launch: the game

It doesn't really seem I'm getting through to you, though I see you weeping so sweetly…
I think that you might have to take another taste - a little bit of hell this time.

"How is this possible?"

Coriolanus Snow steeples his hands atop his desk, a grave look of consternation plastered on his face. Though the news he bears is severe, there's not a trace of worry to be found in his expression, his blue eyes piercing and his jaw firm as he listens to Oberon speak. His stoicism is no surprise; Snow has never been the sort to grow emotional over bad news, regardless of how weighty it may be. A part of Oberon has always rather admired that - Snow's ability to remain impervious when his life is beset by tumult. It's a trait he's never quite managed to adapt. Especially when it comes to…

"The coroner suspects a stroke," Snow says calmly, matching Oberon's shaken gaze with his own. Firm, collected, unshakable… the ease with which he discusses his superior's death is almost alarming. Not that Oberon would dare to mention such a thing; Snow's feelings about Newmahr are none of his business. He's only here because of the timing. The Games are set to begin in only a handful of hours. There's a possibility that news such as this could set back his schedule… or subvert attention from the festivities altogether. Hellebore's arrest was one thing, but a death on the day of a launch is something else altogether. Strange… karmic, possibly…

"I just - I saw him yesterday morning," Oberon manages, disbelief invading his tone. Slowly, he sits down in the open chair across from Coriolanus' desk, his hands shaking as he holds tight to the armrests. "He seemed perfectly healthy. Not a thing wrong beyond the usual weariness and the twitch in his hand. It was only a few hours ago…"

"A few hours are all it takes," Snow replies, inclining his head. "Death can come for any person, at any time. That's a lesson you'd do well to remember, Gamemaker Lavellan - given your present station."

"Yes," Oberon concedes, averting his eyes. His fingers dig into the leather beneath his palms, curling tight into the stiff fabric as he tries to steady his breath. President dead. Games today. Snow might be his direct superior, but it's still quite a bit to stomach. Perhaps he should…

"What are we going to do?"

Snow raises an eyebrow. Oberon steels his jaw, raising his eyes once again. He lets go of the chair arms, choosing instead to rest his hands in his lap as the Vice President deliberates. They could delay the Quell. It's not… ideal, but if Newmahr truly is gone, then Snow will have to make a public address, and the Cabinet will have to prepare for inauguration. He could be reassigned - moreover, he could have a new supervisor, which would set them back weeks in their progress.

Weeks that they don't have. The tributes are already here. The Games have already started. They don't have time for this sort of change; this sort of… spectacle. Oberon shivers a bit, not keen to think of a person's death in such… bureaucratic terms… but does his best to quell his discomfort. The thought may be callous, but it stems from logic. They need to push forward. They have to progress.

"Has your team finished preparations for the arena?"

"Yes."

"Then there's no reason to delay the launch. You'll continue forward as expected and follow the schedule we outlined earlier this month."

"But sir," Oberon says, sitting forward. "We just lost our head of state."

"We did," Snow concedes. "But the public doesn't know that."

What?

"You don't plan to tell them?" Oberon questions, his anxiety spiking. "He's meant to give a speech at tonight's party! The other Gamemakers - hell, the entire Capitol -"

"They'll understand if he's unable to attend," Snow cuts him off before he can finish. "It's not the first time he's been negligent of his social duties. I have no issue speaking in his stead."

"But surely the people should know," Oberon tries to insist. "You can't hide his death forever. A few days, maybe a week? That's the most time you're going to get."

"Lavellan," Snow smiles. "That's all the time that we need. As long as you can get the Games off the ground and keep the people looking up, they won't be concerned about what the government is up to. Let a few days pass, let them hear the message we need them to hear, and then your team can consider the possibility of adjustments. This is a time where we need order. Taint the spirit of these Games with the barest hint of cynicism, and our people will lose morale."

"That… that's fair," Oberon manages to choke out, biting down on his tongue. "Although… if you're trying to keep this a secret, why have you told me?"

"Because," Snow says calmly. "You're my Head Gamemaker. You're responsible for handling everything pertaining to this year's Games procession, and that includes governmental affairs. If this news comes out early, it could impact your team; you need to be prepared to handle questions if they occur. And," the Vice President leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "I expect you to handle them. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir," Oberon replies. His mouth feels uncomfortably dry.

"Good." Snow gives him a nod. "Then I suggest you get to work. Today's an important day for you - it would be a shame to see your plans take a hit because of this… misfortune."

"Yes, I suppose it would." Oberon murmurs. "But trust me, I won't let you down."

"I know." Snow gives him a smile. "You're efficient - that's one of the reasons I nominated you as Maryse's replacement. But then again… Maryse Delacroix is proof that even the best of minds can fracture under pressure. I'd hate to see you crushed by the weight of your aspirations."

Oberon's eyes flit to the door.

"Get going," Snow directs, and he doesn't waste any time in indulging the instruction.

There's something about it all - Newmahr, Maryse, the Scourge of Panem himself - that doesn't quite sit right with him. Not for the first time, Oberon wonders whether he's bitten off more than he can chew by taking this position… by making a deal with Coriolanus Snow. But then again, sometimes a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all.

He has to hope that this will work out in his favor. Because if it doesn't…

He and Tal might be next in the line of fire. They knew about Snow's bid for power. They know about Varsen.

They know too much for their own good.

