XIX: Reintroductions.
Zoya Ossof, 16
Victor of District Five
There has to be a reason they're still keeping him here.
Moreover, a reason why they won't let him go. Zoya can guess that one, though. He doesn't think he'd trust him alone in an apartment with Kai either.
Still, though, what good is it going to do if he's cooped up in a hospital ward until the new year when he's fine? Fine, you know, like he's not missing every finger on one of his hands and not riddled with burns that trail down his forearms.
He's fine. If they're worried about him throttling Kai, it's going to be damn hard to do with one hand. Absent-mindedly, he wiggles the nubs that are left of his fingers, just above the first knuckle—tries to, anyway. They don't seem to be anything other than five decorations. A part of Zoya almost wishes they would just cut his hand off at the wrist; at least that way he wouldn't look so fucking ridiculous.
Zoya swings his legs back and forth over the edge of the bed, fixated on the door. Nurse number seventeen said she wouldn't be long, but that was some twenty minutes ago. If there's any truth behind her declaration of him possibly getting out of here, she's certainly taking a sick amount of enjoy in drawing it out.
He nearly jumps off the bed when the door opens, about to take his chances with whoever's there, but the appearance of an unfamiliar white-coated stranger keeps him still. She's by far the most official looking doctor that's looked in his direction thus far, and that's saying something. Her eyes rake over him, something scornful in her gaze like she's observing a petulant child.
Zoya waves.
"Dr. Rivera," the woman introduces, for lack of an explanation. "Give me your arm, please."
Zoya jerks his arm out, not bothering to ask which one she's talking about. No one gives a shit about his still-intact one. Dr. Rivera drops a small silver briefcase at his side, pulling something from it before Zoya can even get a good look at the contents. Nurse seventeen steps forward with a sweet smile as she holds his arm steady, allowing the doctor to affix something around his wrist, a thick plastic strap that sits snugly against his skin. Whatever it is, a combination of metal and further plastic lays flat over the back of his hand as several smaller straps are wound tightly around what's left of his fingers. Before they're finished, it's easy to understand what he's looking at as the shape reveals itself.
It's all sleek black and silver, so robotic against his skin. When they release him, finally, the silence between them stretches as Zoya focuses, concentrating with everything in him until, finally, the prosthetic fingers begin to shift. The strain in his hand is obvious as they curl into something almost resembling a fist.
"You won't have the time to get used to it that we'd like, but it's a newer model," Dr. Rivera explains. "One would assume it's better than no fingers at all."
Zoya nods. He swings his arm about, too, but the device doesn't even budge. "Think I could punch someone, doc?"
"I wouldn't—"
"I kid, I kid," he interrupts. Maybe not when it comes to Kai, but at least that's someone that deserves it. A mere punch doesn't even compare to Kai shoving him off the catwalk and nearly killing him. "Is this what we were waiting on? Can I bounce now, or?"
Dr. Rivera isn't able to hide her sigh, but the nurse waves him off. "Your mentor's outside. You should—"
Zoya doesn't wait another second. The possibility of getting stuck in here for any length of time weighs heavily on his mind. He nearly hits Sarain with the door in his haste to escape, socked feet sliding across the tiled floor. His mentor looks nothing short of unamused as she narrowly avoids tumbling to the floor.
"I'm free!" he announces to the otherwise empty hallway. "They just can't keep me locked up."
"That they can't."
"And look at this," Zoya emphasizes, thrusting his hand out towards her. It's not the easiest to get all of the fingers to flatten out in the way he desires, but finally he holds the palm of his hand up, waiting.
Sarain stares at it before she turns, beckoning him to follow. "Let's go, kid."
"What, not even a high-five?"
"Try again in an hour."
"What's happening in an hour?"
"I'll have visual proof of whether or not the two of you will try to kill one another."
"Uh, excuse me?" Zoya questions, though he hurries to follow after her. "He already did try. What happened to getting even?"
"Get even in the Games, then. He's going through enough without being at risk of assault via you."
Not fair. Well, sort of fair. He's heard about the whole cancer dealio, but why should that stop him from getting at least one good hit in? If Kai is in such danger of crumpling like a ball of wet paper, then the idiot shouldn't have volunteered in the first place. Besides, Zoya has had more than enough days to harbor anger and thoughts of revenge, trapped in here while Kai got to live like a king in an apartment like he belonged there.
Everyone already knows him well enough. They know that Zoya isn't just going to cooperate simply because they've asked him to.
"I'll consider being nice," he tells Sarain, but even the most dense person in the world could see easily through his lies.
At least Zoya has never worried about being inconspicuous in his on-goings.
Levi Alcandre, 18
Victor of District Two
There is no normalcy anymore.
