eyes following the movement like the flap of a wing. "So imagine my surprise when I'm told you tried murdering one of our victors... it seemed like an anti-rebel stance to do, murder someone in our rebellion... but all of you tributes were generally, for the most part, in the dark."

"Because I-" Seth goes to break in, hotly, with a heavy sigh and loud breath out through his nose, air warm on his face. He's told someone this already, the jackleg that holds him tightly by the shoulders and practically carries him down to the prison cell, the victor that is with Valencia, that Lance guy or whatever. Seth knows fighting out of it is futile, and he can't reach the blade that he had placed underneath his pant leg, but he doesn't like the pressure being applied. It's the story he tells, of Head Peacekeeper Lazarus Pietro sending him the letter, and the rock and the hard place he's stuck between. Certainly someone, somewhere would find reason in that.

"We saw it, we all read it," the interviewer says, but this time a lot more gentle. "And we understand."

"You- you do?" Seth sits up in his chair, unable to hide the little boyish tone that rises with his inflection, eyebrows rising up with his own body. He half expects Bloom to be acting as the executioner, from the way he's sitting in the chair. This is news to his ears, if he can be honest.

"A rock and a hard place, right?"

"Yeah... yeah," he nods feverishly back at him.

That is what District 5 is made of, rocks and hard places, and the choices that have toe that dangerous line every night, whether he wants to or not. His mind is not made the math geeks and science nerds of Panem, to understand the complexities of biology or calculus mixed in with chemistry, let alone aerodynamics or physics or whatever the hell is being taught. As he watches his parents sink into a bubble of depression, as if they were drowning in mud, no cries for help coming from within them, Seth knows that it's on him, as he puts the ashes of his sister to rest. Working the menial slavery jobs of Five, if you aren't an intelligent scientist... that isn't the life for him, until that woman with that very trusting proposition came knocking on his door step, the moment before he had been intending on ending Sophiana Delarosa's pathetic, miserable little excuse for a life...

"We're offering you a choice," Bloom pipes up, she having pulled her long dark hair into a ponytail, twirling a few strands around her fingers. "If you want, if you really want, we'll send you back to the president, and she can decide what to do with you," Seth wouldn't do that, something tells him that receiving the letter from Head Peacekeeper Pietro had been something done covertly, but perhaps not very well done, as anyone in their right mind can see the love and adoration the president has for Valencia Shale, although he still cannot quite figure out why. "Or you stay here, and then you have two more options."

"And what would those be?"

"Sit here and rot," he can tell that the girl from Twelve does not hide the slight glee that bubbles up in her voice, but he almost can't blame her. How many years have District 12 been the downtrodden, so getting the upper hand on someone? He can taste it on his tongue, a ripe strawberry and passion fruit mixing in his mouth. "And await for trial once we win, or you can fight for us now and receive amnesty," Bloom picks at a piece of cotton off of her shirt, some sort of ugly olive colored thing, but Seth leans back in his chair.

He's still robbed of his free will, he realizes, without a moment's hesitation. Go back to a woman or empire that'd surely execute him and gladly have him in their clutches, since he's a tribute... stay behind and let the world decide his fate, which would be death for the crimes he's committed, or fight in a cause with a high chance of death. Go figure. But... amnesty.

"I don't want your pity," he barks back, and then clamps down on his tongue. That isn't what he means to say, what he wants to say is that the offer feels like pity, pity on a 'troubled' soul wronged by the system, but he knows what walk of life he's found himself surrounded in, a life of crime and paranoia and constantly looking over your shoulder.

"It's not pity," Pollux interjects, but there isn't a single edge to his tone either, despite the hostility flowing between the two tributes. The interviewer scratches the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. "I did say to you all that we needed every hand we can get... and well, I wasn't lying. You're a young man, healthy, can fight well if your training score is any indicator-" With guns, Seth wants to interject, but he holds his peace. "And Rennie wants you too, but I can't imagine why."

Rennie. The Avox, the one who is supposed to lead the people of the promised land. He recalls reading about someone who did that, for some sort of ancient people in some faded book he finds on his father's desk, but Seth isn't sure what it is, to be fair, and the text is monstrously boring as he flits through a few pages. How is a man who has no tongue supposed to save Panem from itself? Can the country even be saved? Seth can't hold the scoff in, making a tch noise in his throat, before turning his face to the side.

"What?" Bloom asks, defensively, crossing her arms.

"I asked, when you two came in here, why I should support him, this Rennie guy," Seth motions with his hands in some circular fashion, just to fill the space. "Why should I feel compelled to lay my life down for him? What's he got that is so different from the person ruling us now?" He crosses his arms, trying to once again hide the smirk that threatens to appear under his twitching lip. It is a simple question, as he's seen the video that the Avox put out on the airways during the reaping, of the dirty laundry coming from the Rodney administration, and that the president beforehand had been trying to end the Games, something he'd take in a heartbeat, before the man is murdered by the very same woman sitting on that porcelain throne of hers in the palace locked away by iron wrought gates.

"He's going to end the Hunger Games, for one," Pollux says. "I used to be against the idea myself, but I eventually came around to it."

"He's not the first person to ever offer it," the tribute from Five points out. He's seen it and heard it all in his seventeen short years, of people claiming to be freedom fighters rising through the ranks in whatever ways they know how, through the smoke and the smog of whatever hogwash district they hail from, before the guillotine comes from their head, slicing the root from the stem, and the flame dissipating as if it had never even existed in the first place.

"That's because Rennie isn't just offering it," the interviewer replies, but there's a smirk on his face too, now. It's an infection, a good kind, Seth likes to imagine, to make people smirk with feigned confidence acting as support. "He's going to do it."

"If he wins."

"Not if," Bloom takes a step forward, unsticking herself off of the glass wall to the cell. "When."

"You don't know that," Seth shakes his head, looking at the Master of Ceremonies directly in the face. "You seriously think you guys have a shot at beating the president and ending the Games? Didn't Thirteen already try that years ago and got squashed?"

"We don't think it," Pollux shakes his head in dissent. "We know it. I know it, and I'm the biggest doubter of the truth that I know..." he taps his fingers on the side of the chair. "What's it going to be, Mr. Cables?"

"Seth..." Bloom says his name, but he refuses to look at her. She doesn't deserve his attention. "Just think about it. Don't- don't throw your life away."

