Lord, I live to entertain

All my pride is in my praise

I hum along with this vibration

And hope to God I make it

-Badflower, the Jester


CHAPTER 19

WAITING ON EDGE


Filip 'Padds' Padderson (17), District 9 Tribute


"That went worse than expected," Winston laments, wetting a comb in the bathroom sink. Padds rests his shoulder on the door frame, watching the other boy as he runs the comb through his hair, trying to get all of the hairspray out. Behind them, Sebastiana and Arley are chatting on the couch; all four still dressed in their interview outfits.

"Yeah," Padds agrees with Winston, taking a deep breath and exhaling to steady himself. He is acutely aware of the doorframe digging into the small of his back, but makes no move to shift positions. Padds watches quietly as Winston combs all of the hairspray out, using a towel to dry his hair. It didn't hit him until tonight just how good-looking his ally is, but neither the hairspray nor Winston's girlfriend back home give Padds any hints of romance. Not that I need one… but it would be nice to live it up while I'm alive, he muses. He and his friend Varia would occasionally fool around back at home, but that was the extent of any relationships Padds has had. Padds twists her silver bracelet around his wrist, thinking wistfully of seventeen years spent back at home, even despite its pitfalls and shortcomings.

Winston's hair still looks rather stiff in some places, but by now the other boy has completely given up. His mint green shoulders are covered in hundreds of little water droplets. "I didn't like the way they were all staring at me, you know?" Padds admits. "It's like they're all just watching us and waiting to see us mess up so they can laugh about our misfortunes. But hey, whatever. They're just Capitolites," he continues nonchalantly, trying to not let the thought of arena cameras monitoring his every move get burrowed under his skin.

It's a feeling Padds has hated since he was a little boy, when his parents watched like hawks over his shoulder for any error. Anything at all, it was always critique after critique… nothing ever seemed good enough for the Padderson matriarch and her husband. It was never a rewarding feeling to be shunted aside for his younger siblings. Sure… Challah and Kieran are smarter than me, but don't I deserve the same amount of love? Padds thinks frustratedly, clenching his hands into fists and then flexing his fingers outward. Instead of worrying, he laughs. We may not get many opportunities to laugh in the coming days, Padds reminds himself, ignoring the confused look Winston sends his way. It's much easier to brush things off, something that rings true for the embarrassment Padds felt initially during his interview.

Winston shifts to the side of the sink and Padds takes a step towards the gorgeous white sink, marbled veins running through its glassy smooth surface. The sink has two basins, both made of stainless steel that has been manufactured with a shiny golden hue. The color reminds him of the vast expanses of grains that stretched for miles in every direction outside the town center. The grains that mom and dad helped engineer, he remembers. But even that was not enough to save him from the luck of the draw; a single slip of paper fished out of a glass bowl has landed him in this predicament. There's only so long I can shrug it all off and say I'm fine with it. Padds sluices cold water over his face, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead. Padds is careful not to get his copper-colored hair too wet, as he quite likes the tousled look the District Nine stylists achieved with a little sea salt spray and pomade.

"So what do you want to do about tomorrow?" he asks Winston while turning off the faucet.

There is a pause as Winston dries his broad hands on the damp towel he used to dry off his hair. "Alright, I've got nothing," Winston says. "What do you think we should do?"

"I'll bite," Padds grins. God, it feels good to smile. "Well for one, if we start to overthink tomorrow, then it's gonna turn out really horrible," Padds says. Do first, ask questions never, he thinks wryly. It's a motto that has caused him plenty of issues in his life, but impulse control is something Padds has always struggled with. Why waste time thinking when you can just do it? "I say we get in there and grab supplies as fast as possible, then get the hell out before the Careers can catch us," he decides.

Winston suddenly looks tired, and begins to voice an objection. "What if the Careers-"

"If the Careers catch you, just scream as loud as you can and hope they fall over in fright," Padds jokes, trying to lighten the mood. "Should be easy enough."

"Padds," Winston addresses him, his voice taking on a serious tone, "Stop kidding around with me for just one second. Do you really think it's a good idea to just wing the whole thing? It's the most important part of the Games, and I don't wanna get fucked over because we didn't have a good enough plan." The grievance falls between the two of them, and Padds scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably, focusing on the skyscrapers out the window instead while he mulls over his thoughts. The far wall of the bathroom is just glass, but it's reflective so that while tributes shower, they can see out, but the fanatic Capitolites cannot see in. At least I hope so, he shudders, averse to the thought that he may be getting watched in the nude. Gross.

"You remember what Valentine said to you," Padds finally says, mentally weighing the harshness of the statement. "And he might honestly be right, we're already at a disadvantage if we have to get Bash and Arley out alive. I mean, I was sure they could do it up until tonight, and now I'm having my doubts. What if they drag us down?"

"What do you mean, Padds?" Winston hisses at his ally, the noise low and raspy.

Padds watches the other boy's eyebrows as they furrow together with worry. "I don't want my chances of going home split in half just because we have to help them escape the bloodbath." At Winston's blank expression, he sighs in frustration. This isn't like me… I don't get frustrated. "I'm a lot of things, Winston, but I'm not a coward. I'll throw myself into the fray if need be, but I'm just asking you to think about it from a logical standpoint!"

If Challah or his parents were here, no doubt they'd be laughing at the statement. Padds? Being logical? He supposes there is irony in the statement, but more important is making sure he clears the bloodiest fifteen minutes of the Games.

"Okay," Winston begins, his voice subdued. He braces a hand against the counter as if this conversation is greatly taxing. I get that he sees Bash like a little sister. She's a piece of home. Padds sighs, knowing full well how it feels. I never knew Arley before this, but she reminds me of Kieran. Challah a bit too, he admits, even though it is a stretch to compare Arley and her naivete to Challah's superiority complex. I've always thought maybe I could do better for these two than I ever could for my younger siblings.

