Next batch of Capitol kids! You'll notice there's a bit of a change in grammar, and that's because it got really tedious to keep capitalising certain words that didn't need to be, and writing numbers when there wasn't dialogue was blech.
Anyhow, these two were sent in by CelticGames4 and Rockafansky! Hope you all enjoy them, and I hope I got them right!
16 - The Outspoken and the Withdrawn
Nikostratos Croix Farrington, 18, C-District 3
He grins smugly up at Spurgeon. Blanket still half-draped over his legs, the regret and defeat clear in the boy's eyes as he stares at his hands. Croix loves days like this, where he has the goody-two-shoes wrapped around his finger. The days where Spurgeon Riverty, the boy who despises Croix's methods and rough play, finally gives in and follows the demiboy's lead.
Croix loves it. God, he loves it so much. Nothing is better than the feeling of insulting Spurgeon after sex.
Spurgeon simply crawls out from under the sheets with a heavy sigh. Runs a hand over his face and shakes his head. Croix watches with amusement as Spurgeon follows the same dance that accompanies their night-long song. First he'll look for his pants—all the way by the mirror—and then he'll move for the bathroom. He'll spend five minutes washing his face and psyching himself up to go back into the room, and then he'll linger in the doorway and watch Croix with a conflicted expression. It's like clockwork, Croix thinks as he watches Spurgeon shuffle into his trousers.
But today proves to be different. Spurgeon takes a different route, immediately turning and laying his head back on the pillow closest to Croix. Croix watches him with raised brows.
"Finally grow a spine?" Croix teases lightly. Spurgeon just sighs at him. The conflicted expression is already there, but none of the prerequisites were filled. What's wrong with him today? Did Croix actually break him down this time?
No, he can't have. If Croix had broken him down, Spurgeon would be firing back insults of his own. He's still being his usual polite, hesitant self—like every other morning after they've shared.
"You're not worried about today?" Spurgeon asks softly. He reaches out and goes to sweep some of Croix's hair out of his eye, but he hesitates within millimetres of contact.
Croix shrugs. He rolls over and drags the sheet off of the bed with him. It stays snugly over his shoulders, slipping ever so slightly but still keeping him warm. "Not particularly," he says. "It's all boys today, but we're not exactly in danger of anything."
"We're eighteen, Niko—"
"And I'm not worried." He makes his way over to the bathroom, sheet dragging along the floor behind him. "Go spend time with your family and friends if you're that scared. Sentimental square," he mutters under his breath. He doesn't listen for any reply from Spurgeon, though to Spurgeon's credit none is given. Even as Croix examines his face in the mirror and checks his tattoos, not a peep is heard from Spurgeon.
So he hops into the shower. Cleans the smell of sex from him and washes his face. No matter what event is being held today, he'll still continue with his morning routine like nothing has happened. To lose his cool over something that might not even call for his presence is just ridiculous.
He can hear a rustling on the other side of the door once the water stops running. Spurgeon's voice talking softly to no one, a mention of parents suggesting that his own have called to ask where he is. Croix pays him no mind as he blow dries his hair and inspects his nails one by one. By the time Croix bothers to peek outside the door to see if his bedroom has been left occupied, Spurgeon has left. He smiles somewhat at the fact—Spurgeon always left before Croix finished his showers, no matter what the day would hold for them. He's long past the point of being kicked out by Croix each morning, saving both of them a lot of time and a lot more trouble.
The grey button-down is still hanging from his wardrobe door when he comes out. No creases or stains, the black tie loosely held around the collar. When Croix slides open one of the doors, he finds his dress pants and shoes waiting neatly atop one of his drawers. It's all there, waiting for him to show off to the world.
Well. More like to the boys who'll be present at the reaping.