So he can't afford to take any risks. Not with the Games...

… and not with Snow.

ansel zilliah, district eight male

…

Ansel's sleep is dreamless.

It shouldn't come as a surprise. Each night since Xay's passing has been a barren one, his mental dreamscape bereft of any imagery… any memories. Certainly, there are impressions of sentiment - a touch of warmth inside his chest, a familiar face tattooed upon the inside of his eyelids - but even those are dull, tinged with a haze of despair.

Despair.

Xay. Andre. Kanessa, Ruthie and Jonathan. They haunt his sleep just as they do his waking moments, screaming insults through his ears and weeping into his skull. The lover he lost, the brother he betrayed… partners he should never have trusted, for who is there to trust within the slums of District Eight, where anybody who is somebody cares only about making it from one day to the next?

Ansel's mouth sets in a grim line.

Yes, he is selfish. Yes, he has used others to get ahead, reaping the benefits of their losses and remaining willfully ignorant to their tragedies, and doubtless there are those in Eight who would call him heartless. He's been called many things in the eighteen years he's spent in the world: delusional, sick, disgusting, malicious and remorseless and cruel, and while he supposes their words ought to chafe a bit, he's never seen any point in denying them. Guilt, typically, is the furthest thing from his mind…

But there are moments.

There will always be moments.

Ansel rolls over onto his side, smashing his face into the pillow behind his head. There's little light to be found in his allotted room, and less still to be found beyond it, in the now-silent streets of the Capitol he loathes. The new day has yet to dawn, but it will soon. And once it does…

There will be no turning back.

His breath is warm against the pillow, casting back against his skin each time he exhales. In this quiet, darkened prison, the steady rise and fall of his chest is the only thing that separates him from his love, for the coldness and pallor of his skin is little different from a corpse. He's rotting from the inside out. Whether it's from sorrow or anger matters not.

Xay…

Ansel's eyelids flutter closed, denying wakefulness once again.

I was so close to reuniting us… so close to fixing everything.

His breathing slows. His heart seems to still, the continuous thrumming of the beat inside his chest waxing and waning, waxing and waning…

If Four was telling the truth, Kanessa should be dead soon. Her life snuffed out, Ansel's vendetta fulfilled… it is little recompense for Xay's death, little recompense for the fact that she poisoned them, but he takes pride in it all the same.

(It's a bit pathetic, really. There have been so few things in his life worth celebrating that a kept promise is somehow satisfactory. But… Ansel sees no point in dwelling on his failures and personal ills. He prefers his mind to be unclouded. It is better for his judgment if he does not regret… does not doubt… does not think about…)

(Accident. Xay's death was an accident. They overdosed because I spent too much time trying to stop their pain, kept letting them shove pills down their throat even when I knew better. Kanessa never tampered with her drugs; she was trustworthy enough for me to deal with her for three years. It was human fucking error. I let them kill themself by doing nothing. All the harvesting… the surgeries and the tinctures and what I was building up to… it was all too little, too late…)

The saliva in his mouth seems to run dry. His throat feels… parched. Like he hasn't had a drink in days, hasn't so much as swallowed anything but dirt and dust. A wheeze leaves his lips as he begins to chuckle. Have they ever buried a corpse in silken sheets, or built a grave from feather pillows?

Rise, his mind tells him. Rise before the sun does and get yourself a drink. Wash up. Enjoy the sunrise, warm your cracking bones. You've been sitting around too much; your muscles could use a stretch.

Ansel groans and shifts once more, rolling onto his back. He blinks his eyes open to stare aimlessly at the ceiling, ignoring the chill of the air blasting through the vents, the subtle sound of snoring coming from his mentor's room, just a thin wall away. He doesn't want to get up, but there's not much point in simply lying around like this, drowning in fruitless thoughts about the past.

I should move, he decides, mouth twisting into a frown. If I'm moving about, I won't be trying to ruminate… and frankly, it'd be better to rise before Cordura does, anyhow. She's the last person I want to deal with on a day like this.

Ansel sits forward with a huff, stretching his legs out before swinging them off the bed and standing, irritation once again needling his skull. He hadn't been joking when he told Atlanshi he wanted to see Cordura dead; her assumptions were crude enough, but the glares and sardonic quips she's fired off the last couple days have really begun to try his patience. Which is a shame - he'd rather enjoyed chatting with her on the train, at least as much as he enjoys chatting with anyone. Their interaction may have been mediated somewhat by their card games, but there had been potential there that Ansel hasn't noted in any of the other competitors. She would have made a formidable ally…

Alas. His District partner made her choice, and Ansel's since made his. If the arena's kind enough to bring them together again, he won't hesitate to stick a knife between her shoulderblades. He might even enjoy it.

Might, Ansel thinks with a sudden laugh. Who am I kidding?

He makes his way over to the door. As expected, the suite is quiet; all of the others are still in bed. It's later than he'd expected, but that's of little concern; they won't need to leave for two hours, yet. Cordura can get her beauty sleep, and he can scheme for the day ahead.

Plenty of bodies to carve up. Gallons of blood to spill.

(The Capitol wants a bloodbath, and he'd be a fool not to act on the invitation.)

But first… water.

