interview night: diluted
It itches and seethes, festers and breathes; my heroes are dead, they died in my head.
Thin out the herd, squeeze out the pain - something inside me has opened up again.
jade echeverry, district two female
…
She hadn't expected this.
There's only a few hours left before the launch; a few hours before the Games, and all the terror that comes with it. And while Jade's confidence had spiked after her successes in training, they'd crumbled the second she saw the results of her private session - the gleaming twelve spinning on the tele beneath her portrait, forever marking her as a high threat, a tribute worth taking notice of.
She knows that the Capitol did it on purpose. Put a target on her back, set her up to crash and burn, because they can't have a rebel winning the Games, can't have a tribute show them up. After seeing the pair from Five score twelves as well, Jade's worked out the government's gambit: they're going to set them up to knock them down, paint all the rebels as threats in hopes that the other tributes will eliminate them early. It's not a trick she's seen them pull before, but it's one she expects will be effective. The consequences of their death mark have already begun to blossom. Once morning comes tomorrow, she'll have a better idea of how much damage it's truly caused… beyond the obvious, that is.
Instinctively, Jade reaches up to press at her collarbone, the flesh around it still swollen from the abuse it had endured earlier in the evening. While Jade had always been keen to refrain from provoking Elysia, it seems the Gamemakers have now done it for her… and she's not sure whether she's glad for it or not.
"What are you hiding, Echeverry?"
Jade swallowed, her throat bobbing under the pressure of her ally's hand, caught tight around her neck as the other slammed into her shoulder. "I don't know what you're talking about!" She barely managed to gasp, her eyes darting around for her mentor, Kellen, a weapon, anything that she could use to free herself from the other girl's grasp. If she knew Elysia was going to react like this, she never would have agreed to step out with her.
I can't breathe, I can't - fuck, I can't breathe…
"The twelve, how the fuck did you score a twelve?" There's a pause as Elysia starts to let up, relaxing her grip on Jade's neck when she sputters, leaving the Two girl to thrash and gasp for air. "I saw you practicing during training, and I know for a fact you weren't that good. So what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything!" Jade hissed, reaching up to shove the One girl back, her pulse spiking as her breath left her tired lungs. Elysia's brow creased in ire, though for as much aggression as was present in her posture, she didn't waste any time in letting Jade's body go, the hands she's wrapped around her shoulders relinquishing their hold as she gave a tiny huff. Jade reached up to feel at her own throat, her shoulders and her clavicle, knowing that the skin's prone to bruise without even having to see it. She pressed her body back into the wall, drawing away from her incensed ally with betrayal in her eyes, unable to keep her hurt under wraps with the adrenaline filling her veins.
(To Elysia's credit, she at least appeared to be contrite.)
"If we're going to be allies," Elysia spoke slowly, her eyes boring into Jade's own, the light orbs overcast with shadows of doubt, so tumultuous that it made Jade's skin crawl. She rubbed at her arms as the One girl pulled back, her voice steady even as insecurity permeated it, flashes of anger laced into each syllable that left her mouth. "We have to be able to trust one another. And I can't trust you if you're going to lie to me."
"I'm not lying," Jade lied, shaking her head. "I promise you I'm not, Elysia. I don't know why they gave me a twelve, I certainly didn't do anything noteworthy -"
"But you did." Elysia responded, giving a small tut of disappointment. "Just do me a favor and keep your head down tonight. I don't like surprises, and I like wild cards even less."
(If you don't fall in line, I'll kill you, Elysia's eyes say as she turns away. Though the words were never voiced aloud, Jade can read intention well enough to know they were implied, and implied heavily.)
Jade's eyelids flutter. She doesn't need to make an enemy of her own ally, but it's good to have confirmation of her suspicions. Elysia's dangerous. Perhaps more than she's originally thought. If she's this prone to being violent…
Everything keeps getting messier, Jade thinks, rueful as ever. Her fingers fumble to grasp hold of her token, a thin bracelet made from green, silver and black beads, made by Kenna shortly after they'd become friends. A silvery ring has been fastened to the side of it, Stelios' final gift to her in light of their changing relationship… and Jade's change in fortune.
She left behind so much when she volunteered. Kenna and Stelios... her closest friends, friends she might have come to love had circumstances been different. Jade had certainly wondered at times about the depth of Stelios' feelings for her… about whether or not she could feel something romantic for him, her biggest supporter and a strong source of comfort through her ever-stormy teen years. She supposes that she'll never know, now. Just like she'll never know what's to become of her family.
She wonders if her parents are grieving her already, nestled together on the couch in their near-empty house, same as they'd been when the news came about Emric and Pallas. She wonders what will become of Ailith, her obstinate and maverick sister, shut inside a room that they used to share wearing Jade's clothes and bearing her name. It's not going to be easy for her, moving forward, but at least she'll have her life, and she can live it to its fullest, unmarked by the transgressions of her youth. Or so Jade hopes.
Perhaps hope is futile.
If she doesn't win, her sister will be doomed to live out a lie - for how long, she doesn't know. Until death reaches her, Jade would assume.
They both have roles to play, now; just because Jade's gone doesn't mean Ailith's coming back.
(Sometimes, Jade wonders if she should have joined the Underground. If she should have expressed her feelings more openly, rebelled when she had a chance. It wasn't as if she didn't believe in their message, didn't agree with the scope of their goals. Once her brothers passed, it took every ounce of sense she possessed not to take up arms against the Capitol, shatter them just like they had shattered her family.
In the end, the only thing that kept her from following in Ailith's footsteps was her fear of repercussions. She'd been angry, too, but she hadn't fought. She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't let herself spiral into a mess of raging passion and pain-stricken vengefulness, because she knew better than to let her emotion overwhelm her rationality. No matter what became of the Echeverry clan, life would continue.
Her feelings were irrelevant. Ailith's, too.)
Jade gets to her feet.
