Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death, Chapter #17: And the Winner Is. Last chapter, #16, focused on the Private Sessions themselves with third round povs from Orion, Porscha, Magnus, Camilla, and Dill and Capitol plot advancement from Adriane and Cain. This chapter today focuses on the score reveals, which I am excited about and we will see everyone's sessions in some way, shape or form that were not the latter three tribute povs. This chapter has povs from Kileigh, Calen, Diana, Gemini, and Cecelia, with a Capitol plot advancement from Lydia at the end where all the scores will be recorded, but you will also see them discussed in two separate povs as well. I hope you guys have all been reading and keeping up to date as I am planning five updates during October, as I want the bloodbath on Halloween and that is Chapter 21 and that's creeping up on us closer than I can scarcely believe. I hope you all enjoy Chapter #17: And the Winner Is!
"Comparison is an act of violence against the self," ~ Ivanla Vanzant
Kileigh Katsaras: District 5 Female P.O.V (17)
Broken code, she has broken the code of life, laws and rules people follow to keep themselves in check with their wilder selves locked down beneath them, mantras and belief systems that are to steady the tide, stop the boat from rocking so to speak, and Kileigh has shattered that. She's chewed down on it with her bare teeth, ripping pieces of metal out and spitting them back onto green sand, hallucinogenic sand that runs through her brain, but through scientific discovery – that being just Zachary's floating head in the corner of the living room, but she cannot see past the haze that has coupled over her face, blinding her from all that moves, turning them into shapes in the dark without any sort of form.
Adrenaline. Endorphins. That is the word he uses, but Kileigh prefers a different one from that. Poison. Poison, running through her veins, turning her skin a putrid scarlet until she throws up voluminous amounts of brackish liquid into the sink, holding her hair back, and Ginger is at her side, asking what is wrong, but she doesn't want that Capitolite shrew near her, should those endorphins come back and make her puke in the woman's face, which is very possible. Zachary's face floats back in front of her, Kileigh gasping and swallowing hot air down her throat, back to the surface she tries to swim upwards, needing to take a seat in the living room while Zachary approaches her, a hand out to touch her shoulder, tentatively, but she sees the pause in his movements. He's scared. If he is scared of her, she has yet to find out, but she knows she will sometime soon.
"Kileigh, are you okay?" he asks her, her district partner sitting down on the floor in front of her while Ginger goes to grab a towel, soaking it warm water to place on her forehead. Kileigh is very pale, extremely pale and trying to keep her eyes focused on the windows, which are shining such an illustrious bluish-green color in the rays of sunlight that are hitting it. She is hallucinating, she thinks, with sharp clarity, and that only makes the desperate whining noise that rises out of her throat all the more terrifying to her.
"No…" she gasps, hands clutching her chest and tugging on the flesh there, fingers bending into talons that slice and claw, Kileigh sitting up straight, the escort and Zachary moving with her. A few Avoxes have wandered over, one of them by the elevators that Kileigh stumbles out of. She has no idea how to describe it, when Ginger sends them away into the bathroom for something, it being her room they go into, the largest one on the opposite side of the apartment.
Is this what everyone goes through when they break their code? This sort of violent reaction, like white blood cells going over the harmful bacteria in her stomach. She is parasitic now, the entire thing needs to be thrown out, and that would take her with it if she isn't careful. Kileigh gets handed a glass of water from somewhere above her, Zachary's ever concerned face looking at her with a frown, he gently placing a hand on her shoulder, allowing her to catch her breath.
Ginger replaces the towel with her hand, humming something about swapping temperatures, leaving the two kids from Five together.
"Kileigh, what's wrong?" he asks her. It hadn't been six or seven minutes since he's back on the apartment floor, as the kids are allowed to go back to their room when they are finished with their session, that he cracks open up a water bottle, sits with Ginger to discuss strategy, and there is Kileigh, who is practically pushing the doors open with her bare hands, looking rather shaken and beat up about, well, something… and she's muttering something under her breath.
"Sickness… must get it out…" she repeats over and over until Zachary is holding her by the face and yelling at her, though she doesn't hear the words, just the sharpness of his voice, the intensity in his eyes as they search and roam for answers, needing to understand. She does not understand it, and since she does not understand it, she cannot quantify it. Her parents… they never told her about this, they must have lied to her about what it meant to sacrifice code for survival… and Kileigh wants to survive more than anyone on this face of the Earth. "I… I held a weapon for the first time…" she manages to get out, in broken gasps and shuddering that has her whimper in Ginger's bony grip for there is a cold towel that is now resting against her forehead.
Zachary frowns, a droplet of cold water slides down her cheek, and all she can feel is disappointment surge within her as her stomach churns from side to side, there being the chirping of birds in the background, the din and roar of the waterfall she used to bathe under… the smell of smoke from the Molotov cocktails getting thrown through her bedroom window… the sound of screams from dead children routed out of their home. At the center of it all, it is her hands gripping the firm metal of the bow resting on the far wall that spurs this reaction out of her, she thinks, feeling the cold weapon beneath her fingertips, pads imprinting and marking alongside the rigid surface until her breath returns as quickly as it had fled.
"What?" her district partner asks, there being a slight mirth in his voice, as if this isn't serious, for Kileigh isn't sure if she is having a panic attack or just… she feels wrong, as if something is crawling inside her and deciding to chew at every piece of innards the monster can find.
"Weapon," she spits out, bitterly, wiping at the back of her mouth, another few cold droplets connecting to the first and splashing onto the carpet. "In the sessions, I- I touched a bow…" Kileigh shudders, putting her face in her hands.
Zachary has a look of incredulousness on his face that she doesn't see for he lifts his head up to look at Ginger with a frown, but he is still back at her side, gently touching her knee, moving her hands away from her eyes. "Kileigh, it's okay. It's just- what weapon was it?"
"A bow…" Kileigh whispers, wiping at the bit of drool that slides out of her mouth, she choking on a harsh gasp in the pit of her stomach. Cain's command, that she may begin. Kileigh looking around the room, lost as to what she could possibly do for all these people to prove she is not some sort of helpless animal… she is not just a sack of meat and blood for someone like Diana Kratovska to slice open, or someone who Pierce Alversway can just wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze the life out of. People have tried to kill her before, and those people who didn't are way worse gremlins in the dark than these tributes who will piss themselves with fright on stage tonight with Richmond Anvil in front of the entire nation. "A bow," she says, and locks eye contact with Zachary for the first time since entering the apartment, another shudder racking her body.
His eyes are forgiving, but his mouth is slightly curved, it seemingly impossible to figure out the angle at which he is moving his lips like so, but the hand remains there in all of its idyllic comfort, not doing much, but she does not have the heart to tell him to stop. "Kileigh, it's just a bow. It isn't going to hurt you."
"But it's what I did," she snipes back quickly, mind going over what had just happened. She picks up the bow in her hands, having seen her father hold it to shoot apples out of a tree once, from behind the fence line from the heights he could not climb, per her mother's request that he stay back from hurting himself. Kileigh watches with an odd fascination, seeing the angled movement, the way his body would ripple while muscles worked together to draw back the bow, tension fleeting him as he'd fire… she wants to emulate it, and every other sort of weapon in the building felt too sinister to even touch. "I fired it…" Five shots at the dummies in front of her, three of them hitting the body, Kileigh yelping in fright, low enough that no one else would hear it, when her fifth shot hits the head of the dummy, somehow, somehow, and she sees navy colored plastic spill out onto the floor, compiled in a way to represent blood and guts, vomit threatening to appear out of her mouth.
