XXVII: Banquet (I).
Weston Katsouris, 18
Victor of District Six
If nothing else, they've made him look damn good.
Not that it's hard. Weston can still remember the day the prep team first saw him with perfect clarity, cooing like he was some goddamn newborn baby. And when Calysta had finally arrived she had gone on and on about how lucky she was to get him for her very first year, so many stylists plucked out of near-obscurity to accommodate the influx of tributes.
Experienced or not, at least she knew what she was doing. Weston had never been presented anywhere looking like a fool, not like some of the other Sixes. He would have been liked regardless, so many people said and something he knew, but it helped plenty to let them carve out his jaw even sharper, show just a little bit of skin to get people staring.
There were people that found it disgusting—exploitative, even, but Weston didn't mind much if at all. He could think of a million worse things that could happen to him.
Dying being one of them.
That wasn't going to be something in his mind tonight, however. He could hear it through the walls, gentle music drifting into the area where all twenty-four of them had been instructed to wait. There was no telling what was on the other side—leagues of Capitolites, perhaps, all gathered together in a grand ballroom not so patiently awaiting their arrival. A stage ready for announcements, spirits flowing, tables laden with food.
It was their going away party, the last most of them would ever see.
Not everyone surrounding him was in the same mood as Weston; far from it, in fact. Not long ago they had been ushered into a half-hearted line by some frenzied, blue-haired man who often spoke into the miniature microphone taped to his collar. A line twelve long, all partners standing by each-other's sides. Some more maliciously than others.
Even on a good day Vadric may not have spoken a word to him standing in this line, but today isn't a good day. This isn't their scene. You can dress them up like a doll but it never quite looks right, their frame too narrow and gaunt to properly support whatever clothes are laid overtop. No matter how often Weston glances down at them, his gaze is not returned.
He could raise hell, could drag Levi and Jordyn back here, rules be damned, but there's no use in it now. The chatter has died down. Everyone is just waiting for the inevitable, stewing in a pot that's about to boil over.
If only everyone was so inclined.
At his back, the Seven's have been whispering incessantly since they found their spot. Weston has only caught bits and pieces of their otherwise fragmented conversation. He's sure it has something to do with her dress, the glittering amber and golds that shimmer when she moves, nearly creating the illusion of a raging inferno. It doesn't go well with the rest of her—Sanne Levesay is otherwise doe-eyed, near to tears. She hates it, and hate may not even be a strong enough word.
Weston has half a mind to tell them to shut up or tell her to get over it before someone makes her; even Vadric has noticed them now, occasionally peering back over their shoulder just long enough to make sure that everything's okay. He just wants to get on with this, move to better things.
He's getting jittery. Even worse than Vadric, who is shifting from foot to foot, hands wringing around one another. They briefly brush up against Weston's side as they finally turn, fully, to face the Seven's.
He prepares for something. A lashing. Annoyance. An exhausted human finally breaking.
"I think you look really nice, actually," Vadric murmurs, turning back to face the proper way before either of them can get a word out. Weston keeps his eyes forward, safely shielding his surprised blinks from anyone happening to look on.
A quick, jerky thanks is mumbled out behind them, but finally no one moves. Blessedly, no one even speaks.
Up ahead, a set of Peacekeepers drag open a heavy set of oaken doors. The music multiplies tenfold, a crowd of people appearing in the distance. It's not so thick that you can't move amongst it, but there's more of them than even Weston expected.
Vadric sighs, adjusting their jacket. For the first time, Weston's eyes remain drawn to the silvery crescent moon affixed to the front of it. He's noticed it before now, but the weight of it means nothing until that moment. Sanne's dress. The colors they adorne everyone in as if to better fit them.
Everything means something bigger. Whilst everything else seems almost comical, that senseless moon is enough to leave a sour taste in his mouth.
Weston offers his arm out as the One's begin to move forward. "You should stay with us."
Vadric's voice is trembling. Nervous. "I told you—"
"I don't mean like that. Just for tonight. They'll swarm you like a pack of wild dogs. Is that what you want?"
It's only seconds of hesitation, but he sees it clear as day. "Besides," Weston continues, allowing himself a smile. "I can't have you taking away any attention from me. I'm not due for a tragedy today, for your information."
Vadric's hand folds around the inside of his arm. "Can't have that," they agree, letting out a shaky breath. But their grip on his arm is like iron, fingers digging into his skin so hard that he's certain he'll have marks later. As much as he loathes it, though, Weston can't leave them. Not so soon. Not yet.
Tomorrow, though… tomorrow has to be a different story.
And he hates that even more.
Aranza de León, 18
Victor of District Eight
The people love her.
