OKAY OKAY SO I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, BUT TO FULLY ENJOY GOSSAMER'S DIALOGUE AND THOUGHTS YOU'VE GOT TO IMAGINE DIO BRANDO FROM JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE'S VOICE. My personal recommendation for a youtube video example is "It was me, Dio!" simply for its meme status tbh.

Anyway! One more left after this and we're up to pre-Games! Big thank you to david12341 and josesukehosuke for these characters respectively!

19 - Redemption and Egocentrism

Epsilon Church, 17, C-District 9

"Church?" Leonard's voice is hard to hear through the door and over the shower. But he can recognise the sound of it well enough. "It's almost time to leave."

Church pulls his face out from under the shower head, steam blocking his vision and filling his lungs. The water burns his skin, red blotches all over his hands and torso. He doesn't mind, though—hot showers are his favourite.

"Coming," Church calls back. He doesn't hear Leonard leave, but the silence is confirmation enough. He twists the faucet until the water stops running. A cold chill runs over Church, but he's quick to grab a towel and step into the heat of the overhead light. Church wipes at the mirror closest to him almost absently—he could focus on his appearance for the reaping, or even check to see how much the hot water had burned his skin. Church wishes he could focus on those when he catches his reflection's gaze.

The scar is always most noticeable after a shower. The hot water makes it redder, makes it stand out even more than he wants it to. Church reaches up to the top of the scar—starting at his forehead, just above his left eye—and slowly runs his fingers down its trail. Once he reaches his chin, he heaves out a heavy sigh and pushes his hair out of his face as best he can.

As Church exits the bathroom, he calls out to Leonard, "Have the phone ready to call Dr. Bellamy."

From the study, where Leonard waits for him halfway down the mansion, his guardian calls back, "Yes, Church!"

White tee, black athletic shorts. He stares down at the two articles of clothing Leonard pulled out for him, an almost fond smile on his face. How long has it just been the two of them? Two years? Three? Church looks longingly out his doorway to Sarah's room—bed neatly made and barely a speck of dust on her dressers. His scar starts to ache, knowing exactly how long Leonard's only had to look after Church.

One year. He puts on the tee as he reflects on that time. One whole year since it all went wrong, since Church's very presence turned their lives upside down. One year since he was legally left in the care of the family's butler, Leonard Cain. One year since he messed up his one chance at being happy.

He scrubs at his damp hair with the towel, forcing Sarah's room out of his view. He needs to stay focused today—no time for wallowing and self deprecation when another opportunity waits for him. He'd been waiting for a day like this to come, for a chance to get the money Sarah so desperately needs. Church had just never expected it to happen so soon, while the loss was still fresh in his mind and the money saved up had yet to run out.

Church walks out of his bedroom with his towel over his shoulder. He skips the bathroom, not bothering to style his hair, and heads straight for the study. He can hear Leonard's voice in the room, already addressing Dr. Bellamy as though he'd known exactly when Church would walk through the door. The man grins at Church when he enters.

"Thank you, Doctor," he says, nodding. He rises from the chair, leaving it vacant for Church to take. As Church settles in, looking over the notes Leonard had written from Dr. Bellamy, Leonard adds, "This is very appreciated, Doctor. I hate to cut this short, but unfortunately my employer and I are on a tight schedule today. I'll hand you over to him to take over."

Church takes the phone with a neutral expression. The notes all have positive things to say about Sarah, no changes since the last time he visited her. He looks up and gives Leonard a thumbs up, just as Dr. Bellamy greets him.

"Miss Church has been doing very well," Dr. Bellamy informs him. Church hums in acknowledgement. "We're hoping to see some improvement, but it's too difficult to say at the moment."

"Does she still require the life support?" Church asks. Dr. Bellamy sighs heavily at the question.

"We'd hoped after all this time that she wouldn't need it, but she hasn't shown any signs of breathing on her own or remaining stable without certain machines."

Church pulls the phone from his ear and muffles the speaker in his shirt. He hangs his head in dismay, his free hand squeezing the bridge of his nose as he mutters, "Damn it."

When Church moves the phone back to his ear, he says, "Doctor, I'm going to be going away for a while. As we speak I'm having Leonard transfer enough money to keep paying for her treatment for another three months."

Dr. Bellamy let out a curious sound. "Where on earth could you be going at a time like this?" When Church doesn't answer, Dr. Bellamy gasps and begins yelling at him through the phone. "You're not serious! You're going to compete in some fool's quest for glory? Now of all times? Mr. Church, it may not be my place to say it, but Sarah needs you—"

"And I'm doing it for Sarah," Church tells him calmly. "My mother wasn't made of money, and everything she's left us is slowly running out the longer Sarah doesn't improve. A victor's allowance and special benefits is exactly what I need to help her."

