launch
two hours until the games
aitana cavine, district four female
…
She drags herself into the kitchen at around six in the morning; light's just begun to filter through the curtains of her room, heralding in the emergence of dawn. Aitana feels weary. Her back aches from the periodic tossing and turning in bed, her legs are sore from the stretches she spent the better part of her night doing, once she realized trying to sleep was futile. Granted, it's at least a familiar ache - Aitana's used to the strain and soreness of continuous, repetitive exercise. If the Games weren't today… if she didn't already know she'd be in the arena in just a few short hours… it would've been a normal start to the day. Aitana Cavine, up at first light to make the most of the day's challenges.
She smiles a little at the notion, adjusting the light sweater she's wearing around her shoulders as she meanders over to the kitchen counter, snatching an apple up from the basket and taking a seat. Never one to shy away from a challenge, her trainers had often said. A total workhorse, that one. Maybe it was a bit sporting, but she'd taken it as a compliment. I'm devoted to my craft. Maybe a little too devoted, depending on who you ask, but devoted nonetheless. And now I've come to see things through - training for the Games? I've made a Career out of it. Heh.
Aitana bites into the apple. The sweet juice fills her mouth, and she takes a moment to savor the taste of it against her tongue. It'll be rations of whatever's available for the next few days; best that she enjoy something as fresh as fruit while she can. Who can say if there'll be apples in the arena?
… the arena. Right.
The night before had been… hazy, at best. Returning from the mess that was her interview, talking with Lazaro and Circe as they sat around on the couches in their suite, Aitana's body exhausted but her mind restless with anticipation. Fourteen hours, and all she's been able to think about is the arena - being in it, the gong sounding, the chaos as tributes lunge forward to try and reach the cornucopia.
(The killing; blood dripping from dirtied swords, spears, tridents. People crying. People screaming. The rush….)
It's not like the bloodbath is going to be a shocker for her; not like she didn't come into volunteering with a clear head and ready awareness of what she'd need to do to make it back to Four. At home, the Games had always been a topic of interest, never shied from, rarely avoided. Aitana herself had certainly never been upset about watching the Games when they were televised. She'd gone over tributes' strategies, critiqued their plans, their actions, their methods of dealing with conflict… it was all part of a routine. Simple. Expected. But it was also theoretical - when all she'd had to think about was training, the implications of spear-throwing and sword-wielding were less severe. Almost rehearsed. She'd felt secure at the Academy, even in the training room. Now…
Security isn't an option anymore. It's time for action. In just two hours she'll be in the bloodbath. No longer will the Games be a pastime or a far-off goal of hers, they'll be real. She'll have a bloodied spear in her hands, she'll be the one staring down at a corpse that she's made.
Aitana can't help feeling a bit queasy at the prospect. Can't help but think about it - killing and dying and competing and victory. It's all blending together in her mind, solidifying into an indescribable thing that she's unable to process. But she doesn't have a choice, now. She's here, she's got a limited amount of time to prepare herself as best she can. Because in the end, Aitana knows the only thing she can rely on in the Games is her own experience, her competence, her ability to be rational. She's leading the Careers, but more than that, she's leading herself. To victory or to death.
And she can't let it be the latter. She just can't.
Aitana sighs, taking another, more aggressive bite out of her apple. Anyway, that's old news. Alliances are temporary, brutality is rampant, and anyone who goes in either comes out in a bodybag, or mentally and emotionally drained. And while we all know how lovely the latter outcome is, it's preferable to the alternative.
… sigh. Mentally and emotionally drained. Let's just hope I don't regress into my sixteen-year-old self. That'd be fun for everyone.
"Moooorning, Tana." Speaking of fun. Aitana swivels around in her seat, greeting her District partner with a grin, Just what she needs - a distraction.
"What's up? Get some sleep before the big day?"
"Oh, I slept like a baby. Fever dreams and all." He walks straight over to the fridge, pulls it open and starts rummaging through the contents. Aitana chuckles.