"Yeah, Kileigh," Zachary says at length, holding out the words with a raised eyebrow. "That's what you're supposed to do in these sessions. Show Mr. Passionia and the others your skills so they can rate us properly and-"
Another shake of the head, another lump in her throat that cannot be assuaged by water or a cold towel or his hands or Ginger's peacock voice… she needs her parents, she needs their hands around her in a tight embrace, whispering into the nape of her neck and telling her it will be alright. "You don't understand, Zachary," she tells him, using his name this time a bit more pointed, like sharp iron prodding at another dummy, for his eyebrows rise and he lets go of her knee. As Kileigh makes that fifth shot, her first having missed, the second and third hitting the leg and right side of the dummy respectively, the bow seems to hum beneath her grip, startling her to drop it, coupled with the sight of the fake blood spilling out of the dummy.
It is irrelevant whether the dummy is alive or not, if the bow is alive or not; the feelings of stormy waters within her are real enough, that is what she feels pulsating against her neck as she cries out for help, desperate to be heard. How evil it felt beneath her fingertips, the darkness surging through her and corrupting her, cell by cell, bone by bone, inch of flesh by inch of flesh. She hastily bids herself away from the room without a dismissal from the vice president, but she doesn't care, she unable to stop the feeling running through her fingers.
"So you fired a bow at a dummy, and it spilled fake blood everywhere," Zachary repeats, sighing and pinching his brow in confusion. "Kileigh, it is not as if you shot your bow at a real person. Not…" he pauses, catching himself on his words, she seeing through exactly what he meant to say as he holds himself steady. Not yet, is the words she can tell that he wants to say. Kileigh knows he is right, deep down, in the pit of her stomach. Deep down, she knows that there is no way she has enough power to plead through the arena without ending the life of another soul.
Her parents were right, from the get-go, even out in the woods when they wouldn't eat meat to try and survive, unable to break down their own moral codes… yet Kileigh does it all within a three day time span… survival, survival is the key, and Kileigh is not sure she is able to do what it takes to survive any longer, not out here in this city that corrupts her from brain stem to the soles of her feet.
"That's just it…" she whispers, unafraid to bring the words out, for it is what terrifies her the moment she feels the darkness cascade down through her toes, an echoing voice that is not her own whispering in her ear. "I liked that dark feel," she tells him, seeing how Zachary's face loses its color, cheeks flushing white, his pupils dilating.
She liked it, the thought and image of seeing the dummy spill open.
What would she experience and feel if there were another human being on the other end of that arrow wound, spilling scarlet splatter onto fresh blades of grass? Onto her hands?
Kileigh is terrified to admit it, but she has the perfect word for it sailing through her brain.
Euphoric.
The feeling would be that of euphoria.
Calen Kinegrove: District 10 Male P.O.V (15)
Nokomis has not stopped wringing her hands, going back and forth, and pacing over the carpeted rug, her feet kicking at it in bunches that leaves piles of fabric mushed up in the corner. Calen follows her every movement, raising an eyebrow at the oddness of her behavior, for she seemed okay just a few hours ago when everyone had been waiting to get called into their respective "private time" with the Head Gamemaker. Vice President. Oh, whoever… Calen had to admit his annoyance in the whole matter concerning the day, with Roxanne's rather hollow advice from last night still ringing in his ears, or the matter of fact that he still isn't sure how to exactly outlast anyone if his score comes up much lower than he expects it to.
It had been nothing much, lassoing around some of the free dummies that no one most likely is going to attack given he is the 19th soul to go and there are only five people after him, none of them striking him as fighters who are going to go to town with them. His hands are a bit chafe and blistered over from tugging on the rope so hard and constantly yanking it back and forth, tugging the dummy to him clear away from about ten feet or so. He sees the Head Gamemaker sit up, eyes wide and glistening with something, though Calen is not sure what it is or what it means. He found a minute of leftover time to pick up a sword and try slicing through a few more dummies, but the grip felt wrong, and even though he is attacking inanimate objects, something about seeing a navy blue arm fall to the ground with what is clearly paint and plastic guts spilling out over his shoes causes his stomach to rumble, and Calen excuses himself over it.
He isn't worried about Nokomis, nor does he care why she's panicking in the corner. Well, at least, he believes she isn't, but she does seem worried and preoccupied by her pacing, lips being bitten by teeth, suckling on blood, and chewing on the flesh of her cheek. No, with a shake of his head, he decides. He does not care. She did not care about him to even include him in whatever love affair she has with the girl from Nine, so why should he ask how she is doing now? There's nothing in there for him.
Calen watches her walk back and forth, Nokomis running a hand through her hair, muttering to herself, and ever so often she'll clutch a spot on her pants where it is raised up some as her fingers claw around it. He notices a pencil in her hand, absentmindedly wondering occasionally if that'll be how he dies, a pencil in his throat as he chokes on his own blood.
"What's the matter, Nokomis?" he asks, after breaking his moral code. Perhaps his mother is right, perhaps she's always been right and that he is too soft and sweet for this world, unable to outlast the others who do not give a damn about him because he is so caught up and concerned for their well-being, people who in just twelve short hours are going to try and kill him! He leans forward in his chair some, putting his face in his hands. "What's bothering you?"
"Nothing's bothering me," she says, shaking her head back and forth, but the lie is in her voice and on her face, eyebrows knit together so tight they could form a sweater. Calen sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He understands now, after being in this wretched city for so long, that the city eventually will corrupt whomever stays long enough, which luckily for him, isn't happening as he's being taken to freedom – depending on how someone looks at it – shortly… even in his short duration spent under the glistening lights that swing back and forth, he's seen a trick or two of the trade.
"Nokomis, you're shaking," he tells her, pointing out the obvious tremor in her hands that has Nokomis look down and exhale another breath, this one full of vibrato and the shaking of the Earth, she sitting down and putting her face in her hands. He hears her breathe in and out, furrowing his brow together with a frown.
He noticed the uneasiness in his disposition the moment she steps onto the floor, but this is a whole new level for it, he recognizes. Not that he's ever had any time learning how about anxiety or panic attacks, or how Nokomis never struck him as being someone who didn't have her ducks all lined up in a row… it is something he cannot ignore. "Nokomis, please," he tries again, venturing outwards into the unknown without a flashlight. The last time he tries to be nice to her, by making her a plate of eggs and holding out her chair for her, she gives him a glare and some cold words, and he's mocked by the same older woman who has now tried to pick him up by his bootstraps. How will this not go any differently? "Talking about it helps…"
A wounded noise rises out of his district partner's throat, and as she looks up, Calen sees tears in her eyes, that taking him aback by some margin as he also didn't expect her to be one who cries. They're the only ones on the apartment floor currently, Roxanne gone with all the Avoxes she could find for… some reason that she doesn't explain. The woman leaves in a current of scarlet fabric and rosy blush on her cheeks while Nokomis practically falls apart in front of her without a care in the world. He didn't expect Nokomis to be someone who cries, as he's run into them, they enigmas to his warm heart who must feel, a beating organ that needs to expel compassion for without it he'd wither up and die.