The thought hurts, but it is viable. "Like you said, Padds," his ally says. "Why don't we just wing the whole thing and see what happens? If all four of us survive, then fine, no worries. But if we can't save them, we need to know when to stop so that we don't put our own lives at risk," Winston says slowly, and the two exit the bathroom, the conversation terminated. Winston takes off his suit jacket and lays it carefully on the back of the couch, and Padds does likewise, unraveling the scarf from around his neck.

"Hey!" says Bash, brightening up when they walk back into the dim living room. "I heard you two talking about getting supplies when I went to go take off my heels," she says, making Padds freeze. How much did she hear? "I think it's a good idea to wing it too," Bash agrees, nodding her head. She makes no sign that she heard any of the conversation that had revolved around her or Arley, and instead goes to sit next to Padds' district partner, who still has the red ribbons wrapped around her feet.

"Look," Arley grins, lifting a bowl above her head. "I have popcorn," she declares, readjusting her copper crown so that it does not slide down her head. "I wonder if anyone will sponsor us some of this in the Games," Arley wonders aloud. Winston and Padds exchange a glance, and the latter cracks a smile.

But the thought of losing his allies lingers, and in the shadow of death, Padds remains faced with a great deal of unshakeable uncertainty.


Asher 'Wolfchild' Foster (17), District 11 Tribute

"Well, that went just about as smoothly as planned," Castiel grins jovially at the group of assembled Careers as he walks into the District Four apartment, arms outstretched. The seven of them had arrived in the apartments after dressing down from their glamorous interview outfits, although many of the elements are still visible, such as Hela's dragon-scale makeup and black acrylic nails, which have begun to dig gently into his forearm. The two had been mid-conversation before the District One pair had arrived, consistently the last ones to show up. Not like any adults are going to mind, Asher thinks impishly. Siren had informed them that their mentors had left to go drinking to celebrate, which made her and Alton chuckle. I guess one of their mentors is a drunk. Lucky enough for him, his mentor Magnolia seems fairly competent. Not like I spend a lot of time back in the Eleven apartments anyway, though. Something about the earthy colors reminds him too much of home, and Asher much prefers the sea-inspired upholstery of this apartment. Change of pace, he muses quietly from his place on the couch. Perhaps that's why this whole experience has been nice for me. I can ditch everything behind. Everything but the pressures of his persona, it would seem.

And now it's the Wolfchild's turn to reap… Asher's own words reverberate around his head momentarily, relishing the thought of proving himself to be exactly who he says he is. No room for weakness… he sighs, running a hand through his wavy red hair. But the more time I spend with all of them… with Hela, the weaker I'm going to get. Asher would never admit it to anyone, but there is a deep-rooted fear lodged in his gut. I don't want to die being alone. Love isn't something easy to come across in the orphanages and streets of District Eleven. What we had was mutual respect. That's it. There was never love on the streets, nor was there love hidden in the unforgiving void of a Peacekeeper visor. Only respect, and you never could get anywhere without it. Respect had caused Asher to do many things, a handful of which he regrets. But just like the Hunger Games, it's all about survival.

"Hela and Asher..." Castiel continues, making Asher snap to attention. Their leader is pointing an almost accusatory finger at the pair of them where they sit on the couch. "You guys totally killed it out there. If the rest of the tributes weren't afraid of us already, I have no doubts they will be now." The compliment seems to earn Hela's stamp of approval, as her normally frosty smile seems a bit more genuine. Or maybe I'm just getting better at detecting her emotions, Asher decides. After all, the pair of them have spent quite a lot of time together ever since the first night of training when he practically attacked her on the landing.

Moses is grinning too, and drapes his fitted navy blue blazer over the back of an equally blue armchair, having not bothered to change into something more comfortable. "Yeah, I'd uh, I'd say that the Capitol would see all of us as crowd favorites," he shrugs, sitting on the arm of the chair casually. Siren nods, folding her arms and leaning against the wall.

The five other Careers are clustered around the doorway, but from the couch, Hela addresses them. "We're the Careers, after all. We might as well be," she says coolly. But the elegant nodding of her head suggests that Hela is in fact pleased with how the interviews turned out. Asher smiles to himself and rests his elbow on the edge of the couch, getting a better view of the rest of the Careers.

"So what's the plan for tomorrow?" Siren asks the group, her jade-colored eyes curious. "Before we enjoy our last night here, I want to know what we should be prepared to do tomorrow, you know?" She and Crescentia look expectantly at Castiel, who suddenly looks rather tired. Shame, Asher thinks, feeling slightly irritated by all the moodiness these Careers seem to harbor. As if you're one to talk, Asher scolds himself.

"I think we need to take control of the Cornucopia. Supplies are a priority, and it can double as a quick and defensible shelter. Anyone have any ideas or objections?" Castiel asks them.

Asher nods, grinning ear to ear as he raises a hand jokingly. "How about a small group of us rush the Cornucopia and take weapons to defend it with, while the rest of us try to cull the competition while they're vulnerable?"

Hela nods in agreement beside him, a smirk drawn on her face at the thought of a fight. "I like that," she assents. "Why don't you and I thin the herd, Asher?" Hela asks him. He nods in response, offering her a flirty smile.

"You and me, eh?" he asks. She prods him in the ribs with an acrylic nail, making him surrender rather quickly to her patronizing glare.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Moses nods, pushing up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. "I can play defense, if you guys want," he suggests.

Siren laughs. "I'm good with spears, so I'll volunteer to join Moses. I can keep some of them away from the equipment for the time being." Crescentia seems to be on board with joining the other two, which does raise an eyebrow from Alton. She did get a one for her score. Ruben had a valid point in that, at least. He's starting to feel suspicious, wondering if Crescentia may have ulterior motives. But she isn't our concern right now, Asher decides, remembering his conversation with Hela on the balcony. We knock the king off his hill first.

"I can help Hela and Asher," Alton suggests, which makes Asher want to groan aloud. Out of everyone else, Alton is the one he has gotten along with the least, especially after their scuffle in the cafeteria. I may have to pretend to like him, but Alton doesn't deserve any accolades for helping us take out the rest of the tributes.

