interview night: the dope show

They love you when you're on all their covers; when you're not, then they love another.

velezen vilarys, district five male

…

Tonight will be a special night.

Velezen can hardly keep the smile off his face as he stands from his chair, his feet aching in the confines of their dress shoes. Whoever thought it was a good idea to put him in heels is going to sorely regret their decision once these interviews are well and done with; Zen's hardly been here an hour and his toes have already started to cramp.

Not that his stylist probably gives two shits. Like most Capitolites, she seems to care more about form than about functionality. Which, sure, Velezen supposes he can relate to - a person's sense of style does tend to go hand-in-hand with their self-expression - but he's not exactly feeling appreciative.

No coffee, no company… bad shoes, death sentence… a laugh rises and dies in Velezen's mouth, trapped like a stone in the hollow of his trachea. Is it just me, or does it seem like the universe takes pleasure in watching me suffer? I mean, seriously, what is this? Some sort of karmic retribution? Aurelio's comeuppance, the cumulative result of all my questionable life choices finally coming to fruition? Give me a break.

The smile on his face morphs into a scowl as he approaches the peacekeeper beside the door. The man's mouth hangs partway open, Velezen's name still on his lips when he makes his presence known. It takes a moment before he stands aside, allowing Zen to grab hold of the handle and escort himself out from the wings, his gait even and posture steady despite the frenzy that's overtaken his head.

Turning his neck, he offers the man a cheeky wink. It's never bad to keep the Capitol on their toes.

(And keep them on their toes he has. No matter how much time these people waste trying to pin down Zen's motives or suss out his plays, they'll never be able to predict what he plans to do. Him, or Argenta. That's one of the perks of being an opportunist; he has more flexibility than these government lapdogs could ever dream. The only certainty of his behavior is that he will remain uncertain - chaotic, unbridled, free until the bitter end.)

Velezen's proud of what he has accomplished. Oh, sure, he's had his share of failures, and he can't say they haven't left a mark on him; he's had plenty of time the last few days to consider his situation, and he'll admit it's pretty much riddled with negatives. But there have been positives as well; the success the Order had on Reaping Day, the attention their riot garnered in the Capitol… truthfully, the acolytes' response to his selection was as chaotic as anything he could have hoped for. Aurelio's dead, and Velezen himself is free from prison, with liberty to make a last stand in whatever manner he sees fit. He'd even gotten to watch as Five got a taste of their own medicine, their binding conformity undone by the very concept of forcible change.

But…

Even for all that Velezen prizes, present circumstances have taken a toll on him. His excitement at the Order's success remains overshadowed by the threat of imprisonment - a threat that he thought he would be free of once he reached the Capitol. He's still trapped, here just as much as at home, and honestly… it's wearing him thin.

One can only handle isolation for so long before they start to crumble.

Only, in this case, it's not Zen's resolve that has crumbled so much as the last vestiges of his sanity. The Velezen Vilarys that departed District Five last week at least had fragments of stability in his possession. Now? After a week of being locked inside his room, knocking on the wall to try and form some line of communication, eating gruel for every meal and drowning in the stench of his own sweat?

He's starting to lose it.

Like really, seriously lose it. It won't be long until he snaps, and once he does, it'll be the end.

But he doesn't have to die quietly.

He's here to make a statement. To give Panem a Games worth remembering. Isn't that what the Capitol wants, what his District hoped for when they voted him in? Didn't they want to see him go up in flames, consumed by the antipathy his cult had fostered?

They'll get their wish. That's a promise.

The Order of the Bloody Flame will continue to burn a path right through Panem's industrial heartland - so bright and so fierce that any rebuttals will only serve as kindling for the fires they produce. His words this evening will make Aurelio turn in his fucking grave, cause his parents to regret the fact that they ever sired him. They might damn him and everything he is, but Velezen has nothing left to lose.

I might have chosen a troubling path, and I might have done things that would put her to shame, but Theia always said that once you start something, it's best that you see it fully through.

I am the Solar King.

I am he who guides, he who speaks and he who acts. I am a leader for those who remain faithful, and I would do well to uphold their beliefs despite my own.

(To move forward, we must remain as one.)

Yes, tonight is going to be a special night. Tonight will be the start of a revolution - provided Velezen keeps his wit as sharp as his teeth.

He steps out into the light.

In the center of the stage, Tal Velasquez waits upon her velvet throne, a second chair empty at her side. Velezen wastes little time in approaching her, but as he nears he does not sit, does not greet her in the vapid manner he knows she must expect. Instead, he turns and bows to the audience, keeping his eyes level with the camera as he begins his address.

"My friends," he says calmly. "I thank you for your presence this evening - and for the time which you have given me to speak."

An awkward laugh cuts through the space at his back, no doubt made by the Master of Ceremonies. Velezen ignores it for the time being; he'll get to Velasquez in a moment. He needs to address the others first.

(But of course Tal has other plans.)

"So," his compatriot-in-stageplay begins, rising to her feet in what Zen assumes is an effort to boost her ego. The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement - she probably doesn't like the idea of being sidelined on her own broadcast.

(Imagine, a Capitolite being denied a moment to bask in the limelight! Such a pity, he almost says, sarcasm desperate to slip past his lips - but, lacking context, it would only isolate the audience. He can't have that. Not for another… oh, five minutes, at least.)

"Velezen Vilarys - Five's great enigma. I can see you're already living up to your name."

Velezen smiles and turns his head.

"I try," he says simply, "though we all know my name is nothing compared to yours."

"Oh, Velezen, please! You do me far too much credit!"

He dips his head. "I aim to please."

