XLVI: The Capitol - Training Center.
Casimira Ruiz, 17
District Eleven Female
She's never woken up to the feeling of someone else in her bed before.
Casi didn't know what to expect when they finally let her out of her bed just a few days ago—certainly not to just be spending most of her time in the one she had before up on Eleven. At least this one was more comfortable, isolated from the prying gaze of nurses and people who tried to fill her with tubes, tape in danger of ripping off her skin.
And, as it turns out, there was the bonus of it being larger. She could spread out and stretch, working the energy back into her previously broken bones and sore muscles. But, when she did it this morning, it wasn't long before her fingertips brushed against more warm skin, the blankets rumpled in an unusual spot.
They would call it an accident, Casi knew. She had been asleep first of the two of them, closing her eyes with the express knowledge that Donatella remained leaning up against the headboard beside her as she was most nights, nearby in case Casi needed anything. The difference this time was that sometime after that, she normally left. Casi woke alone every morning.
When she opened her eyes to find Tella beside her, awkwardly slumped and curled into herself, not even properly covered, her heart swelled. She looked properly relaxed in sleep even if it didn't look like the most comfortable position to be in. Her breaths remained deep and even, the rise and fall of her chest bringing her a unique sort of solace as she watched, one that she had never felt before. The morning was one of many firsts.
She was still sore just like every other morning, turned on her side to face the other girl, stretching closer to entangle their hands together. Something about it still felt off—dangerous, even. Casi knew that was only a by-product of the Games, of returning to nothing more than the memory of Donatella standing out there on the cobblestone with nothing to really show for it. It was knowing that something could be ripped away so easily, fragile no matter how hard you tried to build it stronger.
They were here now, but it still didn't seem real. Casi wasn't sure when it would, if ever.
A part of her still wants to go back. She could do more, try and protect this girl who had wormed her way in before Casi even properly knew who she was.
There was something damaged in them both, she knew. It seemed impossible that they could fix it on their own.
When Tella stirs, finally, she gives her hand a squeeze, relishing in the surprise that fills her half-lidded eyes as she takes in her surroundings—so similar to her room downstairs, but so different all the same. Her fingers tangle tighter through Casi's own almost subconsciously, the pad of her thumb soft as she brushes it over Casi's knuckles.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep," she mumbles half-heartedly. They never got in this arena, not anything close. Every-time they woke it was with a sudden urgency, in the middle of the night to take a watch or in the morning only expecting the worse. She never got to see this exact type of softness on Tella's face, the kind that only comes when sleep is still dragging at your eyes.
She shuffles down with a wince, finally correcting her body's unnatural position. Their hands remain together.
"I don't mind," Casi tells her, smiling when she hears an amused huff into the pillow. When she turns her face out once again her cheeks are flushed. They're like two little school-girls, somehow, giddy and still relaxed from sleep, unguarded for once in their lives. It's a welcome change from how she normally feels if only she didn't have to die for it.
For once she admires the quiet, though Casi can't allow it to last long when Tella's eyes drift away from hers, something unfocused to them. "What?"
"Home tomorrow."
"Not for me," Casi corrects. "And not… not for you. Unless you want to go back. You don't need to stay here on my account."
"I don't want to go back," Tella says quickly. "Not yet, not until I know how to deal with it all. Besides, what am I supposed to do, leave you and Milo here on your own to duke it out?"
"As if he'd stand a chance," Casi grumbles, though her frown is quickly twisted away when Tella reaches over to brush a curl away from her eyes, planting a kiss on her forehead once her skin is left exposed. She hates it as much as she loves it, someone witnessing her so unkept and so unprepared for the day ahead. No doubt she looks a mess, hair undone and body still too sore to get up as quickly as she'd like.
She forces herself to sit up only when Tella crawls out of the bed—her bed, though she feels increasingly as if the distinction will be null and void soon enough. Casi doesn't think this ache in her body will ever fully go away, rearing its ugly head when she least expects it.
"You know," she says with a wince. "Even if they had medically cleared me, I wouldn't go."
"I don't blame you."
Casi tries not to think about it, the handful of people that have warned her not to watch the interviews that took place in Eleven. It's something she'll have to tackle eventually, but right now everything is too overwhelming to add one more useless thing to it. Whatever was said doesn't matter—or at least it won't, one day.
"If they do clear me," she says slowly. "And I still don't want to go…"
"Then you're not going."