He yawns as he steps past the threshold into the main room of the suite, the couches where he and Cordura sat just hours ago seeming rather dull and barren in the unlit dark. There's not a hint of light inside Eight's quarters beyond what has slipped past the curtains, but Ansel is used to working in the shadows. With the number of nights he'd spent hiding in the graveyards, catching seconds of sleep in thorned bushes and mud hallows, the dark has almost become a dear companion to him - just as it would to anybody who finds themselves in the business of robbing graves.

(A part of Ansel wonders when he became so accustomed to living as a damned soul. His childhood had not been kind, but he'd at least spent his formative years with a roof over his head and decent clothes over his back. He'd never even considered the possibility that at eighteen he might make a living scrounging in dirt, bloody gloves moulded to his fingers and his shoes waterlogged from stepping through grave soil. Even the backalleys he'd been made to frequent as a drug runner provided more comfort than Angel's Row, which despite its name proved to be the most devilish path of territory Ansel had ever navigated. He's spent hours wandering along the muddy patches in between the grave fields, hours trying to haul boxes out from sunken ground that has no desire to budge even when it was only recently packed.)

(Truth be told, the rewards hadn't been worth the effort most nights. But Xay needed the kidneys. Then a liver, then a heart; those were things a body couldn't live without. So he had sought them from both the living and the freshly-dead, cut them loose and stowed them away, carefully wrapped and sterilized for the day his beloved was destined to return. Ansel planned their reunion so meticulously… he doesn't understand how it all went so wrong. Too little conditioning, too many sleepless nights; had he not been taking care of himself? His own health hadn't really mattered in light of Xay's numerous ailments, or at least that was what he'd assumed.)

(He should have been more cautious… more… conscientious. He should have paid more attention to his own body and its weaknesses. For all his ambition, Ansel cannot deny that he was shortsighted. And shortsightedness is, undeniably, a flaw. He cannot let himself deteriorate in the arena. He has to…)

He has to make it home.

Xay's counting on him. To make things right. To save them.

(If Ansel allows them to die a second time, he won't be able to live with himself.)

Swiping a glass from the vacant countertop, Ansel wastes little time in moving toward the sink, positioning his cup beneath the faucet and flicking the handle upward. A steady stream of water spurts forth from the rattling pipes, filling the glass incrementally, one centimeter at a time. Ansel's eyes flit toward the suite door, almost absentmindedly. The clock affixed to the wall above the frame is quiet, but he can see the second hand ticking away, its silent progression only serving to mock him.

Ansel sighs. Slowly, he rips his gaze from the reach of time, his shoulders turning back to the sink, to his now-full cup and his scar-covered hands. They're cleaner now than they've been in years, but with shadows rippling over his dull skin, he can practically see the blood coating them. A less corrupt individual would find the image disconcerting; murder, after all, is not for the faint of heart. Luckily, Ansel had little heart to begin with.

He flips the faucet off, lifts the cup to his parched lips. The coolness of the water is soothing as it washes down his throat, far more than it has any right to be. Ansel closes his eyes as he swallows, the cacophony inside his head growing louder, taking the shape of hissed insults and muttered curses not unlike what he'd endured before the reaping, the whole of Eight joined in voice as they mocked him and called him despicable.

(Maybe he is despicable.)

(Maybe he deserves to die.)

(Maybe it doesn't matter what he deserves, for his fate was decided long before judgment day came to pass. Eight cares not for what he does in the Games, so long as they can watch him suffer. All those posh, painted little people in their cookie-cutter houses, looking down their nose at him in scorn… at the end of the day, they're nothing but a bunch of sadists, no different from Ansel, or Cordura, or the Capitol they claim to loathe. Whether he returns on a train or in a box, they'll hate him just the same, hate him because he's a deviant, because he's wicked, because he's something they can't understand. He's a pariah. He's something they can't control.)

It feels like an eternity passes before the last droplet of water washes down his throat, the empty cup feather-light as it rests between his fingers. A door creaks somewhere in the periphery and Ansel turns, watching as his District partner steps free from the din of her chamber, dark circles rimming her eyes and her bare shoulders hunched with stress.

She's a mess.

It takes every shred of effort Ansel possesses not to smile at the sight. Cordura likes to pretend she's something regal and elegant - one of the starstudded elite Ansel would observe strutting around in the city casinos with poise enough to rival the president, all high and mighty and fashionable and rich. But seeing her like this… Ansel has to stifle his laughter.

She's not fooling anyone. No matter what persona she tries to craft, she won't be able to hide the filth that lies underneath it. Ansel and Cordura are exactly the same - unwanted rats from the undercity, the bane of their District, hated by the whole of Panem. The only difference is that he's strong enough to accept it. She isn't.

"Morning," Ansel says, falsely amicable. He watches Cordura make her way over toward the kitchen island, eyes following her as she settles into one of the high-backed chairs, anger burning inside her eyes when she looks at him. A scowl affixes itself to her lips, and Ansel smirks, no longer bothering to hide his amusement.

"Not interested in chatting?" he asks, crossing his arms and turning away to set his cup down beside the sink, with little care for the daggers she's glaring into his back. "I'd say it's a shame, but I'd be lying. Still, it's only good manners to wish you a happy Hunger Games… we've got quite the day ahead of us, don't you think?"

He looks back at her, smile nothing but teeth and vicious angles.

