XXX: Outside The Arena.
Jasper Clarion, 14
District One.
There's no closing his eyes anymore.
It's too far into the night, past an appropriate bedtime for a young, growing boy such as himself. Those are the words he would be hearing from either of his parents if they were awake to notice. Hell, Jasper's pretty sure he's already heard them before.
To their credit, or not, they tried to go to sleep every night like normalcy was a possibility, like their eldest son couldn't die whilst they closed their eyes. It was easy enough for them to force Amalie to bed—she had never been the most confrontational or pig-headed of people. Jasper was not so easy, though. There's a reason he was practically born to hold a rapier in his hand.
He knew if anything happened his family would want to be awoken for it. They hadn't expressed that aloud, but Jasper was no idiot. No one wanted to wake up in the morning to find out that Ambrose was dead.
But they just might, if he was being honest.
The thing was, Jasper couldn't move. He was immobile, completely powerless, eyes glued to the television screen even as the commentators voices droned on and on over the image of his bloodied brother lying on the sidewalk. His hands gave an occasional twitch but they were getting sporadic, more and more seconds between each one. Jasper felt like remaining still was bringing forth something like solidarity—it didn't make any sense, but somehow it made him feel better.
Not that it was good enough.
Ambrose was fading. His eyes were already closed, like he was waiting for it. But Jasper knew his brother didn't want to die, at least if his hands were any indication. He wouldn't be trying to stem the blood-flow, wouldn't be trying to press his skin closer together like that would seal it.
He knew he should get up and wake their parents. Amalie, too. Jasper just didn't think he could handle it. His sister's ever present silence, his mother's sure to come tears. He couldn't recall the last time he had seen her cry; had she ever allowed herself to break down in front of them?
Worst of all would be their father, the realization slowly dawning in his eyes that Ambrose was dying because of a dream—a dream their father wouldn't allow him to have.
Instead of getting up and running for the hills Jasper leaned forward, hands clasped over his knees. His brother was still breathing. As long as air lived in his lungs anything was possible. He just needed him to fight, fight the way he always did when he really wanted something. There was no denying Ambrose wanted to win.
"Open your eyes," Jasper whispers. "Just open them."
You're still here, still with us. Fight it. You're not gone, yet. You don't have to be gone.
Blood continues to seep through the cracks of fingers, slower now. His skin is near-colorless and Jasper can practically feel its coolness through the screen as it loses more life, inch by inch. Jasper buries his head in his hands rather than watch it any longer, but he can't leave him. If Ambrose is to die alone, then he needs to be able to say that he was here, at least.
His eyes burn with unshed tears. Come to think of it, he hasn't cried in some time either. Not when Ambrose asked for help training, not when he got on the train.
It was a goodbye, sure, and the process building up to it, but it always just felt like Ambrose was going to come back.
Open your eyes, his brain begs, silent in the living room. The clock ticks on behind him, unperturbed. All you have to do is open your fucking eyes.
The answering pinging is loud—almost too loud, as if amplified greatly by some unseen force. Jasper lifts his head up too quickly, head spinning, eyes still burning something fierce. But the parachute continues to float down, unbidden, until it floats gently down over-top his brother, landing almost perfectly in his lap.
Ambrose's eyes flutter, hands twitching. "Wake up," Jasper murmurs.
And Ambrose does.
One hand grapples for the parachute, slick with blood, dragging it over the slope of his chest. It's a first-aid kit of some sort, different from the one in his pack. More gauze, if he's lucky. Much more gauze. It's not just the item itself, though. It's a wake-up call, both literally and figuratively. Ambrose gives it a weakened toss towards an adjacent store, kicking the rapier after it, and then rolls over after it, elbows dragging over the pavement as he pulls himself for the door, hands stretching upward to open it. He's doing it, somehow. Surviving.
Everything, his brother included, disappears behind that door. The camera switches to something much more grainy, swathed in black and night vision only. On the floor is the faintest shape of his brother, the first-aid kit spilling open into his hands.
He can do this. He doesn't have a choice otherwise. There's no one out there that's going to save him.
Jasper leans back into the couch, tears still prickling at the corner of his eyes. He'll wake everyone else up, soon. Once he's sure that his brother is going to survive, he'll get up. He will not be the bearer of bad news, the messenger that delivers the news of Ambrose's death.
Whatever date with death his brother organized, he's missed the reminder for now. He is headed elsewhere. Jasper doesn't care where he wishes to go after this—the Capitol to stardom, any of the other Districts. He doesn't care about any of that.
He just wants his brother to come back home.
Esha Poliadas, 12
District Two
She doesn't make her way downstairs with any sort of haste.
From her position in one of the Vikken's guest rooms, curled up under the blanket, she still heard the cannon. Something about fancy Capitol televisions, probably, the type that only old victor's money could afford.
Rani is still down there, she's certainly. Rani and Liana have been all but camped out in the living room since the Games started, blanket forts and all. She hadn't been able to bring herself to participate, to smile. The naivety would have been comforting in a time like this. Instead every night Esha makes her way upstairs and wishes she could crawl into her own bed, in her own house, with her sister and with Milo. The way she was meant to.
Don't get her wrong, she was grateful they had people to look after them now. It was nice that Liana's mother made dinner every night no matter how much they picked at it, too anxious to eat. It was nice that Liana kept Rani company throughout the night, taking shifts watching the television, and it was nice to not be alone.
