Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Death. There's a lot to discuss, probably, a lot to explain for maybe - y'know, how I've been gone for like two months but whatever - but I figure you're always sick of it, so I might as well dive into doing what I love doing the most, and that is tormenting these kiddos and their lives, hard promise. Last chapter, #32, focused on Day 8 with our final ten whittled down into a top eight. Orion and Nokomis have taken the fall, Jasper and Poem have snagged kills on the kill count board, and we have something I have never written before in a story, but I decided it'd be fun and turn it into a little twist... final eight interviews. This chapter is entirely focused in Capitol character povs, Emrick and Friedrich, but the tributes will be featured, so it is something to read! I hope you guys enjoy Chapter #33: Tugging at the Heartstrings.
"Love is love, hate is love, heartbreak is love. You're sad because you're in love. It hurts because you're in love," ~ Anonymous
Emrick Israel: President of Panem P.O.V
It has been quite the turn of events so far, for President Emrick Israel. He sits at the corner of his desk, on the desk since he is not a man of practical or reasonable means, biting on the inner left side of his cheek. Staying out of the here and now with the Hunger Games has proven to be quite the experiment, as he witnesses Catalus Drachma from District 1 and Poem Cavalli from District 8 stand nearby the dead body of Nokomis Yanaba, gesticulating wildly in the corpse's direction on the terms of what is allowed in the Games or not. The girl's hands are shaking, her bloodied knife no longer in her grasp, that somewhere floating in the brooklet by their feet.
Moves and countermoves, Emrick deducts, sitting on the lip of his desk so the point jabs into the spot just below his spine. Enough pain to remind him that one false move could turn into agony. The squabbling of the alliance on screen is different than that of the kind of scene happening in the scorched section of the arena, between the alliance from Three, dubbed 'Brutal Technology' where Jasper is sleeping in a ball, his ally Vesuvia simply staring ahead into the night sky, counting down the seconds before the anthem will ring out.
Richmond's announcement still rings in the desolate spaces of the arena, about final eight interviews, and that all killing for the next hour and a half is completely outlawed. Emrick wonders, though he figures if there's any time to be disappointed by events going in the Games, if someone is to break said rule, and he expects it to be Camilla Rodriguez from Nine as the culprit, said girl fleeing from the last scuffle, tears streaming clear down her face as she just yells, yells, and yells. It'll all be over soon, Emrick imagines, and none of these tributes will have to suffer anymore.
"A suffering you willingly put them through," a voice in the back of his head whispers, but he waves it away. There's some motion to the left of him, he looking over to see Lydia Wickervein step back in between the far wall and the couch. She simply gives him a nod, Emrick returning the gesture. He likes her as a confidant, and as a loyal worker in his administration. Cain can fault her all he likes, but he cannot catch the Head Peacekeeper unaware.
Emrick grabs a pen from his collection on the other end of the desk, twirling it between his fingers. The last bands of the sunset start to mesh into the blanket of blue, which means it is time for… ah, right on schedule. A loud trumpet fanfare plays, the Panemian logo washes on screen, and all of the movement in the arena ceases to a halt, the sounds of Catalus and Poem's argument dissolving into dying whispers.
Richmond Anvil replaces the logo, standing in the center of the stage where the interviews with all of the tributes were held. It is an idea of the interviewer's that he has shortly after speaking to the escort from District 1 - that Adriane Lantham woman - Richmond bursting into the office so fast, it scares Emrick and causes him to throw his hot cup of coffee up in the air.
"Greetings, Panem," Richmond smiles in earnest in the center of the stage. Emrick glances over at Lydia, smirking himself to see the tips of her mouth curved upward in a grin of her own. He notices the glimmering tangle of gold around her left hand… so she is wearing her wedding ring after all. "I am your very own Master of Ceremonies, Richmond Anvil, here with another shocking and rousing moment in this year's Hunger Games. Just moments ago, our final nine tributes were whittled down to a final eight, their faces shown now…"
The interviewer steps aside for the graphic to load, the eight candid shots of the remaining tributes filling up the screen. Emrick leans forward, slightly off of the desk, to get a glimpse at their portraits… there is anger radiating off of the screen, pointed glares in most of them – Catalus, Diana, Jasper, Magnus, primarily – and only one smile… sweet, oh the ever loving idiot, Poem Cavalli.
Richmond steps back into the picture, the portraits fading away into the background. "Tonight, after our ninth place tribute fell with a blade in her neck, I made an announcement declaring that for the next ninety minutes, the tributes are forbidden from killing anyone," There's a belabored pause, Emrick smirking and crossing his arms. He knows what comes next. "That is because, for the next hour and a half, we are doing another round of interviews with the tributes!"
There is applause that can be heard in the studio, in the background, but the audio in the arena, as per Emrick's instructions, is left completely off. The tributes are looking up at the sky, since they see the interviewer, but unless they're expert lip readers…
"We will go in district order, starting with Mr. Catalus Drachma from District 1, and ending with Miss Camilla Rodriguez from District 9. Let's get underway!" Richmond shouts, pointing his head up the ceiling, shooting a finger up in excitement.
The screen behind the interviewer meshes into the arena, the decaying forest of glitter and gold, a moving camera sticking out of a nearby tree just across from the brooklet coming into view. The crane lands directly in front of Catalus and Poem, the boy from One's eyebrows lifting up straight in the air. He looks up at the arena sky, then at the camera, then back at the sky, and then…
"Fuck!" Catalus swears at the top of his lungs, throwing his arms up in the air, turning away from the camera. Poem's brow furrows together in confusion, her own voice of confusion rising out, but the focus isn't on her, the camera even blurring the girl out of focus.
"Catalus!" Richmond declares, throwing his arms open wide in a mocking repeat of the boy's movement. "Good to see you!" The audio in the arena cuts off again, as a cautionary measure Emrick wishes to take should some of the tributes decide to use the interviews to their advantage or detriment.
"Screw off!" Catalus barks back at the camera, walking away as fast as he can towards… well, Emrick isn't sure. Over in her corner of the office, Emrick can make out that Lydia has an amused smirk on her face.
"Mr. Drachma, I have eleven and a half minutes with you, and if need be, this camera will follow you the entire time for this interview," Richmond admonishes him.
Catalus runs a hand down the center of his face, thrumming across his nose. His eyebrows are strips of black in the dying light, the coolness of his irises flickering in the shade. Poem takes a step forward towards her ally, a look of lost etched across her features. Emrick, from his sanctuary, checks his watch and frowns… time is money, and they're really going to waste all this time arguing with tributes on being interviewed? He signs off on the idea thinking it'd get more people in the seats, and more people in the seats meant more eyes watching the screens, seeing how their actions have consequences.
He's not sure any of the citizens in the districts really understood this until Orion Maythorpe senselessly cut off Niklaus Peverell's head. The bloodbath is one thing, with Cecelia Blackstone trying to go after Catalus, or Calen Kinegrove stopping Portia in her tracks… yet when one kid from Four cuts off of a fan favorite, the writing is on the wall. There is no going back from this, and as the days start to lengthen and the time in the arena grows, the demises are only getting grittier and worse.
Back in the arena, Catalus sighs and tilts his head back, exposing his Adam's apple. A fancy kind of apple, a golden lady, one that Emrick would love to watch get sliced open and expose the fleshy core, spilling copper all down onto the dead grass below. Traitorous scum, traitorous scum who'll get what they deserve.
"Fine," the boy says pointedly, thrusting his sword somewhat in the direction of the camera. "However, if you ask me one question I don't like, I'm gonna quit talking. You got that?" Catalus sneers.
Richmond throws his hands up with a grin, Lydia matching that smile likewise, causing Emrick to turn his lips up. He can tell they're married, they even smile the same. "No promises, Mr. Drachma."
