capitol arrival: brand new numb
I've got a shotgun tongue and tick like a time bomb, all black everything -
I've got a switchblade wit that cuts like a bitch and I think you two should meet.
patron midori, district nine male
…
Patron Midori has always had a penchant for darkness.
Darkness in the literal sense, that is - not colloquial darkness, which could mean any number of things in relation to his livelihood and the disenchantment of his existence. Certainly, Patron has a dark side... but it is one that he would rather not dwell on, all things considered.
After all, his District has done plenty of dwelling in his stead. Nine's rather petty that way, its people always keen to push their noses into places they don't belong. They twist people's problems out of proportion, embellish their flaws so glaringly it's all one can do not to combust amidst the flames set to their person.
(We live in a District of fiends, Patron remembers his father commenting as she thumbed through the pages of the Sunset Post. That's all these people are, Patron. Fiends for gossip. Anklebiters. Shitstirrers. You'd do best to avoid that rabble altogether. Stars, they give me a headache…)
Unfortunately for Nine, Patron has never been the sort to crash and burn.
Sure, they've made him into a laughingstock as of late - the disgraced Midori heir, whose love for the nightlife was so heinous it led to his family's ruin - but at the end of the day, words are simply words. His neighbors could spend years calling him whore and playing up the bogeyman that lives in his shadow if they wanted to, but slander is ineffective in the face of action. Hearsay has no power in the real world. No power against logic…
And yet…
It is slander that brought him to the Capitol. It is hearsay that ruined his reputation.
It is words that have dismantled his life.
And for what purpose? Because he caused an accident, just one, silly little accident, and Nine's populace went off the rails?
He's going to die for breaking a girl's leg.
Patron shakes his head as the train finally pulls to a stop, docking in Capitol Station beside a runway of horrors. The streets are flooded with masses of people, clad in gaudy colors with excessive makeup and ridiculous updos. Even looking out the window is enough to make his eyes sore.
And to think there are people who find this excessiveness attractive? Tsk. His lips curl downward into a half-frown, accentuated all the more by the touch of his escort's hand on his lower back. For shame.
"Remember to smile," the bitch singsongs in his ear, her ever-cheery tone causing bile to regurgitate from the back of Patron's throat. He's never particularly disliked the Capitol, but the more he sees of its aesthetics, the more he begins to understand why there are so many people eager to decimate it. He can't fathom how anyone would be endeared to this lot of repulsive, airheaded fools.
"I don't need you telling me how to make an entrance," Patron responds coolly, mere seconds before the door snaps open. And it's true; he may be a disgrace to his heritage and legacy, but he's never had trouble succeeding at anything that matters, be it mathematics or dancing or determination in the face of competition. He keeps his chin up and his shoulders squared as he turns his head, looking Nine's escort in the eye with a grimace.
It is somewhat satisfying to watch her take a step back, perturbed by the vitriol that shines through his expression. Patron is smirking when he returns his gaze to the crowd, glad to be rid of her nagging voice. He has a plan to deal with the Capitol, a plan to shine, to dazzle, to set himself apart.
He doesn't need anyone encroaching on his spotlight. Capitolite or not.
He exits the train car on practiced, shapely legs, black fishnets clinging to his skin. The corset he's wearing makes him feel trapped, as if he's drowning beneath the pressure of the ribbing around his lungs, but he does not let his anxiety show in his expression. He makes his descent smoothly, turning his focus from the crowd (crowds, he's never liked crowds, not like this - it was different when he was on the stage, different when he had a role to perform and a routine behind, when people saw him as the Dancer and not Patron) to his heeled feet, doing his best to maintain his balance with poise.
Patron doesn't say a thing as he walks toward the training center, with cameras flashing in his face, their light bright enough to draw him in, make him forget about his reasons for being here, his reasons for being dismissed on pardon of death - if only for a few seconds.
When there is nothing surrounding him but adoring eyes and the scent of anticipation, he can pretend that the Hunger Games do not exist; that he is instead back home, stepping onto the stage at Sway Cabaret, wearing the best of Edward's costumes and jewels around his neck. He cannot dance on this runway, but he can play, tease his competitors and flirt with the spectators, revel in his pride as much as he wishes.