"Yeah, I'm not sure that's a good thing, Laz." She nods to the bottle of handwash on the counter. "Hand that over when you got a sec?"
Lazaro pauses, enough for Aitana to tell that he's thinking. Then, he abandons his fridge post, snatches up the handwash and pulls his hand back to throw it over to her. "Think fast!"
Aitana reaches up to try and catch the airborne soap, only for it to bounce off her arm and onto the floor with an unceremonious thud. She has the urge to facepalm.
"Next time, just walk it over, okay?"
A huff. "Yes, ma'am." Lazaro moves back to the fridge. "Also, since when do you wear your hair down?"
"Since I literally dragged myself out of bed like a zombie twenty minutes ago."
"Huh," he follows up, finally retrieving a yogurt and a disposable spoon from inside the door, popping the top off without any backlash from the container (a first). "It's weird. Makes you seem… I dunno. Younger."
Aitana hums. She gets that a lot. "Beauty before age or age before beauty? Hard choice."
"Eh, why not both at once? It's totally doable, I mean, look at me." Lazaro laughs, closing the door to the fridge with his shoulder. He leans back against it, smile morphing into a saddened frown as he gazes down at his half-opened yogurt. "So, like… the arena. Crazy shit, right?" He bites his lip. "I don't…"
Aitana waits for him to finish, expectantly. But the rest of the sentence never comes; whatever Lazaro meant to say, he couldn't bring himself to follow through with voicing the words. Makes it too real. I get that.
"Hey. We'll figure it out once we're inside." Aitana says reassuringly. Her conscience nags at her, irritated by her avoidance of the knowledge that if she wants to make it home, Lazaro's got to die - and the same goes for him. Reassurance isn't something that matters; even if she tries to indulge it, the comfort won't last more than a few minutes at most.
"Yeah… yeah, you're right." Lazaro agrees, nodding. "We'll figure it out. District 'Four' the win, eh?"
"That one was awful," Aitana shakes her head at him. "You've gotta try and sea the big picture here. No smooth sailing for us."
"Aitana Cavine is making ocean puns. Truly, I am blessed on this fine day." He chuckles. "Guess it's better lake than never."
His eyes haven't left his untouched yogurt, even through the bulk of their banter. It doesn't seem to matter that they're trying to joke - badly, of course, but still trying - the energy's not the same as it was when they'd first met on the steps of Four's justice building, just a few short days ago. It feels forced, now - the smiles, the banter, the words, all of it crushed beneath the barrier the Games have created between them.
"You know," Lazaro pipes up again, finally raising his head, "if I can't win… I want you to win for me, okay? Make it home, and… and tell my family I miss 'em. I mean it, Aitana. Please."
There's a lump in her throat that she can't seem to rid herself of. As Lazaro watches her, Aitana looks away, unable to match his focus when she replies with a soft, "Alright."
She wishes she could say the same - could ask him to do the same for her, if she went first. But Aitana's not ready to face that possibility. She can't die. Not when she's so close.
Not when she's already given her life to get here.
scrim aarifi, district six tribute
…
"So. You, Five and Three, huh?"
"Yep," Madigan says, not turning to look at them, keeping her stance guarded. Scrim doesn't blame her for shutting them out - training threw a wrench in things, soured some of their camaraderie. It sucks, but they'd anticipated it as soon as Elowyn brought Ari into the fold. After all, they're both rebels. Madigan's not - and while Scrim's willing to do anything for kicks, his District partner doesn't have the same chaotic temperament. She wouldn't fit with them, not now. Although...
"Good you aren't alone," they say, meaning it. Madigan's mouth twitches, and her stance relaxes just a touch.
"Definitely." She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Three was… kind of a last minute thing. After the interviews. But I didn't have a good reason to say no - Virian's sensible enough, and Kellie's a tough kid. Bit devil-may-care though."
Madigan pauses, looks over at them.
"Kinda like you."
"But less of a shit-stirrer. I know, I get it, kay? I'm happy for you, Mads, really." Scrim stretches their arms out over their head, totally uncaring about the peacekeepers standing at their back. "Nnn… tired. You tired? Long night."