The interviews are in an hour. She needs to make sure that they go well. If she can't fabricate a reasonable explanation for her score, then she'll have an enemy to contend with in the games. And that's not even mentioning the Capitol; though Jade's unsure what she's done to give herself away, the fact that she scored in the same vein as the openly rebellious Fives signals that she's put herself on the Gamemakers' radar. If even one of them has managed to unravel her secret, then it stands to reason they'll be gunning for her from the second she sets foot in that arena. For as much as Jade's been trying to reassure herself that she has a chance, she's not sure she can survive that sort of attention.
At least I stand a chance with Elysia. But the Gamemakers? The President?
If the government wants me dead, there's not a thing I'll be able to do about it.
She takes a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth. Whatever performance she gives tonight will directly impact her experience in the games. If she can assure the Capitol that she's low-risk, despite their potential knowledge of her identity, then she might stand a chance at surviving the first few days. They won't be keen to have her as a victor, but if Jade's able to win a few people over, assure them that Ailith Echeverry isn't a threat, then maybe she can keep her sister safe.
Her life is the only thing that matters. Hers, and those of my parents. I came here to protect them… so that's what I'm going to do.
Until the bitter end.
A knock sounds against the door. Jade scarcely has a moment to breathe before the tinny cheer of Malia's voice sounds off from the other side, wholly ignorant to her troubled musings.
"Ailith, I need you ready to leave in five minutes! The stylists were very clear that they needed an hour for prep tonight, and you know how much I prize punctuality!"
"Yeah, I'll be right there!" She calls back, tucking Kenna's bracelet (and Stelios' ring) into her pocket. Looks like it's time, she thinks with a sigh. Hopefully this doesn't go as poorly as I think it will.
(No more running. No more hiding. She doesn't have the luxury to remain inactive in this Game she's playing, especially with all her chips scattered across the table. The Capitol's checking her tells, and her poker face is starting to slip. She was never a very good liar to begin with, but the stakes are higher now, higher and different.
If she fucks this up, the consequences won't just be on her head. They'll be on everyone's.
Her sister, her mother, her father, her friends. Her District, even, for all she knows.
Jade refuses to let that happen. She won't have her loved ones pay for her mistake, her rash decision. It was a foolish and dangerous thing she did in saving Ailith, but she refuses to regret her defiance. Her sister needed her. She still needs her.
Jade's going to come through this time. She can't back out. She won't let her desire for security overwhelm her.)
It only takes her two minutes to pull her shoes on and open the bedroom door, an excited clap from Malia's hands the first sound with which she's greeted. Stone is sitting at the dining table perusing through an open book, while Kellen stands idle beside the suite exit, his arms crossed and his brow raised as Jade approaches.
"It's good to see the announcement didn't leave you too worse for wear," he says as they fall into step behind Malia, their escort's shoes click-clacking as she passes through the threshold of their suite into the hallway, heading straight to the waiting elevator. "Though I'll admit, I wasn't expecting you to score a twelve. Clearly, you're more of a threat than I thought."
"It wasn't so much what I did as who I am," Jade confides, clasping her arms behind her back as they come to a stop before the closed doors, her District partner statuesque at her side.
"Heh." Kellen makes a small noise of amusement, reaching an arm over to clap her on the back. "Once a rebel, always a rebel. So much for keeping a low profile, huh?"
Jade can't keep from wincing as he pulls away again, his aura of camaraderie feeling far more threatening than it has any right to. Her esophagus spasms as she swallows, the saliva in her mouth thick enough to choke on, despite how dry it seems to be.
A chill courses down her spine as she straightens her back, offering Kellen the briefest of smiles in response to his quip. It's hard, but she has to at least try and appear confident in her newfound infamy… appear confident despite being a target…
She takes another deep breath, curling fingers into her palm to stay grounded. Ailith would be proud, she reminds herself. Getting thrown on a Capitol hit list isn't exactly something to celebrate… but I know my sister, and there's no question she'd treat it like some sort of grand achievement. I need to act like I'm happy about this. Like it's what I hoped to achieve, even if it was a surprise… and one that puts me at risk. Once a rebel, always a rebel. Kellen's more right than he knows.
A tear springs to Jade's eye, and she quickly reaches up a hand to wipe it away. Best not to show vulnerability in a den of wolves. But…
It's hard not to be sentimental when she thinks about Ailith. And on a night like this one, with tensions running so high and emotions reaching a fever pitch… by the stone, she can practically hear her sister's voice.
Look at you, sticking it to the man! She'd say with a gleam in her eye and a raucous laugh, every bit the vibrant force of nature that Two's radical dissidents claimed to be. Really, Jade, I didn't think you had it in you. Glad to see I was wrong.
Another tear seeps from her eye, trailing down her cheek to die on her lips.
All the while, Ailith keeps talking, alive and well inside her brain. It's enough to make Jade's heart break.
I knew you had a rebel streak in there somewhere. Granted, it's been pretty overshadowed by how rigid and occasionally pedantic you are… but it's there nonetheless.
(Even if you don't want to admit it.)
Maybe it is, Jade concedes. Maybe it always has been. She's never fancied herself much of a rebel… never fancied herself much of anything, beyond diligent and responsible, the two traits that always set her apart from her flashy and gregarious siblings, each brilliant in their own way… but things have changed these last few weeks, with her family's ruination and her own ruminations on the past. She's reluctant to call herself rebellious, but she's not as stagnant as she'd once been, either. The losses she's suffered, the hopelessness she's seen in the eyes of her kin and her closest friends… it's broken the bubble of stasis that once surrounded her. She doesn't want to embroil herself in politics, but she knows as much as anyone that Panem needs change.
Maybe that's why she saved Ailith, in the end.
Maybe she just wanted to hope.
elysia ansaldi, district one female
…
Everything has gone to shit.
It's like the world is crumbling around her; all her attempts at camaraderie, her carefully set training plans, the expectations she'd built her alliance on… they're destroyed. Her pseudo-Career pack has crumbled in on itself, leaving her to wade through the wreckage of her failures and mistakes, utterly exhausted and completely alone. The defense she'd tried to build, the structure she'd intended to foster… it's gone. And worse yet, she isn't sure there's any chance left for her to recover any of what she needs to maintain leadership. Between Venice's insubordinance, Ailith's lies, Kellen's volatility and Six and Nine's idiocy, her alliance has become more of a snake's den than a safety net. Elysia has been left to flounder in a sea of chaos, without direction and without control.