His apparent acquiescence is all it takes to draw more of the woman's attention, requital pulling her towards him despite his offishness and clear desire to speak. Tal's arm slings around his shoulder, guiding him in the direction of the seats. Velezen considers spurning her a second time, but stops after considering that doing so might deny him the luxury of a full conversation. He needs this opportunity. He cannot be dragged away so soon, when he's had no opportunity to do more than banter.

He sits.

And then, in a moment of daring, before Tal can pull away Velezen reaches up to grab her hand, bending to lay a kiss on her bronzed knuckles.

He looks up at her through veiled lashes, smiling in the same manner as a fox or an imp - mischievous but unassuming, capricious and yet also cunning.

"You look ravishing," he tells her, then pulls away, allowing his arm to fall back to his side. "Not as ravishing as me, of course, but that's a hard bar to pass."

Tal laughs, and this time her cackle is raucous.

"They said you were a cocky one," she quips back, "although for once, I have to agree. Your stylist has outdone herself."

"She certainly has an eye for fashion," Zen winks, keeping his tone light and diplomatic. "Red has always been my color."

"Personally I've always found it a bit racy," Tal's grin thins out into a practiced smirk, her eyes roving over the lines of his face and neck before they drop once more to his shirt. "But from what I know, I'd say that suits you. Devil-may-care rebel without a cause… you're quite the infamous figure. In fact, I'd say just about everyone in Five has heard something about you, Velezen. Or should I call you 'Solar King?'"

"No, Velezen is fine," he responds through his forced smile, looking past her head to keep himself indifferent. "I'm sure you already know, but that's the name I chose for myself, and it fits me better than any title ever could."

"Oh?" Tal's brows lift in surprise. "Are you not a fan of your own prestige? What would your followers say about -"

"The affairs of my followers are not your business," Velezen responds before she can finish, smile just as wide, just as cold. "But to answer your question, they can call me whatever they wish. I prefer that they use my name, though - it makes me more approachable. Less of a symbol and more of a person, which is what I've always tried to be. In all my flaws of character - and yes, I know you plan to bring them up, Miss Velasquez, I'm not dense - I remain infallibly human. No different from my followers, nor any of the lovely people here tonight."

He turns again to the audience, drinking in the sight of their pastel-and-ink faces, strange clothing and eccentric features. There's so much joy to be taken in individualism - here, more than anywhere else. Velezen should have no trouble gaining their ear if he appeals to that.

"While there are some who may call me Solar King and venerate me as a leader, there are more still who recognize me for what I am. An individual. An outcast, somebody defined by their eccentricities, and cast to the fringes of society for indulging them. People here might look at me and call me rebel, but being a rebel is not synonymous with being a dissident. The only thing that I've chosen to rebel against is conformity; the constraints of it, the pain of it. I can see a handful of you out there nodding your heads, yes, you know what I mean. You know how miserable it can be to live a life defined by order, pinned beneath the grip of people who judge you for your appearance, your behavior, your very identity and sense of self. How many times have people chided you with cruel words, choosing to single you out and bully you for being different, berating you for your emotions and preying upon your insecurities? How many times have you sat alone in your homes, looking at your reflection in the mirror with tears drying to your cheeks, wondering why society does not accept you, why others seem to see only your flaws and weaknesses, despite all the efforts you've made to try and please them? And to those of you who've never tried to please them, why should you be criticized for being yourself, for having feelings and dreams and goals of your own, for wanting to be a person, your own person, your own self?"

Velezen turns back to Tal. He bends forward in his seat, placing his hands atop his knees, his shoulders arching upward as he edges closer to her, maintaining eye contact all the while.

"It's unusual of you to stay so quiet, Miss Velasquez," he whispers, enunciating every word. "Perhaps you're quiet because you agree with what I'm saying. Because you've felt ostracized yourself, been belittled for your insecurities. I can only imagine what people have said about you over the years; they call you a gossip queen, they call you a drama hound, pretentious and ostentatious and ridiculous and any number of other things just for how you present yourself. It upsets you, but you do your best to hide it; after all, it's you that's the Master of Ceremonies, you that gets to stand on this stage, why should you care about being judged by a bunch of nobodies?"

The laugh that's been sitting in his chest since before he set foot on stage finally claws its way out of his throat. Velezen shakes his head, looking off to the side.

"People look at you and they see an overzealous, egotistical bully. I look at you and I see a woman full of insecurities, who's spent her entire life trying to make a name for herself because all she's ever wanted is to be respected."

"I am respected," Tal says, but Velezen shakes his head, and then - with no small amount of audacity - places a finger upon her lips.

"No, you're not." He smiles. "And if you're going to continue to be so two-faced, the least you could do is make one of them worth seeing."

Tal's lip quivers - not enough to be obvious, not from a distance, but Zen can feel it tremble beneath his finger, can see the anger in her face when he moves back, once more looking into her eyes, knowing how close her shields are to falling.

"You've said it yourself, Tal: sometimes the truth is a hard pill to swallow."

Velezen rises to his feet.

They gave him ten minutes to speak tonight. But to make a statement… he only needed five.

lethe muralai, district six male

…

The Five boy has only just left the stage when Tal Velasquez calls for a recess, her voice ringing loud and clear outside the open door. Lethe can't claim to be surprised - he, like everyone else, heard the ruckus coming from the audience, ruckus that was only made worse when Five was approached by the tributes' guards, escorted off by a set of peacekeepers. He didn't protest or make a fuss, but that interference even posed necessary shows just how rattled Velasquez must have been by his performance. Lethe can't admit to being surprised.

