Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death, Chapter #12: Project Death Runway. Last chapter we officially ended the intros, and that means we're off to uncharted waters, and I love uncharted waters... now three SYOTs in and I still get goose bumps about the pre-games and writing all these interactions and whatnot, now free past the limit of just district partners and such. Last chapter, #11, was where we met the final four tributes: Calen Kinegrove (D10M), Kai'sa Shadow (D12F), Sylvan Adello (D7M), and Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F). Starting with this chapter, the tribute parade, is round two of intros - each tribute gets three povs before the arena, so 72 total, goodness gracious moses haha I'm insane - and there are four chapters of six povs each, so expect some long ones yeah? The tributes getting RII this time around are Cecelia, Sylvan, Portia, Gemini, Kileigh, and Niklaus, a mixed and myriad cast, and I am excited to get into showing you the universe of the 1st Games... I am so excited. Please enjoy Chapter #12: Project Death Runway.
"Every exit you take is just an entrance to a different location. Therefore, exits don't exist; they're all just entrances to another place." ~ Nitya Prakash
Cecelia Blackstone: District 1 Female P.O.V (13)
This is the fifth time she's been asked to remove her face from the window, yet time and time again, with a smirk on her face she ever so still presses her cheeks against the cool pane, eyes wide and marveling at all the sights before her, Cecelia afraid that if she were to ever take her eyes away from the vistas and the viewpoints just for a moment, they'd all be gone. Their escort, Adriane Lantham, a loathsome woman that she is still not getting quite fond of, constantly tugs at her arms as if that is going to be doing anything, Cecelia stayed right there and waiting, waiting and watching to see if the street lamps will change colors again, or if another passerby will recognize the car they're in and cheer, hooting and hollering like banshees in the myriads of fabric they're wearing.
Cecelia tears her eyes away from the platinum buildings and streets for just a moment, to look back at Adriane who is staring at her, dead-eying her with another cold clocked glare, the woman fluffing her gloves, despite it being even hotter outside now than it is at the reaping, but she's not about to open her mouth and ask, or correct her. She'll leave that to Catalus, her district partner, who has found himself cooped up in the other corner of the car, a hand up against his temples that he soothes ever so often, lips mouthing silent words that are inaudible, intelligible to Cecelia, but perhaps Adriane can understand them, for her gloom seems to awash over the car. Cecelia's mind is still in a daze by all the sights and sounds, and how large the Capitol is, it seeming ever so much larger than District 1, for the buildings surely are, skyscrapers that poke through the clouds, reaching heaven's glory.
Arriving to the train station, just about fifteen minutes ago, has Cecelia's heart beating in her chest. This is a place of wonder and grandeur, but also a place of cruelty, for even if it does not reside in the golden lined streets or in the people who are screaming her name as she steps off of the train's rickety steps, it does live in the hearts of those sitting atop the velveted chairs, looking down at them, cutlery in their hand, about to carve her up like a turkey dinner. Someone there did think of all of this, all this showmanship, all of this glitter and dazzle that has Cecelia almost chanting her own name from the steps, while people try to reach out and hold her hand, or scoop her up into their arms like she is a newborn baby to give them a kiss on the cheek. Catalus is highly more standoffish and rigid, though Cecelia believes Adriane must be pointing a knife or a gun or something lethal into the small of his back so he can smile, though Cecelia cannot help smiling naturally and passionately by her name riding the waves, riding the airwaves and asking for her to smile or comment or... well, simply exist, she figures.
Adriane leads them down and out of the train station, it being a hub station with twelve tracks leading into it, her heart lumping into her throat as she can see other crowds, there being way too many Capitol citizens flooding the train station, choking out all the air, Cecelia's head spinning, that there are other districts here... they all arrived at the same time, somehow, on clockwork, without a hitch. There's the passing blonde hair of the kids from Four, the girl, Diana, she believes her name to be, locking eyes with her, a shiver sliding down Cecelia's back, stopping dead in her tracks. Catalus bumps into her, absentmindedly grabbing at her wrist to hold her steady, he looking in her direction, apparently locking eyes with Diana for the girl from Four breaks away to smile and wave at someone else begging for an autograph.
There's also the train from Eleven, given the number painted in gold on the back of it sticking out like a sore thumb against the back catalogue of black for the station's paint, she locking gazes with the girl from Eleven, a small and tiny thing, a loud mouth with a filthy tongue if Cecelia recalls, the girl, Cassiopeia Grey, staring into Cecelia's soul. However, Catalus this time brushes by her, simply nodding his head at the praise. Cecelia and Cassiopeia stare at one another for a second, and for a moment, just for a moment, the latter opens her mouth as if to call out at her, eyes sparkling with some sort of adoration, and then the boy's hands from her district is tugging her along, Catalus calling Cecelia's name, breaking her from the stupor. It is from the train station and the initial moments of being seen by the Capitol populace in the person to the van waiting outside, a sleek and silver thing with a Peacekeeper driver in the front, two leather couches on opposite sides of the car. Getting shipped to the... to the Remake Center, if Cecelia remembers right. Adriane comments about it at breakfast, spreading jam over a biscuit the same way her father would, using the knife from the side instead of up and down, almost in a scraping motion.
Adriane clears her throat, Cecelia back to looking around. "Young lady, how many times do I have to correct you?" The escort hitches at her skirt some. "You look like a lady yet you act like a heathen..." That gets the girl to look at her, frowning, and in the corner, Catalus's eyes flash a dangerous low cut emerald in the shadows of his spot in the car. "Besides, you'll simply be making your team have a much harder time making you perfect if you continue to ruin your cheek like that," Adriane sniffs dismissively, fingers running over the other, fingering a ring on her... thumb? Cecelia frowns at the odd spot for jewelry, but perhaps this Adriane Lantham is just so much more sophisticated than she is, for after all, the woman lives in this wonderful place. This wonderful place, this horribly wonderful and traumatizing place.
"Our team?" Catalus asks, Cecelia jumping in place. It has been almost a few hours since Catalus has even last spoken, really sitting there and eating his breakfast, though he certainly has not struck her to be the quiet type, she figures there must be a reason. She likes him a lot, truthfully, and they spent the evening last night on his bed, giggling and talking away about home, for she's indeed heard of him before, his famous Drachma Conglomerate, just about the richest corporation and organization - "Non profit, Cece," he tells her with a pointed finger, smirking, "We're non profit," and a shiver ripples through Cecelia for no one calls her by that nickname, a nickname that she doesn't even tell him, yet he claims he can see it in her eyes, that she prefers to be called something else, without even a quick interrogation - in all of District 1, and they've conjured up a volunteer for the Hunger Games. Catalus is holding onto another jar of that dark amber liquid which causes her to take a sniff and curl her nose up at the stench, she once again asking and biting the bullet... why volunteer? His drink in silence, and the shudder that moves his bed seems to be the only answer Cecelia shall be receiving for awhile, she figures, though she'll find out sometime, somehow eventually.
"Yes, your team," Adriane says at length, letting the syllables elongate in her throat. "Or have you not been listening to me?" Another flash, Cecelia wishing she could roll down the windows and release some of the hot air getting her nose all stuffy, head still spinning. "First night in the Capitol, it is President Israel and VP Passionia's initiative to show you off to the nation in a way of splendor," Adriane scoots up and off the seat some, eyes sparkling just from the flash only moments before, she arcing her left hand in a wide sweep that brushes against the ceiling. "You tributes, together, standing on silver chariots led by horses down the main city circle," excitement ebbs off of the Capitolite woman, the car hitting a pothole, Cecelia rising in her seat and hitting her head, she stifling a swear while Adriane bowels over her completely. "Done up in costumes to represent the district you come from, all experimental, done up and made up by people we call stylists and their teams, to become your prep team," and she smiles, almost wickedly, showing molars, Cecelia gripping the back of the chair as tight as she can. "To show you off."
"Great," Catalus drones on, Cecelia shooting him a look. As far as she is concerned, Adriane, as insufferable and stupid as she might be, is their ticket to survival in a sea of randomness, lurking out into the depths she knows nothing about. "Donned up and painted gold before you melt us," he sits up, hands clasped together, and there's no warmth emanating off of him any longer, Cecelia shirking back into the corner of her seat, while Adriane matches her district partner step for step. "Before you kill us."