Croix still has to run over the way the Capitol reaping will work today. It's unfamiliar and different to how the Districts do it—not all in one place, over and done with and crowding all of the commutes—but it still feels familiar enough to remind himself. They divide different areas of the Capitol by landmarks, assigning two Districts to each section. It's not unlike the way the government determines what schools you go to prior to college—you live in a certain area, and they tell you which schools are the closest and which is more beneficial to attend. Unless you're a rich person who sends their kids to prestigious private schools, Croix reminds himself as he buttons up the shirt.
In Croix's case, he lives between the statue of the first President of Panem, Julius Herron, and the academy all the Gamemakers attend. Everyone within the area is to gather at the sports centre within that boundary, which works just fine for Croix. It's still close to home. He's not being put out by it.
He slips on his shoes and clears his throat. With a confident air to his stride, he makes his way back to the bathroom. In the uppermost drawer are his contacts, soaking in water and waiting for another day of use. Croix watches his reflection as one of them rests lightly on his fingertip; one deep, dark brown eye stares back at him before it's engulfed in silver, leaving just one brown eye left. Croix blinks a few times to get used to the feel of it, then seamlessly puts in the other contact.
Silver eyes keep a keen watch on him as he sets to work applying gel to his hair, pushing the strands of the undercut from his face. A combination of blues, greens and purples weave together as he shapes it, and then he's picture perfect and ready to go.
Croix struts out of his room with his glasses in hand. His door shuts softly behind him, and soon enough the thick frames are resting comfortably on his nose. There's not a lot of noise going on in the Farrington residence, leaving Croix to wonder if his parents have left early for the reapings (like he was supposed to). He doesn't spot either of them as he walks through each room, doesn't hear his mother talking to his father even as he enters the kitchen and pulls some strawberries from the fridge.
He chews thoughtfully on them for a moment, wondering if his suspicions are right and that he's the only one home. It wouldn't be a surprise—Croix's a big boy, and his parents know this. They probably believe he's responsible enough to get ready on his own rather than needing his parents to hold his hand and fuss over time constraints.
That brings a satisfied smile to his face. All the talks about needing space now that he's an adult have paid off. He won't be known as the Head Gamemaker whose parents hovered over him well into his twenties.
He goes back to his room for just a few more things—his smartwatch, a dash of cologne—before he decides it's time to head off to the sports centre. It'll be a quiet walk, he thinks as he spots the last of this area's teens leaving their homes. He'll be fashionably late—or rather, fashionably on time—to witness which poor saps will be sent off to the Training Centre.
There's no sign of Spurgeon to be seen, even as he gets closer to the long line waiting outside the sports centre. The boy isn't waiting among the other teens, and he certainly isn't following behind Croix. Croix contemplates how early Spurgeon must have arrived as he waits in the line, and then he goes on to wonder who will wind up with the girls from the Districts.
As far as Croix knows, there's a untrained Career and a young nerd with Tourette's. Everyone who actually thinks they have enough bad luck to get into the Games wants to be with the Career, chattering about how dangerous Tourette's in an arena might be. In Croix's opinion, both of them would be pretty dangerous to be around in an arena—from what he's seen of previous Games, untrained Careers are basically dead weight in a pack. Just as useless as the other, he thinks idly.
But the mentors sound like something interesting. Synthia Quanta is a fan favourite with how she used Johanna Mason's tactics without anyone suspecting her, and she's definitely got the personality of a Career that makes her a valuable teacher. Young, too—she'd relate to the tributes better. Melvin Pike was a survivor rather than a winner, though he was actually trained unlike his tribute. He made good decisions that most can't say they come up with in the arena, which would be pretty useful to pick at if someone wound up with Four.
He peeks through the doors as he gets closer to the official. Either way, someone will wind up with a dud for a partner and a lifeline for a mentor.
The official asks him his name and age, and Croix proudly replies, "Nikostratos Farrington, eighteen." Six little slips with his name on them are printed out and dumped into a bag, which immediately whirrs as it mixes in with the other slips belonging to the rest of the line. He walks into the sports centre with a confident stride. With how many names there'll be in this bowl, he's definitely safe from being reaped.