He watches with detached disinterest as the boy in question is slammed down in a chair, cuffs rattling as his wrist is shackled to the metal support, leaving him no means of moving away. At his side, Tatiana stands, enthusiastic as ever at the thought of free time, regardless of the motivations for which it was given. She claps Lethe on the shoulder as she gets to her feet, much to his chagrin. Despite her repugnance he manages not to recoil, merely allowing his eyes to fix on her face, narrowed into a sullen glare.

"Hey, hey, what's with the long face?" Tati jests, but removes her hand, having learned well enough through the last days when and where to back off if she values her own livelihood. "Don't tell me you're offended over getting a chance to relax. If anyone could stand some chill-out time, it's you."

"I'll do you the favor of pretending you didn't say that," Lethe responds, and Tati just shrugs, turning on her heel and making a beeline for her allies - or, more specifically, the boys from One and Nine. Pitiful, he thinks, watching her go. Oh, well. At least she can tell when she isn't wanted. If Lethe had a knife, he'd have cut her arm off for daring to grab him. Some might call that an overreaction, but he's sure it would be a good lesson in personal space; there's a reason he can't stand meddlers. Tatiana is living, breathing proof of the fact that some people aren't worth the oxygen it takes to sustain them.

Besides… he's never liked being touched.

Not by his mother, who spent hours when he was a child fussing over his hair and clothing, and not by his brother, who had always been the softer of the two Muralai boys, phlegmatic, mild-mannered and all too willing to follow Keia around, clinging to her sleeve. Carix had always been a bit of a doormat, but their mother's influence made his sycophancy far worse - funnily enough, Lethe thinks she had that effect on everyone she met, her intransigent nature bringing out the worst qualities of anyone she engaged with. The sole exception had been his father. From what he remembers…

He recalls very little, actually. But he thinks… in terms of touching and being touched, he hadn't minded it so much when Harlin held him. Dad had never been the sort to act intrusively; he preferred to just let things be, and Lethe knows there were many nights that they'd spent together, sitting in silence on the back porch, watching fireflies flit about the garden. He'd never felt any pressure from him to do things he didn't want to, just as he'd never felt pressure to change. Keia wanted a mini-me, a son that would be boisterous and gregarious and act like a practical firebrand, but only in accordance with her whims and ideals. Harlin just wanted Lethe, and that had been refreshing. If he were still around…

It doesn't matter. He's dead. So is everyone else now, Mom, Carix, Tav, even that tart that came knocking. I suppose most of the Underground's gone now as well. A shame, really; they made for… decent company, at least in comparison to the rest of the District. Never asked too much about your business, unless it impacted their own plans. I rather liked that.

Lethe sighs, pushing himself up from the stiff metal chair, flexing his ankles before taking a step forward. He knows why Velasquez called a recess; anyone with half a brain could have figured out that giving District Five an opportunity to speak spelled a recipe for the disaster where the Capitol is concerned. Even now, stuck in a chair with cuffs binding their wrists, the boy is wearing a broad smile, far too happy with his success. He won't be laughing come tomorrow, but tonight has been a victory for both him and his partner; a victory for the rebels.

It's too bad they're so unsuited to subtlety. They could make a lot of waves here if they played their cards right; Lethe knows it.

But ultimately, their flashiness is to his benefit. When the Capitol starts trying to meddle in the arena, it'll be the Fives they gun for, not Lethe and Hollister. So long as his delusional ally doesn't deviate from their plans…

Lethe sighs. He probably ought to check in on Holly. The Twelve boy can only be left alone for so long without getting into some sort of mess.

Turning, he allows his eyes to survey the room before they finally fall upon the refreshments table near the back. Hollister stands idle there, his ashen complexion made all the more intense with the jet fabric of his suit. He does not turn his head as Lethe approaches, does not so much as notice it when the Six boy sidles up to him and stands there, waiting to be noticed but entirely wordless. Hollister doesn't even turn.

His lip curls as he eyes a pitcher full of red liquid, sitting behind an array of cups. The sight of it seems to be personally offensive to Hollister, as his body language radiates disgust, though he picks a cup up all the same, looking over it and sniffing to try and determine what exactly it is. Obviously not blood, given his annoyed hiss.

"Problem?" Lethe asks and Hollister jumps, only just managing to keep the cup from clattering to the floor. He sets it down and looks over his shoulder, fangs peeking out over his lower lip as he scowls, unamused.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Five minutes," Lethe responds with a shrug. Then, unable to help himself, he adds: "Aren't vampires supposed to be hypersensitive to their surroundings?"

"Yes, they are - I am! The stories merely exaggerate the breadth of my kind's abilities," Hollister replies, fidgeting a bit as his cheeks take on a rosy hue. He pulls at the collar of his shirt with one elegant finger, embarrassment hanging thick in their air after he speaks. Interesting, Lethe considers. For him to be so rattled by such a little comment, regardless of his defensive response… it indicates at least some cognizance of his delirium. Hollister isn't so lost as to be impervious to people calling him on his lies.

His lack of surety is something worth keeping in mind.

Lethe watches Hollister a moment more, his dark eyes fixed upon the older boy's face, unmoving until Hollister finally chooses to turn his head. His ally's gaze redirects to the peacekeeper posted at the auditorium door, and Lethe raises an eyebrow.

"See something interesting?" He questions.

Hollister shakes his head. "Not especially."

"Ah."

"Ah."

Silence holds them. Without turning away, Lethe observes as Hollister's hand reaches back toward the refreshments table, curling around the side of an open cup balanced precariously at the edge. He picks it up as his posture shifts, but does not drink it, favoring instead the chance to stand pretentiously with the cup in his hands, silently judging the other occupants of the tributes' room.