Poem steps over somewhat into the picture, an error beeping noise rising from the camera. "I'll just-" the girl starts, but she doesn't get very far.
"Sorry, Miss Cavalli, but the interviews are just for Catalus at this point and time. You'll have to wait your turn," Richmond says without a second thought.
Poem shuts her mouth, glaring directly into the camera. Emrick laughs but holds back on the thoughts he has about this silly, stupid, and completely inane girl with an obsession for fabrics and sewing needles.
Catalus locks his jaw, looking into the camera, sword in hand. "Alright, well, you got the time, don't you?"
"That I do!" Richmond exclaims, grinning wide like the Cheshire Cat. Emrick remembers those tales, something called Allison in Miracleland or something like that, where nothing made sense, least of all the characters. It is one of Cain's inspirations for the Games, from what he can recall. "So, Catalus, please tell me… how are you feeling right now?"
The boy leans into the shot, furrowing his brow together. "How I'm feeling? What kind of stupid shit is that?" Catalus retorts. He throws up a hand in the air, a bit too overdramatic for Emrick's taste, but it makes for good television, the president figures. "Let's see… I had to leave an alliance I was in because the girl running it was literally a sea witch. And then I ally with her," Catalus points behind the camera, assuredly at Poem. "Someone I figured who'd be relatively normal, and then she just pulled the shit that she did without warning or explanation…" the boy trails off, jaw locked. He shakes his head, anger visible in the movement between the sashay of his hair, and the way his knuckles tighten around the hilt of the sword.
In the studio, Richmond looks down and checks his notes on the clipboard, thrumming through the first page with a pencil. Catalus's words reverberate around the speakers, before the interviewer lifts his head up. "You say that Catalus… yet didn't you pin Sylvan to the wall with one of Diana's spears just two days ago? Sounds like that was a brutal way to kill Sylvan, and his only crime was being in the same cave before you guys."
Catalus's eyebrows rise up, fury forming along his upper lip. Emrick has stared down the barrel of the gun that is Cain Passionia's infuriated expressions a time too many, all too familiar with what it means to be caught in the line of fire between the Vice President and a stained glass window. "That- I-"
"I mean, it would've been one thing to just strike the kid in the heart and have it be over with," Richmond points out, starting to walk around the stage, twirling the pencil in between his fingers. "But… you didn't do that. You had the kid suffer. Did you tell Poem that?"
The color in Catalus's face drains instantly, panic forming in his eyes. Eyes that have always seemed so sturdy, eyes that never betrayed a hint of emotion beyond typical cautiousness, and yet Emrick sees it now. Hypocritical natures, exposed for the whole world to see. "No…" Catalus shakes his head. "I didn't tell her that. I- I was in a rage and-"
"Ah, there," Richmond exclaims, lifting up a finger. "Rage. Rage at Diana, and you swung for the cages. If you heard what Miss Cavalli said before she rushed at Camilla and Nokomis not too long ago was from a place of rage. Is your rage allowed and not hers?"
Catalus bulks his tongue up in his mouth, swallowing heavily. "That's it, Mr. Anvil. I'm done with this interview. And it's like you said… no killing," the boy holds his arms out wide, a triumphant look defeating away the panicked one from just seconds ago. "Go to whoever's next."
"Mr. Drachma-" Richmond starts to speak, holding a hand up this time.
"Goodbye!" Catalus flips the camera off, and it cuts to static.
Emrick sits back on his desk, rubbing his chin. He looks over at Lydia, the Head Peacekeeper glancing back at him. That went worse than he expected. Pushback perhaps, but not open defiance, not from Catalus… the boy had done all he is asked, from what the president is aware… volunteering first out of the gate is a feat of strength, even if it is true that Emrick is the one holding the gun to the kid's head in the first place.
"Lydia," Emrick says, she looking in his direction at her name being called, "Double the Peacekeeper patrols in all the districts tonight, with emphasis on heaviness in One. I don't want the citizens getting any ideas tonight from Catalus or any of the others and their brazen behaviors."
She nods soundlessly, Richmond's still confident and upbeat voice breaking their dialogue back to the interviews.
The scene shifts into a camera that comes out of stalactite, deep underground in the arena's tunnel network. The brash and brawn, as Emrick likes to dub them, one golden boy Drachma had left them behind, sit together on a mound of rocks with a singular pillar of light falling above them. They were close to reaching their destination, the center of the cave system with the wildest award any of the tributes could dream of.
The camera shifts to Magnus's chiseled face, which up close, Emrick has to admit is quite stunning. The boy laughs, pulling the bow off of his shoulders, and he digs into his quiver for an arrow.
Richmond claps his hands together, making soft puh noises with the clipboard and the notes, they flipped up to the second page. "Mr. Winterthorn, good evening. Hope I wasn't distracting you from anything."
"Oh no, not at all," Magnus smiles back, and the tension and nerves frayed in Emrick's system calm back down under the athlete's pearly whites. For being a rebel fighter from the District army, a staunch heretic from District 2 no less, it is puzzling to say the least in Emrick's mind that he feels comfortable around Magnus's presence and good natured attitude. "Man," the boy chuckles, placing the arrow on the drawstring of the bow, "Where was all that fight in Catalus from just a couple of days ago? If he had those balls earlier…" the boy trails off, shaking his head. "Never mind me," he chuckles again, taking his shot.
Though Diana is not in the picture, her voice can be heard congratulating him on the nice shot, plus some other backward smack talk about how her next one will be better. Richmond whistles at the athleticism, a faint blush settling on Magnus's face. "I promise I won't be asking the same questions to you, Magnus," the interviewer starts. "I suppose, for the viewing audience at home who must be dying to know where this talent came from… how did you get so good?"
"I think that's between me and my parents," Magnus winks at the camera, drawing another arrow. There is an apple perched on a rock about thirty or forty feet away from him, said perch a good ten or so feet up in the air, Emrick wondering whether he or Diana would've placed the apple there. "Let's just say I am a jack of all trades," and the boy from Two takes the shot.
It slices through the apple cleanly, pinning it to the wall. Emrick pictures Sylvan Adello's speared open body, fresh blood dripping out of the incision, the boy's face forever laced with terror and fear. He jostles some in his spot, but is the only one with a negative reaction, for Richmond is clapping again.
"Sense of humor there, I see," the interviewer takes a pause to look over the notes. "Did you learn comedy too during your stint with the rebel army, Mr. Winterthorn?"
Magnus shakes his head. "Like I said. Jack of all trades," the boy walks over to grab the apple, the camera following suit. He doesn't speak again until he has the fruit in his hand. "And it wasn't a stint, Richmond. Six months in trenches in Eleven, and in Eight, and in Four… I wouldn't call it a vacation."
Richmond tightens his tie, heat rising on the man's face, but it only has Lydia smiling bemusedly in the corner. "He only likes it when I call him by his first name," the Head Peacekeeper teases.
"Right, Mr. Winterthorn," the man scratches his neck, swishing his tongue from side to side in his mouth. "Well, point still stands… did you learn anything in the army? Anything you've been able to apply to the Games so far?"
Magnus pauses, looking off-camera, at Diana, before returning his gaze to the camera rising even more out of its hole in the ground. The lighting must be artificially added, Emrick figures, since he's seen how so many of the caverns did not have natural light spilling into the pathways, let alone nearing around nine in the evening.
"Come on now," Magnus drawls off, shaking his head, frowning slightly. "You can't expect me to give my secrets away, especially with the other tributes seeing this," he tightens his grip on an arrow that he pulls out of the quiver, the apple still clenched in my hand. "It's unlike me to remove my hand," the teen shrugs. "I mean, yeah, being in the army made me more athletic, sure, but I already was. Taught me not how to quit."
"That's all you are able to give us, Mr. Winterthorn?" Richmond questions.