"What you need is a job or to start a charity fund," Dr. Bellamy growled.

"Thank you for your work so far." Leonard walks back into the room, nodding to Church slowly. "The money is on its way now. I'll see you after the Games, Doctor."

The silence in the study is solemn once he hangs up. While Dr. Bellamy is right about the Hunger Games being a fool's quest for glory, Church doesn't have any other option. Nothing he does will make him as wealthy as his mother's invention did years ago, and no one would bat an eye at some beggar boy wanting to help his sister. Well, he thinks after a second, maybe some will spare him a second glance. But they'll all ignore him in favour of gossiping to what tragic thing they'd seen today to their friends.

Everyone's too concerned about themselves to help two kids on their own right now.

His hair is virtually dry as he leaves the study. He hands the towel to Leonard and lets out a long, tired breath. This is vastly different from his original plan. Church had trained day and night for the past year in the hopes that he'd be able to sneak into a District at some point, volunteer and go into the Games without a hitch. He might not have succeeded with that plan, though, which makes him all the more anxious to volunteer today. The one time luck is on his side, and he won't waste it for a second.

Church looks at Leonard with as much of a smile as he can muster—which isn't really better than a grimace. "I'll be home in a few weeks," he declares. Leonard nods, and then reaches into his jacket's inner pocket.

"I grabbed the necklace you asked for," he says, pulling the silver chain out. A small silver pendant—the symbol of Church's namesake, the letter epsilon, engraved at its centre—bounces up and down as it tumbles out of Leonard's jacket. "Cleaned and polished, just in case."

Church smiles a little more, genuinely pleased by the action. He takes it and clasps it around his neck, then tucks the pendant under the collar of his shirt.

"Am I doing the right thing?" he asks Leonard. The older male looks at Church with an unreadable expression, almost unwilling to let his thoughts show.

After what feels like an eternity, Leonard nods. "Your heart's in the right place. Just make sure you come back. Be the first to greet her."

Church nods. Very awkwardly, the two hug for half a second. Backs patted and gruff, "Stay safe, man," departures exchanged between them, and then Church is walking out the mansion and into the world.

He lives a short distance from the train station, where he'll catch the next train to the opera house. It's the closest landmark to his house, but still far enough that a good majority of Capitol kids need to transit there. He doesn't mind it, necessarily—gives him a good chance to steel himself and harden his resolve, though Leonard would argue that there's no need for that. Church is stubborn. Church won't back down once he finds a path that leads to a solution.

A car drives by him, the coating a bright candy red. It's the same make and model he'd driven last year, and he almost expects it to start swerving and squealing. The smell of rubber burning against his nose is hard to shake, and even as he stands he feels a weight on his lap. If he looks down, will he see Connie Church's face? Will he see the head balanced between his knees as blank, glassy eyes watched him in terror?

Church shakes his head as the car turns the corner. Of course he won't. He may not have known her for long, but the good memories of his mother will always keep that one bad memory at bay. When Church will look down, he'll see neat shoes without a single hole in sight—a gift from his mother, the life she gave him once she found out where he was.

His ticket doesn't cost much, and he takes a seat in the farthest cart of the train. It's mostly young boys with him, a small group of friends sitting to his immediate left and filling the solemn silence. He lets his eyes wander to the countless screens displaying advertisements, lingering on one that advertises life insurance.

Does he need life insurance? He never considered it, but he's going into a death game with slim chances of coming out. Leonard would've suggested it if it was important, especially since there's still at least half a year's worth of money to support Sarah. With the added three months he covered today, maybe life insurance won't be necessary. She might wake up within nine months.

Church sucks in a deep breath, tearing his eyes from the screen. She might wake up the day he goes into the arena. She might wake up the day he gets on the chariots. She might wake up the moment he volunteers. She might be awake as he sits here, throwing away his life for a one in twenty-four chance.

It hurts to think about it. He'd be content knowing she woke up if he'd died prior, knowing he'd at least tried to help somewhat. He could atone for his mistakes by taking an eternal rest while she gets to live her life. He can finally reunite with his mother and watch Sarah from afar, move onto the next life knowing he'd tried.

But he still wouldn't be able to talk to her. Not being able to hear her voice and to hold a conversation with her—it'd kill him twice.

"—out, man. I'm gonna volunteer as soon as possible."

Church's head snaps up to attention. It's one of the boys across from him—orange hair, mullet—who made the announcement. His heart hammers in his chest as he stares and listens, alarms going off in his head.