If he agrees to fight in the rebellion, is he throwing his life away? Seth chews on the inside of his lip, tearing away at the skin, feeling the copper fluid flush the basin of his mouth, tasting the tartness on his tongue. He's tasted the tartness, and he's smelled it too, clogging up his nostrils, a ledger filled to the brim with it. A life wasting away from the decisions of others, doing others biddings and then taking matters into his own hands... but again, is he truly free? Will he ever see the real sunlight again, liquid ivory doused down his cheeks and tongue? Seth curls a hand into a fist, bringing it to his chin, and then back again to the chair, in a winding motion almost, like winching a clock.

Screw it.

Time to take matters into his own hands.

"Fine..." he says, after a belabored pause, the moment Seth speaks causing the tension in the room to pop with a sizzle. Pollux and Bloom's faces visibly relax, too, and she gives the interviewer a coy grin. "Not because I like any of you, though," he adds, Seth making a face. "I'm doing it just for me. You clear?"

It's time Seth Cables answered the call, and stepped up to the plate.


Amaris O'Hara: District 6 Female P.O.V


She's not sure whether or not to be happy about the missive that crosses her lap. Well, it doesn't exactly cross her lap, for it's more of a stern order that Head Peacekeeper Lazarus barks at her and Aris, to do something with their lazy asses while waiting for the forces at the edge of the city to surge forward. Aris is bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, she resisting the urge to roll his eyes or smack him silly, or even both, as that seems rather favorable too. It is simple enough, she imagines, as there hasn't been any reaction from the rebel side with Rodric's execution that they're given the go ahead to do their plan, but even still, the brim of excitement is turning into a more slugged anxiety that settles over her arms, trapping her in a cocoon of nervousness. Amaris O'Hara is not a nervous person, never has been.

There's a ping somewhere in the northeastern part of the city, just under a half mile or so from the remains of the would be training center in one of the maintenance tunnels, which has Lazarus scratching his head, for the president is off somewhere in the mansion doing something, but Amaris isn't quite sure what, nor truthfully if she really cares. She's never interacted with anyone in the presidency before this morning, at four AM with Aris dragging her along, and she's exhausted... her work has been with the Lazarus's of Panem, men who think they've grown too big for the underwear holding them up, fulfilling some sort of egotistical need in creating an exaggerated self-importance. Like the idiot currently walking next to her.

It's an extraction, to find the tributes down below in the maintenance tunnels that caused the Peacekeeper substation to go green. Everyone else but her believes it's rebels, but something hints at it being tributes... she's not entirely sure on why, but she can feel it, like a brewing storm within her stomach, churning the acidic waters over to capsize the organs inside. There's a heat signature picked up on one of the maps, a technician notes it, at the same area the substation exists, Amaris immediately recognizing it. A weapon's heat signature, from the firing of some sort of weapon... all the assorted rebels from the districts are at the edge of the city, and this signature is from everywhere else but the far fringes. No Capitol rebel would be stupid enough to fire a Peacekeeper weapon.

So, with all that is left, there's a tribute, as all of them are not accounted for. Amaris knows that, according to sources who swear they say a group of victors escorting six scared, frightened little kids, that Seth, Bloom, Vanya, Sage, Cambric, and Ciphra make up that group. Mirek has been found and thrown in a prison cell, there are accounts of Sophiana laying in the middle of the street with a bullet in her brain, and Satin still hasn't been found... so by process of elimination that means there's Cyril, Maren, Anahita, Ponty, Jason, and Vivian down in that maintenance tunnel, or a collection of them at the very least. Amaris's mouth goes dry at the thought of seeing Ponty again; part of her hopes this entire thing ends with him lying comatose in a ditch somewhere, or maybe blown up with an explosive strapped to his chest, parts littering the cream colored stone of Gamemaker's Square. The idea of seeing him again, let alone others that she certainly feels a briskness from, it hasn't made her very excited. Unlike Aris next to her, who seems he's about to explode.

It is the two of them, with five other Peacekeepers in the squad, as that is what is afforded to her. Lazarus shoves a gun into her hands, a stern expression on his face. "I'm putting you in charge of this," he tells her, and she's never seen a more cold blue. "Don't screw this up. Soldier O'Hara, you are the leader of this squad, and the retrieval of those six tributes. Use whatever means are necessary."

"I won't let you down, sir," she tells him, but there's no confidence in her voice. Amaris O'Hara is a confident person through and through, always has been.

She can only wonder how the other men in the force are feeling, let alone thinking, watching two kids who have no understanding of the terrain or the city leading men who've lived in the Capitol their entire life, most like... her train of thought is derailed as Aris races forward to the maintenance tunnel entrance, one of many found throughout the city. He rips it open with glee, he holding his helmet underneath his arm, hair sticking out in silly strands, a messy agglomeration of bright color amidst the calcite gray of the tunnel walls. He's about to take a leap into the pit when Amaris races forward, grabbing him by the hand, wrenching him back. Amaris debates, just for a second, on letting him go... that'd be ironic, wouldn't it? Letting him fall to his death to potentially break his neck? She'd chalk that up to a war casualty, with nothing to be seen there.

"What?" he asks, defensively, resting his helmet just on top of his skull, as if it were a hat. She holds back on the laughter threatening to erupt from her throat, holding the stern expression that crosses her face.

"I'm leading this mission, not you," she tells him, poking him in the chest for emphasis, a scowl flashing across his face. "Don't you forget it, Aris."

Aris makes air quotes at her, eyes sparkling in mischief. "Yeah, 'leading the mission', commander O'Hara," he mocks her, Amaris's nostrils flaring in annoyance. "Please, give me a break. I saw you during Rodric's execution. You couldn't even look at him."

"I didn't want to watch," Amaris declares hotly, resisting the urge to tilt her head up in disdain. Hearing the crack of her fellow tribute's neck is enough. She forgets from time to time that she is dealing with a Career on her hands here, a man with no sympathy for the world, a sympathy only dealing in killing... why is she expecting rationality out of him? She's fought her own demons, and she likes killing, having admitted it to Ponty stupidly on that train ride, but in the wicked people who deserve it. Do any of them down in the tunnel deserve it? Her mind briefly flashes Ponty's name across her face, but she blinks it away, clamping down on her tongue. "Do you really think being a Peacekeeper is all about murder, Aris? It's much more than that. We're more than that."