I am beautiful, Patron tells himself. I am a star.
(I am not second-rate, the delight of months past rendered obsolete by the arrival of new blood.)
(I am not a failure, the bane of my parents' lineage and the downfall of their respected industry.)
(I am not a whore for knowing what I want, for pursuing it at the cost of all else.)
"Capitol," he greets before the doors, and flourishes his exit with a bow, much like those he once did in the cabaret. "It has been my delight to entertain you this fine evening."
The crowd applauds his every word and gesture; they regard him with naught in their eyes but delight, and Patron cannot deny he finds their attention appealing.
(He's never been one to turn down an ego boost.)
He offers the onlookers a sly smile, then turns to disappear into the abyss behind the training center's glass doors.
In the Capitol, he is free to do as he wills. He will not be constricted by expectations of etiquette and politesse, temperance or chastity. For the first time in forever, he can be whatever he wishes to be, and so long as he comes out of that arena with a crown upon his head, nobody will think less of him for it.
Patron's smile twists into something dark… and delighted.
If Nine thinks me a villain, then a villain I will be.
(My victory is short at hand.)
tatiana terranova, district six female
…
Tatiana Terranova is fucking pissed.
Like, okay, sure, the Capitol's not that bad. Hell, it's actually pretty great - all the vibrant colors and decadent food and, yes, people screaming her name in fits of glee, their praise unyielding and ever-endless. It was rather amusing, seeing fully-grown men stumble over their own feet in their attempts to approach her. The women were even better, gushing over her fake smiles and pretty hair, reaching out for her as if she were a goddess they felt compelled to touch… oh, how pitiful they all were.
Tatiana doesn't even try to stifle her laughter once she's reached the elevator. Lethe shoots her a look that she's sure is meant to be threatening, but it's neutralized entirely by the sweetness of his face. Kid looks like a cherub, all smooth skin and pinchable cheeks - it makes Tati want to reach out and smack him, just to see what effect a little color would have on his pallid cheeks. Not that she's inclined to do so - she does have a slight desire for self-preservation, thank you very much. Still, it's a thought…
"What are you looking at?" Lethe questions sharply. Tatiana's smirk turns wolfish, and she crosses her arms over her chest, leaning back against a metal railing as she watches the brat. Much to his dismay, the comment hasn't diminished Tati's urge to stare, her dark gaze fixated on her own as she ever so slowly pokes her tongue out from her mouth and licks her lips.
"Who says I'm staring?" She retorts, and practically cackles when Lethe's nose scrunches up in turn. He scoffs and turns his head away, just as Tati figured he would (although she can't say she's happy about it, because nobody looks away from me, godsdammit, not unless I tell them to!)
She shrugs her shoulders and relaxes her posture, refocusing her attention on the doors before her face. Only two more floors to go. Ain't that a relief.
It's not hard to feel the tension lingering inside the elevator, so heavy (so heady) that it's making Tatiana quiver. The rage inside her is palpable; almost as palpable as the frustration radiating from Lethe and the enmity churning in Alvina's body. So they stand around in silence as the floor indicator starts to tick, up-and-up-and-up-and-up...
Tati strums her fingers against the elevator wall, the little yellow nails clicking each time they tap against the metal. Is that a twitch she sees in Lethe's face, or is she imagining things? Has Alvina's back gone rigid at the sound of her nails, so innocuous and soft as it is? Surely, Tatiana isn't causing that much of a stir… not by standing in an elevator, of all places, doing nothing but smiling at her mentor and District partner, as if she's oblivious to the fact they both hate her guts.
She cocks her head back and stops tapping, placing her palm firmly on the rail. There's no flourish to be made when she lifts her chin, appraising her companions, angelface Lethe and grumpypants Alvina and - oh, their escort's here too, isn't he, looking like a scared little mouse as he stands in the far corner. Tati throws him a playful wink as an apology for blanking on his existence - sorry, buddy, but some people just aren't destined for the spotlight. I mean, for fuck's sake, I don't think you even have a name.
