V.
Callister Dechant, 18
District Six Male
The reapings are not an easy thing to focus on.
Reapings? Choosings? Callister isn't sure on that front. Whatever they're fucking called, they're not the most interesting things.
Then again, what is really interesting to him these days? Not a terrible amount. Besides, he's still tired from last night's fight, a long day of work despite the fact that he knew he didn't have to. Everyone with half a brain was lining up for a chance to go toe-to-toe with a potential volunteer from Six, someone who was so likely to be chosen despite the odds.
Bryson's desperate, seemingly far-fetched plea still rings loud and clear in his ears even though it was three months ago now. A rich fellow like him, having lied about the training his parents paid for to make him a picturesque volunteer, willing to offer anything to get someone better to take his place. Of course there had been no guarantees, but Cal knew he was an interesting prospect. Besides, he owed a debt. When he had been bruised and battered, bouncing from couch to couch in his younger days, it had been Bryson and his family that took him in.
The train car almost reminds him of that house—grand and colorful and full of people that may or may not really like him.
Everyone else in the car seems more riveted by the television set than he does, watching with interest to see who their competitors will be. Callister knows that really only a handful of them can really offer anything, and they certainly don't have the experience he does. It's just simple fact. He's been training with the gym staff for ages, now, winning fights and bets and moving from District to District to find the best payout. Enter Bryson, offering even more money and anything he could possibly want if he volunteered—and won.
All he has to do is make the right decisions, the hard ones. Cal has much experience at that. It's not as hard as people believe—they let their emotions get the best of them, snivel and cry their way through any given situation. Cal simply gets the job done. He puts his head down and finishes it through, tells it how it is, and repeats the process day in and day out.
It's not always the most pleasant of existences, but Callister doesn't think he was meant for that.
Even so laser-focused on ignoring the television Cal still registers the ever-familiar feeling of someone as they sidle up behind him and park themselves much too close to his back. You have to be aware of those things if you're to survive in a fight, even if now it's just Emmi looming over him, more intimidating than any one-armed person has the right to be.
"Why are your knuckles so messed up?" she asks.
Unsurprisingly, someone was quick to notice it. He wraps his knuckles after a fight, at first, but after some time his fingers get too stiff to keep bandaged up for long. Better to let the scabs air out and flake off, he reckons.
"Don't you know?" he asks. "If you're the one that picked me."
"You're two seconds shy of being a professional fighter. You're not exactly unknown around the District."
Cal shrugs—it's none of his business what people think of him, really. He doesn't care, either. They can think what'd they like. As long as he gets paid at the end of the day and has a roof over his head not much else matters. It's not like life was going to ever be anymore than that for him.
Emmi hums. No judgement, but perhaps some confusion. "I'll be right back," she announces. "Don't kill each other."
She's new to this, like a fawn walking for the first time. Sort of like how he was when he first made a home at the gym after so long of living with Bryson, finding a place he finally liked, alone with nothing but a punching bag and a few others that occasionally came and went but never stayed long enough to disturb him. It's not the kind of life most people would be satisfied with, but it's gotten him this far.
Callister turns back to the television, and this time Ilaria's eyes follow too. She's sharp, definitely watchful in her own right. Not a brawler, but strong enough.
He'll give her that.
"I was worried about you at first," she says quietly.
"Why?"
"You look like the type of people I've been dealing with the past while. And none of them are very nice."
"Bit judgmental of you," he informs her. He didn't peg her as a girl in deep with some shady shit, but appearances can be deceiving. Not in his case, certainly, but others have managed it. Cal may not be the nicest, either, but he fights for sport, not on random, spur of the moment whims. He has no grief with Ilaria. There's no reason for it.
"How'd you get into that?" he asks.
"Came from Four to get away from some problems. Ended up finding more."
He gets nothing more than that in response, but didn't really expect to. She's hardly spoken since they got on the train. Even at the reaping when she grabbed that fucker in the pen before he could slap her ass, she didn't say a word. Her glare was something else, though. That didn't come from nowhere. She's not a street rat, not proper like he was, but she's gritty.