"They deserve to die-" he goes to say, but she's not going to have that sort of talk just running rampant around her, nor the squadron in the back, they finally catching up to the tribute pair, as Aris had taken off like a bottle rocket towards the entrance.

She grips down on his wrist, pressing her thumb into his pressure point, he hissing due to the sudden drawl of pain, but he does not crumple under her grip. "They aren't the enemy, Aris. They're just trying to survive," Just like me, her mind immediately adds, but she doesn't say that aloud. "We're simply taking them into custody, and if they fight back, we don't kill them." A white lie might be needed every once in awhile. When she signs up to be part of the Peacekeeper force, in which she's laughed at out of the building back in Six the first time she arrives, it is not to go on killing sprees and take people down just for the hell of it, but to satisfy the voice in her head that demands for blood to be spilled and run down her hands. Yes, Lazarus mentioned 'whatever force is necessary', and she can tell Aris will take that to the nth degree of extremism, but there's been a lot of corpses floating in the breeze lately; minimizing it feels to be the smartest decision on the board.

He wrenches his hand out of her grip, rubbing it with another scowl. "Whatever, Amaris."

"I don't know what you think this is; it isn't dress-up," she tells him, trying to quell the fury rising in her veins. It is the fury that causes her to hit Ponty in the face, or threaten to break his face in against a window, it is fury and impatience and being caught up in the moment that has her go along with Aris to the president. "This is war, and it is a lot more dangerous than a stupid arena. You specifically took me with you to Bonnie to serve, and this is how we've been told to serve," Amaris rights herself, holding onto the pistol Lazarus hands her. "Besides, you really think the others are happy they're being led by two kids?" Aris's eyes widen, going to protest as he opens his mouth, but she overrides him. "We're kids, Aris, and we're ordering men in their forties on what to do."

"Well, if you don't want to lead, just give it to me," Aris bites back. She nearly pushes him in, but settles for the more diplomatic route.

"Just get in the tunnel and shut the fuck up, Aris," Amaris scowls back at him, before putting on her helmet, making sure the visor is able to flipped up or not.

He doesn't say anything else to her, going down the ladder into the tunnel like the good little follower he is, Amaris able to read his face whenever he looks at her, seeing all of the things he can say through his eyes. Amaris looks back at the other five Peacekeepers with them, nodding and stepping aside for them to go first. A leader always goes last, to scope out for the others, potential exits, potential enemies... watching is half the battle. When the last member excluding her enters the tunnel, she makes her way to the ladder, it being an iron wrung thing completely taken away by rust. She recoils away from it slightly, left foot slipping slightly, so she drops the rest of the way, just about a two foot drop. Amaris shakes off a few chipped bits of rust that stuck to her glove, shuddering, glad to have that protection between her.

There's a tunnel system under District 6's poorer side of the district, she having seen it before, on one of her brief stints in staying in Six versus traveling to Eleven. Eleven is a wide open field of groves for oranges, apple orchards, strawberry fields and then a collection of houses at the edge of the city, covered in a light thin layer of dust. Six looks like crap everywhere she goes, shacks upon shacks pushed together with a thin line of grease connecting each brick, the air smelling of weed of bubbling meth, or Peacekeeper gun shots... is it any wonder she hasn't stayed in Six to do her job?

Amaris grinds her boots directly into the ground, wiping away some of the puddle she steps in after landing on her feet. Surprisingly, as it is not her decision, but Aris's, that they, instead of going directly to where the station had been alerted, to go ahead of it by a few paces, to run into the tributes directly. She goes to argue the point, but then that it just arguing to be difficult, she trying to move past that, for it looks like her companion from Two thrives on arguing, while Ponty would get by with rationalization.

If her assumptions were correct, in which Amaris has found herself being right a vast majority of the time, they'd be coming across the group any second now, the ping happening just forty minutes ago, and the maintenance tunnels being windier than a mountain slope. She finds the tunnels to be eerily cold, feeling the nipping temperatures through her suits, but they haven't ever been the most comforting or warm attire. Amaris personally just wants to find something different to wear than the Peacekeeper attire, as it isn't every single piece of her soul, it's just her job... but maybe her job is her soul. She isn't sure.

The girl from Six pushes to the lead of the pack, holding up a fist, everyone behind her coming to a halt. She can hear it, the faintest trickle of noise rounding a corner. She can tell that the room is starting to expand, through the dimly lit corridors, as she can't see the other wall clearly, whereas she could probably kick it with her boot if it were any other section of the tunnels. Great. Bigger rooms means a harder combat space, goosebumps starting to erupt over her arms underneath the suit. It's a girl's voice, a higher pitched voice, most certainly young. Anahita. Amaris cannot make the words out too clearly, but can feel her eyes threatening to bulge out of her face. If this had been an arena, she might've considered Anahita to be prey, but she hadn't factored in what Aris would do. According to him, the girl from Four is the reason most of his problems have started, all due to her age. She thinks he needs to let it go.

She looks over at Aris, who has taken up her six, he holding onto the end of his gun as well, and something metallic, it glowing silver, sticking out of his pocket. She saw Lazarus hand it to him back at the base, but she doesn't question what it is... it looks like a baton stick of some sorts. Why would he be armed with a more conventional weapon? Amaris sticks her head out around the corner, reeling back immediately after, her heartbeat pulsating under her chest. There's all six of them, alright, and it looks like the girl from Ten, Vivian is in the lead. And they're all armed.

"Shit..." Amaris mutters to herself. She hadn't anticipated that. How would any of them have had access to the weapons rack before the center had come collapsing down around them? She sees a spear, a sword, a bow and arrow... those wouldn't be Peacekeeper weapons, but arena weapons. Would they have kept the weapon found at the Peacekeeper substation with them? She shakes her head, frowning to herself. Now is not the time for doubt or questioning her decision making. She's been told to do a job, and come hell or high water if she doesn't perform. Amaris grits her teeth together, looking back at Aris. "Remember, no casualties." His eyes flash in annoyance as she speaks, but there's no room for arguing. The girl from Six raises another fist, before opening it to her palm, turning it around for the other Peacekeepers to see.

Follow my lead.

She rounds the corner, cocking her pistol, holding it level with Vivian's shoulder. Before she speaks, her eyes look past the group, who have their backs turned, walking towards another corridor, and at the end of that corridor is a door. She knows where that door leads, down to the sewers, as one of the pathways, if they're lucky and don't get themselves turned around. The Gamemaker corner of the city, and all the water in her mouth dries up. No one's been able to get in contact with Head Gamemaker Fallorne, and Madam Rodney hasn't found a way to extrapolate resources to send someone to check on her... for she assumes the old woman is doing just fine as is.