The escort flushes. Tati sighs as the elevator dings. Alvina steps out first, followed by Lethe. Tatiana pushes off of the wall and slinks her way over to stand beside them. She flexes her arms, rolls back her shoulders. Posture makes perfect, her sister once said - or maybe that was Taji, though she's not especially keen to start thinking about that diabolical, disgusting judas. It's his fault she's here in the first place! It's his fault that Six got all pissy about the drugs, that people started to talk about Yellow Haze and how she ruined their lives, when all she'd really done was open their eyes to reality. There's no point in living if you can't experience a high! To simply exist is so mundane, so unsatisfying, so boring that Tatiana doesn't know how anyone can bear it. Survival is practical, but it is also joyless.
She brought happiness back to the streets of Six. Her District should not be exiling her, they should be exalting her, crying her name and singing her praises every time they set a lighter to a spoon or swallow one of her pretty pills.
(And if some of her customers died in their great search for enlightenment, well, so be it. Tatiana never forced anyone to buy from her. She never put a needle in anyone's hand and made them shoot up, never stuck the straw up a person's nostrils and held their head in place as they inhaled stardust. All she did was offer a service - give the people (her people) an opportunity to escape from the morose monotony of their sad, little lives. She profited off their vices, sure. But can anyone really fault her for wanting a better life?)
"You know what? I could go for a drink right about now. I'm thinkin' vodka - the sort that smells all flowery and tastes like whipped cream. Not gonna lie, I've got a bit of a sweet tooth." Tati pipes up, clapping Alvina on the back as she passes her. Her mentor's withering glare cuts into her back as she saunters toward the nearby doorway, but naturally she pays it no mind. Why should she? The more people there are that hate her, the hotter a commodity she becomes.
Everyone loves a villain, Alvie, she thinks to herself with a grin. Gimme a couple weeks, and I'll have half the Capitol eating out of the palm of my hand.
Fat chance, Taji whispers from inside her head, the tone of his words all too real to be ignored.
Her feet stop mere inches before the gleaming metal door, fixed in place by an unseen force. It figures that even here she can't really be rid of him. Fucking sellout.
What, Tati, did I hit a nerve? He continues to chide, and Tati brushes him away, her hands balled into fists, water coating the inside of one of her eyelids.
"Fuck off," she whispers, as Taji's presence slides back under her skin, cutting her to pieces from the inside out.
"What was that?" Lethe asks, and if she can't hear the taunt in his voice, can't smell the venom in his words. Is it payback for what she said to him on the train, about his little rebel friends and his dead family, when he'd rebuffed her offer for drugs? Is it payback for the look she'd given him in the elevator, just hours - no, minutes before, trying to unsettle him as much as he unsettles her?
"Fuck off!" Tati snaps at him, nothing in her face but madness. She whirls on him, shoves past him in a huff, storming off down the hall, back toward the elevator, back toward the lobby, back toward everything she hates, so long as it will get her away from here, away from him.
Having a partner always turns out badly. For business, for Games…
For everything.
patron midori, district nine male
…
There is something about solitude that Patron finds easy to admire.
Perhaps it is the quietude; silence is a fickle thing, and oft loaded with implications, but there is a simplicity to it that he has always been rather fond of. No expectations for flattery or small talk, no room for the burden of disappointing those with whom he might engage… yes, silence is pleasant when it accompanies solitude. It is pristine. It is placid.
It is peaceful.
Patron has never been an especially social sort. As a child, he preferred the company of his books to that of humans, emotional and unpredictable beings that they were. His father had often chided him for being, in his words, 'withdrawn and reclusive' - lecturing Patron for his behavior as if he were a child long into his teenage years.
The least you could do is show your face every once in a while, he recalls his father telling him, not all too long ago. Act like you're happy to be a part of this family, if only for the sake of the company. Stars, boy, sometimes you're as bad as your mother…
Patron sighs, his hand lingering on the shining handle of a tall, thin wooden door. He can hear the voice of his District partner echoing through the crevasses of the doorway, her voice so cheerful that he cannot help but find it odd. It's as if she's actually happy to be here, he thinks, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. Does she not understand the implications of being selected? Does she not realize that her own District disavowed her, decided on a whim that she was inadequate, wretched and unworthy of life?
