VII: Chariots.
Mazzen Sylstina, 17
District Three Male
Mazzen has a mission to see through.
Was it silly? There was a possibility of that, certainly, but what else was he to do? Let everything go unnoticed, unchanged? Otto didn't deserve that and neither did his family; it wasn't fair to any of them. It wasn't Mazzen's job, he knew, but no one else was going to do it.
Thankfully he's out of the prep rooms early—earlier than most. Velcra is nowhere in sight. He can only imagine the fight she's putting up. Mazzen accepted early on that he was going to look ridiculous as it was all a part of the process. The quicker he got over it, the better. Still, it was something to be in a nearly see-through shirt with intricately flashing wires and pants so silver-bright it would be lucky if he didn't blind someone. Maybe the wire-esque headpiece they had stuck over his hair would take out their eyes first.
All the way here Mazzen held himself back, but no longer. It was his time to shine.
Both literally and figuratively.
For a while he waits, mostly patient, by his chariot. Even the thought of being stuck in there with Velcra for only a few minutes was enough to make his skin crawl, but he kept reminding himself that that was the last of it. He would never have to be so close to her again.
Not until he killed her, anyhow.
He still had enough rational thought left to know that he couldn't very well do it alone. Running a fool's errand wasn't something Mazzen was particularly keen on.
To see this through he needed to stop thinking about Otto, stop thinking about his friend who never deserved it, who should have lived a long, happy life…
The Eleven's walk out of the prep area doors, nearly side by side, and Mazzen beelines for them.
The girl, a few paces ahead, beats him to their chariot with a carefully placed yet quick walk, and steps in front of him before he can get any further. She'd be much more intimidating if they weren't the same size, but Mazzen doesn't dare say that aloud. Her eyes are narrowed suspiciously, almost steely as she looks him up and down three times over.
It's not uncomfortable whatsoever.
She jabs her hand out at him. "Casimira Ruiz, District Eleven," she introduces, like he didn't fucking know that.
Mazzen stares at her hands like it's going to bite him—like she's Velcra. He forces himself to shake it; her grip is strong, almost too strong. Like she's trying to prove a point.
Well, so is he. Mazzen can work with that.
"This is Hale," she continues, waving a hand back at her otherwise silent District partner. Despite his stony-faced silence, his eyes are kind. Mazzen doesn't think he intends them to be that way. He should really work on that. "How can we help you?"
He feels, oddly enough, like he's at some sort of ass backwards job interview—not that he's ever been to one of those. Elderly Ms. Klein three doors down pays him to help her with things around the house now that her arthritis is getting too bad to move around on the daily. Otto would come with him, sometimes. Otto never asked for money.
How the hell does he start this? Mazzen has never felt so awkward before in his life.
"I'm looking for allies to help me with something," he begins. Simple, to the point. The details can come later. "Are you two… together?"
Not a good way to put that. He winces. Hale looks unimpressed, Casimira even more so.
"Together," Casimira echoes. "I suppose so."
Mazzen could seal the deal right here, right now. Two strong, capable allies that could help him see this through. All he has to do is be careful. Hale is the one to go for—Casimira is practically standing guard over him, as if internally fearing that he could be torn away. It's plain as day to see, even if she doesn't know it.
"We—"
"You want us to help you something," Casimira says. "What can you help us with?"
"I—what?" he asks, confused by the sudden change in conversation. What can he help them with? Well… well Mazzen doesn't know, really. He's never picked up a weapon in his life. All he has going for him now is adrenaline that feeds his purpose like a lifeline. It's all he thinks about, all that keeps him getting out of bed every morning.
He has to do it.
"I don't think there's really anything you can offer us," Casimira continues. "We've got… better prospects, you see. We'll pass."
His hopes shatter like a mirror. She smiles at him one last time and then hops up onto the chariot's back edge—nearly misses, he may add, and just manages to catch herself before she takes a spectacular fall back down into the dirt. Hale's arm juts out to catch her, unnoticed as she spins about and stands above them. All at once that crushing feeling comes back, the phantom weight of something tied to his ankles, dragging him to the bottom of the ocean. It's like hearing the news again, being at the funeral again, hearing Velcra Leight's name again and seeing her eerie smile.
Mazzen clamps down on his own tongue as a million vile things come to mind. There are other people here. Just because one thing fell through doesn't mean they all will.
He still has time.
He tastes blood in his mouth when his teeth finally release from his tongue. Hale's eyes are on him, wary, as if expecting some sort of explosion. Luckily for them all the bomb will hold off for another few days, until the time is right.