Castiel, however, nods in agreement with the other boy's plans. "Sounds solid. I'll help guard the Cornucopia, but Crescentia and I can help the three of you on offense if we need it. I think since supplies are such a big deal, we need to make sure we are the ones who are getting them."

Asher nods. "We can grab some of the stuff outside the Cornucopia too, assuming it's not a dry year for supplies, that way everyone else doesn't get them. Sounds like a bad day to not be a Career," he says, the mirth in his eyes cancelling out the ruthlessness of the statement. This is going to be a walk in the park.

Crescentia shrugs. "Fine by me. I think we need to keep an eye on some of the other high scorers, though. District Six could be a problem, same with Winston from Seven, and Ruben from Ten. Should we take them out or avoid them?"

Alton grins. "I can try and take on some of the Sixes, if you guys want. Well, that is if they're close enough to me."

Hela nods. "Asher and I can take down Winston's alliance." This seems to provoke Castiel, who gets offensive all of the sudden.

"No, I'm going to be the one who kills Winston. District Seven is mine," Castiel says, all pretenses gone in an instant as his eyes narrow into dark blue thunderclouds. Damn. A tense silence falls over the group, and Hela shakes her head in quiet disbelief.

"Do we leave Ruben alone?" asks Moses quietly, breaking the awkward silence.

"I mean," Asher scratches his neck, glad for an excuse to keep the conversation going, "if he doesn't get weapons, he won't be as much of a threat. That whole 'apex predator' thing was bullshit," he laughs. Ruben may have scored an eight, but all Asher can think about is how ridiculous he and his spitfire partner looked on the chariot in front of him during the parade. A bit hard to take his threats seriously when I can only imagine Ruben with giant pink udders hanging down to his knees. The curse of the outer districts, Asher supposes.

"I agree. He doesn't have any alliances. So if you can take him out, go for it but if not, he shouldn't be too much of a threat against us," Crescentia informs the rest of them. "Maybe he can even take out some of the other competition." The conversation seems to peter out after the discussion of neutralizing threats, and after a brief side conversation, Alton breaks away to show Castiel and Crescentia something in another room.

An awkward pause falls over the remaining four, but Siren and Moses come sit on the couch opposite them. The four listen to the noises coming from the streets beneath the balcony for a moment before Moses gets up restlessly. "I'm going to go see what Alton's up to," he says, blushing madly.

"Don't get lost!" Siren calls to him, making the back of his neck flush. The three of them mask their chuckling with coughing until Moses has left. "It's obvious, right?" Siren asks. Hela and Asher nod. "They definitely make a cute couple, I think," Siren tells them. "I can think of something else that's pretty obvious too," she grins, tracing her lower lip with her teeth. A stunned silence evolves from her blatant statement, and she stands, flipping her long voluminous hair. "I'm just not sure the two of you realize it yet," Siren grins, walking away from the pair of them to go off somewhere else.

"Hey!" Asher calls out. "What the f-"

"Oh, calm down Wolf Boy," Hela interjects. "You know she's just trying to get under your skin."

"Is she now?" Asher asks. "That's new." The unspoken game of cat-and-mouse continues, and Hela stands up too, teasing her own midnight black hair out of their fancy braids and letting it fall down the small of her back. She struts over to the balcony, leaving him to drool over on the couch. Do I follow her? He ponders, mind racing now that the two of them are left alone again. I don't know what to do anymore. But Asher has begun to crave her touches ever since he pinned her against the landing wall, a blade pressed into her pale moon-white neck. She came with a proposition, but in his close proximity to Hela, he could smell the sweet mint on her breath, and feel her heartbeat so close to his own, sending tremors through his skin. Fuck it, Asher decides, making the harrowing decision to join her on the ledge.

"Nervous for tomorrow?" Hela asks him, her emerald eyes glimmering in the dusky blue glow the city lights are radiating.

"Nah," Asher says jauntily. We've most certainly played this game before. Her lethal wit never ceases to amaze him. "I'm not too worried about the Hunger Games. It's not like they'll make a difference if I get out of here or not," he admits, looking out at the skyline. One forearm is braced against the railing, the other disappearing into the pockets of his skinny jeans, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. She likes confidence. I like confidence. It's always been a game of mutual respect.

"What do you mean?" Hela asks alarmedly. "Why don't they make a difference? I get that the Peacekeepers don't like you, but they can touch you if you win, Asher."

"I know, Asher says solemnly, immediately regretting his choice of words. "But I've got uh... I have skin cancer from exposure to the sun. From all the work they made me do in the fields." Hela is about to say something, lips parted to issue forth a ghostly string of words since Asher cuts her off like he did with Mr. Valentine just an hour before, "I don't need your damn pity, Hela. Spare me the pleasantries, okay? Why would you care anyway?" But it shocks him how crestfallen Hela's face becomes. Normally so cold and composed, she now almost looks vulnerable. "I'm sorry," Asher says, trying to amend how stupoid this all feels. Her face hardens again, lips closing again as they stare at each other.

"Asher," she begins quietly, seeming subdued. Hela turns back to the city, fiddling with the cube-shaped gem on the end of her necklace. "Do you think Siren is right?"

"What the hell do you mean? About Moses and Alton? Yes they're a thing," he says exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, Asher… about us." Her words get him to look up again, meeting her gaze which now feels deeper and more connected. Her eyes are glistening in the light and Asher feels a pang in his heart as he sees a tear roll down her marble cheeks. He moves in closer to brush it away, closing the gap between them. How do I feel about Hela? Asher wonders, his eyes drinking in the sight of his ethereal warrior goddess. He reaches out to tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, feeling the tips of his fingers crackle with an innate electricity from her cold skin. From touch. She's strong and powerful… she's hot as hell. Asher sighs, his breath almost hitching in his chest as the world seems to slow down as she places a hand on his forearm. Does she want the same things I do? To be loved for once? He recalls a lengthy conversation they had after sparring with some trainers about how she came to be a ward of the Academy. Because she couldn't find any love in her world either. Asher's skin is prickling, itching to drop the facade that they have begun to build between them.