Her parents never liked confrontation, Cecelia truthfully not liking it either, and there's no locks or door handles on their side of the vehicle, having to crawl in through the front, the only way into the Capitol street, to something called the Remake Center, is by Adriane, and the Peacekeeper in a dark grey uniform sitting up front, radio chatter filling the empty space of the vehicle. Adriane holds onto one glove, the other having been taken off her hand, revealing oily olive and pasty white skin, the woman rubbing her fingers over each other, thumb to thumb. "You should be grateful you're even alive," her voice is cold, harsh, all the hair on Cecelia's arms standing on end. "If it was my way, I'd have you all killed," and then, somehow, out of nowhere, irrationally, she reaches out to place a hand on Cecelia's knee. "Not you though, my dear, you are pure and innocent and-"
"Pure and innocent?" Catalus quirks an eyebrow, at the same time Cecelia recoils away from the touch, "Don't touch me," the little girl hisses, Adriane's eyes narrowing as her district partner continues speaking. "If you find Cecelia to be pure and innocent and wouldn't wish death on her, then surely her being selected into the Games from your own touch," Adriane's eyes seem to tear up as Catalus speaks. Cecelia's frown hums into more of a simmering rage... the woman had the power to choose her and is now feeling regret? "Should have you up in arms about the whole thing," his tone is mocking, and another pot hole is bumped over, causing Cecelia's stomach to lurch, acid sloshing the sides like the walls of a ship in the rocky waters of despair out over the Atlantic.
Adriane purses her lips. "I am your only tether between life and death, Mr. Drachma," Least she uses his last name, Cecelia supposes, as if it is an odd extension of respect, perhaps a bit bendy and janky, though. "Making an enemy of me is not the wisest course, I'd say," she lifts her head up as she speaks, exposing a pale neck, a pale neck with a bobbing throat, Cecelia imagining crimson holes appearing all over, spurting blood everywhere like a paper cup would release water when poked. Would it be Catalus jabbing her in the neck with a fork as the cause? "If it were up to me, you'd be dead, Mr. Drachma, instead of surviving here in this system with a chance to go through all of this," Another gesture made round the vehicle, the glare still ever prominent. "To come out on top," the escort spits, quite literally on the ground. "I'd have you charred up and desecrated."
Catalus's voice is as cool as ice, yet wrapped in it, Cecelia feels safe, feels electricity brimming underneath her skin. "If I had my way, I would've taken your head clean off with a machete, Ms. Lantham."
The escort laughs harrowingly, Cecelia's own blood chilling while the Capitolite woman clutches the brooch keeping her dress together, so the ladies themselves are not exposed to the world. "It is you, Mr. Drachma, that the Games are a thing, I am sure you're aware, given what you didn't do that allowed Mayor Calvary to-" but she never gets another word, for Cecelia is rising out of the chair, slapping Adriane Lantham, their tether - screw being the thing to keep her alive, not if they're going to be going at each other like caged lions, stalking and lashing out with claws - across the face. It rings throughout the car, Catalus's hands immediately pulling Cecelia back, pressing her into the leather of the car.
Adriane's last bits of the sentence are choked off, the woman looking at Cecelia in shock, but Cecelia's frowning, hands curled into fists now, there being a thousand and one reasons she wants to tell off the woman they're with, but it boils down to, for starters, that she cannot sit through barbs, not when her life is at stake and petty divisions - perhaps not so petty, when looking at all the evidence, but still, petty - could mean life or death. Cecelia's stomach is on fire, panic lacing through her intestines while Adriane looks down at the gloves in her hand, then at Cecelia, lips parted, almost as if to apologize. Her parents would be proud of her, and upset, and happy that she stands up for the small man, for the large man, and for those in between such as herself.
She is slapped across the face, backhanded, her face hitting the window, the stinging of Adriane's leather gloves leaving a red welt on her cheek. Cecelia grunts out in surprise, clutching her head at the intensity of hitting her skull, when just out of the corner of her eye, she sees Catalus rise an inch or two off of the seat, his face murderous, his hands going for the escort's throat.
Sylvan Adello: District 7 Male P.O.V (14)
"Ta-da!" cries the woman holding up the dress, causing Sylvan Adello to raise an eyebrow curiously, he frowning at the design. "Don't you love it?" she exclaims, hugging the fabric to her body, underneath the dancing glimmer of golden lights and bright, bright, almost cotton candy sick white walls.
Sylvan Adello, does in fact not love it. The design looks like pure shit, if he's to be honest, and it might be extremely mean to say, and he's considering telling them aloud, but he hasn't said anything yet except quirk an eyebrow. Javier talks their ear off in the ride over to the Remake Center, this unhealthy – can a building even look unhealthy? – looking building that rises off the horizon just off of the City Circle, the grand city circle, and it is a lie to say he isn't excited about what the festivities of the night will bring them from their escort's words. Javier spins tales of men and women abetting to their every need, to making them wanted and desired and how much they'll be loved by the Capitol, Sylvan listening with wide eyes. He could use some love, truly, even if they are from strangers. Nevaeh hums along in the car next to him, simply twirling locks of hair around her fingers.
However, Javier either spread the largest lie in the world or he himself did not know the true terrors as he stands there in his underwear, feeling the need to still cover himself modestly despite the fact that the three older Capitol women who've preened on him are not going to be interested in a fourteen year-old. Sylvan is still rubbing at the red marks on his arms where the hot wax strips are placed, before they're ripped away and torn off, he crying in anguish and clutching his arm to his chest. The marks are everywhere, scorching burns and welts that need to be soothed with an ice cube's kiss, and he will not lie, there are a few tears that slip through when the woman suggests one over his stomach, Sylvan's hands covering the spot as if he is nursing a child there, almost recoiling away from the sensation.
The building itself is quite impressive, several stories tall with many doors and entrances and hallways, Sylvan led by a Peacekeeper in a dark black suit – he's never seen a darker color than the occasional gray one that a superior officer would wear, but the suit is midnight black, he unable to see when the hips end and the Peacekeeper's gun begins – and he might be having his gaze remain on the older man's behind, whose voice is liquid velvet in his ears, like Sylvan is still chewing on the bite of his sandwich. Nevaeh has yet to truly speak more than a few sentences on the look of the Capitol, there being this hidden ire behind it all, his gaze narrowing as he looks at her with a supple frown curling up his lips.
He used to frown a lot, at all the cousins running about, not learning to be quiet, from where Sylvan would have to tackle them into the dirt to keep them from ruining everything. Being found meant certain doom, and he's not about to be shipped off to an early grave if he can help it – Well, about that, he chuckles to himself, thinking of the reaping tablet held in Javier's grasp, cherry painted fingernails tapping away at the plastic, foretelling his doom – but his cousins thrash in his grip, trying to throw him off of them, but Sylvan clamps the hand tighter and tighter, shushing them, trying not to poke their eyes out with the grass. His siblings would watch on and shake their heads in disdain, pursing their lips. "You're too hard on them, Sylvie," they'd say, almost mockingly, and Sylvan would chuck an acorn at their head.
"At least I won't be the one dying when the time comes…" he recalls hissing at them, tears blinding his vision that he wipes away with the back of his hand, trying to soothe out the scorched marks on his thighs, or the bleach smell wafting from his feet, which have become almost like pasty pieces of bread, hairless and featureless. Sylvan feels scrubbed off all feeling and love and desire, he feels plastic and fake, his hands gripping his waist and pulling the skin across his hips. However, he will be the one dying… while his family lives back in Seven, sharing tomato soup and holding acorns in their hands at his expense.
The woman, his stylist, if he recalls right, a lady with a name he is never going to try to pronounce, simply going for The Lady in Pink, given that is her outfit for the day, holds the costume in her hand. "What do you mean?" she asks, and he wants to automatically apologize for how she's looking at him, with wide eyes and fluttering eyelids, as if she is about to cry. "It's from home."
"I'm a tree," Sylvan enunciates the noun as hard as he can, shifting from one foot to the other. He wants his other clothes back on. The tribute parade, per Javier's instruction, is to show he and Nevaeh off to the world, to look amazing for the Capitol and see if they're someone to root for, but he isn't sure how much of a splash he'll be making on the Panemian background of red and gold dressed as a tree. There are a few leaves attached to the nude outfit, Sylvan blanching at the thought that he is going to look naked up there with Nevaeh next to him, in most likely a similar outfit. Each costume is supposed to reflect the districts, and Sylvan shrugs his shoulders. At least he's a tree and not well, he's not quite sure. What would someone from Twelve look like? The girl who freaks out at the reaping is probably dying underneath all the attention, for it is not the attention that bothers Sylvan, but the methods.