Amaris flips open her visor, it making a slight clicking noise, and she sees Vivian, just barely through the dark, tense. "That's far enough, guys!" she calls out, her voice echoing along the tunnel walls.

"Way to be subtle," Aris mutters to her, as the group in front of her turn, weapons in their hands. A Peacekeeper next to her flips a light switch on the wall, the room being washed over in a flood of ivory, a white sheen falling onto the others, Amaris shielding her eyes.

"Amaris?" Ponty bridges the conversation first, taking a step closer to them, something tucked under his arm, but Amaris can only see a slight glimpse of it, it looking round underneath the crook of his elbow, glimmering like Aris's baton. "Aris?" he adds next, as her partner in crime lifts his visor up too.

"Ah, a Peacekeeper greeting," Vivian smiles at them, holding her arms out. "You're gonna escort us out of here?"

"Viv," Cyril buts in, but it is Amaris that is reeling. Did he just call her Viv? She can see the girl in question look at him a bit funny too. "Perhaps it is not the time to antagonize them, you think?"

"I'd listen to Cyril," Amaris ventures forward, taking a step towards them. "I've been given orders to take you back to President Rodney, and if we can do this as peaceful as we can, no one has to get hurt. She's promised nothing but safety for your passage," Frankly she knows half of what she's said has been potentially bullshit, for Rodric Oxford is simply to be a 'guest' in the Rodney administration, turned hostage by the call of the morning, turned corpse by mid-afternoon. It is starting to get late, nearing five in the afternoon, and when the sun goes down, that is when Bonnie and Lazarus were to command mobilization, the moving of forces to combat the rebel forces at the edge of the city, potentially pushing to an apex somewhere near Gamemaker's Square.

"You can take her order and shove it up her ass," Maren spits back at her, Aris's face twisting in silent rage. "She tried to have us all killed, and you're going to stand there and support her?"

"It's that or die," Aris counteracts her point, and Amaris can hear the tightening of his glove on his pistol. "And you don't strike me as being someone who wants to die."

"I'm only offering this once," Amaris says, her feet making splash noises as she steps into another puddle coming from the room.

Vivian lifts her head up, eyes narrowing at her, and a smirk growing on her face. "Who said this was a negotiation? And who said anything about chances?"

Before Amaris can really process what is happening, the girl from Ten wrenches an arrow free out of the quiver on her back, sending it down the tunnel. She can see the arrow before it hits the wall next to her, chaos taking hold of the occupants in the hall. Aris fires a shot at her, but Ponty pulls the girl back, standing behind a column. Amaris makes a fan-out motion with her hands, the Peacekeepers on the side flocking out like a group of birds, rifles trained on the columns erected in the center of the room. She goes to take another step when the lights fizzle out again, as if someone had run into the light switch, but she sees exactly what it is just down the causeway... Maren's axe embedded into the light fixture, shattering it to pieces.

One of her soldiers by her side digs into their pocket for a flare, he igniting it, and not a moment later, a knife is embedded directly into the visor, it splattering with a splash of crimson. An animalistic yell rips through the tunnel, and out of the corner of her eye, Amaris witness Anahita dart out of the darkness and tumble into Aris, a blade in her hand, she thrusting with a stabbing motion down at him. He grunts in surprise, the others whirling in surprise to see where the sound is coming from, as Amaris can hardly see three feet in front of her. Anahita yells out a scream of bloody murder as she lifts her hand up, going to stab Aris in the face when he blocks the strike with his arm, holding Anahita up, barely. She yells at him, mouth wide and stretched open in a scream, going to move again, when he kicks her off of him.

She goes sailing back into the darkness, Aris getting to his feet, grabbing his pistol which had been kicked off against the wall. With a growl, he fires two shots randomly in the dark, marbles hitting walls, and bouncing from side to side. There's a glint of silver out of the darkness, Amaris yelping in fright as an arc of metal comes sailing for her. Maren grits her teeth at her, swinging the axe at her again, she just barely scooting out of the way. Amaris rips the knife free out of her pant leg, another gift from Lazarus, she diving forward with it a bit recklessly. It snags onto part of Maren's shirt, slicing her open just above the arm, but nothing more than a shallow cut... not enough to put anyone out of commission. An arrow sails over her head, pinning one of the other Peacekeepers in the leg, the man crying out in pain, falling back behind further cover.

Maren tries reaching for Amaris's helmet, to rip it off perhaps, but this is where she excels, the physical fighting. She drops the knife, grabbing the Career's hand and twisting. There's a crunch of some kind, the girl on the receiving end swallowing a heavy scream, before headbutting Amaris in the face. She sees stars for a moment, falling back, letting go of Maren, to recuperate herself, the Career slithering back into the darkness, taking the axe with her. The girl from Six crawls over to the flare, it still hissing and burning on the ground, illuminating one of the walls in a tinge of crimson. She yells out in fright again as she sees Cyril mesh out of the black, sword in hand, stabbing a Peacekeeper straight in the gut, the man having been distracted by aiming his sights on Jason, who was ripping something free out of the wall. Cyril slashes the sword across the Peacekeeper's chest, the man falling back, before Cyril stabs him in the face, a look of pure evil radiating off of the Career's face.

Amaris gets to her feet, Aris running by her side, nursing a wound on his elbow, but it doesn't look too serious. A Peacekeeper, the only one who isn't dead or injured, joins them shortly thereafter, and she sees the last one limping towards them. Down the causeway though, at the end of the hall, for Amaris cannot find her gun, she sees Vivian and Ponty talking together, he holding onto that cylindrical item she couldn't quite figure out. The Peacekeeper weapon.

"Do it now!" Vivian yells at him, and Amaris sees Ponty raise something high, a hammer or club of sorts, before hitting the weapon. It begins to glow red hot, rising, expanding, in the perfect line of sight for the Peacekeeper hobbling towards them.

"Get down!" Amaris screams at him, but his reaction is too late, the cannon in Ponty's hands firing, it flying out of his hands and wobbling around on the floor. A powerful gust of air, tornado speeds truthfully, soars through the tunnel, extinguishing the flare, picking up her fellow Peacekeeper and flinging him across the room. He never gets a last word out of the ordeal, for he smashes into the opposite side of the room, brain matter and blood exploding everywhere, she gagging at the sight, having to turn away.