He takes a seat right up the front, amazed to see that not many others have claimed them yet. Everyone's sort of hanging towards the back, hoping to hiding among each other and go unnoticed. Croix raises a brow at the sight, both amused and disappointed. Of course the area he lives in would be full of cowards. He hopes whoever gets reaped at least keeps up a brave face for the cameras.
It takes another ten minutes for the doors to close and for all the boys to take their seats. The lights dim ever so slightly, brightening the stage set up in the basketball court in front of them; after what feels like years of waiting for the dramatic effect to fade, the first of the escorts walks out.
Croix doesn't mind Iris's appearance. She's a Capitolite who took the risk of completely redesigning her facial structure for an extra pair of eyes, and she's got the kind TV personality that everyone adores. He's not one for goody-goodies like her most of the time, but he likes to think that even Iris has her days. She waves to everyone and looks to her left for Crowley; the man just walks onstage with a glum expression, looking as pleased to be here as every other potential tribute in the room. Croix thinks the man might be let go of after this year—even Croix wouldn't let someone so depressing kickstart the reapings.
"Welcome, young men of the Capitol," Iris starts. Crowley looks over at her with a bored expression as he raises his own microphone to his face, waiting for his turn to speak. "I'm Iris, and I'll be the escort for the lucky lad who partners with District Three."
As soon as she pauses to let Crowley speak, the man heaves out a sigh. Definitely going to be let go of next year. "And I'm Crowley. I'll be escorting whomever is reaped for District Four."
"I know it sounds like a scary experience," Iris goes on, "but we'll be by your side every step of the way! Now, do we have the bowl ready?"
A few silent seconds pass before a large glass bowl is wheeled out on a cart. Croix's eyes bulge at the sight of it, amazed at the sheer size of it and how the names still manage to almost overfill it. Crowley and Iris inch towards it, though neither reaches for the bowl as the teens all shift in their seats nervously.
Iris gestures to her right, where two people walk onstage to stand beside her. One of them is small and holding onto one of her arms with an iron grip and a nervous expression, while the other is tall and pretty as she carries herself with pride. The taller one must be Synthia, Croix thinks.
"It's my pleasure to introduce the tribute from Three, Daphne Petheraph!" A few seconds pass for the girl to greet everyone, but instead of words all that comes out is a loud squeak. Iris's smile falters just a tad before she's back to her old self. "And with her is the mentor for Three, Synthia Quanta!"
This time there's a few claps as Synthia waves regally at them all. Even Croix manages two flat claps before he sinks back into his seat. Iris wastes no time reaching her hand into the bowl once introductions are made, wishing the teens sitting in front of her the best of luck. Croix picks at his nails as he waits for the announcement. Iris takes her sweet time picking a slip of paper, seemingly nervous about the name she may pull, but finally she pulls one out.
She reads over it once and looks out over at the crowd. Dismay is in her expression, no longer able to hide behind her cheery smile. Croix's right—even Iris has her days.
"Can, um," she tries, only to stop when her breath catches in her throat. Iris starts again. "Can Nikostratos Farrington come to the stage?"
Croix's hands freeze at the sound of his name. He just stares at her, still sitting comfortably in his chair as a few kids from his school spot him. Well, isn't this just a bundle of joy? He certainly isn't one of the lucky ones who gets to go home at the end of the day—not unless someone volunteers. No one does, and it becomes apparent that no one will as a Peacekeeper marches over to the front row. Croix continues to stare at Iris even as the Peacekeeper clears their throat, trying to catch Croix's attention.
When Croix doesn't respond, they demand, "Are you going to come willingly, Nikostratos?"
Croix waves a hand at the Peacekeeper. "Yeah. Yeah," he mutters. "Just needed a minute to process it."