Cal can appreciate that.
"Where did you grow up?" Ilaria asks.
He hadn't expected her to ask. "Northside. It's bad down that way. You either get out of there or you get in the coffin."
"I get it," she says quietly. "Don't worry." Now she's holding herself further away, closed off, careful in each of her words. It's refreshing, almost. Cal is used to people spitting insults at him, blood flying from their mouths after he manages a particularly careful hit on them. Perhaps she's more similar to him than he initially thought; never judge a book by it's cover, and all that. It's difficult when she's so unreadable in every form. He's met his match.
He's seen potential in her, in the silent anger she possessed when she grabbed that asshole at the reaping.
"I'm not judging you for fighting," she continues. "I admire it, actually. You chose your own life."
Except he didn't, not really. Cal is here largely because he couldn't let that debt go unpaid. Perhaps if he cared more about himself he wouldn't be here, now, leaving a meager existence training at the gym with knuckles only damaged from hitting a bag.
"Callister..."
"I'm better alone," he interrupts. "I wouldn't."
"If you're that good, people are going to come after you. You can't take them all on."
"Who says?"
"I do," she insists. "And just because you think you're better alone doesn't mean it's the truth. It's always just been a fight for you. Never life or death."
He is good enough to handle them all, though. He doesn't need people to help him, doesn't need people to get in his way. Cal blinks, expecting Ilaria to have backed off after his silence, but she's still sitting ramrod straight, watching him carefully. The amount of people that have the courage to look him in the eyes these days is dwindling fast.
"All I've ever wanted is honesty," Ilaria says. "And you tell it like it is."
"I watch my own back."
"So do I. I'll stay away from yours"
She's playing such an intricate game already, thinking quickly, watching his every move. Not pushing, still. If he shuts her down right now she'll back off, he's certain. Truth be told, though, his emotional desire to remain alone matters very little in this moment; his brain already knows the logical decision, as it usually does. It doesn't mean he likes it.
It doesn't mean it'll work.
"We don't have to call it anything," she says. "We just move forward."
"No," Cal insists. "If we're allies, we call it that. No lies."
Ilaria leans forward onto her hand, the first break of her posture. Cal allows himself to do the same, if only for a moment. Guard let down. He doesn't immediately feel threatened at her closeness. That's a start.
After a moment, she smiles. Small, but enough. "Guess we're allies, then."
Ambrose Clarion, 16
District One Male
His room on the train almost feels like home.
He's spent time imagining this moment. Lying here in the dark, sleepless, trying to process what had happened now that no one was watching.
Ambrose knew his chances; he also knew that there were others equally as capable out there, if not more. That was why he had his brother teach him every fencing lesson he had ever learned—while he had been out on the streets singing and Amelie holed up in her room writing, Jasper had been fighting in the only put-together, elegant way his parents would approve of.
It had certainly paid off now. Not only was Ambrose here, but he hoped to have a leg up on some of the others. Not everyone could properly hold a rapier. Not everyone could use one.
But he could. Ambrose could do a lot of things.
He knew what was at stake. It wasn't just his life. The minute his father had told one of his business associations that his foolish, dreaming son had applied the news had spread like wildfire. The next day people looked at him like he was important, like his name mattered. When he played his music on the streets and opened his mouth to sing, people watched.
If Ambrose stepped out of the arena his name wouldn't just be in lights. He would be sky-high, soaring, untouchable. No one could drag him back to that dreary business back in One.
He would be a murderer, certainly, but a victor.
And then he could do whatever he wanted.
The Games themselves had thrown a wrench in things. The exposure from applying at all would have been enough, but he could do this. Ambrose was no stranger to climbing up the rungs to get what he wanted out of life. This was just a taller ladder than most.