"And some poor kid out there is going to look like a werewolf or a column," his stylist chides him with pursed lips, handing him the costume. The measurements were done just right, designed last night while they had been sleeping on the train, hundreds of miles away. Sylvan takes it in his hand, raising an eyebrow at it. It is soft, so he'll be feeling warm at the very least, paraded somewhat naked among everyone else.
"I dunno," he draws out the syllables, biting on his lower lip with an incisor. "I just… from the way Javier expressed how much fun we'd have tonight, and how great the costumes would be and…" he tosses a word out there, trying to be polite, his brow furrowing together. Being polite to a terrified five-year-old who didn't know why she needed to be quiet and cry about Mr. Potato is something he's gotten better at learning how to handle… but not… not dealing with terrible clothes from a madwoman.
"And what, Sylvan?" the woman asks, quirking an eyebrow. "Better?"
"The costumes are underwhelming," Sylvan says, almost too quiet for anyone to hear him, but given the acoustic designs of the room, his words echo and bounce off insanely, causing his head to spin just for a second. "Very underwhelming." The leaves are droopy and do not smell of home, the material is soft, sure, but if he were to be a tree, wouldn't the bark be hard? His fingers run over the crown of leaves he is supposed to put on his head for the design, and they are plastic, he can tell, with a frown.
His stylist bridges her eyebrows together, locking her jaw, and then in one swift motion, plucks the costume out of Sylvan's grip, almost too easily, truthfully. She scares him, in a roundabout way, from how her eyebrows seem to reach God. He's too nice to tease her, but his older sister would have a blast, finding whatever she could to make the woman cry and wish she had never woken up in the morning to exist. Sylvan parts his lips to say something, some sort of protest, but he simply reclines back against the wall, before going over and grabbing a towel resting on the iron bed he had been lying on, when waiting for her to arrive.
"If Mr. Adello doesn't want to wear the outfit I designed for him, then he doesn't have to," she sniffs, almost as if she is talking to the walls themselves, expecting a response. Sylvan quirks an eyebrow, rubbing his hands together.
"Is there a backup?"
"There are no backups, Mr. Adello," she tells him, cold, directive, a lance of fear spiking through Sylvan's chest, his heart trembling behind the cage of ribs keeping it imprisoned, it beating vigorously against the bone, he feeling a rattle rise through his jaw and clash his teeth together with shattering force. "You will go out in your underwear as your costume, if that is what you prefer, since clearly what I have is nothing comparable to what your Mr. Javier Nordem had told you…"
Sylvan's eyes widen out of his head near enough, bugging out and causing his head to hurt, he scrambling towards his stylist, almost on his hands and knees. "No… anything but that…"
"Miss Davoli didn't seem upset about the idea," she tells him, almost dismissively, sniffing down at him. "In fact, I don't think your district partner really feels anything, given what has happened to her." Sylvan frowns to himself. What- what had happened to Nevaeh? "I had to cover up the bruises as best I could, given the golden dress I had wanted to use for the interviews would show all of that, but I suppose, Mr. Adello, you'll go naked for that too, won't you?"
Her look paralyzes him, Sylvan standing rot still, like a dying tree that is unable to bow itself around in the breeze, his heart once again banging in his skull. This woman holds the power, in this very moment, and he's insulted her, simply because she asked – don't look a gift horse in the mouth, he figures, through the mires of panic that are snaking down his synapses, in slow slime, gelled mucous in his hands, clawing at his fingernails and tugging his skin down tight – but now he's hitting the wall, cold, and shaking, whines and gasps coming from his throat.
He wants to go see the Peacekeeper again, the one entirely in the dark ensemble, the man who he wishes he could've gotten to see a glimpse of behind the cold visor, for Javier is nice and pretty, Sylvan figures, but far too old for him. Sylvan lifts his head up, swallowing defiantly, jaw trembling, but he keeps his teeth locked. An Adello never cracks under the pressure, and while the first two weeks out there in the wilderness, secluded and out of the way from Datsun Watanabe's firebombs – he has to remind himself to go and slap Porscha across the face at the first chance he gets – that choke the sky and blot out the sun, and like all life, he wilts and decays underneath the pressure, as his stylist locks eyes with him, for he is looking at her, pleading to give the horrible, terrible costume back. He will not go out there to be turned into another laughingstock of the world, with the entire nation watching. Three impressions to make, correct? That had been Javier's words, no?
"I'll wear it…" he mumbles, over the din of the fan blowing cold air into the room.
A sweet smile, toxic and poisonous, Nightlock stained teeth, the poor boy who keels over with the berries clogging his throat, and Sylvan's scream, his desperate scream as he tries scooping the berries out with his hands, for he is not about to press his lips to the other boy's and breathe oxygen into his body. "You'll what, Sylvie dear?"
"I'll wear the damned costume," Sylvan grits his teeth together, uttering a harsh hiss. He will not give her the satisfaction of being made a fool up there, not with all that is on stake. The boy holds out his hand to grab it back from her, she holding onto it just for a second, and then there's a harsh tear, a loud tear, and he's looking at a ripped hole that'd encircle his thigh, showing off a square of skin, and Sylvan's throat closes up.
"Yes, Mr. Adello, you will wear the damned costume," his stylist bites at him, throwing it on top of him, pushing his neatly cropped hair out of the way, he stuttering out a gasp of emotion, not necessarily pained, but nothing sweet while she brushes past him out of the room. She's already given him instruction on where he'll need to go, there being a ticking clock risen above the door for him to look at and count it down. He's been stuck in the building for the last five and a half hours, it being almost 6:30 in the evening, a low and warm twilight settling over the horizon.
Sylvan locks his jaw, controlling his shaky breaths in his throat, holding the hideous tree costume to his chest. An Adello does not run, but they do better their situations. Hole or not in the outfit, naked or not if he were to be… allies or no allies, with the promise of he and Nevaeh's situation… Sylvan is going to do what is asked of him and more.
He throws the outfit over his head with a grumble.
Portia Beninblade: District 2 Female P.O.V (18)
Everything is starlit and beautiful, in her eyes, Portia stepping out of the Remake Center, arms exposed to the chilly air, it starting to cool. She knows that the Capitol is up North, given that is where District 2 is as well, in rather close proximity, but she doesn't expect it to feel as frigid as it does when she's there stepping out onto the tarmac. Well, she actually doesn't know what to call it, but it's a single long dark strip of ground from one end to the other of the massive hanger, there being an open glass dome atop it, a golden sun sinking beneath the horizon, a moon replacing it.
The city is as a beautiful as she imagines it to be, off of the stories her parents would say before their minds are muddled into speaking hearsay, tall and luminous, striking and decadent with people of many colors and shapes and backgrounds, the fabric and the smells causing her to drown in luxury. On the same token, she sees the bitterness in the way some people walk, and how there's jealousy hanging onto every word someone says, getting that from how the people who worked with her in the Remake Center – prep team, if she recalls – as Merida's blue hair bounces from one side to the other have a spat over which colored scissors to use to cut her hair, as if that even mattered. Portia simply asks for the smallest ones with the least wide diameter to cut her hair, not that it needed to be touched anyways.
This is the place she's always wanted to be, but not like this. Magnus is right, the very little she can give him as even the thought almost makes her throw up in her mouth, the idea of Magnus Winterthorn, a rebel being right about anything. She'd rather gorge herself out on the spokes of the wheels. Per Merida's instructions, the tribute parade is the first time to show off the tributes to the world in the most fabulous light possible, put in costumes that reflect home. Portia wants to be anything other than a column. Again, being dressed as a column meant gorging on the wheel spokes. Luckily, that is not the case for her, she instead dressed from head to toe in a sparkling silver outfit, some sort of dress that moves with crystallizing waves of diamond, a small tiara in her blonde hair, done down in a braided ponytail, sparkles of silver coating her eyes, white gloves on her hand. Portia feels beautiful, though she doesn't always dress like that.
She in fact almost hits the stylist in the face, a kid who is just a year or two older than her, with opportunities she could never dream of having, who is poking and prodding her like she's some sort of animal, frowning at her breasts, which Portia has covered up by an arm. Why does she have to be naked for this, exactly? Merida had given her some response while trying to drink a martini, she rolling her eyes and giving up on getting an exact answer. "What's the matter?" she asks him, a guy named Gregory who speaks so softly it is almost as if he is mumbling inaudibly and not even speaking.
"Your body is too shapely," he criticizes her, but almost as if he is speaking to the wall and not to her, Portia balling her hand into a fist. "Not the princess I figured I'd be receiving."