"Yeah, no shit."
They think she might be smiling - it's there, it's just really, really faint. A baby smile. A wisp. Scrim giggles. Madigan huffs like she's over their weirdness, but she elbows their arm affectionately. Not even hard enough to bruise. That's some self-restraint, right there.
They elbow her back. Madigan bats their arm away with her own. One of the PKs steps forward, hand on their baton.
"Break it up."
"Oh, calm your tits." Scrim grumbles, but has no reason not to step down once Madigan relents. Ugh. There goes the mood.
"It's for the best," Madigan says to them, and Scrim - despite wanting to roll their eyes - nods along.
"Yeah, yeah. I know." The elevator pings. When the doors open, a gust of wind hits them in the face; there's a hovercraft waiting a short distance away on the rooftop, whirring and hissing and making way too much noise for, what, seven in the morning?
"Looks like everyone's having a swell morning here. Just peachy," Scrim says as the girl from Five is all but hauled up the stairs into the hovercraft, crying and kicking while she goes. Elowyn's standing near the doors, hands on her District partner's shoulders, speaking quickly to him. A moment later she pulls the kid into a tight hug, then withdraws, making her own way into the craft.
They can't help thinking about Madigan as they watch.
Regardless of how their paths are diverging, Scrim's got a healthy sense of admiration for their District partner, and splitting their alliance hadn't changed that. They'd been a bit harsh when they told her off in training, but they'd been blunt and to-the-point and right, and if nothing else Madigan should be able to appreciate that because she's the same way. In the blunt, sharp, mildly-caustic response department, that is.
Part of Scrim wonders if they've made the right decision… the best decision. For them, that is; they're under no delusions that they'll win, but a deep run would be nice. Gives them a chance to throw some punches and stomp some feet on the way out. Elowyn's good for rioting; Ari, too. Madigan… not so much.
She's smart, though. Sensible. The safer choice, just as she'd framed herself before. Not one to be beaten down or tread on, but not the type to cause unnecessary drama or get herself into trouble.
Trouble. She wants to stay out of trouble. And Scrim gets it, even if they aren't happy about it. It's for the best that they split ways.
Madigan must be thinking the same thing (telepathy, legit) because she turns to look at them. "Listen, Scrim… I didn't mean anything by what I said. Well, I did - I think you're being an idiot by intentionally painting a target on your back - but… what I'm trying to say is -"
"Mads, as amusing as it is watching you choke on your own tongue… you can chill. I know." They pat her on the back, then hold their hand out for a fist bump. "District Six forever?"
"That's cheesy as hell." Madigan rolls her eyes as they stick their tongue out, but bumps their fist with her own anyhow. No protest or anything.
"What can I say, it's my brand." Scrim winks, and then takes off running toward the hovercraft, ignoring the sharp "OI!" given by one of their lovely Capitol-favored guard dogs. "Murder and mayhem await! Let's gooo, people!"
They're up the stairs in one-two-three steps, making their way to a seat beside Elowyn with a jaunty grin and a bow. It's hard not to just slump down onto the hard plastic - the seat's not comfortable, but they're a bit winded. Air's too thin in the Capitol. Makes Scrim wonder how much the rich bastards smoke.
"Didja miss me?" They bat their lashes at Elowyn, who snorts.
"We're not even in the arena and you're already going batshit. I'm not awake enough for this conversation." She rubs her hands over her face, groaning. "Thirty minutes left…"
"Enough time to write our eulogies." Scrim shrugs, flippant. They know what they're walking into - maybe not exactly, but the specifics don't really mean much. The people do. Twenty-four kiddos, and twenty-three are gonna be mincemeat. They're fully expecting to be one of them.
They reach up to readjust their beanie (finally done with people cramping my style, ugh) and glance toward Madigan as she walks toward a vacant seat near the back of the hovercraft, next to the little kid from Five. He smiles as she sits down, but doesn't say anything. Quiet type, eh? I guess it works for her.