Though, really, who could dare to be surprised by such a shocking revelation?
Aranza had never had difficulty floating through the masses—it hadn't been the way she had grown up, but it was the person she had raised herself to be. Her parents were too busy working their long shifts to keep her cooped up and away from all of the places that would change her.
She had always been destined to be more than them, but now she truly feels it. The name of the woman in front of her seems to matter little—she's laden with jewels, the picture of wealth, and she can help Aranza. One considerable donation to her cause could be enough to get her the crown.
It's easy to turn on the smiles, to let the woman grasp at her hand as if they're good friends. This will be her life if she gets out, and she has never looked forward to anything more.
There's the crackle of a microphone somewhere behind her, though, and the woman gasps. "They're about to announce District one, dear."
Finally something will really happen. Since the opening speech from the Vice President himself welcoming them all to the event, the stage has been vacant, now filled with Merride's smiling face, eager as ever. No one here knows she's with the Ones—she hasn't gone near them since entering the ballroom, not even once.
But that has to change. "If you could excuse me for just a few minutes."
"Of course. Be sure to find me later!"
She may just have to. For now, Aranza detaches herself and begins to slip through the crowd to the edge of the dancefloor, where all the attendees have stilled. Halfway there she hears Maderia's name ring across the ballroom. More stark than that is the number that follows.
Eight.
The reaction is mixed. Half of the attendees begin to clap politely. The rest glance around awkwardly, noticing the discrepancy as Aranza had. Two points less than last time, against an arguably weaker overall field, is not a good look for anyone to have following them. No matter her desire to search Maderia out, Aranza is focused on the same thing she was since the very beginning.
"Tova Revelis, with a score of eleven!"
There's the cheering. The applause. Aranza reaches forward, hand extended; Tova jerks in surprise as their fingers lace together, but doesn't pull away.
"I'd say I'm surprised," Aranza says. "But congratulations."
The pleased smile on Tova's face says it all. This was inevitable, this girl who is ferocity personified, but a part of her still glows brighter than ever at the realization regarding her own strength, the impression she must have left. Isn't that why Aranza was so eager to get to know her in the first place?
That among many reasons.
She eyes the people that seem to be swarming close to them, the many adoring fans that Tova surely has. Aranza tightens her grip around the other girl's hand, giving her a gentle but firm tug. "Dance with me," she insists. "Before we lose the opportunity."
"I'm not—"
"That wasn't a question, you know."
Aranza pulls them both through the crowd with apologetic waves, offering condoling smiles to each person they pass. The dance floor still contains enough people milling about that their presence is not unwelcome, but it's obvious. Whilst more people will certainly join in, so many people are watching them and them alone that Aranza feels as if she's beneath a spotlight for the first time in a long time.
"You're really making me do this?" Tova grumbles. Aranza spins to face her, hands still clasped together, and drags Tova's other forward so that her arm is curled around Aranza's waist. No escaping now.
Not that Aranza would let her.
"Come on," she tries. "It's not so bad, is it?"
"I'd rather stab into my own eye with a fork."
She can see Maderia, now. She's lingering on the edge of the floor, the lights twinkling across her cheeks. Her mouth is set in a slight frown, something undeniably upset in her eyes. Whether it's because of the score or what she's being witness to, Aranza isn't so sure. Hopefully it's all of the above.
"Is it so wrong of me to want one last dance with a pretty girl?" Aranza questions.
Tova rolls her eyes. "How do you know it's your last? If you win, I'm sure you'll have tons of pretty girls lining up to dance with you."
"But what if I don't want to dance with them? Consider yourself lucky, Tova Revelis."
She really wouldn't choose just anyone. Aranza has a certain set of standards, expectations for the people that she keeps close. They are quite close, too, so much so that Aranza can feel them pressed together from shoulder to hip each time they sway. The few inches of bare skin between Tova's shimmering skirt and top are warm to the touch, flushed beneath her fingertips.
And she's relaxing, too, right here in Aranza's hold. It feels more right than she would expect it to, an unwilling dancer and herself, never held like this in her entire life. No one has ever brought her out onto a dance-floor.
Life would be nothing if Aranza didn't make it more.
"You think I'm lucky?" Tova asks finally. No scathing looks, no unimpressed glowering. Aranza has her, now, the version that exists outside of the Games. Soft, but not enough to break. Just enough, in all the right ways.
"Actually," Aranza says with a smile, almost shocked to find that she really means it. "I think I'm the lucky one."
Amani Layne, 18
Victor of District Four
Amani is just grateful that no one is looking at him any longer.