"I'll admit… I'm eager to see who the odds favor."

maevyn voydanoi, district four female

…

Maevyn wakes the morning of the Games with matted hair and sweat-slick skin, her head swimming with feverish delirium. The bed beside her is cold, just as it's been every morning since she's come to the Capitol, not a trace of love or light to be found against her side. No Madora and no Daria, no soft skin or pretty eyes or hopeful bodies nestled against her. It stings a little, 'cuz Ria always liked to cuddle, and over the last few months Maevyn got kinda used to that, but…

But.

This ain't her room.

She flops over onto her stomach, reaching up with one lazy arm to shove her hair out of her face, golden-blonde locks a messy halo around her head, hanging loose and covering her eyes, little strands sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes are wet and she can't help but think she must've been crying - why, exactly, she isn't sure, but it was somethin' to do with night-lights in the city, a window and a doll an' someone she sorta likes. Not Cordy, but… someone.

She raises her head. The door's open, and there's a trail of wet prints leading from the bathroom out into the sittin' area, so similar to the trails she'd leave in Four's alleys late in the night when she went wandering. They never liked to see her out in the rain, be it with her spray-cans or her booze-bottles or just her own two feet, and when she went into the shops they'd scream at her, call her a menace, a criminal and a maniac - the twisted-wicked little Voydanoi girl, feral and reckless and mentally slow.

(her father should've done the District a favor and locked her away -

she belongs in a madhouse, not out on the streets -

so now the Academy's gonna take anyone? Her hands should be in cuffs, not carrying a sword -

disgrace to society, disgrace to your parents, a worthless fucking basket case, you never belonged -)

Maevyn screams. Her hands go up over her head and she slams her head into the pillow smashed beneath her face, rocking back-forth-back-forth as she begins to weep. Even Madora hadn't wanted her. Madora, her parents, the District itself -

Atlanshi. He called her his friend, but he'd left too. Where is he? Where did he go? Can't he hear her sobbing, wailing like all the bodies in Four that he plunged in the river, the bodies she'd helped to drown? He said he cared -

"You said you cared!" Maevyn shouts, her hands smacking against sheets and blankets and human skin. She opens her eyes and there are arms around her back, holding her close and stroking her hair, the way Mads did whenever she had a nightmare, loving and kind and better than she deserves. She tilts her head upward and blinks back the tears.

"- alright, Vyn, it's alright," somebody says, and she doesn't know why but she wants to trust them.

"Shishi," she mumbles into her Districtmate's shirt, the thin cotton oddly comforting against her cheek. "I'm not - I don't wanna-"

"I know, sister. I know."

Atlanshi's hand moves, brushing a lock of hair back behind her ear. Maevyn's chin lifts - just a touch - angling up to look at his face. She's surprised to find that he's smiling. Laughter bubbles up inside her, spilling over like a tapped well. Something shifts inside her chest and the dam that Four built finally bursts, hysteria leaking from the cracks in her psyche.

Unlike before, she can't be bothered to try and contain it.

"Maevyn?" Another voice calls from beyond the door. Vyn's curls her fingers into Atlanshi's shirt, taking solace in the steady beat of his heart, so calm it makes her want to sob. It's nothing like the endless silence she hears from the rock inside her own chest, nothing like the impervious pain of silence that haunts her every time her eyes fall closed. She's not supposed to be here, laughing, crying, walking amongst the living, it's taboo, it's wrong!

Maevyn blinks and she takes a step back. Her arms retreat from Atlanshi's tall frame, curling around her own figure instead. She does her best to repress a shiver as the coolness of the room finally strikes her, seconds before she turns her head. A grin splits her face as she looks at Circe, blue eyes sparkling like deep-sea jewels.

"Did I scream too loud?" She asks, giggling at her own remark. Her mentor scoffs, turning her gaze on Atlanshi.

"Mags wants us to head up to the hovercraft. We've got twenty minutes, but why delay the inevitable, right?" The woman steps back, her eyes cool as they dart between Shi, Vyn, the open window beyond their backs. "I expect to see you out here in five."

"Yes, ma'am!" Vyn can't help but respond, giving the woman a jaunty salute. Circe rolls her eyes, but says nothing as she makes her way back into the main room, leaving the tributes to their own devices. Maevyn reaches for Atlanshi's hand and links their fingers together before he can protest, swinging their arms as she tugs him toward the door - and the future beyond it.

"Just like that?" He asks, cocking a brow. Vyn nods affirmatively, no mind given to the suddenness of her departure. Sleep to Games to sleep again… there's no reason to worry about a routine when the Capitol has nothing else to give her. Beaming at Atlanshi, she pats the swell of her left pocket where her new doll has been safely tucked, batting her lashes with playful charm.

"Just like that!" Vyn echoes. Shi chuckles and follows her into the commons, past the dinner table and the big television and all the shiny knickknacks the Capitol's filled their room with. Circe and Mags are standing by the door, the latter with a welcoming smile that Maevyn's eager to return.

"You all set?" The older woman asks. Vyn nods her head. "Nice work, kiddo."

"Sorry for sleepin' late," Vyn apologizes, scratching the back of her neck with a sheepish smile. She's used to being chewed out for stuff like that - sleepin' in late, messin' up plans because she gets distracted in some way, shape or form - and knows that tardiness is almost always accompanied by anger. But while Circe scowls in response to her comment, Mags just shakes her head.

"No need to be sorry. You looked like you needed the sleep," the older Victor says, and Vyn's surprised to find that she sounds sincere. Her eyes widen, smile growing more genuine as Mags reaches out to tousle her hair. She bares her teeth, grinning feral as she'd led out the now-open door into the hallway, Shi's hand still held tight within her own.