There's a loud commotion on the other end, as Cyril, with Ponty's help, rips open the door to the sewer system, everyone starting to run into it, getting away. Jason is arguing with Vivian, Amaris unable to hear the words being said as the thaw of shock settles over her skin, but then Jason pushes Vivian into the blackness, slamming the door shut, holding onto the Peacekeeper weapon. A diversion. Letting the others get away... self-sacrifice, huh? Amaris will not let him have that glory. Aris, however, is much farther ahead of her she supposes, as he stalks towards the boy from Nine, who has long abandoned his spear.

The Career rips the staff out of his pocket, pressing his fingers down onto the two ends, the rod expanding until it is three feet long. Jason strikes the weapon in his hands as hard as he can, Amaris's feet squeaking on the ground, splashing in the puddles as she prepares herself to leap, to take Aris out of harms way, when Aris raises the staff and strikes Jason in the side of the head. He looks stunned for a second, eyes seeing stars, and then the boy collapses, and the weapon falls from his hands, rattling like a hollow can until it rests on the side.

"Aris!" Amaris spits out, almost out of shock, as if she can't help herself.

He looks back at her, seething rage pouring out from his body, breathing heavily, while the one alive Peacekeeper in the squad follows over to them. "This is all your fault. Had you not announced your arrival, we could've caught them off guard, but now they've escaped, and we've got the least valuable one," Aris says in disgust, looking down at Jason's limp body, the boy from Nine having fallen unconscious from the hit. He's right, but Amaris doesn't want to listen to him. "Have him take Jason back to base; we should follow them."

"No," she refuses the idea of a suicide mission, as long as she still has her wits. "They just delivered themselves personally to Constantine's hell; they won't survive for long down there," she looks back, ruefully, at the three Peacekeeper bodies laying in the puddles, one with a knife in their face, one with their brains blown out all over the wall, and one with their body cut up. "We'll need to take the dead back, anyways," and then down at Jason, "And him. I'd argue he's the most valuable; his father is the mayor of Nine, and we know he's here in the city with the rebels."

She tries to hide the disappointment in her voice, but all she can think of now is the failure she's committed. The atrocity that has just happened in front of her eyes, culminating in disaster.

Amaris O'Hara has not stepped up to the plate.


Satin Spinel: District 1 Female P.O.V (18)


Keep pushing. Stay alive. Keep pushing. Stay alive. That is what she's been telling herself over and over again. The more she says it, however, the less and less she believes it. Satin feels her heart drum beneath her training uniform, unable to find anything else to put on, after racing recklessly into the night. Her hands grip onto the edges of the stairwell, cold metal to her warm palms, sweat pouring down her arms, a stickiness coagulating on her legs as the uniform clings to her body. It's way too hot for this sort of exercise, but the nice and sweet gentlemen on her tail would beg to differ. She thought she had been careful, not walking out in the middle of the street, which is now abandoned and lifeless unlike the uproar in which the city had been alive after the interviews. She enters through a wrong door, going out the wrong back exit, and straight into a squad of Peacekeepers.

She's unarmed, unable to find a weapon to protect herself with, and she knows she isn't a scrapper against the white scarab beetles who have guns, and asking them nicely to leave her alone won't do the trick either. Satin has no idea where she's going, but anywhere away from the epicenter of the city will work perfectly too. She simply wants to get away, to leave the action behind, settle down in someone's house who'll gladly take her in to have a Career staying with them, and wait for it all to pass over. "That's funny," she tells herself, with a sly giggle. "I call Cyril a coward, yet here I am running away from the situation." She doesn't have the time to exactly work out the nuances of the situation, more focused on trying to keep her blonde hair out of her eyes, and from her body slipping on the stairs.

Satin reaches the top of the staircase, pushing through the door onto a roof top of some apartment building, the closest escape route she could find away from the Peacekeepers. She can hear their heavy boots on the stairwell, clunking pieces of machinery with the ends of their rifles on the railings. There's currently just one of them in pursuit, the other going to find help, as if he has to go far for it. She can hear him talking on his earpiece, pursuing Subject 2 - "Well, Subject 2 has a name, dickweed," Satin hisses to herself in her head, on foot up a flight of stairs. She looks over the edge of the roof, the other building being about fifteen feet apart from her, at a lower elevation however, and she can see a hatch shining in the sunlight. That's her goal... but that's a long way.

The sounds of the man's footsteps are getting closer, Satin running and slamming the door shut. There's an open can of black paint resting down on the ground, with a brush half dipped into it, and the wall being half painted in an abyss black or snowstorm white on the other end. She holds onto the pail with both hands, kicking the brush aside. The Peacekeeper's voice gets closer and closer, at the first sign of white, she leapt into action. Satin sprung out into the center of the doorway, throwing the can at him. The Peacekeeper jumps in surprise, and then a wave of black splashes over the visor, obstructing his vision immediately. Satin turns the can of paint upside down and dumps the remainder of it on the ground, as the man behind her struggles to wipe his visor clear.

Her heart beat rises to a fever pitch in her head. She can feel Cyril's hands on her shoulders, guiding her through her breathing exercises, feeling a bubble of panic rise in her veins. She had been one of the only tributes to beat the running gauntlet in the training center, and the only Career to do so... she's a Career, dammit, and Careers can do anything they put their mind to. She breathes in, exhaling heavily, and without looking behind her to see if the Peacekeeper has recovered, she takes a running head start for the edge of the roof. The Peacekeeper, who must've wiped his visor clean by then, calls out after her, yelling at her to stop. Keep pushing. Stay alive. Keep pushing. Stay alive. So far, she's doing pretty good with that record.

Satin leaps off of the roof with a shout, her left shoe catching barely on the lip of gravel sticking out. She stumbles some, losing air on her leap, and the panic rises back into her system. The other roof seems to get smaller and smaller, the hopes of reaching it crumbling like a sandcastle hit by a thundering wave. Satin sees the ground approaching rapidly, and with it, certain doom surely. Just as she's about to collide with a dumpster, which would probably break her shin in three, her hands just barely grasp onto the rings of a ladder hanging out of the side, it attached to a fire escape on the side of the building. A surprised croak bubbles in her throat, Satin's body swinging back and forth like a loose branch in the wind. The rung is a vermillion color, and it must be freshly painted too, as when she struggles to hoist herself up further, her palm comes away stained red.