Nokomis runs a hand through her hair, combing a lock behind her left ear as she trembles. "They made me read one of my poems aloud!" she bursts out, before covering her face with her hands again as she starts to cry, Calen's eyebrows rising up as high as they can go on his face at her words. That… that's new. Granted, he doesn't get to see her when he leaves his session, he expecting her to try and carve up something with a knife or a hatchet, but well, reading poetry…
"I'm sorry…" he whispers, slinking out of his chair and going over to her, unsure whether or not he should put a hand on her shoulder. It is contact. Contact shows that he cares. Calen Kinegrove is not supposed to care. He is to hate and dislike the world and boil it over in his fury until the lights go out and he is smothered in harsh darkness, choking on his own words and spittle and fury and rage… but Calen breaks against them, those feelings. He reaches out a hand and presses it on Nokomis's shoulder, leaning into her given his extremely tall stature, and wraps an arm around her in a hug. "I'm so sorry. They shouldn't have had to do that."
"I- I don't even know how they knew I wrote them or…" a croak bubbles in her throat, as she wipes away at a tear. Calen can only look at her, guilt flooding through his stomach. He didn't do anything, of course, and Roxanne would most likely chide him for that, but he doesn't care. He does see the notebook, flipping through it when he sees it, as he's given the instructions on waking up Nokomis on the first day of training, but it must be her sixth sense, as even though she is dead asleep to the world, curled under the sheets just a few feet away from him, she springs to life, he shutting the book as quickly as he opened it.
A poem titled Cherry Blossoms, pretty sounding enough, until he reads the first line. In fact it is the only line he gets to see before Nokomis wakes up, scaring him half to death.
Cherry blossoms: pretty and fragile. Cherry. Dark pit. My heart, a dark pit.
The words echo in his skull, he trying to wipe them away as he tugs Nokomis out of the chair and onto the couch, so she doesn't feel restricted by the arms of the chair, he feeling her roaring heartbeat beneath his hand which is pressed firmly there. The score reveals are to happen anytime now, and he doesn't want to miss them, even if she is distraught beside him, cause things could end up turning out well!
He finds the remote easy enough, Nokomis quiet beside him, but she has stopped crying, which is good, as Calen turns the screen on. There's only one channel the tributes are allowed to watch and look at, some sort of news station that is a live feed to them, when sure enough, Richmond Anvil's face comes on just a few moments after he turns on the screen. Talk about record timing.
The man and face of Panem's PR is clean cut and shaven, chiseled jaw and a dark eyed, dark haired beauty, his suit made of glittering onyx, a stack of papers in his hand. There is a trumpet fanfare that sounds off, coming from the speakers a bit louder than anticipated, causing the pair from Ten to jump in place. Richmond looks off screen for a moment, smiling at something seen off camera, and then back at the center.
"Good afternoon, Panem! I am Richmond Anvil, your Master of Ceremonies, here with an exciting update concerning the first annual Hunger Games, something I know you are all excited about," the man winks at the screen, nausea suffocating Calen's thoughts at the idea that he will be on stage with this man just a few hours from now, spilling his heart out to the world, all in the matter of five minutes… as if that is long enough for him. "Here in my hand," Richmond promptly shakes the pile of papers in his hand, there seeming to be about three of them, "Is the copy of the scores that are from the Private Sessions that just happened over an hour and a half ago. For the twenty-four tributes here in the Capitol, they were given two days in the training facility here to muster up skills and talents they would feel worthy to show our very own Vice President, Cain Passionia. A tribute, in five-minute blocks, got to present their variety of skills," Nokomis snorts next to Calen at that statement, a little of the old Yanaba fire that he's known to come and appreciate, Calen smiling at the gesture. "They are to be scored from 1-12, and the scores go as follows,"
Richmond Anvil taps the pages down onto the desk, pulling out a pair of reading glasses from his lapel, dark rimmed like everything else on his body, before peering at the list. A table in the corner appears on the side of his face, the twenty-four names in a golden color and cursive font filling the empty rows, and as he speaks, the columns are filled with numbers.
Catalus Drachma: 3 – Three
Cecelia Blackstone: 2 – Two
Magnus Winterthorn: 12 – Twelve
Portia Beninblade: 7 – Seven
Jasper Overheart: 6 – Six
Vesuvia Vocanova: 10 – Ten
Orion Maythorpe: 8 – Eight
Diana Kratovska: 9 – Nine
Zachary Edison: 6 – Six
Kileigh Katsaras: 5 – Five
Pierce Alversway: 4 – Four
Porscha Watanabe: 4 – Four
The names and numbers roll on and on, a dark tidal wave hitting Calen in the face as he brings a thumb to his mouth, gnawing on the cuticle back and forth until it is razor sharp, he frowning and waiting, not even noticing the other scores… he just wants to hear Mr. Anvil say his name and have that be that.
His mother will be proven dead wrong. He is strong enough for this world, and he is not already dead no matter what she says or how she'll try to make him feel awful about his propositions… for as Roxanne would put it, he will outlast them.
Calen Kinegrove is going to outlast them all or die trying.
Diana Kratovska: District 4 Female P.O.V (17)
Her and Orion's scores have already gone, and she's heard them, but she's unable to dwell on them for very long as Richmond Anvil continues to speak, Diana distracted momentarily by his beauty, as it makes sense that Panem's administrative heads would find the prettiest face they could to show off their immaculate cheekbones and their plastic surgeries that end up making fossils look like plastic covered pieces of furniture that have never been touched before. She tries to focus on the bar on the side, filling up with names and numbers that be meaningless in some contexts, but all she can focus on, besides Richmond Anvil's glorious face, a slice of heaven in her lap, is that she scored higher than Orion. Officially, by a point.
He can suck it.
Richmond goes through the rest of the scores, currently having just shared District 6's to the world as Pierce Alversway and Porscha Watanabe's portraits disappear into the negative white space filling the screen behind him.
Sylvan Adello: 5 – Five
Nevaeh Davoli: 7 – Seven
Niklaus Peverell: 2 – Two
Poem Cavalli: 1 – One
Gemini Lennox: 4 – Four
Camilla Rodriguez: 8 – Eight
Calen Kinegrove: 5 – Five
Nokomis Yanaba: 6 – Six
Dill Waylon: 4 – Four
Cassiopeia Grey: 7 – Seven
Ramses Boskov: 6 – Six
Kai'sa Shadow: 8 – Eight
Richmond says another few words to the screen, with the portraits of the District 12 tributes fading into obscurity, as Diana likes that a lot, the concept of those who are lesser than her vanishing from her mind, but the words are lost to the static in her head as Orion reaches for the remote, turning off the TV and setting it back down on the couch. For a moment, neither one of them speak, Diana simply drumming her fingers on her the arms of her chair.
Then, with a sly smirk, "Your boyfriend got a six, I see," she tells him, Orion blushing red even though his eyebrows turn cross and he glares at her.