Worst of all, most of it is entirely her fault.
She shouldn't have hurt Ailith.
(She shouldn't have let herself lose it over something so small.)
Elysia knows that she overreacted. For as angry as Venice has made her, and for as much as Ailith's training score caused her to seethe, she had no real reason to act the way that she did. The urge to lash out had been so potent - enough to consume her, really - but spurning the very people that she'll have to work with is foolhardy at best. She should have tried harder to quell her frustration. Should've taken another minute to think about the situation before throwing herself into a confrontation, as her assumptions were not only incorrect, but practically unnecessary. If she hadn't been so eager to jump to conclusions, she might've realized that Ailith's score was nothing more than a targeting ploy by the Gamemakers, something meant to mark her as a rebel, just as the pair from District Five. And even if Venice was trying to rile her up, she didn't have to let him do it; she knows how to disengage when she's being baited, and her Districtmate's mockery had been obvious. So why had she let him get to her? Why had she let either of them rattle her so thoroughly?
Stress. Anxiety. Frustration. They're all viable explanations, even if Elysia knows she shouldn't use her frazzled mental state as an excuse. That's what she'd done with Anka; laid hands on her out of frustration, beaten her bloody because of stress that Anka had done nothing to cause. And when the rage cleared from her head enough to leave her frozen in shock, staring down at her red hands and her broken lover, cowering in a heap on the floor, she didn't really apologize, didn't leave the way that she should have (the way Anka needed her to). She made excuses. She looked at her girlfriend's battered body and said, I don't know what happened, I just got so angry. Anka, I didn't mean to hurt you. I won't do it again, I promise, I swear it, okay, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Here, let me help you, let me fix this. I can fix this, alright? Just - let me get the first aid kit, alright, stay there, don't move.
Her promises had meant nothing. They had been empty words, false assurances borne from desperation, not true sadness or sincerity. She'd felt terrible for hurting Anka, yes, but more than that, she'd feared that her partner would leave her, expose her as a toxic mess and abandon her to her shitty family and her shitty home, taking away the only good thing she felt that she had. Had that been selfish of her? Undoubtedly. But she couldn't change her feelings… her reactionary tendencies. Her outbursts, as much as her longing, were a sort of compulsion, something she hadn't been able to stop even after she realized her anger was spiralling out of control.
It's compulsive even now.
Just like her suspicions. Just like her doubt. Because while Ailith's rationale had plenty of logic, Elysia still can't help but feel wary of her intentions, certain that she's hiding something no matter how brazenly she's tried to deny it. Venice would be likely to call her paranoid, but she's almost certain things are not what they appear to be with District Two. And that… that unsettles her.
Not that she's going to admit it, especially at such a crucial stage in the pre-Games. Regardless of her choleric temperament and impetuousness. Elysia is no fool. She knows that she needs her allies to trust her if she wants to garner any support or assistance in the arena; perhaps this alliance isn't an ideal one, but she doesn't have any time left to scrounge up a new one. Training is finished. The interviews are just at hand. In fourteen hours, she'll be stuck in a launch tube, with no means of turning back the clock. So reparations are in order. She needs to apologize.
She needs to play nice.
Which is why, when Tal Velasquez begins her opening remarks, Elysia rises from her chair and heads over toward a small refreshments table nestled in the corner at the back of the room. Ailith is standing there, her back turned toward the tributes' seats, drinking rapidly from a faux-glass cup. There's a flush on her cheeks, a clear tell of nervousness so far as Elysia's concerned, and it only deepens when Ailith's head turns to observe her approach. The Two girl's eyes widen as she takes a step back, and Elysia stops dead in her tracks, raising her hands to show in a display of good intent.
"Did you need something?" Ailith asks, as Elysia lowers her hands, regaining her composure as the One girl tips her head.
"I was wondering if we could talk," she says, voice as steady as she can manage. "Wanted to clear the air some, before… well, before tomorrow. Is that alright with you?"
Ailith bites her lip. "... yeah. We should talk."
She motions for Elysia to come closer, taking a few steps to the side to pull them further out of earshot. Elysia follows her direction, waiting for Ailith to turn before she starts to speak, her gaze staying focused on the other girl's eyes, wanting their conversation to be as forward as possible.
"I shouldn't have hurt you," Elysia begins. "I shouldn't have hurt you, and I shouldn't have accused you of lying. It was incredibly rude of me, especially given the circumstances and my own misguided assumptions. So I want to apologize."
Ailith bites down on her lip. Elysia takes a deep breath, holding her head high as she continues.
"I don't want us to be enemies, Ailith. I'd like for us to be friends, if it's possible. Though I know that it's probably difficult to see that, after what I said earlier."
"That's a bit of an understatement," Ailith responds and Elysia laughs, looking over to the wall, crossing her arms as something uncomfortable starts to bead in her eyes.
"Yeah. Yeah, it is." She shakes her head. "And I know I have no right to ask you to forgive me, but… I think we do make a good team. I would like us to keep working together. Although I would understand if you don't feel comfortable doing so, after… all of this."
"You still want to be allies?" Ailith asks, a disbelieving tinge to her tone. "I thought you didn't like wild cards."
Elysia forces a stiff smile. "I don't… but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt."
"Even if the Gamemakers are targeting me?"
"Even then."
Ailith's still for a second. She chews on her lip, flitting her eyes over to Elysia, then turning them toward the ground, contemplative. It seems like an eternity before she nods, her voice softer than before as she says, "Alright. Then I'll see you tomorrow."
"Alright," Elysia replies with a nod. "And… good luck with your interview. You could probably use it."
She turns around and makes her way back to the seats. It's only a few seconds after she's sat down that she's forced to rise again, a level voice calling her name from beside the open stage door.
"Elysia Ansaldi?"
Cheers sound from the crowd behind the archway, accompanied by Tal's excited voice calling out "Are you ready to meet your lucky tributes?!"
The brevity of the noise makes Elysia want to vomit. But she stands anyway, and allows the peacekeeper to usher her into the wings - though not before she notices the eyes that linger on her body as she leaves the backstage, dark and cold and ever-calculating.