An eleven ringing across the room and two girls out there on the floor together will do that. They've captured the attention of many, at least the few that were bothering with Amani. All he can do now is take his place in one of many banquet chairs and wait.
He's not sure for what, but something.
Sander has been quiet company, the two of them in identical seats now that they've been left alone, but silent. It's easy to keep quiet when there's so much else to watch, but he gets the sense they're both watching the same thing. It's not obvious, not sensical.
Maybe not to anyone else.
"She looks upset," Sander says finally, echoing his very thoughts. Maderia has not moved since they announced her score, and though her mentor stands by her side, she's stony-faced. Neither of them are in the slightest bit okay with what has happened.
"A ten to an eight." Amani hums. But there's more to it, of course. Just like him, Maderia has fallen from a place of grace, relocated to something far more hellish where suddenly she isn't the picture perfect person everyone thought she was.
"You'd be upset too, I guess," Sander says. "If you came that close to—"
"Came that close to what?" Amani interrupts. It comes out much quicker than he anticipated, Sander's jaw clacking shut. The silence that stretches between them is painful, the color that drains from Sander's face even more-so.
Close to death. The permanent, irreversible kind. The kind he experienced, too.
There really is so much danger in speaking.
"I'm sorry," Sander apologizes. "I didn't mean…"
"It's okay."
"Amani—"
"Sander," he responds. It stings, of course, even an accidental reminder, but he can't let it fracture anything else. "It's fine. You didn't mean it."
Didn't think, either. Apparently there's just as much harm as that; Amani would know, considering his lack of thought all the way back in May. All he had wanted to do was stop thinking, for everything in his head to be blissfully silenced forever. It wasn't, still, some days worse than others, but at least his sleeves went all the way to his wrists.
He has okay days. Now felt like one of them. Clearly not everyone is in the same boat, though—Sander looks ashamed, now, eyes aimed at his lap, hands wringing together. Maderia still looks almost heartbreakingly downtrodden.
Amani gets to his feet. "I'll be right back."
He really can't be long. Sander will get the wrong idea, think he's properly angry, and there's no use in that. There's plenty more legitimate things to be angry about. Besides, if Two goes as chaotically as One did, he needs to be there.
But first he has to do something.
Amani stops at Maderia's side, giving her a moment to acknowledge his presence and settle again before he holds out his hand. "It doesn't have to mean anything," he tells her. "But it looks like you could use a distraction."
She stares at his hand warily, as if it's about to reach forward and bite her. It almost looks as if she gives in. "I can't," she murmurs, her voice nearly drowned out by the music. "I shouldn't."
Right. Because Tova has noticed them, now, and no matter how much Aranza tries to distract her it doesn't work well enough. Her head keeps snapping around to watch them, her obvious distaste for Amani paired with her complicated relationship with Maderia making her narrowed, watchful eyes all the more strenuous.
Amani drops his hand. It takes everything in him not to feel like a fool for offering.
"I appreciate it, though," Maderia says. "It was very kind of you to ask."
He nods. Amani readies himself to head back to his seat, the exact trajectory already in mind. He can't help but stare down at her, though; she really is small. Not in a fragile way, too lithe and muscled to be snapped in two, but so unassuming that you'd never know an eight was a bad thing if you hadn't heard of the ten first.
The question spills out before he can help himself. "What was it like?" he wonders.
Maderia isn't so stupid that she has to question what he means. When she looks up, he can't tell if the lighting is off or if her eyes have really begun to water.
She shakes herself, though. He hears her swallow. "There wasn't anything. No sights or memories. Not even a void. It was just as if I had went to sleep."
Amani doesn't remember slipping unconscious, though he can recall faintly the pain creeping in as the adrenaline left his body, the last spike of panic that had shot through his chest when he had heard the sound of footsteps outside the bathroom door. There was nothing for him, either. One minute he was dying, and the next he was waking up in a hospital bed in the Capitol.
Death seems like such a mystery, a complicated puzzle. Until you're facing it head-on, it's a true wonder.
And then it turns out to be nothing at all.
"Have a good rest of your night, Maderia," he tells her. Amani vanishes from her side so quickly that he misses her response, if she offers one at all, returning to the chair that he has called home. It feels like the only place he is allowed to permanently remain. Sander is watching him, unable to look away, but Amani cannot find it in himself to return his gaze. From the corner of his eye he can see Merride returning to the stage once again, the crowd stilling as they turn their eyes towards her, rapt.
Amani wishes he could focus on her, too. Sander might need him. So many people might need him.
And so many people did. His friends who are lost and the one he left behind. They may as well be gone now, too, into the waking void.
He's a million miles away, but somehow Amani doesn't feel any safer.