"We'll go with you to the rooftop," Mags says. Circe's mouth opens a touch as if she plans to protest, but she shuts it shortly after, crossing her arms while her senior hits the button to call the elevator. "See you two off properly. It's really the least we can do."

The elevator dings. Metal doors snap open, quick enough that Vyn subconsciously jumps, her shoulders raising a touch in case she needs to defend herself. Old ingrained Career instinct, she thinks her trainers might've said - once ya start really payin' attention to what around ya, you'll never be able to stop.

Atlanshi squeezes her hand once more - for luck, Vyn thinks she hears him whisper - before he lets go altogether. He steps forward into the metal box with his head held high, and Maevyn follows, wondering why the clanking of cables overhead and the wobble of floor under her feet seems so much more jarring than it did the day before. Nerves? Maybe, but she ain't really nervous about the Games, regardless of how her stomach is rollin' and bubblin' at the thought of the launch. She's more excited than anything else; excited to compete, excited to kill. Excited to dance her way around the arena in a stream of ocean blue and crimson, the watery steps that have so long haunted her morphed over into blood as she sates her lust for chaos.

(She's crazy. She can accept that. So why couldn't Four?!)

She steps around the Twos - already standing inside the elevator - to take a spot up by Atlanshi's side, Mags filling the space over to her right. The Two girl gives her a tiny smile and whispers "Good morning," in a tone so hushed her scowly District partner doesn't even seem to hear it. Vyn waves at her animatedly and chirps "Morning!" right back, then spins around with a giggle, her eyes lilting upwards to watch the l'il floor indicator light with their movements. Much to her surprise, they don't make it very far before they get stopped again - (a fact that makes the Two boy scoff and stuff his hands into his pockets) - but this time, when the doors pop open, Maevyn can't help but audibly squeal.

"Cordy!" She exclaims moving away from Shishi and Mags to block the elevator door, her hand stretching out to wrap fingers around the Eight girl's shapely wrist, all grins and excitement. Before Cordura can even speak, Vyn's tugging her into the (cramped) box, dragging her through the entrance and into her arms, making sure to squeeze her ally tight in lieu of a traditional greeting. "Fancy meetin' you here! Y'know, I really missed ya last night…"

Cordura laughs, but there's no mirth or joy in the sound. Instead, it's filled with exhaustion and weariness, the breathy hiss of it not so much a laugh as a chortle. She feigns a smile when she looks down at Vyn, a touch of softness at the edges of her eyes as she squeezes the Four girl's shoulder, grip firm and strong as always.

"Missed you too, darling," she responds. Something squeezes inside Vyn's chest, like a rope's bein' looped around her heart. For a moment she struggles to breathe; she watches Cordy, feelin' starstruck, enamored by her statuesque stature and pouty lips and dark, smouldering eyes, so intense they almost feel like Madora's.

Vyn takes a step back, flutterbys (butterflies) buttering (fluttering). She swallows.

"You're lookin' good today, by the way," she manages to say, her cheeks warming considerably. "The whole freshly woken thing sorta suits ya. I think it's sexy."

Cordura raises an eyebrow, looking skeptical. There's a little glint in her eye though, somethin' satisfied, and Maevyn spots it immediately, her flutterbys dispelling into pleasant little tingles. She flushes, taking a step back. The door's closed again, and she's not quite sure when it happened, but she's pretty sure it doesn't matter when she's already inside…

Right where she wants to be.

Her ally steps forward, backing Vyn against the open stretch of wall where she'd stood before, their bodies so close they're practically touching.

"You," Cordura says, leaning down to whisper in her ear, "are incorrigible."

And with that she steps back, finding her own unclaimed spot within the overcrowded box, cables still whirrin' as it speeds toward the rooftop. Maevyn swallows again, but her mouth's all dry now… cottony, like when she smokes blunts out back of the Academy with some of the male trainees lookin' for a fun time, and it's somehow wrong. She can still feel Cordura's hand on her shoulder, can still see the way her lashes cast tiny shadows over her cheeks as she blinked, breath steady and even, and so, so nice. It woulda been hot if it wasn't so awkward; if the Games weren't hangin' over their heads, if they had this moment to themselves, no elevators or other tributes or dead girlfriends hangin' between 'em.

Maevyn's gut clenches as she takes a breath in, the reality of what happened starting to catch up to her. She feels her stomach drop. What was she thinking?

Cordura. Madora.

She can't have one if she's got the other, an' Mads is still counting on her not to mess shit up. She's gotta preserve her memory. She's gotta win.

A sharp ping! sounds from overhead, and the elevator comes to a stop, doors snapping open with such ferocity that it shakes the car. Cold wind blasts through the interior, whipping past Vyn's face and chilling her to the bone. She watches the Twos exit, then Cordy's partner, then Mags and Shi.

And then it's just them.

Maevyn's eyes water.

"After you," Cordura says, stepping aside to let her pass. "I insist."

"Okay," Vyn breathes. Her voice is shaky, but she nods and smiles, trying to fight the tears that so desperately wish to escape her. Stepping forward, she slips past Cordy and out of the elevator, trying not to think about heart-ropes or river-chains or her own bloody feet walkin' round in circles.