The walkway pulls in as the hovercraft door slips closed. Some woman dressed all in white approaches, trailed by an assistant carrying a pouch of needles. They stop before the girl from Ten, two seats down, her head resting against the wall. She's utterly silent when the woman grabs her arm, opens an alcohol pad to wipe down the inside of her elbow, then motions for her assistant to hand off the needle.
Shit, that's big, Scrim thinks. Next to them, Elowyn suppresses a shudder.
"Okay, I'm awake. Fuck that… how do they even get that thing to hit properly? It's the size of my thumb."
"Scrim Aarifi, District Six." The woman's stopped in front of them now.
"Need a hand?" They jest.
She's unamused. "Yes, actually."
Scrim frowns and holds out their arm, though they make sure to do it in the slowest possible fashion. Not because they're nervous or anything - of course not, nervousness over a needle? Please!
"Maybe we should set a safe word first," they mumble. "Y'know. Just in case."
The Capitolite just takes hold of their arm, tearing open another alcohol wipe. Her assistant hands over another needle.
"Hey, by the by, how exactly's the whole tracker thing work? Like, are you tellin' me you actually got a chip to fit in a fucking needle? Inquiring minds wanna know."
"Shut up," someone hisses from across the aisle. The Capitolite pushes the needle into their arm. Scrim tenses, doing everything they can not to flinch. They aren't a stranger to pain, but it doesn't mean they like it!
"Talk louder, you say? I can do that." They nudge Elowyn's foot with their own.
"Damnit, Six, can you quit acting like a moron for five seconds?" Sounds like a Career. Scrim doesn't care enough to try and figure out which one.
"Aw, c'mon. Why you gotta be so stiff?" Stiff. Like a corpse. They chuckle. "Anywho, 's only fair I make good use of my tongue while I still can. Gonna be stuffed in a coffin at the end of this shit, soooo…"
They laugh again, louder, more carefree. The needle's out, and Scrim takes a moment to rub at their throbbing arm, letting their laughter act as a echo of their fear. Fuck, I don't wanna die.
"Hey, hey! Who do you guys think's gonna do me in? Dark and brooding over there seems like a good choice." They nod at the Ten girl. "Oooh, or One? Y'all got style. I mean, not the style I tend to go for but, like. Sparkles. 'S cute."
Madigan's eying them from her seat, watching as Scrim continues to rub at their arm, their shoulders shaking as they continue to cackle, their humor building to a point of near-hysteria. Her gaze says pity. Scrim hates it.
But they can't stop laughing.
"What? Why the long faces? I mean, shit, it's like nobody's ever heard of someone having a nervous breakdown before…"
Shut up, Scrim, shut up, quit talking, stop it, just STOP.
"Fine, fine. Get a nice, long look. Enjoy the show!" They toss their head back, shielding their expression with a scarred, calloused palm. "Might be the last one you ever see."
madeleine aldrich, district ten female
…
The second that the door to the launch room closes, Maddy's stylist practically jumps on her, an overeager and zealous hound intent on grabbing her attention.
"Ah!" Inara grabs her by the shoulders, ushering Maddy over toward a chair near the wall. A pile of black and grey clothing sits atop the seat. "Here's my lovely tribute. Well… maybe not so lovely. Your hair, darling… oh, and the circles under your eyes. If I just had a moment to apply some concealer-"
"Concealer. Right." Maddy gives a dry, unamused chuckle.. "Because necrophiliacs need some eye candy? Shut up, Inara."
The hands on her back retreat as quickly as they'd appeared. Inara goes quiet. Maddy just shakes her head, teeth clenched, jaw set.
So here I am. Being shepherded like a lamb to slaughter. I wish I could say it's surprising. But really…
"You have a chance," Inara tries again; Maddy can tell she's going to reach out again, try to touch her, try to comfort her. Annoying. Her naivete is annoying.
"No," Maddy says firmly. "I don't."