"You want my slipper in your ass?" Portia threatens him, grabbing the nearest item off of the table that she can reach without exposing her naked body to the most likely very gay and effeminate man, for she doesn't know a single straight fellow in fashion, given how they dress.
Speaking of how straight men mostly dress, Portia looks around at the gathered tributes, there being about half of them gathered at their chariots. There are twelve, all painted in the same scheme of Panemian red and gold, and down at the hanger, swinging above on a sign, is the number 2 in a more white paint, Magnus standing underneath it, petting their horses that'd be pulling their carriages. She inhales, taking a deep breath, reminding herself of her manners. Magnus would be the one her parents love, to coddle him with every need and desire, while she goes without, scavenging for roaches and other bugs under the table. She fakes a cherry sweet smile, one that has her almost gag, making her way across the terminal towards him. He perks up just slightly when his eyes catch her, Portia making a beeline for him to ensure not needing to talk to anyone else, for everyone else looks rather horrid in their costumes.
"You look nice," Magnus tells her, when she approaches him, he dressed in a likewise silver suit and top hat, though she sees that he's unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt, there being some chest hair starting to poke through, not to mention his muscles, but Portia's eye twitches at the very audacity of his presence and stage performance.
"Thanks," she says, wrinkling her nose, not even expecting to want to respond back to him, but again, manners. A Beninblade, a traitor to the nation like her parents, or a good little child of the Panemian flag, they respect the nature of compliments and the giving and taking of them, though Portia has fallen a little lapse in that regard when looking at the actual scum beneath her shoe. "Can't say the same for you, though," there is no humor in her voice; she means it. Magnus is handsome, sure, but an entire and complete fuckwit, and she believes he knows it. Looks can only get someone so far, after all. "The same can be said for you and your butch muscles," her voice tells her in her own head, Portia hissing in her brain for the voice to shut up.
Magnus runs a hand down the side of the chariot, pursing his lips. "Still stuck on acting like a bitch?"
"It's who I am," she says, with a smile. Might as well own it, no?
He shakes his head in dissent, frowning, biting on his lower lip, giving her a quick one up and down snapshot, before stuttering a laugh. "Your bitchiness makes you have wrinkles. Imagine that, wrinkles at eighteen."
"Imagine dead at eighteen," she shoots back without missing, pulling the trigger. She wanted to be the one to pull the trigger on her father, in a weird way, for him to see that his little girl had finally grown up, the little girl who is told that the dreams and aspirations she wanted would be knocked down cause rebels from Eight and Twelve feel that they're being pushed too hard and exploited by manual labor. She has to suffice with the electric chair, watching him spasm, watching her father scream behind the leather mask, and when it is removed, she still in shackles and the prison jumpsuit, her mother wailing and banging the glass with her own shackles, there's blood pooling out of the mask, dripping onto the floor. Her father's body falls to the ground, head singed like a dark olive with black blood oozing out, and she does lose her lunch then.
Magnus narrows his gaze at her, with another shake of the head. "I don't know why I'm even nice to you."
"You're nice to me because you think I am going to actually want to be friends with you," Portia crosses her arms.
"Trust me," he laughs harrowingly, tilting his head back, anger flaring in Portia's heart. People like him, those who believe the world runs for them like they're on a hamster wheel, they disgust her. "That's not the reason. I'm a nice guy."
"You're a fucking idiot, Winterthorn," she spits at him, taking another step closer. All of this is stupid and idiotic, where she should not have had her name ripped out of that jar and put on the screen for the world to see. She should've have reacted the way she did on stage, sure, but this has all gone to hell in a handbasket, a handbasket she is gripping with bare hands and crying as it burns the spots where her fingers meet the palms. Perhaps the only positive she sees to Magnus, if there is one she can attribute to him besides a jawline that he has, is that he doesn't seem to beg for scraps or moan about his situation; he takes matters into his own hand, just like she will.
It'll end with his beating heart getting crushed in her grasp, she swears that on her father's grave, the man she hated so much that she gets killed with one loose lie and one simple truth and one decision that lands her in a cold nine-by-nine.
He nods her head at him, an unreadable look in his eyes, before simply turning away from her to the left to approach the tributes from District 1. Not everyone is standing by their partners or even by their chariot, there being a supposed long amount of time before everyone must meet with their stylists by the chariots to begin the ceremony. Magnus goes over to Catalus Drachma, Portia's eyes seizing the older tribute, he looking at her with a passing glance, judgment in his eyes, before shaking Magnus's outstretched hand.
"You must be Catalus Drachma," her own district partner says. "I've heard a lot about you!"
Portia has too, though the way Magnus speaks makes her want to vomit all over her high heels, high heels she plucks off of her feet for the time being, rubbing the sores that pop over the toes. Catalus smiles, face brightening up, she seeing through the mesh of golden fabric on his head that there's a shiner, a good ole black eye painted around his left, some minimal bruising on his nose too. Portia frowns, it seeming like she and Magnus are tethered to the same thought plane, for Magnus is pointing and Catalus is touching it.
But yes, the Drachma Federation is something she knows about, seeing it on TV when Richmond Anvil, their beautiful and glorious Master of Ceremonies announces that some sort of famously run corporation in District 1 has sided with the rebels, she almost throws the water bottle in her hand at the TV screen… these people, these intelligent and wealthy people throwing their life savings away, and for what? A picture of the Drachma family fills the screen, Portia studying Catalus heavily, lips pursing, but then there's no more news about them and like everything else that has died in the Ash Wars, in those dark, dark days, they are blown away into dust.
Catalus is talking to someone that Portia cannot even see, she jostling with a startle at the kid's district partner, that little thirteen-year-old Cecelia Blackstone, who is in some sort of dark navy-blue gown, the color of chrysanthemum, nearly blends in with the dark wheels. "Come meet Magnus!" and Portia drowns out the rest of the conversation, falling against the chariot to pinch her brow. All of it is rather disgusting, truthfully, everyone playing nice – well, she and Magnus aren't, glad to have that all out of the way for the time being, to focus on the more important things in life – before they all have to kill each other.
Portia looks down the remainder of the chariots, seeing what everyone else is doing. The District 3 pair have yet to show up, and there is the guy from Four speaking to the more quiet and meek girl from Five, her district partner on their chariot swinging his legs back and forth. The boy from Eight is nowhere to be seen, the girl from Eight, that Poem gal who volunteers, dancing about a Peacekeeper and clutching an absolutely hideous, and frankly terrifying pink ball gown with frills that'd cause Portia to sneeze. How many of these kids actually believe they could win a battle to the death? Portia feels confidence in the fact, for once, about her more manly shaped body, muscles bulking underneath her tank tops and jackets she wears, though being in this diamond dress hasn't hurt any.
The girl from Four seems to be keeping to herself, since her district partner is off talking to those Five's, for whatever idiotic reason. Boys, Portia rolls her eyes at the idea. Diana Kratovska, as that is the name Merida reads off the collected list of cards in her hand, who is petting the horse's mane, a golden mare with long locks of lemonade, Diana in a sea green dress, where she moves like flowing emeralds. Portia takes a single step towards their chariot, looking down at her own outfit.
Has she been copied by them and turned into a mockery, or is it the other way around?
Portia gets two steps closer to Diana, the sound of her heels in the empty chamber echoing like gunshots in her heart, opening her mouth to say hello. Making friends is awful and terrible, something she's never found an affinity for, but she can't be upset about needing to do it if it means survival.
"Hello-" she starts, but Diana never lets her get the chance.
"Screw off," Diana interrupts her, rather coldly, and every syllable in Portia's throat spills itself out onto the concrete, choked in her throat, making her cough into her chest with a hand pressed up against the diamond design. While she is not expecting sugary sweetness to come spilling out onto the tarmac, being told to just get fucked is not how Portia expects the interaction to go. She stands there, stunned, for a second, until Diana looks at her, frowning, crossly. "Did I stutter? I'm not talking to you or anyone else. Go find someone else."
Orion looks over from his chariot, frowning. "Diana-"
"Don't start with me, Maythorpe."
Her district partner, that hot and handsome Orion Maythorpe, someone Portia wouldn't be against climbing into bed with, opens and closes his mouth like a dying, gasping fish, simply glaring daggers at his district partner. Both kids from Five seem to fall back into their chariot more for protection, Portia looking at Diana with wide eyes, heart hammering in her chest.