Emrick has seen a lot from his high place, this perch of gilded couches and sleek mahogany desks, while these teenagers have been fighting for their lives over the last week. He's seen many actions and reactions from the group that he expects, and there have been plenty of decisions done over the last eight days he does not expect… the one person, truth be told, that he has been incapable of predicting in any capacity, is Magnus himself.
He remembers Cain telling him during the private sessions that the boy, who volunteered after all, without any rhyme or reason to, and who wasn't a known rebel like Orion Maythorpe was – not just everyone's parents can save their child from a scheduled execution, not in Panem – freely gives up the information that he fought in the rebellion, and that he lost. Still no known reason for volunteering, but Emrick doesn't care about the 'why' anymore. He's just a meat bag to puncture now, a cannon to fire.
"Afraid so," Magnus shrugs again, but this time, a smirk is coupled with the gesture. He puts the arrow back in the quiver, turning side face, back to Diana, Emrick figures. "Well, there's one thing I learned, more so revealed here," he looks at the camera. Richmond does a hand motion to imply he should continue speaking. "The war never really leaves you," Magnus comments. "Not that I necessarily have nightmares or PTSD or anything, but I did see stuff. I did things that you and your sweet little people in the Capitol could never dream of."
"Like what?" Richmond asks.
"Like I said, Richmond, I don't reveal all my cards," the grin that Magnus gives the camera is teeth filled and sharp. "Just because I'm not fighting the rebellion anymore doesn't mean I'm not in a battle any longer," the cadence and warmth in Magnus's voice drops, Emrick's hair on his arms standing up on end. "And this is a battle I intend to win. I'm sick and tired of losing," Magnus hisses.
His fist squeezes around the apple, crushing it to a pulp. Juice flows through the boy's fingers, like pus pouring out of a wound, as he shakes off the skin of the apple. Magnus lifts his hand to his face, keeping eye contact with the camera. "I plan on winning this war, and if I do, maybe it'll finally leave me."
The interview's time is up, Richmond raising an eyebrow at the response, as the camera sinks into the cave's floor, the screen returning to shadow.
Emrick expects great plays from the soldier in Two, whose thorns have not yet been shown.
"I see myself in him," Lydia says, crossing her arms. "I really do."
"In what way?" the president asks.
Her response is barely audible. "I want the war to leave me alone too…" Lydia whispers, scratching at the back of her head.
The next interview is for Vesuvia Vocanova, she blowing a kiss at the camera, it being one coming out of a drained water hole in the scorched landscape. The girl has her fiery red hair tied into a long ponytail that rests down her mid-back, which she shows off for the camera by doing a spin. Emrick can see Jasper just barely in the shot, hiding behind a rock, peering out around it every few seconds.
Richmond lets the screen settle into place, clearing his throat. "Well, it looks like someone is happy to see us!" he grins, flipping to his next page of notes. "Good evening, Vesuvia."
"Good evening to you as well!" the girl greets, waving at the camera. "I hope the other two weren't a huge bore, cause to me, I was about to fall asleep. I just know the audience wanted to see me, and they were just dying for the opportunity. I just know it…" she rambles, stretching her arms out wide.
Richmond's eyes flash a dangerous steel, Emrick having seen that glance before too. Settle yourself, as I'm the one in charge. "I don't know about that, Vesuvia, but I'm sure some are." Emrick likes her in fact, he likes her a lot. Charming, but vicious, someone he knows who would make Lydia Wickervein shake in her boots.
"Well, when I get out of this place, which I know I will," Vesuvia says, eyes dancing above to look at the darkening sky, "Then I can have as many interviews as I want."
"Let's not put the cart before the horse," Richmond advises.
"I can pull the cart just fine by myself," the girl responds, her amicable expression welding into an iron bar, her eyes serenading the glow of a dwindling hearth. "I just want to make sure I've been putting on a good show, since I know I'm great at following the rules."
Richmond laughs heartily, placing a hand on his stomach. "Weren't you, Vesuvia, thrown in jail because you did just the opposite? Not following the rules, I mean?"
"Minor setback," Vesuvia retorts, checking out her nails. The girl from Three is bandaged up on her shoulder, she having torn away some of her tribute uniform. Clenched in her hands is a knife, a stick beneath her as she whittles down the branch to a sharpened point. "Like with what you saw between Jasper, Surt, and myself," she looks at the camera, smiling as she continues to drag the blade across the edge. "Just a minor setback, and it isn't indicative at all to me slipping in the slightest in this competition. He and I still aim to win."
Emrick tugs at his collar, the girl's words sounding extremely confident. There can only be one winner, and he knows for a fact that this idea has been expressed so thoroughly that it is see-through. Richmond makes a face, just for a second, but the interviewer seems to still his tongue and not tell her the truth. He can't put a finger on it, Emrick that is, but even in the deluded mind of Vesuvia Vocanova – she called herself a god, after all, at Surt, a scientific breakthrough, and named it a pissant – it is not the same as seeing Poem Cavalli's firsthand.
"The consensus here in the Capitol, from what I can tell, Vesuvia, is that you and Mr. Overheart fought bravely," Richmond tells her.
Vesuvia snorts, her nostrils flaring in annoyance. "All anyone is going to remember about that is that he and I lost, lost to the point where the thing just gave up and left us alone. Didn't even have the decency to kill me," she pauses in her whittling. "Not that the damned thing would've been able to, but…" Vesuvia shakes her head, holding the knife in her hand. Emrick can make out Jasper's face in the back, behind that rock, an unreadable expression on the boy's face. "Can I ask a question?"
"Sure," Richmond nods. "I just might not have an answer for you."
"I know that Jasper killed Orion, I mean after all, I got this," Vesuvia waves her hand at the headwound, the blemish rising off of the skin in a gaudy purple, black and blue mixing in over the lump. "But I haven't seen Surt roaming around here, and this is the only place Jasper and I stay. Did Portia Beninblade or Ramses Boskov kill it and die in the attempt?"
Richmond holds a hand up at the screen, pressing a finger to the earpiece situated in his left ear, the ear not shown to the tributes. Cain is sitting in the driver's seat for the interview, back in the Gamemaker Center with Nyria, it out of Emrick's control for what is allowed to be revealed on air.
"No, Vesuvia, Portia and Ramses died in tribute related deaths. Surt is still out there, and from what I am told by Head Gamemaker Cain Passionia, it is looking for a rematch."
Vesuvia sits back on her haunches, pressing her fingers into her forehead. "Still out there, huh?" she bites on the inside of her cheek. "It looks like Jasper, and I might have business with a Norse god once again."
Richmond checks his watch, while the girl, now completely ignoring the camera, starts mulling over battle plans. "I hate to cut you off, Vesuvia, but our time is up it looks like," his voice breaking the girl out of her stupor. For a split second, maybe a nanosecond at that, Emrick sees it. The incalculable, very humane, and very terrifying look of human rage flicker across Vesuvia's face, the very glance of genius being interrupted.
"Totally okay," she smiles sweetly, showing all of her teeth again. "I said all I wanted to say anyways."
"We will be moving onto your district partner, Jasper," Richmond says. "We can see him poking his head out behind those rocks, so I figure he's getting all flighty. He can't take his eyes off of you," to which Vesuvia snorts and goes, No one ever can, while Richmond bowls over the response entirely. "I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," Vesuvia responds through gritted teeth, slashing her knife against the stick. "I think I'm gonna go find some poor bird to spear through with this thing." She stands up, flicking her long ponytail behind her, freckles bright despite the time of night. "Thanks for letting me entertain you all." She's already beginning to move, Vesuvia tossing her head back behind her. "Have fun, Jasper! Don't expose yourself completely like last time, darling!" She blows him a kiss, as the camera, without needing to move, maneuvers into position behind the rock.
Vesuvia Vocanova vanishes from view, although some slight humming can be heard, and center stage now is Jasper Overheart. The boy had been so intently focused on his district partner, he does not notice the camera on him now. He looks over at it, before jumping in place.