"Are we dropping the facade?" he asks slowly. "What… h-what do you feel?" Asher asks, feeling unsure as his hand moves to cup the side of her face. Hela catches his hand, and he doesn't know who initiates it, but the two close the distance even further, becoming one as his lips find hers, feverish with repressed desire. It is brief, yet electrical, and Asher doesn't want to open his eyes, for nothing in the world could be better than finally getting to taste the soft sweetness of Hela Mistlyre's lips.

She draws back for a moment, placing a slender hand on his chest. "I feel like tonight feels right to get this all out before we crush some skulls tomorrow," she whispers, a confession that makes Hela bite her lip and lower her eyes almost shyly. Enough of the talking about death and gloom, Asher thinks. I'm getting through her armored skin, he thinks, desperate to understand the enigma in front of him. I want to know Hela for who she really is.

"Ah, but where were we?" he asks, a sultry undertone in his voice. The two lean into each other, and he takes his hand off the railing, winding it through her dark silky hair. Her breath smells of mint, a scent which drives him wild, and he kisses her hungrily, supernovas bursting behind his closed eyelids as their lips collide. Her body is fierce and rigid against his own, and his free hand explores her slender curves as she presses into him. Hela's lips taste divine, a sensation which causes his entire body to tremble, as if she is the lost component of him that he has been desperately seeking for so long. She caves into his kisses, each one simultaneously fiercer and softer than the last, but it is Hela who surprises Asher by introducing her tongue to his mouth.

Hela caresses the side of his face gently, as if to tell him it would be a sin to break away. Eventually they must, and both are breathing hard as her lips disentangle from his own, the cold breeze dancing chilly figure-eights across his own lips as they stand separated, an inch apart. Asher holds her in his arms, seeing for the first time a barrier knocked down behind her guarded green eyes, and he knows that one must have fallen behind his own. But things feel stripped away completely, and Asher is no longer the dangerous Wolfchild; he can just be Asher, and maybe for once she can just be Hela, at least until tomorrow.

Her touch is cool against his feverish skin, a symphony of fire and ice that melts his heart into a gooey mess at the bottom of his ribcage, and Asher finds her lips again, brushing them softly with his thumb before drawing her close so that the world cannot take her away. Not yet. He breathes in her sweet fragrance as she buries her head in his shoulder, and he rests his chin on her head protectively, blinking back tears of his own.

Tonight - for Asher at least - professions of love have been made in the looming shadow of death, and it might just be enough to keep him going.


Halley Verron (12), District 8 Tribute

The euphoria that had radiated from within Halley following the interviews dissipates as soon as she sets foot back in the District Eight apartments. The cold atmosphere of the forlorn-looking dining area dampens her spirits, the breath leaving Halley's lungs as if they are a pair of paper bags that have been crumpled and discarded. Something about the ghostly luminescence of the city lights illuminating the dining area strikes a dark chord within Halley, reminding her of the identical ambiance that shrouded the ruins of the old Verron home. She is grateful when Augustus, their escort, claps his hands and the cold blue glow is replaced by the soft dusky orange lights hanging down from the ceiling like drops of liquid amber.

Halley remains frozen in the doorway, unable to relinquish the feelings in the pit of her stomach. Halley remembers nights sitting curled on the entryway steps of the decrepit building across the street from her home, watching the soot-stained rubble as if her willpower alone could resurrect her parents from the conflagration that had razed the home to the ground. Just months after Mom and Dad had saved enough money to move out of the tenements, Halley remembers. I remember a lot of things.

"Halley?" Augustus asks, a perplexed look on his face. "Are you alright?" She nods a weak yes, and the man strolls off to his chambers, beckoning an Avox to come help him with some trivial task or other. Halley takes another step into the now well-lit main room, pulling out a barstool and sitting on it. The counter feels smooth and cold under her fingertips, and Halley rests her head on her left arm, drawing circles on its surface with her free index finger.

Her interview went about as well as expected, with the red-haired Master of Ceremonies leaning forward and prompting her with a multitude of questions she felt too tired to answer. Halley had spoken of her experiences, the determination coursing through her veins like never before. I'm a survivor. I can do this. It hurts Halley to hear so many tributes talk about their loved ones at home. Boyfriends and girlfriends, brothers, sisters, fathers and mothers. And I have no one rooting for me. Halley stops tracing circles with her finger, feeling tears well up to her eyes.

It stings. No use in lying about it, Halley knows. No use in pretending. Her mind is filled with visions of glory, of streamers and shouting and parades. Of the golden textiles spun by the sun itself, that she wears now only under the mighty shadow of death. But there isn't anything waiting for me back home. There won't be, except a home. A real, honest-to-goodness home.

The fact is tarnished by how empty it would be, despite Halley telling Mr. Valentine that she would fill the home with all of the other orphans that the foster homes were too full to take. Alone in the Victors Village with Twyla, the sole mentor that she and Darnius share. It's a home her parents would die for, though the thought makes the back of Halley's throat feel sour and acidic. They already died for one house, she thinks, the flames threatening to ignite behind her eyelids as she draws in a deep breath.

"Hey Halley," Darnius announces himself, putting a hand on the counter next to her. Halley can feel her stomach grow tense, as if she must prepare herself to slap him again like she did on the night of the parade. The pair haven't spoken to each other very much, since facing Darnius seems to take every ounce of energy left in her body. I don't want to hear what Darnius has to say, Halley tells herself, refusing to lift her head off her arm. She resumes tracing circles on the countertop. Ironically, though being alone is the last thing Halley wants right now, it is the only thing that will help her deal with the weights of the world that have been carelessly chained around her neck.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said that night, okay?" Darnius pleads with her. After a moment of silence, he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it across the back of a barstool chair. The jacket clashes with the rest of the surprisingly simplistic apartment, being a chaotic pattern of autumn colors that add a pop of color to the otherwise bleak looking apartment. The swatches of color remind Halley of the leaves that would fall off the massive sycamore tree in one of District Eight's few parks when the autumn season began. She used to climb between the branches to avoid the larger street boys and angry Peacekeepers. It felt safe up there, Halley recalls. Like I was on top of the world, away from all of this horseshit.