She feels defended for the first time in her life. Wanted. It almost makes her skin crawl to have someone care about her so deeply that they would actually fight for her—most of Casi's life has been spent combating others, pushing back when they dared to shove. She's never had someone stand up for her in the way Tella does.
Casi has never had to ask. She can't even give anything in return, as much as it infuriates her.
"You're not going," Tella says, but this time there's something more fierce in her voice. It's that quiet, steely determination that reminds her just who Tella is—the name was a lie, but this is the exact girl Casi knew all along. "If you want to stay here, then you're staying. Simple as that."
It's not just her family Casi doesn't want to deal with, Eleven as a whole. Casi does want to stay. With her.
There's still so much she doesn't know. So many things they need to say and do and talk to each-other about, but the past few days have been nothing but quiet as Casi re-learns how to live with Tella unfailingly by her side.
There's time for that, now. They have time.
Casi stretches her arm out. In that instant she doesn't feel weak or even useless. When Tella steps forward, into the curl of her arm, she feels like nothing more than a regular old human. Just as Tella once described.
And when Tella leans down to kiss her, she feels like being human maybe isn't the worst thing that could have happened.
Lisse Rockefeller, 15
District Ten Female
When things get tough, it's apparently Penny that she goes to.
That's not necessarily something Lisse saw coming—she always felt closer to Marigold, like they could be more silly and carefree. She could have tried to talk it out with Hosea, too; he's a morning person out of habit, she suspects, but he's grumpy to a fault, especially so when Kelsea won't let him drink before noon.
Or ever, for that matter, but Kelsea can't keep an eye on him twenty-four-seven, even if she wishes she could.
The Nines are preparing for their journey home. Lisse will have plenty of time to bid them goodbye, even if she has to wait until the station tomorrow to do it. She'll be sad to watch the train pull away with them contained safely inside, but their happiness is well deserved. After what they went through together, they deserve a long life of knowing that the other is safe and happy.
Penny is staying too, she knows. They've talked about it a lot since their little reuniting session. It's good to have some company in that respect when Lisse knows that she'll soon be alone otherwise, all of the other people she could possibly be close to leaving her far, far behind.
And she'll be okay, of course. Lisse has always been okay on her own.
It's just weird, is all.
Penny seems to share much of that same sentiment, at least, doing wonders to ward off the impending loneliness that has begun to creep down onto Lisse's shoulders. She still looks tired, not nearly as prepared to talk so much at this hour, but she paces around the kitchen while Lisse chatters away, gnawing at a straw that's stuck into an unnaturally green smoothie. It looks much too healthy for Lisse's taste, but that's none of her business. She can't judge the choices of the only person she's soon going to have.
"Do you think we could go to Nine?" she asks. "One day, at least."
"Of course. We'll go and visit."
"That'll be nice," she murmurs, laying her arms down at the counter's edge so that she can rest her head on them, staring aimlessly into the space ahead of her. It won't even look that much different than Ten, but at least it will be an adventure. Something new, after so long, and her friends will be there too. No longer will she be somehow entrapped by the too-big fields and ranches of Ten, her parents' misgivings and embezzlements chasing after her like a pack of hounds. Anything, really, will be better than going back there.
She wonders if they miss her. If anyone does. The numerous friends whose couches she surfed across or the owners of the little market stalls who she frequented so often.
Has she been forgotten about or are they still out there, awaiting her return?
"Penny," she says. "What do you think it's going to be like, going back out into the world?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like… are people missing us? Even the ones we don't miss? Are they appreciative of what we represent? Do they love that we're alive, or hate that so many other kids were robbed of the same opportunity? Are we walking out into a warzone or back into what we already know?"
"That is extremely existential for the time of day," Penny says around her straw, so thoroughly bitten that Lisse is surprised it hasn't been chewed in half. "I think we'll find out tomorrow a little bit. Should be interesting."
Tomorrow they'll be on a station platform watching a train be loaded up, as many of them as they can physically take. Only a handful will be left behind, the ones who can't quite leave yet and the ones who have no desire to.
Lisse can't help but wonder when she'll get out of here, if ever. It's not as if they're about to let a fifteen year old gallivant off around the country all by her lonesome—that may have flown in Ten when no one was any the wiser, but there are tabs being kept on her now. As much as Lisse has gained her freedom, she's also lost a part of it too.
"When you turn eighteen, wherever you go, promise me you'll take me with you."