Casimira is ignoring them, eyes roaming everywhere else. Mazzen takes a step forward, closer to Hale, keeping his voice low. "Think about it," is all he says before he backs off, giving them all room to breathe. They're still the only tributes out here.
That's what Mazzen is now. A tribute. One with a mission. Casimira couldn't see it, perhaps none of them would, but he was just trying to wield his best charade at being a good person. Did good people go out of their way to get vengeance? No, he didn't think so. Perhaps he just wasn't one anymore.
He could handle that, but he couldn't handle being downright evil. He wasn't. There was a purpose to this.
And he was not Velcra.
Devan Del Rio, 18
District Four Female
There's only so much longer that she can sit in this chair.
They were actually caking her over in make-up. They were actually doing something to her hair. Devan didn't think that possible, considering she had spent eighteen years trying and failing herself.
Maybe they weren't so bad. Well, the one had frankly tragic eyebrows and hadn't appreciated being told that, and the other two were too loud to get a word in edgewise. Devan knew loud, alright, and these two were even worse than she was.
Again, another benchmark. It was sort of impressive.
All credit ends there, though. Devan doesn't even know what in the flying fuck she's supposed to be, unless what she is is a bunch of seaweed that landed in radioactive goo and turned her rainbow colors. For some reason, she doesn't think that's it. They seem satisfied with it. She just keeps moving and obeying orders because it seems to make them think more highly of her. They don't like it when she gets snarky.
It's not the noise at the door that catches her attention, but the garish flash of neon orange. Devan has to honest to God squint or it hurts her eyes too badly.
Varrik, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that he's painted in orange and covered in scraps of similarly covered fabric, grins. Help me, she mouths at him, and she gets a large inhale of hairspray for her troubles, coughing and sputtering.
It's possible she's never been so relieved to see someone in her life. He seemed to like her well enough. They talked almost the whole train ride here. It was when she went to sleep at night that it got worrisome—did he really like her? She probably should have tried harder. They hadn't even said if they were allies or not.
Vilya had come to check on her. Rory had come to check on her.
And now Varrik.
Did that mean…?
"Can I pretty please have my partner now?" Varrik asks, a second away from batting his eyelashes. "She looks damn good, if you ask me."
Well, you can call that the boldest fucking lie Devan's ever heard in her life, and she's had to hear her brothers spew nonsense for as long as she can remember. If it gets her out of here, she doesn't care all that much. The one with the tragic eyebrows dabs something else on her face and then steps back. Varrik holds an arm out for her, waggling it about.
Devan doesn't think twice. She launches herself out of the chair, nearly trips on her seaweed-what-have-you, and manages to grab a hold of his arm just before he tries to retract it from her grasp.
"You fucker," she gasps. "Don't leave me with them, are you insane?"
"Sort of," he says with a laugh. "You do look good though, don't get me wrong."
"I don't even know what I'm supposed to be."
He gestures at himself, all orange and white and seemingly enjoying it, and then back to her. Devan blinks.
"You know," he says slowly. "Clownfish… anemone… we go together."
Devan blinks a few more times. "What," she says flatly. "Why the fuck did you get to be the clownfish?"
"They knew orange was my color, alright?"
"Bullshit," she insists. "You look like a fucking traffic cone!"
Thankfully she's still got a hold of his arm when he starts for the doors leading out into the main area—what she's not so thankful about is how hard it is to walk in this stupid-ass get-up. Varrik is laughing even as he's keeping her from falling flat on her face. It seems like something allies would do. All of it does, if Devan adds them up in her head—not that she's good at math, or whatever, but an attempt is made. Why the hell didn't she think to ask before they got here? Her brothers would be on her ass for this one, calling her stupid. Dumb-dumb Devan at it again. They would never let up.
In an odd way Varrik already feels sort of like that, supportive but all too willing to mess with her, taking each insult and punch she throws his way with ease.
"Varrik," she starts, grabbing the edge of the chariot. "Would you…?"
"If you're about to propose, take me out for a drink first."
"Shut up," she snaps. "Would you consider us allies?"
It's almost comical to watch him scratch as his chin, orange paint flaking away under his nails. "Obviously," he says. Obviously. As if Devan was supposed to have gotten that from the beginning. Well, fuck her, apparently. She should have just crawled under a rock and died rather than ask.
He boosts himself up onto the chariot's edge—he'll be coming back down soon enough to help her up, or at least he better. "Do you think we should have more allies?"