Kellen Akos raises an eyebrow as Elysia spares a glance to him, her own befuddlement clear in the lines of her face. How long have you been observing me? She wonders. Since I spoke to Ailith?
"What are you looking at?" She asks abruptly, her voice a bit more coarse than she'd intended. Kellen shrugs, infuriatingly blithe, but doesn't respond until after the peacekeeper's grabbed her arm to steer her attention back to Tal… and to her interview.
"See you after the show," Kellen calls to her retreating back, mere seconds before the door falls shut. Elysia steps forward, goosebumps dotting the outside of her arms as she approaches the stage, making her way toward the open seat across from the bemused Master of Ceremonies, who's already looking like the cat who got the cream.
(Needless to say, Elysia's not a fan.)
"Hello, Miss Ansaldi!" Tal cries. "What a pleasure it is to have you join us on this historical evening."
"The pleasure's all mine," Elysia replies primly, though she makes an effort not to sound as stiff as she feels. She takes the seat, resting her hands in her lap, the gleaming white fabric of her dress only serving to wash out her skin, too similar to her pallid complexion to truly appear elegant.
"Well, I'm sure it is!" The older woman agrees with a giggle. "But, of course, we aren't here tonight to discuss the Quarter Quell - regardless of how exciting it may be. We're here to talk about you."
"Frankly, I'd prefer to discuss the Quell," Elysia says, crossing her arms. The comment garners several laughs, despite the fact that she's entirely serious. Who knows what business of hers Tal will meddle in, if given the chance?
"Not much of a sharer, eh?" The Master of Ceremonies questions, wiggling her eyebrows. "Can't say I blame you - for a girl from One, you don't have the prettiest past."
"Perhaps not, but I can't be the first Career you've interviewed without a glamorous history," Elysia shrugs. "Besides… consider Varsen and Ambrosia. Neither of them were exactly traditional Ones either, and yet they wound up Capitol favorites. I don't think it's impossible to believe I could do the same, if given a chance."
"Definitely not impossible," Tal grins. "And I'll be honest, everyone loves an underdog. Careers who come from poverty stand as an inspiration to us all!"
"I wouldn't call my family impoverished -"
"Well, not compared to someone from Eleven or Twelve, that's for sure. Still, it's not the background we're used to seeing in One. There are very few cadets who attend your academies on scholarship - "
"I had enough skill for them to see the merit of accepting me. Enough mettle to keep up with the work, too, unlike some of my wealthier peers. Don't underestimate me."
Though she doesn't intend for the comment to sound bitter, Elysia notices the resentment underlying her words almost as soon as they've left her mouth. The muscles in her back tighten as her spine locks in place, her posture more rigid than before as Tal lifts her brows.
"Looks like someone's a bit touchy tonight."
"I'm fine," Elysia emphasizes. "Although I'll be the first to admit I'm not especially keen to play twenty questions when my focus should be on arena preparation."
"Oh, but of course." Tal tuts, shaking her head. "I'm sure the process feels a bit asinine for someone like you."
Elysia mentally recoils. "Someone like me?"
"A brute," Tal says simply. "An aggressive child who would rather solve problems with her fists than through discussion or negotiation. I wouldn't expect you to appreciate the value of sponsors the way others from your District do - "
"What? No - no, I appreciate the process. If I was being abrasive, it wasn't intentional - "
"Really? Because I have it on good authority that abrasiveness is your natural state. At least, that's what your fellow cadets have said. In particular, a fellow named Casimir Lamotte. It makes me wonder, what did you do to make him so thoroughly despise you?"
"That - that matter is a personal one, it has nothing to do with my usual - "
" - maybe something to do with his sister? If I'm not mistaken, the two of you were… romantically entangled… for quite some time…"
"I'm not here to talk about Ankara."
"Actually, I'd say that's exactly why you're here. She's part of the reason One voted you in, right? By all accounts, I'd say that makes talking about her fair game -"
"Fuck you." Elysia hisses, rising to her feet. "And fuck this farce of an interview. I'll show you in the arena what I'm capable of. You want a reason to sponsor me, that's where you'll find it. But this stage? No. Not even close."
And with that, Elysia Ansaldi turns on her heel, departing from the world's eye without glancing back.
cordura faux, district eight female
…
So, here she is.
Cordura Faux has seen her share of social functions back home, but truth be told she never imagined she'd be here: alone at the edge of a precipice, waiting for the inevitable.
For what it's worth, at least if she goes tomorrow, she'll be going out in style.
Tonight her body is draped in chiffon, enmeshed with silk and accented by scarlet tulle. Makeup coats the skin of her face, while an elaborately styled wig sits upon her head, shining a deep, bloody crimson under the fluorescent lights. Though it's not the most refined look, Cordura appreciates it well enough, knowing full well that she's going to command the audience's attention as soon as she has her moment on the stage. That, if nothing else, is enough to make the wait feel almost worth it.
Key word: almost.
It feels like she's been waiting for an eternity. Between the agonizing time she'd spent sitting in the training center and now this slew of backstage boredom, Cordura's begun to get a bit antsy. She's not the type to stand around watching paint dry, and she's certainly not the type to enjoy tedium.
Tapping her heeled foot against the floor, her eyes wander upward to glimpse at the clock mounted above the stage doorway. 20:27. How the fuck is it only eight o'clock? Her eyes narrow into slits as she watches the offending minute hand tick slowly by, seconds counting down into oblivion.
She's got twelve hours until she leaves for launch. A little less than fourteen hours until she enters the Hunger Games.
And yet despite the fanfare of the arena looming overhead, the limited time she has to come to terms with her present circumstances… her rage toward Eight, her enmity for both her partner and Taffeta, watching from the comfort of their home, probably with a pleased smirk at Cordura finally getting her due… what exactly has she been left to do? Sit tall in a stiff-backed chair until Tal Velasquez deigns to call her name?