Portia sniffs the air, walking past her, Orion mumbling an apology that she won't accept, cause why would he feel the need to apologize? Portia finds herself standing in the center of the tarmac, just near District 6's chariot, the boy there, but he looks too weird for her, and too young. Her eyes fall on the chariots of Nine and Ten, all four tributes there talking to each other, the girls close to one another – Camilla and Nokomis, if Portia recalls rightly, as well as Gemini and Calen – all rather close. She quirks an eyebrow in confusion.
The boys she'd rather not speak to, but the girls? She saw Nokomis's panic attack on the silver screen when Merida shows the reaping recap, she getting to see her stupid reaction once again, but she also hears Camilla cry out for her brother, and the brother cry back out for her. Merida said she needed allies… who'd be stupid enough to ally with her?
People with exploitations.
Portia smirks to herself.
Time for an experiment.
Gemini Lennox: District 9 Male P.O.V (17)
The night sky is awash in acrylic blues, warm navies, and his heart beats to a similar shade of the rippling red that runs across the sky in a single stripe, a band of color amid the bleak darkness. His heartbeat is mirroring that as well, shades of pulsating pink that vibrate against the dark caverns of his ribcage, the slow melodic drip pinging in his ears as he runs his hand over the edge of green hanging from their chariot, a silver contraption with dark wheels, spokes of magma pooling to the center where the golden Panemian logo is situated.
The crowd is starting to amass, Gemini looking straight ahead, locked into place on the chariot for the parade to begin, there being stands and stands of people, from the small vantage point he has, the little bit of view he's granted. Throngs of people, all in their fabrics and perfumes, hopefully not smelling like the Remake Center, cause god it is a horrendous smell that hits his nose while being worked on by the team who gives him no contact or conversation at all. Anti-septic clashed with roses, causing Gemini's stomach to roll over and curl. He pushes the golden crown on his head a bit some, it skewed as he tilts his head to the side to crack his neck in a few places.
It's been the longest he's gone without the morphine drip, fingers starting to slowly roll over the scabs that he's created from the needle insertions. Camilla hugs the girl goodbye from the Ten chariot, who are just a few feet behind them now, that sweet girl Nokomis Yanaba, Gemini bidding her a nice hello, while shaking her district partner's hand, Calen Kinegrove, sweet and mild mannered and all but soft. He sees both of the District 10 tributes standing in front of a sunset with that as their background, shadowy waves of auburn and golden orange flowing off of their bodies in blocky lines. He smirks at the sight, where Camilla is now doused in ivory, her body being a glimmering dance of twinkling stars and strands of wheat, though he doesn't quite understand the symbolism to the corn tuff he has, and the few pieces of straw clinging to his hair underneath the crown.
There had also been that other girl, the one from Two, Gemini believes, in her entire silver dress, like a bottle of iodine, there being a creepy smile on her face as she then approaches Camilla and Nokomis, rather rudely inserting herself into the conversation. Gemini has his hand rested on the side of the chariot, while Calen, who is taller than him – that thought slightly bugs him, just slightly – purses his lips, hair standing on end through his outfit, some sort of cowboy getup that has Gemini whistle, cause damn, the kid looks hot in brown leather, a faint blush settling on his cheeks for he's talking about a minor he's never even met, and there's no way he's going to do that to anyone when they have to die in a week.
Camilla waves goodbye to Nokomis, she dressed up like a dying hearth, a dying ember of a campfire with wisps of smoke curled around her body in a grey design, something rather pretty and beautiful. She turns around – Camilla – to get into the chariot, Gemini holding out his hand for her to take. She accepts it politely, smiling lowly, hitching up her dress so it doesn't brush against it.
"They seem nice," he comments idly, lowering his hand to rest on the chariot's edge.
"They do," Camilla agrees warmly, an uneven silence passing between them just for a second. Their conversation on the train is warm and thought provoking, sure, talking about dead family members – Gemini blanches for a second on the train, a droplet of blood sliding off a finger and the smell of rusty water taken sour by copper hitting him in the face with the force of a sledgehammer – and they go through too much alcohol that has Clair raising a hissy fit the next morning because all of the good vodka is gone!
"Get me my morphine," Gemini smiles at her, full of teeth, baring them at her, "And I'll get you some damn vodka," he smirks at the memory, back in the present, there being some sort of automated voice above them talking, faint words that he cannot quite hear over the din of the air conditioners working at full blast, he still somewhat sweating underneath all the layers. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"About the parade or Nokomis and Calen?" Camilla asks, with a raised eyebrow.
"Nokomis and Calen," he answers, though he doesn't look at her. He gets sensory overload looking at her, with the ivory dancing off of her like moving fuzz out of a static TV monitor. "Allies or not?"
"We don't even know what we're going up against, though…" she whispers, looking around. The tributes in the Eight chariot just got into together, the girl in a beautifully horrendous pink dress that is way too big for her, her excitement heard most likely all over the entire terminal as she crows on and on and on about it is her own design, and Gemini might puke up the vodka he ingests last night cause good god she needs a chill pill. The boy is silent, his arms covered up in long dark fabrics, he looking like quite the treat, Gemini licking his lips, though no semblance of shame like with Calen ripples through his mind at this instance. The dead look isn't in the kid's eyes.
"Well, it's just a thought," Gemini whispers back, and the chariots buckle forward into motion. He's right, though, agreeing with Camilla. None of them know what any of this will be about, the president, that Mr. Emrick Israel, not sharing many details with any of the public, and while the awful video at the reaping gives some more insight, Clair filling in the pieces, he's still not sure. What would allies mean in a fight to the death?
They'd mean betrayal, he knows that for a fact.
The chariots begin to move, there being the sound of a gun firing off in the distance that has none of the horses react violently as if they're spooked, Gemini amazed at this sight, raising his eyebrows. Any time there is any sort of shooting near a pasture, in case the horses have to be used in carting off a few barrels of production – never to help work, the Capitol wouldn't want to exploit the animals like that, Gemini rolling his eyes with a snort at the hypocrisy and irony – they are off like the same bullets fired. Camilla tenses next to him, just as another voice, a far more recognizable one, that of Mr. Richmond Anvil, the Master of Ceremonies begins to speak, announcing out the districts, for One just breaks through the cover, there being a mesh, a velvet curtain separating the terminal from the rest of the city circle.
"What was your thought about the parade, though?" Gemini asks Camilla, leaning over to whisper in case she can't hear him, for there's trumpet sound, far too much of that drowning out his senses.
Camilla taps her knuckles on the outer edge, biting down on her lower lip. "I dunno… just, this outfit is gorgeous…" she whispers, pulling at the material, and again, she's right, she looks beautiful, "But I feel like they're doing all of these charades for us to all kill each other," she looks at him, dark eyes searching for answers, her eyes falling on his lips for just a moment, a shock going from one end of Gemini's spine to the other. "Why not just send as us all to kill each other immediately and call it a day?"
He has no answers for that, and unfortunately he is running out of time to think of one, as District 7's chariot slides out into view, Eight's coming up next, and the boy from Eight grips his district partner's wrist to keep her steady, for she is bouncing on her heels so badly it looks like a vibrating poisoned apple about to fly off of the cart. They go next, Gemini sucking in a deep breath. Attention, attention… never used to attention. He never got the good kind at home, his thoughts echoing just what his father screams at him over the din of the running fan and the ventilator, and the creaking of the swinging rope as he holds the letter in his hands, tear drops falling onto the edge, making it moist, creases folding under the other in dampness.
Camilla reaches out to grip his hand, Gemini reflexively moving away for a split second, but she continues reaching and seizes it, squeezing it for good measure. The curtain parts for them, and Gemini is blinded by the white-hot searchlights. There is the booming loud voice of Richmond Anvil calling out each tribute, just getting to talk about District 6, Gemini seeing them on the jumbo monitor as they're waving to the crowd, the kid done up as some sort of hammer, he thinks, not looking very pleased with the design, but the girl, that famous Porscha Watanabe that Gemini cannot muster a feeling of hatred for, is done up in some sort of green dress, hanging onto a torch and a book in her hand.
"Famed Statue of Liberty," Gemini thinks to himself, "From before Panem had ever been a thing…" he thinks to himself, with a fond smile. It is a wonderful outfit, but he's not quite sure how it factors into District 6, truthfully.
He feels warm, and there are people chanting his name, chanting, chanting, chanting, and there may be tears running down his face, though Gemini has no idea why. A smile begins to move on his face, etched muscle he cannot believe is actually capable of doing such movements, he raising a hand to wave. Happiness, feeling actual happiness that did not come from a morphine drip. Camilla looks over at him inquisitively, raising an eyebrow, before lifting her own hand up to the crowd, waving at a few gathered by the sidelines.