There can't be, not when he can hardly close his eyes without some amount of paranoia creeping in.
Too many thoughts run through his head nowadays for him to rest comfortably—they always have, to be fair, but back at home he could close his eyes. Sleep came easily, as it always had. Levi now had lost count over how many nights he hadn't slept through, if he slept at all.
Of course he had nightmares. He had never been so oblivious to the fact that it was possible, but he hadn't thought they would be so vivid. He remembers the day back in Two when Rohana had brought him downstairs, all the way to the infamous Killing Floor. She had presented him with two things—a disheveled man, unshaven and so thin he could hardly stand, and a knife.
A weapon to kill with, and someone off the back streets of Two, who no one would wonder about or care for.
Killing him had been pathetically easy, even if his heart had twinged. By the time he went back upstairs to shower off the gore, he had been laughing again with the others. His dad's had been none the wiser, nor his grandmother or Yvette or Lona. They knew everything about him, all the accidents and scraps and stupid things he had gotten himself into over the years, but not this. It was a part of his existence, the lifeblood that kept him going. Because he did it, Rohana trusted him in the Games.
Only Sander had questioned it. As he began his descent down the Academy's front steps, hand-in-hand with Beau, he had looked back at Levi and asked are you alright?. There had been a note of concern in his voice, suspicion in his eyes.
And Levi had replied yeah, why wouldn't I be? because it had been the truth.
It wasn't anymore.
There was no talking to Sander, not anymore. No concern or friendship or worry, because Levi had done his best to ruin that when he cut Sander's face open. He could still feel himself on the ground, too, Sander's hands squeezing the life out of him as oxygen trickled from his throat, Erryn's deranged laughter somewhere in the background. One decision, and he was going to pay for it with his life, his last thought being only I'm sorry.
He could charade around just like anyone. Strategize with Rohana and let Matthias kick his ass in chess because he couldn't bother to concentrate on it, anyway. Messing with Callias was his favorite hobby, as of late—three weeks ago he had showed up at the apartment sporting a curled set of ram's horns that sprouted from his curly white hair, as if that was a normal and sensible thing to do, and Levi made sure to flick his fingers at them every-time he was within a few feet of their escort, just because he could.
Pretending was the good part. It was at night, when he couldn't sleep, that things got ugly.
This night is no different.
The apartment is too quiet. Somehow the walls muffle the city below, making every creak and click in the apartment become amplified tenfold. It's enough to set his skin crawling, making him jolt just when he begins to foolishly think the fog of sleep is coming for him. The worst is the footsteps. No matter when, no matter who, Levi hears the moment someone begins to walk around the apartment, whether it's to rise in the morning or make a trip into the bathroom.
He knows them all by now. And he knows damn well that it's Sander walking past his door right now, quiet but not as quiet as he'd like to be. He never can be.
Levi inches silently off the bed, creeping up to his closed door without a sound. Sander isn't standing there like some sort of freakish monster when he opens it; his shadow is down the hall, now, re-opening his own door. Before he can disappear inside, he turns, the feeling of eyes watching his back no doubt obvious in the dead of night.
For a moment, all they can do is stare at one another. There's a fresh wrapping of plastic around Sander's hand, but Levi has long since learned not to question it.
"What?" Sander asks finally, as if they can say for certain he devoted so much silence to a single word. Not are you alright or do you need something or should we talk?
Nothing like what he would say in the past. It would be all the more strange if he was anything like that now.
Levi steps back and shuts his door without responding. It feels good to regain even an ounce of control over the situation and separate them as if the very act isn't petty in itself. His only solution otherwise would be to tell Sander to get over it, and merely suggesting it aloud last month earned him a smacking on behalf of Rohana.
Sander doesn't have to forgive him—they're past that point. All he has to do is accept that it happened and move on, let Levi live like he used to. He can't very well do that when it feels like every wall in the apartment is about to come crashing down on top of him. They're tethered onto each end of an elastic stretched too-thin, and one of them is going to snap.
Getting out of here is the only solution. If Levi had his choice, he'd already be back in the Tribute Center. No creaky hallways, no worries of being strangled in his sleep. Just life as he knows it.
He'll be able to laugh again. Smile without hating how it hurts. Levi will be free, after too much time of feeling trapped. As long as he holds onto that, this hellish in-between is manageable.
Everything is about to change. He can survive, knowing that.
Robbie Creston, 17
Victor of District Ten
Before he's even properly decided to go for it, Robbie knows he's only going to get one shot.
Which, you know. Sort of ironic given the circumstances.
Robbie's hand finds his shoulder as he stands outside Hawke's door, feeling for the knotted scar tissue beneath his shirt. Anyone else would consider this the job of a madman, and there's no part of Robbie that truly wants to go through with it. Inevitably, in life, you'll come across a dealing or two that you'd rather not be a part of.