Except Esha felt alone without Milo, somehow. She missed her big brother's wild, too-big presence. It filled the gaps her parents deaths had left in the house. She could see by the look in his eyes that he felt it, too… but wasn't that his own fault?
His own partner… his newly untrustworthy self refusing to turn away from the Eleven's for too long… it was all building up to something worse.
Esha pulls a blanket around her shoulders when she picks her way down the stairs despite the summer heat, pervading throughout the house even in the dead of night. Her sticky skin makes her feel more present, is all. More alive. In an odd way it made her connection to her parents feel stronger, as if the heat flourishing along her skin was a poor imitation of what they had felt in their final moments.
She wonders if Milo was feeling that same thing with the fire in the distance, trying not to be afraid of it when he knew just how much damage could do.
If Milo was still alive, that is.
She leans around the corner, hesitant, but her footsteps send the wooden boards creaking. Liana peers over the back of the couch at her, bare-armed and bare-legged. Apparently she's the only one here with this weird quirk. "It wasn't him."
Esha allows some of the tension to release from her shoulders. "Who, then?"
"Four."
She nods. That makes sense, in a terrible way. She notes the empty, rumpled spot on the couch where her sister had most certainly been parked. "Where is she?"
"In the bathroom. It… it wasn't pretty. She won't let me in."
Wasn't pretty is an underestimation based on the quick glance Esha gets on the screen as she makes her way past; Rani never did have the strongest of stomachs. It's a miracle she's even made it this long watching the Games with it.
She knocks softly on the bathroom door. "Ran? C'mon, it's me. Open up."
Muffled shuffling answers her words and the lock clicks open a second later. Esha pushes her way inside, stepping carefully over her sister's legs, sprawled out on the tile floor. Her cheek is pressed into the edge of the bathtub, eyes squeezed shut. She reaches over to flush the toilet, wrinkling her nose at the smell as it swirls away down the drain. Not that she can blame Rani for upending the contents of her stomach after that.
"That was terrible," Rani murmurs. "He got torn to shreds."
She crosses her legs against the floor, knees jutting awkwardly into her sister's side as she reaches out to rub her back. "Better him than Milo."
It's harsh, certainly. Harsh coming from someone her age who didn't really have to grow up to the Games or ever watch someone get torn apart. But it's the truth. Esha would rather watch the rest of the arena get ripped to pieces before Milo, no matter what he's done or will continue to do. Even her stomach couldn't handle that. She wants him back whole, preferably, not in itty bitty pieces.
"It just hasn't gotten to him yet," Rani says mournfully. "It could be him next."
"It won't be."
"You don't know that, Esh."
"It sounds an awful lot like you're calling me stupid," she chastises and Rani giggles, quiet, but more than enough in her eyes. That's better. She hasn't gotten very many laughs out of her much softer twin recently, so fragile around the edges. The past few months haven't been easy for any of them, but it's definitely been harder for some. At least they've all finally managed to stop crying.
For now, anyway. Esha can only imagine what's going to happen if...
It's going to be bad, she knows, because she can't even say it without a knot forming in her stomach, a lump to her throat. Her eyes burn with the desire to cry if she even thinks about it, and she quickly shakes the feeling away.
"Anyway, trust me," Esha continues, sitting up straighter. "Try not to think about it too much. He'll be fine."
"You promise?"
"Pinky promise," she replies, holding out her finger for Rani to link onto, like they would when they were five or six. "Tea?"
"Yes, please," Rani whispers. She stands once again, pulling Rani to her feet, but doesn't have to do much else work. Liana is already in the kitchen with the kettle on the stove, a knowing arch to her eyebrows as they both take a seat on the couch, this time, ready to stay up for a while longer. Esha has always been good at promises, but this sadly isn't hers to keep. This one is all on Milo. There was a time previous where she would believe he'd never break such a thing, but she's not so confident anymore.
In fact, she's more worried about it than ever.
Imonie Lemaris, 27
District Three
For the record, she's never going to the bar after work again.
Ever again.
She didn't even think a little hole in the wall such as this one would have a projector fit for viewing the Games, but color her shocked—it's there, in all it's textured glory. Not on Velcra at the moment, thankfully, because Imonie has seen enough of her shenanigans for quite a while, thank-you very much.
This is Nyco's neck of the woods; the bartender knows him by name, first and last, and keeps giving them free rounds. It doesn't seem like a very good business practice to her, but a bit of free booze is never a bad thing. It was a long shift today. Somehow, since they shipped Velcra off, the girls have gotten more defiant. They were loud-mouthed, arrogant, unmanageable.
But it's not like she missed Velcra. That girl was a menace, if nothing else. Still, at least she listened. Most of the time, anyway.
To her left, Ariya is halfway through a bottle of something clear and foul-smelling, and both Daviron and Lennox are trying to out-chug one another, laughing and shoving each other like a pair of school-children. It's nice to be out with friends, though, even if half of them are really coworkers just looking to blow off some steam.
It's still nice.
She eyes the screen; it's just a recap, currently, a highlight reel of the past day's events. For once, Velcra doesn't feature much, if at all. She's been off licking her wounds, holed up and alone. In the sickest sense, it was almost pleasant to watch someone so hubristic fall from such a height. Imonie knew she was supposed to be impartial, being a guard and all, but it was her that sent Velcra into the arena. She got her the application, after all.