"My sister dared me to," Mullet goes on, "and I'm not some chicken, y'know? Don't worry about who's going."

No. No, no, no. If he volunteers, he'll take Church's spot. He'll take Church's chance to save Sarah. He'll keep Sarah asleep.

Rage flares in his gut as he clings tightly to the safety bar beside him. How does he stop him? There has to be a way to make sure Church is the one who volunteers—not Mullet. But how? Short of breaking the boy's leg, there's really nothing he can do before they arrive at the opera house. Church might hesitate for a millisecond too long, lose his chance to this asshole in front of him. He has to deal with him now, or else it's all for nothing.

The driver announces over the speakers that the stop beside the opera house will be approaching soon. What does he do? What does he do?

"Hey, dude," Mullet calls out. Church startles. He's been caught staring. "What's up?"

What's up is that he's ruining everything for Church.

"Thinking," Church replies smoothly. "Must've just been looking at you without looking at you."

Mullet laughs. It's a hideous laugh. "Been there, amirite?" He nudges his friend in the gut with his elbow. "Mrs. Winston is such a bore when she does lectures."

Maybe breaking his leg might be a good idea.

The light over the doors flickers on. Their stop is here. It's now or never.

"Actually," Church says, waving to get Mullet's attention, "I was wondering if we could chat real quick?"

The train stops, and Mullet's friends tell him they'll save him a seat. Mullet nods and waits as everyone else walks off the cart, and then he and Church slowly make their ways to the doors. Church hovers just outside the doors, keeping Mullet a good distance to the train.

"What'd you need?"

Church shrugs. He looks down at Mullet, and it becomes sorely apparent how old Mullet must really be. He's got to be a little older than fifteen, maybe even fourteen still. Throwing away his life and Sarah's chance at recovery—all because of a damn dare that wounded his ego.

"I heard you say you were going to volunteer. How come your sister dared you?" Church shuffles on his feet as he counts the seconds. It should be thirty more before the doors close. Half a minute.

Mullet snorts. "Krissy's a bitch," he says, and the rage just grows. He should be grateful he even has his sister. "She was messing with me, but I'll prove her wrong. I'll volunteer and get tips from Rye on winning."

Church hums. He nods, counts the last ten seconds. "Might be a slight problem," he muses. Before Mullet can ask why, Church kicks him harshly in the gut and sends the boy flying back into the cart. Mullet coughs and gags, tears in his eyes as he stares up at Church in confusion.

Just as the doors slide shut, Church says, "I'm volunteering. Not you."

The train begins to move backwards, retreating to the last station for its regular patrons. Mullet screams and yells at Church, an obvious tantrum being thrown as the train disappears from sight.

No one is stopping Church from saving his sister. No one.

Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10

"Gossamer Wormwood!"

"I volunteer!"

Well. That panic was short-lived. Gossamer lets out a deep breath and sinks into his seat, releasing his grip on Sol's hand. The burlier boy just stares up at the ceiling with a near-panicked expression, almost like he'd been scared to lose his ex to the Games.

"This is a waste of time," Gossamer growls into his palm. Sol looks at him and laughs softly, a cruel lilt to it.

"You're only saying that because your name is no longer an option," he teases.

"Six."

Sol hums curiously.

"We're in there six times each, Sol. Do your damn math."

"Whatever, whatever."

The boy that volunteered takes the stage with a confident stride, and the first thing Gossamer notices is the long scar running down the side of his face. Gossamer scrunches up his face at the sight of it—it's so ugly, why does this guy keep it? Doesn't he want to look good, being from the Capitol?

He announces himself as just Church, which some people laugh at. Gossamer is included in this group, snorting to himself over the boy's attempt at being hardcore. He can't tell what's worse: If the hardcore act isn't really an act and he seriously believes he's hot stuff, or if it turns out to be a ruse to try and get sponsors for being mysterious. Either way, the Mysterious Tribute Who Volunteers is a very overdone character type for Gossamer.

Church goes to stand by the District Nine team. The small whelp that seems to be representing them this year just shies away from the boy, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as she continues to shake. She's an instant death this year, Gossamer thinks. The fact that her mentor had clarified her "ears didn't work good" is proof enough of that. Said mentor—Rye Coven, still fresh in the minds of the Capitol—just grins knowingly at the two tributes. Gossamer wonders if she's concocting a plan similar to her own Games victory. It wouldn't be difficult, and the more abled of the two Nine tributes won't be punished for winning on his own.

Rye's the perfect mentor for a Capitolite, actually. Gossamer rubs his chin thoughtfully as he watches them.

