XXVI: Free Evening.
Lilou Holbrook, 15
Victor of District Nine
Getting out of there is nothing short of a relief.
She still remembers the first time around, how Aden had told her they couldn't be that intimidating, a group of people only a few years older than her judging what little skills she possessed. In any other sense, he would have been right.
There was something uniquely terrifying about a group of people who had a point to prove and everything to lose. When you looked at it from that angle, Lilou and Head Gamemaker Ozkann, along with her team, were one in the same. Lilou had never liked being judged by people on the same level as her.
She had never liked being judged, period.
That's why running out of there seems so easy, her time ending a blissful escape. She has half a mind to wait for Casia, but Lilou can't bring herself to stay in the lobby any longer. Only the Fives are still lurking on opposite sides of the room, Alia smack-dab between them, and Lilou doesn't like three sets of eyes watching her anymore than she did nine. Casia will understand. If she's being honest, will Casia even care?
It's better to just head upstairs. Though Peacekeepers and cameras hover over her every move, the elevator is blissfully empty, proving a brief moment of solitude. The city spreads out below her in all its shining glory, distracting her from just how little really happened in that gymnasium.
She's no quitter; a missed strike, a failed opportunity to start a fire… it didn't faze her. Lilou just kept going. It was their calculating eyes watching her from above that Lilou felt, their disappointment and the way they looked down their noses at her, noting down every failure. She was still nothing magnificent, and her skills were no better.
She had done much the same last time. As long as she could remain stagnant, no better and no worse, she would handle it even if it irritated her.
It was impossible to think that everyone would think the same way.
When the elevator doors slide open, Lilou does her due diligence in trying to ignore Cajus' presence—she's left him alone since they moved back in here, trying to keep herself focused on more important tasks, but the temptation has always lied underneath. It's as if he can sense it, too. Whatever it is, Cajus is determined to hold a grudge against her. He's not talking with sponsors, not chatting it up like any other good Capitolite. He's letting her rot.
Lilou doesn't even make it halfway through the foyer. "How was it?" he asks, elbows propped up along the bar's edge, swirling ice around a half-full glass. Each clink of one of the cubes against the rim sends shivers down her spine.
"Fine," she answers curtly.
Cajus nods. "So I expected."
It reads as just fine. As a dig, like Lilou is capable of nothing more. She has never been impressive, could never stand tall, but at least now she can square her shoulders and turn to face him, eyes steely. "Excuse me?"
"A five last time. Even among only Nines you were less than average. I've learned not to expect anything more."
She should just leave. Brush him off and pretend like he's nothing, because at the end of the day he is. If she gets out of this place, or Casia, they'll have done it because of themselves. Not because some Capitol with a stick up his ass tried to fight for them; if he even bothers.
"A five last time, and I still got out," Lilou says. "A five two years ago, and Hari won. Or are you forgetting?"
"And yet I was—"
"Useless in his victory," she interrupts. "He didn't get any gifts. Not even a note. Why do you think they left you in Nine afterward instead of bringing you somewhere more promising? Because they knew you couldn't do it. They know you're too judgmental to be of any help to anyone. Better to leave you with the Nines, right?"
There's a low whistle from behind her, but Lilou doesn't bother turning. It's easy to tell that it's Aden, ever encouraging whatever it is that Lilou can think to rile up their escort.
Cajus' face has gone oddly pale, the blood having vanished no doubt to his trembling hands, fists clenched. "Seeing you suffer twice over tomorrow will be a pleasant experience, indeed."
She can't be bothered formulating a response. If he's not worth it, Lilou can't waste anymore of her time lingering, and Casia will be back any minute now. There's no use in making her walk into this, too. Not when they have so much else to worry about.
Moreover, she doesn't allow herself to think about tomorrow. Twice over could mean any number of things, but Lilou never assumed she was in for anything other than misery. An interview is bad enough; whatever else they could think to throw at her will be something she has no choice but to face head-on.
Just like everything else.
Aden pats her on the shoulder as she breezes past him, leaving Cajus standing, quite frankly, like an idiot at the bar. She thinks an Avox or two is gawking—no doubt at least one of them wishes they had the power to do the same, to speak up and fight when beaten down one too many times. Though her own body is trembling, she feels alive with some type of new thrill. She can fight back, just like the rest of them.
Perhaps Cajus is right. Maybe she's due for suffering—death, even.
But at least Lilou knows she has first lived.
Clementine Alinsky, 17
Victor of District Eleven
"God, I hope they paid more attention to you than they did to me."
In response to that, Pietro only has an eye-roll to offer her. "S'fine, I guess. They didn't want to watch you?"