It was nice to know that it hadn't been for nothing at all.
Ariya leans into her side halfway through the second running of the recap, sloshing something into her lap. Just another thing to add to tomorrow's laundry. "Did'ya hear what happened in Seven?"
"Sure did," she answers, taking another sip of her bourbon instead of furthering the conversation anymore. What use is it, really, in thinking about things that don't concern her? Seven is so far away. In Imonie's mind it doesn't even really exist. She's never left Three—has no plans to, either. Their families and what happens in them and who happens to die is not her business.
She pats Ariya's arm, watching her friend as she allows the television to capture her attention once again. The noise in the bar is far too raucous to make out what the commentators are going on about. She's not enough of a buzzkill to demand quiet just so that she can hear.
No one in this bar seems to care but her. No one is rooting for Velcra, not really. It's not like the Capitol is dropping a stimulus package on Three's doorstep if she wins like old times. Nope, nothing of the sort. They'll just get her back and be forced to deal with her like everyone else in the arena is forced to. No doubt she'll be wandering the streets, harassing and continuing to sell to whoever she can get her hands on like nothing has changed.
God, Imonie really does not want this girl back here. She's nothing but trouble—the worst kind.
Lennox reaches over to tap at her chin and she snaps at his fingers, jokingly, his grin enough to prove it. "Turn that frown upside-down, Lemaris. What're you so depressed for?"
"It's tough looking at your face," she fires back and he downs another shot, it seems, purely to comfort himself after such a disdainful comment. He scoots his chair closer towards her, legs scraping harshly across the worn floor. It's a wonder Imonie can even hear it.
"What d'ya think her chances are?" he asks, nodding towards the television. And there she is, District Three's menace herself, bloodied and slumped over as she heads back towards the ground floor for the night to keep guard over her supplies like some sort of gargoyle. Fitting, in the very least, for how she's been acting thus far.
"Same as anyone else, I'd reckon." Imonie hums, waggling her glass up in the air as the remaining ice cubes press up against her lips.
"I mean, if she can survive juvie…"
"It's not a death camp," she insists. The food may not be the best and the mattresses slightly lumpy, but they're given better treatment than the people stuck out on the streets of Three. It's not as if Velcra was suffering in there.
She's certainly suffering now, by the looks of it.
What is that called, anyway? Poetic justice? Maybe it's wrong of her to feel such a thing, being so technically impartial and all, but Velcra spent so much of her time tormenting others and wrapping them around her fingers that it feels warranted of her to enjoy it. She never showed mercy for anyone else—not the other girls, not Imonie herself. Hell, she laughed in the faces of her parents whenever they made enough time to visit, though it wasn't often. She knew they didn't love her, didn't want her, that she had fucked up irreparably.
Was this just another one of those irreversible mistakes? Looking at her now, a wounded animal struggling across the floor, it felt that way.
And it felt good, almost.
Imonie knew that made her just as bad as Velcra, but she didn't care much. She had lied to Lennox's face already—Velcra wasn't getting out of there. No chance in hell they let that happen.
So she would be bad. It wasn't right, but Imonie could live with that.
It would be easier once Velcra was gone.
Kanea Zelmani, 10
District Five
High above them the lamp-posts begin to flicker off, one by one as the sky is permeated with early morning gray.
Some of them were never on to begin with—you'd think in a place like Five, power District and all, that sort of stuff wouldn't happen.
But that's just how their life is. Kanea is used to it by now. It's stagnant, like one of the many pools of water that flood the front-porch of the house after a good rain storm. Nothing ever changes, really. It's a cycle, the same things over and over again.
Her cheek throbs from where one of the Sisters gave her a neat backhand two days.
But like she said—she's used to it.
What she's not used to is Inara's absence, not having anyone to run to for comfort or help. Everyone else was good, sure, but they weren't Inara. She reminds Kanea a lot of her elder sister, at least what she remembers of her. Kanea hadn't been very old at all when she had lost her and her parents, too, all in one fell swoop. Demi has been steadfast, at least, a tight hold on Kanea's arm even now as they make their way down the street, linked together as one. "Should we be doing this?" she asks under her breath, as if worried they'll get in trouble for walking. She's gotten in trouble for less with the Sisters.
"There's no way to watch it at the house."
"I know, but if they notice we're gone before breakfast…"
"They won't," Demi insists, patting her arm. "We'll climb back up the drainpipe like we always do. We just need to go check on her, alright?"
The way they talk, it's like Inara is still here. In reality they're retracing steps they've made every single day since Inara has been gone, a winding path all the way to the square to check the main screen they've set up for any updates. It's easy to get to, and best of all fast. Demi's right, probably—they'll be back before the Sisters even call them for breakfast.
The main square has yet to even come alive this morning. Only a few vendors mill about, opening doors and shutters to the early morning light. Kanea can hardly smell freshly baking bread and pastries galore, stomach rumbling in response. They'll be lucky to get a little scoop of oatmeal this morning; that's one of the many things they relied on Inara for. She would always manage to get her hands on things nobody else would dare even try to steal, still-warm croissants and sticky fruit tarts that Kanea could smell on her skin for hours afterwards. The Sisters never gave them such luxuries.
She can't help but fantasize about what their lives will be like if Inara comes back. There will be a house big enough for all of them, even if some of them still have to share rooms, and enough blankets to go around so that the winter chill doesn't creep in. They'll have warm water for the bath and dessert whenever they please and they'll stay up long into the night telling each other stories they never would have dared breathe otherwise.
It's almost enough to bring a few tears to Kanea's eyes, but she reigns it in. No use crying when nothing's even happened yet.
She eyes the mostly blank screen—instead of airing the Games it's on some annoying break, Edolie Penvarden prattling on about some nonsense or other to them instead of what they want.
Demi waves her hand at a few passerby's until one finally stops. "Hey!" she calls. "What's the status?"
"Four boy died last night. She's in the final eight."
The final eight… gosh, she's so close. Kanea knew she had it in her, but it's still something to see. She only wishes she could, properly, instead of watching this silly infomercial. Inara hasn't been in the best condition as of late, but it was enough that she was alive. As long as Kanea knew that she could continue on with the rest of her day, she thought.
"Do you think they'll come and interview us?" she asks quietly. The man that stopped for them eyes the bruise that's flowered over her cheek as he moves away. Better not to draw too much attention. "I mean, do they even know that we exist?"
"The Capitol knows everything," Demi says, a sour note to her voice. "I'm sure they'll find us somehow."
"The Sisters won't like that."
"They don't like anything," Demi reminds her, turning them both to head back to the house. "We'll figure something out—Inara would want us to."
Yes, she would. Inara would rather that she was here to do it for them, but that can't be the case right now. They have to stand up in her absence and get things done; Kanea wants the world to know that Inara has been like a sister to her, strong and bold even when stricken down, even when she has a frown on her face. She never gives in, and she won't now.
Kanea just has to act the same way. It seems that Demi has taken this all in stride along with so many of the other girls, and she can't afford to falter now. It's about time she stood up for herself, raised a little bit of hell when there was no one else around to do it.
It's exactly what Inara would want.
Ceto Orellana, 68
District Six
Locking all of the Inn's doors every night takes quite some time. Since Ilaria's been gone she's locked the windows, too.
The process of opening them all up the next morning is even more pain-staking.
It's hard during business season—she must be up before the crack of dawn to make sure that people can come and go as they please, exiting from their rooms to see what parts of Six they wish to. Things have been even busier these past two weeks or so. Never in her life has Ceto seen people from the Capitol pack their bags to end up at her little old Inn, but their fascination with the Games and its tributes is not lost on her.
They know this is the place Ilaria came from, one she worked so hard to upkeep. Why would they bother staying away, knowing that?
Ceto wishes they would have, but there's nothing she can do about it now. Besides, they're good paying customers. They leave nicer tips than anyone else ever does.
She's up before the alarm clock can let out its shrill, buzzing call as she is almost every morning, dressing with feet silent on the floor so not as to disturb anyone else in the building. The patrons are far enough away that their disturbance is not something she often faces, but Ceto is nothing if not considerate. She doesn't think Capiolities take too kindly to being woken up before their time, either.
She opens her windows, first, and then the ones in Ilaria's room, strangely empty, dust beginning to gather in places where Ceto has missed. Never having kids herself had only made Ceto appreciate Ilaria more, her warm presence and dedication to whatever she put her mind to. Ceto more than missed having that around.
If she got her back—when she got her back, Ceto knew it wasn't going to be the same girl.
The look in her eyes during the night had been enough to warn her of that.
Ilaria knew what she was doing pressing down on that button, but what Ceto knew was that she wasn't prepared to watch it happen. Not that boy from Four being ripped apart, someone Ilaria may known had she stayed in Four herself the past little while. She had watched the horror blossom in her eyes as she realized what she had done, as the boy from One crawled away, leaving a trail of his own horror behind him.
And there was no taking it back now. What's done is done. At the end of the day, the blood from the both of those boys was on Ilaria's hands. Her Ilaria, so striking and patient and reserved.
She was lucky, really, to have someone she considered a daughter that was as strong as Ilaria was. Everything she did, she did for a reason—Ceto knew what this one was, of course. It was the precise reason why she locked everything up tight when the sun went down no matter how many customers were tucked inside the Inn. Now, she didn't like labelling anyone against their will, but those kids out there, the ones who believe they run the backwards dealings and can do whatever they please, they're the definition of self-righteous bastards. She's not about to let them in because of association.
Her training days still haven't left her. Seventy is approaching fast but she's no docile, fragile old woman. Once that Career mindset gets ingrained within you it takes up residence in your brain—whether or not you make it to the Games it does something to you. She likes to believe she's transferred a bit of that energy into Ilaria, enough that she can make it out alive.
She's not quite a Career, not unfeeling and bloodthirsty. Guilt has festered inside her like a parasite already.
But if she gets out she'll be able to move on.
The back office is still quiet when she arrives, in a similar state of disarray as the night before. Ceto has never been the most organized of people, but she's been trying. There's not much else to do but cook and clean for the people around her. The long days spent training Ilaria and teaching her everything she knew are behind them, now, so she begins stacking files and old receipts into their correct folders, all while she glances out the window and imagines Four like she always does.
It's easy with yearning still heavy in her bones for her childhood home, even though she willingly left it. The ocean is not an easy thing to forget. Perhaps one day she'll have a quaint little seaside resort in Four, too, where the salt drifts palpable through the air and the gulls are your every morning wake-up call.
Her little fantasy is interrupted by a repeated knocking on the door.