"He's not my boyfriend, Diana," Orion says sharply, he looking as if he is about to get up, but he doesn't, staying lax in his seat. There's a pause on his end, however, she sees it play out in his eyes, as he decisively thinks what to say to her, Diana always knowing when someone's gears are turning in their head, whether it be the upturned lip or the rather vacant stare in his eyes, but also on the fact that Mr. Maythorpe is not as opaque as he might tend to think he is, she seeing the way his eyes light up at Ramses's face, although the score of six is nothing to write home about either. As a matter of fact, it is Orion's blank face that turns into a smirk that has her tilt her head to the side. "And it looks like your boyfriends Catalus and Magnus upstaged you too, Princess Di," he tells her, turning over to face her, a smug look on his face that she'd much rather punch off.
A blister begins to appear on her left wrist, Diana going to scratch at it but pauses on it forcefully; it shows as a sign of weakness, that something irritable has gotten to her, and she is not about to let anyone see through her cracks. Kept together, that is what a Kratovska is. Where the sun shines, there will be no perceptible porcelain cracks on her skin. "What do you mean?" she asks, trying to keep a smile on her face. "Catalus and Magnus aren't-"
"I know, Diana," Orion interrupts her, though there is no scorn in his eyes, not even a twinge of hurt in his voice, all of her senses heightened to an eleven. There can be only one thing in the world her district partner is aware of that she would be hiding from him, but to not be visibly upset by it? She can think back to how her friends, oh those simpletons Bree and Miller – Casear has his wits about him at any rate – would get upset being left out of whatever juicy gossip stole the stony shorelines captive if Diana wasn't to tell, privy on all matters scandalous just from where she hung out, but this is different. "Wyvern told me about the alliance you made with Catalus and Magnus," and his smirk heightens, her blood chilling cold. "I just think you might have made a bad move. Magnus clearly just got targeted by Mr. Passionia, and Catalus scored so low maybe his entire bravado was an act…"
At first his words don't even register in her ears, not most of them at any rate, instead taking apart the fact that their slimy old man, their escort, went behind her back and told him… when would he have had time to do that? It mustn't have been last night as there never had been a moment when Diana sees Orion alone with him… and he acted it off like nothing weird happened at breakfast… that old bastard. Diana curls her hands into claws around the arms of the chair, but she keeps her smile on her face, despite the fact that her skin is starting to blister.
"Well, I was gonna keep it a secret," she tries affably, with a faint laugh but it comes out of her throat like a wheeze, she clutching at the tendons there and soothingly rub over her Adam's apple. "But haha, you caught me!" Diana exclaims, throwing her arms up wide.
He is not amused, Orion's facial expression far from it, a gut punch to Diana's stomach. When the smell of the palm trees and fresh coconut water would become too much for her, she'd go back home, to sit on the room of her floor and meditate, legs crossed beneath her, elbows at her knees, waiting for her father to return. It meant peace, it meant alone time, but it also meant, when she'd see her dad's sandpaper colored hair, or his coy smile and glowing eyes, that it is time for another Kratovska lesson.
"We're leaders, Diana," her father tells her with a hand on her knee, gently shaking her back and forth as Diana makes room for her father in her bedroom closet. The door is wooden, with a sliding piece on the wall for the slots, sunlight bleeding through the cracks and casting their hair in a lemonade glow, his smile there in the shadows, comfort filling into Diana's chest as she smiles at her father. "Leaders who will carry the world on their shoulders sometimes. Your mom and I…" he takes a pause, Diana filling the pause with words of her own, statements she is sure she knows he'll say, but like always, he takes her by surprise, an occurrence that happens all the time. "Your mom and I are trying our best."
"Why do you have to try your best?" Diana can remember herself asking, in the sanctity of that closet, her legs starting to fall asleep beneath her as she changes positions. "We are already the best."
Her father raises an eyebrow, expectant yet filled with disappointment, Diana feeling the disappointment ripple through her stomach likewise, shame and upsetedness flooding through her gut. "Are we?" he asks her, though she doesn't answer, turning her head away, and he follows with a hand on the side of her face. "Are we, Diana?"
"No…" she shakes her head in shame. A Kratovska is better, though, she knows it. She knows it deep down, which is how she manages to get Magnus Winterthorn and Catalus Drachma onto her side, there's no two ways about it. If she isn't the best, then why did they agree to match with her and not ally with the kids from Three, who seemed talented? "But we will be, won't we, Dad?" Diana asks him, her voice filled with hope, as if she has teleported herself back to being seven years old and seeing the patriarch lift her onto his shoulders at the top of a cliff top, the tangy sea hair hitting her in the face, accompanied by the orchestral beats of the waves on the rocks down below.
A pretty sight. What would it look like if she were to split Orion Maythorpe's head on one and see the glimmering crimson colors dribble down the wet surface like spilled paint onto a canvas? That is what it feels like, as she takes a bow, slightly surprised by the new heftiness in the weight that it carries, which has her shots slightly off, but two bulls-eyes are better than zero, and she can only imagine how Magnus must've done, given his proclivity to archery as well.
"No, Diana, we won't be," her father tells her, and she promptly pushes him out of the closet. What does he know? What will he ever know?
It is the last conversation she has with him face-to-face, there being a letter or two that Diana deposits in the fireplace by the front door, a bad choice with wooden floors and walls, but she didn't design the house, so who cares. Orion looks nothing like her father, now that she gets a second glance at him, taken aback by his next statement.
"I want to say I'm mad at your choice, but, no," her district partner shakes his head, the dyed blonde still stuck to his skin no matter how hard she hears him try to wash it out in the shower. "I get it, Diana, I do. No rules or laws stated you had to stick with me."
"Well, I would've selected you if you and that Boskov kid weren't already sewn at the hip," she tells him. It is the truth, well, partially… there is more to it, but she is not going to tell him now when there's no current stakes in the game that she just doesn't think he's up to snuff with the others, regardless of what his score of an 8 will say. She will say it as she drives an arrow into his chest if it is to make him feel any better about the current situation at hand, but that'll be for another day down the road.
Orion tosses his head back with a groan. "How many times do I have to tell people that we aren't dating or joined at the hip or anything?"
"You're the one who spent all last night on his floor, basically kicking out Kai'sa to the roof," she shrugs her shoulders. "We're all teenagers. You know what we're going to think and what people are going to say, Orion."
"We didn't!" he protests hotly.
"Then why did you save him?" she shouts back, getting to her feet. Frustrated, frustrated, frustrated. He is not allowed to just through his problems at her feet and expect her to feel sorry for him. He volunteered for this shit, and she is not going to let someone bitch and moan while she's plucked out of the masses by some dick's hand because the world wanted to play a prank on her.
"Because he was going to die if I didn't!" Orion yells back, now at his feet too, but he doesn't move away from the sanctuary of his chair. "If I didn't, then he would've drowned!"
"It's a competition, Orion," she snaps at him, Diana's face twisting into a sneer. "Last I checked, people dying is how we're going to win this game, and if he died two days before he was supposed to, what's the problem?"
He flinches back at her words, they cold and harsh, Diana pausing too as she holds a hand to her mouth. Did… did she just say that? She knows why she loves firing her bow, seeing arrows sink into fruit or small animals or whatever the sharp tips can find, but… she's never quite articulated it like this. It would've brought her great joy to see Ramses Boskov sink into the bottom of the pool and never resurface for air, yet it is Orion who goes and messes all that up.