Sloane Laurier, 17
Victor of District Three
This must be a unique place in hell if Sloane is beginning to wish for the interviews.
Just a few more hours—that's all she can keep telling herself. Soon this dramatic fanfare will be over with and they'll be marched onto the real stage to be interviewed one last time.
Lucky for her, though Isa's eyes are as watchful as a hawk, she's managed to score a flute of champagne. Her only choice is to nurse it carefully, refusing to let even this smidgen of bliss go to waste. A little bit of bubbly never hurt anyone. Sloane knows that she ought to be on her feet, socializing with the masses, but these damn heels are killing her soles and, to put it simply, she's just not in the fucking mood.
She's not the only one, though. Robbie has disappeared to collect some food, but the Nines are both sitting on the opposite side of the table, chairs turned about-face to have a good view of the stage. Merride just left not long ago; a ten and a nine for the pair from Two, a reversal from their previous doubt, but not enough to warrant a significant change in Sloane's mind.
To her right are Twelve and Five—for once, Five doesn't look as if he's about to pass up if he so much as stands. A good day for him, then. Figures it will more than likely be his last.
The sooner Merride gets back on that stage and announces her number the better. Everyone can get their fill of her and then look away once again, attracted to more obvious sources. By the look on Alia's face, halfway across the ballroom, she doesn't feel the same. She looks torn, almost frantic, unable to decide how she should feel or be seen about the impending news. Hopefully by the time it happens she can iron out her expression into something more pleasing for everyone else's eyes.
Robbie returns to his seat beside her with a thud, dropping a plate in front of him. Sloane quickly plucks up one of the chocolate covered strawberries lingering at its edge, popping it into her mouth.
"Did I say that was for you?"
"You didn't say it wasn't," she points out, licking the remnants of the chocolate from her finger. He can go get another if he's so bitter about it—Sloane is just trying to enjoy what little things she can find in this otherwise miserable place.
It's a weird thing now, to look in the mirror. Before it was a haze, but she could still recognize how terrible she looked, her skin off-color and stretched too thin over her bones. Since the needles have been removed from her life, she's begun to fill out once again. Sloane isn't convinced she'll ever be anything impressive to look at, but at least she can hold herself up now.
At least Talos would be happy to know it; his family, too. No one else in the world would bother to care.
"Look alive," Robbie interjects. "Here we go."
Sloane lifts her head, eyes fixed somewhere above Merride's head as she begins speaking. "Our first victor of District Three, the lovely Alia Maduro, has earned herself a score of… four."
The environment is immediately unpleasant. Whilst it's higher than last time, somehow, it's by far the lowest number Merride has announced, and that hasn't gone without a healthy dose of awkwardness.
No longer can she see her District partner—only the top of Voxel's head is visible within the crowd where they once were. At least he's there with her. They can ask for nothing more than that.
"And our second victor from District Three, the exquisite Sloane Laurier…"
Robbie snorts. "Exquisite?"
"... with a score of seven."
The awkwardness of Alia's apparent failure is dispelled by the clapping. It's nothing spectacular, but when she thinks about last time… well, Sloane hardly has any memories of it. How she even got to a mere two is beyond her. A seven, though, that means something. It's almost as if she's a real human being after all.
"Good job," Ravi says, just loud enough that she hears it over the space between their tables, politeness personified. Robbie begins to wave, almost mockingly, at the people that finally discover where she's hiding. If Sloane could get away with crawling beneath the table without Isa beating her senseless for it, she just might.
It's worth more to know that she's not entirely useless. Sloane didn't think she would care even if someone scratched a fat zero over her name, but it feels good to know that she's trended in the opposite direction.
Both of the Nines are watching her now, though, whether they realize it or not. "What?" she snaps. Casia, for all her brutality, jumps so fiercely she nearly falls out of her chair. Lilou looks even more guilty, but she at least manages to still herself before she speaks.
"It's good, is all," she says. "A good change."
Casia nods immediately. They're watching a different person, now—Sloane is no longer the deadbeat, lost cause that aimlessly roamed the streets of Three. Though she'll always have that version stowed away in the back of her mind, she's managed to become something more. Almost as if she's the type of person who could truly win.
She may be a fool, but Sloane isn't that dense. She is not destined for riches or the perfect house surrounded by a white picket fence. If she wins, the victory of it all will end the moment she is crowned.
That old her will come crawling back, inevitable in her presence. And she'll win, too. There's no choice, no other ending meant for her but that.
Sloane only wishes she could raise the energy to care. No, to change it.
That's just not how her world works.
Am tired. Totally lied about updating scores on the blog rn because I don't feel like it but I'll do that as soon as I have computer access. Enjoy regardless.
Until next time.