She grits her teeth, hissing in pain from the protest of her knees, which crack and pop as she continues to move. She doesn't dare look back at the other building, knowing that if she does, the anxiety will rise back even worse than before, and she'll be left as a hyperventilating mess with no one to help calm her down. That is the one thing Cyril knew how to do, not that she's sure he'd remember, and she isn't about to bust into someone else's room or apartment to help soothe her nerves; that'd only extrapolate them. Satin makes her way up to the next rung, before pulling herself onto the fire escape, pressing her body into the cold metal. She needs a moment to catch her breath, thinking back to the physical fitness tests that'd have her seeing stars after running two miles in less than twenty minutes, knocking them out in just under twelve minutes, a mile every six. If she had one of her knives with her, this wouldn't be a problem.

"This..." she says, but the words come out heavy, husky, she sounding like a man who's been smoking for years instead. "Is fucked. Capital F." She knows she's not speaking to anyone, not there is anyone to hear her, but she needs to hear her own voice. Satin turns her head to the side, looking up at the other building, righting herself immediately as the Peacekeeper who had been pursuing her makes it to the edge, the man having lifted his visor up to scan the area. The two of them lock eyes, and the Peacekeeper levies his gun at her. Her body kicks itself into high gear once again, scrambling up the steps to the fire escape. The Peacekeeper on the other side fires, and Satin hears the whistle of a projectile on the wind, it embedding into the wall a foot in front of her. It isn't a bullet, like she expects, looking at the spot.

It's a dart.

They aren't trying to kill her, as far as she can tell. Incapacitation, perhaps. She's tried that before, and it isn't for her.

Satin gets to her feet, racing onto the other the top of the other roof, ducking as another dart is fired her way. She lugs herself over the top of it, setting herself down, low to the floor. The Peacekeeper on the other end retracts himself away from the wall; he's way too burly to try and make that jump. She almost calls out at him, to encourage him to take a shot, but that's how she's gotten herself into this mess as it is. It had been simple, running out the way she had come, away from the plume of smoke that still rises from the collapsed training center... out of the frying pan and into the fire. In what might be a skewed set of priorities, part of her is upset that she doesn't get to appreciate the beauty of the Capitol, it being incapable to do so just from the training center, not high enough for being on the first floor... and now she's a fugitive in what would be her safe zone.

She presses herself further into the grainy material of the roof, closing her eyes. For a second, for a split second, she can hear her boyfriend's voice in her head, a voice that is not at all like Cyril's, but sturdy, defiant, and sexy. She can feel his arms wrapping her tight, his breath on his neck, but then she squirms out of the thought, trying to keep her head from bringing up the memory of saying goodbye to him in the Justice Building. In some sort of convoluted way, she's been with her cousin for the latter part of a year, trying to keep the vomit from expelling from her throat all over the leather couches, and all over him, but it is something neither she nor him were told until her own father comes in to say goodbye as well, taking manicured hands in his, which are starting to wrinkle.

It has taught her one thing, however, as she thinks about the relationship with her cousin - still unable to resist the shudder - and that is to expect the unexpected. If she is always expecting it, she will never be surprised, she'll never be caught off guard... she could tackle whatever would come her way.

Satin sits up, looking at her elbows. Colliding with the latter, and resting atop the fire escape... it's scrapped her elbows open, they starting to bleed and crack open like a split Earth. She gets to her feet, dusting her legs off, trying to not focus on the slight stinging of pain emanating from her body. She makes her way over to the hatch, ripping it open, peering down into the stairwell. It's another apartment, although it only looks to be about three floors rather than the five floors of the other one she races up to the top of. She still has no idea where she's going, but it doesn't matter; keep pushing. Stay alive.

"Keep pushing..." she tells herself, taking a shaky breath. "Stay alive."

Satin dips her leg in, scooting over to rest on the rim of the hatch, before slinking herself down through it and to the bottom. She collides with the tiled floor down beneath her with a soft clatter, but not too much noise comes from the fall. She rights herself up, a smile crossing her lips. The last she saw of that Peacekeeper had been one of disappointment, and all she has to do is keep moving. If she keeps moving, then she can't be caught, and if she can't be caught... the goalie zone sparkles on the horizon for her. Satin turns her head to the left, seeing that it's just a dead end to a window, and if she starts breaking things, that'll rouse unwanted attention.

She turns her head to the right, and the water in her mouth dries up, as she stares directly at her own reflection, from the Peacekeeper making their way towards her, and he holding onto another rifle, but she's unable to tell if there's bullets or darts in it.

The man stops at the edge of the hallway where the carpet turns to tile, like the tile she's standing on, and if she's fast enough, she could leap over the banister and onto the second floor, but that'd require semi-perfect timing, and she's not some athletic gymnast with the ability to freeze time.

"Hello, sweetheart," the Peacekeeper smiles at her, Satin's entire body itching as if someone doused her in insects, millipede and centipede legs crawling all over her. "Where did you think you were going, huh?"

She doesn't give him the satisfaction of a response, her body tensing to spring forward, when the door behind her, presumably to someone's apartment of an individual forced on lockdown, opens. Satin catches the glimpse of white in a bulking form out of the corner of her eye, and the quickening heartbeat hastes its return, along with the shortness of breath. Something comes to alive in the second Peacekeeper's hand, a low hum that steadily rises in pitch, similar to her heartbeat, and Satin makes a break for it.

Two pairs of hands clamp at her arms and at her shoulders, holding her back, the humming getting louder and louder. Very faintly, through her peripherals, Satin can see blue sparks, electric raspberry blue in color, darting out and onto the wall, making singe marks where they land. "Fucked," she thinks to herself, with a snarl. "Definite capital F."

The Peacekeeper holding her by the back presses the taser to the back of her neck, jolts of electricity flowing through Satin's body. She shakes in their grip, feeling as her skin hums alive with the coursing waves of energy, falling lax out of their grips and onto the tile.

The last she sees is both of the Peacekeepers flipping their visors up to look at her, with wicked grins on their faces, before the black ants burrow themselves into her vision.