"I detest peacekeepers," he adds abruptly, breaking the quiet. Lethe nods.

"Seems we have something else in common."

The Twelve boy makes a noise between a hum and a hiss, shifting his weight to his right foot.

"What do you suppose would happen if I fed from him?"

"Nothing good." You have to ask?

"Mm…" There's a slight pause as he continues to watch the man, then looks down to Lethe with a cocked head. "No matter. Peacekeepers taste like filth anyhow. If anyone should bleed for me, I'd prefer Velasquez."

"Velasquez, really?" He laughs in disbelief. Hollister, however, appears entirely serious. Lethe frowns. "You're joking."

(… he's not joking.)

"Well I don't suppose you have an alternate suggestion?" Hollister asks, sarcasm dripping from each of his words.

"What, for your midnight snack?" He retorts, not bothering to properly answer his ally's question. "Hmm, let me think. Perhaps 'literally anyone that isn't the Master of Ceremonies'? I think that would be a decent place to start."

"Do not mock me," Hollister hisses, though the cant of his voice is too plaintive to be truly angry. "My throat is barren! My stomach rumbles with need for sustenance! 'Tis so painful I should call it unbearable! You have no understanding of the agony that my body is in."

Lethe quirks an eyebrow. Hollister pauses, jarred from his dramatic vent by the gesture. Once he seems to process the Six boy's expression, he scoffs and turns his head away, folding his arms over his chest as he typically does when ready to sulk. There's a sigh. He can't even say which of them it's from.

The Twelve boy's eyes dart over to his own, trying to divine something from within his face. Lethe isn't sure what. Sympathy, perhaps? How silly. If that's what Hollister's after, he'll find it's in limited supply.

Lethe remains waiting, still and cool as a statue. Hollister's tongue flicks out to dart across his lips, already being worried by his peculiar teeth. He looks away, clears his throat. Then he begins to speak again, his diction this time far more embittered.

"Do you not loathe these philistines as much as I? Do you not feel, as I do, that it should be our right to see them bled, to see them die for putting us through such impertinent trials? They paraded me around with naught to cover me but coal dust, Lethe. They stole my dignity. My honor. This entire ceremony is a farce!"

He throws his hands out, bits of whatever liquid is in the cup sloshing out over the edge and spilling onto the floor, along with Hollister's own knuckles. Lethe sighs and resists the urge to smack a palm into his face. Best to let him vent; it's not as if chipping in with advice will do much to deter his petulant rambles.

(It's not as if Lethe doesn't agree with what Hollister's saying; he loathes the Capitol as much as anyone these days, if only for the fact he spent most of his childhood surrounded by hypocrisy-spouting, self-righteous loyalists. And aside from that, the festivities of the pre-Games have already gotten on his nerves. Lethe has far better things to do than waste time playing dress-up for a one-sided talk show, indulgent to the Capitol's beck and call. To even be in this place is like a bane to him...

But he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut.)

(Fact is, regardless of his personal antipathy for this place and its so-called supporters, Lethe can see the merit in putting up a front. He doesn't care for these festivities, but he cares about minimizing the target Six painted on his back. Hollister would do well to remember that his skill with killing hardly matters if the audience themselves wants to see him dead.)

(Although, Lethe appraises, idling in the hallway as Tatiana stumbles past, one arm slung around the back of the boy from District Nine, with how the evening's proceeded, Hollister's might not even be the worst interview. The girl from One mangled hers so badly I doubt she'll be earning any favor; District Five thought it would be better to mouth off than play along, which I suppose is just classic with their sort. And then there's Tatiana - all you need to do is look at her to realize that's a train wreck waiting to happen.)

His face twitches as he uncrosses his arms, glancing back to appraise his ally - and the unfortunate assembly of their fellow competitors. It's absurd, he thinks with a shake of his head, but with this company, I almost look stable. And if not stable, at the very least I haven't drawn half as much attention to myself.

…

It's safe to say this might be the only time Lethe Muralai has taken satisfaction in being surrounded by idiots.

"Farce or not," he speaks, tone even and coolly detached. "You still have to deal with it. There will be plenty of opportunities come morning for you to… slake your thirst, most of which are far less suicidal. So be patient. Your time will come."

His chin lifts as he steps closer to Hollister, reaching up to pluck the cup from his hand and set it aside. Slowly, Lethe eases his arm down, fingers trailing over the black silk of his interview shirt as he gives the wannabe-vampire a fake smile, all teeth on display.

"Rest assured, Twelve. I'm not the type to make false promises."

With that, he returns to his previous position: distant, appraising, collected and untouchable, more reticent and dangerous than anyone else in assembly tonight. Impulsivity is a deadly flaw, and he won't have Hollister acting on it until he's served his purpose. His assistance is an asset, no matter how much it might pain Lethe to admit. They have complementary skills, complementary enough that it shouldn't be difficult for them to pile up bodies provided they stick to a plan and stay cognizant of the bigger picture.

"Argenta Brandt?" A voice calls from the door, signalling an end to the previous recess. Lethe's smile thins as he takes another step backwards, away from Hollister, his dark eyes upturned in warning.

"Be a good boy tonight," he whispers. "And I'll reward you with gallons of blood come tomorrow."

patron midori, district nine male

…

The anticipation is starting to get to him.

Patron's never liked to be kept waiting. Now, that isn't to say he's impatient - he's better than most at biding his time, waiting in the wings to act at the proper moment rather than whenever his whims so strike - so much as that he often finds delays to be irritants. While Tati and Venice had been perfectly content to flounce about during their recess and throw themselves all over Patron without restraint, he'd found their attentions less than endearing. The interlude as well, honestly, given the unfortunate timing of Tal's meltdown - they hadn't even hit the halfway point for interviews when she'd taken her pause. And though Patron typically wouldn't mind squandering time sitting in a packed room with multiple individuals he finds entirely charmless (that's sarcasm, by the way), he's found that over the past few days his tolerance level has been dropping immensely.