Richmond's grin looks like a shark's smile about to devour a school of minnows. "Hello there, Mr. Overheart, good evening."
"Nothing good about it…" Jasper grumbles to himself, unsticking his body off of the rock. The boy looks behind him, back to where his ally had been standing, but she is hardly a visible speck of anything in the horizon, carrying her whittled wooden spike. The boy looks back at the camera, Emrick sensing the haggardness just bleeding through the screen and out of the camera lens.
Richmond says what everyone must be thinking, for he grins candidly once more. "Well, Mr. Overheart, you certainly do look for worse wear right now."
"Is that so?" Jasper cocks his head, titling it to the side. "You should've seen the other guy," his voice falls an octave into darkness, and the slight warmth that is on his face, though said warmth is also overshadowed in a mask of anger and disquiet and distrust, has disappeared.
Emrick leans back some on the desk, and at the boy from Three's words, Lydia turns away from the TV to scratch the back of her head, a look as if she is about to throw up smeared across her features. The fight between Orion and Jasper just a few hours ago is nothing short of spectacular, where the night before, when the anthem is shown and Ramses Boskov's shining face appears in the sky… it is as if someone killed Orion then, the boy barely holding it together in a cope of trees, the wounds bleeding still, but somehow the fight in the boy is invigorated.
The sunshine soldier swears and cries all throughout the evening, that even with the betrayal that is thrust upon him, he feels as if he is the one who did something to send Ramses away, guilty for his death. There must be no one else in the arena who would've wanted the boy from Twelve dead, is Orion's thought process, with Kai'sa floating in the sky and all, and that if he is to be killed, it must've been District Three.
"We all did, Mr. Overheart," Richmond comments, lowering his head some. The spectacle is beautiful, Emrick watching as the two teenagers battle in the hot sand, spitting and cussing, and a whole lot of screaming. There's terror on Jasper's face when Vesuvia is punched in the side of the head, but a concussion does not come from the attack. The moment is beautiful, when the scarlet splashes everywhere as Jasper's sword cuts Orion's forearm off, and it may be one of the most beautiful things the president has ever witnessed when the blade plunges into the District Four boy's heart. "Believe me, we all did."
The boy on camera looks like he is about to be sick, Emrick afraid for a moment that there'll be vomit all over the camera, but Jasper simply swallows down his terror and upsetedness. "I… I sometimes forget that there are cameras watching all of this," he says, at point blank, and it takes all of Emrick's strength not to bust out in laughter at the concept of forgetting, given that he is currently speaking to a camera.
"What was running through your head at that moment, Mr. Overheart?" Richmond asks, while flipping through the notes on the clipboard. "From what I am told by your file here, with the few pieces of info we gathered from you during your first interview with me," the tips of Jasper's ears flush red, and he scowls at the comment, "It was not your first rodeo, especially when traveling from…"
"No need to say where!" Jasper shouts, rather abruptly, holding his hands out. Emrick keeps the rage suppressed beneath the blue of his bloodstream, at the irony of someone from District Thirteen fighting in the Games and being able to tell the Master of Ceremonies to stop talking. As if the district whelp actually holds a semblance of power… as if. An awkward silence hangs in the air as Richmond clucks his tongue, an eyebrow raised in confusion at the boy from Three. Jasper rubs the back of his neck, swallowing again. "Yes… it wasn't my first fight. Peacekeepers… rouge rebels… wild animals…" Jasper shakes his head back and forth, he running his hands across his hair and down his neck, like a motion of calming anxiety. "Orion didn't know who he was messing with, let me just say that."
If it is supposed to be a confident comment, that most certainly is not the case, as Jasper's eyes say it all. The uncertainty, the terror, the gripping fear that Surt will rise from out up underneath him and burn his very soul to the core.
"Well, how did you feel, Mr. Overheart? I did ask you a question, after all."
"I thought I was going to die," Jasper responds, without batting an eye. "For a split second, I really did. I have relied on Vesuvia to be my side the entire time, and when he hit her, I was just concerned that she wasn't going to be okay," he chuckles to himself, dryly, and darkly. "As if Vesuvia really needs me to check on her, though…" his voice drops again, barely a whisper, and his eyes lose focus on screen.
Richmond checks his notes, flipping to the next page, which should be Miss Diana Kratovska, Emrick is sure. "Well, Mr. Overheart, the moment may still come where Vesuvia will need you. Best of luck to you…"
Jasper furrows his brow in confusion, but whatever thoughts or statements he wishes to make are cut off with a jarring blast of static, as well as a loud screeching noise as the camera on display sinks back into the soil under the hot sand.
When the camera pops up in the cave system that Magnus Winterthorn and Diana Kratovska are camped in, the camera takes no time at all to find the girl from Four. She's sitting in the center of the shot, with her legs folded beneath her on a rock. Her spear, the bloodied one covered in Ramses's splatter, which she has yet to even clean off sits just aside her. Emrick raises his eyebrows in surprise. He's expected every move out of Diana, thinking she must be a well that will have to run dry at some point, but that has yet to happen.
"I see someone is prepared," Richmond winks at the girl, but even though his forward approach is filled with kindness, Emrick doesn't expect Diana's to be anywhere as sugary sweet.
Which is prompted by a cut and dry, "What do you want with me, Mr. Anvil?"
That's his girl.
Richmond blinks away his surprise, straightening out his tie. "Well, I figured we'd be able to have a nice chat."
"From the looks of the video on the screen, you and everyone else haven't been spending too much time talking to one another, so I just want to make sure I get to say what I want, and then you can go torment someone else," Diana flicks a strand of blonde hair over her fingers, her face relatively expressionless besides her eyes. Ice cold is how Emrick would describe them, they staring past the camera, past the screen, and directly into his soul.
"Mr. Winterthorn still shooting at stalagmites?"
Diana shrugs her shoulders. "That meathead? I dunno, he said something about sun bathing. In cave," she adds, deadpan.
Richmond scratches something that Emrick cannot see on his notepad, shucking the pencil to the side. Lydia draws in a breath from her perch, the president glancing over at his Head Peacekeeper.
"That means he's going to grill her," Lydia says. "He'll do it to me sometimes at dinner if we haven't seen each other in a long time." She plucks at her gloves, tugging the leather up into a pinch point, and slapping it back down onto her hand.
In the studio, Richmond has his arms lowered, clipboard by his side. "I expect that this interview will go relatively quickly," he says. "Miss Kratovska, we all saw what happened on the day Catalus Drachma left, and when you came upon Ramses Boskov… it was an emotionally charged day, for sure. Curious on your thoughts."
Diana raises an eyebrow, a frown filling out her face. "That seems rather redundant to me. You heard everything Catalus, and I said to one another. And you also heard me scream at Ramses…" she shakes her head. "I shouldn't have to explain myself to anyone."
Richmond looks off camera, an evident glow of brewing fury in his eyes. No one is above him in this world of cat and mouse, certainly not a girl from Four who believes that just because she has some skill with a bow and arrow it turns her into a tempest with raging seas and lightning strikes that make all the hair on someone's arms stand up. She is a drizzle at best, and she'll die just like six of the other tributes out of the eight left in the arena. Her memory will be squashed to pieces, and all people will remember about Diana Kratovska is that she once made it rain when her anger would cascade off of her eyebrows.
"The populace would like to know, Diana. I would like to know."
Diana pinches her brow, looking around. Wherever Magnus went, though Emrick really does not believe that he's sunbathing or whatever stupid shit excuse that comes out of the alliance's mouth, she mustn't want him to hear what it is, for she crouches into the camera, and whenever she speaks, her voice doesn't echo loudly along the walls of the chamber.