To an outsider, Ceto would have no good reason to be alarmed. Only she knows otherwise. Any patrons use the main door that leads to the dining room—there's no good reason anyone should be knocking at this hour to the office's back entrance.
It's too far to the kitchen. Ceto grabs a hold of the only thing she can, a dull letter opener, and tucks it behind her back as she makes way for the door. Figures shift aimlessly beyond the pale yellow curtains.
If they want to punish Ilaria for running, they'll do it.
Ceto opens the door and resists the urge to jab the woman that appears in her face.
"Hello!" she says sweetly, far too chipper for any sensible person at this hour. "Ceto Orellana?"
Her hair is cotton candy blue—not so much a rarity these days, but it's the rest of her that makes Ceto realize. She's dressed to the nines, made up like a doll, rouge pink on her cheeks, mismatched eyes too bright to be real. More people linger behind her, some that look similar and some that look normal, cameras and equipment in hand, one with a microphone longer than she is tall.
"That's me."
"Well, as I'm sure you know, Miss Landucci has made it to the Final Eight! Congratulations! We're here to interview you."
"I wasn't aware that was still going on this year," she says cautiously. No one could fake it this well, but she's still wary. The girl reaches forward and pats her on the arm. "Why of course we are, silly! May we come in?"
Something tells Ceto they're going to come in whether she gives them permission or not. She nods, stepping aside to make way for the girl and her blue hair as well as the camera crew that trails along behind her, watching them all back into the office like sardines in a too-small can.
"Now, is there anyone else available to interview on Ilaria's behalf?" the girl's asked. "We've had difficulty tracking down her family in Four, and haven't heard anything about any friends. Do you have suggestions?"
Any that come to mind are wrong. Her family chased her out, whether they meant to or not, and the last thing Ceto wants is for that gang to be running around rampant on camera, spreading lies and atrocities across every television screen in Panem. They're not the people Ilaria would want speaking about her.
It's up to Ceto, and Ceto only.
"No," she says. "Just me."
Leighton Rossier, 16
District Eight
"My, don't you just look absolutely darling," Zinaida observes, gently brushing some of Leighton's hair back.
And she does feel pretty, in a way—she wouldn't exactly describe it as darling, but that's a start. Leighton knows the dark circles under her eyes can only be worked on so much, caked in thick layers of foundation and concealer that feels heavy on her skin. Those are the same shadows Micah so often wore before he left.
It makes sense considering how much work of his she's picked up; good work, don't get her wrong, but tiring. The stipends were helping them out, but it still wasn't enough for them all. That duty was on Leighton's shoulders, now, the next oldest child that still remained in the household.
"Thanks," she says quietly, finally, feeling like Zinaida deserves something in the very least. She's been nice, too—almost too nice, but Leighton isn't about to complain. She looks like she could be from Eight, plain blonde hair with dark, dark eyes that twinkle with happiness every time she gets a particularly good swipe of make-up across Leighton's face.
She smiles this time, too, giving Leighton's shoulder a gentle pat as she moves around to her other side, gently arranging some of her curls.
"You look just like him," Zinaida comments, brushing through some of her hair.
"Nearly taller, though," Leighton answers, cracking a smile. She's done growing, she knows that with an almost certainly, but it's fun to get on Micah's back about their respective heights, even if she'll never quite shoot past him. Joking is good when they struggle so much otherwise. "Can you turn the radio up, please?"
Zinaida obliges, but reaches into one of her many travel bags to pull free a tablet, gently placing it in Leighton's arms. "Here. I'm not sure what they're showing right now, but you may be able to find something…"
It's easily the most expensive thing Leighton's ever been handed, and she doesn't take that responsibility lightly. The radio is crackling, bad signal and all—Leighton can only hear every few words that they're mentioning about the Games. Not nearly enough. Everyone in the main room still has a clear view of the television, her parents and the rest of her siblings who have been appropriately grouped up.
But they want to talk to Leighton alone, for whatever reason. Apparently that means she has to get ready alone, too.
She manages to find a few feeds on the tablet fairly easily, though the glare from the window doesn't give her any breaks as she squints and tilts her head, trying to get a look. There's her brother, finally, filthy and dragging his leg behind him, looking up at the light pouring in over his head. "Looks like he's getting out," Zinaida says, sounding almost casual.
And yet Leighton's heart is in her throat.
Micah reaches up, for freedom, and after a moment of struggle manages to drag himself up through the hole and into the street's edge. He sprawls out onto his back, breathing hard, only inhaling more of the rapidly spreading smoke as he does so. The sky is tinted orange, she thinks, a permanent state of inexplicable hell. She doesn't envy him one bit. All Leighton wants to do is go in there and take him out.
When he manages to get up she sees the strain on his face, the pain that flashes through his eyes. Leighton has no idea how he's still moving at this point.
Move he does, too. Micah turns, scanning far across the horizon for anything at all, but Leighton has no idea what he could possibly be thinking until he steps forward, suddenly purposeful in his shaky, wobbling movements. He's heading right for the Training Center.
"He's figured it out," Zinaida says, leaning forward to get a good look herself. "He'll be able to patch himself up there."
"Not if she's still there," Leighton breathes. Of course he's figured it out—Micah's no idiot. But what he doesn't realize is that the Three girl is still in there, camped out on the ground floor as she has been. Injured or not, she won't hesitate to kill him just like she did with Oksana. In fact, she'll relish in it. He won't just barge in through the front door, right? He's too smart for that, too cautious.