Though Cordura's never minded the spotlight, it's never felt less endearing than it does now, her performance standing as nothing more than a moment of heraldry for her anticipated demise. If she had it her way, she wouldn't even bother indulging an interview; sponsors are well and good, but Cordura Faux is not the type to dance on strings for others' amusement, and she doesn't care to play an active role in her own mockery. Talking about herself on a broadcast she knows will be aired back in Eight feels like nothing more than insult to injury.
Whatever, she thinks, tearing her eyes from the clock with a disgruntled huff, crossing her arms over her chest as she settles back into her chair. At least Maevyn's happy.
Even now, she can hear the Four girl chattering on away at her side, going on and on about whatever seems to strike her fancy. How much she adores her costume, how excited she is to be on a real stage for once, instead of the makeshift ones at the pubs in Four, where nobody seemed able to appreciate her performances, and I was a good performer, Cordy, I tell ya! Get a couple drinks in me and I could put any'un in stitches!
A giggle escapes from Vyn's mouth and Cordura's gaze flits over to her, taking note of the way her eyes light up when she speaks, the way a smile blooms over her face as her cheeks heat and her head cocks to the side, as playful as an actual child. The perception is only furthered by the way she's begun to kick her legs back and forth, unable to sit still even after she's been told to.
It shouldn't be cute. But it is.
Mostly.
(Ugh. She does not need to be thinking with her libido right now.)
"- and I think we'll get along just swimmingly! Y'know, 'cuz she's always so perky and bubbly, and I'm perky and bubbly, and even if she gets a l'il rude at times, it's not like we're all that different really! Although… aw, man, I hope she doesn't try ta mention Madora, d'ya think she's gonna? Because then what'll I even say, I don't think's really right t'talk about the dead or nothin', circumstances considered. I mean, like, she wanted to volunteer, and she coulda been here 'stead of me, right? And so it's like… I dunno, like I'm stealin' her dream or somethin'."
Maevyn frowns, curling fingers into the shimmering green fabric of her skirt. Her eyes dart up to Cordura, cautiously optimistic. The Eight girl shrugs her shoulder a bit, trying to stuff her feelings as she contemplates a response. Talking feels overrated right now, but it's what allies do.
And like it or not, that's what Cordura is. Maevyn's ally.
"Honestly, with what I know about Tal, she probably will mention Madora. Doesn't mean you have to talk about her, though - you're allowed to keep your feelings to yourself. Change the subject and move on if you start to get uncomfortable. It's what I do."
"Does it help?" Vyn asks, eyelashes fluttering over her baby blues. Cordura smirks.
"Yeah," she says, inclining her head. "Does for me, at least. Sometimes all you need is a good distraction to help you feel better."
Maevyn's mouth opens into a little o. She nods her head in understanding. "Oh, definitely! Like, when I got all messed up sometimes, I'd go out and pick flowers by the creek, or dance in my room when Ria was gone, and it always helped me feel better! I dunno why I didn't think ya could pull a trick like that with talking too."
Her blonde head keeps moving, up and down and up and down. After a second, Cordura reaches out to tousle her hair, and Maevyn closes her eyes, her grin beaming at the affectionate gesture. Cordura feels a slight catch in her breath at the sight. Relief? Probably. Maevyn's decent, but she almost never shuts up. Cordura can't imagine how much more she'd talk if she was upset.
(Honestly, Cordura never wanted an alliance. She's more of a lone wolf, the sort that looks out for their own hide and simply says "good riddance" to everyone else. She didn't come here to make friends, and she didn't come here to babysit, so she isn't really sure what she's doing with Vyn to begin with. She just knows...)
There's something about the Four girl that she can't help but find endearing. Maybe it's the cheeriness, the sweet lilt to her voice, the playful and mischievous expression she wears when she thinks people aren't looking, chaos spinning circles in her wide ocean-eyes. She's as impish as she is affectionate, as passionate as she is undeniably stupid. And sure, Cordura will admit that Maevyn's easy on the eyes, but her personality's almost better than her looks, which isn't something that Eight's gruesome grifter would normally say. It's bizarre.
(Maybe she just likes the fact that Vyn makes her feel recognized. Maybe she wants this alliance because she wants to be seen.)
Cordura will be honest; having an admirer is nice. Especially since, regardless of how skilled she may be with flirtation and flattery, she's not exactly a "people person." Taffeta likes to say that it's because she has trust issues, and all things considered she's probably right. The years that Cordura spent indulging her father's drunken misery left deep scars in her, wounds that festered in the very fabric of her soul. Oh, she can feign camaraderie as well as any hustler - she can be winsome and charismatic, can wear a smile even better than some people wear their clothes, her disarming charm making certain there's not a single crack to be found in the plaster of her facades - but she isn't used to doing this. Being herself? Being amicable?
Spade had always been the charmer. Not Cordura.
(Cordura, the pathetic child who spent her days hiding behind a facade of false wealth, drowning her identity in a river of lies. Cordura, the grifter who'd disgraced herself time and time over in the name of revenge, indulging socialites' games and making a habit of seducing her rivals' wives, sleeping around in between rounds of cards on the off chance that sex would allow her to feel something again. She'd sold her soul to greed and lust, let her conscience fall to the wayside for the sake of recognition, her desperation to be seen only furthering her growing self-hatred.)
While she's never doubted her beauty, her autonomy has always felt contentious. She's a person whose identity is comprised of others'; she can see that much whenever she looks in a mirror. The thin scars shorn into her alabaster flesh by Challis' hands, the dark circles beneath her heterochromic eyes from Taffeta's needling, the lines of a face that she felt didn't belong to her, hints of Muslin in her cheeks and her jaw… her body has never felt entirely her own, no matter how much she cares for it. And her temperament's another story; the volatility, the pain, the contempt festering in her soul…
She's not someone most would be keen to hang around, not someone anyone with half a brain would ever truly admire. But for some reason, Maevyn seems to like her anyway.
And honestly, the longer they've spent together, the more Cordura's come to realize that she needs Vyn. Maevyn is the antithesis of Taffeta - she's funny and she's raucous and she's naive and she's sweet. She's free and open with her affection, as well as her emotions. She doesn't judge and she doesn't seethe, doesn't use passive-aggressiveness and cruelty to get her way when Cordura isn't keen to open up. She's… real?