He stands up and exits the front row, Peacekeeper close behind him to make sure he doesn't try to run. Croix doesn't see the point in it; why run when everyone knows you're supposed to be the one leaving? Why throw yourself into the volcano in a pitiful attempt at avoiding a life or death scenario? Why bother worrying when, for just this year, a Capitol child is guaranteed safe return?
Daphne shrinks under his gaze and mumbles a hello, while Synthia wastes no time draping an arm over his shoulder and leaning in close enough for only him to hear her. Crowley takes centre stage once Iris moves to Daphne's side and holds the small girl's hand. Croix can hear Synthia giggling to herself as Crowley dips his hand into the bowl.
"Just wanna know something, handsome," she whispers to him. Croix hums, doing his best to keep his gaze trained on the crowd for the next tribute. "How far are you going to go to win?"
Croix scoffs. How far? What a dumb question. No one ever gets anywhere by playing fair and being a doormat to the rules—Croix's known this for years, ever since he changed his place in the status quo at just nine, and he sure as hell isn't backing down from the ideal.
"Don't worry about crossing a line," he tells her. Synthia hums in amusement. "Just give me opportunities I can make the most of, and we'll get along fine."
"Simoleon Serif?" Crowley announces into the microphone. Croix keeps his eyes peeled for Simoleon, curious to see who this is.
"Looks like I didn't get a hopeless team this year," Synthia chuckles. "Three hasn't had anyone willing to play dirty for a while."
Croix looks away from the crowd just as he spots a black, wide brimmed hat rise from the crowd. He swears he sees hints of a blue-green fringe peeking from underneath the hat, but doesn't let himself linger on it for long. He looks Synthia in the eye this time, a half-smirk directed at her as he says, "Playing dirty is my specialty."
Just as he says this, the Capitol tribute for Four breaks down into a panic onstage.
Simoleon Serif, 17, C-District 4
"I'm dead. I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead." They rock back and forth, chin tucked into their knees. "So many people. Going to be so many people there when the doors open. I'm dead. They'll kill me. I'll choke."
Adrianne hovers over them, as does Melvin, and it only makes them feel even more like they're suffocating. Not enough air, not enough air—
"Is there anything I can do?" Adrianne asks nervously. Simi doesn't look up at her, digging their face further into their knees and hiding behind their hat.
"S—Space," they gasp. "Need to breathe. Need space."
"You're gonna be okay, kid." It's Melvin, draping something warm around Simi's shoulders. They freeze, doing their best not to recoil, as they try to figure out what the fabric around them is. "Just take deep breaths. Do you need something to take the edge off?"
A gasp. It must be Adrianne, because she immediately hisses, "Melvin!" afterwards.
"I don't like offering it," Melvin says, "but if it's needed—"
"No." Simi shakes their head. They lift it just a tad, hoping to catch a glimpse of what's around their shoulder. Almost as though wanting to reveal itself to them, the long line of wool falls into their lap and stares back at them. A scarf. Simi could laugh. Melvin gave them his scarf. "No drugs. I'll—" They swallow the lump in their throat. "—manage."
Adrianne scoots closer. Sim can actually see her face now—can actually get an impression of her. The fact that she's sitting on the floor with them as they try not to go into a panic attack for the second time today says a lot about her. From what Simi's seen in past Games, Careers are super proud and arrogant, never one to help others unless they benefited them. Adrianne seems to be different—they saw her reaping, saw the way she looked so unfocused when the cameras watched her walk onstage. She volunteered to save someone else; they damn well know the difference between volunteering out of duty and volunteering out of heroic desperation. She and the boy from Six both have that in common.
"Are you sure?" she asks them, and Simi just adds to his list of qualities about her. Helpful. Concerned. Mothering. Kind.
They nod. "Yeah. I think so."
The escort is nowhere to be seen, having already disappeared from the cart, but Melvin is still around to provide support for the two teens. He's moved to the table, already pouring out glasses of juice for each of them while he rubs his neck almost mournfully. Each time the hand passes over different patches of skin, Simi can spot varying shades of pinks and reds around the man's throat.