He just wants to get things over with. Charm some sponsors if he can, get some rest, and ready himself for the chaos tomorrow will bring. Being part of such a large alliance has managed to quell a few of Patron's concerns about launching, but he's smart enough to realize that even with a safety net, he's not exactly in the best position. Elysia clearly wants him and Tati gone, and the Twos have kept mostly to themselves, unwilling to indulge Tatiana's antics. Kellen probably has a bone to pick with them over the whole propositioning sex thing and Venice?

Venice is… a mess, honestly. Though Patron's certain more than a few Careers have had training center flings, getting a trainer pregnant after dosing yourself with random pills doesn't exactly sound typical. Frankly, Patron's sure that his addiction is half the reason the One boy even agreed to ally with him and Tati, considering he'd be in practical withdrawal if the Six girl wasn't slipping him bits of her stash every now and then - a stash that will only last for so long, with how the two of them have been going at it. Patron estimates she's got maybe a day or two more of supply. When it runs out…

He's not entirely sure where it will leave them.

"Are you nervous?"

The question catches him off guard. Patron stills the words register, the fingers on his left hand curling in against his palm. He's not sure why his District partner has chosen this moment to speak with him, but he's momentarily glad for the fact that she has, if only because he doesn't need to dwell any further on his present circumstances. Maybe he is nervous, but he can't go around letting people see that, now can he?

Doing his best to exude confidence, Patron straightens his back, turning his head as he throws his right arm over the back of the chair, elbow crooked and hand raised for him to rest his head against. He smiles at his Districtmate, the expression not so malicious as it is blatantly false, and shrugs his free shoulder in a gesture of indifference.

(Sure, maybe he's been a little restless, and Patron's aware that he's displayed tells that could point to anxiety... but that doesn't mean some fourteen-year-old brat has the right to just make assumptions about what he's feeling. Stars, they aren't even allies! It's not like she's asking because she cares. )

"What do I have to be nervous about?" He questions firmly.

Thomasin doesn't look at him as he speaks. Her head stays bowed, slim fingers playing with a loose thread on her unfortunate brown dress. Patron can't quite make out the expression on her face, shrouded behind a veil of hair as it is, but he can see it when she acknowledges his shrug with one of her own. Her jaw shifts as she speaks again, words less blunt than those spoken before, so pointed and forward Patron had almost been unsettled.

"I guess that's fair... I mean, you are running with the Careers." He gets the distinct impression that she's smiling. "Probably got better odds with them than against them. Maybe?"

"Maybe," Patron hums, deflecting the second quip as easily as he had the first. His eyes narrow as he observes the younger girl; the image she paints is so at odds from the cheerful nuisance he recalls on the train, practically following him from car-to-car, trying to make small talk even when he'd said plainly that he wasn't interested. Now her needling seems almost shrewd - masked inquiries, insinuations about his alliance... to say he's surprised would be an understatement.

"What are you playing at?" He asks, and there must be something poisonous in his tone, because this time Thomasin does look up, her grey eyes reflecting a tension similar to what Patron himself feels.

"N-Nothing." She stammers, red coloring her cheeks. "I just wanted to… I mean, I was trying to say…"

Spit it out, Patron thinks, rolling his eyes. Still, he doesn't chide her; there's no reason to be so impatient, when he's still got at least twenty minutes before his own interview - and that's provided the Eights don't pull anything stupid like the Five pair.

"- that it's alright. If you're nervous. The Games are sort of… a lot to process, and, well… you didn't exactly come to them quietly."

"Did anyone?" Patron asks, raising an eyebrow. Thomasin quickly backtracks.

"I didn't mean nothing bad by it! Just know that people were talkin' for awhile before you left - and Tal's the gossipy sort…"

Her eyes rove over Patron's face, searching for a hint in his expression as to what he's thinking - but it's to no avail. He's never been an especially expressive person; it's one of the reasons he'd been able to hide his second life so easily from his parents.

(People who knew Patron as himself, rather than the Dancer, had always been inclined to call him cold. And truthfully, he never particularly cared, given his lack of inclinations to socialize; human interaction was troublesome, and relationships were overrated. Be it friends, acquaintances or romantic partners, Patron lacked the drive for emotional investment; it was easier to simply avoid connection, avoid commitment. Hence why he preferred his intimacy to come in the form of one-night stands or… business transactions. It was less messy that way; he didn't have to worry about the consequences of unwanted attachment, didn't have to lead anyone on for longer than he desired. Edward had been a bit of an exception to the rule, but everyone makes mistakes. Right?)

"For the record… I don't believe what they said about you," Thomasin continues, her voice softer. "They say a lot of stuff, about anyone that doesn't quite fit - me included! I think they just don't like the idea of people breaking status-quo… if that makes sense. One or two mistakes, they get blown up… like with the Jahnkes, after the Twenty-Third? It isn't fair…"

"Please, you think I don't know that?" Patron laughs, cocking his head against his hand, fingers running through his slicked-back hair. "It's like Ambrosia Salazar said: Fairness doesn't exist. Nine is a cesspool. Honestly, I ought to be thankful to the Games for getting me out of there before I could become another unfortunate, inbred prat with less than half a brain - no offense."

Thomasin blinks. "None taken?"