Madora's dead, gone, buried in the ground alongside her mother, prints in the shape of Vyn's fingers still wrapped around her neck. Cordy's body'll probably look the same, once it's all been said and done, and Vyn's better off not tryna like her too much, 'cause only one of them can make it out, only one of them can live. And she might not deserve it, she might be gone and dead already, but that doesn't mean she's ready to give up the fight. She's not ready for that - consigning herself to a gravebox, dirt and worms and sleep for eternity...

No. She won't die today. She has to make it back.

She has to make them pay.

hollister crowe, district twelve male

…

Hollister is thirsty.

Since yestereve, it has taken every ounce of willpower that he possesses to keep his bloodlust in check. 'Tis no simple thing for him to spend hours trapped inside a glorified cage, surrounded by innumerous human bodies. Their flesh is warm and their hearts erratic; they are made from blood that spills and bones that break, and though there are those who doth protest it, their fragility is quite apparent. 'Twould take only minimal effort for Hollister to strike at them; even now, sitting in the darkest corner of the hovercraft, he is able to spy several suitable targets whose blood might properly sustain him. The girl from Ten, with her diminutive stature and her distant eyes, would make for a simple conquest, and the boy from Eleven who sits beside her is so thin that Hollister could likely rip him in half. The girl from Four is giggling like a madwoman, enraptured by the ramblings of the Five boy beside her, and her distraction is quite apparent. She would hardly notice if one were to sink their fangs into her neck, addled as she is by her hyperactivity. And then there is Castia.

Poor, pathetic little Castia.

Hollister sighs. He rather pities the girl, if he's to be honest; 'twould not be farfetched for him to say that she reminds him of himself, back when he was considerably scrawnier and impoverished. He remembers well what it had been like to live as a rat upon Twelve's streets, scrounging for food amongst the Hob's trashheaps and drinking the blood of dead carrion at his mother's (true-mother's) behest. At that time, his only relevance to Twelve was that of a starving Seamling, trapped in a pit of woe and despair by the cruelty of the merchants and the death of his own kin. Belladonna had done her best to provide, but 'twas no simple feat to pass the hellish Appalachian winters with a child on her hip, moreso after they had lost their personal haven. Without a roof over their heads, nature had swallowed them up; first came the infections, then the fevers, then true-mother's frostbitten toes…

She only lasted six months after the gangrene set in. Hollister had watched the light fade from her eyes, stolen away by the cruelty of the winter and a government who cared little for those who were penniless.

Undoubtedly, it was true-mother's sacrifice that allowed him to sustain his survival. Belladonna had bestowed on him many gifts, but her transformative process was what allowed Hollister to flourish amidst the dredges of a society that had cared little for his life or death. 'Tis the blood she fed him that strengthened his bones, that made him hunter, night-child and killer. 'Tis her fault that he is here! If she had never forced me to feed from her - if she had never pressed me to this habit - if she had let me die at her side, in her arms in the dirt - if she, if I, if she -

No.

No, he mustn't think ill of the one that raised him. 'Twas true-mother that hallowed and saved him from a youthful grave, and Hollister was - is - remains beholden to her gift. Only a fool would be inclined to take death over life, especially life as a superior being, impervious to mortal death.

The weak are meat and the strong do eat. Hollister will slake his appetite soon.

The Games should come with a bounty of blood, and 'tis he alone that is fit to claim it. Well, he and Lethe - though his partner does not share his particular… inclinations.

(Truly, Hollister prefers it that way; he has always been a somewhat selfish sort, disinclined to share the fruits of his labor. If Lethe wishes for him to keep all of their blood-spoils, he is hardly going to protest!)

The hovercraft's floor begins to shake as the entirety of the plane makes its descent. Hollister flexes his arm, his veins appearing oddly swollen, discolored and mottled purple. A pang of nausea strikes at his innards, and it is all he can do not to double over at the pain within his stomach. He has not fed in so long… more than days, it has been weeks. Months? The time which he spent interred within Twelve's dingy prison did little to improve his temporal awareness. The chains which they had bounded him in drained him, the cement walls and metal bars sapping energy from his very skin, practically mocking him as he wasted away. And 'tis no doubt about it, his body is wasting.

Just as true-mother's did. Just as…

The hovercraft touches down. Once the blades overhead have stopped whirring, it takes but a moment for the guards to board, their snowy white uniforms so pristine and colorless that Hollister finds them personally offensive. One by one, his competitors are plucked from their seats, ushered out the open door onto the landing pad. To nobody's surprise, Twelve is the last to be freed from their cramped seats, the last to be allowed air, for their contentment does not seem to matter. Hollister's lip twitches as gloved hands wrap about his wrists, wresting his arms behind his back.

They take him down the steps, unbothered by his fanged scowl and his thrashing limbs. Hollister wants to spit at them, thinks that were he unrestrained, 'twould be a small effort to kill them for their impertinence. Yet as long as his arms remain actively cuffed he can do nothing; he is, once again, at the Capitol's mercy, forced to dance for them like a broken marionette, forever the target of mockery and humiliation. His cheeks burn as someone within the vicinity snorts, seemingly amused by his fruitless struggles, and that alone is enough to make him still. He will not debase himself for others' entertainment. He will not become a laughingstock over his desire for autonomy, regardless of how his mind rails against the thought of compliance.

It would be unwise to lash out in this space, when he is surrounded by many. Much better to be left alone with one, in a place beyond the peacekeeper's scrutiny.