Is that just her being stupidly, blindly optimistic?
It's not a trait that runs commonly through her family, but Leighton has found herself feeling it more often than not recently, all whilst begging that her brother returns home. It's easy to allow yourself to feel such delusions during a time like this. Leighton doesn't want to feel anything else.
"Alright," Zinaida says. "I think you're ready, sweetheart. Are you ready?"
No. No, she's not. "Just a minute," she says tightly, clutching the tablet tighter. Zinaida gently removes it from her hands, powering down on the switch.
"He won't get there in the next few minutes," Zinaida assures her. "The quicker you get this done, the quicker you can get back to watching him. How does that sound?"
She's got a point. Of course she does—Leighton is just being unbelievably irrational right now. Micah can hardly walk, let alone let out a sudden marathon sprint towards the Training Center. Unless he stumbles across someone else on the way there, there's nothing to worry about. He's made up his mind; there's no changing it now. If he doesn't get what's there, Micah may just die anyway. She has to have faith that he'll make the right decisions to keep himself alive.
She sighs, shoulders slumping forward. "Okay," she agrees quietly. "I'm ready."
"That's more like it! Let's go."
Leighton allows Zinaida to hold open the door for her, stepping out into the hall with heavy feet and an even heavier heart. It hurts to breathe no matter how much faith she has in him. It's hurt to breathe since the second he left.
If he doesn't come back she's never going to breathe right again.
Quarren Gonzalez, 18
District Eleven
Truth be told, Quarren sort of expected to get a knock on his door today.
Not right away, of course. Her parents are the most important people in the District right now—wealthy and beautiful and letting lies about how amazing their daughter is slip through their clenched teeth.
But Quarren knows the truth. Don't they all?
He doesn't wait for anyone else to make their way to the door when he hears the knock, quick on his feet as always. Quarren made sure he looks good for this just in case, collar carefully pressed down, shoes shined, hair appropriately slicked back. They're looking for entertainment, as always, and it's not as if Casimira is giving it to them right now. She's still sleeping.
He'll do well in her place. More than well, in fact. He may even enjoy it.
When Quarren opens the door he's taken aback for a brief before before he composes himself, surprised to see none other than her father standing on his front stoop, expectant and imposing. Deion Ruiz is well-known around the District; not the richest, most ambitious businessman out there, but someone with enough standing to be noticeable. That's where so much of Casi's grief stems from when she watches her family, content in their position, refuse to do anything more day in and day out.
It's all so laughable to Quarren. She's delusional, that one. Why can't she just be happy with what she's got?
"Mr. Ruiz," he greets. "How can I help you?"
"Quarren, is it?" Deion asks. It's clear to see where Casi gets that insufferable energy from; they've met half a dozen times, at least. "I'm sure you're well aware of the interviews occurring today—they'd like to you head our way now. They prefer the setting there."
And who wouldn't? The Ruiz house is bigger than most of the others in Eleven, impressive in an otherwise flat landscape of fields and orchards. It towers into the sky like a castle, far too big for only three people to permanently reside in. Sure, Quarren's house is decently sized, but even his parents aren't so grandiose and ridiculous. It's no wonder that every other word out of Casi's mouth when she talked about her family was trash.
"Of course," he agrees, readily, stepping outside to join him. There's not much point in informing anyone of his absence; Quarren doesn't think he'll be gone all that long. What is he to say, really? Casi is a lot of things—delusional, transparent, so self-absorbed her entire being might as well be made of sponge… that's probably not what the cameras want to hear, now is it?
He chances a sideways glance at Deion as he closes the door behind him, stepping out into the road. What good has he said at this point when Casi is only able to express her disdain towards him?
"Mr. Ruiz, if I may… what have you talked about with them so far?" he asks.
"Everything they can get their hands on. They seem particularly fixated on her little 'whirlwind romance'—that's what they're calling it in the Capitol. It's pathetic."
"Is it?"
Deion stops him with a hand around his elbow less than twenty yards down the road, dust kicked up beneath her feet. "You know her as well as I do, I'd like to believe. My daughter thinks she's so much more than she really is, and then she goes and falls in love and has the audacity to cry about it after only a few days."
Well… love is a tad dramatic, he thinks, but Quarren doesn't say that. It's the Games, not some faked reality television show in the Capitol. It is oddly fitting for Casi, though, to go on and on about her own capabilities and then falter over something so out of left field. Quarren had been keen on watching her self-destruct, of course, but he hadn't expected it to come like this. He and his friends kept her around for laughs, their own charade so good that Casi likely believes they have a real, amiable relationship.
That's how she was with everyone, too. An argument with her father, one of many, was what had spurred her to hand in that application in the first place. She was all talk, no presentation, a girl at a talent show with nothing important to wow the audience with.
And soon enough she would be forced off-stage. Detonation at its finest, in the body of a girl who is so much less than she always believed.
"Quarren," Deion says, oddly forceful. "Don't lie on her behalf, not even to the cameras. She doesn't deserve it."
As if he would. Quarren will tell them who Casi is, all the ugly little details that flourish under her rose-tinted glasses. By the sounds of it, her father already has. Anything Quarren says at this point will only be further evidence. It may even turn them against her, he realizes, giving them ammunition to with-hold their money and gifts, their sorrow. But everyone already is—at least here, anyway. No one really likes her. No one wants her to return and listen to her any longer.