"Sure, I'll just adopt you," Penny says thoughtfully. "I'm sure they'll love that."
The two of them really could go out there together, couldn't they? Penny could entertain people all around the country, possibly even all over the world. Now that they're connected to some of the delegates the possibilities are quite literally endless, and Lisse can be by her side if she so chooses to. She'll run free wherever the hell she chooses, see what she wants to see, make a life full of less lies and thievery and deception.
Even the mere thought of freedom—complete and total freedom, tastes so sweet on Lisse's tongue. She can imagine it already.
"I'm holding you to that," Lisse tells her. At this point she can't even tell if she's teasing or not, but it feels good to hold onto a bit of the energy she maintained so well in Ten. Lisse hasn't lost all of her edge, and if the Games couldn't take it away then surely nothing can.
Everything she's ever wanted is somewhere out there, as daunting as it sounds. The future is wide-open.
It may take some time, but Lisse is going to get there.
Ilaria Landucci, 18
District Six Female
She doesn't think she'll ever be ready to go back to Six.
You could give her a hundred years—hell, possibly even a thousand, and the idea of going back would still unsettle her. Her victorship hasn't changed the way she feels about the place. It's her home, almost more her home than Four ever was, but it's full of threats.
Ilaria can't just go back and burn Six to the ground like she planned on. It's bigger than her, now. There are other people under her to worry about, a visage that they have to keep up to the public at least for now. In a few years they can all duck back down into their normal lives or even the shadows, whichever they prefer, but for now every single spotlight is shining down directly on them.
She'll be watched like a hawk. At least it offers her some comfort to know that the more she's watched, the less likely everything is to end.
No one can just end Ilaria anymore. They'll have a hell of a time trying.
A part of her feels good, too, knowing that she's not going home alone. When Cal flops down onto the opposite end of the couch, hair still damp from the shower, she's reminded that he'll be stepping off that train with her. Perhaps he'll crawl back into his quiet little places—the loud ones too, where he brawls and bleeds with the rest of them, but his presence is enough to remind her that as alone as Ilaria left Six, she's not headed back the same way.
When he waves a hand in her face she blinks, startling back. She doesn't expect him to look apologetic, and he doesn't, to be frank, but he does look curious. Normally he's not nosy enough to look anything of the sort—half the time he doesn't look as if he's feeling anything. It's a trait of his that she envies more than anything else. Ilaria can play at looking distant and emotionless, but the truth always comes out.
"What could you possibly be thinking about that has you looking so stressed?" he asks, reclining back into the pillow. It's odd to see him so relaxed, muscles not coiled in preparation for a fight.
He's not scared about the prospect of Six at all, and why should he be?
"Home," she answers simply, unable to relax in the same way.
"Of all the things…"
"I know, I know." She sighs. "It's silly."
"Is it?"
"I'm sorry, does that sound like you caring?" Ilaria asks, trying not to look too shocked. "Did someone switch places with you while I was asleep?"
"Ha-ha," Cal deadpans. "Very fucking funny. My apologies, I'll work on never caring again."
She's never told anyone. Not even Ceto knows the explicit details, the ugliest ones. Only the gist of it has ever left her mouth, and that alone was enough to get someone to feel pity for her, for Ceto to take poor little Ilaria under her wing. The thought of telling anyone makes her want to shrink up into a nearly impossible size. Telling people things makes you vulnerable. Weak. She's too smart for that, too self-sufficient. Ceto always told her not to give up secrets so easily.
Cal always said he didn't want to be lied to, though.
"Do you remember what I told you back on the train?" she questions. "About the people I had been dealing with in the past?"
"Sure do."
"The Halflings." Ilaria swallows away the lump that forms in her throat at the name alone. "That's who it was."
Cal lets out a low whistle. Of course he doesn't look concerned, but Ilaria would hate it if he did. He's never pitied her or treated her any different because of the awful things she had to go through. All he's done is be there even if he's often confused by that decision himself, as if the first time he's chosen to do such a thing in the past.
"I ran with them for a while," she continues. "Right after I arrived. It was practically instantaneous. I didn't have much to my name, hardly any money, and one of them just scooped me right up. Offered me a place to stay and I was so stupid that I accepted. All went downhill after that."
Cal's gaze is on the ceiling, though she can practically see the gears turning in his head as he works out what to say. Not being the most emotional person is certainly a downfall during such a trying conversation, though she envies him for it any other day of the week.