The Plastic Surgery Terror reaches into the bowl next, her mentor and tribute standing a good distance from her. Gossamer observes them carefully, trying to pin a character type on them both. Straight-faced, arms crossed over their chests; they mirror each other almost perfectly, if not for the aged look in Dianne's eyes as she watches the crowd. Gossamer thinks the tribute's name is Octavia or something, but he really doesn't care. She looks just as capable as that Church guy, so what's the point of expecting a different character archetype?

Besides, he thinks as the escort pulls out a slip, she's too plain-looking to be main character material.

The escort mumbles something through those gargantuan lips of hers. The name she read out is practically unintelligible. Dianne lets out a heavy sigh, eyes rolling almost completely into the back of her head as she takes the slip from the woman. Gossamer snickers into his hand softly at the poor attempt at an annoyance on the escort's face.

"Gossamer Wormwood!" Dianne booms. Gossamer's hand drops from his face, and suddenly his lips twitch up into a sneer.

What kind of bull—

Sol's hand is shaking as no one speaks up to volunteer, and when Gossamer glances at him he can see the fear in the burly boy's eyes. His mouth opens and closes, pitiful attempts at speaking barely heard by even Gossamer.

"Useless," Gossamer growls. He throws Sol's hand back into his lap and stands up, cutting Dianne off as she calls out his name a second time. "I heard it the first two times, trust me!"

He can see the headlines coming in the days to follow. Prestigious son of one of the most high ranking Peacekeepers in the Quell. Gossamer Wormwood: The Next Big Thing from the Games. He can't help smirking to himself at the second one. Of course he's the next big thing to follow. People don't follow Gossamer's every whim for nothing, don't just bow down to him when he says so for nothing. He's important and more than that, Gossamer knows how to play the mind games some tributes entertain. Years of watching and studying past Hunger Games, learning about the characters of each season, will give him an edge these District kids can only dream of having.

He stands beside his District partner, and when he glances down his nose at her he can see the light reflecting off of his hair and onto her face. The way he styles his hair—altered to be mistaken for silken gold—is reminiscent of a crown; and it pleases Gossamer to no end when he sees his crown shining down on those beneath him. He smirks, still watching the rays of light on the girl's face, before the reaping comes to a full close.

…

Dianne wastes no time getting on his case. Gossamer has to put up the mask sooner than he'd hoped.

"You're Raime's boy," she states, barely looking up from her torte. Gossamer nods, examining the nail polish on each finger. He'll have to reapply the same colour on some. "He teach you anything useful for the Games?"

"No," he half-lies. He's been taught things, but not by Raime. Besides, if there's one thing he's learned about getting good allies that keep you on a pedestal, it's that you impress them at the last minute. He's better off hiding his own abilities, avoiding people accusing him of being "unfair" for being trained by one of the elite.

Dianne hums. "Octavia," she continues. Octavia looks at the woman over her water. "Are you comfortable working with Gossamer?"

The girl barely misses a beat. "Does it matter?"

If the question had been asked of Gossamer, he'd come up with some bullshit lie about Octavia being weighed down by his lack of experience. Truth be told, though, he doesn't see her as useful. Not naive enough, not dumb enough—the fact that she didn't give a straight answer just now proves that much. No, Octavia is nothing like what Gossamer needs to win. She won't see him as important now that she's heard him deny any training.

She's like Sol with a working brain. And Lord knows Sol was troublesome enough at times without one.

"If I may," Gossamer cuts in. Dianne pops a piece of her torte in her mouth lazily. She doesn't bother looking at him—how dare she ignore him. "I'd be a little more comfortable scouting the other tributes first. Not every District pair winds up as allies when they're not Careers."

"I agree," Octavia says. He looks at her with wide eyes. "I'm particular about who I'd work with in an arena. I'd rather leave the snap decisions for when the time calls for one."

Dianne nods. "Alright. Just remember to know where the line you'll never cross is drawn, and who does and doesn't stay within those boundaries."

Oh, she'd know a lot about crossing lines. Gossamer had a hard time stomaching his snacks when he'd watched Dianne's Games, especially with how often the spiders bled on her. It's difficult to see the effects those nights had had on Dianne now, but reviewing the Victory Tour tapes over and over made it clear to Gossamer after a few days. The countless roasted meats being rejected with a pale face and the way she'd worn gloves every time she stopped somewhere—Dianne developed some kind of phobia in her youth that must have been dealt with at some point, but whether or not the fear of meat remains has yet to be seen. He'll have to watch her keenly every night to see what she requests to eat.

Out of nowhere, Dianne looks over at him again and asks, "What do you think of this Quell, Gossamer?"