Orion's eyes go dark, he swallowing nervously and tugging at the collar of his shirt. "They're still people, Diana…" he whispers, looking at her as if she is the worst person to have ever existed on the face of the Earth. "Even as competition they're still people. People with feelings and lives ahead of them…" her district partner shakes his head. "Keep your alliance with the guys, but I am not going to get behind you if that's how you're going to view any of it…"
He stalks past her, she moving out of the way of his furious step, Diana looking back to follow his movements, and as he moves, she can only hear her father's voice in her head. Chiding, snarking, full of disgrace and a slimy feel to the tone.
"You want to call yourself a Kratovska and share my blood and my name?" A heavy pause, like back in the closet, when her world is shattered, and she pushes her father away for the last time.
You're a disgrace to share my name and have my blood.
May the carrion of the skies eat on your eyes as you die.
Diana doesn't have the life force in her to even weep.
Gemini Lennox: District 9 Male P.O.V (17)
He is sickened at the feeling he is experiencing down in his stomach. It is akin to liquid rage coursing through his veins at the nights when the morphling drip stops too early, and he's biting on his lower lip trying to stem the agonized cries from rising higher in his throat. Gemini scratches over a spot on his right wrist where the injection would normally be, eyes squinting over at Camilla who is standing over in the corner talking excitedly to Clair, their escort, about the festivities to come for the night, festivities that want to make Gemini puke as there doesn't seem to be any fun at the idea of spending three hours in a line listening to interviews from competitors to then going on stage and spilling his guts out.
Gemini isn't sure what he'd talk about, even, as no one has taken an interesting in his painting skills, and the portrait he has of Camilla sits unwrapped in his room under the bed, as he hasn't mustered the liquid courage either to ask an avox for help with it, as he knows Clair will just babble early and ruin the surprise. However, now that he thinks about it, there is no reason for him to give the surprise to her anymore… she doesn't deserve the picture. She abandoned him for a girl she hardly knows, spending all her time with her, never once asking him for his opinion or for his help. He has no idea what brought on her attack last night, but Gemini can feel a slow stirring anger down in his soul that threatens to boil over when Nokomis is the one who gets up instead of him, she holding out a hand that stops him in his tracks.
"You don't know her," he tells himself, but he believes he is pointing it towards the girl from Ten, scowling all the while as he nurses a vodka club soda in his hand, wanting to try from Clair's special stash – the escort claims over split peas and mashed potatoes at dinner last night that each escort has their own special liquor cabinet in their bedroom under lock and key, and that if one escort is to say they don't have one, they're lying – instead of the shit from the cabinet. It is weak, baseless.
He'd know; it's his crutch after everything that has happened. Light spills into the drink nestled in his hand, it being some sort of sweet syrupy drink called cola that has an alright taste to it… Gemini wonders what would happen if he were to mix it with rum or whiskey… how would it taste then?
"Why would you need your own special liquor cabinet?" Camilla asks Clair over her own pile of mashed potatoes, scooping some onto her fork – why not a spoon? – as Gemini looks at her. He saw her, when he first lays eyes on her at the reaping, beautiful and stunning, in waves of golden light that warm his face when they land upon his cheek bones, but now he sees those same waves in an ochre amber color, that of scarlet and vermillion, blood lying in wait.
Clair smirks, takes a sip of her adult drink with a laugh, "You guys are all a handful. I am glad I have alcohol while working with you guys!"
That conversation has left a sour feeling in Gemini's stomach, even as Clair kisses Camilla on the cheek – she's fallen for the illusion, the illusion that this girl from Nine with dark hair and rosy cheeks and a stunning face has the body of a wicked witch, of a crone – and says that she is going to get dressed, needing to find a new outfit for the interviews tonight. The prep team, the same ones that Gemini loathes talking to despite how handsome all the men on the team end up being, will get them in an hour. He is excited to see his outfit, it hopefully being better than that of a scarecrow of course, but, still… the evening weighs heavily on his heart, as does the sick feeling of seeing Nokomis go after Camilla into the bathroom. He gets up a moment later to see what the issue is, as deep down he does care about her even if he is going to lie to her face and say he doesn't, but the cold dismissal, the turn away… it is a knife to the chest that has him stumbling into his room, feeling like he is drowning in a white sea of vodka in his lungs. The lines distort, and when he sees her at breakfast this morning before the sessions, he only bids her good morning. The aura has gone black. Solid, wicked black, a widow dressed in mourning from the scarlet fever that takes her life away.
It is the scarlet fever that takes him away. He still has no idea what killed his mother truly, no one ever told him – not that he could afford talking to a coroner or a doctor in the first place, the Lennox household smelling of flies when a few Peacekeepers come to collect the body – but he knows what brings his father to suicide. The drinking gets worse, Gemini picks up a needle to dull the pain, and in the midst of that he grabs a book, flipping it open and pouring himself into the world of myths and paint.
Camilla looks at him and grins, startling Gemini out of the negative headspace he is in, the ionizing feeling in his gut being that of shame and jealousy. He is jealous. He looks at her and sees a princess locked away in a tower, gentle and kind, but yet behind that soft smile he sees her fight, the vileness that has her kick him to the curb without as much as a second thought. Gemini picks up a sword in his private session, not strong enough to hold the blade up as it seems only the larger ones are found, the smaller ones discarded after some other session goes, as the vice president puts it, 'terribly wrong,' but Gemini can smell the bullshit on his breath.
"Well, nice job, Gemini!" Camilla tells him, disrupting his thoughts.
He cannot help the scowl that crosses his face. The living room is a sea of murky grey, bundles of fog that cloud his mind and causes him to choke on the sulfuric acid riddled in the droplets. Camilla's hair has turned seaweed green, scales and shells sliding off of her body like she is some sort of serpent, hissing at him as she slithers across the floor.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," he dismisses the praise with the wave of his hand, getting up. Gemini runs a hand through his hair, sighing heavily, feeling the blossoming pit of hopelessness expand in his chest. He cannot let this consume him, as there is nowhere for him to run to. Sometimes he'll curl up and lie down on his mother's deathbed, as his father could never have the heart in him to throw it away, it being the same ledge that he uses to step off of with the rope tied around his neck.
It all disappears in the swiping of the paint brush, but he's sure Camilla will find a way to steal that from him too, as she's seemingly stolen everything from him already it seems. He only brought her in and accepted her, wanted to make her feel comfortable from the evil they were about to endure. His reward is sand in his face, blinding and terrifying as he stumbles around in the dark.
Camilla frowns, bringing her eyebrows together. "Gemini, you did well."
"It's a four," he says, throwing his hands up. "I just marginally scored better than that little girl from One, or the druggie from Eight, or better yet, his district partner who is stick in La-La Land. Yet meanwhile…" he tosses a hand at her flippantly, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. He hates this feeling, that he is jealous of someone from home, when he should be confiding in her the secrets of the rusty tub and the IV stand in the corner. "You score so damn high…"
His district partner tucks her legs underneath her body as she gets more comfortable in her seat. "Are- are you saying I don't deserve an eight?"
