M'Pingo "Ping" Apara, 18.
District 3 Female
Exhausted from the party, Ping rubbed her eyes as she stepped out of the elevator. She'd spent the entire night making up answers to the sponsor's questions, hoping to protect her mentors just a little bit. Despite the situation she'd gotten them in, Eliott and Penny seemed to still care about her, but Ping still felt bad that they'd been put into harm's way.
"Hey, welcome back!" Penny smiled, greeting Ping as she moved into the apartment. She and Eliott were sitting around the dining room table, two steaming cups of something between them.
"How'd ya like it?" Eliott asked. "I never liked them much, but… maybe you're different."
"It was fine," Ping sighed, sliding into a chair to join them. She paused for a moment. "I just wanted to um… say I'm sorry."
"What are you sorry for, dear?" Penny asked. "You haven't done anything wrong."
"I mean," Ping continued slowly, "I know you two know things about why I'm here, and I'm sorry if that's put you or your families in jeopardy at all."
Eliott and Penny stared at her for a moment, blinking slowly, before Eliott spoke up. "We don't know any details or anything too… um, nothing too secret. Just that we needed to keep an eye on you."
"Just to make sure you didn't try anything. There's been many tributes in the past who've volunteered to martyr themselves, stuff like that," Penny added, nodding in agreement.
"Oh, I see," Ping nodded.
"But you've been wonderful! Really if anybody's causing trouble it's…" Elliot gestured towards the hallway, where the sound of loud footsteps announced Cecil's presence.
"Ah," Ping nodded, putting two and two together. Cecil did seem to cause many issues, more than he was worth, she often thought. Clearly very spoiled, he'd often throw fits over the smallest, most inconsequential things, or generally be rude, which Ping certainly didn't appreciate. He didn't even seem to understand the mentors were here to help him, often enough blowing their attempts at help off. Ping was honestly grateful that she wouldn't have to deal with him much longer.
"How did you find the party, Cecil?" Penny called, as Cecil stalked by the table.
"Fine, they just didn't let me drink anything, which is stupid," Cecil grumbled.
"Yeah, only tributes sixteen and up can have alcohol. We told you that before we left." Eliott sighed. "I don't know why you were surprised."
"Whatever," Cecil muttered. He stormed off down the hall, the slamming sound of his door closed resounding throughout the apartment.
"I see somebody's in a good mood," Ping snorted. "Regardless, I'm glad things are sorted out."
"Mm, me too," Penny nodded, smiling sadly at Ping. "Now, you should probably get to bed. You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow." Ping felt a small ache form in her chest. She knew Penny meant well with her motherly nature, but all itdid was remind her of what she was fighting for- what she was fighting to see again.
"Thank you… for everything," Ping said as she rose, departing the table. She turned down the hallway towards her room, but as she opened her door to step inside, a hand caught her arm.
"What was all that about?" Cecil asked. "I mean, the whole thing about them knowing why you're here?"
Ping wrestled her arm out of Cecil's grasp. "That's none of your business."
"Well, sorry, I just figured I'd ask since you were talking about it so loudly in the middle of the common space," Cecil retorted, rolling his eyes.
"It's not my fault you were listening in on our conversation when I thought it was just us here, but I guess it's because I thought you weren't so nosey as to eavesdrop. Just leave me alone."
"Fine then," Cecil grumbled, turning back to his room. "I'll remember this."
"Remember yourself being an ass," Ping snapped, pushing into her room, leaving Cecil sputtering in the hallway. It felt good to put the kid in his place. Even though he definitely wouldn't learn from it, she'd been waiting for a chance like that since they'd gotten to the Capitol. And now that she had, she almost felt at peace.
This could very well be the last time Ping stood up for herself. She could be dead by this time tomorrow, knocked down by someone determined to prove her weak.
Or, she'd rise, stronger than ever. Ping was determined to make it home to her family, even if it was the last thing she did.
Reign Legatus, 18.
District 2 Male.
In less than twelve hours, another Legatus would enter the Arena.
A part of Reign wished his grandmother was here to see him so he could show her that all their work in training had paid off. But had it really paid off? Was this really worth it? Reign didn't know anymore. All he knew was that the world was cruel and fickle, determined to pull everyone away from Reign - and it had succeeded. But at least there was nobody left to take away from Reign. At least now, it was his only life on the line - his life, but not his memory.