"I knew Catalus wasn't really cut out for the Games. You… you could see it," she licks her lips. "It looks like he and Poem Cavalli have found each other's arms though… whoop de doo…" Diana gags, sticking a finger near her mouth. "I'm giving the two of them just another few days before it all comes crashing down."
"Okay," Richmond nods. "And for Ramses? You shouted something along the lines of…" the interviewer trails off, looking at the clipboard for just a split second. "You stole my kill. Orion was mine!" Richmond recants, putting emphasis on the words, fury and rage spilling out of his throat. It is an odd sight to see, as it looks completely off on screen.
Diana, in her spot in the arena, bites down on her lip. "It wasn't my best moment, no," she admits, hanging her head low. "Do I regret it? No," the girl shakes her head, mouth set in a firm line. "I did what I did, and I have to stand by the consequences. Besides, Orion's face was in the sky tonight. Anyone who'd be upset with what I did is gone."
"But why was Orion specifically someone on your target list? As district partners-"
"That shouldn't set anything," Diana cuts Richmond off, standing to her feet. She picks up the spear, but Emrick knows the girl is smarter than simply just thrusting the weapon in the direction of Capitol property. "Just because Orion was from home and just because he said he supported the rebel cause doesn't cut him off the hook from anything!" Diana shouts. So much for not speaking loud enough to where no one could hear her. "He, and Magnus, and Catalus, and Poem, my god what a stupid bitch that girl is…" Diana rages, and Emrick sees actual spit fly free from the girl's lip. "They all volunteered to be here. Sure, Catalus was forced… but the other three?" her voice goes dangerously low, a hissing snake about to strike. Emrick swears he can see the thunderstorm clouds forming above her head. "Magnus thinks he's saving someone's life… Orion never told me what he volunteered for, and Poem thought she was going to be a part of some fashion bullshit…" Diana's knuckles whiten around the spear. "I was reaped, and no one volunteered for me. I was reaped and I am fighting my ass off to make it back home. Yet they just decided willingly to come here, and from what I can tell, Magnus and Orion, and even Poem… treating it like a joke…" Diana sets her head back, and she looks like she's about to pick the spear up and chuck it at the wall behind her. "Their actions should have consequences, and I was going to prove to Orion what those consequences would be…"
Richmond makes a cutting motion with his hand, and the screen cuts away to static, whatever bits of Diana's rage and yelling completely dissolved into fragmented airwaves. Emrick runs a hand through his hair, taking a shaky breath. While she and Lydia have sharpness to their words, he thinks the comparison runs dry after that.
"We apologize about that, ladies and gentlemen…" Richmond says, turning to the camera that is showing the entire arena off, through Emrick's viewing point. "We let Diana Kratovska have the mic for a little bit too long; we won't let it get carried away like that. Next up is Porscha Watanabe, from District Six."
The camera cuts away again, out of the cave systems, and back into the decaying forest. From what Emrick can recall, it means that Camilla – for the time being, since the last cameras before the fleeing following Nokomis's demise had her running left – Porscha, and the duo of Catalus and Poem were all stuck in the forest together.
Porscha is curled up against a boulder, her upper shoulder wrapped heavily in gauze, the bloodied knife she used to stab Portia Beninblade in the heart with strapped to her side. A camera pops out of a nearby tree, changing vantage points, and it zooms down to the ground where the girl has positioned herself.
She takes one look up at the sky and groans, shifting her body around to the other side so her back is curving around the boulder. "Leave me alone…" she groans. "I don't want to talk to you. I… I just want…" Porscha shifts some, hiding her face away from the cameras.
Disappointment is too light a word for Emrick to use, when looking at the girl from Six. During training, through Cain and Nyria's reports, the girl had done the best she could in using the training facilities around her to show decent skill in agility and speed, and with an axe throwing crash course that she and the deceased Kai'sa Shadow take together before their private sessions, it looks like her upper body strength is an underrated quality. In the arena, from the get-go, Porscha Watanabe is a fireball of rage and determination.
Purpose.
The girl laying on the ground before everyone is a dismal shadow of the girl that, even with all of her hard work, only scored a four. Dancing around a dummy and cutting it to shreds is too ineffective, as Cain's criticism of the girl's showing, which is how her talents fall to the wayside. This is a girl without purpose, when Kai'sa's body slumps to the ground, and when Portia's cannon fires. A whole day of moping.
"We will have the camera remain here the entire time, Miss Watanabe," Richmond states matter-of-factly, going to her page of notes. "You won't be able to get any rest as long as the camera is here," He makes a motion with his hands off-screen, and an obnoxious whirring noise seems to emanate from the camera in the arena over Porscha's curled up form.
The girl from Six shrugs, keeping her face expressionless, eyes closed. "Your energy and money you're wasting, then."
The camera buzzes a little louder than that, and for a few seconds it looks like Porscha Watanabe is going to hold on and stay curled up in her own world, shutting the outside away forever. Emrick sees the girl's brow furrow, her eyes scrunching together. Porscha gasps loudly and sits straight up like a rocket.
"Alright!" she exclaims. "You win!"
Richmond grins and straightens out his tie, the pattern being a crisscross of Panemian red and gold. It warms Emrick's heart to see that, as he's gotten some glimpses at both the closets of he and Lydia in their shared bedroom together, where most of their colors when they are not dressed up for their jobs, revolve around said color scheme. There aren't any rules about having to dedicate oneself to the Capitol, let alone Panem, but they do it regardless, and without ever being asked. It is because of people like them, the loyalists that will not let the flag fall when the bombs burst in the air above it blowing in a sulfurous breeze that keep the nation afloat.
"Glad to know you'd come to your senses, Miss Watanabe," Richmond says to her, as Porscha sits upright and rubs the sleep blearily out of her eyes. Her hair is a mess, the side that had been half shaven during the private sessions starting to grow around the ivy tattoo, the ink that is represented as Kai'sa Shadow's face running off like the water in a spring, the dives into the hidden pool finishing off the tattoo. "And actually, that is what I wanted to ask you about, since I never really got a chance to during our first meeting…" Richmond drawls, furrowing his brow. "What is it like to be known as 'Miss Watanabe?' Your father, Datsun, he did so much for this country…"
"You mean burning people alive by the thousands?" Porscha interrupts the interviewer's train of thought. Her eyes are a smoldering gray in the darkness, the moon starting to rise in the arena sky as the interviews continue. Emrick is unaware of any history involving Porscha, ever the dutiful daughter, in relation to the rebels, the comment causing him to sit up straighter. He cannot entertain thoughts of further dissenters without there being consequences. Porscha's voice bristles with electricity as she speaks. "I mean, just call a spade a spade," she says. "My father created the hovercrafts that your military used to bomb the districts into submission."
"Our military, Porscha," Richmond interjects, the second the girl from Six stops speaking. "Let's not forget-"
"There is no our," the girl leers, getting to her feet. "To answer your question, I don't like being the known daughter of Datsun Watanabe," Porscha gets right in the camera's face, mugging it for all of her character is worth. It is a bit of the fire that Emrick has seen before, the purpose that has been lost in the hovercrafts and iron claws and iron glows of blades raised high. "I have been dutiful and obedient and did what I was supposed to do, and he broke the contract the two of us established together!" The girl is shouting now, loud and clear.
Emrick checks the arena standings for the trackers, wondering if Catalus and Poem were close enough to hear Porscha yelling at the top of her lungs. It is a shame that the killing is outlawed, as he saw the writing clear as day on Vesuvia's face, for one. Strategy, that she'd be on the move to go after those in locations she recognized.
"There's no need-"
"I don't know what it is you asked the others, but it doesn't matter," Porscha sticks her nose up in the air. "I know for a fact they don't like me, regardless of what it is they know and don't know about me. All that they care about," Porscha points off into the darkness at figures formed by the shadows, "Is who I came from, and what that person did. Whether or not I live or die in this stupid arena won't matter. All that is going to matter is who the host was of the sperm cell that I came from…" the girl runs her hands through her hair, Emrick noticing that her fingers have turned into claws, and the claws are digging extremely hard into her scalp, as if she were about to pull out her own hair.