"How downhill?" he asks carefully. It's clear what he's trying for, there—no details, nothing explicit, but enough to wrap his head around the ordeal.
Ilaria could talk for hours about the downhill slope she tumbled through.
"They did awful, awful things and for a while I just… accepted it. They were my people, you know? For a while, especially in the beginning, I thought they liked me for me. When they realized I wasn't what they wanted it got worse. More gruesome. Even more awful than I could have anticipated. One by one things just kept piling up until Altair—"
"Altair Klineson?" Cal interrupts. "That motherfucker has made off with more betting pools than people can keep track of—real gem, that one."
"Yeah," she says softly. He had been so good to her at first, too. Like any other friend would. He'd make her laugh and sling an arm around her shoulder and they would all show her around together, making a grand show of Six like it was some idyllic paradise.
And she would soon learn the truth.
"What did he do?" Cal asks, but she gets the feeling he already has an idea. That makes the thought of saying it aloud even more daunting. She can still feel it, still remember every second of it like it was yesterday. A part of her wonders if it will ever go away.
It won't, she doesn't think. Especially not if she only ever allows it to live inside her.
"What didn't he do?" she says slowly. "We were alone. I didn't even know he was there, actually, until he slammed my head against the wall and pinned me against it. He had half my clothes off before I managed to break free and punch him so hard I broke two of my fingers."
Her hands are shaking just like they were that night, just like her whole body was when she took off. In that moment she didn't feel like property, didn't feel like a placeholder for all of the Halflings dirty secrets, but Ilaria had felt it then.
It all still haunts her.
"You're scared to go back," Cal says.
"Not scared," she says quickly. "Not… I don't even know what I feel, really."
Cal nudges her in the leg, his socked toes jabbing into her thigh hard enough to shake her out of the impending rain-cloud that's about to open up over her head.
"Whatever the feeling is," he says. "I don't think there's any getting rid of it. But when I tell you that you don't have to worry, I need you to believe me."
No lies. No bullshit. That was them from the start, the very basis that formed… well, whatever this is, really. Somehow it sounds like the most genuine thing he's ever said to her, and she knows she has no choice but to believe it even if she doesn't want to. Ilaria isn't going back home alone. Some amount of fear will linger in her for a while longer, but it doesn't have to take control of her. No, she can own it. Just because she can't burn Six doesn't doesn't mean a few specific people can't go up in flames.
Judging by the look in Cal's eyes, she suspects they will whether she does it or not.
Ren Mantau, 16
District Nine Male
He's made it a point every single day to do this exact thing.
Getting Mazzen to talk to anyone but him was like pulling teeth—painful, drawn out, but ultimately better in the end. Tarquin was the first step, and it had been sort of a team effort in getting him to sit with Shoah long enough to really have a heart-to-heart, but it had worked.
That was all relative, of course. Just because it was working didn't mean it was fixed, and frankly there was no quick and easy fix for everything going on in Mazzen's head. He was struggling in a way that none of them could understand even if they had all gone through the same thing. That trauma was different. Older, even.
It's not his job to do this. Ren knows this has always been part of his downfall, doing so much for other people and getting little to nothing back in return. It's enough for him though that Mazzen offers him a smile when he emerges from the office with Shoah at his back. Ren pulls his half-numb legs apart to stand, shaking them out. A clear sign he's been here a while waiting, but Mazzen already knows.
"Good afternoon, Ren," she says. "How are you doing?"
For once, he doesn't hesitate a beat. "Okay, I think."
Not perfect. Nowhere close to it, really. But Ren is trying and he's getting better with every passing day, inching his way back into normalcy with a smile on his face. Ren isn't always the most confident in how he's getting through things, but he trusts his own process—whatever it is, anyway, it's at least working.
"Good to hear it," she answers. "I'll see you tomorrow before you go, Mazzen."
Ren holds his tongue until she's gone, practically clamping down on it to avoid the immediate stream of questions that he wants to ask. He waits even until Mazzen has led them both to the elevator as if afraid someone else is going to hear.
Once the doors close, however, it's game over. "They're letting you go home tomorrow? With the rest of us."
"Yeah."
Oh. Well, that's good right? It has to be. That doesn't stop the nerves from creeping up, the worry. It was just a few days ago that he found Mazzen eyeing a knife of all things. It just seems a little fast to him, is all.