There's no room for argument. She looks down at the chair, bending forward. Her fingers curl into the fabric of what must be her uniform - she can't imagine it's going to be comfortable to wear. Not just because of the rough seams or stiff textile, but because of the symbolic effect; in this uniform, she's undeniably a tribute. Undeniably theirs.
Maddy would prefer to die in her own clothes.
(But then again, she's dying. Why does it matter?)
She starts to pull her own shirt over her head, nearly elbowing Inara in the face. Her stylist gives a startled yelp, and Maddy rolls her eyes.
"Do you mind?"
"No, no, I just…" The Capitolite moves to stand near the wall, expression downcast, a hand placed on her chin worriedly. She gives Maddy another glance and starts to bite at her manicured nails. Maddy wonders if she's supposed to feel bad for pushing the woman away; cutting her out when she really does mean to help, in her own silly, contrived way. Inara doesn't actually care, but she has a job to do; Maddy can respect what that means, regardless of whether she respects her affiliations.
"Hey," Maddy says finally, breaking the silence. "It's the way things are, okay? Don't take it personally."
Inara seems to accept that this is the nicest response she's going to get from Maddy. She nods along, forcing a smile. Maddy strips off her pants and tugs on the new pair she's been given. Not too tight, not too loose… and surprisingly less rough than she'd expected. They fit her like a glove.
"Do you want me to leave?" Inara asks as Maddy finishes doing up her shirt. "I... will, if you'd prefer."
Why the pause? Maddy frowns, keeping her back turned toward the woman. She thinks she should say yes - avoid the awkward conversation, the unwanted contact, focus on pulling herself together and gathering her wits. She's not sure she's ready. (She has to be, she should be, it's foolish of her to question her fate now. Death comes for everyone at some point - she's already escaped it twice. There's nothing to keep dues from being reaped now.)
A pause. Maddy stands stock still, one hand still resting at her chest, where she's just done up the final button on her shirt.
"You can stay."
She's made her choice to go it alone - rebuffed all of Celesto's attempts to convince her otherwise, rebuffed her mentor's attempts at giving advice, even eschewed conversation when she could. And she's fine with that, she is, but…
She's still human. She needs an anchor. She doesn't want Inara's comfort because it's not comfort, it's pity, and it's fake, and she hates that, but she… she wants something. Distraction, maybe? A temporary sense of companionship? Another voice to fill her last moments with, if only so she doesn't go mad?
"Alright." Inara murmurs. Maddy turns around, hand dropping but arms crossing. She raises an eyebrow, shifts her stance so she's resting her weight on her right leg.
"So, how do I look?" She's not sure why she asks. This is strange - the entirety of it, their conversation, her allowing Inara to stay, the sudden panic fluttering in her chest at the thought of her life being extinguished. What am I doing?
(Trying to be normal, her subconscious whispers. Trying to act normal, to avoid the Games as long as you can. You haven't lost your spirit or your edge. You're waking up - more alive now than you've been since you lost Helen. Death scares you. You don't want to die.)
"Like a tribute…" Inara replies, cautiously. "You look like a tribute."
Maddy feels the tears washing down her cheeks in heavy rivulets; she feels them before she can understand them, before she can process the notion that she's crying, I'm crying, tears on my face and they hurt, why am I crying, why now, I can't go up there like this, I'm not weak, I don't want to be weak, I need to hold it together if I want to live - I want to live, damn it, I do, Helen, Mom, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I failed you…
A set of arms are wrapping around her body. Maddy doesn't dare to push them away. If this is to be her last chance for interaction, her last chance for acceptance, for love, even if it's not meaningful, then she's going to take it - she's going to take it, and damn it if she isn't going to cling to it, drink it in, embrace this affectionate gesture for as long as she can.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles into Inara's shoulder. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I can't - I can't do this, it was my fault, and I'm… I'm scared, I -"
"Shh, it's alright." A hand rubbing her back. Arms still around her. Chin braced on her head. She's a child again, terrified in the marketplace, with a loaf of stolen bread behind her back, wide-eyed as she hears the marching feet of a peacekeeper nearby. Her mother's holding onto her, brushing hair out of her face, speaking in a hushed tone - I'll protect you, Maddy, shh, it's alright baby, it's alright. Don't worry, everything will be fine. Mama's going to fix this.