"What did you do?" he asks her, turning on her from his perch at the foot of the carpet, one foot resting on the wool, the other on tile, his bare feet prickling at the goosy sensation. "How on Earth did you score so high? You're not exactly built like Diana or anything!"
The sweet and caring look in Camilla's eyes evaporate on the spot as the words leave his mouth, the walls turning into a brackish shade of green, Gemini smelling perfume and roses, the same scent that makes his mother's body bright and colorful and beautiful. She gets up from her seat as well, scoffing back at him. "And what is that supposed to mean? That I am not good enough?"
"Last I checked, you're no Hercules, Camilla!" Gemini snaps at her, eyes blazing in fury. He should've painted. He should've fucking painted for them, and maybe someone would have recognized his talent for once instead of stewing his gift and his art all around the place, smearing the marks and smudging up his perfect vision.
Camilla takes a step back, opening her mouth in disbelief, any hint of solace or kindness in her eyes vanishing on the spot. "Are you-" she pauses on her words, eyes widening in triumphant glee. "You're jealous that I scored better than you!"
Well, that didn't take long for her to find that out, he supposes dryly, wanting to crack a pathetic little smile at her as he does a slow clap. "Bravo, genius," he tells her. "Brav-fucking-o, Camilla."
"Is it because I'm a girl?" she interrupts him, though her nostrils do flare at his insult. Camilla crosses her arms over her chest. She being angry is almost humorous to him, where he could paint waves of orange sunburst flowing from her body and into the ceiling, hazy and jagged, like a cliffside.
"No, trust me, that isn't it," Gemini corrects her. Be as jealous as he may be over her scoring higher, it isn't because she's a girl. It simply has to do with her appearance.
"I'm no little damsel in distress, Gem," she barks back at him, this time taking a step forward, but Gemini does so as well, lifting his head defiantly. "I got a high score cause I earned it."
"That's great," he says sarcastically, doing another slow clap before pointing upwards to the ceiling. "Maybe you can go be a knight in shining armor to Nokomis since clearly she must mean the world to you for how much time you spend with her! Just leave me here all alone to suffer while you go befriend someone you don't even know."
Camilla tilts her head back and laughs to the ceiling, a hand on her stomach. "That's what this is about!" she cackles, before pointing at Gemini with a curved finger, a talon that is going to slice him open. "You think just because I started hanging out with Nokomis it means that I abandoned you?" she keeps her arms crossed again, bringing her brow together. "Gemini, just because we're district partners doesn't mean I have to do everything with you. I'm not your therapist."
It is a cold sucker punch right to the gut, Gemini feeling the wind get knocked out of him, stopping whatever it is he is going to say as he feels her contact strike him in the face. He takes a step back, the next rebuttal hot on his tongue sizzling up like a flare off of the sun's surface.
It is the last thing his father ever tells him before Gemini goes to find a new needle and a new packet of morphling. It is on that trip he finds the stationary to write a note, apologizing to his father on all of the mistakes he's made… "I'm not your therapist, Gemini," and then his father goes and hangs himself…
Gemini feels a single lone tear slide down his cheek, Camilla taking a step back at his wounded facial expression, her mouth moving but he cannot hear her over the roar of his heartbeat in his chest. He simply turns away from her, silent as can be, fingers digging at the claw marks on his wrists, at the injection points.
His nail gets under one, and he slices downward, copper spilling down his pale body.
Cecelia Blackstone: District 1 Female P.O.V (13)
Well, if it is any consolidation when she thinks about it, at the very least Cecelia didn't end up with the lowest score. She knows that the Poem girl, somehow fascinating and terrifying at the same time, all bunched up together with how the girl volunteers and seems to frolic about the Training Center without a care in the world, Catalus smirking into his cup of coffee in the morning about how she has wandered into wonderland and will not come out unless a blade is in her heart at the other end of the tunnel, a rather gruesome thought for sure, but she doesn't see any other way for the girl to snap out of it.
After all, even with Cecelia's youth, being one of the youngest in the assorted group of tributes, she is not naïve or dumb… she knows what tomorrow will bring, what will happen when she wakes up tomorrow, with Adriane and Avoxes around her at every turn, or after she waves goodbye to Catalus, that perhaps being the last time she sees him. No one knows what tomorrow will bring, the thought of the unknown a seed of worry and fear burrowing into the pit of her stomach that only brings up harsh thoughts and trying not to choke on sulfuric acid in the regurgitated throw ups that bring her to the toilet every few hours on and off in the middle of the night. She falls asleep early last night, the garden of fright in her veins growing at quite the fearsome rate as she clutches onto her pillow at the thought of what she will do for Cain Passionia, being the second person of the whole troop to go.
Either she falls flat on her face and embarrasses herself – Cecelia knows the rules, she's young and expected to die, as she's seen the odds chart, since Adriane practically shoves that stupid piece of paper in her face – or is so impressive that they will have no one else to talk to except her, which again, knowing the rules, impossible with twenty-two other tributes after her. Catalus arrives late last night, as Cecelia returns to her room from another moment to throw up and he locks eyes with her. It as if he has seen a ghost from the way he stops in his tracks upon seeing her, lips parted, eyes narrow and he going silent.
"I didn't expect you to be up…" he says, and he's right, as Cecelia looks at one of the clocks hanging on the walls, it being nearly three in the morning. She has no idea that he even left since she retires to her room after dinner early, despite Adriane's protests. The faint bruise on Catalus's eye glows in the dim light of the living room, the bronzer starting to fade away, it still a gorgeous tone on his skin that Cecelia is amazed by, at how someone can look so good, but money most likely plays a large part in it.
"Couldn't sleep…" she tells him, and that is that as she goes back to sleep, for she cannot entertain the thought of being outdone by her older and more pretty district partner, even if Catalus is nice and awesome, as Adriane likes to remind them all the time, which Cecelia finds confusing as she thought, given he tried to strangle her and all, that the two would be sworn enemies for life on the stark differences in opinion about the Capitol that the two have.
However, now, as the scores fade away into obscurity with Richmond Anvil's voice echoing into the corners of the apartment, Adriane goes up to get a drink, disappearing into her room – she has a full mini bar in her room, apparently, as Catalus does some sleuthing, something about expectations being ruined and everyone going to laugh at them for their shitty performances – all Cecelia can think about is not only does Catalus not perform as well as she thought he would, he got a three.
The sense of bravado she felt from him, the glistening bronzer that is applied on his face giving off a serene halo flickers and then distinguishes itself into the curtains as Catalus slowly rises off his spot on the couch. Cecelia knows where she went wrong. She tried picking up a blade and when she went to throw it, she tripped, partly due to how wrong it felt holding the weapon in her hands, just the fact she didn't know what to do with it once she had it, as the rope course hadn't been prepared for her yet, and there wouldn't be enough time for the trainers to set it up. She sees that she scores the same as Niklaus Peverell from Eight, a soft noise of sympathy going in her head as she saw how the guy reacted in the center, lost and without aim, unlike Poem who seems to just bounce around the rafters and hinges, nearly taking the entire building down with her.
She brings her attention back to Catalus, frowning. "What happened?" she asks him, hoping to not upset him as she flashes her a look, quick, yet noticeable, quick yet noticeable with a frown tugging at his lips, she sinking back into the leather of the seat she's sat herself in.