It would be easy to explain their disinterest with the timing, the amount of tributes before her, but if they had enough energy to pay attention to Pietro then surely they could have spared a minute for her. Granted, Pietro clearly bullied his way in there before Ravi, and Clem had been too distracted to get the proper chair at the beginning.
Or, maybe they just didn't care enough to watch. Pietro more than likely did have a thing or two more up his sleeve, but still. Didn't sting any less to think about it.
"I'm sure they paid enough attention," Pietro offers, and it sounds like he believes it just enough that Clementine holds onto that simple fact. Regardless, Clem can talk away her score tomorrow no matter what it is—the audience liked her well-enough last time when she got on that stage, her jokes and her never-ending chattiness. They'll like her again.
An arm slips through the gap in the elevator doors at the last second, sending them sliding back open. Zoya eases into the narrow space alongside them, staring at the buttons intently, no doubt the bright '11' and nothing else, before he turns to face them.
"Almost got caught," she quips. "Eager to lose some more fingers, are you?"
"Not particularly," Zoya grumbles back. He seems at a loss for what to do, staring at his feet and then the buttons once again as he works it over in his head.
She can guess what's about to come. What he's trying. He kept watching her while they were waiting in the lobby even if he hadn't approached; now that he had worked up the nerve, trapping all three of them together, there was only one way this was going to go.
"Fuck it," Zoya says suddenly. "I don't know how else to say this, or whatever, so I'll just get it over with. I'm in."
"In," Pietro says slowly.
"With the two of you. That's what you were offering, was it not? I'm in."
Clementine lets the silence lapse for a moment, if only because Zoya begins to look delightfully irritated. No doubt second guessing himself and his whole chance at speaking up. She knew what she was doing when she talked to him, though, and Pietro seemed on-board enough in the aftermath. Putting up too much of a fight could fracture things, and there was no use in that so soon.
She leans forward to pat him on the shoulder. "You're in," she agrees, unable to stop herself from smiling. It feels good to have accomplished something, even without knowing how it will all turn out.
She's not just useless; Clementine can be worth something, if she puts her mind to it.
"Why do you even want me as an ally?" Zoya questions, waggling the worse of his two hands. "Less than ten fingers, remember?"
"Don't need ten fingers to get shit done," Pietro answers.
"Or to blow up a reactor," she adds. The looks Zoya turns on her is less than impressed, but it seems to crack through some of the awkwardness. He settles back against the wall as the elevator ascends to the eleventh floor, though as soon as it opens to reveal Atropa's face it's as if he's on the defense once again, staring at her warily.
"So, this is happening," Atropa says flatly. "Great."
"What's that supposed to—"
"Nothing, kid," she answers, reaching forward as if to ruffle his hair. Zoya ducks out of her path at the last second with a swear. "At least the three of you will have company tomorrow with all of the fanfare."
"The interviews weren't that bad…"
"Not just those. They've planned an event for the afternoon, a banquet of some sorts. I guess they want a live reaction to your scores, if nothing else."
Or just a chance at the opportunity to doll them all up for a few more hours, let them mingle and become one group as if twenty-three of them are not all about to die. Clementine can't force herself to be upset at the prospect, however. A few more hours to think about nothing, to dress up and dance and pretend she could still really just a kid. There's no harm in it at all.
"I do love being stared at like a zoo animal," Zoya says. The cheer in his voice is heavily artificial. "What a dream come true."
"At least there will be food," Pietro says.
"And we'll have each-other!" Clementine can't help but throw an arm up in the air as if leading a chant—Atropa sighs, a noise that almost matches Zoya's quieter one, and Pietro rolls his eyes once again. Still, in their annoyance, there seems to be some sort of odd unity. She's not wrong in her assumption; to have people by her side is not just what she wanted, but what she needs.
Just like that, to her, all talks of strategy and opportunity have vanished from her mind. Plans are nothing more than words and simple thoughts, able to vanish from thin air if a mere moment goes wrong. Clementine has her constants. She's chosen them, crafted them, collected them.
Of course she did that the first time, too, and they all know what happened then. It was Amias waking up to the sight of two dead bodies and Farasha abandoning her, content to let her die if that looked like the likelier of the two options.
Clem can't let things go so far south this time. And if they do, it won't be because of her.
She just has to be prepared to fight back.
Alia Maduro, 15
Victor of District Three
Waiting for Asha is the right call.
The look on her face is more than worth the minutes Alia spent twiddling her thumbs, trying not to convince herself into leaving so that her newfound ally could have some space. When she had eventually stepped into the lobby once again, surprise had blown her eyes wide, mouth falling open before she had managed to shut it again, jaw clicking harshly.