(Her camaraderie is difficult for Cordura to comprehend.)
(Sure, she'd had plenty of love in the casinos; when Spade Sinclair hit the card tables, she commanded attention, held the spotlight without necessarily trying to keep it fixed upon her. She'd fallen into bed time and time again with gorgeous women decked to the nines in gold silk and silver lace, seduced them with her wits and her wiles and left them hanging from her every word. But for all that people had desired her, the love she attained in Eight was superficial - innately tied to her fame, and the illusion of wealth she tried to exude.)
For as long as she'd been with Taffeta, Cordura had never truly been given the opportunity to exist within their relationship. For two years, she'd been made to suppress her true feelings, her desires, hopes and dreams, in order to keep her partner's attention and please her the way she demanded. Cordura Faux had not been herself so much as she'd been an extension of Taffeta, the worthless girlfriend bearing a lowlife's name.
Genuine admiration is not something that Cordura is accustomed to. To have found it in a deathmatch is unexpected… but something she's grateful for all the same. She knows she'll have to kill Maevyn eventually, but for now…
Cheering sounds from the interview stage, but it's not loud enough to mask the harsh footsteps approaching the door, nor the hysteric laughter emanating from Tal as the One girl storms off of the stage, obviously incensed. Cordura raises an eyebrow as she throws the door open and strides over to her vacant seat, arms crossed over her chest while her expression remains contrite. Her District partner rises, but she pays him no mind, either not in the mood to indulge his presence, or too focused on whatever it was that just occurred to care what he's doing. Cordura guesses it's the former, if only for the glare the One girl shoots at his back before he vanishes through the exit.
A small sniffle sounds from her side. It's only then that she realizes Maevyn's gone silent, her fingers curled tight into the skirt of her gown as her eyes dribble crystal tears. Gone is the beatific smile she wore moments earlier, a grim line fixed instead in its place. Cordura frowns.
"Hey," she starts, pitching her voice lower to keep the other tributes from listening in. "Everything okay?"
"Oh, um, yeah!" Vyn replies quickly, feigning a laugh. She reaches a hand up to wipe at her face, her blonde hair hanging like a curtain between them to obscure her expression from view. "Just a l'il nervous, but 'sall good!"
Cordura sighs. It's obviously not all good, but she isn't going to push Vyn to talk if she doesn't want to; frankly, that'd be hypocritical of her, and hypocrisy isn't a good look on anyone. Just look at Taffeta and her self-righteous ass.
"You'll be fine," she replies after a few seconds, her hand extending for one of Vyn's own, resting idle in her lap. Cordura takes it in her own, linking their fingers together before running her thumb across the Four girl's knuckles, a gesture she's always found soothing, even if it's a bit forward. "Just be your usual, gung-ho self. Capitol will eat that crap right up."
"I hope so," Maevyn says. Though her voice is a touch crestfallen, there's no hesitation when she grabs Cordura's hand, holding tight to her offered grasp as if it's a veritable lifeline.
Perhaps, for her, it actually is.
Cordura looks away.
She's a useful ally, she tries to remind herself. Not a friend. Not anything more. I'm only comforting her because it's to my benefit that she stay as with it as possible, now that the Games are so close. And if it makes her feel closer to me, that's even better. Minimizes the risk of betrayal, and all.
I can't get attached to her. I can't let myself care. Only one of us can make it out of that arena, and I need it to be me.
I need to win. Everyone else be damned.
rhys intarsia, district three male
…
As Rhys steps onto the tile floor of the interview stage, two things strike him at once:
One, that he is not even half as composed as he wanted to be, a fact that is somewhat disconcerting given the conversation he's about to partake in, and two, that regardless of how prepared he may or may not be, he needs to force this interview to have a positive outcome.
Rhys will admit that the second part is definitely easier said than done. Tal Velasquez aside, his distaste for the Capitol isn't exactly a secret - not back home, at any rate.
While half of Rhys' identity in Three has been predicated upon a foundation of lies, the one thing he's never been subtle about is his loathing for institutional authority. Spending his formative years in Koehler's Community Home had taught Rhys to appreciate that the government didn't care about him. His sort - orphans, street kids, and later on, sex workers - were a demographic that politicians would rather ignore than cater to… more so, a demographic that they actively shat on whenever they were given a chance. Though the Capitol provided plenty of funding to the corporate elite in Three, they never deigned to expend their effort on the common people. The rampant poverty that Rhys had seen Three's slums has only continued to fester over the last few years, day after day passing by without a single word from the mayor or Capitol ambassadors. It was a fact that incensed him as much as it beleaguered him, a reminder that no matter how much Rhys tried to elevate himself, unless he somehow came into tremendous wealth or scandal, the rest of his District would never so much as acknowledge his feelings, or even his existence.
The Capitol's opulence is as dazzling to Rhys as it is sickening. Here, there is no such thing as poverty - at least, not of any sort that's comparable to what plagues the Districts. The people mill about in gaudy jewelry and excessively eccentric clothes, flaunting their wealth without so much as questioning how they've earned it, or acknowledging their selfishness in keeping it so contained. In that sense, the place is not quite so foreign to Rhys as he expected it to be; though he's unused to their lavish luxury and fanciful displays, he's had plenty of time to accustom to their injustice and social scrutiny, neither of which are so far removed from his home. Though the presentation is different, the nausea that such indifference leaves in his gut is the same, unchanged despite the vast distance between them.
But…
Rhys takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. This isn't the time to dwell on his misgivings. He's here to dazzle a crowd, win them over and salvage his reputation if the opportunity arises. There's a lot of ground he wants to cover tonight; about Esme and Silas, about the affair. Tal's almost certain to bring it up, and he can't allow himself to be rattled.
Chaos can wait until the Games. Tonight is a night for composure.
Tonight is a night for acting.
He's aware that thousands of eyes are trained on his body, judging him as he walks the length of Tal's open stage, making his way toward the vacant leather seat adjacent to her person. Giving a nod to the Master of Ceremonies, Rhys doesn't waste time in taking his seat, Tal's pointed grin almost blinding for how cocky it appears. It's hard not to call her out on it, but he manages not to offend, greeting her simply with a classic "good evening," a cue which Tal is quick to return.