"I don't know, Cece," he tells her, his voice giving out as he runs a hand through his dark hair, his muscles bulging out underneath his shirt, Cecelia's eyes appraising over the lines that make up her district partner. "I just couldn't do it… something in me just couldn't perform for all of them even though I knew I had it in me to…" he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand, going into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
She turns around to face him, smiling the best she could. Her parents always told her to make the best of their situation. Even if the sky is falling apart and the bombs are detonating just above her head, Cecelia still has a roof over her own, and their family is still together, instead of some fathers and mothers – yes, valiantly, but still leaving – to go off to fight and getting families torn apart… that didn't happen for her, the Blackstone's stayed together. They stayed strong and united.
"Well, hey, at least we scored terribly together," she tells him, trying to smile and laugh, but it only comes across as awkward when Catalus tosses his head back and sets the glass on the counter, having swallowed the entire cup as quickly as he goes to pour another one.
He looks at her, there being some sort of misty sadness in his eyes as he stares, Cecelia itching up her arm away from the pointed glance… it's a bit too strong for her liking, and no one has ever looked at her this intensely like he's doing now, Cecelia turning to look away as her district partner speaks, voice hollow. Not all like the golden boy Drachma rich-kid she expects him to be, that bringing her back to look at him, frowning.
"I have something to tell you, Cecelia," he says, running another hand through his hair, the other hand pushing the glass of water back and forth over the countertop. Adriane sure is taking a long time with her mini-bar, Cecelia hearing the chinking of ice cubes in a glass and her muttering. She has half the mind to close the door to her bedroom and lock her inside, it'd do her good for all the evil words she's whispered over the last few weeks, but Cecelia has no idea where that wicked thought came from… she's been raised right, not to think like some devil snarling at whatever moves in the corner. "I'm not proud of the decision, Cecelia, but…" he trails off, she sitting up straighter in her chair.
"What?" she asks, frowning. This… this can't be good.
Catalus looks at her, cheeks flushed with color, lips parted, and she can already feel the apology sinking into her bones before he even speaks, the words out of his mouth before the syllables are truly even uttered. "I'm sorry… but… I joined an alliance last night…" he looks away from her in shame, a blush settling on his cheeks, his words hitting Cecelia like a punch to the gut. "It's with Diana Kratovska and Magnus Winterthorn; Diana asked us last night personally on her floor," he looks up, and though she sees no tears in his eyes, Cecelia herself feels like crying. "Without you, is how she wants it. I can be in the alliance, but you can't because-"
She holds up a hand, the words getting stuck in her throat for a second, she coughing through the pain of having to admit them. It is one thing to have Adriane say she is worthless and will not amount to much, painful given how it seems the escort is about to take the little girl under her wing, something stopping her from that connection. It is another thing entirely, a descriptor that Cecelia does not have the language comprehension for, to hear it from his mouth, so she might as well interrupt him and say it herself. "Because I'm useless and weak and my age will only hurt you in the arena," a lone tear slides down her cheek, followed quickly by a second. So much for staying strong and finding positives in the face of adversary, the way a normal Blackstone would. "I get it, Catalus."
He makes a wounded noise in his throat, arms slipping off the counter, yet he doesn't move over from the kitchen back to her to comfort her, as Cecelia curls up in on herself in the seat. "No one said that, Cece," she snaps a glare at him. If he is going to kick her to the curb like that, he has no permission to start saying a name her father would coo at her from the pile of bedsheets and pillows on top of her body as her father comes in with the tickle guns. "Please don't say that about yourself."
She gets up out of the chair, feeling confined and afraid she is going to stick to the leather that'd keep her pinned to it and never able to run away from Catalus's words. "You didn't have to say it, Catalus," she tells him. "It's implied anyways, without you even needing to…" she shudders, wrapping her arms around her waist, tightly, keeping her warm if the embrace of the only semblance of home is going to stab her like this. "Were you ever going to tell me? Is that what you wanted to do last night when you saw me in the hallway?"
Catalus looks at her again, just like last night with the bluish glow of the hallway lamp casting azure shadows across his face and popping up the darkness of his shiner that looks back at her. The man who took a hit for her because she had been struck, and now he is the one striking her, sticking the hot poker from the tended coals into her side, to serve her up as a pork roast for the Capitolites and other tributes, blades at the ready, spittle dribbling down their chins, that wild and manic gaze in their eyes. Terror in a moment, a single snapshot. Cecelia is going to puke, she knows it.
"I don't know…" he admits, honestly, with another hand through his hair. "This is already painful enough as it is…"
"Because you're betraying me!" Cecelia yells at him, she surprised herself that she's raised her voice. There had been no declaration that neither of them were going to work together, Cecelia having that thought in the back of her mind, but still, at the same time, getting the bandage ripped off hasn't been easy, it leaving a mark of tar and metal bits of machine gun bullets embedded in her arm. "Stabbing me in the back, even though I thought you were better than that…"
"Cece-" he starts again.
"Don't call me that!" Cecelia screams at the top of her lungs, and with the middle finger getting thrown at him, she runs out of the living room and to her bedroom, crying all the while.
She cannot hear her own thoughts over the cavalcade of tears pouring down her face and the hollow feeling that resonates in her gut, but she also can feel one another thing surging within her… an anger.
A fire she has never felt before, and it only has one target.
Catalus Drachma will pay for this.
Lydia Wickervein: Head Peacekeeper P.O.V
Beads of sweat trickle down her forehead and onto one of the many pieces of paper that are covering her desk in her room. Lydia Wickervein wipes away some of the sweat with the back of her gloved palm, she half in and half out of her Peacekeeper uniform, part of it slung over the chair by her and Richmond's shared bed. Sunlight, ever so dimming, pours in from outside, pools of halcyon and amber on the carpeted floor, the carpet she loves so much, Lydia shifting through another page. Her heartbeat still roars in her chest, the ever-present threat still hanging in the back of her mind.
Allow one to live while twenty-three die or tell someone and watch all twenty-four of them fall dead in front of her very eyes… people she is told that must die, something she agrees to and is there when the law is set in motion… Lydia didn't sign up for this. She swore to protect and serve, and this hasn't been turning into her idea of that very notion. All of President Emrick and Vice President Cain's email correspondence and letters sit in front of her at the desk, she asking several Avoxes to get the information for her, bypassing a few security checks that she might have put into place herself. The stack of papers she did not expect to be quite this large when it is carted to her office down in the lower levels of the city near the train station, Lydia lugging the wagon back up with her all the way home.
The sound of someone's dress shoes make echoing clatter noises along the painting covered walls as they round the corner, another droplet of perspiration landing onto the letter in her hand, sogging up the corner and blotting some of the ink. She smears it away with a hand as the approaching noise gets closer.
"Babe!" exclaims a male voice behind her, Lydia turning and nearly dropping the letter out of fright to see her husband, Richmond, dressed all spiffy and handsomely in his dark suit, in the doorway. "You aren't even ready yet!" he says, closing the large doors of their master bedroom behind him. "You know that the interviews are in just an hour or so, and remember, you're off duty tonight!" He pauses, taking stock of the mess of paper in front of him. Their shared vanity sits off to the side, Lydia placing several manilla folders there as well while she rummages through. So far, it has been a dry dock, zero luck in the notion of there being a disgruntled Capitolite – she knows it has to be, given where the letter came from – who wished to stop the Games. "What is all this?"