Gemini has never seen this many people all compiled into once place before, the reaping not being even close to as packed as this despite literally every teenager from District 9 showing up, for they all knew the consequence for not showing up. He waves again, and someone tosses him a rose, he dodging out of the way for it looks like there are thorns still on it, the flower clattering onto the chariot rather loudly, though he hardly hears it over Richmond Anvil talking about them. He hears his own name pass over his ears, for some reason that having him smile harder.
He looks over at Camilla, she looking over at him, a grin breaking on her face, a genuine grin, not like the soft smiles she gives in the veranda car last night over the clear glasses of vodka. Richmond moves onto Ten, and shortly after that, Eleven. Gemini knows what will be happening soon, after District 12 is talked about, and all the chariots do another quick spin around the city circle, his stomach starting to lurch for the horses are quite literally galloping to keep up with another.
Clair tells them that the president will say a few words, but even still, as the drums start to stop playing and the streets are filled with just the cheering Capitol citizens, they stopped beneath what looks like the place that'll be their home for the next few days, some tall sort of tower that has sweat droplets forming on the crease of his forehead. Gemini looks at Camilla again, she looking at him with pursed lips before everyone starts cheering once more, the only active person clapping being that Portia Beninblade girl from Two as the president, Emrick Israel appears over the top of the balcony.
He's dressed in all white, a rather hideous color for Gemini can just imagine someone spilling a dark liquid all over the outfit and ruining it, such a waste of decadent fabric. Emrick soothes the crowd with a hand, a single hand, and it is as if the entire city block had been put under a rag of chloroform, for how eerily quiet it gets. "Good evening, tributes, ladies and gentlemen hailing from the twelve districts of Panem," Emrick greets, mirth and merriness in his voice, Gemini feeling every emotion but that. This is the man who would've preferred he killed them all in fiery explosions of napalm and sulfur. "Welcome to the Capitol, I hope it is everything you thought of and more!"
"One way to put it," Camilla mutters to herself, a cross look dancing across her face, Gemini pursing his lips before going back to listen to the monologue.
"Tonight is for you, tributes, to recuperate and recover after what has surely been a long day," Emrick continues, his voice soft and grandfatherly, though Gemini finds that humorous for the man isn't that old. "Tomorrow will start training for the Hunger Games, where I will personally meet you here in the basement of this building behind me," the man gestures to the tower structure, which is indeed where they're staying. "For more information," There's a slight pause, feedback flickering across the streets. "I understand this will be a scary time for many of you, uncertainty with each step you take, but the alternative had not been any easier, I assure you," Emrick takes a deep breath, a sigh rippling across the sound waves. "May you have a good rest of your evening, and may the odds be ever in your favor. Happy Hunger Games!"
The crowd booms into applause and cheers and declarations of love, Camilla next to Gemini breaking into a dry heave and cough. Gemini, however, is standing there stiff, looking at the balcony, for the height, thinking back to the note in his hands, the damp note, and the swinging rope, the creaking hiss, and the droplet of blood on his finger.
That height is the same distance he had seen his father swinging from, back and forth, back and forth, the tight noose centered around his neck, and his suicide note falling to the floor, it hardly clenched together in Gemini's hand.
Kileigh Katsaras: District 5 Female P.O.V (17)
The stars dance above her head in happiness as Kileigh holds onto the chariot for dear life while it runs around the city circle one last time, with President Israel's little speech over, her heartbeat roaring in her chest with a lull in her ears, a crashing tidal wave of heat and flourishing little music notes that bounce against membranes. Her outfit is starting to stick to her some, it being hot and sweaty from the heat, though Zachary swears he is cold, she not understanding how that would even be possible for him, but it doesn't matter, they'll be out of the costumes soon, she hopes.
While no one else seems to be all particularly happy with getting spoken to by the president, there is a bit of a more cheerful lift over the twelve chariots as they ride into the station underneath the balcony where President Israel had been standing, with his all white suit and gray wings for his hair, Kileigh narrowing her gaze at the man. She detests him as hard as she can without wanting to incite violence on him, for even his horrendous deeds and the fact he signed these Games into law, despite all that she cannot find an ounce of hate in her heart for it, no matter how hard she looks through the nooks and crannies.
Zachary is smiling robustly at her, his face aglow in the halcyon lights as their chariot comes to a stop underneath the balcony, in the lane marked for aisle 5, evident by the number painted in white on the concrete, wheels creaking to a stop as a man in black, perhaps a Peacekeeper, motions forward with his arm at the horses, an avox grabbing them by the reins. Kileigh swerves back and forth some atop the chariot, holding onto the end again so she doesn't fall over, for the last thing she wants is to be humiliated in front of all of the other tributes and their glorious outfits.
Kileigh feels a bit more plain in hers, despite it actually being quite tasteful, Ginger, their escort, cooing over the designs with a faint smile on her face. She is done up – Kileigh that is – as a bolt of electricity that cascades into a whirlwind given the crown atop her head, a headpiece designed in crystals that make a DNA helix at the top, little flashes of emerald green and blueberry blue going off in her dress. Zachary is done as coal energy, smoke rising off of his ears via the odd hat on his face, she thinking it is supposed to be a hard hat, and that he looks quite silly with it on, but if Zachary is bothered by it, he doesn't show it.
The stylists had done a rather remarkable job with his black eye, applying a lot of bronzer to his face – at least, that's what Kileigh believes, not exactly someone up to date with her makeup, for beyond the fence line there hadn't been any ways to get eyeliner or eye shadow, and they didn't have connections to the outside necessarily and all she can think about is being wrapped up in her blanket standing in the freezing cold rain against the tall blades of grass as her house goes up in smoke, flames licking away at the droplets falling from the sky – and some other sorts of techniques, that all is left for him is this dark ring, but still faint enough that if someone were to not look at him for a long period of time, they wouldn't notice it.
The same cannot be said however for that kid from One, that Catalus Drachma, he turning around and waving goodbye to his district partner, the sweet girl cooped up next to the chariot, running her fingers down one of the spikes, for the shiner on his face is there loud and clear. Kileigh looks over as Zachary absentmindedly, she seeing him look at the older kid and go to touch his face.
"Trust me, it's not near as bad as his," she tells him, smiling.
"How do you think he got it?" Zachary asks. "He didn't have one during the reaping recap."
Kileigh tries forgetting about the reaping as best she can, simply for she is incapable of going and looking at her reflection anymore, after seeing how she reacts when Ginger has her name displayed on the screen, a sucker punch to the stomach, and there are tears prickling at the edge of her vision, blurry lines and watery scenes. It must be retribution, the retribution that the Capitol has forced on her family for going and fleeing beyond the fence, before the fence is electrified and heavily guarded, underneath the waterfalls that cool her neck off on a hot August day.
"It doesn't matter how he got it," she says, shaking her head, before slinking off of the chariot, they being the only pair who had still been standing atop it. Kileigh lands on her feet, nearly knocked over by the girl from Eleven, that Cassiopeia gal who gives her the creeps, who storms by her, her district partner, Dill, hot on her heels.
"Cassie, it wasn't that bad," he's saying, Kileigh frowning with her eyebrows furrowed together before she sees it, exactly what has the girl in such a bad mood, she almost howling with laughter, but holds back the cry of hilarity in case the girl were to turn around and hit her.
"I have a fucking baby attached to me and I can't get it off!" the girl from Eleven protests, she motioning towards her body, and she's right, nail on the head as she seems to flounce around in the overalls she's wearing, there being a doll of some sort attached not just to her stomach, not just to her chest, but to her breast, as if the baby were suckling at her, a shiver rippling through Kileigh at the sight, for it is as hilarious as it is horrifying. Dill has gotten off a lot much easier, he holding onto a pitchfork that has to be plastic, done up in a straw outfit with a straw hat.
Zachary frowns at the sight as Cassiopeia, just a little girl his age, curses some more, pointing at a few Peacekeepers about something, and Dill is running right after her, so she doesn't break anything. "Did- did she have a baby attached to her chest as if she was-"
"Breastfeeding?" Kileigh finishes the statement for him, as she doesn't feel comfortable hearing Zachary say that word aloud for some strange reason, looking down and smiling at him as she helps him out of the chariot, he accepting her hand graciously. "Yes, definitely."
"I don't want to be her…" he shudders.
"I definitely don't want to, either," she agrees.