After some time of staring at the ceiling Ambrose gets to his feet, rolling the guitar pick in his pocket between his fingers. No actual thing here, they wouldn't let him, but maybe he can get his hands on one… Dimara would help him, right? She said she would.
There's a grand piano in the main lounge cart, though, so that's where he heads. His father refused to purchase one, stating something about contributing to childish and trivial pursuits, but that hadn't stopped Ambrose from wanting. Openly, unabashedly, to everyone that would listen. He had to make people listen or else he wouldn't ever get anywhere.
An option has presented itself here, too, though he doesn't think Oksana is going to help him achieve such dreams. She's folded up on the couch, fixated on what is undoubtedly the fiftieth re-run of the announcements, hands curled around her knees.
There's something fragile to her, like a stiff bout of wind could blow her right over. He expected more youthful innocence to her face when he had looked her in the eye for the first time but had found none. She was scared. Upset. Haunted.
And he liked her, was the thing. Well, for as little as they had spoken. She seemed nice enough. They knew the truth, though, even if neither of them had chosen to voice it aloud. Ambrose could do this and he was going to. Oksana, well… he just hoped that whatever happened to her, it was quick. Harsh, yes, but if she wasn't making it out of the arena he could think good things in that stead.
Ambrose draws a finger over-top the piano, wiping a smidgen of dust anyway. "How many times have you watched that?"
She jolts, a small gasp escaping her lips. There's that haunted look again, like she's seen a ghost.
He's not one. He won't ever be one.
"Haven't really been paying attention," she admits, wetting her lips. "Sorry if I woke you."
The consideration is something Ambrose doesn't often experience; his parents off gallivanting away in the morning to the business, Jasper off to practice or school earlier than everyone else, banging about the house like he was a giant. Only Amelie was ever quiet. They could relish it together, her writing her stories and him his lyrics, neither ever questioning because they knew the other wouldn't want to show it just yet.
Despite their differences, Oksana is a breath of fresh air. He shakes his head, sliding onto the piano bench. He'll take a page from her book and toss some consideration into the pot; it's probably not the best time to go playing the piano, not at this hour.
The projector clicks off behind him, plunging the car into a state of both darkness and silence, only the train rumbling along the tracks to interrupt them.
"Do you play piano, too?" she asks cautiously, lingering behind him.
"What do you mean, too?"
She flushes. Even in the dark he can see it. "I mean, I've seen you playing… sometimes. I thought you might only know guitar."
"You have?" he asks, only slightly bewildered. He's used to people knowing him now and he often relishes in it, but he doesn't ever remember seeing her. Sure Ambrose is focused on himself in those moments but some of the faces in his usual crowds he can pick out in seconds. Not her. Perhaps she lingers too far away to be noticed.
Oksana nods. "Just a few times."
"And what do you think?" Ambrose questions. She goes quiet, shuffling on her feet, scratching at her arms. Despite his desire to react otherwise Ambrose can practically feel himself bristle, hackles raising like some sort of wild animal.
That's just the way his father acts sometimes. Flippant, uncaring. A scoff here or there. His music dreams are a fool's errand and he needs to take over the business.
Who else thinks that way?
"You're good," Oksana murmurs. "Like, really good. It was almost jarring, when I first saw you. I thought you'd be older, or more experienced, or just… I don't know, really. Just more."
"But I'm not."
"No, you're not," she agrees. "But you're still amazing."
A familiar sense of warmth floods over him. He's heard those words before. Maybe not them exactly, but something along the lines.
It's what keeps him so determined to make it.
Oksana smiles, something newly nervous to it. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. That fragility is back yet again. She's fighting to be here in some respect; physically, mentally, emotionally. He doesn't know. Ambrose wouldn't ask her to give that information up because he wouldn't, either. Besides, she's fighting—but so is he. Ambrose's fight has to be more important, and he intends for it to be. At the end of the day he knows why he's here.
"I'm going to sleep," Oksana says quietly. "Goodnight, Ambrose."