It hadn't been difficult to convince Asha to follow her—the exact opposite, in fact. Minute by minute it feels like they're building trust where they previously found it hard to cultivate such a thing, or even to want it.
And she does want this. It took time to realize it and even more to accept it, but Alia finally has.
The elevator finally shudders to a stop at the very end of the line, and Asha glances at her curiously as Alia steps out into the square, gray room, eyeing the stairs at the other side. "What is this?" Asha asks, taking a cautious step after her.
It's exactly like Voxel told her it would be in all its suspicious glory. "This way," she urges, scampering up the steps to the door at the very top. A secret spot, if you didn't know where to look—it's a good thing he told her.
Clearly he knew what he was doing when he did.
She holds the door open for Asha to pass, wind and sunlight rushing over them both, the unmistakable scent of flowers carrying on the breeze. By the time her eyes adjust Asha has already moved amongst the bed of planters lining each side of the pathway, the rooftop garden spreading out in a green jungle across every available inch it has. Benches and stray chairs are shoved in sporadic places, clear signs of casual inhabitants.
"It's very pretty," Asha murmurs. Luckily the cacophony of the city below is muffled, allowing her voice to carry. She trails her fingers over a bunch of flowers, smiling to herself as a fat bumblebee takes flight and whizzes to the next one over.
It was the right call.
"Why is this here?" she continues. "It seems… out of place."
"They told me Aurea from Four started it."
"Almost thirty years ago?"
"Guess so." She shrugs. "She wanted somewhere safe to go, somewhere not so… artificial that anyone could spend their time if they needed to get away. Every year a few people volunteer to look after it so it doesn't wither away."
Though the height is daunting, she finds her gaze taken by the sudden appearance of such easy beauty, nothing like what you would ever see in Three. For the first time she feels absorbed by a place she truly wishes to be; it's the sort of thing you would sit amongst with friends, lay out a blanket and laugh in the face of the sun.
Or family, even, but she doesn't really have that anymore. Besides, they wouldn't appreciate it even if Alia could show it to them. They never appreciated anything she did.
Asha, though… she appreciates it. Alia claims one of the benches for herself, watching her ally drift through the greenery as if lost in thoughts, hands outstretched just enough to catch the petals, fingers moving amongst the leaves. It's not so much like what either of them could truly wish for, not actual freedom, but it's close enough to the real thing. Up here she can find peace.
Alia lays her head back, eyes closed as she turns her face to the sun. Something buzzes by her ear, but she doesn't so much as flinch. A bee there, a butterfly on the opposite way… it's all a gift, today. She has to take it all in.
Footsteps scrape quietly over the pavement before her and she tilts forward, smiling as Farasha appears before her. "What's that for?" she asks, eyeing the bright yellow flower clutched between her fingers. She's not sure what it is—she doesn't think Asha has any clue either, but she offers it forward, almost nervously.
"For you." Asha swallows. "I don't know. I just thought you would like it."
The stem is slight, broken off at some awkward angle or other; Alia tucks the blossom behind her ear, fitting snugly against her hair. "I do. We should find one for you, too."
"I'm okay," Asha says. She takes the rest of the space left along the bench, curling her legs up tight. "Being up here is enough."
It really is, isn't it? It's silly how something so simple can mean so much. All of the skepticism that had once been present in Farasha's eyes has vanished, replaced with a contentedness that fills her heart much better. She's done that. For once, she's enough for someone.
"Thank-you," Asha continues.
"For what?"
"For showing me this. You could have kept it for yourself, but you shared it with me."
"I thought you would like it."
"I do," Asha whispers. "I really do."
She leans back, too, not unlike Alia's previous positioning. Up here, in the sunlight, they can be nothing more than two girls eagerly ignoring the approaching plight that's coming down upon them. There are no Games, no death or violence or bloodshed. There's only the pretending that this is something real. Alia isn't delusional enough to allow it to last for very long, but she can allow it just this once. For herself. For Asha. For everyone that won't be lucky enough to see it.
"I'm glad I told you," she says. I'm glad I was willing to try again.
She reaches across the bench, though the distance is little. Asha's movement is slow, but eventually she reaches forward to squeeze Alia's hand—briefly, fingers trembling, but just enough.
If not family, then friends. If not friends, then at least she tried.
It already almost feels like she's done enough.
Jordyn Palladino, 17
Victor of District Four
To say she's electrified about the possibilities of tomorrow is an understatement.
The interviews were one thing, of course—Jordyn could sell herself better than most people no matter the circumstance. With the right amount of charm, you could fool just about anyone into thinking you were more than what you actually were.