Seeing all of the violence and anger and hurt wrapped up in the girl's body has Kileigh frown, for there's someone back home, though she doesn't know them very well, for they are the same age as Cassiopeia, strikes a drum within her, Kileigh shifting slightly on her feet. Violence is a disease, a sickness that ripples through the body and cripples all the defenses that have been put up against it, as someone will always tell her it's… that it's just human nature, and a small dosage of bile rises in her throat, for her parents have taught her more than that, taught her to be better than that.
It is through non-violent methods that they choose their way to fight back against the Capitol, detonating two explosive devices after hours where there'd be no security monitoring the hallway, on a few breakers that ripple into the generators, plunging all of Five into darkness, and relative chaos, but Kileigh is sleeping sound in her bed before the Molotov cocktail goes off.
The Cassiopeia lookalike, the girl who acts with more anger than sensibility in their tiny frame, all of it builds and culminates to when she and her family, the Katsaras, cross back under the fence line, greeted by a wave of water lilies and the such by their house, that a family halfway across town, the Rushmore's, who had agreed to help her own parents in the take down of the dam, are not so lucky, and their daughter, this sweet girl who never knew when to shut up and sit down and accept that brandishing teeth at someone is the best course… they're burnt alive in front of the Justice Building by Capitol supporters, and Kileigh mourns for the first time in her life.
She looks down at Zachary, who is smiling and waving at a few other tributes, like the pair from Seven, done up as those silly trees that Kileigh finds to look absolutely outrageous, there being the entire hint and sense of fakeness wafting off of the shaky emerald leaves. Sylvan, if Kileigh recalls his name correctly, takes off his hat, some sort of headpiece with red leaves dancing in the breeze, holding it against him with a rustle of plastic and fabric, though Nevaeh, the girl, is a bit more tightlipped, she smiling wryly, before the two leave.
Kileigh parts her lips, looking at Zachary, a bang of heat and pain flaring in her stomach. It is in the way of the eyes, the small curve of his nose, and while he might be twelve, he looks just like- no, she doesn't finish the thought, instead biting down on her tongue to allocate the little amount of pain she can suffice to herself that doesn't toe the line of violence and rage. Zachary looks at her, as the two-start heading for the elevators, he seeing her sudden change in disposition, frowning himself.
"What's the matter with her, Kileigh?" he asks her, concernedly, a small frown dipping his lips towards the concrete. "And are you alright?"
"Nothing's wrong with her I bet," Kileigh says as diplomatically as she can. She cannot think of him, but she does, the man Eddie who saves her and her family, the one who helps them migrate out to beyond the fence and into the golden green pastures beyond District 5, the one who sends them the weekly letters about the developments happening in Panem, and of the bitter fall that is District 1 and 2 due to egos. The man who gives her an apple that first day her parents went to work on building the hydroelectric dam, to then receive the electric chair, or the murder by a thousand knives, and Kileigh's scream forces itself from her throat, for it isn't two days when she's back in District 5 before he is killed, the other people responsible for the power outage already killed to the mob, like the Rushmore's and their daughter, burnt alive and made to drown in a sea of black oil flooding their lungs. "And I'm fine," she smiles at him, lying through her teeth.
Would her parents be proud of her still? Not a killer, not someone to use violence, though her gaze does flicker over to everyone else occasionally, wondering who in them would be able to raise the knife high and plunge it into someone's chest. She can't, she knows that for a fact, no matter the circumstance, and certainly not on sweet Zachary, who tries his best but is having a hard time paddling upstream. Would her parents be proud of her that she's a liar?
Kileigh shakes the uncertainty away with a fake smile, hitting the up button on the elevator, per Ginger's instructions on where they must go, up to the fifth floor in the apartments, attached to a training center, for their doom – err, their future, Kileigh corrects, though her knees knock together – seminar. Zachary enters the elevator first, humming to himself, still keeping that sweet smile on his face, before Kileigh joins him, sweating bullets going down her forehead.
Because she knows.
She knows what all of this means.
She can't do this.
And because she can't do this, it means Kileigh is going to die.
Niklaus Peverell: District 8 Male P.O.V (18)
Vibrations still ring out beneath his scars, under the thrum of the waves that pulse in his heart, Niklaus Peverell closing his eyes shut after he and Poem both enter the elevator to take them up to District 8's floor. The roaring of the crowd still follows behind them, it seems, in tides of chanting all bunched up together to form a single dark cloud over his heart, for all Niklaus wants to do is go to sleep. He looks down at his arms in the dim light of the elevator, seeing the white paint that goes up his already pale arms, done so to show to the world that he is flawless, he snorting at the thought.
"Me?" he japes with the prep team that hose him down, catching a golden eyed blonde beauty, her lips thin and curved with a smile. "Flawless? You have cataracts?"
Poem has not stopped talking, her mouth a ramble on product design and fabrics and all of this other shit that he doesn't care to listen to, half of him wanting to abandon her after the chariot goes to a stop, but all of the stylists and prep teams are waiting, she hooking him by the hand and dragging him along with her everywhere she goes, to introduce herself as THE Poem Cavalli, that has him rolling his eyes, because bless her heart, she is just as dumb as she looks, shaking these people's hands and nearly ripping them off.
There is a moment of peace in the elevator as Niklaus gets to catch his breath, trying to recover from seeing those tributes from District 1 especially, spray painted gold and silver and bronze and platinum, Niklaus's eyes searching all over that Catalus Drachma with his abs and chiseled jawline, and his body stirs low somewhat, for this isn't right… it's all Rudy's fault. The man he lies with for a quick needle slip, the loan shark who grabs him by the throat and pins him to a wall and spits down his throat, Niklaus blanching at the thought.
He feels extremely silly, really small as he approaches Damien when exiting the train, if he has any more of the… of the good stuff, the white slush in the bag or those orange pills he puts underneath his tongue to forget about the world, but their escort simply looks at him as if he has two heads, nudging him in the direction of the coach that'll take them to the Remake Center. Niklaus whines low in his throat while getting in, careful to not hit his head under the low ceiling, Poem already inside, rather about bouncing up and down without a care in the world, she being admonished for she nearly causes one of the wheels to pop off and then Niklaus would be forced to push the coach to the Center. He laughs heartily at that, hurting his stomach, but Damien's hard lined face makes him think otherwise, his smile flickering and fading down under his veins, thin spidery webs of faint navy and leaking copper red.
Beyond that, as he's drowning in a tide of dark velvet and fabric that has him feeling like he has wings, he genuinely appreciates District 4's outfits, that Orion Maythorpe in a stunning shade of blue with his hair done up to look like a shark fin, shirtless, of course, but his eyes flicker on Diana Kratovska a lot longer, her arms covered in precious gemstones, like a moving roll of water. Poem's eyes are wide too, as they stare at the screens, waving back and forth with hands like they're airplane propellers at the people calling out he and her names. It is weird, honestly, to hear his name being yelled out in a more positive manner, instead of his father, Sebastian Peverell with the cold glare, or Rudy Patterkinn's hand on the back of his neck, bringing him closer to the leviathan's mouth instead of the hypodermic needle he craves.
Poem looks over at him, in the elevator car, face bright and wonderful and beautiful, Niklaus smiling softly, as it seems to be she is no longer upset at their little diatribe that happened in his bedroom back on the train. The way his district partner grips her dress, the blood stain blooming along like a cherry flower, stemming down a paisley pattern, Niklaus trying to get her to calm down, all the while forgetting the fact she had just physically removed the needle from his arm, and there is a single stream of crimson sliding down to his wrist, he hissing in pain and dabbing at the spot with a napkin. After all the Peacekeepers and Avoxes and Damien rush in to see the commotion, Poem is a crying, sobbing mess on the ground in his bedroom, Niklaus having wrapped his arm up with gauze before kneeling down to examine the dress.
"It's not ruined…" he tells her, softly, trying to use his words, to try and make sense of what in the hell just happened between them, for she's somewhat angry, by the way her nostrils flare, but then she's asking him if he's alright and why he does drugs and- he shakes his head back and forth. He can't get close, not like this. Getting close allows Rudy into his life, the son of the fucking Head Peacekeeper who know has dirty tabs on him and every operation and thing he's ever done, all because that white powder is too good for his system to function without having it flow in his veins.
"Ruined… ruined…" Poem whispers over and over again, but eventually, she seems to just wrap herself around Niklaus in a hug, a choked sob and cry of desperation breaking free, Niklaus slowly wrapping his arms around her while she presses her face against his and her chin grinds into his shoulder. He has a feeling, however, a small iota, like the droplet of blood that appears when he breaks the skin, that she is not crying about going into the Hunger Games, given she volunteered, but over the damn dress, which… well, it hadn't been that amazing to begin with.