"You're crossing the line, Miss Watanabe," Richmond warns, locking his jaw, his voice going low in the studio. In her corner of the office, Lydia shivers. "Don't say something you're going to regret…"
Porscha tilts her head up to the sky and bursts out laughing. "Regret?" she repeats the word, incredulousness heard on the syllables that leave her tongue. "Regret? You really think I live with regret? The only thing I regret-" She is about to continue, but there's a pause, and her stare becomes unfocused. In the studio, Richmond turns his head to the side, cat-like in the movement. Porscha presses her lips together in a hard line, shaking her head. "No, I don't regret anything." On the side of the screen, Emrick can see that the girl has one of her hands pressed into her side, in the same clawed form as the one in her hair, but the one atop her head doesn't move. The hand pressed into her side slashes down her hip, and if it causes the girl pain, she doesn't react. "A Watanabe doesn't know regret…"
Richmond leans into the screen, hands down by his side, holding onto the clipboard. "Porscha? Miss Watanabe?"
The girl from Six shakes her head again, lips parting open, as if she'd speak, but she doesn't. She sits back down on the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees that are pressed up against her chest. Porscha stays in the seating position, much lower from the camera's filming spot, and she doesn't look back up at it no matter how gentle Richmond's voice is above her, spilling out of the camera.
"Porscha, there's still time-"
"I don't want to talk anymore," she says, the look of loss and confusion still radiating from her eyes, they gleaming in the darkness. "You have Poem and Camilla to interview still, don't you?" She does look at the camera then, a sharp and fast paced look that makes all the hair on Emrick's arms stand straight up. "I imagine Poem Cavalli is going to make for a complete knock-out," Porscha grips her body tighter, keeping all her limbs flush to her core. "Go on, I bet she'll be more engaging than I could ever dream of."
Richmond locks his jaw, making a flippant motion with his hand. The camera cuts to static, and Emrick sits back fully on the desk. He's unsure whether or not to think of these interviews as successful or not… well, rather, if they're all failures, but he imagines that Poem Cavalli could be the splash of color he's always considered. The night needs more than deep navy blues and obsidian blacks, but vivaciousness and blooming petal pink.
The travel time for the cameras is less than ten seconds, as it pops out of the ground back by the brooklet that Poem and Catalus have been sitting at together for. The two of them are sitting next to each other, and the camera makes its arrival known by a clicking noise similar to what causes Porscha to stir in place.
Both tributes look at one another, Catalus giving a soundless nod, he getting up from his spot, water canteen in place. In the times it took to go from Magnus's interview to Porscha's, the Gamemaker team would have gotten to pick up Nokomis's body, for from the few bits of interaction between the camera and Poem, the girl from Eight is not looking past its line of sight at anything particular.
Poem is sitting similar to how Porscha ends her interview, but in the line of sight, unlike where Emrick is unable to see the weapons that Porscha collected, Poem's knife is sitting just a foot or so away from her, as well as Catalus's sword.
The girl smiles abashedly at the camera, scratching the back of her neck. "Hi…" she greets, but the peppiness and cheerful tone that Emrick remembers from her interview before the curtain is torn away and her worst nightmare is exposed has vanished. There's a bit of light left there, but it is not the full package, it is not the Poem Cavalli he has watched in the Capitol that is sitting before him now.
"Good evening, Miss Cavalli," Richmond smiles, and he waves at her, a genuine wave. It comes as a surprise to Emrick when Richmond admits, just a few hours before this that she is his favorite. "There's something about her," the interviewer says while he fixes his tie in front of his bedroom mirror. "A tenacity that none of these other kids have." Emrick has a finger on it… a desperation unlike what he senses in Camilla or Magnus. "I must say, especially after how our first meeting ended, I never expected us to be here today."
Poem's lips show the bare bones of a smile, but it is one, nonetheless. "I can't say I disagree with you, Mr. Anvil…" she draws the sentence out, her gaze breaking focus past the camera as Poem glances at it for just a second. "A week ago I…" the girl starts, she catching herself with a nervous laugh. "It's funny how things work out." A snort disrupts that. "Ironic, really."
"How's that, Miss Cavalli?"
She undercuts a glance at the camera, and the smile becomes coy, a lot larger than the one she starts the interview with, and it causes Emrick to smile likewise. "I'm not the smartest person there is, but even I know the answer to that."
Richmond laughs good heartedly, flipping his notes to Poem's page. He clears his throat, smothering his tie down to a straight line. "I hope you can forgive me for counting you out of all this."
"I counted myself out too," Poem whispers. "If it wasn't for Niklaus yelling at me at the cornucopia that day, I wouldn't be sitting here." She looks down, picking at her uniform. Emrick has heard all of it, especially on the first few days in the arena before she and Niklaus take the journey to the cornucopia for his lost token. She hates the arena uniform, and she can totally design a better one.
If the girl wins, Emrick wants to put her up to the test. Completely straight.
"In the other interviews, I have gotten a little personal, so I hope you don't expect it to go any other way," Richmond says, jotting a note down that Emrick cannot see on the clipboard. "Jasper is the reason why Orion fell this afternoon," Poem's eyes flash a sorrowful brown at the camera, just for a moment. "And with him and you, it means everyone alive in the arena has been behind at least one tribute leaving the arena. For you, it was Nokomis. How are you feeling right now?"
The girl looks off camera, to the right, in the direction where Catalus had gone, though she doesn't speak. She sits there for a few seconds, blinking multiple times. A lump is swallowed in her throat before Poem looks back at the camera. "I don't know where it came from," the girl admits, shaking her head. "I've felt anger at a lot of things before, but something came over me when I rushed at Nokomis. Like, I knew it was me, but…"
"I totally understand, Miss Cavalli," Richmond says, smiling in empathy.
"Do you, though, Mr. Anvil?" Poem is quick to retort, she snapping his gaze to his. "You've blamed some other person on your ally's death and then plunged a knife in their neck?" There's a pause, Richmond's face going bright pink. Emrick glances over at Lydia to see her reaction, but the Head Peacekeeper has her head leaning up on the wall, a morose expression on her face. Buying into the bullshit, most likely. "I can't say I didn't expect to go through this thing and live without someone dying by my hand," Poem rubs a hand over her mouth. "I might be deluded in a lot of things, but I am not an idiot…" Despite the fact that her hands aren't holding onto anything, Emrick sees her knuckles start to whiten in the moonlight, as Poem curls her fingers.
People used to doubt him, back when he's a lot younger and running through the Capitol streets, around the water jets that'd spring up from underneath the plazas in the entertainment sector, all because he liked to recite the alphabet to anyone who'd want to hear a five-year-old go through it. He's unfocused on what really matters. He won't make it anywhere. He keeps running like this, he'll end up burnt out.
Being burnt out… or being the president of Panem, Emrick is sure he's tackled his foes into the ground and beat them into submission.
Poem cracks her knuckles. "I'm sorry, that was wrong of me to snap like that."
"That's under-" Richmond opens his mouth, to agree, but he stops himself short. He licks his teeth with his tongue, clapping his pen against the clipboard. "You shouldn't need to apologize, Miss Cavalli."
Poem bats at a fly getting close to her ears. "I know that Catalus is disappointed in me," she says, looking off camera again, but her voice is another whisper. Emrick checks the trackers once more, Catalus being about a good hundred yards away from her, sitting with his socks and shoes off by the bank of the brooklet, his feet submerged. "And I don't expect he'll look at me in the same way. It'd be different if it was Ramses or Orion I had stabbed in the neck, I suppose, given what they did…" Poem returns her gaze back to the camera. "However, instead, I went after someone completely unprovoked, and they had no idea I was about to attack them," she shrugs her shoulders, but the look on her face is anything but nonchalance. "And for however long I live, I get to have those consequences stick with me."