The few years Quarren had dealt with already have been exhausting enough.
If Quarren was a parent, he thinks he would want his child to come back no matter what. Any problem can be fixed, even years upon years of vexation between a father and daughter.
He's not Deion, thankfully enough. And if he's lucky, he'll never have a daughter like Casi.
"Don't worry, sir," he says with a smile. "I would never."
Arley Mavala, 26
District Eleven
The pain is particularly detrimental today.
Of all the days, too, it had to be this one. There's a prep team out there in their living room—his living room, really, because Hale isn't here any longer, but that doesn't change their existence.
He can hardly move, is the thing. It's ever-changing, shifting like a wave but not nearly as cool as one, no relief to be found. He'd be okay if he could get moving and shake away some of the stiffness that's set in, but Hale's not here to help him up and Glenna hasn't arrived yet. She's been good with him since his brother left, there whenever she can be despite Hale's desire for her to stay away.
Nobody out there knows what to do with him. He's a broken, ugly thing. Definitely not up to their standards. They're paid to set up the camera equipment and make him pretty, not get him out of bed. That's far above their pay grade, in fact. He can only imagine what they're thinking.
Aren't there other people to interview? Where are the parents? The friends? Anyone? Hello?
Their pleas for help will not be heard by anyone today, though. For now they're stuck with Arley, or rather stuck in a part of the house that is not his room, likely trying to figure out what to do with him. If he was a shouter, he'd call out to them and tell them to just set up in here; it's not like they're going to fool anyone by putting a bit of make-up on his face.
Sooner than Arley expects the door creaks open, an older gentleman with a face resembling smooth plastic, filled with one too many injections. "Can I help you with anything?" he asks, raising an eyebrow curiously. Something about it feels disingenuous, but he's the first one to ask.
He chuckles, but even that winds up hurting, so Arley can't escape a following wince. He knows he can get up on his own, eventually—he's done it enough despite Hale's angry and stubborn protests, but right now he doesn't really want to. Glenna's set up an old little projector in here so that he can watch on while she's not here and he's got more than enough food to last him. He doesn't think it's wrong to not want to get on camera and talk about things he would rather keep to himself.
If Hale were here he'd have chased them out by now. Hell, he wouldn't even have let them in the door.
Arley braces an elbow under himself, forcing himself up further into the pillow despite the pain in his back. "What's your name?" he asks.
"Yiannis."
"Well, Yiannis, if you were looking for a good interview you might be… ow, shit out of luck for today."
"Do you need assistance?"
Of course he does, but Arley doesn't want it. Letting Glenna do it is nearly unbearable. He doesn't even like Hale having to dote on him constantly, spoon-feeding him medication to lessen the pain and breaking himself down to keep a roof over their heads. Arley is supposed to be the one helping people, not the other way around. That's how he ended up this way in the first place.
He glances at the projector, but Hale is still in the same position as before, holed-up in a jewelry store worth more than their entire home having hardly slept a wink the entire time. It's something he's used to, in the very least. He doesn't sleep much on Arley's bad nights either.
Yiannis is still there, watching on. He had already forgotten the other man was there.
Without warning he pulls forth the small stool from the corner of the room and drags it to the bedside, rooting through his pockets until he pulls out a small notepad, plucking a pen from beneath his air. "Would you mind if I asked you a few questions like this, then?"
Almost instantly Arley feels something snarky come to mind, but that feels too much like Hale. He stops himself. Asking a Capitol person if they even know how to write when all they tend to do is talk feels like a low-blow to someone who's just doing their job.
In any way they can, it appears.
He folds his hands over his stomach. "Shoot."
"What are your thoughts on your brother making it to the Final Eight?"
"Uh… I'm happy? Obviously. I knew he could get there, but seeing it makes me feel better. What else am I supposed to say?"
"Whatever you feel."
Arley tries to sift through the many thoughts swirling about his head, from his brother's knife in the Ten boy's stomach to that lit match in his hand, the conflict in his eyes as he did each and every single thing from the second he stepped foot into that arena. His actions had been swift, but he hadn't managed to disguise his true feelings, at least not to Arley. Hopefully the audience was fooled, at least.
"I want him to come home." There's a difference, too—Arley needs him to come home, but he won't say that. "I believe he can, too, but that doesn't stop me from being scared and I can barely sleep at night thinking about it, and—"
He pauses. Yiannis is writing down every one of his words without a second thought, his pen pausing in its scribbling as Arley trails off. That unnerving, plastic note to his face registers once again. He doesn't care, does he? If Hale dies, he won't shed a tear, won't think of anything Arley said. He's going to transcribe it for some good television and move on with his life.
Arley can't force himself to go any further, swallowing. Glenna's voice reaches his ears from a distance, present as ever, while Yiannis looks on expectedly.
But he can't say anything. Most importantly, he doesn't want to. There are no words that will be enough to tell an entire audience how he feels no matter how much he tries to think of them. They just don't exist.
They're still there just like that when Glenna opens the door. Even if she gets him out of bed Arley doesn't think they'll get many words out of him now. He's a puppet to them, burnt to a crisp, ready to crumble apart in her hands. They pity him and despise the sight of him all in the same second.