(Everything will be fine.)
"- I have you, Maddy, don't worry."
"Yeah, right…" she laughs, shaking, her arms moving to her stylist's back in a half-returned gesture of need. She's getting desperate. And everything's so surreal, the walls of the white room around her, the throbbing in her arm where they'd inserted her tracker, her soaked cheeks.
She needs to know.
"Do you… do you really think I have a chance?" Her tongue flicks across her lips, wetting them, easing the dryness of her mouth. She isn't sure she wants the answer, but…
"Yes. I do." Inara tenses momentarily, and Maddy pulls back, raising her head to look the Capitolite in the eye.
"What? What is it?"
Inara looks away, steps back. "You need to go now. Be on your guard."
"What?" Maddy's shaking. "There's something you're not telling me. What is it? I could be dead in a few hours, if it's -"
"Be on your guard," Inara repeats. "Please… just keep it in mind, once you're up there. He knows who you are. He's going to try and reach out." She glances over to the door. "You'll have to go. Now, Maddy. Into the tube."
"What are you talking about? Who is he?" Her breath catches. She's getting frantic, but she does as she's told - when Inara comes over to place a hand on her arm, Maddy recoils, walks backward toward the launch tube and steps inside. Her hand moves to rest on one of the see-through sides, leaving a print on the glass.
"Helen isn't dead." Inara says. "Hold it together long enough to get through the bloodbath. Don't fight. Run."
Maddy's heart is in her throat. She has the urge to bang on the glass, to slam her body into it, to thrash and scream and cry and demand to know what Inara's talking about, to know where she got that name, to know what she means, because it's not true, it can't be, Maddy watched her die, she's dead, Helen's dead, you don't know what you're talking about, you can't -
The platform under her feat starts to rise.
"Please," she tries to call back, desperately clawing at the glass around her. "I don't understand, you have to tell me more, I need to know, talk to me, dammit, talk, what are you saying, what are you -"
And then Inara's gone; Maddy straightens her legs, pulls herself up from the ground, her eyes adjusting to the sight around her. She can't breathe.
It's not true, it can't be true, none of this is real, I can't -
There's a shot that echoes somewhere in the sky above her. Maddy looks up, not sure what she's expecting to find, but - it's not a sky. It's a ceiling.
Benches. Rows of them laid out in the room before her, organized before a tall podium on which supplies rest. She sees railings - doors, flags, balconies over her head. The other tributes, standing beside her, arranged in a semi-circle at the far end of what can only be described as a courtroom.
"Fifty-nine," the words come from nowhere, and Maddy tries to get herself together, slowing her breathing, her eyelids fluttering shut. "Fifty-two… fifty-one… fifty…"
Helen's not dead.
She doesn't know if it's true - can't know, how could she? But if it is… if there's even a sliver of hope…
"Thirty-nine… thirty-eight…"
Do you really think I have a chance?
"Twenty-five… twenty-four…"
"Yes," Maddy says, opening her eyes. Yes, I have a chance.
"... fourteen, thirteen…"
Hold it together long enough to get through the bloodbath. Don't fight. Run.
"... three. Two. One."
A/N: And that's it. I love a good pre-game, but it's so sweet to finally have this one over with. :') Onto the arena next chapter. Sorry in advance for all the dead kids?
Question for the chapter: Final guesses on the arena? Any predictions for what might happen in the bloodbath?
Thanks again to everyone reading, commenting and hitting me up in the PMs; sorry I've been slacking on reviews and individual responses lately, back to working part time so my schedule's a little mixed up at the moment! I'll get around to it eventually if I haven't caught up yet.
On a final note: There's a new 'favorite tributes' poll up on my profile. Same drill as last time, pick three, but I want your opinions on them post-pregames. If you wanna make a review chart, that works too! Just curious to see where everyone's feelings are with the characters right now. Till the next!