Patron hums, shifting in his chair until he's returned to his previous position, facing forward with both hands at his sides. He crosses his legs, bending one and throwing his ankle up over the opposite knee, trying to quell the bitterness that's flooded into his gut at just the thought of returning home.

(Didn't you hear? The Midori boy was sleeping with the mayor -

No, no, I heard it was one of the merchants, the one who hauls grain for the Capitol? Or maybe it was the baker -

Isn't he married?

I'm pretty sure they're all married; but why would that stop him? You know he was fucking that guy from Sway Cabaret…

I heard he was a dancer.

A dancer? More like a stripper -

Is what they're saying true? That he broke that girl's leg?

Well, he's probably done it before, hasn't he? You know the people who frequent those clubs… bunch of addicts and smugglers, they are…

Hey, don't you remember? There was another attack last month by some guy wearing a black mask. That boy, who got shanked in the alleyway outside Randy's Ranch?

Patron does seem like the type to hang out at dive bars… I suppose it's not impossible to think he might've done it…

You know he's been selling himself, right? My dad's got an in with the Peacekeepers, and they think there's a whole circle that's active in some of those clubs…

What? A prostitution ring? Do they think it's trafficking?

Dunno yet - I'm just saying what I heard…)

Idiots, the lot of them. Choosing to villainize him and castigate him for having a life, for wanting to exist as something beyond what his father raised him to be… choosing to seed rumors of misdeeds completely unrelated to his actions, accusing him of being a drug smuggler, a prostitute, a homewrecker, a murderer, whatever baseless things they could imagine, all because he'd been a little promiscuous. Patron hadn't asked to become Nine's bogeyman, hadn't asked to be made infamous for crimes he didn't commit or deviancies he didn't perpetrate.

He'd thought it would be over once his parents practically disowned him; a disgraced heir was certainly worthy of gossip, but with his secret hobby out in the open, their reasons for excising him should've been cut and dry. But even after he'd been pulled from school, exiled to one of the old servants' quarters out behind the house, the chatter only seemed to increase. His true crime - the crime of crippling a girl for the sake of jealousy - wasn't the thing that got him reaped, no, he was reaped because of whispers, because people couldn't quit spinning their maniacal tales about who he was and what he'd done, and eventually it had spiralled out of proportion.

His brow knits together as he glances over at Thomasin, still facing him as if she's keen to continue their conversation. Not that their talk necessarily qualifies as a conversation - it was, after all, very one-sided - but Patron figures it's all the same to her.

Strange for a fourteen-year-old to be voted into the Games, he muses, a question coming to his lips unbidden. Granted, there are plenty of younger tributes here - the little girl from Five, and the fragile one from Twelve, whose age he couldn't place even if he were asked to guess - but it's a bit odd, coming from Nine. Most communities were so protective of their kids, they wouldn't even think about volunteering someone underage, unless they were a complete sociopath. His District partner certainly isn't that, so…

"Why you?" Patron asks.

"What?" Thomasin responds, blinking slowly.

"I said 'why you?'" He repeats, enunciating the syllables. "Nine probably had plenty of girls they loathed enough to throw into the Games, and yet they choose a fourteen-year-old whose name I never even heard before that day in the justice building. So why? What makes you so reviled that they'd toss you in with someone like me?"

"... well, first off, I'm fifteen…" Thomasin mutters, and Patron frowns. "But as the Games go, I - well, it wouldn't have affected you, I don't think. Your family's rich."

"You're from the outer sectors," he quickly intuits, and Thomasin nods her head.

"Yeah… I am. Lot more barren out there. Winter's tough; means we need every bit of the supply we stock from the rest of the year in order to keep things running in the community. But… during the summer last year, after the twenty-fourth… my brother Josiah and I snuck into one of the grain barns during a harvest day," She takes a deep breath, her hands trembling as she returns her gaze to her lap, unable to face Patron. "We just wanted to smoke - and we knew nobody would be there, what with the festival prep they were wrangling. We didn't mean for anything bad to happen, but… one of the wheat barrels caught fire, and -"

She cuts herself off mid sentence, her tone thick with tears. Patron says nothing as she starts to cry, merely makes a noise to indicate he was listening before filing away the information in the back of his mind, just as he's done with the other tributes he's interacted with. It's more tame than he'd expected - not unlike his own circumstances, without the added strain of antagonism plastered on by his peers - which almost makes him wonder…

How many tributes actually deserve to be here? How many of these kids actually did something that merited having a scythe hung over their neck at the entire country's behest? The Capitol may have called for a Quarter Quell, but the fact of the matter is that these Games aren't all that different from any other year - twenty-four kids, outliers, careers, a few decent personalities and a few bad eggs. It doesn't change anything where Patron's concerned - he still plans on playing to win, and he's got no qualms over using, abusing or killing the others in order to do so - but it's an interesting thing to consider.

There's nothing special about the twenty-fifth. It's just another year.

And, unless he manages to pull out a win, Patron Midori will be just another body - nameless, faceless, worthless and unwanted.

pangaea o'shea, district ten female

…

It's nearing twenty-one hundred by the time Pangaea finally takes the stage, a pale gold dress clinging to her body in an attempt to accentuate curves she doesn't have. Every inch of her body feels unnaturally stiff, be it the arch of her bare shoulders or the pale expanse of her neck, uncovered save for the line of a thin necklace, so fragile that she could barely see it in the mirror. Her strawberry-blonde hair cascades in waves down her back, held in place by an array of rosy hairpins, capped at the ends with glittering white gems - a Capitol specialty, it seems, given the similar adornments she'd spied on the pair from Nine and the girl from Twelve, folded in on herself at the back of their sitting room.