Patron's lip curls, his fingers winding tight about the golden doorknob, it's coolness a balm to his overheated flesh. With a low growl he forces his hand to loosen, relinquishing his grip, along with all thoughts of joining the others in the dining room. His stomach feels as if it's been tied into knots, and it's all he can do to keep himself from retching at the thought of interaction. He can ask Waylon for Games advice later - perhaps when he's not busy indulging Thomasin. For now, he just wants…
Solitude.
Silence.
Patron takes a step back, turning instead to face the washroom. He steps inside, shoes clacking against the marble tiles, and reaches a hand over to flip the light switch. A shower would be nice after so many hours in the train; he could devote an hour to making himself presentable, save the stylists some efforts in advance of the chariot ceremony.
He reaches back to unlace the strings of his corset, deft fingers wandering along the arch of his back. Clasp after clasp comes undone beneath his touch, and in a matter of seconds, his uniform lies in pieces across the bathroom floor; tights, heels, headdress and all. Cold air bites at his naked skin, and Patron does his best to suppress a shudder. It's not as if he's unused to being in the nude, but…
Without his clothing, he feels exposed.
Utterly powerless. Indescribably weak.
There is little armor he can don now that he's in the Capitol. Regardless of how much he'd like to pretend otherwise.
(It was so much easier to play the whore when he was unnamed, nothing more than another faceless dancer living in the shadow of Nine's redlight clubs. Certainly there were people who knew him by the name Patron, but until he'd crippled Leia, nobody had been concerned enough with his identity to put two and two together. Had he been foolish to believe his name would be safe, once his evening habits finally came to life? It almost shames Patron to admit that he never really thought about what might happen if he were to lose his mask. The impact on him… the impact on his father… the backlash, the rumors, the hatred he'd endured…)
A shower no longer feels quite so appealing.
Patron turns his head away from the mirror. He can't bear to look at himself.
Gathering up his garments, he returns to the openness of his assigned bedroom, tossing the assortment of items down on the bed. After a moment, he too, sits - gingerly as possible, the cloth sleek when it presses to his pallid skin, so frigid without a shred of clothing to guard it. He shifts his back slightly, rolling his shoulders as his head turns to the doorway… then refocuses in turn, lilting sideways to affix his gaze on the fluorescent walls.
There's a hint of silver beyond the walls. Is it imagined? No, Patron has no reason to fabricate such a sight. But what exactly lies behind the shifting patterns and synthetic panels?
His eyes narrow. Is it a balcony? Surely the Capitol couldn't be that asinine; what if a tribute were to jump? What if someone were to choose death instead of the Games, throw themselves from the window of the training center days before the gong even struck?
The patterns shift again, and this time, what Patron sees is unmistakable. It is a balcony; a balcony, with a rickety ladder, arcing up and away from the platform.
A fire escape? His lips curl upward. Isn't this nostalgic.
He cannot be here. He cannot be still. Though his body is tired, his mind is restless, desperate for an escape from the monotony of routine. Would his Districtsmen notice if he were to get up and leave? Possibly. Does he want to risk their ire? He's uncertain. Perhaps it would be worthwhile, to gain a minute of reprieve...
Patron rises from the bed, making his way toward the yet-untouched dresser. A sleek, black uniform sits atop the wood, the number 9 emblazoned on the sleeve with silver thread. He grabs for the shirt and pulls it over his head, then allows the pants and jacket to follow it. Perhaps it is too soon to be taking risks, but he's already a tribute. No matter how much he wants to win, there's a possibility he could be dead before next week. With that in mind...
What point is there in denying self-indulgence?
tatiana terranova, district six female
…
At times like this, Tatiana can't help but wonder if she really is better off alone.
No contacts. No family. No friends - or lovers, for whatever romance is worth. People suck. All they do is bitch and moan and take shit without giving anything back. They aren't reliable. They can't be trusted. So fuck it, right? Tati doesn't need them. She doesn't need a partner, doesn't need someone to talk to and laugh with and have her back when the world's bearing down on her head.
She doesn't need anyone.