Melvin sits back down on the floor with the teens, handing them both a glass. He catches Simi's stare—and he smiles, despite how uncomfortable he looks with his neck exposed.
"Frostbite," he says simply. "Made the mistake of laying on a pillow of snow for a few nights. Keep that in mind, you two," he adds, looking to Adrianne as well.
Adrianne nods and sips at her juice. She glances at Simi, then back to Melvin. "What now?" she asks.
Melvin takes a deep breath. He reaches into his jacket's inner pocket and pulls out a neatly folded bundle of papers. Simi can't see most of its contents, but the way Melvin pushes it towards them practically gives away who the papers are for.
"Simoleon just has to fill out some paperwork."
Simi chews at their lip as they reach for the papers. They didn't know they had to fill out anything—they thought it just stopped at the doorway leading to the sports centre, but clearly more is expected from them even after being put through the horror of their life. They just hope it won't be much more stressful than having to stand onstage in front of so many people, though they can imagine that particular discomfort coming back fairly soon once the Parade starts.
Almost as though sensing their nervousness, Melvin smiles at them. "Just a consensus. You can omit whatever you want to, as well."
"Consensus?" Simi looks over each paper with interest now. "Like how they take statistics for the Districts?"
"They do that?" Adrianne mutters. "Is that why I have to fill out letters stating my identity and health conditions?"
Their mentor nods proudly. Looks like the duo are on the right track with what he's telling them so far. "They want Capitol kids to fill out a basic form for reference sake," he explains. "So they don't encounter any problems and get a prep team that understands them."
Simi hums. They look at each question, slowly becoming more and more impressed by the details needed. It even goes so far as to ask for preferred names alongside a birth name—is this why some tributes in recent years have gone by different names to what they were reaped under?
Ah. They're respecting them instead of forcing them to die as someone they're not. Simi can see the helpfulness behind the consensus. They'd much rather not be called the Four boy during this Quell, and a form like this can prevent it from happening altogether.
Adrianne finishes off the rest of her juice. She sets down the glass and looks back at Simi, kind smile on her face as she glances down at the papers. "I can fill it out if you want to drink your juice," she offers. "Just tell me what I'd need to write and I'll get on it!"
Simi stares back at her. Helpful. Kind. Adrianne might actually be a friend they can rely on if she keeps this up. They smile awkwardly at her and hand the papers over. Now that they think about it, they are a little thirsty after all that stress. "Thanks."
The brunette takes a pen from Melvin and clicks it open with an almost comical flourish. "Alright! First order of business: How do you spell your name?"
Simi giggles at her—then quickly clears their throat to hide it. Clearly it doesn't work, because Adrianne smirks at them like she's just done the impossible. "S-I-M-O-L-E-O-N," they tell her. Once she finishes their first name and looks back up at them, they continue, "S-E-R-I-F."
"Simoleon Serif," Adrianne reads out. "Gender identity?"
Their face brightens—Simi doesn't need to see it, not when their cheeks feel so warm and their smile takes over their entire face. They just hope that Adrianne and Melvin aren't one of those rude District kids who misgender people all the time. "I'm bigender!" they announce. Adrianne looks up in surprise. "You could put genderfluid instead, if that's easier to spell."
Adrianne nods slowly. She scribbles down their answer, only to pause midway and look back up at Simi. "So does that mean I shouldn't call you a boy?"
Simi nods.
"No calling you a 'he', then?"
Simi shakes their head. "Only on some days. I'll explain it once we fill out the preferred names—I use some nicknames to let others know which I feel closer to some days."
This time when Adrianne nods, she looks more than happy to go along with their instructions. Simi breathes out a silent sigh of relief. Not everyone took to it so easily back home unless they were nonbinary as well.
"I put both down just in case," she says. "Next up is biological sex?"
"I'll fill that in later." They look at Melvin nervously, then add, "Could I just leave it blank, actually?"