Why can't she just let the silence settle? It's only five minutes until they arrive at the training centre. Why force conversation? He gets that she needs to know about him a little, but Gossamer really doesn't like having to keep track of what he's told certain people.

"I'm a fan of the Games in general," he decides. Octavia looks to him with narrowed eyes, displeased by the answer. What the hell does she expect? He's from the one place in Panem that lives for this event. "I'd been hoping to observe the Quell from the comfort of home, but I'm confident my knowledge of the Games itself will suffice in the arena."

Less the Games and more the profiles he's learned to make of tributes. But Octavia doesn't need to be paranoid of him psychoanalysing her yet.

"You and eleven others," Octavia points out. Gossamer breathes in deeply through his nose. Don't snap. Not yet. She'll face his wrath for questioning him when the time comes.

"I could say the same about your chances of winning," he exhales, "but honestly, I think you have a good shot at it."

Both females look to him in alarm. Octavia looks like she's been caught completely off guard, while Dianne looks as though she hadn't expected the answer from him.

"You're keeping me at arm's length," he goes on, "which means you won't blindly trust someone who approaches you. You've got decent muscle mass, and you're neither under or overweight. Coming from a District where cattle run rampant, I imagine you've got some skills with heavy lifting and herding animals."

"Is this your attempt at asking me to be your ally?" She glares at him suspiciously.

"Just my opinion," Gossamer says innocently. She doesn't like him—maybe he can tip this in his favour, just get back at her a little bit and psych her out. "You should try for the Career pack."

As Octavia's nose scrunches up and she physically turns herself away from him in her seat, confetti flies in Gossamer's chest. Barely even in the training centre and he's already swayed someone away from the strongest group of competitors. If Octavia was a little more like Sol—a little more trusting of Gossamer, for better or worse—she'd have gotten in with the Careers regardless. They always scout blue-collar District kids after the wins that came from Magnolia and Charlotte joining packs.

Octavia might turn into a project of his if he can keep swaying her decisions. Maybe he can narrow down who she allies with by pointing out unpleasant things about other tributes that most would find appealing. Maybe he can isolate her entirely, force her away from every other Capitolite in the arena and sabotage her chances of winning. The possibilities are endless.

Silence, blissful and peaceful, finally overtakes the cart. Octavia keeps sipping at her water while Dianne finishes her torte, and Gossamer can finally delve into his thoughts. He saw some of the reapings this morning from the Districts, but now that he's in the Games he supposes he should review what he knows.

Altan Knight… Typical proud character who has hair-trigger anger. He'd be easy to provoke and sway, maybe even use reverse psychology on. Gossamer's always wanted to try that on someone. Cetronia Livius… A faux villain. There's no other way to describe her, aside from "Amazonian warrior" with a snicker to boot. She'll come off as threatening with her height and confidence, but Gossamer will bet money on her being outdone by a bigger bad.

Daphne Petheraph is a surefire bloodbath. Tourettes is probably the worst thing to have in the Hunger Games, and if she's lucky she'll experience a movement tic that sets off her pedestal. That'll be the quicker death, at least. The girl from Four—Adrianne?—definitely doesn't look to be Career material. She'll be abandoned by Cetronia and Altan for sure.

Toe—he doesn't care what the kid's actual name is, he's calling him Toe—looked like he was shitting himself up onstage, so Gossamer doesn't have to worry about meddling with him. Kids like Toe always shoot themselves in the foot somehow. Finnegan, the volunteer from Six… Well, fainting isn't a good start. Maybe Gossamer will focus on him a bit if he can learn what makes him tick. Every noble sacrifice has its limits, he likes to think.

Phylhiss—

The train comes to a halt, an announcement coming from above them that they've arrived at the training centre. Gossamer rises from his chair and stretches with a groan. These train seats are just as uncomfortable as the opera house rows. Dianne wastes no time shoving the rest of the torte in her mouth and leading the teens out of the train. Octavia keeps a good distance from Gossamer, which he appreciates more than she knows. Now he doesn't have to worry about someone insisting they follow him everywhere and pretend to be best friends.

They step off the train just in time to spot the reapings for Eleven and Twelve being set up outside. Gossamer watches blankly until the doors shut behind him, and then he's being led to the elevator as Dianne presses the floor for the stylists.

Time to put on a show, he thinks with a small smile. These kids won't know what hit them. They won't expect him to come out of left field and take the victory.

The Quell victory is his for the taking.

Nine and Ten done! Eleven and Twelve are next! Let me know what you think of these two characters.

QQ #14: Would you focus on your own happiness, or do everything you can for someone else's?

I'll see you all next time!