"Yes, I'd say it's a good evening indeed," she addresses, still smiling like a waiting snake, preparing herself to strike with venom. "Great weather, great food, great audience… and a lovely tribute come to keep me company! Really, what could be better?"
Literally anything, Rhys wants to say.
"I haven't the faintest idea," he says instead, laughing gregariously. "Either for you, or myself. I mean, an interview with the infamous Tal Velasquez? Who in their right mind would pass that opportunity up?"
Tal laughs. "Trust me, that's exactly what I tell my husband every night!"
The audience takes up her cue, laughing along at her (rather poor) joke. Tal humors them before she proceeds, resting her hands in her lap as she perks up, leaning in with a conspiratorial wink.
"But, of course, we aren't here to talk about me. I want to know who Rhys Intarsia really is. Care to let me in on some of your secrets?"
Rhys winks right back. "Maybe, if you play your cards right. What do you want to know?"
"Oh, I want to know everything," Tal croons, a flirty undertone invading her voice. "But sadly, we only have fifteen minutes, so I guess I'll have to settle for just the juiciest bits."
"Shame we don't have longer," Rhys flirts right back. "I have so many salacious stories that would entertain you…"
"Oh, I like it when you talk dirty," Tal responds, keeping her tone light to ensure that her intentions aren't mistaken. "In fact, maybe that's where we should start. There's nothing dirtier than a good old sex scandal, wouldn't you agree, Rhys? And with the mayor, of all people! That's absolutely bawdy."
"Entirely too true, Tal," Rhys says, mentally preparing himself for the lengthy address ahead. "Though let's be honest, sex isn't exactly a scandal with my line of work. Just an expectation."
"So you're an escort?" Tal raises her eyebrows. Rhys nods, figuring that's as apt a term as any, and far nicer than what people in Three would've used. Tal hums. "Quite the messy line of work. In more ways than one, I'll dare to assume."
"It certainly has its drawbacks," Rhys acknowledges, sitting back and crossing his legs, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. "But there are perks, too; adequate company, lots of sex, a trade of luxury items and plenty of secrets, if you happen to be into that. Not to mention, the lifestyle is enough to be sustainable, so for as many horror stories as I have, I really can't complain."
"Rhys, Rhys, quit being a tease! I'm sure you've had a few experiences worth mentioning… I mean, you have quite the list of clients. CEO of Synthcorp, a storage mogul from the tech sector, two peacekeepers of notable rank, and the disgraced Silas Casper himself! That's a body count that'd put you on anybody's radar."
"You're not wrong," Rhys concedes, "but confidentiality's part of the job, too. One scandal was more than enough for my liking."
Idly, he reaches a hand up to mess with the headpiece that's been fitted in place over his hair. Damn thing's a nuisance, just sitting on his head like that. Still, it's a distraction he can fidget with as he plays for time… that's not a terrible thing...
(Rhys has always hated hats. Honestly, if he weren't already partway through the interview, he'd be inclined to just rip the bloody thing off.)
"Well, given how extensive the repercussions were, I can't say I blame you," Tal laughs again, though this time it's more of a cackle. "I mean, being a gold-digger is one thing, but when it comes to the point of splitting up a family… that's a pretty serious offense. I can only imagine how devastated Miss Casper must feel."
"Oh, she's devastated alright," Rhys laughs in return. "Silas' infidelity practically skyrocketed her career. I heard she's actually making a bid for mayor now, can you imagine?"
"Perhaps focusing on work is distracting her from her domestics," Tal shrugs. "I'm all for kicking trashy husbands to the curb, but Silas and Esme had two little girls, isn't that right?"
A smirk curls her lips as she plays with her hair, tucking a stray lock back behind her ear as she cocks her head at the camera.
"I wonder, what will those girls think of you when they get older? The teenage prostitute that stole their father away…"
Rhys' brow creases. He was prepared for a lecture, prepared for his personal business to be aired, but Tal's cutting deep, far deeper than he thinks she knows. He's thought about the Casper's children more than is probably healthy; about how devastated they must have been by their parents' split, how unfair it was for their lives to be upended because of a mistake their father made, a mistake that Rhys indulged, even when he'd had doubts about doing so. Silas' wealth had enticed him, but his conscience had always questioned whether or not the money was worth the price of his apathy. He'd chosen to look the other way when Silas solicited him, chosen to ignore the fact that he had a wife, a family, that he was spending his family's money on Rhys' makeup and jewelry, using his family's money to pay for a whore's services. He hadn't really known much about the kids until after their affair had been aired, when Esme chose to weaponize them against her husband - and against Rhys as well, scorning him further by exposing the extent of his perfidy, labelling him a true and bonafide homewrecker.
"Believe me," he answers, guilt punctuating his words. "I think about that every day."
He looks away, fluttering his lashes to try and keep the tears from forming in his eyes. There's a time and place for him to regret, but it isn't on this stage. So he buries his pain inside his chest and continues, breathing slow and even to try and keep calm.
"For those of you who don't know much about prostitution," Rhys begins, his voice wavering. "I should clarify a few points. What I do is provide a service, just like any other individual in a hospitality-related workforce. I earn money from selling my body, but that's as deep as it typically goes. Sex, for me, is transactional."
He pauses, turning back to Tal and looking her directly in the eye.
"My relationship with my clients is a professional one. That means that I abide by their standards and requests so long as they pay, and I keep all of their personal details confidential. I know many of my clients have families, spouses, elevated careers and elevated wealth, but it is not my place to ask questions. I sleep with a customer, they pay me, I add them to my client book if they express interest in soliciting me again, and stay in my lane until they choose to initiate contact. What Silas was paying me for was not a relationship by standard definition."
It's not entirely true, but Rhys doesn't think he needs to say anything more than he already has. He's explained enough. He's exposed enough, laying himself bare for others' judgment, not refuting Tal's statements like another person might be keen to. He doesn't need to hide anything about what he did with Silas; those details have already been laid bare. What he needs to hide are his feelings; about the sex, about the Caspers, about how fucked up he is, and how fucked up he feels for entangling himself with the mayor in the first place.