Mazzen nudges him, gently. "She set me up with someone back in Three, and I have her contact information in case that one doesn't work out."
"Oh," he says aloud. Ren must be a bit thick in the head if he thought they would just readily send Mazzen home without nothing, not even a bit of support. Besides, they both know Velcra is being forced to stay here. Offering Mazzen such distance away from her will help, too. He can go back to his parents. To his home. Perhaps recovery will be easier there. That's what Ren will hope, anyway.
"You looked like you were about to have an aneurism."
"Man, shut up," Ren insists, wishing his cheeks didn't flush so vividly. He was worried, alright? That's not a crime, even though Marigold harps on him like it is, constantly poking and teasing at him before she hugs him to ensure she's just full of jokes. Seeing everyone act simply okay, even for a few minutes, makes him feel even better about the prospect of a future.
The majority of them may be moving on tomorrow, but that's not just it. They'll still be connected. He'll find a number somehow and call Mazzen too, just in case.
Ultimately, they're all doing what's best for themselves. That's all Ren can ask for.
"I'm happy for you," he murmurs. "I think home will be good."
Mazzen heaves out a sigh. "I hope so."
"Just think—your parents will both give you huge hugs. You'll get to sleep in your own bed. They might even start nagging you to get a job."
"God, don't remind me," he mutters. "Doesn't sound as bad as I thought it would, though."
"Sure doesn't," Ren agrees. He leans back against the elevator wall, watching the beginning of the skyline as it rushes by the further they climb into the sky. Mazzen, without asking, has pressed the button to return to the ninth floor. This means something to him—to both of them. It could be the most awful thing in the world that this is the place Ren found people to finally care about, but it doesn't feel that way to him.
In a way, he's almost lucky.
"Ren?"
"Hm?" They're almost there. Mere seconds, in fact.
"You're a good person," Mazzen states. "Way too good. I never should have dragged you into it."
No, maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe it was even wrong. He wasn't told the truth about the situation and ended up abandoned for it, lost and confused and knowing about so much more than he ever thought possible. Now he's here, though. His connection with Mazzen could have been nothing more than a blip on the radar of Panem, but instead it's morphed into this. They're both alive. There's more out there for them.
If Mazzen had never dragged him into it, things could have gone so much differently. They both know it.
"I'm glad you did," Ren assures him, smiling. Even with what happened, Ren still would have rather gone into the arena with him than alone from the get-go.
Especially since it meant something in the long run.
There's no time to offer him more comforts, to tell Mazzen all about the good waiting for him back in Three. When the doors open the most private moments of their solace are left behind. Ren promises, secretly, to hug him half to death tomorrow before they all go. Because he deserves it, too.
All of them do, really.
Alexa Karamov, 17
District Seven Female
Lex could name a million other things she'd rather do than this.
Right now all she can do is channel Delaney and try to breathe. Her sister is the good one, you see—rational and well-spoken and all of the pleasant things Lex isn't. She makes smart decisions. She's soft around the edges where Lex is all thorns, and a part of her would love nothing more than to let him reach out and cut himself open.
He keeps coming back. He keeps trying, and failing. Today, when he tries, she doesn't let it be a failure.
When Varrik stumbles onto the seventh floor today he's wide-eyed, she presumes, at finding her there alone, not even the television on for her to feign some sort of relaxation. All Lex has been doing here is sitting, trying to find some of that stillness and calm that came from being out on the water, an oar in each hand. It hadn't worked, of course—the couch was too soft, the incessant buzz of the city far below her still far too audible. No matter how hard she tried there was no imagining the soft birdsong of the early morning, the gentle lapping of the water against the boat.
And, of course, Varrik's stumbling footsteps before he slides to a halt. She can tell without so much as looking back that it's him, can picture how he's looking around for signs of an inevitable intrusion.
Lex lays her hands over her knees and takes yet another breath. "He's not here."
"Where is he?"
Just keep breathing. "Since when have I cared about where he wanders off to?"
Never. Caring about Veles has never even existed on her priority list—that wasn't why she fought that day, and it certainly wasn't the reason she died. They both know it, even if Lex will never dare to say it aloud. That's opening up a can of worms much too large to sift through, let alone with Varrik of all people.