This is just one of those things.
He doesn't bother knocking—if he did, Hawke wouldn't let him in anyway. Bellamy has done quite the thorough job of proving that thus far. He slides into the room without allowing himself to blink, the lamp-light an easy enough invitation.
Hawke's eyes, however, are not so forgiving. "What the fuck do you want?"
"To talk."
"Ever heard of knocking?"
"Can't say I have, no," Robbie replies, plopping himself into an armchair. It'll be much more difficult for Hawke to kick him out this way. "So can I talk, or no?"
"Are you going to regardless of what my answer is?"
Hawke is appealing only in the way that a rattler is—best viewed from a distance. He's not endearing, not even in an infuriating sort of sense like Pierre is. At least his cheeks flush red when he gets angry as a bull, standing out almost comically against his flash of hair. Robbie can find himself smiling then even when he shouldn't.
But Hawke is not someone to smile at.
"Look, I've forgiven you for shooting me—"
"Didn't ask you to."
"And," Robbie cuts in, refusing to be put off. "There's no way you'll be able to pull that lone wolf shit off again. You're a prime outer target for the Careers."
What Careers, he doesn't know. Whatever ones are smart enough to realize that they still somehow have an advantage in all of this and link up. Just like always, they'll hunt for the big numbers. Tomorrow Robbie will have the chance to see all of them in the same room, himself amongst them, and he'll know it for sure.
He's no pushover, either, but Robbie bled enough all over the grass that nobody's quite staring at him perhaps the way they should be.
All the better for him.
"Y'know, I'm not sure what you're getting at here," Hawke ponders. "If you're trying to paint me as some kind of damsel in distress…"
He snorts. "As if. But me and you, together, we wouldn't have to worry about that ever happening. You must realize that."
It's silent for a heartbeat, and then Hawke laughs. Not loud and raucous in the true sense, but enough to startle him. There's no point in looking around to see if the noise is escaping someone else when it's staring him right in the face.
"What I realize," Hawke says finally. "Is that you're grasping at straws."
"You'll die on your own."
Hawke shrugs, getting to his feet. He strides past Robbie easily, holding open the door with a windswept arm as if to signal him out.
Robbie can't give up so easily. He won't. "You know I'm right."
"Last time I watched the recaps, you were the one that nearly died twice," Hawke reminds him. "If you think there's someone in this apartment that needs help in the long run, find a mirror to look in. 'Cause it sure as hell ain't me."
He feels himself bristle, heat overtaking his body. If Pierre was here, either his friend would have hit Hawke by now, or he would have egged Robbie into doing it. Even though his hands find themselves tightening into fists, he can't make them move. What good would it do to hit Hawke now? Bellamy would have a field day if his tributes showed up to training tomorrow, one of them with blistered knuckles and the other one with a fresh shiner.
It's almost enough to make him want to do it.
This time, when Hawke gestures yet again, Robbie obliges. Not because he doesn't want to keep picking apart Hawke's plans and sense of self, but because these walls don't deserve to have a hole punched in them.
"Next time, if someone tries to save you, you might want to let them," Robbie says. He pulls the door from Hawke's grip and slams it shut behind him, letting it reverberate up and down the hall. They're supposed to be getting some sleep before tomorrow's… festivities, but at least he exhausted all his options.
He knows it wasn't good enough. He knows he'll think about it until he falls asleep.
"But you did good enough, dear."
The voice sounds so real, so present, that Robbie nearly turns out. It's just his mother's voice, as always, louder now in the vacant hall. He nods to himself—if she believes in him, then Robbie can accept at least that. To let his parents down would mean to fail in the worst sense of the word. He needs to do good for them.
Apparently that doesn't mean needing Hawke. There are plenty of others, and they won't scorn him like his so-called partner.
Robbie will find his way to the path he's meant to take, the one that will lead him home.
It's the only truth that matters.
Farasha Oriani, 14
Victor of District Eleven
Oddly enough, the apartment had reminded her just enough of her home in Eleven.
Granted, they're nothing short of two opposites. She had lived in a city center for most of her life, small as it was amidst the fields and orchards, but their home had always resembled something more befitting of the upper Districts—a building in Five, perhaps, or a townhouse in Three.
The apartment in the Capitol had that same fish-out-of-water feeling, except Farasha was the fish now and she was finally fighting her way upstream.
They had nothing to pack. When she awoke there was a set of clothes waiting for her, a simple black uniform with a silver '11' emblazoned between the shoulder blades. Curiously enough, though her heart rate began to speed along as she pulled it over her head, Farasha could raise enough energy to be afraid. She was just glad to be out of this place, no matter where it meant going.