"Night," he says after her, her retreating back hunched over all the way down the hall until it disappears. He runs his hands over the fallboard, tempted to push it back and press down on a few of the keys, but it can wait. He'll ask Dimara for help, later.
Ambrose feels like he should be scared. Worried, nervous, anything.
Really, for him, it's just one more day on the grind.
And that means he's one step closer to getting everything he's always wanted.
Mazzen Sylstina, 17
District Three Male
His disdain, obvious as it is, is not an easy thing to hide.
All of his time on the train thus far has been devoted to locking away his emotions into a carefully contained ball somewhere in the pit of his stomach, left for a later date. It didn't feel right to let them out now.
Or previously, anyway. Velcra was blissfully gone God only knows where—hopefully wherever it was, it was far away from Ria. She may be one of his mentors but she seemed too small and dainty to deal with his partner; her wits may save her for a few extra minutes, but that's all. Consus is gone as well. Their escort is the biggest man Mazzen's ever laid eyes on in his entire life, level-headed and cool, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why. If their mentors weren't fighters—true fighters, someone had to be there to stand up for them. A Capitolite he may be, but he wasn't to be trifled with.
Mazzen knew all about what that did and did not look like.
Now, in the dining room, it was just him and Tarquin. Nice enough, made good conversation, seemed helpful and inclined to assist in whatever possible, if not a bit lost.
They were all lost here. At least Mazzen wasn't alone in that sense.
The main difference was that Tarquin was largely unperturbed by their state of affairs. Mazzen's skin kept crawling in the most unpleasant of ways. Every time something creaked behind him he expected it to be the big bad wolf herself or even the ghost of Otto, begging him to stand up and do something before it was too late.
Mazzen was going to do something. Just not yet.
"Everything alright?" Tarquin asks curiously. He cares, genuinely. It's nice to know someone does when Mazzen has doomed himself for the sake of one thing only.
He shrugs. He's done his food, so there's nothing to busy himself with.
"You don't look alright."
No. He doesn't. Mazzen knows that because he hasn't looked right in months.
"You can tell me," Tarquin offers. "I think… I think you're supposed to. So I can help you."
He's just as foreign to this experience as Mazzen is, a Capitol kid himself through and through, trying to offer his assistance in any way he can. He's not the bad guy here. It's oh so obvious who that really is, at least to Mazzen. Everyone else will find out soon enough.
"It's just… Velcra," he says plainly, unable to think of a better explanation. Her name is often enough.
"At the risk of sounding judgmental, she does seem off in some way. We knew she had a record going into this, so it's not surprising."
"A record." Mazzen snorts. He knows he's bitter, definitely petty and unable to let go of grudges, but this is a new low even for him. Most of all he just wants to not care anymore and be free from all of this mess. The easiest thing to do would be to stay home and let Velcra get herself killed all on her own, but it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.
He has to be there too.
"Is there history there?" Tarquin asks.
"You could say that," he replies. He's not the only one. In the grand scheme of things Mazzen is unimportant; he's not the only one that has history with Velcra Leight.
He's just the only one doing something about it.
The car door bangs open behind them, like someone forced it to slide faster against its will. Mazzen braces himself and he still jerks when Velcra's hand brushes over his shoulder and plucks away a cracker and a slice of cheese from a plate next to him, popping it into her mouth.
"I missed real food," she announces, plopping herself down in the chair next to him. Everything about her is so infuriatingly casual, especially in the way she reaches for the plate again. This time, Mazzen pulls it away.
Velcra cocks her head. "Aw, Mazzie, what's wrong? Not in the mood to share?"
He wishes he could hit her without repercussion. He didn't spend time learning how to throw a few good punches for nothing.
This time when Velcra reaches out h's too slow, however, and she snatches a strawberry and two grapes before he can even think to react. He was aware only of his own look, full of undeniable annoyance and vexation, more resentfulness than he thought capable of holding in the human body at any one time.
She looks over at him once she's worked through the strawberry. "Cat got your tongue?"