"I know that Esme holds me in contempt for breaking up her family. I can't begrudge her that. She has every right to hate me as a person, and to be angry at Silas' betrayal. But voting me into the Games for trying to get by? Voting me into the Games for a sexual relationship that her husband initiated and chose to pursue? My entire District has demonized me for nothing more than a torrid affair I had no stakes in to begin with. Because of Esme, I lost my clients, I lost my home, I lost my anonymity and bits of my autonomy, and now I'm about to lose my life, too. So congratulations, Miss Casper! You got what you wanted. I hope revenge is as sweet as it seemed."
Tal opens her mouth to speak, but Rhys raises a hand, shaking his head. He's not done yet.
"I had to work to get to where I am today. I wasn't born like you, in a pretty mansion with a silver spoon, I was left in the orphanage to starve and rot away in silence. Maybe I've done some questionable things to try and elevate myself from poverty, but you have no right to judge me for trying to get ahead. We live in a predatory world, Esme - if you don't want to be eaten up by it, there are things that you have to sacrifice; dignity, morality, trace amounts of empathy…" Rhys sighs, uncrossing his legs before leaning forward in the chair, gazing directly into the camera as he drives his point home. "You should know that as well as anyone. So I don't think you have any right to judge me on my actions, or demonize my behavior and values. I've done what I had to in order to survive. If you want to villainize me for that, go ahead, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm not the bad guy in this situation. Your husband paid me for a service that I provided, as is customary with any career transaction. Maybe his choice to sleep with me ruined your family, but that was his choice, not mine. I just wanted to keep the lights on. Can you really fault me for that?"
The entirety of the auditorium falls silent.
Rhys sits up, then leans back in his chair, the stiff back and plush cushions supporting his body even as weariness begins to overtake it. His mouth closes tight, lips pressed together in an expression of sheer neutrality, unable to form either a smile or a frown in light of the laundry he's just aired. He crosses his arms as a clap echoes from somewhere in the room, singular and lonely within the assembly of seats.
Another joins in soonafter. Then another, and another, until the full audience erupts in thunderous applause, won over by the sheer force of his words.
Rhys can't say it's the reaction he'd been expecting.
"A fair point!" Tal crows, and the Three boy lifts an eyebrow, surprised all the more by her concession to his argument. Rhys isn't foolish enough to believe she doesn't have an ulterior motive for changing her tune - audience approval seems to dictate a lot of Tal's behavior - but he's not about to question it. Even if Tal is more sycophantic than especially congenial, she's in a position to influence a lot of things related to the Games, namely sponsorship. For someone with as few friends as Rhys presently has, that's an advantage he'd do well to try and exploit. "I'll admit it - at times, I find it simpler to just take information at face value… but you've convinced me that there's quite a bit more to your story than first meets the eye. I think everyone would do well to remember that every argument has more than just one side - much like every controversy has more than a single perspective!"
Tal smiles, surreptitiously trying to pass a glance to her crowd, probably wanting to gauge their reaction. Murmurs of assent and muted encouragement echo through the undulating mass of the assembly, prompting Rhys to blink as he straightens his posture. The Master of Ceremonies crooks her head in his direction, her aura about having turned from catty and malicious to dubiously supportive seemingly on a dime.
For all her lacking sincerity, she seems willing enough to support him… at least for now.
(And really, that's a lot more than Rhys had dared to hope for. Sincere or not, it's better to have Tal rooting for him than against him… for people in the Capitol, her voice is practically synonymous with public opinion. And was it not public opinion that damned Rhys to the Games? Was it not the ill repute wrought by Esme's crusade that had turned half a District against him?)
(The realm of social politics can be a messy one; all it takes is a single scandal to ruin a person's life. Rhys has endured such a thing once already. He doesn't care to repeat the experience.)
"I'm glad that you found my perspective enlightening," he says, a wan smile creeping onto his lips. "And while I'm aware it wasn't your intention, I'd like to thank you for giving me a platform on which to address this issue. My circumstances haven't exactly endeared most of the people back home."
"Oh, I can only imagine," Tal says, reaching over to rest a hand on Rhys' arm, her chromatic nails partially digging into his skin. There's nothing considerate about her touch, and Rhys has to force himself to suppress a shudder - but he doesn't try to move her hand, nor make any attempt to push away her outstretched arm. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, feigns appreciation, and endures.
"But in this case, I'd say Three's loss is the Capitol's gain! It takes resilience to maintain composure in the face of scrutiny, tenacity to keep pushing forward when the odds have been stacked against you. And you, Rhys Intarsia, have both resilience and tenacity in spades." The Master of Ceremonies chuckles. "Frankly, I'm a bit jealous."
Frankly, you're a bit stupid, Rhys thinks, mentally rolling his eyes. Outwardly, he just nods, conjuring a few crocodile tears to sell the sympathy angle.
"You do me too much credit, Tal," he says, playing along. "But believe me when I say that I appreciate your support. Everything has just been…" Rhys reaches up to dab at his eyes with his shirt sleeve, "... so trying, these last few months. It's enough to feel overwhelming."
"And it would be enough to overwhelm anybody, given all that you've endured." The Capitolite gives a solemn nod, patting Rhys' hand before taking hold of it. With fingers twined, she raises his arm, holding their linked hands up as they stand, joined in unity for the briefest of moments. "Ladies and gentlemen, Rhys Intarsia from District Three!"
A/N: Diluted by Slipknot.
I'm sorry for how long it took me to finish this chapter, but hopefully it was worth the wait! A 10k pregames chapter is a huge anomaly for me, but all of these kids really just stole the show for themselves once I started pushing myself to write, and now we have a chapter that I'm happy to say I'm quite proud of. It isn't perfect, and the writing is perhaps a bit messier than my usual, but it's long and heavy and raw and emotional, and really, what more can I ask for?
I'm hoping that I can finish the next interview chapter by month's end, but I'm not really sure yet how that will go. A lot of things have been going on irl that have hampered my ability to write, but hopefully they'll ease up as the year comes to an end.
Thankful for all of my lovely submitters and readers. Until the next.