(Living in Lowtown was a lesson in loneliness. If somebody was nice to you, it was 'cause they wanted something, and if they were an ass, that was just expected. Tatiana was just one of many to have grown up in Six's slums, surrounded by violence and drugs, her existence steeped in the murky water of poverty before she even knew what it meant. She hadn't seen much of her parents as a kid. Hadn't seen much of anyone, really, because children in Lowtown don't make friends, they make ruckus. Her sister didn't like it when she'd come home with her clothes ripped up and dirty cuts lining her arms, but that hadn't stopped Tati from getting into trouble. 'sides, Tam always patched her up at the end of the day regardless; never asked questions, never scolded her too much. She'd just been… patient. Warm. Kind. A good sister.)
(... Tati hasn't spoken to her for three years.)
As long as Tati's got something to choke on, she'll be fine. Be it a bottle to drink from, a stack of cigs, vials of morph or some blue-and-yellow purple pills… if it can get her high, she'll take it in a heartbeat. She's not picky. She's just…
Tired.
(Sometimes she can't help but wonder if Taji was right to spurn her.)
(Taji, her sister… all those deadbeats junkies who hung around her at parties, kissing her ass for the sake of a fix. They weren't her friends. They never loved her. Tati gave them drugs, gave them parties, let them rave and rant and go absolutely batshit, and sure, people thanked her for it, but at the end of the day, what she did was meaningless. She would go home to an empty bed in an empty house, surrounded by burnished spoons and used syringes, with only meaningless trinkets to keep her company. She would fall into bed so drunk off her ass she couldn't see straight, and she'd dream about drowning in a sea of humans, their teeth sinking into her flesh as they clawed desperately at her feet.)
"Sometimes life just feels like a bad trip," she mumbles, taking another drag from her newly-won cigarette, pawned from a peacekeeper when he wasn't looking. Tati's not sure what the bastard would've done if he'd caught her, but she figured it couldn't be worse than the Hunger Games. Besides, she really needed a fucking smoke.
She crosses her arms as she exhales, her back flat against the cool cement of the rooftop stairwell. It's a little surprising none of the others have come looking for her - sure, Alvina might hate her guts, but Tatiana's still her tribute, and she's sure the Capitol wouldn't exactly be kind if she snuck off or died under her mentor's watch. 'Course, it's possible the bitch just doesn't care anymore, and who could blame her? Caring's overrated.
Tatiana presses the cig to her lips again, her eyelids slipping closed. What the fuck is she doing up here? What the fuck does anyone do on a rooftop, if they aren't planning to -
A clang sounds from somewhere in the distance, before the smoke even passes her lungs. Tati's eyes fly open again, just in time to see a boy hauling himself over the side of the roof, his dark hair messy around his face, clothes clinging tight to his well-formed body.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" The words slip from her tongue before she can even process them, and the boy starts, one hand balling into a fist as his shoulders raise defensively.
At least he had the sense not to back up. Tati smirks, cigarette dangling from her fingers as she exhales a cloud of smoke in his direction.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," she remarks, and that seems to jar something in the guy, because this time he responds - quick and vicious.
"Takes one to know one," the boy snaps, crossing his arms as he watches her, suspicion heavy in his glare. "Have to say, I didn't exactly come up here expecting company."
"Poor baby, did I steal your brooding spot?" Tati retorts, ever so blithe. The boy huffs in irritation, then rolls his eyes. Tati's smirk only intensifies. This guy seems fun. "You must be so put out."
"Kiss my arse," the boy - District Nine, if the number on his sleeve is to be trusted - hisses. Touchy, much? Tati takes another drag of her cigarette, wiggling her eyebrows
"Is that an offer, pretty boy?"
"Ugh." Nine ughs, in lieu of an answer. Tatiana notes the look of disgust written clear over his face, and almost instantly she begins to cackle.
"I'd be offended, if it wasn't so fucking obvious that you bat for the other team. Oh, or should I say catch? Can't see you as much of a pitcher."
The flush on Nine's cheeks is just delightful. Tati waves him over with her free hand, coughing as she inhales wrong with her next puff. (At least her new friend doesn't seem inclined to comment on that.)