"You really don't care, do you?" he questions. She's beyond caring. Mazzen has always prided himself throughout the years as being someone people could go to, a shoulder to lean on. This girl never learned the definition of those things.
"Care about what?"
Or she doesn't know, his brain supplies. Maybe… just maybe.
No.
"My best friend is dead because of you," he spits, hands clenched tight. Velcra blinks.
"Is not," she throws back. "I've never killed anyone."
"You sold to him in early January," he explains. Just get through it, and then he can go. He doesn't have to look her in the eye again until the day he gets to her for good. "He bought from you because you claimed that shit would improve test scores, and he was so hopeful, so confident they would get him places, and do you know what happened?"
"He… had a bad reaction?" Velcra guesses, offering him a hesitant thumbs up.
"The test scores were so bad that the day he found out he went home and killed himself."
Velcra stares. Blinks again. Then, she starts humming. "Doesn't mean it was my fault."
Of course it's not.
Mazzen gets up from the table, ignoring Tarquin's request to stay put as he heads away from the room. His eyes are just as wide, almost comically so. He's heard those words before, that there was no one to blame but Otto himself. He was suicidal, depressed, had other issues he couldn't work through. Didn't see the therapist his parents had paid for. None of those people understood.
He may have been all of those things, standing on the precipice of a skyscraper, but Velcra was the one who pushed him off. That's why Mazzen is here, after all. For justice.
Proper justice.
Mazzen thought he was a good person. Good and kindly and warm—everything people wanted you to be and more.
But not anymore. He couldn't be.
That person died when Otto did.
Casimira Ruiz, 17
District Eleven Female
Loathe as she is to admit it, Casi actually hesitates outside of Hale's door.
Not for any particular reason, of course. She's not scared of him. No reason to be, really. Just because he's got at least six inches of height on her and could likely crack her in half doesn't mean shit, okay, he's still some nobody from the backcountry of Eleven with nothing to his name.
So she thinks, at least. Casimira hesitates no longer and throws open the door—he's lounged across the bed, fiddling with some round, shiny medal in his hand.
He gives her a dirty look. "There's this thing called knocking, you know…"
Casi takes a seat at the edge of the bed and tugs the medal out of his hand, though he lets it go with a surprising amount of ease. She saw his brother hand it over to him before they got on the train, or at least she assumed it was his brother. They looked enough alike, despite the burn scars and the limp and his general state of disfigurement.
That's just how it was, alright? She wasn't being rude.
She doesn't recognize the medal, and the raised lettering has all been obliterated, as if someone has spent too much time scratching at it. She stares at the red and yellow stripes. "Firefighting?"
"Not anymore," he says drily.
Ah. Touche.
Perhaps he isn't as worthless as she thought, though. Size doesn't mean anything unless you have skills to back it up. Hale could be an asset.
"Can I help you with something?" he asks, letting an arm flop over his face. As if he's tired of her being in here already—it's been all of forty-five seconds. People simply can't get tired of her that easily. Casimira won't allow it. She pulls his arm away as if to prove something, but Hale's torn it out of her grasp before she can even make headway to pin it elsewhere.
They could be the Careers, the two of them. Like the good old days. Casi hasn't devoted much time to watching the reapings, but she just knows, instinctively, that the two of them are up there. It's exactly what she wanted it to be.
While the rest of them are busy climbing the totem pole, Casi feels like she's already at the top.
She wishes her father could see her now. How long did he spend laughing and chastising her for such foolish actions, acting as if she couldn't get anything done, let alone this? There was no use in proving herself to him then—he wasn't worthy of it. All Casi could do was prove it now, and she well intended to. They would see soon enough.
They would all see.
"I thought I could help you with something, actually," she offers. Hale's look is still flat, but interested. Casimira can work with interest.
"We'd be good together, don't you think?" she asks, leaning forward. "Top tier, I think. No one would mess with us."
"How much do you weigh, a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet?" Hale wonders. "The girl from Twelve could throw you around like a sack of flour."