Yiannis gets up and departs, Glenna quickly taking his place. When she sits down something like compassion flashes through her eyes, but he can hardly focus on it. All Arley can think about are the lives he saved, the ones that gave him such brutal wounds, and how he can't save his brother in the same way.
Hale is on his own, now.
Cambria Mervaine, 51
Co-Head Gamemaker—The Capitol.
"Do you think we did the right thing?"
Cambria knows her voice is quiet, unusually so. She has no issue being this way any other time, but the magnitude of it now is amplified.
For the first time in a long time—possibly ever, for all she knows, the doubt that lingers within her is almost strong enough to overpower anything else. Considering some of the… questionable decisions Cambria's had to make in the past, that's saying something.
It's a thought almost to herself, really, even though everyone else is in the room. Ferrox is across the main table with Cyrus, talking, and Lex is working on pushing the fire back from the forcefield's edge despite its strength. It should hold, but they can't really risk that right now. A public meltdown is the last thing they need. Sona is only a few feet away but occupied, it seems, as she pushes through the mainframe and takes back control of the mutts from Six.
So it's Alessia that hears her. The stranger. She turns to Cambria, chin nestled in the palm of her hand. "What do you mean?"
She has no idea what to say to that, not really. There are any number of things she could be referring to; Alessia knows all of them, at the heart of it, but she's looking for an explanation that Cambria can't manage to give her at the moment.
Cambria made sure these Games ended so many years ago, and now yet again she's killed sixteen children, just like old times. Like it was nothing.
There's something magnificent to be said about maternal instincts. As soon as you have children of your own things shift in such a dramatic way that there's no going back to how it was before. She's put herself in the shoes of other parents many others times, wondering what they must be thinking as they watch their child slaughtered on live television for the rest of the country to see. Volunteered or not, it doesn't matter. That doesn't lessen the pain any, she doesn't imagine.
If it was Atlas, if it was Mercia… would she never feel her own self-hatred lessen?
"It's odd, isn't it," Alessia says. "To go back to this after we thought we were free."
"Odd indeed."
"Is that what you're referring to?"
Well, it could be. That's the safer answer if she ever heard it. Valid too, of course. They pandered to the whims of people they hardly knew from nations far, far away all to put on one last final show for them, and now another handful of children have been slaughtered like cattle. Bad habits take even longer to break than Cambria initially suspected.
"If you're feeling bad about killing more kids, just remember the end-goal."
"And that is…?"
"Exactly what you told me months ago when I was brought on—to make sure that it was so abhorrent that no one would ever want to witness it again."
And here she thought a hundred and sixty years of it was gruesome enough, especially when you were watching it like she was. She had seen tribute bodies pieced back together like they were no doubt trying to do to Varrik in the labs, trying to make him presentable as best they could. Alessia had a point, though. The people of Panem were used to the violence, but everyone else… well, Cambria had seen the reactions. They said everything you needed to know.
"Are the interviews always this bad?" Alessia questions, sliding one of their many tablets closer to her along the console table. "Now, I've seen quite a few messes in my day, but let me tell you that Eleven is a fucking mess."
Unsurprisingly enough. Cambria knows the sight of something nuclear from a distance. Casimira's father and so-called friend have been bad-mouthing her all day, clearly believing she'll never be back to hear it, and trying to get Hale's brother on camera is proving nearly impossible. So far, everything has run as smoothly as it could be—she should have expected a hiccup sooner.
But this is Panem. Panem in all it's bloody, messy glory. She's not about to interfere in that.
"Usually worse," she comments, remembering the truly bad days. Clips of rebel family members getting shot before they could cut away, mother's howling like wounded wolves, small children screaming in their grandparents arms, unable to understand what was going on. Cambria doesn't miss any of it.
"Why am I not surprised?" Alessia mutters, scrolling through some of the interview feeds from earlier in the day. The opinions from the first of the delegates will be rolling in soon, probably wondering how they manage to make such a spectacle out of murder. Cambria already knows they won't do it to their own people—they've proved their point sufficiently.
The last Hunger Games ever has a nice enough ring to it.
"And just in case you were wondering," Alessia continues. "We did do the right thing. All of it."
Their gazes are both level when they meet, evenly-matched. It isn't often that Cambria can find someone at a distance that's willing to look her in the eye; she should have figured it would come from a former underground Capitol-trained soldier. Alessia has far more blood on her hands than any of the rest of them, and that's saying something considering Cambria has the death of a President under her belt.
Despite not knowing her all that well even now, Cambria feels inclined to believe Alessia's words. There's no good reason for her to lie; she has as much stake in this as the rest of them. She signed up for this job when they called for help.
Alessia has no children herself, but she has family—not by blood, but quite a lot of them. They both have people to protect in this. If they don't believe that this will all turn out right in the end, then they've already lost.
Cambria doesn't take kindly to losing.
And a big hip-hip-hooray to us for hitting the 200k pit-stop on the journey that is TC.
No these are not technical 'interviews' but if I can't stand to write the actual things, there was no chance I was ever going to write these. Regardless I hope you enjoyed them and their only slightly out of hand length.
Next week is what I'm calling my 'break week' if only because updating so often and editing, along with writing other things, has thoroughly begun to exhaust me. We'll return to our actual final 8 on March 23rd and head on right to the finale after that. Hopefully everyone can live with that and if not, well... get over it? Sounds good to me. With only six Games chapters left you might as well tbh.
Until next time.