Reign Legatus might be doomed to die, but he would not be forgotten so easily.
As he crept through the apartment, the only things Reign could hear were the sounds of his footsteps and his own quiet breathing. It was completely deserted at this late hour, which surprised him. Normally, there was a constant stream of people in and out of the apartment regardless of the hour. But tonight was different, and Reign wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
After all, silence left him alone with the ghosts of his past, ready to drag him down with them.
Reign shook his head. There was no use in dwelling on the mistakes of those who came before; he'd made his fair share of them himself, not the least of which being Claudia. The bloodbath would be a nightmare for him already, and the last thing Reign needed was an incompetent ally. He could feel how tightly she was clinging onto him for support, as if Reign was the only reason she hadn't been drowned out entirely by the looming Games. But there was only so much he could do for her. There was no way she could survive unless she figured out how to stand on her own.
Hopefully, she'd at least be of some use to Reign before she died.
Somehow in his musings, Reign found himself in a wing of the apartment he hadn't explored yet. It was entirely dark, save for a dim glow emitting from beneath one of the doors. Reign pulled the door open, revealing a room so messy that it was barely recognizable as an office. There were papers and books scattered all across the room, the chair pulled back with a familiar blue jacket draped across the back.
This was clearly Omega Riley's office. But Omega was nowhere to be found.
Reign pushed through the door frame, curious enough to trespass deeper. He nearly tripped on a haphazardly placed stack of books as he did so, thankfully catching himself before he could fall. Reign gingerly made his way closer to the desk, leaning over to look at the papers scattered on the desktop. Most of them seemed to be about sponsors, which was about what Reign expected. The Capitolites seemed to have no idea that a twelve was not a good thing for Reign; they were practically tripping over themselves to help him. Reign didn't feel like he needed their help, but it was nice to know that he wouldn't have to worry about supplies in the Arena.
As he continued to search through the papers, Reign's brow furrowed. The sponsor forms had all but obscured a slew of files and reports that seemed to cover everything that had happened in Two: the virus, the Legion, Reign's own actions, even the agent who caught him. Reign began frantically digging through the drawers; if there was this much information about the Legion, certainly he could find something about what had become of some of his friends. But with every useless scrap of paper, every irrelevant piece of information, Reign felt his frustration grow. Maybe Reign would never get the answers he sought. Maybe he would die without knowing. But maybe he deserved it; how could he live with himself if he knew that his actions had killed his friends?
Reign began replacing all of the papers as best he could, although he doubted Omega would figure out he'd been there. And even if he did, what punishment could they possibly bring down on him now? Reign had already been slated for death in the Games; it wasn't like Omega could do anything worse to him. But as Reign straightened the final few papers, however, he noticed that one of the drawers of the desk wasn't quite closed. He opened the drawer to reveal a single piece of paper. Reign felt his heartbeat quicken as he picked it up; if this was the only page that Omega had actually put away, it had to be important.
As Reign began to read, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He instantly recognized the name printed across the top: M'Pingo Apara, the girl from Three. Little did he know from passing her at the survival stations the deadly secrets she kept.
She was the one who'd started it all. She was the one who'd brought District Two to its knees, planting the canisters which would spread the virus into their air and water. She was the reason that everyone Reign knew and loved was dead.
Reign knew now what he had to do. He would make her pay for what she'd done to his home, to his loved ones, to him. M'Pingo Apara would pay with her blood- with her life.
After all, what was another life taken after all the lives she'd stolen?
Diesel Malstrom, 18.
District 6 Male.
TW: Mentions of Abuse & Drug/Alcohol Abuse
"Diesel! Diesel!" the familiar voice of his mother called - screamed, more like it - from somewhere deep in the haze of his mind. Diesel's hands shook as he curled his arms tighter around himself, pushing deeper into the corner of his barren room.
And then the scratching started, desperately against the door across the room. The scratching turned to banging soon enough; the deep thudding noises would never fail to follow him into his dreams.
After what felt like an eternity, the door came crashing down, the figure standing in the doorway lit by the light behind her. Diesel knew it was his mother, but a small part of him hoped that maybe, for once, this would play out differently.
But it wouldn't. It never did.