Whatever bits of sadness had clung onto the District 8 pair seems to float away into the haloed ceiling as their elevator arrives on the District 8 floor, a low gasp coming from Poem's throat as they step into their quarters, Damien already there with the TV screen on, holding some sort of dark liquid in his hand, Niklaus smelling the air. Whiskey, most likely. Fireball, most likely, and his stomach churns. He hasn't had a glass of alcohol in a long time, for Rudy forbids it, with one hand on his throat, the other down his pants, twisting, snarling, and Niklaus is begging for forgiveness, for another loan that he'll pay back, I'll pay it back, I'll pay it back just please don't hurt me, Rude please no-
Niklaus jostles in place as Poem squeals again, pointing at the television screen. "Their outfits were magnificent!" she exclaims, he looking to see what she's so damn excited about, District 3 flashing on screen momentarily. The girl, Vesuvia, who gives him the shivers and shudders, seeing a hint of darkness in her eyes, an intelligence he could not reach the same level of, is currently blowing a kiss to the crowd, a sparkling evening gown that glitters like moving nanobots or electronic pulses across her waist, spiraling down in a Fibonacci sequence, her district partner, Jasper, more stoic and a lot less engaged, done simply up to look like a moving clock.
Damien puts the channel on mute, setting the remote down, as Niklaus surveys their living quarters for the next week. The tribute parade is the one day, the one time, where everything gets to feel lax and more at ease, before everything unravels down onto training and killing and performances, his heart beating fast. The living room is a simple dark aesthetic, dark leather, he running his finger atop the couch ridge, feeling the bumps that mirror his scars under soft pads. A kitchen table and a dining room sitting just off of the elevator, connected to the kitchen, a quaint little room of ochre wood and an amber mood lightning, and then down to the bedrooms, Niklaus assumes, he and Poem's names being written there in a crème vanilla color on a golden plaque.
Their escort turns to them, a nice smile on his face, Poem resting against the couch. "That was very well done, you two," he says, a fledgling of warmth passing in Niklaus's stomach. It has been a long time since someone has looked at him in that way, one without judgement or needing something from him, just a way to feel warm and welcomed, and… and loved. "Everyone did amazing, but since Poem volunteered from an outer district, everyone's eyes will definitely be on you," a bead of sweat trickles down Niklaus's forehead. Attention, attention, he had been used to attention for a bit of a time, after the gears had stopped working and the charred corpses were piled up on the side of the road for the undertaker to snatch up and roll away. Cameras in his face, flashing lights, a microphone, and Niklaus hiding underneath the mayor's flower garden to inject under the cover of dusk. "I hope you are ready for what comes next."
"And what would that be?" Poem asks innocently, rather idly spinning a lock of hair around her fingers, slender fingers, working fingers. Fingers that could disembowel him if he isn't careful, Niklaus locking eyes with the spinning motion. Anything with a sharp edge helps ease the pain, where pain is his elixir and his freedom sliding down a tube of sex-eaten thoughts.
Damien pinches his brow. "Poem, are you still on this?"
"Still on what?" she asks again, tilting her head, frowning. Niklaus looks at her with a look, the look as if she has lost her mind, because what on Earth is she talking about? Everyone knows what the Games are, even if there hasn't been the largest releasing of information, but to be entirely clueless? And volunteer? Niklaus frowns as Poem simply shrugs her shoulders. "All I know is that I loved being up there and I'd rather not wait to do that again…" she lowers her head some, doing a light little chuckle, a chuckle that lights up Niklaus's veins just as well as the slush does sliding down the hypothermic needle onto his fingers and just underneath the nail. Mindy had always been discreet, her hostel a place for discreet business to take place, until Rudy shatters the walls on his sanctuary, and he's scrambling around trying to recover from the leaked pain coming out of his eyes. "We will get to do that again, yes?"
"Well, if you mean getting to dress up, you have interviews in three days with Richmond Anvil, the Master of Ceremonies, before the arena to the whole country," Damien says at length, a pang running through Niklaus at the thought of speaking to Richmond Anvil, the man who could make or break him with a single snap of his fingers, or a dismissive buzzer. "Besides that, you should go take showers, you're starting to smell other than like beautiful fragrances," their escort waves a hand back and forth, a little bit of displeasure on his face. "When you're done, we need to talk about training tomorrow."
"Oh, there's no need, Mr. Paladine," Poem says sweetly, already undoing the ribbon that keeps her hair up, the lace falling over her fingers and draping to the floor. "I won't be going anyways," a choked sob of surprise hits Niklaus in the throat. "If you need me I'll be in the shower," and she dances off, rather airily, twirling and god, Niklaus's head is spinning, he pressing his head against the cool leather of the couch. Her heeled feet disappear down into the hallway, Poem starting to hum.
Niklaus rubs at his brow. Here he is, drowning in a sea of desperation, and she's flocking about with a deadly smile on her face, waving to the crowd. He couldn't do it, he knows, the thought of holding a silver stained blade in his hand and thrusting it into her and watching the offal spill, he can't do it, not after she has enough self-realization in her to rip out the needle.
It is his tether, his lifeline, and his lifeline is killing him, suckling on sour breastmilk, it turning gray, like the sordid gray costumes that District 12 wear, miner outfits, he believes, coal dust smeared all over their faces, and Niklaus is feeling a lot happier about his own costume now.
He needs to get off of the lifeline, it being more than twenty-four hours since his last injection, since he swallows an orange opioid, his entire body aching in pain. Niklaus looks up off the couch at Damien's stunned expression, their escort running his cheeks together.
"When are we going to tell her?" Niklaus asks, softly. Everyone else seems to know but her, or she's in the largest dosage of denial he's ever seen.
"Do you think she'd even listen if we told her?" Damien frowns, tilting his head to the side. Caring, compassionate, someone who doesn't want to see them all die, Niklaus figures, but if he doesn't want to die, she must, a thought he is not ready to confront just yet.
"No, sir, I don't think so," Niklaus says, a shiver rippling through him… he never uses that word, not in that lighted context.
Damien shrugs. "Then I guess we don't tell her, let her find out herself… let her be surprised, and let it ruin her."
He shrugs his shoulders, a seed of guilt burrowing deep, but he doesn't disturb it, letting it sit there to rot and grow and fester. He will let these Games ruin Poem and her starstruck dreams if he has to, but he will not let it take him. He will beat his demons, fight the monster within himself, rip out the needles and let the red blood flow free like distilled wine.
The Games may take her, but they will not take him.
I know what everyone is going to say. Oh my god, Paradigm, this chapter is gigantic. And I know it is, so you're welcome. Sorry, not sorry, but my chapters will be this large cause why the hell not. Anywho, that was Chapter #12: Project Death Runway, where we had our tribute parade! I really, really enjoyed getting to this stage of the Pre-Games, where my writing happens like hotcakes and I'm off down this train of writing like crazy. This chapter is one of four where we get the second round of tribute POVs, hearing again from Cecelia, Sylvan, Portia, Gemini, Kileigh, and Niklaus. Whose chariot outfits happened to be your favorite and why was it Cassiopeia's? (I had to ya'll, I'm so sorry, sorry Cassiopeia.) Also... this might be the fastest time a story of mine has ever reached 100k cause lol it's 100k now and we're just starting the Pre-Games. Guys, I'm sorry, bloodbath is totally going to be at like 225k or something nuts.
I am very excited as the next chapter, #13: Strength of the Weak, focuses on Training Day 1, and I love these moments and days, cause unlike Slaughter and Bullets, we are not sticking to just district partner interactions, but going wide and expanding, metaphorically speaking. Seven povs next chapter, hearing from President Emrick Israel to start us off, and then the tributes that follow are Pierce, Nevaeh, Catalus, Cassiopeia, Zachary, and Vesuvia. I ALSO had a poll on my profile for those to see who your favorite tributes were after the intros, and I know I didn't keep it up for an extremely long time, but to no surprise, Catalus Drachma, the D1M from Manny Siliezar, won with 5 votes! Poem Cavalli and Zachary Edison tied for 2nd with 3 votes each, seven tributes getting 3rd with 2 votes each, and nine of them getting tied for 4th with a single vote each. Yay, Catalus!
Please let me know what you thought of the chapter; reviews are greatly appreciated, and I love getting to know what you guys think! I'll see you all next week with the next chapter, where I am for sure certain another gigantic update will await us. Have a great day! Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm