XVI: Reintroductions.

Ilan Azar, 17
Victor of District Seven

There's nothing comforting about listening to the sound of a dial tone.

It's the same noise Ilan listens to once a week, his government-sanctioned phone call home lengthening with each time he dared to call.

Sometimes his mother would answer so quickly that he couldn't help but imagine her sitting there waiting, hovering anxiously while she twirled her fingers about the tangled cord. This time, when Ilan finally works up the courage to type the number in, it rings on and on to such an extent that he can't help but wonder if they're finally forgotten he exists.

When the line finally clicks, the voice on the other side is breathless, "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I was out in the garden."

His mother's voice is frantic, afraid of missing his call. She knows the rules just like everyone else—once a week, to anyone they had the means to contact. If the call goes unanswered, that's it. You wait seven more days just like everyone else out there.

"It's okay, mom," he tells her, finally allowing himself to relax back into the armchair he's claimed. "You're gardening? In December?"

"You know how it goes, sweetheart. Turnips, the beets…"

"I hate beets."

"I know. I won't make you eat them."

More like he won't have to. His mom seems to realize that at just the same time, and the silence that lapses between them is so deafening he can hear the grandfather clock by the entryway clicking away. If Ilan had the chance to go home, he'd eat all the stupid beets in the world for it. To have his room again, the treehouse, to have his mother hug him before bed and his father jostle him before he went off to work.

To be at peace again with Vitali, surrounded by his murals.

"How are you doing, baby?" she asks, brightening her voice to shake Ilan out of his sudden stupor. "How's that new therapist?"

"Oh! Good. She's got this really cool hair, all these different shades of green. Like how I'd paint a forest."

"I'm glad you like her."

"Yeah," he agrees softly. "Mom, have you… you still haven't seen him, right?"

That silence, again. This time it's due more to the fact that Ilan's sure he stops breathing, just like every-time. Waiting with bated breath for his mother's answer to change from the same thing she always tells him. Ilan knows his mom hates that he keeps asking, probably just wishes that he would let it go, but that won't happen.

"No," she says finally, voice quiet. "I haven't."

"But if you do—whenever you do, you'll tell him, right? That I miss him? That I hope he's doing okay?"

He hears her sigh, ignores the exasperation that seeps into the noise. "Of course I will, sweetheart."

As much as he longs for Vitali's voice, he still doesn't blame him for running. No one that good deserves Ilan as a partner, to be dragged down and buried beneath years of torture. That doesn't stop him from hoping, even one last time, to hear his voice again. To hear the words I love you in a tone that isn't strictly parental.

It's unlikely, but it's the only thing he has left to cling to before they send him back in.

The security guard at the door doesn't tap at his watch to call for Ilan's attention until nearly a half-hour later—they've gotten more lax as time has gone on, letting Ilan say goodbye without ripping the phone from his hands. It's easier now too, when he knows his mom will be there the same time next week, ready to answer.

"Do you want it?" he asks as he hangs up, taking note of the quiet footsteps behind him before Sanne rounds the corner, plopping down on the sofa adjacent. She shakes her head just before the guard removes the phone from Ilan's hand; it doesn't appear he's in the mood to ask again.

Her phone calls are never the length that his are. If Ilan recalls correctly, he doesn't think anyone even answered Sanne last week.

It's not like they're newfound best friends, or anything. Ilan knows all about what it's like for someone to try and pry, because he up and killed Hollis for it. What he does know is that she's not close to her parents, not like he is.

He didn't know Sanne before, but some of that bright energy is still hidden just beneath the surface. She's the type of girl to attract a crowd, surrounded by a gaggle of friends, never having to try too hard. That was before she collapsed into a fit of sobs in front of him, landing hard on her knees in the middle of the burning forest.

Ilan had pulled her back up. She had clung to his hand for dear life, a stranger. That brightness had been extinguished, snuffed out like the light of a candle.

"Have you talked to Dr. Verlice?" Sanne asks, resting her head back against a pillow.

"Yeah."

"She's nice, hey?"

It sounds like Sanne is trying to convince herself. Talking to people is hard, and Ilan knows it best of all. Of course she's nice. She talks to Ilan about his art and Vitali and she got him a notebook, too, so he could start up writing poetry again, but what was the use, really, when he had nothing to write about?

This concrete jungle wasn't worth describing in eloquent detail. He had no romantics to put down on paper.

What he did know, without a therapist's careful observation, was that people couldn't possibly understand them. They had never understood Ilan, whether for lack of desire or blatant ignorance. Who could, save for Vitali or a boy like Sanne's Brycen?

No one else was truly worth it, and no one like that was here with them, anymore.

They were on their own.

Aranza de León, 18
Victor of District Eight

There had always been something truly magical about the Capitol to Aranza.

It was the grandiose skyline, the way everything sparkled and glimmered as if lit by a thousand suns. It was the people, too, all so vibrant and proper—nothing like the scum that inhabited Eight's streets like a plague.

Here, Aranza was allowed to be the person she was meant to all along. She could walk out in a white sheath dress not unlike the one she donned in the arena without fear that someone would splash muck all over her front.

It was a wonder to walk the streets and feel like you truly belonged.

Granted, the effect was somewhat… dimmed, by the guard constantly at her side, though at least he had the good sense not to talk. The true change of the day was Kiran walking by her side, even more stoic than the guardian that lurked behind them. For someone only a scant few years older than herself, he may as well have already been of retirement age.

Aranza got the feeling quite often that Kiran felt less than desirous towards her, but the amount he stuck around said otherwise. He had all but picked up and moved to the Capitol since August, dropping three-quarters of belongings and both his cats in the apartment as if it was his makeshift home, too.

In the very least, Sateen liked her. The dainty, blue-eyed white youngling seemed quite obsessed with her—but who shouldn't be, really? When Kiran refused to respond and Milan grew quietly tired of listening to her despite his efforts, it was the younger of his two cats that would lie in her lap and let her drone on into the long night, an unfailing support system that was better than anything Aranza had ever encountered before.

If she got out—when she did—Kiran would certainly be one pet shorter. That one was hers, after all of this.

His scoff is familiar as he catches her wandering eye, fixed helplessly on the front of a sweet shop at the block ahead. It's the best one in the Capitol, so everyone says. At least that's what their delivery woman says, whenever Aranza requests something dropped off to the apartment. It was beyond nice to have people constantly at her bidding, practically begging to fulfill every one of her wants and needs.

"I doubt there will be any sweets in the arena," Kiran says, his voice nearly drowned out by the bustle of the street. "Start weaning yourself off now."

"Why?" Aranza asks. "Because you're telling me to?"

And who is he, really, to tell her anything? She's a victor as much as he is, with one more kill to her name to boot.

Kiran can only advise her. Not command her.

Tempting though the shop may be, Aranza pulls herself to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, uncaring for the stream of people that must change course to divert around her. "Here, then," she instructs, jabbing a finger at the storefront just in front of them. Rows upon rows of designer clothes lay displayed before her, ripe for the taking.

Kiran sighs. "Because you don't have enough clothes in the closet that doesn't technically belong to you."

"Right!" Aranza says, giving him a pointed look. "I'm so glad you agree."

"That's not—"

Aranza waves a hand forward, waiting on the sidewalk until the guard steps forward to open the door. "Live a little, Kiran."

"I am, thank-you."

"Your choice of outfit says otherwise," she says pointedly. "Why don't we freshen you up a bit, what do you say? I mean if you're going to be representing me, pointing out my worth to sponsors, you should at least look the part."

His stare is nothing short of blank, and changes into something even more unimpressed when she herds him through the front door. Aranza can't very well let him continue roaming about the Capitol looking like a common-person of Eight, not when he's her mentor. Their standards need to be a bit higher.

Milan's much the same, though. They just don't seem to care the amount Aranza does about appearances, about how easy it can be to wrap someone around your little pinky finger if you look the part, know what words to say. She has no idea how he manages to stay holed up in the apartment so often, writing away on the tablet they've given him with his lips twisted into a frown. She has no idea what he's truly doing beyond being yet another idiotic, hopeless boy, but to each their own. He's welcome to it.

Aranza will always be the one out in the public eye, moving pieces across the chessboard before the beginning timer has even gone off. People know her game, now. They watched her play it once already.

She needs to be ahead of the game.

"Remember that this is all going to go away in two weeks," Kiran reminds her. "No more shopping with money that isn't yours or stuffing yourself full of jellies. You'll be in the same training uniform as everyone else in a room full of many people who could still snap you in half."

Well, wouldn't Aranza just love to see them try. Even some of the bigger physical threats would even cower to be in her presence

"Two weeks," she echoes. "Of course. So why not make the most of it?"

She's allowed his point to gloss over her, as is his right. Judging by Kiran's pointed glare, he's not grateful enough to be on the receiving end of her decision.

Let him be that way, though. Let Milan rot away in that apartment for two more weeks if that's what he wishes. No amount of pointing out how this was going to end will change how she behaves; she knew the end was coming all along.

It's only for a short period of time, though.

Aranza will return to this. She knows she will.

Weston Katsouris, 18
Victor of District Six

His first thought when they shipped him back off to the Capitol was something along the lines of oh, thank fucking God.

Don't get him wrong—Six wasn't all bad. At least not his version. He got off the train and went right back to the Berodach's where he belonged more than the house he grew up in, though his sisters made a greater point to visit when he wasn't working.

Work was strange now. He was something of a celebrity, more-so than his father had ever been. People seemed almost eager to let a Berodach take care of a deceased family member's dead body as long as one Weston Katsouris was lending a helping hand. It was sick, of course, but it was profitable. At least he knew he was helping them out in some way.

People made eyes at him on the street. He didn't even have to try to get people to pay attention to him. Granted, of course, there was Shelby's elder sister, who no doubt wanted to throttle him, a few others that weren't exactly ecstatic to see him, but nonetheless, Six was alive with something.

The Capitol just felt better. The idea of it, at least. The nightlife and the wild parties and the freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted without repercussion. He got the Capitol, of course, but none of the perks that came with it.

Nothing in life is that easy.

Being Weston, though, there was always some way to find entertainment. A walk was out of the question unless he wanted to chance his hair in the pouring rain—frankly, he didn't. Vadric was in their room, and though he was tempted to drag them out he knew better than to take every opportune moment to follow through. Some days, more often than not, they wouldn't object. Perhaps even be agreeable.

They weren't the type of person he could go overkill on, though. Weren't the type of person he wanted to do that to.

Everus wouldn't entertain him. He'd smile, almost amusingly, and go back to his reading. Nico, though… she would play along, if he tried hard enough.

Weston tips his head off the back of the couch, finding her poring over a tablet at the main table. He makes a grand show of sauntering over to her, pulling out the opposite chair so that she has no choice but to acknowledge him, stretching out a foot to knock against her leg.

"Can I help you?" she asks drily, raising an eyebrow without looking up.

"I'm bored," he replies. Same words as yesterday, the ones he had offered Vadric. Hadn't really fixed it then, either, and it was continuing to fester. At least something interesting would happen soon.

"Last time I checked, you were a smidgen above eight years old," Nico points out. "Find something to do."

"Like…?"

"Whatever you want."

Weston glances around the room, turning over the last few stones he can possibly find. "Chess?"

"Is a thing, yes."

"We should play a few rounds," he says. "Winner gets to suggest something better."

Nico lets out a scoff, jutting her foot out to kick him sharply in the shin. "I'm not sure what that insinuation was, but it's a no. Chess, sure. Anything after that, reconsider it before I send you flying into next week."

"Yes ma'am," Weston says, rising with a mock salute that earns another eye-roll. Can't blame a guy for trying, really, considering how long it's been since he last got laid. He knew Nico would never give in, but still.

He crosses to the chess table while Nico finishes up her work, pulling open the drawers to reveal the carefully crafted glass pieces within, two full sets. Until today, he's never touched it. Weston thinks Vadric would be amused to even discover that he knows how to play, and Everus much prefers his own company rather than anyone else's. Of course, Weston wouldn't be the best teacher, either. It's impossible to be when winning is always at the forefront of your brain.

Of course Nico isn't all that surprised—she's spent enough time around him by this point that she knows there's something more going on in his brain. To the untrained eye he's a playboy, a constant smirk worn proudly on his face, parading around with the world's biggest bravado and with good reason to own it, too.

That's how it was, at least. The entire country saw him let loose in that arena, let him do the damage that Weston always knew he was capable of.

It takes more than just brute strength to get through that. A gremlin by your side, perhaps.

Or a brain that never quite turned off.

"You have a plan to win this?" Nico asks as she takes a seat. "I at least hope you can give me somewhat of a challenge."

Weston smiles as he finishes sliding her pieces into place, busying himself with his own. He allows his index finger to linger over-top the queen's crown, the pointed edges digging into his skin as he observes his most valuable piece. The king is powerful too of course, in his own right, but also the most vulnerable. You lose that, you lose everything.

Every piece, though, has its uses. The name and title matter little—at the end of the day it's about the person beyond them, the hands that move them.

You can do anything with the right amount of thought, and Weston's put plenty into this. He doesn't just have a plan.

He's already won.

Casia Braddock, 13
Victor of District Nine

There was perhaps nothing in the world she hated more than these falsified family dinners.