In response, Halley shakes her head softly. The curls the stylists spent hours putting in her hair bounce against her shoulders, a stark contrast to the usual ponytail she keeps her hair in. I don't want to talk to him about this. "You aren't, Darnius," Halley replies simply.

Darnius sighs and runs fingers through his thick hair, tousling it in a way that would almost be laughable if the situation the two of them were in was different. "Give me some credit, okay?" he sighs, the drawn-out sound escaping his lips and making him seem to deflate. His shoulders curl inward, and for a millisecond, Halley feels bad for Darnius. She recalls the conversation they had on the train after the recap aired. After Darnius had helped her clean herself off, scrubbing vomit out of the beautiful paisley dress she had taken from Miss Lylanis on the day of the Reapings. It was a conversation about his girlfriend back home in Eight, and how much Darnius was going to miss her. He must really be in love, Halley thinks wryly, wondering what it must feel like to fall for someone like her district partner has. I could die tomorrow without ever getting to know what it feels like to kiss someone! It's a feat most twelve-year-olds cannot boast off, save the flirty girl from District Seven who absolutely gushes when Mr. Valentine asks her anything. Darnius clears his throat, drawing her back to the present. "I… I didn't know about your situation, Halley. I'm sorry for making fun of your friend…"

Halley feels him move behind her, the sounds of his dress shoes clacking against the floor. The leather couch groans as Darnius sits in it, but Halley still stares ahead, now trying to immerse herself in the elaborate stonework of the decor wall behind the counter. There have been so many things… so many things that young Halley Verron has said and done in her life, just to scrape by another day on the wintry streets of Eight. Someone like Darnius would never look at her. He wouldn't care. She had heard it in his voice, when she turned her back on the crowd, hoping that they wouldn't turn their back on her. The anger and the hope. He's oblivious.

"Well, you're right! You didn't know, did you? What kind of excuse is that?" Her fists curl inward again, and Halley straightens up in her seat with a huff, staring him down with her arms folded. I kept fighting until I could beat those boys, she thinks to herself as Darnius struggles for an answer. Not so I could sit beneath them and let them lay the law of the land.

"It's not an excuse," Darnius tells her, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "I'm sorry, Halley." He frowns, and she sees a bitter veil descend over his eyes. "But it isn't my fault, okay? You aren't the only person in this world who's lost people, you know?"

Now it's her turn to frown, and Halley can feel hot tears of anger come to her eyes. "Don't belittle me, Darnius. I didn't put myself out there for the world to see just to be ridiculed." Upon seeing his expression shift, she pauses, hands hanging limp and useless at her side. None of this is my fault, Halley thinks, watching the myriad of blue city lights dance across the walls behind Darnius, their intensity not unlike the colors on his jacket. But brighter. More artificial.

"I'm sorry," Halley whispers, seeing a pained tear come to his eye. Darnius furiously scrubs it away with his hand, but she's already seen it. A horrible silence falls between the two district partners, a silence broken only by the rhythmic hum of wind against the glass doors of the balcony. A tension seems to grow again in between them, one which hurts worse than the last few days of silence. "Was it your girlfriend?" Halley finally asks, her voice hoarse in her throat, sticking to the sides like one of the caramel candies she spies sitting untouched in a glass bowl on the dining table.

Darnius looks up, his eyes shrouded in an emotion Halley can't quite read. "No. My mother." He turns his head as if to shield her from seeing the emotions on his face, and she dismounts from the barstool, closing the distance between them to take one of his larger hands into one of her own. He looks up at her and she at him, a fierce battle of stubbornness playing out in the space between them. "Tell me, Darnius."

He shakes his head slowly, as if it is a great anguish to get off his chest. It's hard for Darnius to share how he feels, Halley deduces, watching the storms unravel behind his eyes as he tries to navigate them. But Halley is lost inside her own storms, and there seems to be no plausible way to bridge the chasm that has deepened between the two of them.

For her, the Capitol has been a strange mix of opportunity and dreams crushed beneath the boots of the militant Peacekeeper legions on their daily march through the streets. Miss Lylanis, the homeless shelter caretaker, had always spoken to her of the Capitol. That all the good boys and girls could come here and be servants for them. Servants, like the mutilated Avoxes with their tongues brutally torn from their mouths. Old Man Henderson told me the streets were paved in gold, and that ivory towers of the Capitol never slept. But there were little embers of opportunity too, when the crowds scream for her, or when she finishes the Gauntlet and earns a nod of approval from Head Gamemaker Vetura. When I scored a goddamn six for all my efforts. It's as if all of the small things have begun to coalesce in the face of imminent danger, the danger of death which rests on the eaves of morrow. The balance is fragile enough, between life and death. It is a tightrope that Halley has walked many times in the dark alleyways behind factory and tenement alike; now it is a tightrope Halley must walk as a performer.

My death is going to bring them entertainment, she muses, then making the conscious decision not to allow her performance to fail. I don't want to be another forgotten tribute.

"You think we'll be joining them soon?" Darnius asks suddenly, his eyes now wet with tears. "Our parents?" It is an expression that shocks Halley to her core. Stoic-faced Darnius, with his brave attitude and his brash demeanor… crying. It makes her upset, and Halley can feel it in her stomach, twisting like a knife. Bile rises to her throat, and Halley blinks back tears of her own. The emptiness that lies ahead, the unknown, scares her. We could be dead tomorrow.

But Halley shakes the negative thoughts out of her head. There is a phrase her mentor drilled into them on the train. The pair of you have some real grit. She doesn't know what Darnius has gone through, but the pair of them have carried the world on their shoulders, and that is enough to sate the nagging curiosity which tickles the back of her mind.