She had almost wanted to approach the girl when she'd seen her there, arms pulled tight around her body as she cowered away from her District partner, looking entirely too small and innocent for a tribute bound for the Hunger Games. Pangaea doesn't know how old she is - twelve, maybe thirteen if she had to guess - but she'd seemed even younger in the dark of the wings, curled in around her midsection, her black eyes blown wide with terror. Her fear only seemed to intensify once she realized she was being watched, meeting Pangaea's gaze with parted lips and a startled gasp. No words had passed between them, but the expression of Twelve's face had been clear. Stay away from me, please, just stay away, her gaze had begged, and Pangaea's own mouth had closed tight before she turned her head, facing forward with her arms at her side, still and composed as a garden statue. She hadn't moved when the pair from Nine started to argue, when Vukasin stood from his seat and pushed his chair back, its metal legs scraping against the cold floor, the action emitting a piercing screech.

She hadn't moved, not a hair, not a muscle, until she heard the uniformed guard say 'Pangaea O'Shea' in a voice so coarse it made her stomach tense with recoil.

She'd stood to her feet amidst the silence, her shoes clacking against the floor as she tried her best to keep her balance, cool air ruffling the hem of her skirt about her ankles. Once she'd reached the open archway, she'd blinked and rolled back her shoulders, steadying her bearing with practiced ease - or practiced grace, as her mother would say.

Mother, Pangaea had thought, and her tears began to dry before they could even leave her eyes. A raspy giggle built in her chest, and she turned her head back to look at the others - but by that time, the door into the tributes' room had already closed. There had only been one direction left for her to go; an open path to an open chair, across from a woman so alike to those with whom Pangaea was raised that her catty presence felt somehow comforting.

"Good evening," she'd said as she took a seat, resting her hands in her gold-clad lap before offering Tal a smile, more artificial than her usual fare. "It's fantastic to finally meet you."

I told you those etiquette courses would come in handy, her mother's voice rings inside her ears, and with it, Pangaea can almost feel a hand at the small of her back, not so much steadying her as giving her a nudge.

Remember your manners, Mila O'Shea chides, and remember to smile. We can't have you appearing ungrateful. You have to act as if you're glad to be here; false admiration is to be expected with the company we keep, but that doesn't mean you should let your mask slip, Pangaea. You must do your best to appear genuine.

"Oh, what lovely manners!" Tal coos and Pangaea can feel her cheeks warm a touch as the Master of Ceremonies grasps her left hand, patting it amicably as she eyes the camera. "That's refreshing after the evening I've had! I have to say, I like this one already."

There are some laughs that echo from beyond the stage. Pangaea squints a bit as she turns, the gleam of the fluorescent lights rebounding from the silvery panels in her periphery, glare reflecting into her eyes. She smiles nonetheless, clasping Tal's hand tight and moving her left to give it a pat right back, along with the squeeze.

"Well believe me when I say I am pleased as punch to be here! My father's listened to you and Mister Lavellan since y'all were first on air, and I watched every episode of Midnight Delight when it was locally broadcast last winter."

"I hope Darcy was your favorite character," Tal responds with a tinny laugh, and Pangaea nods her head.

"Of course! I love a good villainess - especially one that can handle a horse." She chuckles along, relinquishing her hold on the other woman before reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, one she hadn't noticed before. "Actually, I'm a bit of an equestrian myself-"

"I should've known you were a horse girl!" Tal exclaims and Pangaea laughs again, ignoring the hollow pit behind her ribs, her heart beating faster inside her chest.

"Classic Ten, guilty as charged!" She jokes. "My brother Panno and I used to race each other in the fields all the time when I was younger. It took a good few years before I got fast enough to beat him, but I maintain he had an unfair advantage - try pitting a growing pony against a mare."

"He didn't!"

"He did! Though I'm not bitter about it - well, not these days, twelve-year-old Pangaea is a different story." Pangaea giggles, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "We had fun, at any rate."

"Oh, I'm sure you did," Tal nods along, sitting back in her plush seat. "Panno's your closest brother, right? Two years older?"

"Yes," Pangaea nods, trying to ready herself for the remark she knows will be coming next, the one she'd invited by bringing his name up in the first place. It's going to hurt, but it's better than talking about Dad - or it should be, with everything I've heard since getting reaped. The way Verity and Vukasin describe him makes me feel like I never actually knew him; any of his work, what he did, where our money and our influence came from. I mean, if what they said is really true, if he wasn't even contracted by the government… how much of my childhood was defined by a lie? All those dinners with Mayor Shaw, all those times he dropped off papers for Dad to sort through… to think his work wasn't even legitimate? It's -

"It must have hurt when he threw his support behind Rising Dawn. I mean, your own brother spurning your family's loyalties for a ragtag band of rebels? He'd only just turned eighteen…"

"Panno made his decision," Pangaea says firmly, snapping free of her conflicted thoughts. "It's not one that I agree with or endorse. He's still my brother - and I love him, of course I do - but I can't say I understand his decision, or that I'm not hurt by the choices he's made."

She looks down at her hands, resting once again atop her skirt, fingers toying with the shimmering fabric.

"How could you not be?" Tal asks, her words oozing with false condolences. "To see a family member jeopardize their wellbeing and sacrifice their kin for the sake of politics? It's absolutely-"

"Tragic," Pangaea says, drowning out Tal's own synonym with her own wavering voice. "It's tragic."

Tragic, because she hasn't seen her brother in two years. Tragic, because she doesn't have enough information to understand why he did what he did, and worse still, Panno won't talk to her, which means she can't even ask. All she knows is that her brother left one night after a disagreement, and in doing so never came back. He never visited, never wrote. He never gave her any closure.