Casia hadn't liked them any better at home, either—the house wasn't nearly big enough, too crowded and chaotic. Food would be flung across the table, someone's shrieking voice filling her ears, Luther pulling at her sleeve and complaining that he didn't want to eat his peas.

Granted they were quieter, here. Lilou to her right, Hari to her left. Just across from her Aden, and rounding out their odd little party of five is Cajus, chipper as ever as he begins filling his plate, more determined than ever to get them all talking.

Casia is frankly surprised he's even willing to have dinner with them all after calling them backwoods, good-for-nothing wretches. Of course the blame had fallen exclusively to Lilou on that one, but it wasn't as if either of them were about to fess up.

It was a harmless prank, really. Although Casia didn't participate, Lilou's random antics seemed to be getting more and more amusing the closer they got to the end of December. Evidently she was realizing that her time was running short, and what else was there to do besides cause a bit of harmless mayhem. If there was anything criminal about switching everything in Cajus' bathroom around, from his tubs of skin cream to his toothpaste and canisters of make-up, then Lilou was a downright criminal.

Cajus had thrown a fit, all while Lilou had fled the scene and Aden had rolled his eyes and Hari had smiled, secretly, ducking his head so no one could see. Until Cajus had turned to her and paled, eyes widening as her presence was noticed.

It was almost pathetic how terrified he was of her, but it served Casia well. It meant he didn't talk to her. Refused to be alone in a room with her.

He certainly wasn't going to help her out any, either, but Casia had proven long ago that she didn't need anyone's help.

"So, how was everyone's day?" Cajus asks sunnily. The withering glare he turns on Lilou when she so much as looks up from her plate is enough to keep her quiet, and he doesn't bother looking at Casia.

"Fine," Hari answers. Polite, but not about to offer any more words than that. Aden nods in agreement.

Back to silence.

If you ignored the existence of their lovely little escort, this year's Nine squadron would make quite the fortified group. None of them are so loud as to cause an outright scene, and when anyone pushes too hard one is right there at the ready to back the other up, silent and stoic and just a little bit intimidating.

Or, at least, Aden was. They were all victors in their own right, but Hari was still as thin as a rake, and it's not as if two teenage girls were exactly the most threatening creatures at first glance. Cajus was terrified of her because he was silly, really—it's not as if she was going to attack him and slit his throat in the middle of the apartment in broad daylight. She wasn't that bad, unless your name was Sam Hartfield and you just happened to be the most troublesome person on the planet.

Casia had almost found herself caving to Hari, once, before she had stopped herself. It would serve her no good to spill that secret.

It would be something she took to her grave, if that was the place she found next month.

"I swear you lot are impossible," Cajus snaps. "How do you plan on getting sponsorships like this, hm? Certainly not without my help."

Right. Because, as he's said, their mentors have the personality of wet paper bags, and nobody is going to go rushing out of their way to sponsor two little girls when the rest of the field was so utterly appealing. His words, of course. Casia wasn't so down on herself quite yet. Nobody had any preferable thoughts towards her the first time around either, and look how that ended up.

"I'll be taking my leave," he continues, as if anyone around the table cares. "Enjoy your meal."

Balancing precariously his roll of silverware, laden plate, and two drink glasses, he thankfully departs. "Do you think we've gotten him to consider retirement yet?" Aden asks. "If he's still here next year, I'm leaving you alone."

Hari smiles. Casia can't exactly picture it, knowing how close the two of them are, but it's good to know that the jokes can still flow despite the awkwardness. It's not as if she'll be the one to offer them, but it's enough to ease her mind.

She doesn't need Cajus nor his connections. Casia just needs a weapon.

"You'll be fine, y'know," Hari says quietly, leaning closer to her. "Same way you were last time."

Casia nods, relieved to hear him echoing almost her exact thoughts. Hari may not be everyone's cup of tea, but he's become something like a big brother to her these last several months. She has a family back home to return to, of course, but nothing she feels connected to. All of the children older than her are Sam's, couldn't care less about her, and the younger ones are like buzzing gnats. Annoyances.

For someone to care without reason to, but just caring about her because they can… it's nice.

Nicer than she thought.

Casia smiles. "Thanks."

It's a good thing to think about instead. How things change. How, if she plays her cards right, Casia can have something to return to, even if no one expects it.

She'll prove them all wrong if she has to.

To think that chapter seventeen has always, up until this fic, been my bloodbath chapter. Clown energy I guess.

Don't really have anything else to say and also I'm writing this on my phone because I forgot about the concept of writing a note beforehand, so apologies for the lackluster bit this week. Hopefully I have a better one next week.

Until next time.