Halley wraps her arms around Darnius' chest, taking him by surprise. Halley presses the side of her face into his charcoal black shirt, and squeezes him tight, as if she can stop the momentum of the oncoming Hunger Games and allow them to breathe and be human for one last moment. "No." The word hangs heavy between them as his arms clasp Halley behind her shoulders. She can hear Darnius' heartbeat through his stomach, and she takes a deep breath, readying herself to speak again. "We won't."

Darnius nods and sobers himself, his expression turning stony at Halley's reassurance. "Do me a favor, Halley," he whispers. She looks up, her eyes blurring over from the all pent-up anguish harbored in her chest. "Tomorrow… if we both survive the bloodbath… promise me we'll find each other so that I know you're okay. I don't want to have to wait until they show the faces of the dead in the sky."

Halley smiles at him, the strange mixture of hope and sadness continuing its slow bloom in her chest. "Not 'if,' Darnius," she tells him softly. "When."

They stand together in the darkness for a while, as even when death is staring them down with its dark and malevolent eyes, there is a comfort to be found even in former enemies.


Calvus Duran (29), Peacekeeper

The unsleeping city pries into the secret intimacy of their room, its bright neon blue lights tracing the floor from where the half-cracked blinds cannot block it out. Vivianne lies at his side, with her arm curled across his neck. He takes shallow breaths, trying not to wake her. Calvus can hear the Capitol bustling from the aftermath of the interviews; a shallow drum of excitement he doubts will stop until the earliest hours of the morning.

They revel in death, as do the two of us, Calvus thinks solemnly. His mind wanders to the twenty-four tributes locked inside the Training Center, left to contemplate their oncoming deaths as the clock winds down.

I am glad there is no clock ticking down on my life, he decides. Eleven years working as a Peacekeeper for the Capitol has taught him a lot about the rules of death and disobedience. The rules of death which are made and enforced by the Gamemakers... by my darling Vivianne. Calvus sighs, the sound breaking the barrier of silence that had fallen thickly upon the room, and sits up straighter.

"Hey Viv," Calvus whispers softly, his breath stirring her tousled hair. The woman of his dreams mumbles something unintelligible into his broad chest, lost within the rising and falling of the breaths he dares to steal from the clandestine air of the apartment. "Are you nervous for tomorrow morning?"

Vivianne sits up abruptly next to him and blinks, drawing the linen sheet close to her chest as to not expose herself any further. To hide. "What the hell makes you think I'm nervous for tomorrow?" Vivianne asks him indignantly. Calvus sighs again, his breath crystallizing in the cold air like a cloud of mist escaping from his lips. He does not need to speak his mind, as Vivianne can read it more often than not. "There will be blood on my hands, sure," she says calmly, running one of those very hands through her midnight black hair to untangle it, the neon lights of the city reflecting against the bold silver streaks he has come to adore. Vivianne rests her back against the headboard and stares out the apartment window where the blue lights spy upon the two of them, almost refusing to meet his gaze. She always does this when she thinks I'm going to be mad at her, Calvus notes, propping himself up on an elbow to drink in the sight of her bare beige skin against the dusky blue sheets.

"You know I have no shame for what I do," Vivianne admits to him, the words chilling Calvus more than the temperature of the room. His umber skin prickles with goosebumps. "I've been a Gamemaker for sixteen years," she tells him, the muscles in her neck twitching as she speaks. "It took twelve to get where I am now… there is enough blood on my hands, and I don't mind adding more." Vivianne turns, bridging the gap between them to meet his honey-colored eyes with her own mud brown ones. The eyes so usually full of life and passion are dead and cold, and though he cannot help flinching at the sight, Calvus does not recoil.

Vivianne slowly shakes her head, her hair falling in messy cascades down the front of her face. "You wouldn't quite get it, Calvus…" she tells him.

Calvus sits up to join her at eye level now, his calloused fingers slipping into hers gently, offering her a warm smile. "So tell me, Viv."

"You-" Vivianne rolls her eyes at his stubbornness. He gives her an insistent look. "Fine. It's all for the greater good, don't you think?" Calvus shrugs, feeling her hand grip his tighter, manicured fingernails digging into his calloused palms. The same palms that have held the grip of many guns, which now get to hold her hands instead. At least for the time being. "The Games, all of it. We're doing it to protect them from each other. To protect them from us," Vivianne tells him, and Calvus can sense that she is laying her entire hand of cards down on the table for him to see plainly. "You remember what happened, what we did to District Thirteen… we all know what we're capable of. This is how we keep the districts alive, and keep them in line. It makes sense, doesn't it? The system?" Vivianne searches his eyes, a glimmer of hope blooming in her irises as he nods his head, giving his lover the most reassuring smile he can muster.

"I'm a Peacekeeper, Viv. Have been for almost as long as you've been a Gamemaker... I know what you mean. You know I always do." Calvus reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She shivers at his touch, since the hand had been resting on top of the comforter, exposed to the chill of the air conditioner. "Since when have you cared about what anyone has ever thought about you?"

"Never…" Vivianne admits, breathing shakily. "But I know they all think I'm a monster. That I enjoy killing these children," she says bluntly. Calvus shakes his head, but the dark thoughts always find a way to return to him. I've seen her on stage, in front of mass congregations and crowds. Vivianne fucking loves it. It doesn't matter what must be sacrificed if the fame and glory is the reward for reaping the lives of innocent lambs. She would drink from a fountain of fame until she burst, Calvus thinks, feelings of admiration stirring in his chest at how ambitious his lover is.

"Who cares if you do? I don't think you're a monster," Calvus assures her, his fingers tracing the curve of Vivianne's jaw. "And if you are, you're a beautiful monster to me," he says, drawing Vivianne in for a kiss. Her lips are soft and sensuous, her tongue equally strong and sweet. Vivianne swings herself off the bed so that she is straddling him, the sheet falling down to expose her sculpted body.