"I'm sorry that you feel this way, Miss Cavalli, but this is the Hunger Games," Richmond says, the beginning of the statement sounding like yet again another whirling alarm for treason and sedition, but at the end of it, Emrick's heartbeat returns to normal. "It comes with the packaging."
Poem shrugs her shoulders again, lifting half of her mouth in a dead smirk. "I suppose so," she reaches over and grabs her knife, removing it from the sheath. "Whatever you have to tell yourself at night, I guess…" Poem looks down at her hands, at the blade. "Whatever I will have to tell myself at night, too." There's a pause, as Poem's grip around her blade tightens, Emrick hearing the crackling of the leather on her hands. "Thanks for listening to me," she says. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an ally I need to speak to." Poem gets to her feet, nodding her head at the camera. "Goodnight, Mr. Anvil."
Richmond waves again, though Poem already has her back turned. "Goodnight, Miss Cavalli," and as soon as he says his adieu, the camera bursts into static for the last time. It's an even shorter amount of travel before it finds the last tribute of the evening. "One more, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Camilla Rodriguez. Last we saw of her… well…"
If all of the other tributes have been in states of relaxation and unwinding, Camilla Rodriguez is the complete opposite... absolute stillness. It takes Emrick's eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness, as the camera that pops up to show at her location is completely shadowed in branches and leaves, under the cover of the black of night. An extra light is added from the whirring camera, so its noise can alert its presence to her, and Camilla is awash in a pearlish glow.
She is unmoving, she sitting similar to Poem and Porscha, but her legs are straight beneath her, and her arms are by her side, not wrapped around. It takes a second to spot the knife sitting in her lap, the singular weapon she's had the entire time since being in the Games, but it is there, unsheathed, glinting in the dark.
Her stare is straight ahead, and it looks like she isn't even blinking. Richmond frowns, after glancing back up at the camera, his notes flipped to the last page. "Miss Rodriguez?" Richmond makes a waving motion at the screen. "Camilla, can you hear me?"
A microphone on the camera picks up Camilla's words, as the indicator pops up that the person on screen is speaking, but Emrick cannot hear a thing. Richmond makes another motion to the crew in the back of the studio, and the audio levels rise about 200%, and then Camilla's voice can be heard.
"I'm such an idiot…" the girl is whispering to herself over and over again, but she still hasn't moved an inch.
"Why are you an idiot, Camilla?" Richmond asks, and there is genuine concern bleeding through his voice. Emrick swears he hears a sniffle from Lydia's side of the room, he about to chastise her, but he stills his tongue. "Camilla, the audience would like to know."
Camilla sniffles, wiping at her nose. She moves her head to the side by about an inch, getting caught in the light more. Her eyes are bloodshot, tears evidently streaming down her face. "I-" she stutters out a nervous laugh, it breaking halfway in its travel. "I really thought, with Portia gone, that her and I would be safe. That we would end up being okay…" she looks down at her lap, at the blood stained blade resting on her pant leg. "And yet," she grimaces a smile filled with pain, "Here I am!" Camilla exclaims.
Emrick had gotten to look at every file about the tributes after they had been reaped or volunteered for the Games, records taken from censuses and other paperwork filed by district employees or Peacekeepers and any other methods that information could be found in. Camilla has been on her own for a long time, with her parents gone, and with just her brother… he sees a fighter in front of him, like Jasper, and even like Magnus, but Camilla's fighting is completely involuntary, unlike the other two boys.
He isn't surprised to see that the strength has broken somewhat, a bow with too much water pressing at the seams, a dam shattered under the force of an earthquake.
"We were just getting a drink, and now she's… now she's gone," Camilla's voice cracks, she wiping at her eyes and nose once more. "And I stood there and just let it happen. Nokomis is dead and I'm alive and I just let it happen-"
"In your defense, Camilla-"
"There's nothing to defend," Camilla snaps at the camera, the edge vibrating along the camera's mechanical arm. "Just actions and reactions now," she mutters to herself, returning to her normal state. "I'm not a wallflower, and I am not a damsel in distress," Camilla says, but it sounds like she is saying to herself again, Emrick furrowing his brow. "I come out swinging."
"Camilla, please, just stay focused on the-"
"You really thought that this was a good idea?" Camilla asks, looking at the camera, which makes Emrick, as well as Richmond, jump purely from how fast the movement is. "I just saw my ally, a person I was willing to consider a sister, die and you're going to come and shove a camera in my face and expect me to be coherent? Who the hell signed off on that?" she makes a disgusted face, and her hands curl around the knife in her hand.
Richmond pinches the bridge of his nose, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "Camilla, we all have jobs-"
"I'm not going to let my sadness and hurt get turned into media hype," Camilla hisses, and all of a sudden the girl is leaping to her feet, blade in hand, and she's slashing it at the camera. Richmond yelps in fright, as if he is the one getting attacked. The girl from Nine is swinging like a wildcat, her hair a tornado of darkness and wrath, streams steadily spilling out of her mouth. "Leave me alone! Get away from me! You won't-"
Camilla seems to succeed in her plan, as she drops the knife and simply grapples onto the camera. Emrick has read the notes from Cain and Nyria's private session studies, and Camilla scores high for a reason… something goes snap on camera, and the device plunges into the dirt, the vantage point now showing Camilla stomping on the lens as hard as she could.
Emrick doesn't need to the rest, or to see how Richmond is going to dive out of the interviews, he reaching for the remote and turning the TV off. Richmond's voice is the last sound heard before it shuts off, and silence floods into his office.
Both he and Lydia are breathing quite heavily, as the unsettling quiet settles nicely over the couch and into his skin, digging into his palms. Emrick locks his jaw, looking at his Head Peacekeeper, who is very slow to return the gaze.
"Quadruple Peacekeeper patrols everywhere until the Games are over, Lydia," Emrick commands, he hissing, scratching his nails on the desk. She simply nods her head, her face shimmering under the light, as she walks away to go and execute the order,
Emrick stays seated at the edge of his desk, waiting, waiting for the call from Cain, the call from his self-centered, self-absorbed, and outright vain prick of a vice president to tell him he is wrong, that the interviews were a mistake… that all of this is just going to blow up in his face, because all Emrick Israel knows how to do is make mistake after mistake after mistake.
"They're wrong," Emrick hisses to himself, though he is certain that the curtains are listening; they're always listening. "I'll show them all that I am always right. They will know it most of all," he points a cruel, crooked finger at the TV screen.
The final eight need to watch their backs, for Emrick Israel does not make mistakes, and he is not going to let a group of sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen year-olds decide that today is going to be that day.
Friedrich Calvary: Mayor of District 1 P.O.V
His wife has asked him to turn the light on in his study about seven or eight times – Friedrich has lost count, and he really loves listening to her admonish him as if he is a child, and not a grown man running the most successful district in all of Panem – but he has yet to get up and do it. Sitting in darkness as always been good for his soul, where he pictures objects growing out of nothingness in the shadows. Sometimes they are thorned objects, like a rose bush where Friedrich can imagine himself reaching out for one and getting pricked.
Losing blood is good for the soul too, though not too much. Friedrich has seen District 1 bleed enough in his lifetime, with the idiots in the back that do not represent the gilded streets and colored lightbulbs spilling the most. While the thought is horrendous, that District 1 is drawn into a war by his foolishness and shortsightedness, it strengths the character of everyone involved, whether they supported the loyalists or the rebels. It isn't him being offered up as a sacrifice to the Hunger Games, his neck isn't on the line.