She had no idea how other tributes had managed months of this. A single one, just shy of two, had been more than enough for her. Clementine's antics had been more than enough to keep the focus off of her—that had seemed the preferable option, at first.
Now, Farasha was lonely. Crushingly so, in a way that made her feel buried, suffocating beneath the weight of a thousand stares that meant nothing at all. Over breakfast, Xanthe didn't so much as speak to her. When it was finally time to leave, Helian had only offered her a gentle smile and held his arm out as she stepped into the elevator, joining her in solitude.
She wanted something, and it was too late. Anything. More.
The way Clementine looked at her the whole way down, the suspicion and disdain, showed Asha that she had ruined any chance of that a long time ago.
"There are going to be cameras," Atropa warns them, as if their presence now is somehow an anomaly. "Smile, if you want."
There's a hidden or don't buried somewhere in the end of her sentence, and Farasha takes it gratefully. No doubt Clementine will smile and wave and entertain the way she knows how, but Asha doesn't think she can manage that much. She's curious enough to see who's all come out for them, but her strengths beyond that end there.
Of course the crowd isn't all that large, though. There are twelve sets of tributes leaving their homes all across the Capitol, and Eleven was never the sort to draw the most attention. Still, Clementine announces a cheerful hello! as she bounces off the front steps, making clear headway for the car idling at the car. There are still enough that it makes her skin crawl. With no chariots this year, no point to them at all, everyone just wants a quick glimpse.
Farasha doesn't smile, but she feels Helian's hand settle on her back. "Just remember," he says quietly. "You've proven yourself once already. You don't owe them anything."
Someone is with her. Helian is something like a friend. Not as close as she imagines most people are, but good enough in this instance. Sandwiched between him and Xanthe, she feels shielded enough that she doesn't have to worry about the look on her face, or the impending doom of once again being stuck in a room with twenty-three virtual strangers, not a friendly face in sight.
"Miss Oriani!" one of the paparazzi calls, the camera bulb rendering her blind for a few short seconds. "Have you got any allies in mind for these final Games?"
She knows better than to speak. There are no easy falsities that can spill from her mouth, no delicately woven lies like something Clementine would easily come up with or any of the others. Farasha only knows the truth in being alone, but not even how to express it.
How does one properly express the melancholic longing behind wishing to be good enough to be wanted?
As she reaches the curb, Xanthe lets out a little squeak. She sees their escort raise her arm, and Farasha only just barely manages to speed forward in time to keep her from swatting away the insect that's landed on her forearm. Bright red, black spots.
"It's just a ladybug," she murmurs, reaching a hand over to nudge the tiny creature onto her fingertips. It clings there for a moment before she raises her hand skyward, shaking it just enough that the ladybug takes flight and disappears into the sun above.
There was a story she read once about how a ladybug landing on you could mean good luck, how if you happened to make a wish when it flew off it may just come true.
Farasha is too late to think of anything good.
"We'll be in the car behind you," Helian tells her. She watches Clementine slide quickly across the back seat all the way to the other side, a wide gap offered up between them. "It may take a little bit with all of the crowds."
Xanthe smiles at her. Atropa nods at her, presumably wishing to hurry this bumbling affair along if only she would just get in the stupid car.
With the suffocating air surrounding her once again, Farasha obliges. The door shuts behind her.
She wonders if this is what all her insects felt like in their homes, beneath her bed or in a drawer, before they all succumbed to the slow death she so unintentionally gave them. Farasha can only hope it wasn't this painful.
At least most of them had company in their destruction.
"Would it have killed you to play along?" Clementine mutters, though her eyes are fixed out the opposite window as if she didn't intend to address Asha at all. It gives her enough reason to ignore the snide comment, finding the outside world as well as the car pulls carefully away from the curb.
In the not-so faraway distance the Tribute Center rises into the sky, each ray of light that bounces off of it reflected back brighter than the last. She hopes that the ladybug can make it somewhere so high, safe from all of the chaos down below.
Farasha hopes that she can do that for herself, too. Find her place. Soar, if that's so allowed. If she had thought of it sooner, that would have been her wish above all others.
True or not, she will cling to it regardless.
Welcome to the 20's - this will not be the last time I say something like this, and it will get considerably more asinine as we go along because of the number.
As we finish up 'intros' I would once again like to thank everyone who has so graciously tagged along with me for this ride. From the reviews, to the conversation on Discord. Voting in the poll or trusting me with your kids in the first place. I am very much grateful for all of it.
Before we get into training next week I would love to hear any and all thoughts y'all have about alliance predictions, barring of course the little ones that have already been formed and the unfortunate ones my stupid brain has shared with certain people on Discord. But, you know, besides that. If you want to make your thoughts known, do it now.
Until next time.