But a flowing gown, the chance to mingle and dance… that was what she truly excelled at. No doubt it would be ten times more fanciful than any party she had ever attended back in Four, but nonetheless she would feel alive.
Of course the company would help, too.
"Don't tell me I'm drinking alone," Weston says, something like a mocking pout on his face. He gives the bottle of vodka a slosh, tapping it gently against the row of glasses he's laid out across the table's edge.
"That's not yours," she reminds him.
"As if that'll stop him." Levi snorts, propping his legs up on the couch's arm. The crown of his head is just about nudging up against her thigh. He's most definitely not going to be able to drink anything at that angle, but she's made her bed with these two. It's not just Weston that won't stop, but both of them. It's terrifying in its own right, the things she knows she can't control.
She's not sure why it nags on her so hard. It is because of Benny, of how volatile he grew no matter how much he bothered to enjoy her presence? Is Jordyn doomed to follow that same path?
One thought is enough to spiral into another, and then five more, but Jordyn isn't alone. Weston is divvying out liquor, but he's silent for once, and she doesn't doubt that he's pondering the whole Vadric situation. Every once in a while she'll look down at Levi's otherwise carefree face and find his eyes glazed over, staring sightlessly at the ceiling as he thinks of something far, far away from this room. They're all being haunted by things they can't control.
Jordyn is not a girl that gets haunted, thank-you very much.
"Everything would have been so different," she murmurs.
"As in?" Weston ponders, handing her a glass. Levi tilts his head back towards her, ignoring the glass that Weston places on the very center of his chest, teetering ominously towards the floor. They're asking for it, the both of them.
Jordyn isn't normally at such a loss for words, but what is she to say? If she had managed to grab Benthos' arm in time to pull him up, if Levi hadn't slashed Sander's face open, if Weston had found someone else hiding in that train station instead of Vadric. They're all little moments, mere flickers in the grand scheme of things, and yet they've been brought here because of them.
All she can do is shrug. Luckily both of them look only amused as she takes a sip of her drink, wrinkling her nose.
"I thought this would taste better, being from the Capitol and all." She drops her glass down on the coffee table, vowing not to touch it anymore. Why can't anyone around here just have a bit of taste?
"Probably from some shithole in the backwoods of Nine," Weston says.
"Says the one from the shithole that is Six," Levi points out.
"Hey, Levi?"
"Hey, Wes."
"Fuck you."
"Ouch." Levi laughs, throwing a hand over both his chest and wobbling glass alike. "Right where it hurts. Hey, Wes?"
"Hey, Levi."
Jordyn misses the next exchange—she can't be quite sure whether it's because her eyes roll so far back in her head that she loses sight of it, or because their matched idiocy is just too much. Being the responsible one is far too much work. She knows they're both thinking, too, planning their own little things, but sometimes it doesn't feel that way.
"Hey, Levi—"
"If you don't quit it I'll smother you both in your sleep," Jordyn warns, a promise she fully intends to keep. Levi once again tilts his head back to look at her, a goofy smile plastered on his face.
"Hey, Jords," he says, but it's not a question. Almost soft. Not quite apologetic, because they'll both drop dead before they ever apologize for being aggravating, but enough that it quiets them, pulling all three of them back into a similar state that they were before.
But pensive really doesn't suit them.
Jordyn reaches forward even though instincts tell her not to, forcing herself to down the contents of the glass even if it is with a grimace. "Alright, what are we doing for the rest of the night? I'm not getting shit-faced the night before I'm expected to be presentable."
"Ditto," Levi announces, pointing at himself. "Incredible light-weight here, unafraid to admit it."
Yeah, there's no way she can let him have any more than that. They really do have something to prove tomorrow—the three of them can be a force to be reckoned with without even trying as long as they stick together. So long as someone isn't hungover or puking their guts up, that should be more than attainable.
A part of Jordyn is almost content enough to sit here and laze back, let herself sink so deeply into the cushions that she never wants to move again. The alcohol has warmed her insides just enough that this seems like the right place to say.
Since when has she ever been happy with sitting back and waiting, though? They've softened her, clearly.
"You got an idea then, J?" Weston asks her. "Don't you dare allow me to sit here and waste away in the midst of my own boredom."
As tempting as it would be to see him suffer even just a smidgen, it's not exactly productive. Jordyn can think of a million and one ways to fix that, but of course there are standouts among them. Always things that mean just a little bit more than the others.
She knows hers—all Jordyn can do is see if the boys think the same way.
As if they wouldn't.
Sorry in advance if next week's update is a bit wonky timing wise - I'll be away, but not without internet. We'll just see when I get to it. I'll also be updating the first of the scores on the blog after that chapter, which could take a hot minute as well. Patience, pls.
Until next time.