Melvin nods. "Go ahead."
Adrianne crosses a line through the section as soon as he says it. Simi thanks them both profusely.
"Now, then." The brunette twirls the pen between her fingers. "Tell me about those nicknames of yours."
Another giggle escapes them. Adrianne is definitely nice. "The first one is Sim," they tell her. "I use that one on my masculine days."
"One M?"
Simi nods.
"Are you Sim today?" she asks.
Simi shakes their head. "Today I'm Simi. It's Sim with an I at the end," they explain. "I use that on my neutral days."
Adrianne nods again. "So I don't call you a he on the neutral days, but instead…"
"Call me a they." Simi wrings their hands together as their nerves start to rise. Please be accepting, please be accepting, please be accepting.
"I can do that!" Adrianne fills out the form, showing them what she's written down afterwards. She's specified the pronouns next to the nicknames, neatly fitting them into brackets. "Just don't hesitate to knock some sense into me if I forget. Okay?"
They couldn't possibly do that to her, but they appreciate the thought. Simi smiles at her again and nods.
The rest of the questions are easier to get through, since they're all related to Simi's home life and what they do with their life. It's almost embarrassing explaining that they don't have an occupation lined up yet or that they never leave the house for schooling. Adrianne and Melvin take it all in stride, though, and remark how different it is from what they've done. Adrianne worked more than she was in school, but she knows enough to get by since most of her classes by now would be combat classes. Simi appreciates the way they both meet their lifestyle with positivity; normally they'd still be cautious around people from a Career District, let alone new people in general, but something about Melvin and Adrianne clicks with them. Adrianne makes them feel as safe as Jeni or Rori do, and Melvin is just as supportive as the two.
For once Simi doesn't care that they're stuck on a public transport with strangers. For once they don't care that their back isn't entirely in front of the wall. All they care about is how nice their juice tastes and how nice their mentor and partner are.
Soon enough the papers are forgotten, the two seventeen-year-olds talking about their lives back in their respective homes while Melvin sorts through the papers. Simi gushes about their dream to design fashion, going so far as to compliment Adrianne's dress, while Adrianne talks about her foster father's business and how much fun she has spearfishing. She even compares Simi's turquoise streaks and green lipstick to a seabed near her house, which makes their mind race with ideas for an ocean inspired ensemble.
Hearing about Four gives them such a fresh perspective on it; Simi already knew it was water-galore, but the way Adrianne describes what lies beneath the surface makes them wish they'd visited at least once with Rori. When Simi talks about what it's like living in the Capitol—the way it was before the very unfortunate shuttle derail just a few years ago—Adrianne looks almost stunned at the descriptions. She tells them that she's not the biggest fan of the Capitol—but then adds that she likes hearing about Simi's life. It's not a detached fantasy like she expects all Capitolites to live in, but a more relatable life that she never considered prior to today.
Then they exchange excited facts as Melvin leaves the carriage the deliver the papers to the Peacekeepers. Adrianne can hold her breath longer than most Careers in Four; Simi is a walking dictionary when it comes to LGBT terms. They exchange tokens just as Melvine comes back—(Simi had almost forgotten they'd be asked for one, but luckily they had their handkerchief on them)—and eventually drop into small talk about how glum Crowley is.
It's fun. Simi never thought they'd say that about a train ride towards the Hunger Games. It's fun and they feel so at ease, chatting away about their favourite things with their partner. Their new friend. Even Melvin looks to approve of the bond the two have built in such a short time.
It isn't until the train stops that Simi confirms it, though; they reach for Adrianne's hand and hide their face under their hat, asking her cautiously, "We'll stick together, right?"
Adrianne beams at him. "For sure. We'll knock 'em dead together."
And that's the chapter! I'll see you all next time for C-Districts 5 and 6! Till then, here's our chapter question!
QQ #11: Would you dive headfirst into your aspirations, or would you go at your own pace?