Rational Devan making an appearance? It's even more shocking than you'd believe. The fact of the matter is she has no idea what she's doing. No one else has to know that, and they won't if she has her way. All she has to do is fool a few more people.
If Varrik wants to, that is. He's on her side. As long as she has that, it's good enough.
So Devan thinks, anyway.
He shrugs. "Sure."
"Anyone striking your fancy?"
Not the girl from Eleven, surely, who has been glaring at Varrik since the second they walked out here like he's personally offended her eyes. She's not special—he's doing that to everyone, Devan included. The One's aren't even looking this way. The Three boy takes one look at them, almost curious, and then decides against it about two seconds later.
She doesn't blame him when she looks like such an ass.
"I don't know, man," Varrik supplies. "The Seven's are pretty hot."
"Is that your criteria?"
Well… he's not wrong. The boy's not looking at them, but Devan gets it. The girl is, however, and the second she locks eyes with Varrik her glare strengthens to the point of withering. Devan is surprised Varrik doesn't turn to dust beside her.
"Yeah," Devan says flatly. "I think she likes you."
"Me too. Soulmates, eh? I'm gonna go talk to them."
"Varrik, really—Varrik!" she shouts after him, surprised at the speed in which he launches himself back to the ground and takes off. Curse this stupid fucking outfit. "You're a fucking idiot!"
He cackles practically all the way over. The Seven's look no more impressed by it.
Devan, however, finds herself smiling. Everyone's attention has turned to them and their sudden outburst, emotions within their eyes ranging from curious to incredulous. It almost feels like he's back at home, and home is at least somewhat comforting in a time where she still has little idea how the fuck she ended up here. If she ignores what's coming, it all seems like one big joke. A party, almost.
She pushes herself away from the chariot and begins to waddle after him. If it's a party they're meant for, a party is what will happen.
It's time to get this thing started.
Lisse Rockefeller, 15
District Ten Female
Lisse has always been the type of person raring to go, but this has taken that feeling to new levels.
She's been standing in the chariot for what feels like far too long at this point waiting for everyone else to file in—she has no idea how people can take this long to get ready, especially with so many assistants fluttering about like nervous little butterflies.
One of her own is still present. She thinks Amabil was left with them as sort of a guardian, which is perhaps futile considering she's maybe a few years older than Hosea and half his size. If he wanted to pick her up and throw her he would have little difficulty. He won't, from her experience. He's a nice person. Sure, he's called her stupid at least once, but it's not as if Lisse doesn't deserve it. His stance now, still flat-footed on the ground below her, says it all, as he waits for everything to begin before he allows himself to relax and step in behind her.
It would be easier if Amabil would leave them alone. Listen, Lisse loves the girl, alright? They're fast friends already. Amabil is bubbly and upbeat and Capitol through and through, but Lisse can see why she'd be too much.
It also doesn't help matters that she keeps touching Hosea's arm and looking up at him all doe-eyed. Lisse snickers.
Hosea peers over his shoulder and fixes her with a look. "Can I help you?"
"Nope!"
He's nice, but they're not friends. Not really, anyway. Amabil looks between them both and giggles like a school-girl; Lisse can't help but laugh back.
She admires the girl's boldness and creativity, all traits Lisse strives so hard to hold onto herself. That's the biggest reason she's here, after all. Making her own choice seemed like such an exciting prospect after so long spent living in the dooming shadow of her parents, and so far it seems as if that assumption has been correct. Sure, it may not have been the brightest decision, but that's not what Lisse was claiming.
It was simply her own.
"What's going on down there?" Hosea asks, nodding his head towards the chariots before them. The Nine's appears stagnant—the Eight's not so much. They're dressed in a whole variety of patterns, namely some god-awful paisley numbers that clash. For some reason the girl is wearing much less than the boy, who looks as if he's trying to calm her down.
Unsuccessfully, Lisse may add. She can't blame her.
Their stylist is still present, which isn't helping smoothing matters over. She's letting him have it via brutal honesty, it appears.
"Can you go and help them?" she asks Amabil. "That's sort of…"
"Ridiculous?" Hosea snorts. "This place is a goddamn madhouse."
Lisse didn't think she was getting it easy by having ox horns fastened to a headband neatly secured into her hair, but here she is, and she's rocking it, okay?
Amabil frowns. "I'm not supposed to intervene."