(Besides… he still hasn't forgiven that charlatan for slathering him in coal dust. Revenge under these circumstances is not ill-suited so much as a necessity.)

Hollister allows himself to be led into the launch chamber, letting the guard propel his steps down an endless tunnel, his own feet keeping pace as he steps across the bunker floor. Eventually, the peacekeeper stops before a heavy black door, reaching around Hollister's body to fling it open and shove him inside. He does not even turn before the handle clicks into place - locked, no doubt, to prevent any escape attempts by unruly prisoners. Not that I, per se, am looking to escape...

Hollister smiles.

No. He is exactly where he wishes to be.

He steps forward, the hideous tone of the fluorescent lights washing over his face, coloring his skin a sickly yellow. The room, he notes, is mostly empty; there's a vented pedestal at the far end that Hollister supposes leads up into the arena, along with a couple folding chairs and a stiff, grey table off to his left.

There is also a man.

He stands idle with his arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the corners of his mouth drawn up into a cocky smirk. His black hair is shaved close to his skull, and there's two metal rings hooked into his right brow, a spill of crimson makeup lining his cheeks. Hollister finds himself inadvertently bristling as the man takes note of him, raking dark eyes over his figure before his smirk wodens, and he turns toward the table, reaching for the dark bag that's been left atop it.

"Here," Vehaan says, tossing it at Hollister, caring little for whether or not he's prepared to catch it. "Your clothes."

Hollister steps to the side. The bag flies past him and lands, after a couple seconds, at the base of the opposite wall. He glares at Vehaan, his lip curling in distaste, then turns to march over to it, ripping the handles open to examine the contents. His eyes narrow as he tugs out the uniform - not nearly as degrading as that which he was forced to "wear" during the opening ceremonies, but absurd all the same, the khaki fabric stiff and the numerous buckles abominable to his eyes.

His head whips around to his stylist, and he quirks an eyebrow upward in a silent ask for elaboration.

Naturally, the Capitolite dismisses the gesture.

"Bit rude of you not to catch, don't you think?" Vehaan questions, pulling the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers and dropping it onto the floor, crushing the butt beneath the heel of his shiny, black boot. "I won't complain, though - hands and knees is a good look for you. Right where everyone from your pitiful little District belongs, if I'm being honest."

He steps forward. Hollister rises, snatching up his uniform with a grimace.

"Oh," his stylist smirks. "Did that strike a nerve?"

Hollister crooks his chin up, intentionally dropping his clothes not back in the bag, but on the water-stained floor. "Your designs," he enunciates plainly, "are garbage. As such, I doubt there is any being or creature of actual sensibility outside of Twelve that would be willing to wear them. But…" he looks the Capitolite in the eye, allow his ire to show plainly on his face. "I suppose it is a mite better than being strapped to my launch pedestal unclothed."

"Snow's fucking ass, are you still on about that?" Vehaan responds, rolling his eyes. Hollister says nothing as he peels off the thin shirt of his training gear, pulling it over his head and tossing it at the man in the spirit of animosity. His stylist laughs, batting it away as one might a gnat before stuffing his hands into his pockets, returning to his previous wall-mounted position.

"Was that supposed to do something?" He asks as Hollister strips free of his pants, then hurls them over in much the same way. "Come on, Hellister, don't take it personal. Brats like you just aren't worth the cost of decent materials. Even if you're hotter than the average coalduster, you're hardly anything to look at."

He pulls one hand free again and waves it at Hollister's body.

"Jaundiced skin. Flesh and bones. Matted hair, sweaty skin, I mean, fuck, didn't your mother ever teach you to bathe yourself?" He laughs. "Even those adorable little fangs of yours aren't good enough to hold appeal. I mean, what do you even do with them, suck the remaining nectar out of orange peels? The vampire thing's pretty dead now anyway. Six years ago, I might've called you niche, but now you're just embarrassing."

Hollister turns around, biting down on his lower lip. He takes hold of the uniform shorts and tugs them up his legs, fastening the belt at his waste.

"Still... I suppose it's better to be a has-been than damaged goods, right? Not that you're anything less, but hey, we've all got our delusions, right? Some people wanna be President, some people wanna stick pins in starving, sexually-exploited models, much like myself… and some people wanna be vampires. Who's judging?"

Let the imbecile talk, his mind chides in an attempt to settle his present rage, a rage that is screaming at him to bash his stylist's head with no care for his body. All his prattle is adorably pathetic. 'Tis nothing but the defense of worthless prey trying to bide time before their imminent demise. Honestly, it is enough of a kindness that I have the manners to let him wear himself out before gutting him. What is it that Lethe called it the other day… throwing a dog a bone? Not that such idioms matter to a being such as I, but the phrasing seems apt.

He pulls the shirt on over his head, then the vest behind it. Though Hollister expects he is meant to zip the pocketed monstrosity, he leaves it open, tucking the folded squares of fabric remaining on the ground into one of the open spaces. Then he slips on his shoes and smiles at his would-be victim, all teeth and no friendliness.

"Ugh," Vehaan grimaces at the sight. "Hey, freaky-teeth, do yourself a favor and don't smile in front of the cameras. Sponsors are gonna get turned off real fast when they see that mouth of yours."

"What about you?" Hollister asks. "Is it a turn off?"

"I - what?"

"Little human, there's no reason to lie to me," he teases. "You dressed me in naught but dust, and since I set foot in this room all you have done is mock me for my physique."