Well, she's choosing to take offense to that. As if a twelve year old could match up to her, especially one from Twelve of all places. Kids like that are what they call fodder, something Casimira absolutely isn't. She isn't dying, no sirree. Not anytime soon.
Hale's words have brought up that ugly, nagging feeling in the back of Casi's mind, though. What little of the reapings she did see only proved just how strong the competition was. She spent so much time out in the fields training, alone, because everyone she tried to drag in abandoned her with a laugh. They had all said it, too. She could train all she liked, but there were still going to be twenty-three other volunteers.
And they would all be better than her.
She can still hear her father's ugly laugh: what chance do you think you have, really, if you can't even show good old Dad what you can do?
Almost desperately, Casi shakes the thought away. Fuck him. Her father wouldn't dare to do anything other than profit off Eleven in the only way he knew how, refusing to step up and do anything else. Fuck everyone. They were trash, bottom of the barrel level. No one was as good as her.
"I know what I'm doing," she replies, eventually. Casi makes sure to sit straighter, shoulders poised. Just like her mother always taught her. At least all those business ventures did some good. "So what do you say?"
"Is that your pitch? Top tier?"
Was he somehow expecting more? Casi didn't think she would have to work so hard to get someone in with her. When you gravitate towards similar strong, like-minded people, they just grouped up. Was that not how it worked?
As if her consciousness knew this time was going to come she fishes around in her pocket, carefully pulling out the tart she wrapped in several layers of napkin. Flaky pastry, a little bit of cream, filled nearly to the brim with fresh raspberry. No one else had noticed, but she had. It was the little things. When someone liked something, you took note.
See, she was good at this. No one could tell her otherwise.
"What about if I gave you this?" she asks, raising a brow. Everyone had their weaknesses. His just happened to be raspberries.
Hale tries to look unimpressed; in fact, he almost succeeds. That little bit of light that comes to his eyes says otherwise, his true feelings rising to the top despite his attempt at hiding it. It's the same light that had sparked in her eyes when the escort had called her name. They could do this together, she knew. Hale could be what everyone said she wasn't.
And she could come out on top at the end of this.
Casimira refuses to beg. "So, what do you say?" she asks, holding out the raspberry tart. Such a simple little thing. She could have had one every-day, if she liked. One of their cooks had a particular taste for them.
Hale is different. Strong, but gaunt in the way that suggests hunger, a willingness to cave to things that he rather wouldn't. He hasn't had much.
Here she is, offering it to him.
He sits up and plucks it from her fingers, almost gently. Much to her surprise he sets it aside. The look he's giving her isn't exactly uncomfortable, but appraising.
It's something her father would do, Quarren would do, everyone who doubted her would do.
Does Hale doubt her in the same way?
"One thing," he requests. He's not her father, not one of her only friends. He was Eleven, but nothing like the rest of them. That was all Casimira had to believe to get this to work. Hale was a ticket to proving her self-worth, but it was, at the end of the day, a partnership. He could lone wolf it all he liked, but that wasn't going to last forever.
"What?"
"Are you going to run?" he asks.
"From what?"
"Anything."
The word feels like a loaded gun, as if his hand finger is hovering over the trigger. There is more to his words that Casimira is not aware of. Perhaps too much. As if she ever runs. As if she has ever done anything other than fight to prove exactly what she's made of to those who were beneath her from the very start.
She sticks out a hand, her grin almost wild when he takes it. "Never."
In that sweet home stretch of intros now... we're almost there!
We've reached the time where I'll start updating alliances on the blog as they're confirmed as opposed to waiting until the very end of the pre-Games; if something isn't written on the blog it's likely not 'official' yet, but as soon as it's written down, consider the deal sealed. That's not to say it can't change, but for now it's settled.
Feel free to let me know what you thought of these four children before we reach our last grouping, if that's your thing! Thank you to everyone who left reviews this past week, you're all gems and I appreciate them endlessly.
Until next time.