"Come here, you little fucking brat!" Mother snarled, closing the distance between them quickly enough, her long fingers threading through his messy locks of hair. She pulled him unceremoniously from the bed, dragging him across the floor with a strength he didn't know she had. Diesel yelped as he bumped against the cracks in the floor, the woman tossing him through the doorway into the small living room.
"You're pathetic, you know," Mother growled as Diesel blinked in the suddenly bright light. "Useless waste of my fucking money."
"No," Diesel cried, softly curling himself up as small as possible. He knew what would come next; he didn't need to look up to know that his mother was pulling her hand back. That wouldn't make it hurt any less. Diesel squished his eyes closed as tightly as possible, waiting frozen in terror.
But the blow never came.
He peeled his eyes open again to see his father, hand wrapped around his mother's wrist. "No," Allard Malstrom muttered quietly. Mother shrieked again, struggling against the taller man's grip, but it was futile as he twisted her arm behind her back.
"Let me go, Allard. What are you doing!" Mother hissed. "I'll end you, I'll end you both—let me go!"
Allard only shook his head, pushing the woman towards the door. "If you ever come back here again, I'll make sure it's the last thing you do," he growled. Diesel felt chills running throughout his whole body, colder than anything he'd felt in his life.
With a soft yell, Diesel woke up. That was always where he awoke, struggling for breath, just as cold and afraid as he had been that night so many years ago. Disoriented, Diesel's still shaking hands scrambled for the light, fumbling a few moments longer than necessary before he eventually clicked the lamp on. Diesel blinked his eyes a few times, adjusting to the brightness before groggily sliding out of bed. He was tired - exhausted even; he hadn't slept through the night in years, and being in the strange, unfamiliar Capitol only amplified his worries. Diesel wandered to the closet nearby and shivered as the door slid open automatically. He searched for a moment, finding the thickest sweater he could, and pulled it over his head quickly. As he padded back out into the main room, the closet door closing behind him, a soft knock came from the door.
"Yes?" Diesel asked, coughing slightly as his voice was far hoarser than expected. He cleared his throat before asking again. "Yeah? What's up?"
"You okay?" Verity replied, voice muffled by the door. "I was going to get some water and I heard you yell."
Diesel pulled the door open, Verity standing on the other side as he'd expected. Her bangs stuck up, hair still half tied up from the party, but Diesel didn't care - couldn't care. Wordlessly, he opened his arms, and just as soundlessly, Verity wrapped her arms around his middle. He buried his face in the top of her head, inhaling the sweet smell of her hair.
He'd never felt safer in his life.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" Verity asked softly, keeping her arms around him as she pulled back from the hug.
"No," Diesel replied quietly.
"That's okay," Verity said. "I can leave you now if you want - I mean, we should probably get some sleep.
"No," Diesel mumbled again, holding onto her arm. "Please don't go."
Verity sighed softly, taking his hand in hers and twining their fingers together. "I'm not going anywhere, anytime soon. Do you wanna go sit on the couch maybe? We can put a movie on or something; that might be nice."
Diesel nodded, letting Verity lead him down the hall into the living room. It was dark at this hour, the only light coming in from the window that looked out over the city. Verity flicked a lamp on in the corner, not letting go of his hand, the soft glow illuminating the whole room.
"That's much better!" Verity exclaimed. "Now you sit down and I'll be right back!"
Before Diesel could protest, he was being gently pushed back to the couch, leaving him no choice but to sit. Verity was gone from the room nearly instantly; Diesel curled up as her running footsteps echoed down the hall. She returned a few moments later, arms full of blankets and pillows.
"Here!" Verity grinned, dumping the armload onto him.
"What's all this for?" Diesel mumbled, digging his way out of the pile so he could see.
"Sleepover! We're gonna camp out here on the couch and have a sleepover!"
Diesel blinked a few times. He'd never had a sleepover before - at least, not with a friend. Sure, he'd gone to his Aunt's a few times to spend the night, but that was because his mother had no patience to look after him herself. It was ironic that the first place he'd experienced anything normal was the Capitol, where basically nothing was normal. But Diesel didn't mind; anything Verity suggested had to be a good thing.
"Have you ever been to a sleepover before?" Verity asked, burrowing under the blankets and pressing herself against Diesel's side.
"No?" Diesel shook his head. "What are we… uh, supposed to do?"