It strengths the character to the point that he has daily reports piled on his desk of citizens turning in other citizens because of their seditious talk at the beauty parlor with their perfumed heads stuck under hair dryers, or of kids in their chess clubs wondering if their own parents, when they say they're discussing "business" are actually talking about battle plans. All through the fear of losing too much blood, where his people see in the darkness their worst fears… all of their luxuries snatched away from their arms out of their dumb decisions.
Friedrich has to sit, for the last eight days now, through all of his dumb decisions, in the form of Cecelia Blackstone and Catalus Drachma. Lives that should not have been offered up for the slaughter in a good, just world, but Friedrich prefers it be this way now than a massacre of District 1 citizens in the streets. Cardinal blood doesn't match well with spray painted gold spilling down into the gutters. Cecelia dying at the start of the Games is painful for Friedrich, he seeing the little girl he's always wanted being gunned down, though it is something he certainly expects.
For Catalus Drachma, however, the pain festers worse, remaining behind his eyelids even when he goes to sleep at night. The Drachma family is meant to be the future of District 1, and instead their prized heir is going against the other district scum. For every day the boy is still alive and breathing in the arena, it is another reminder of what Friedrich has sacrificed for himself to still be where he is, and what he's given up so the boy in the arena is enough of a penance for an entire district.
His pants down around his ankles. Cain Passionia's glimmering smile in the dancing lights above the vice president's head. Leather and Velcro straps. A hot iron rod smacked against the side of Friedrich's ribcage. A love letter that has fallen out of the slip in his locker.
All of it has been for the good of the people, people that now see Friedrich as a savior.
He feels pinned to the wall, by their exaltations and their praise, unable to move, unable to turn his head to the side so their spit doesn't land in his eye. A savior who regrets his actions, whenever he sees another tear fall out of Catalus's eyes, or when his phone rings, and cold fear laces his heart believing in Cain wanting another tormentors break in the middle of the man's governing.
He's done so much good, yet Friedrich still feels like he's about to be dragged into hell.
Friedrich sits in the dark, in his office, with his eyes closed, simply waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for the phone call, cause it's happened every night now since the start of the arena. A 'progress-check' from Adriane Lantham, a woman Friedrich would much rather see boiled alive in a pan of hot water than to hear her nails on a chalkboard voice slither down his spine one more time.
Sure enough, as his clock passes over to 10:00 PM, the digital blocked green lines the only semblance of color along the wall of shadow, the phone on the table next to his chair vibrates. He picks it up without hesitation, letting Adriane speak first.
"Mayor Runaway Horse!" the escort greets him, and there is total jubilance in her voice. "I hope you haven't been waiting on me!"
"I told you not to call me that, Adriane. My name is Friedrich," he hisses at her, through gritted teeth. Ever since she spits that at him during the preparations for the reaping, it is how she greets him whenever they start their phone calls. "You don't get to disrespect me-"
"I'll start respecting you when you finally earn it," Adriane snaps back, her nasal tone sharp through the phone that makes Friedrich recoil from the receiver. "If you ever earn it, that is."
"You realize that your position is in my hands, Adriane?" Friedrich quirks an eyebrow, imagining pockets of steam rising out of her head. "You push my buttons one more time, then I could make your life hell."
"Please, as if!" Adriane wheezes on the other end. "You make my life miserable? You're cute Friedrich," he goes to bark at her again, but she overrides him, he partially grateful for it. He is exhausted by the fight, whether it be with her or with a citizen in One who believes it all his fault for the Games existing, or that he should've had someone volunteer for the young and sweet Cecelia who doesn't deserve an arow to the back of her head. He is exhausted from being punished by the decisions of those higher than him, having lost so much blood that it is starting to not become good for his soul. "Anyways, though, I take it you sat through all of those interviews?"
Friedrich rubs his brow, reaching over the glass of water placed behind the phone. He takes a long sip of it, letting his eyes shut while he recalls the moments that just happened before him. Another day where Catalus is making him regret life, but if the show that happened on camera is to be believed as something the Capitol did not orchestrate, he expects all of it to come crashing down.
"I did."
Adriane scoffs on her side of the conversation, disgust practically dripping off of her words. "Who do those pathetic little ingrates think they are, talking to Richmond like that? Don't they realize that if Cain felt so inclined to do it, he could blast all of them to bits right there?"
"If the threat was presented to them," Friedrich starts, dryly, rubbing one hand down his temples, "Then I imagine the rebellious tendencies in them would only go up. You know how it goes, Adriane." Friedrich does, at the least, seeing it happen right in front of his very eyes when the curfews start and more people spill out into the gem encrusted streets, or when the Peacekeeper whipping post is placed up in the town square, a line forms of teenagers and young adults who anticipate that they'll find themselves up in the stockade regardless, and just want to get the pain up and over with. It never works, unless the iron fist that comes down is- He cuts off the thought, choking on the next sip of water.
He had been that iron fist, betraying the cause the way he did, betraying the others who confided in him as he watched all of the mayors get their heads separated from the rest of their bodies by the guillotine and Cain's righteous words.
"Well, I still believe it was a disaster," Adriane says, and he hears the exhale of a cigarette on the other end. News to him, that she smokes. He has no idea why he has these phone calls with her, for they are never anything constructive, and it is just so Adriane has a soapbox for her opinions, for he seems to be the only one who'll ever listen to them or give her the time of day.
Friedrich scratches at the strands poking out of the arm of the chair. "You know Catalus, and Poem are going to be targeted for what they said tonight. You know it, Adriane," he says. A lump forms in his throat.
"Ah, they had it coming," Adriane responds. Another exhale of the cigarette. "Besides, I want better tributes next time around. Not a scared little girl, and not a loyalist bleeding heart."
Friedrich nearly slams the receiver down, just from the comment. How can someone be so callous? "You don't-"
"I actually didn't call tonight because I wanted to discuss the interviews," Adriane interrupts him, Friedrich gripping the glass of water so tight in his hands that it could shatter at any moment. He doesn't say anything, as he hears her cigarette get smushed out. "I had a talk with Emrick the other day and I brought some ideas to the table concerning the Games. Concerning District 1, for instance."
"What sort of ideas?" he asks, frowning. He didn't even think the woman knew how to count to ten without using her fingers and toes, let alone having single audiences with the president of Panem.
He can practically feel her grin stretching her face apart. "Let's just say it means that your days are numbered, Friedrich. Your usefulness is starting to turn into uselessness," and Adriane laughs so loud that the mayor does push the receiver away from his ear. "Goodnight, traitor."
She hangs up, and the glass in his hands does shatter the moment the call goes dead.
His heartstrings have been tugged at, and now completely plucked off.
There we are ladies and gentlemen! Chapter #33: Tugging at the Heartstrings, the chapter concerning the Final 8 interviews of the tributes in the arena has been completed... and instead of it being family members, I wanted to spice it up a bit so it was the kiddos themselves! I hope they were entertaining enough - they were surely fun to write - and I would love to know what you thought! Whose interview was your favorite? Who stayed in their lanes like you expected, and who colored outside of the lines? Beyond that, some retrospective looking into Friedrich's side of the world, since he hasn't been seen since the bloodbath, and I love getting into his head. His side of the world, his little plot, it connects into something that'll majorly be focused on in the sequel, but I wanted to establish stuff now.
Next chapter will return to just the arena, for Day 9, Chapter #34: Wrath of the Scorned, with five tribute povs, starting the eighth round of tribute povs. Who do you think will be the first of the final eight to fall? I am so excited, as we are just five, yes count em, five chapters away from a victor being crowned. Poll is still up to vote on who you want / expect to be as your two choices for victor, so go and vote if you haven't yet! Thank you guys so much for your patience, I hope I've greatly rewarded it. I am going to try and do weekly Saturday / Sunday updates now that I am back at school and oddly have a lot of free time on my hands, so keep that on your toes! I am aiming to be done by Halloween time with the story to start on the sequel, Declaration of Death.
I love you guys all so much! Have a great night! Bye!
~ Paradigm