He strides forward, pace quick and gait even. Vehaan's back straightens as Hollister approaches, but he says nothing, merely raises an eyebrow in curiosity, apparently waiting to see what his tribute does next. Hollister raises a hand and teases it across his stylists arm, running his tongue across his lower lip.

"Actually," he whispers, "upon consideration, you seem to have thought quite extensively your bereavements. Hence my choice to respond… accordingly."

The Capitolite's smirk reemerges as he hooks a hand into Hollister's vest, his grip not gentle in the slightest.

"Are you propositioning me?" He questions, in that same smug, arrogant, detached voice that Hollister's grown so used to hearing throughout the last six days. Bile swarms his mouth and it is all he can do not to retch in disgust. These petty people with their petty impulses… all of them are insidiously vapid, and he's certain the plasticity of their outer shell is severe enough to taint their blood. But it matters not. He's been patient for long enough. 'Tis time he gets what he's been craving.

"Perhaps," Hollister says, his eyes twinkling. "These walls are quite solid, and the two of us are completely alone. In short…"

He bends a touch, placing his mouth beside the man's ear.

"There shan't be anyone to hear you scream."

With that, he reaches for the only object he's seen that matters - the set of scissors tucked into his stylist's belt - and jams them into the man's throat. Blood spurts from the hole in his neck, and Hollister wastes no time in affixing his mouth to it, latching onto the wound as it spills over with gleaming alizarin, each spilt drop heightening his senses. Not relinquishing his grip on the metal shears, he takes advantage of Vehaan's confusion and plunges the tips into his gut, over and over and over - overoverover good blood yes blood need blood drinkdrinkdrink…

A door slams from in the hall. Hollister pays it no mind as the body in his arms goes slack, completely sapped of energy and fight. He sucks greedily at the new-made wound, blood staining his lips as he urgently tries to pull it onto his tongue, dribbling from the corners of his mouth to dry upon his shifted jaw. He rips the scissors from his stylist's stomach and throws them to the ground, collecting as much of the spill as he can upon his cupped palm. Bringing his hand up to his now free lips, he drains the additional liquid into his mouth, letting it wash down the back of his throat, then returns to the hole in the human's throat, the flesh around it tainted with a myriad of bruises and bites from where his fangs have pierced.

Across the room, the metal door slams open. Two peacekeepers swarm the entrance, but not before Hollister has relinquished his claim to the corpse, allowing it to fall as a lifeless husk upon the filthy bunker floor. He grins at the intruders and raises his hands, unsurprised when one of the Peacekeepers storms forward to grab hold of his head and shoulder, shoving him down against the ground. Hollister laughs as the woman slams his head into the floor, her knee digging into his back as she radios for backup. Words leave his lips, but he cannot make out what they say, his ears ringing so loud that the tinnitus obscures the sound of his own voice. After a moment, another set of hands affixes to his head and something is stuffed between his teeth, thick enough that he finds himself unable to bite down as he is hauled back onto his feet.

His body curls in on itself as he is thrown into the launch tube, smacking hard into the side just before it seals shut, keeping him locked in the glassy chamber with no means of escape and no method for rebuttal. One by one, the sets of feet outside the tube turn to leave, until Hollister hears the door close and watches as the room is plunged into darkness. Memories of the pit come flooding back as he is left to ruminate, surrounded only by shadows and silence.

It seems like an eternity passes before the pedestal beneath him begins to rise.

Some sort of glare streams in from overhead as Hollister is forced out of the prep room, his throat still clogged and his mouth full of blood. He spits the gag from between his teeth, his fangs aching from being locked in place around it, and it clatters on the metal under him, slipping between the panel edges to fall into oblivion. Screams can be heard from the open clearing as he emerges, his body a mess of ruddied gore, and Hollister bites back a cackle, tears streaming down his beaten face from his bloodshot, painful eyes.

He closes them tight and blinks them open to sunlight.

The sky is bright and blue over his head, not a cloud to be seen in its vibrant ocean. Before him stands a wooden building, tall and imposing with a board tacked to the wall out front, the cornucopia hiding just beyond its open door. He turns his head to see a number of cabins off to his right, set into the ground before a glimmering lake, a dock in the distance stretching out over the open water. In the background lies a forest, trees everywhere he looks, and when he whips his head in the opposite direction, he is greeted by more of the same - trees, rocks, dirt and two more wooden buildings, off in the distance with what seems to be a firepit.

"Fifty-nine, fifty-eight…" a man's voice counts from amidst the skies, and that's enough for him to lose it, falling into a fit of hacking cackles around the acrid liquid still drying in his mouth. As if this wasn't enough of a farce already…

(They've sent him to bloody summer camp.)

A/N: The Game by Disturbed.

And here we are! The final pregames chapter… and the end of a massive set-up arc that puts both of my previous SYOTs to shame. Thank you so much to everybody who has followed along to this point, submitters, readers, and stray lurkers I may have picked up; I'm so excited to move into the next stage of this story with you and get back to my favorite part of SYOTs (the murder) very soon!

A new poll is up on my profile, asking once more for favorite tributes, just to see how much has changed between intros and now. Just like before, you may vote for three tributes, no more and preferably no less. I hope to have the bloodbath up soon.

Drop some feedback if you're so inclined and start making those arena predictions! I love you all and thanks again for all your support.