"Personal project that Emrick wanted me to go through," she says, realizing her error in calling the president by his first name, as she only does that with him and no one else. Not even Richmond, who'd understand, but it technically is a breach of protocol. "He wanted me to look through emails and letters regarding the Hunger Games and the transport of tributes."
"Why?"
"Why does the man ask us to do anything, Richmond?" Lydia turns to look back at her husband, eyes searching his face for an answer.
His eyes turn despondent, a low frown as he tugs his lips beneath his mouth, taking another step towards her. "Well, I don't see why you have to do any of this; the man has a secretary for a reason, and besides, you have something else that's more pressing to attend to."
"Oh yeah?" Lydia smirks, setting the piece of paper down. An email back and forth between Emrick and Cain, detailing how the tributes from District 2 would be arriving to the Capitol, given their close proximity, the train running around like a squirrel on a wild goose chase for that lost acorn of theirs in the log. Nothing too important, but Lydia knows that there must be some sort of loophole for this guy to get to her. Richmond slides his arms around her in a hug, tugging at her waist and bringing her flush against him before he kisses her. She melts into it, feeling stress evaporate down her shoulder blades into a thin trickle of water.
"Yeah," Richmond hums against her jaw as he takes her hands in hers. "Like… kissing your husband and love of your life," A pause as he relents from the assault, threading his fingers with hers. She feels the smooth metal of the wedding band on his finger, she noticing that hers are bare, something he'd commentate on as he had seen her just a few days ago wearing it and- he doesn't seem to notice at first, however, as he kisses her again. "Did you get to see some of the program?"
She didn't have to see anything, after all being there when Cain pitches his little fit over there needing to be blood showers pouring down from the heavens and soaking their fabrics red with vermillion streaks. Lydia has seen enough blood to last her a lifetime, the dying screams of a suffocating District Thirteen echoing in her ears at night when she tries to sleep, they barely audible over Richmond's snoring. "Some of it," she coos back, placing a hand on his chest. "You looked ravishing as always. Scores were pretty much as I expected, from the few glances of the tributes that I got."
Lydia doesn't want to talk about the tributes. All she has done these last few days is think about those twenty-four kids. She doesn't want any of them to die, deep down, and if she were to go parading around this concept of bloodshed and violence, Lydia knows she'd only be lying to herself. There haven't been any nightmares yet, not like watching Nathanial Coin's head leave his body and his kids scream for mercy before Cain swings the knife down over their tongues, serrating the organ from the rest of the body… but once the blades rise high and the cannons start to boom, she can only imagine what sort of terrifying thoughts will claim her head at night.
Richmond pulls back, smile still on his face. "I have to change out of this. Cain says that repeating outfits will only bore the Capitol even more if they see me wearing the same outfits, so I'll be getting changed down at the theater," he rests his hands on Lydia's shoulders, tearing her away from the letters, for good measure however as her eyes are starting to hurt if she stares at one more electronic signature. "Can you imagine that?" he laughs airily, her heart elating. This is the man she loves, someone she never would've expected to fall in love with given that she'd be the first to consider herself some sort of tomboy, even with the ponytail. "Cain thinking he has an opinion on fashion choices…"
She smirks, trying to not say whatever pops into her head first, as she feels the need to agree with Richmond regardless of what he says. "No, I get it, Richy, I do," and she pats him on the shoulders there, feeling the taut muscle underneath, similar to her own. Lydia goes down to the gym four times a week just after dinner, the walk allowing her stomach to settle from Richmond's delightfully good cooking, or if an avox had prepped the meal, from their own well-crafted work. "But remember, he's your boss, so you have to respect him."
Her husband mutters a curse into her mouth as he kisses her again, pushing back slightly as she falls against the chair she had been sitting down at, bumping into the table. One particular piece of correspondence falls onto the floor, Lydia's eyes widening at the sight that is the letter. She pushes back again on Richmond's chest to get him to ease up, a faint blush covering his ears as he recoups himself. "Sorry, heh," he smirks. "You know how I get around you," and then, as he brushes through a lock of her brown hair, "What are you wearing tonight?"
She's distracted by the fact of the letter being on the ground, but still points to the backless silver attire that is currently draped over the side of the bed, gently touching the ground, and spilling onto the carpet. The blocked text of the threat whispers back to her, the verbiage, and the fact it seems typed instead of written being what alludes to her that it most likely is a man that has sent the threat. "That," she turns back, smiling, draping her hands around Richmond's neck. "Plucked straight out of the First Lady's closet." Something to brag about perhaps, given that her husband's eyebrows raise, and he laughs.
"Well, that is definitely an upgrade to anything else I've seen you wear. I hope she lets you keep it; I'll beg Ida about that the next time we eat potatoes au gratin with them," he kisses her again, before taking a step back. "I must get down to the theater, Lydia. I hope to see you soon."
"I'll visit you in your dressing room before the show, I promise," she says, patting his chest to send him off. As he turns his back to her, Lydia picks up the piece of paper, heart beating in her chest like a snare drum as she holds it tight against her body. Close one.
Richmond gets to the door, fingers lacing around the gilded knob to shut it when he turns back around to look at her. "I love you Lydia," he tells her, and then with a pause, "And Lydia?" She looks up, slamming the letter down on the blank side quickly at her name. A look of disappointment fills her husband's eyes, her own heart skipping a beat. "Please wear your wedding ring…"
He leaves on that note, shutting the door down, Lydia biting back a curse.
The Interviews are about to begin… time for the tributes and for Lydia Wickervein to get their shit together.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, that was Chapter #17: And the Winner Is... of Liberty, focused on the training score reveals! Did any of them surprise you or underwhelm you? I am sure some of them will come as a surprise, but I promise you, meticulous thinking went into them. We got Round III povs from Kileigh, Calen, Diana, Gemini, and Cecelia, as well as a check-in to see how Lydia is doing with her mystery threat... but man, we're so close to the Pre-Games I can almost taste it!
Next chapter, #18: A Charlatan's Performance, is going to be focused on the Interviews. I have seven povs planned for it, update for next Friday, a week away from now. As I do with every Interview chapter, each one of them is covered to some degree as best as I can with just a line here or there if the tribute doesn't have a pov. Starting off the chapter will be Richmond for a Capitol pov, and then six tributes: Catalus, Jasper, Zachary, Poem, Nokomis, and Kai'sa. I am very excited for it, as it just means we're one step closer. October is going to be a hectic month, as I have this chapter being posted today. Interviews is on the 9th, the Night Before will be the 15th, Launching is on the 22nd, and as I've been saying for a long time now, bloodbath is on Halloween... so yes, five updates in a month, call me crazy I've probably done worse.
I hope you guys review, it means the world to me, and I have to say I have noticed a lack of them lately which has been a bit discouraging as your support and commentary really helps a lot, but I swear that I love this story too much and this cast of characters to give up because of something silly like that. See you all next week! Love you guys so much! Have a great day! Bye!
~ Paradigm