"So if you aren't here to brood, and you aren't here for me, what's the deal?"
Nine sighs again, ever so put upon. "I came for some peace and quiet, but it's blatantly obvious I'm not going to find any with you skulking about."
Damn, this guy's snarky. It's almost cute to see him so clearly frustrated, but alas - Tatiana Terranova is not a fan of being dismissed. Call it a pride thing, or what the shit ever. She's not going to just let Nine get away with a comment like that.
"You'd be correct," Tati says, flicking her ashes onto the cement. "And if I wanted to hear from an asshole, I'd fart, so why don't you take your prissy ass and scram, fuckboy."
That comment gets a laugh. "Out of curiosity, did you have to work to be this much of a bitch, or does it come naturally?"
"I should be asking you that," Tati retorts, drawing the final life out of her cigarette. She tosses it to the ground, crushing the butt under her heel. "Do you ever wonder what life would be like if you'd gotten enough oxygen at birth?"
Nine spins on his heel and strides right past her, his feet heading straight for the door. Tati watches in silence as he throws it open and heads into the stairwell, steps echoing inside the confines of the room.
Huh. Tati's smile drops. That probably coulda gone better. Not that I really give a damn if some rando from Nine wants to make nice with me, but still… he was interesting.
(Interesting can be useful.)
… the footsteps aren't going away. In fact, it's only a few seconds after the door has finally come to a close that it swings open again, smacking into the wall right beside Tati's head.
Nine steps back outside and she tilts her chin up, appraising him as he appraises her.
"Baby, why'd you leave?" she teases. "We were just getting to know each other."
"You were boring me to death," Nine answers plainly. "My survival instincts kicked in."
Tati pushes off from the wall, following the guy's steps as he wanders back toward the edge of the roof. There's a ladder there she didn't notice before, made of rickety metal and held together by rusted bolts. Tatiana whistles as she looks at it, following the length of it with her eyes. Does it go all the way down? Talk about a serious design flaw.
"Your survival instincts, eh?" She leans forward, glances over the edge. "Funny. I figure you'd have to be suicidal to scale a building on that."
"Maybe I am," Nine bites back. "What do you care? Less competition for you."
"Who says we have to be competition?" Tati says, turning to look him in the eye. Nine stares at her incredulously, but hey, she's made the offer, and she's not backing down. She turns, putting her back against the rail leading to the escape, the gesture enough to cut Nine off from exiting. Unless, of course, he wants to push her, but… she has a feeling he's not the type to do that unprompted. Maybe if she really pisses him off, but not just from this. He's too…
Composed? Maybe. He's interesting. Tatiana's intrigued.
"I could use someone like you in the arena. Sharp, edgy, willing to clap back when the situation calls for it." She grins with her teeth and sticks her hand out. "Whatd'ya say, nine?"
The boy eyes her skeptically, biting the inside of his cheek. It takes him a few seconds to answer.
"You're brazen," he says, but he doesn't sound perturbed. "I might be amenable to a…"
"Alliance?"
"A temporary partnership of mutual benefit," Nine corrects, his brow scrunching tight in response to the A-word. "But I'm curious - what's in it for me?"
"I hoped you would ask that," Tati runs her tongue across her lower lip. Slowly, she maneuvers her hand to the hem of her shirt, reaching up beneath the cloth to grab the small, plastic bag stapled to the lining, the pills inside rattling as she withdraws it - and holds it out.
"How about a good time?"
A/N: Brand New Numb by Motionless in White.
And that's a wrap on intros! A huge thank you to Xavi and Thorne for Patron and Tatiana - I had a blast with these two, and I hope you enjoyed our first real "alliance" interaction of the story! I also appreciate you guys being so patient in waiting for your characters to be intro'd - hopefully the content was worth the wait.
A poll will be up on my profile shortly, asking about which tributes you like the most at the current point. You may vote for three in total. It will remain open until we hit the training chapters next month.
Thank you as always to everyone who has been taking the time to comment, review, or simply reach out and show support as I write this story. I appreciate all you do and it truly means a lot to me that you are so attentive as readers!
The first interlude should be up in a few days time.