"Dunno." Verity shrugged. "Whatever we want! Me and my friend Gideon used to have them all the time. We'd usually just watch a bunch of garbage Capitol TV and stay up too late."
"Oh."
"That might not be the best idea though. We don't wanna be up too late."
"That's true."
"What about a movie!" Verity exclaimed, stretching for the TV remote on the table, which was just out of her reach. Diesel leaned forward, easily grabbing it and handing it to her. "Thank you! Anyways, what kind of movie do you wanna watch? You can pick!"
"Oh um…" Diesel trailed off. "I have no idea. I've never seen a movie."
"Huh?" Verity asked. "Well, that's okay. Do you mind if I pick?"
"No, go ahead," Diesel said. Verity turned the large TV on, flipping through the channels before landing on one she seemed to like. Diesel squinted slightly to read the description—something about a detective and solving mysteries, which somehow didn't surprise Diesel.
"This okay?" Verity asked as she curled herself around him, stretching her legs across his own. Diesel could feel his face heating up as he struggled to find the words.
"Uh… Yeah? Yeah, it's o-okay," Diesel stuttered. He could feel the warmth seeping back into his body; he hadn't realized how cold he still was. As the movie played, Diesel rested his head on Verity's shoulder. The nightmare felt like a distant memory now, and Diesel hoped it would stay just that- a distant memory. And in just a few hours, Diesel would be facing the games. He wouldn't be alone, but he'd never been more scared for anything in his life. But for now, he was warm and comfortable and safe, and if he had the choice, he would never leave this moment. Exhausted as ever, he drifted off to sleep.
Diesel would sleep peacefully that night for the first time in years.
Alfalfa "Alfie" Fielder, 17.
District 9 Male
Alfie gripped the armrests of his seat as the Peacekeepers went around, inserting the trackers into the tributes' arms. He was used to wearing trackers in prison, but those were embedded in bracelets the inmates were forced to wear, not injected under their skin with the biggest needles Alfie had ever seen.
"You'll be alright," Nugua whispered, covering his hand with her own. All Alfie could manage was a stiff nod as the Peacekeeper approached him.
"Give me your non-dominant arm," the Peacekeeper said, far more kindly than Alfie expected. Alfie thought for a moment before offering out his right arm, Nugua still holding firmly onto his left hand. "This might hurt a bit, but just try and stay still."
Alfie nodded again as the Peacekeeper injected the chip into his arm. It stung for a moment, but not as badly as he'd thought it would.
"See, wasn't so bad," the Peacekeeper chuckled softly.
"It wasn't," Alfie replied softly, shaking his head slightly as he detached his hand from Nugua's.
"Now for you," the Peacekeeper said, continuing down the line to Nugua. "Your arm, if you don't mind?"
Not interested in looking at the needle any more than he had to, Alfie let his eyes drift away, eventually settling on a spot out one of the nearby windows. There was nothing but white, fluffy clouds surrounding the hovercraft, with spots of bright blue occasionally peeking through. Alfie couldn't even comprehend just how high above the ground they were. He'd be scared if this was any other moment, but the only thing Alfie felt was deep deep sorrow. How had he ended up here, on his way to the Games and his likely death?
All of this, just because of a loaf of bread?
Hopefully, his death wouldn't be too bad. He didn't want the kids at home to have to see that, although he was sure his mothers would shield them from the worst. Alfie just wished that he'd had more time with them, but wishes wouldn't get him anywhere. Alfie had to focus on what he had, and what he had was Nugua.
At least she'd have a chance. Alfie would make sure of it.
"We're pretty far from Nine now, huh?" Nugua said softly.
"Yeah. We are."
As if at the push of a button, the transparent windows became opaque; Alfie's ears began to pop as the hovercraft descended. "Seems like we're almost there," Alfie muttered.
"Mm," Nugua replied, rubbing her arm. "You remember the plan?" Alfie nodded, barely able to appreciate Nugua's grin as he gripped the armrests once again.
The hovercraft groaned as it came to a stop. Alfie felt himself sink deeper into the seat as silence fell over the cabin.
Twenty-four living tributes had arrived. But only one would be alive when they left.