"How tragic," she muses, cocking an eyebrow as they break from their second kiss, "that our love is marked with the weight of such death." Her voice is thin and trails off into the chilly air, and his hands run up her toned body, the muscles in his arms flexing as he does. God, she's amazing, Calvus thinks. He's been sleeping with her for almost a year and a half now, since the President assigned him as one of her personal guards. And the lust only grows in his eyes as Calvus spends more time with her, as if following her around all the time masked behind his white uniform is hard enough. All I want to do is be with her, just like this. To be free from all the pressure, all the obligations...

"What's love without tragedy?" Calvus asks her, leaning up as his lips seek out Vivianne's. The two of them spend yet another night in his apartment, the lights sparkling across their skin in the dance of love. But when she's curled up again against his side once more, Calvus is still wide awake. His eyes search the empty blackness, the soft blue lights gone as he stares hard at the blank ceiling.

Despite his many professions of love, Calvus Duran cannot help but wonder if there will be a special place in hell for all of them when this is over and done with.


CHAPTER 19

THE LAUNCH


Vivianne Vetura (41), Head Gamemaker

The world seems to weigh on her mind this morning as Vivianne sips her bitter black coffee from a plain white mug. The rim has a small chip in it from the time Vivianne knocked it off her desk; now it is missing a chunk of the geometric wings of the ever-present Capitol Seal. Adds character, I guess, Vivianne thinks as she drums her fingers against the smooth surface of her desk. The aromatic smell of her coffee helps to combat the intrusive smell of antiseptic that seems to permeate the air in the Gamemaker Institute.

She had no trouble scanning her identification card today… in fact, the last week or so leading up to the Games, there has been a change in that particular routine. Whether or not those two were replaced, I'll never know. But since then, the electronic ledger has had no problems scanning her into the complex.

Vivianne sighs, feeling the chilly air conditioning kick in, and she takes one last drink from the mug before setting it down rim side up before exiting the room. It's an old habit, but one that ensures that the Avoxes do not come in and clean her office. If there is a ring of coffee dried onto the desk, she knows they have skipped her office space for one more grateful to receive their services.

Vivianne adjusts the cuffs of her thick white lab coat, pushing them up to her elbows. The shawl lapels of the coat she smooths with her hand, a cautionary gesture that reminds her a great deal of her colleague Tarquinius Valentine, whose performance last night was less than stellar. He might be running out of chances, Vivianne worries as she approaches the elevator. It's smooth chrome doors close behind her as she speeds down to the control room, buried beneath the rest of the Institute.

Delicate glass-like screen monitors blink and beep from every corner of the room, displaying a steady flow of statistical information. Some pertain to the tributes, but most show a constant detailed report of the arena, being carefully scrutinized by her team of Gamemakers for any last-minute flaws. Hell, there's a whole screen detailing the grass types in the Biological Department. She watches with a sort of mild curiosity as one of her subordinates issues a command into a keyboard and the grass on display begins to wilt, turning brittle and brown in a matter of seconds.

Complete control. Everything - down to every single blade of grass - is under Vivianne's control, and it feels absolutely amazing to know she is responsible for creating and directing such a masterpiece. Vivianne and her team had been working a vast amount of overtime to complete any last minute preparations before the Games actually begin. Like the tributes' training schedule, the Hunger Games begin each year at exactly ten-o-clock. That way everyone in the Capitol gets their beauty sleep. Vivianne frowns to herself and walks briskly into the fray of her hardworking subordinates. Everyone except for me, she gripes.

"Miss Vetura, the report on the bivouacs we implanted have come back. Do you want the details, ma'am, or would you prefer the folder?" asks a voice from behind her. Vivianne turns around tiredly, wishing she were still nestled in the sheets with Calvus, to face one of her subordinates. I swear, one day I'd kill to sleep in. Not that she needs to actually kill anyone, unlike the twenty-four tributes who are being prepared to be launched headfirst into their darkest realities.

"Debrief me," Vivianne instructs. "The details are fine. How are they reacting to the new environment? Reports showed me that some of the creatures began eating each other. That's been stopped, right?" Vivianne grimaces.

"They're fine, actually," the other Gamemaker informs her. "None of them have killed each other yet, and I think that all three colonies are getting along just swimmingly. We tweaked the sedentary cycles to make sure they aren't active during the day unless disturbed or provoked, and increased the level of pheromone activity to make sure they all knew not to eat each other. I think that w-"

"Fantastic," Vivianne grunts, cutting off the woman. The geneticists cooked up quite the interesting muttation this year. Couple that with the overtime our biological engineering unit has put in this year, and I'm surprised we haven't filed for bankruptcy the way they each demand a goddamn raise. "And you have re-tested the pH levels of the formic acid, right? I want to make sure we've done it correctly."

The other woman nods. "We gave Mortem exercitus double the normal potency. You sure you don't want the folder?"

"Yes. We have a lot more to do and none of it requires me to do a little 'light' reading," Vivianne tells the woman, a mocking tone forming in her voice. Vivianne Vetura is clearly not a morning person.

Vivianne dismisses the woman, and begins a second foray into the mass of busy people dressed in their standard crisp white uniforms. A line of them are seated at desktop monitors in a circle surrounding the largest object in the room, a holographic map that displays the topography, foliage and obstacles of the arena in a stunning amount of clarity and detail. She watches as a man gently uses his fingers in the air to zoom in on one of the bivouacs before she loses interest in the endeavor and turns her attention to more pressing situations. "What are the tributes doing right now?" Vivianne asks aloud. Organized chaos is the only way to describe this shit, she groans. "Tracking Department, I need a status report. Where are they in the launch process?"

One of the Gamemakers on the further end of the subterranean complex calls back to her as loud as he can over the ongoing commotion. "All twenty-four of our tributes are approaching the launch room as we speak." Vivianne nods, pointing to a screen which displays the headshots of all the tributes taken after the Reapings. "These are going to glow when they have been injected with the tracking serum," the man affirms, though she's been through this procedure several times already.