And now he probably never will.

Pangaea swallows, closing her eyes. Is he watching this right now? Listening to her talk about frivolous hobbies and watching her fawn over Tal's words like a fucking sycophant, every bit the daughter their parents had wanted to raise, so polite and loyal and naive? What would he think of the person she's become, of how she speaks and how she acts, so fake that it makes her skin crawl, her every response sounding as if it were nothing more than rehearsed drivel recited from one of their father's cards, even her personal musings so devoid of emotion that they're practically surreal?

"- between your rebel brother and your father being outed as a shyster, I'd say that your family's had quite the fall from grace. Now, that's not to say that the Capitol doesn't appreciate your loyalty, but some have begun to question-"

"I am loyal," Pangaea responds, only catching the tail-end of Tal's words, her posture returning to its previous upright position, engaged and attentive just as it should be.

She thinks of Panno, hiding away in the lower sectors where she's never been, holding a poster - or perhaps a gun, ready to take up arms against the same Capitol their parents adored. She thinks of the girl from Twelve, huddled over in her chair backstage, scared and confused and utterly alone, waiting to be devoured by a world that couldn't care less if she lives or if she dies because she's a tribute and it's just the way things are. She thinks of her parents, and of her parents peers, Ten's high society that's not half as special as they want to believe, aristocratic liars who keep their wealth by living in falsehood, lying to themselves about their own importance, taking advantage of their own friends… their own children.

She thinks of Vukasin, her District partner, storming around his room at night punching walls until his knuckles bleed, of how he watches her when he thinks she isn't looking, wary and cautious like he expects her to sell him down the river or knife his back the first chance she gets. He's scared of her and Pangaea knows it, despite the fact she can hardly fathom why; after all, he's the one that's been making threats since they first met at the reapings, and he's big enough that he could kill her if he really wanted to, big enough that she shouldn't pose a threat. But still he's cautious. Like everyone else in Ten that didn't live in the highest sectors, like all the people her family screwed over at the advice of their own Mayor.

She thinks of Padma Youssef, a girl she knew in another life, one she'd grown up near and even admired for a time, back when they were younger and assigned to the same classes in school. They were never friends, and Pangaea wouldn't dare to claim they were close, because the fact of the matter is Padma had always intimidated her, just like Vanshika intimidated her mother.

She'd seen the Youssefs after the Games last year. It was they that had hosted the autumn soiree, only a month after the Twenty-Fourth's reapings - a month after losing their only daughter. Pangaea remembers how cold Vanshika has been when she'd spoken about it, tutting at the mention of the Games and responding to Mila's sympathies with a frigid voice: "Yes, such a shame Padma couldn't be here for the holiday season. You know, we'd just finished the arrangement for her marriage; the announcement was meant to be given tonight, that's half the reason we hosted this bloody party. A Youssef and an Elwing… can you imagine, Mila?"

Her mother had laughed at the comment, in that way all socialites seem to do when they find a matter trite or too impolite to actively discuss. "I'm sure that the wedding would have been lovely, Vanshika. You've always been so particular with your arrangements."

Pangaea remembers taking a step back, asking politely if she could be excused, only for both women to turn their eyes on her, appraising her appearance with no small amount of disappointment, as haughty and hawkish as ever.

"Pangaea, you're eighteen now, are you not?" Vanshika asked, and she had answered "Yes," a bit uncertain. The Youssef matriarch smiled at her, her fingers tight around the stem of her wine glass as she once more began to talk.

"Word of advice?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"You should take this time to begin planning for your future endeavors. At such a critical junction in your life, it would be a shame for you to misstep the way my daughter did."

"I'll keep that in mind, ma'am -"

"She fancied herself a rebel, Padma. Thought that by throwing her lot in with those pests from Sector Sixteen she'd be able to make a name for herself, give herself a life on her own terms." Vanshika rolled her eyes, taking another sip of alcohol before giving a scoff. "I suppose she thought it was romantic. Running away to join the circus… it sounds so innocent when you put it like that, don't you agree?"

"... Miss Youssef, perhaps we shouldn't be discussing -"

"You children don't realize how good you have it. We provide for you and we shelter you and we give all our time and effort to instilling the proper ideals, yet you'd prefer to go and squander it for the sheer sake of feeling independent. Donovan's an imbecile, but he's given a lot of himself to raising you kids; to see your brother fall to the wayside like Padma is painful to us all. He's shamed you. He's shamed your name -"

"-gaea? Pangaea?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Pangaea asks, her blurry vision clearing as she finally - finally - registers Tal's presence, tears clinging to red-gold lashes, dribbling down her makeup-coated cheeks.

"Your time is up," the Master of Ceremonies murmurs, softer than she's ever sounded. Pangaea blinks and stands to her feet, fugue clouding her mind even as she turns away from the audience, from the cameras and the crowd and the catharsis she didn't ask for, memories significant enough to put her beyond herself.

"Good night," Pangaea says as she walks away, but even as she speaks her lips don't move, and she doesn't hear Tal answer. Shuffling back toward the wings, she knocks on the door and she exits - feeling, not for the first time, utterly bereft.

She's out of place here, in this golden city she's spent her life admiring. For all her loyalties and for her family name, she exists as nothing to these people; she is but a single face in a sea of fleeting bodies, a single child plucked from the Districts, where kids are born and raised under the threat of death.

She's out of place, yes, there's no doubt of that. And worse still…

She's out of time.

A/N: The Dope Show by Marilyn Manson.

I am aware it took me way too long to finish this chapter - apologies for that. Next couple should be out sooner. Here's to hoping I finish pregames by year's end.