"Alright kids, listen up. In a moment, an officer will come and lead you to your prep rooms," the Peacekeeper who'd injected the chip into Alfie's arm explained, looming over them at the front of the cabin. "Don't try anything stupid, either, and don't even think about getting any smart ideas. You'll be going into that arena whether you want to or not, and we'll make sure of that."
One by one, the officers entered the craft, helping the tributes to unbuckle their seatbelts. Most of the tributes did so quickly, but Alfie's hands shook ever so slightly, making the undoing of the clasps just that much harder.
"Here," Nugua said softly, taking the clasp from his hands, undoing it easily.
"Thank you," Alfie replied, as the one of the Peacekeepers grabbed his arm.
"I'll see you soon." Alfie said softly, as one of the Peacekeepers grabbed him, another taking Nugua.
"You too."
He'd see Nugua soon enough. He'd be in the Arena soon enough, and he knew he wasn't prepared. But Alfie was determined. At any cost, he would get Nugua home.
Even if it cost him his life.
Morrigan "Mor" Meadowlark, 16.
District 7 Female.
Mor hunched her shoulders further, pushing herself into the corner of the couch. The stark grey and white launch room was far too clean for her liking. It just didn't feel right considering that she was about to be plunged into the dirt and blood of the Arena, forced to fight once again. She couldn't help but think of the fighting pits back home, where her father forced her to fight to support her family.
At least the locker rooms there were just as bloody as the rings. Nobody was camouflaging the danger the fighters were in.
Pushing herself off the couch, Mor began pacing the length of the room. She'd avoided putting on the clothes hanging on the rack nearby, as it seemed they got a final moment of respite before being forced into the Arena. She supposed some might see it as a small gift, but this time only served to make Mor antsier. She'd always hated the nervous feeling that came over her before each fight, and she hated even more that she felt the same when she worked, waiting for Ronan and Brecken to come around the corner of the river alive and well.
Nerves were something she couldn't afford here, though. Mor was determined to crush them as she always had. She'd always overcome her weaknesses, letting her father push her further and further until Mor snapped. And she couldn't even do that without consequences. She'd broken that boy's leg in that arena so long ago, heard it crack louder than a gunshot, prompting the other fighters to do just the same to her father.
Mor was tired of the pressure. Tired of being watched, scrutinised for her every action, every move… tired of fighting.
And yet she still had the hardest fight of her life ahead of her. There had to be some irony in that.
But Mor wouldn't let herself succumb to her tiredness. She would get up and fight as she always had. This was different - this time, she was fighting for herself. If Mor played her cards right, she might finally have a way out.
She'd also be free if she died, but living was much better.
As she paced around the room, Mor began to stretch casually, raising her arms high above her head. Her fingers didn't even come close to brushing the ceiling like they did in the pits, but it felt good to try at least. Despite the negative memories associated with it, Mor liked the familiarity of her routine. Reaching down to brush her toes with the tips of her fingers, then stretching upwards again, she thought over her plan- what little plan she had. Mor was all alone, but she certainly didn't mind; she'd work better without anybody slowing her down. She could probably get in and out of the Cornucopia without anybody noticing her. After all, the Careers seemed much too wrapped up in their drama to notice her in any capacity and even if they did, she'd be able to outrun them with ease.
But Mor couldn't let herself feel safe. She couldn't afford to get cocky, to slip up, and especially couldn't afford to slow down, not for anyone. Not even for Jasper.
Mor was in this for herself now and nobody else.
"Hey kid, you better get dressed," said Aleida, her stylist or whatever her title was, poking her head into the room.
Somewhat reluctantly, Mor began pulling the outfit on. The pants and shirt felt comfortable enough, not so tight that she couldn't move in it but not so loose that she felt swallowed. Her boots were sturdy enough to keep her ankle steady, but were also easy to move around in. Curiously, the jacket was thicker than she'd expected, the outer layer made from a strange material that almost slid off her fingers when she pinched it between them. Mor swung her arms a few times, going over a few stretches again to ensure nothing restricted her, and as expected, nothing did.
If the tributes couldn't move, it would be hard for them to give the Capitol the show they wanted.
"Tributes, please stand on your plates," a metallic voice rang through the small room, jarring Mor. She turned, spotting the metal plate in the corner of the room. Mor sucked in a deep breath, then took her place on the plate.
This would be the hardest fight of her life, but Mor was prepared to do what she had to.
She was a warrior, after all.