Ciphra Longsdale: District 3 Female P.O.V (18)


Well, it is official; Ciphra Longsdale has no idea what the world is coming to, if, of all people, Seth Cables agrees to fight for a cause not out of his own self-interest. She's sitting in command, elbows bouncing on and off the counter she's resting against, looking over occasionally at Criston Pellock, the victor from Six, he bent over a computer, muttering to himself. There isn't really anything to do, what with half the compound heading out to fight and die in blazes of glory, and Ciphra has been told she's forbidden from leaving, but she imagines it is for the best. She isn't a fighter, never has been, and going around shooting from guns does not speak to her and excite her like it might've a few years ago. She hugs Sage and Cambric goodbye, as tight as she could, latching onto them, eyes squeezed shut, and they hugged her back.

With Vanya and Bloom staying behind, she doesn't feel entirely alone, but with Sage and Cambric, it's different, too. They've witnessed Roanoke and Magdalena die before their very eyes, and their volunteering themselves to face an enemy, a woman, with no moral compass, where everything's off the table, and anything can happen. She doesn't envy them. She does shake Seth's hand, rather awkwardly or clumsily if she were to be asked to recollect how the encounter went, but doesn't feel torn up about seeing him go. Not that Vanya and Bloom don't understand what is happening, especially with Vanya losing Zola, but she feels it differently with the other two... a connection that is not necessarily shared by the others. Bloom mutters something to her about going and practicing with a few of the blades down below in the training facility, and Vanya saying out loud to anyone who'd listen that he's to take a nap, leaving Ciphra on the ground floor all alone.

The only people there of interest, that she's spoken to, are Criston, and the Master of Ceremonies. She sees the victor trio of Hale Cornerstone, Hector Merviere, and Kevia Janelle depart just a couple of hours before the mass of soldiers and personnel take off too, as their fearless leader Rennie leads the charge, with Valencia Shale and Lance Viel bringing up the rear. It doesn't hit her until a few hours later, when the sun has dipped beneath the sky, painting it in alternative bands of pitch black and serene navy blue, that she might not see any of them again. It doesn't hit her the same way losing Tach had struck her, a sob escaping her throat, and she unable to keep her breathing under control for the good part of an hour, even with Sage and Bloom coaching through some exercises, but she does feel a wave of melancholy wash over her.

She pushes herself off away from the counter, over to Criston's side of the room. There's no one else to talk to, the others having gone to bed, but something nips away at her skin, and if Ciphra is to close her eyes in regards to anything such as sleep, the feeling intensifies like a pressure building on the back of her skull, as if someone with an ice pick is jabbing it at her. Ironically, as she looks over at Criston, she sees her father, somewhat tall, with dark hair like her own, always bent over a computer or something technological, muttering to himself about who knows what - Veracity would, actually, now that Ciphra thinks about it - but he'd still find time to actually, well, look at her. She misses home, and her elaborate staircases. She misses her mother and father and the smell of syrup from pancake breakfasts rising from the ground floor.

Veracity's hearty laughter, choking full of oil and rigid movements compared to his eloquent speech would flood the empty hallways while everyone still slept. The moments in time where the worst thing she had to worry about is the back pain coming from her anterior pelvic tilt, for always sitting down in chairs, or fearing that the strange boy would try to break into her room again through the curtains, now realizing that it had been Tach all this time, a friendship found too late, and lost too soon. She has no idea why she wouldn't have ever told someone about Tach, or why she never tried speaking to him before that day on the train, it maybe being fear that held her back, but she's not sure. Facing it head on has never been her strongest suit in life; she knows that jumping into a pit of alders is the quickest way to get bitten, but dammit, if she doesn't want to try.

Her father would find a way to make things right, she knows it. If her brain were unable to build the bridge to the correct destination, if it is only a matter of time until her father would come climbing up the stairs, a strong smile on his face, and the problems of the world would meld away. What is happening with her family, right now? Before becoming private contractors with District 3 in terms of security, her parents had been... Ciphra's eyes widen suddenly, and she gets to her feet, a sharp twinge of pain erupting from her back, but she doesn't care. She marches directly over to Criston, but even then, her sudden reaction does nothing more than elicit a tiring sigh out of him. He looks like he hasn't slept in three weeks, heavy bags underneath twinkling emeralds, but even they have lost their shine.

Ciphra shakes him by the shoulder. "Mr. Pellock?" she asks him, but makes a face. He's only three years older than her, he's no antiquated sir, and he's sure no shining knight in armor riding to her rescue; as if she'd require one. Still no response, he zoned entirely into the screen in front of him. "Criston?" she keeps on pushing, lightly slapping him across the face. It smacks the glasses that are perched on the precipice of his nose to slip off and clatter onto the ground, onto the dirty bunker floor, but he only blinks the distraction away. "Criston!" Ciphra yells at him, and then, forming a fist, slugs him directly in the stomach.

That does the trick. The victor from Six coughs in pain, pushing himself away from the counter, groaning out and clutching at his stomach. Dark jade eyes search around the room until they land on her, it just being he and Ciphra in the command center. Tomorrow morning starts the work with Pollux, she, Vanya, and Bloom to be sitting down across a radio receiver and a tiny camera, going to town on rallying support. For the moment, though, it is just her, and the alien on who knows what planet, that she has to work with.

"What the hell was that for?" he barks back at her, a glare passing over his face.

Ciphra tucks a few strands of dark hair behind her ears, trying to look as entirely innocent as she can, but the years of growing up are lost on her charm, turning the innocent smile into one of a smirk, her cheeks burning in embarrassment, a tinge of rosy pink and scalding lava red. "Sorry, but you weren't responding," to which Criston scoffs back at her, scooting forward to retrieve his glasses off the ground. "What are you working on?" she asks innocently, looking back at his computer screen. All she sees is a nearly blank white screen, and a titles list scrolling all the way down, and looking at the scroll bar on the side, is heavily expansive.

Criston blows a tuff of dark hair out of his eyes, placing his glasses on his face, after Ciphra beats him to the punch and hands them to him. "Rennie and Pollux wondered if I could find a way to hack into the Capitol security system, and wreak all sorts of havoc in it."

"Well, how's it going?"

"Terribly, if you must know," and he's reached the counter again, gripping onto it heavily.

Ciphra pulls her chair over to his, sitting down. "Why? What's the problem?"