She can't tell what he's going to do, which is easily the most infuriating part about all of this. He's unpredictable. Frenzied. Every-time Lex even lets herself get that way, even if it's only for a second, she ends up despising it. Not being able to understand it is even worse. She listens to his feet scuff over the floor again and again, the awkward moments where his heels catch.
"Are you going home tomorrow?" he wonders. Everything that's so entirely Varrik is gone—he's quieter, not. Even hesitant.
"Sure am."
"Right," he says under his breath.
Lex isn't sure she really cares, but that doesn't stop her from asking. "What about you?"
"Ah, real funny joke, Lex. Let's let the resident unhinged maniac go home, I'm sure that's a great idea."
"You're not—"
She cuts off. He's not what? Lex knows what he did, watched every second of it. It certainly looks as if he was knocked off-balance by some internal force, driven mad by something no one could chase away. Even worse, something doesn't sit right in her gut knowing that he's going to be stuck here, alone, while people who have no hope of knowing him try to patch back up what was never theirs to know in the first place.
As if Lex knows him, either.
"I'm not what?" Varrik asks. She can see him in her peripherals now, leaning in almost curiously. "You know what everyone out there says about me—don't tell me you don't believe it."
Isn't trauma a hell of a thing, though? Awful memories and negative experiences and damaged goods, that's all they've ended up being. His led him to kill Veles, a walking talking memory of someone who had supposedly destroyed his life. And hers led her to treasure nothing more than total control, to the point where when she lost it there was no other option left but to fight.
Fight and die, more like. At least the moment, the exact one, had been quick. No matter how speedy it was, though, it feels as if that moment has taken something precious from her. Lying there on the floor had made her realize just how terrifying it was to be human, to feel horror and trepidation and fear. Among other things, of course.
At the end of the day she has to get over it. She has to stop thinking about all of this. Thinking about Varrik and everything surrounding him won't solve anything. Besides, is it even worth anything? Was it ever?
Thinking about that, even, is already too much.
"Don't worry about it," he says finally. Her silence has stretched on for too long. Lex usually has more than enough to say, if not at least an idea.
Figures all it takes is him to shock her into something resembling all-consuming silence.
"I hope you're okay, y'know," he continues. When she turns towards him, finally, his eyes are on the floor, narrowed. "And I know that you don't give a shit, or whatever, but I never meant for any of that to go down the way it did."
"I know." And she hates that she does.
"When you get back home, just… go easy on yourself, once in a while. You deserve it."
Except she doesn't. Lex deserves nothing good, not even a bit of praise, and she knows it. It makes her want to smash everything in this room into a thousand pieces. At the end of the day she killed no one, made no dent. Accomplished nothing. As much as she craves it, Lex has done nothing to warrant it. Varrik can do all he likes to shower her in compliments, but she knows the truth.
"I think you should go now," she requests quietly, such faintness to her voice that she immediately despises it. A part of her wants to get up and chase him out, if only to do something.
That's what the Lex of before would have done.
"Okay," Varrik agrees. The him of before, too, would have fought more valiantly to stay. He was insufferable, pig-headed, ridiculous. "But Lex, just… you deserve it. I'm serious."
And he turns around. He's leaving. Lex has no idea what to do with that. The fact that he's listening is practically a miracle, but his words alone meant more. He doesn't see anything wrong with her—whatever faults other people could find, the same ones Lex saw whenever she looked in a mirror, Varrik had either accepted or ignored outright. In his eyes, there was nothing so irreparably wrong with her that it couldn't one day be fixed. It was funny that someone else could believe it when she sometimes couldn't.
Lex watches him shift his weight from side to side, hands buried in his pockets, sleeves rolled up just enough to expose those few crude, homemade tattoos hidden amongst the thick scarring left behind from when they pieced him back together. A puzzle with a few pieces missing.
But then again, were they really missing if Lex hadn't even bothered looking?
The elevator opens. She takes a breath so deep it shakes her chest. "You know, I might see you around," she says, forcing the words out despite her immediate dislike of them. "My sister lives in Four."
Varrik doesn't allow himself to turn around, at least not fully. He peers over his shoulder at her, ignoring the doors that have opened up to allow him his easy escape. With each second that passes the corner of his mouth lifts up into something resembling a smirk.
Ah. There he is.
"You goin' to visit her?" he asks.
Lex allows herself a glare—if he's going to morph back into something more irritatingly familiar, so is she. "Maybe."
He nods. It doesn't help that he's still smiling. "Interesting."