Well, if that's the case…
Lisse hops down from the chariot. Hosea follows her with a too-loud sigh, arms fixed over his chest. Behind them Amabil skips along like she's their child and can't leave her parent's side, which isn't far from the truth. Lisse is used to leading the charge and having everyone follow—that, or she's running at the speed of light and not looking back.
She practically inserts herself between the Eight girl and her stylist, beaming. "What's going on here?"
Her partner looks relieved but worried, still, gnawing nervously at his lower lip. An awkward quiet settles over the group, but Lisse doesn't let her smile falter. No use in that here. Keeping up appearances is something Lisse is well practiced at.
"I think you look great, by the way," she says to the girl. Risque, but great nonetheless. "You are…?"
"Penelope," her partner answers for her. "And I'm Micah."
"Nice to meet you, Penelope and Micah. I'm Lisse. This is Hosea."
"And this conversation is over," the stylist interrupts. He spins on his heel like he's well-practiced at it and saunters off. Penelope glowers after him but it withers away the further he gets, until she's left looking at the rest of them congregated around her. Being surrounded by so many virtual strangers can be tense, but soon Penelope has managed a smile as well, and the feeling dissipates.
This is something that Lisse can work with.
"Seriously, you look great," she says again. "Don't worry about it."
"Oh, I know that," Penelope answers. "I've worn plenty weirder costumes than this one. He's just a dick."
Lisse is more than relieved that she chose to intervene and defend a situation on the behalf of someone who actually seems worth her time. Penelope could have so easily turned out like her parents, who bare their teeth and snarl like some wild animal but never let up. Penelope has some bark to her, but she knows when to ease up.
Just like Lisse, really.
"I think everyone's out, now," Amabil says. "I need you guys to get back."
"Let's go," Hosea urges. He's already taken a half-step back, but he's watching her, waiting, it seems, to be disobeyed. It's like he has experience with people not listening to him.
"I'll see you in training?" she asks, and Penelope nods, smiling once again as she boosts herself up quickly into the chariot after Micah. Relief floods her veins at the thought of a friendly face in an unfamiliar room—Hosea is good, don't get her wrong, but she feels like she'll lose him soon enough. That's just how they're meant to be.
Penelope could be good for her, though. Someone to trust and work with, someone who operates just like she does.
Just like last time, Hosea waits until she gets up into the chariot, offering her an arm as assistance, before he finally follows. "You're off to the races already."
"Ha. Races."
He rolls his eyes. "C'mon," she pleads. "Races. Horses. Get it?"
"I got it. Now do your thing and smile."
Lisse looks forward. The doors are steadily opening, the roar of the crowd filtering through above the line in front of them. Soon she'll be out there, surrounded by adoring fans ready to throw themselves at her feet, to help her fulfill the only decision she's ever really seen through.
Hosea is wrong, though. She's not off to the races.
She thinks she's already won them.
Callister Dechant, 18
District Six Male
Crowds have never really been his thing.
Surprising, right? He's in them often enough. Hell, he lives in one, considering the gym is usually full with as many people as there are holes in the wall. That doesn't mean he likes it.
It also doesn't matter now what he does and does not like.
As someone who is relatively used to situations where people are looking at him, either cheering or heckling, Cal isn't surprised at how calm he is able to remain. Sure, he doesn't like it, but he wasn't the biggest fan of fighting in the first place either. Soon that became easy as breathing, something easily adoptable in his otherwise empty life.
He doesn't think twice about getting into the chariot, about the crowds he can hear outside the doors. Ilaria finally joins him—she's not wearing many clothes, but her mouth is set in a firm line, eyes steely. If it bothers her, she doesn't show it.
He doesn't ask. No point in it.
Cal knows that the whole point of this little parade is to get people on his side, but he's done that well enough without smiling in the past. It's a shame that there's no one for him to fight just yet—a few well-thrown punches in front of an audience this size, and they would find no doubt to place on him.
The doors open. The sun spills across his shoulders like a cape, an odd offset to his otherwise dark outfit.
Instantly, he knows the crowd feels something for them. They're an older pair, strong and healthy, certainly fit to fight to the death. Ilaria hesitates, he notices, head ducked, but when she rises there's a smile plastered on her face. He admires her efforts to fake it, because now people are calling her name and throwing roses in her direction, reaching out to her as she waves to them.
He can't find it in himself to smile. If everyone else wants to charade around, that's their business.
Cal knows that only he has control of his own fate.
It's almost a joke, how little he cares about the whole ride down. Eyes faced resolutely forward, arms by his side, feeling Ilaria's every move but uncaring for what effect it has on them.