"I'm a good programmer, I'd say, and an even better inventor," Criston comments, offhandedly, and she sees the way his lips twitch, she smirking back at him with a raised eyebrow. He doesn't look like much to her, just a pale man and precious jewels for eyes. A voice in the back of her head reminds her that she is talking to a Hunger Games victor who had won them at thirteen years-old, Roanoke's age, meaning there's more than what meets the eye, most certainly. "But this... this is a mess. Accessing the first firewall is easy enough, almost like they'd expect it, but then you're given the entrance to this," he gestures out with his hands, Ciphra following the pathway to the screen. "A manic mess of files and folders, which opens up their own programs and well, who knows what belongs to what. There's thousands and thousands of pathways, and we could be here for years trying to figure out what it solves."

"Well, can't you just-" she goes to ask, but he looks at her decisively, shutting her up.

"No, Ciphra, I'm not going to start just randomly messing up with the code. We want running water, we want the lights to stay on, and I want to not release every dead mutt or tribute ever created during the Games either," Ciphra opens her mouth to ask him to clarify, but Criston keeps on talking. "I know that there must be some specific pathways focusing specifically on Capitol security, like the mansion, or Head Gamemaker Center... but everything's all nicknames and codes and I could be here forever, when there's a new generation of victors to replace us."

As far back as she can remember, and many of these conversations happened over the creation of Veracity, her father would say that the answer's would lie directly in front of your face, but she'd be too focused on finding the loophole that would be dug so deep it is as if she's excavating a fossil. "What letter did you end up on? The files are arranged alphabetically?"

"They are," Criston nods his head. "And I'm on V. I skipped from A to T and have been scrolling ever since then, figuring out every anagram or symbol I can think of, but... well, nothing."

"Can I have a try?" she asks politely. Something compels her to the screen, it being nothing special, of course, but something calls to her. The call of adventure perhaps, the same call that has Tach swinging like a gorilla from one room to the other with his curtains into her own.

The victor looks at her peculiarly, and in the dark she can see his eyes sparkle in mystification, but he sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. "Sure, Ciphra; knock yourself out." He gets out of his seat, and she swaps places with him, the seat warm when she takes it, squirming slightly at the thought of absorbing his heat. He looks nice, sure, but she's not his type; as far as she's aware, no one's ever been her type except digits of programming or leaky robots.

Ciphra scrolls through the list, eyes narrowing in on the files. Most of them are just a V_ style, with numbers onto the end of them, like a serial tag. Scrolling up to the top of the list proves to be the same thing, just replacing the letter with whatever comes next in the alphabet. Criston is right, it would take eons for someone to go through all this code, let alone the possibility of someone remembering what all of this could mean to someone on the inside, let alone an outsider. She scrolls back to the V's, making a clicking noise in her throat with her tongue, humming to herself, fingers sliding over the pad of the computer.

Something causes her to recoil away from the screen in confusion, Ciphra furrowing her eyebrows together, and then scooting right back up to it.

Why... why is her family robot's name written all over the files?

She scrolls past a few, scanning the screen. Veracity's left arm. Veracity's left leg. Veracity's brain. Veracity this, Veracity that. Ciphra's eyes widen, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. "You wouldn't know what it was even if it was staring at you directly in the face..." she whispers, a feeling of elation rising in her veins.

Criston frowns to himself, having caught onto the brunt end of her sentence. "What'd ya say?"

Ciphra whirls around in the chair, clapping her hands together. "Criston, I think I know which files are it."

Although she's been out of the game for awhile, Ciphra Longsdale is stepping up to the plate to bat, and when she swings, she never misses.


Tribute List (Boy - Girl)

District 1: Cyril Barther [Submitted by thorne98] / Satin Spinel [Submitted by Mistycharming]

District 2: Aris Lindel [Submitted by Grimbutnotalways] / Maren Johnson [Submitted by Crashed Ice24]

District 3: Ciphra Longsdale [Submitted by Flammifera]

District 4: Anahita Cascade [Submitted by Reader Castellan]

District 5: Seth Cables [Submitted by Nemris]

District 6: Ponty Carr [Submitted by Queenofinsanity] / Amaris O'Hara [Submitted by LiveFreeOrDie]

District 7: Sage Dagoba [Submitted by AlexFalTon]

District 8: Cambric Vogel [Submitted by dyloccupy]

District 9: Jason Lacey [Submitted by ilvidis]

District 10: Vivian Whiplash [Submitted by SetFiresJust2WatchThemBurn]

District 11: Vanya Vasiliev [Submitted by TheMayflyProject]

District 12: Mirek Bosco [Submitted by curiousclove] / Bloom Estrada [Submitted by LordShiro]

...

Capitol Cast of Characters

President of Panem: Bonnie Rodney

Leader of the Phoenix Rebellion: Rennie Davis

Master of Ceremonies: Pollux Aetos

Victor of the 100th Hunger Games: Valencia Shale

Victor of the 79th Hunger Games: Lance Viel

Victor of the 92nd Hunger Games: Criston Pellock

Victor of the 87th Hunger Games: Hale Cornerstone

Victor of the 77th Hunger Games: Hector Merviere

Victor of the 84th Hunger Games: Kevia Janelle

Head Gamemaker: Constantine Fallorne

Head Peacekeeper: Lazarus Pietro


Alrighty, everyone, that was Chapter #28: Stepping Up to the Plate, for Bombs and Bullets, the continuation of the Phoenix Rebellion through the eyes of our tributes. A lot has happened, and as you can all tell, the POVs got shorter the longer this went on, because goodness, I just wrote this entire chapter in like thirty hours total spanning across these last two days and I'm tired, haha, and posting two days ahead of schedule, which is always a plus! There were no casualties for the tributes or the Capitol cast this time around, but doesn't mean a storm isn't brewing on the horizon soon. Cyril and Vivian have gotten a bit closer, the Tigress company acquired a weapon, Seth has joined the rebellion, Amaris and Aris now have Jason in their clutches, Satin has found herself in a predicament, and Ciphra has made his game a bit more complicated with a potential loophole coming through... and my hype inside me is bubbling, threatening to erupt, ya'll.

Chapter #29: Death Has No Allegiance, will be coming out no later than April 9th, that I'm shooting for, going back to another four POVs for the Capitol characters, and then after that, something I've been building to and building to and building to, bringing back the usage of a soundtrack for some Paradigm action sequences! I hope you all review; it'd mean the absolute world to me, and we've now entered the less than ten chapters left countdown, so start your own calendar, hold onto some horse reins, and prepare for yourself, cause we'll be moving at a pretty brisk pace. I love you all so much! Have a great day! Bye!

~ Paradigm