"Varrik—"
"I'm leaving, I'm leaving," he says in a rush, practically diving into the elevator with as little grace as she could have possibly imagined. "See you around, Lexie."
At least he still knows what's good for him , running the way he is. He waves despite her continued glare, knowing damn well that if he was any closer she'd have thrown something at him, if not multiple things. That's what he deserves.
Apparently they're deciding that for each-other now.
Oksana Varsano, 16
District One Female
"So," she asks carefully, doing her best not to startle him. "How'd it go?"
Ambrose's back is to her, his hands rooting carefully through one of the many drawers in his room. Oksana is almost sure he heard her enter, but better to be safe than sorry with how jumpy they can be these days.
This time she felt it best to let him go alone—alone without her, she should say. It was Dimara's responsibility to keep watch over him, and that more than likely meant having updates right from the mouth of a doctor rather than trusting Ambrose's opinions on the matter. She knows she could have asked Dimara herself, having passed her on the way to his room in the first place, but it feels like too long since they've spoken.
It really hasn't been that long at all.
Ambrose shrugs, yanking a sweater over his shoulders as if he's caught a sudden chill. He's still holding tight to it when he sits at the edge of the bed, eyes fixed firmly on his knees.
"What does that mean?" she questions, unsurprised when he shrugs again. All Oksana can do is watch and wait for something more, even as more seconds pass and she begins to convince herself that it will never come.
Wherever he is right now, it's not with her. Surely the doctor's update couldn't have been that bad?
It's something he needs to process, whatever it is. Oksana tries not to let herself slump down, shuttering off almost immediately. Just like old times, it's easiest to begin shuffling backwards, quiet so as not to disturb him until her hand just begins to brush against the door.
"Oksana," he says. "You don't have to go."
"If I'm annoying you…"
"You're not. I'm just thinking."
He really does sound better, even just a smidgen. It's still so different than the voice she knew before, but it's growing stronger with every passing day. There's no doubt in Oksana's mind that he can get back to where he was. Someone has to believe it, if not him. Where he's lost so much of his optimism, she's readily gained it.
Oksana finally stretches to shut the door instead of stepping into the hallway, moving closer despite her reluctance. She sits down at his side—not too close, not too far. Just enough to be an undeniable presence, something reliable.
They all need a little bit of that these days.
"I think I always knew deep down that I wasn't going home," he murmurs. "Just… hearing him say it kinda got to me."
She blinks. "You're not going home."
"No point." He shrugs once again, though this time there's something more defeated to it. "The best people to watch me are here, and if they're going to do surgery it'll be sooner rather than later."
Apparently he had known, but Oksana had no clue. All this time she thought he would be getting on the train, too, that the two of them would get off in One and do… well, do whatever they were expected to do. Go home. Live their lives. But now she was doing all of those things alone, and truth be told she didn't want to. Oksana didn't want to go home without him.
But she couldn't say that aloud.
One was hardly a home as is. As quick as it had happened Oksana thinks she had found it in people instead, in Micah and him and so many others that actually got it. She knows she's not a selfish person, never has been a day in her life, so is it so wrong of her to want something else? Perhaps, considering she shouldn't be alive in the first place.
As always, though, she knows that Konstantin would want her to be happy, and happiness doesn't extend back into One without everything she's found.
Even thinking like that Oksana already knows she could cry.
"I'll miss you," she says instead of everything else that comes to mind. It's decidedly the safest thing; Konstantin was in the process of making her take bigger risks when she lost him, but he never told her what to do in a situation like this.
If he even knew himself.
Ambrose offers her a wry smile. "Not for long. Once you're home it'll be much easier to forget about everything here."
"But you won't always be here. You'll come back, one day."
"One day," he echoes. The smile disappears. Oksana knows all too well what missing someone is like, but this is different. Ambrose is still here and alive and so is Micah and everyone else worth caring about, yet somehow the grief permeates her just as strongly. With so much distance placed between them, it's as close to properly losing them as she can get.
And that's life as she's beginning to know it. Full of anguish and heartache and sometimes, if you wait long enough, something good.
She offers her hand, some of her anxiety and fear quelled when Ambrose takes it and squeezes. She can only hope that good strikes them, too. It can't be anything else after all they've been through.
One day, she thinks. Hopes. One day.
And we're almost to uh, what we can call phase two of these behemoth post-Games, I do suppose. Home time is coming soon to a theater to you.
Until next time.