By the time the whole thing is over, it feels like hardly any time has passed at all. Only the cold shadow of the next building passing over them alerts him to any difference before the chariot grinds to a halt, the little one from Five hopping out ahead of them before the horses have even stopped.
Cal allows himself to turn in a wide, slow circle as Ilaria removes herself from the chariot, more careful than most people around her. Most people, it seems, have managed to enjoy themselves in some capacity. Only a few match up with him, but it's the girl from Twelve that catches him off-guard, the glower on her face almost bringing a laugh from his throat. Her partner gives her a perplexed, almost worried look, and quickly takes off into the crowd.
"I'm going to go talk to some more people," Ilaria says up to him. He's one of the only people left standing in the chariot. "If you'd like to come."
She already knows his answer. He stares down at her. "I'll give you an over-view later," she promises, and eases herself into the crowd of stylists and camera-people that are appearing around him.
Of course she will. And Cal will give his opinions, blunt ones, because there's no use in lying amidst this odd little relationship they've created. Certainly she'll be the one that collects their allies, if more exist out there, but that doesn't mean Cal's opinion on the matter is null and avoid. He loses track of Ilaria quickly enough, but that's likely for the best. No use in following her every movement. Though he doesn't want to, trusting someone is only for his benefit, and Ilaria will likely be it. He knows the rationale behind it.
Today, really, is just a mixed bag of things Cal doesn't truly like but will deal with anyway, for the sake of it.
He turns again—Twelve is still in her chariot, but perched precariously on the edge, doing a rather fantastic job at remaining unseen. Cal isn't so lucky. There are shutters going off from every direction as close as they can get to him as if he's the most fascinating thing they've ever seen. There's no way any of these people really know who he is, what he's capable of. If they wanted something nice and pleasant to look at, they should have gone after Ilaria.
Or, at least, anyone other than the two of them that have been left behind. Her glare is flat when she finally notices him, unamused by his staring.
He knows what he's looking at; age can't hide the truth behind a fighter. The energy inside her is too big for her body, practically bristling out.
What strange creatures they all are here.
If Cal's knuckles weren't covered in heavy make-up, so thick it feels like paint, he would hold one up to her. Just so she knows. Comrades in arms, and all that. Before he can think of anything else she hops out and disappears, scuttling away into the crowd as if she's well-practiced at it. An enviable trait, truly.
Another camera goes off, and this time it's so close he almost lashes out. Cal forces his expression back into a blank canvas, letting the calm wash over him and take him elsewhere. As he well knows, they're not worth his time. Not worth hitting, either.
He does, admittedly, jolt a bit when something brushes against his leg—not someone with a camera, or a stylist, but another tribute. He doesn't immediately recognize her, but her hair is so garishly orange he's wondering how that could've happened.
She grins up at him. "Not a people person?"
Cal isn't sure what to say to that, exactly, which proves her right exactly. Isn't it obvious? If he wanted to talk, he'd do so, and he definitely wouldn't be standing up here.
His silence, however, has not deterred her one bit. "Maybe we can talk in training then, hey? Who knows, you might actually like me if you give me a chance."
Cal severely doubts that. People who smile like that are never good news and he knows it well.
And people with enough gall to approach him of all people, in a moment like this? Too much to contain, usually.
Rationale comes back to him. Ilaria is looking for more allies. Strength in numbers, and all that, even if Cal is strong enough to get through this on his own. If this girl is bad news, perhaps it's best to keep her close. He'll see her coming if she stabs him from the front.
Still, there are too many factors to consider, and the girl re-enters the crowd still with that smile on her face. The boy from Three stares so fiercely at her it's a wonder she doesn't drop dead to the ground at his feet as she passes.
Too many factors. So many variables.
As he always does, Cal will figure it out in time.
And welcome, finally, to the beginning of our pre-Games! I know it's only been roughly a month and a half but it feels like years, tbh. I'm glad to finally be here.
Following this we'll have three training chapters, private sessions with our Gamemakers, interviews, and a launch chapter before the bloodbath. Everyone will get their second POV before that time.
The poll is still up on my profile regarding your favorite tributes, if you're interested. Considering I just about have a six-way tie for first I'd appreciate some separation there, but who knows what will happen. As always thank you to everyone for your lovely reviews, comments, messages, etc—I'm sorry if I haven't gotten back to you in particular but know that I appreciate it all endlessly.
Until next time.