"Can we get the launch room cameras front and center please?" Vivianne asks aggressively, nodding her head in approval when the gargantuan arena projection is wiped clean, thousands of blue pixels morphing into a display of the launch room.

Twenty-four pressurized tubes rise out of the small rooms that each tribute will get to say their final goodbyes in, forming a ring of pedestals above ground. The smooth golden curvature of the Cornucopia horn is lost in the holographic transmission, but someone in the Weather Department has pulled up the Cornucopia arrangements on a larger monitor. "Make it rain," Vivianne commands, watching in satisfaction as sheets of rain begin to pelt down onto the ground. "A little lighter," she decides. "We want to be able to see the tributes. This is one of the most important shots in the Hunger Games, so change that."

The man does, and once she is satisfied, Vivianne returns to the projection of the launch room.

"Somebody get me a heat map," she orders. "I want to see when all of the tributes get into the tubes before they are launched. No goofy shit. No fuck ups." There's far too much riding on this, as usual, Vivianne scoffs. Months upon months of preparations have been undertaken for this, culminating in the launch of the tributes. And it's going to be glorious.

"Yes ma'am!" comes a chorus from some of the nearby Gamemakers. The map quickly layers the heat map over the projection, the blue pixels being stripped away and replaced with colored ones. The pedestals and the Cornucopia are still a light blue, and Vivanne can make out the shapes of scattered supplies between the little tufts of grass. The launch room is a comfortable green shade, yet the absence of any warm colors is beginning to irritate her. "Tracking! Status report?"

"Tributes are having the injections administered right now," a voice calls out to her. Vivianne looks back at the tracking screen, seeing a couple of the headshots light up from black-and-white pictures to colored ones.

"Good," she says absently, glancing up at the clock. Five minutes to launch. A few red figures begin to appear on the projection screen. Mentors and their tributes offering last-minute advice. Must be one hell of a morning for them, too, Vivianne starts to think as she watches a few of the pairs go in for hugs. First, the tributes were sent to the stylists to get dressed in the proper arena uniforms. Then they were allowed an hour long breakfast to stock up on any last calories they may need before entering the arena. Though, Vivianne muses with a wry smile, are the smart tributes the ones who stock up or the ones who don't? Calories could help in any given arena, but feeling sluggish during the bloodbath could be a death sentence.

Her thoughts return to the control room as the final headshot lights up. The room falls silent as the Gamemaker team watches the twenty-four little orange-and-red figures, alone now since their mentors had departed. Districts Eight and Eleven, having only a single mentor, had the shortest goodbyes, but Vivianne knows the Career districts had been given last minute advice on not survival, but how to make a kill entertaining for the Capitol audience.

There is a countdown in the room, one which began at five minutes and has dwindled its way down to forty seconds. Vivianne presses the signal button, speaking into a microphone that can be heard from hundreds of miles away in the arena. "Tributes, it is time to launch," she instructs monotonously. At thirty seconds, all twenty-four tributes have stepped into their tubes and are sealed in. Her heart is hammering in anticipation, the erratic beat causing Vivianne to breathe heavily as the digital numbers begin the final stretch of their annual countdown.

Everything relies on this moment, she knows. All of the preparations this year will finally come to fruition. The numbers tick down to ten, nine, eight, seven. Vivianne's heart swells with anticipation, the visions of carnage and fame filling her head until she feels momentarily nauseous. It's finally happening. The tubes begin to launch, all moving at a slow, steady pace toward the pedestals. Toward the light, for the tributes in the tubes are enveloped in darkness; feeling a fear which must be palpable. This is it.

The pedestals all open to raise the tributes into the arena, and the monitors on the walls give way to the colorized version of the events about to unfold. Everyone waits with tense and bated breath as the tubes are closed off behind them, as the timer hits zero. The numbers flash twice before resetting to a stagnant sixty, the numbers flashing on screen above the Cornucopia as the arrayed circle of tributes looks on. She closes her eyes and hears the countdown begin. For her, the world has come to a halt.

The twenty-ninth annual Hunger Games have arrived.


Author's Note: I won't be screaming because it was barely a biweekly update which is generally my goal. God, this has been a long time in the making. I am super super proud and hella excited to say that the very next chapter posted is going to be our bloodbath! Death is the Rule is officially going to be moving into the arena stage of things, and I am beyond pumped up and excited for it! I wasn't sure I'd make it here, to be honest.

We had a couple nice moments here the night before launch, and a last Vivianne POV before the Games, as it will be quite a while before we hear from her again. I hope you all enjoyed this… it was bittersweet for me, as there is no looking back now for me or the tributes. Speaking of those tributes, here is the finalized alliance list going into the Games. I get a feeling some of those might soon be subject to some changes…


ALLIANCES:


Career Pack: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)

Angsty Teen Romance: Sorrel (D5M), 'Nyx' (D5F)

Planes, Trains and Automobiles: Axel (D6M), Mercedes (D6F)

Teens & Beans: Winston (D7M), 'Bash' (D7F), 'Padds' (D9M), Arley (D9F)

Damage Control: Tangaria (D11F), Reynolds (D12M), Mariela (D12F)

Loners: Edward (D3M), Brita (D3F), Darnius (D8M), Halley (D8F), Ruben (D10M), 'Evie' (D10F)


For everyone and anyone who has stuck with me until now, I appreciate you all so much more than you know. This isn't quite over yet - not by a long shot - but this is a major hurdle and I am so happy to have gotten over it. I hope you guys are as excited as I am! Cornucopia sponsoring will officially close within 24 hours for the few of you who have not elected to do so yet. After that, anything sponsored from that point forward will, for the remaining duration of Death is the Rule, be an actual sent-on-a-parachute sponsor gift. That's all for now, so keep your eyes peeled for the next update… when I come back with the update, blood is going to be spilled...

Lastly, with all of the craziness regarding the COVID-19 going around, please wash your hands and stay safe everyone! Hopefully all of this is going to run its course or be solved soon, so here's to hoping all of the affected areas and people heal and begin to get better. We're all in this together! Have an amazing day/night you guys! :)))