XV: Reintroductions.

Pietro Dolokhov, 16
Victor of District Twelve

All Pietro thinks about, no matter how much time passes, is how much he wants to get out of here.

Being cooped up in here is one of the least preferable predicaments for someone like him—he needs to be out there in the world, seeing the truth of it all. He needs to be free.

Anyone with the nerve to be ungrateful for this situation is more than likely to get smacked. The Capitol has been nothing but hospitable this past year, even if the suite does occasionally feel more like a spacious prison cell than a home. He's always well fed, goes to sleep with a roof above him, has things he never could have dreamed of.

But one of those, of course, is silence. Pietro never wanted that.

Ravi doesn't ignore him, of course—he doesn't contain enough vitriol within him to do so. They talk in passing, over dinner. If Pietro pushes, he can get a few sentences out of him. That's it, really. It isn't enough for Pietro to harbor the grand delusion that they're anything close to friends.

There's the case of their mentors, too, but both Embelia and Cress are back home in Twelve for the time being, leaving Pietro alone with Ravi, who doesn't care enough about him to speak, a handful of Capitolites, and of course, Vesrin.

Pietro watches from the table as the old man shuffles in, leaning against his cane as he reaches for the mostly-empty coffee pot. He doesn't believe anyone Vesrin's age needs coffee no matter the time of day—the wrinkles, his leathering face, the stiffness to his gait.. it's all pointing to bad things. Granted, he is pushing eighty years old, and he's been forced to babysit a bunch of teenagers, but still.

Vesrin had a choice, and this was it. He never married, never had children, outlived all of his siblings. He's alone in Twelve, even more so when Embelia and Cress come to the Capitol each year. It was logical in the end for him to stay here while the others went back and forth to see their families, to actually live. Pietro wishes he could be doing much of the same.

He looks across the room to where Ravi sits at the very end of the couch, legs drawn up carefully to his chest. He hasn't so much as shifted since Pietro walked in twenty minutes ago, and he has no reaction towards Vesrin either. His eyes are unseeing as they fix in the direction of the television—they always are. What he's seeing instead Pietro has never asked.

It's not like he would get an answer even if he did.

"Do you need help?" Pietro finally questions, watching Vesrin's jittery hand reach for the sugar bowl, spoon clinking against its edge.

"You think an old man can't make himself a coffee?"

"I think an old man shouldn't be drinking coffee."

Vesrin lets out a light-hearted laugh as he takes a seat opposite Pietro's. "And a sixteen year old boy should?"

"Is that judgment?"

"Of course."

Pietro rolls his eyes as he takes another sip—it's nearly gone cold, and he may as well finish it. Vesrin may be elderly, but his wit seems to be sharper than ever. He's never held back since the first day the two of them met. Where he's always gone easy on Ravi, Vesrin pokes at him until Pietro pokes right back. He knows his audience, this one.

At least Pietro has someone to talk to. Of course Vesrin will take his afternoon nap, and he retires early, but his voice is enough to fill the silence that Pietro hates so much. Unlike Ravi, he doesn't think about all of the bad things that happened when it gets too quiet—he just despises it, instead, for a reason he can't quite explain.

Pietro had heard him ask, that first day back in the penthouse in the Capitol: was it him… did he… did he kill Dulia?

And he hadn't, of course. But that hadn't changed anything. Pietro was still fundamentally alone in this, the same way he would come out of it.

"Do you know when Embelia will be back?" he asks, downing the last of his coffee. Vesrin raises an eyebrow at him over the rim of his own mug.

"Am I not good enough for you, kid?"

"You're alright, I guess." He smiles. "I just wanted to talk some things over with her. Strategy, you know?"

Vesrin, of course, won too, so long ago that his Games are nothing more than a distant memory to Twelve. He hardly even knew anything of Embelia's until she told him. This supposed old man, though, is just as much of a killer as Pietro is. He fought and he lived just the same.

"Or we could talk?" Pietro offers. "If you're up for it."

Vesrin hums. "No one's going to trust you, you know."

Pietro looks at Ravi once again, even though it matters very little. "I know."

"You can't trust them either."

"I know," he repeats. Amaranth may have been his friend that first time around, but that was when two of them were getting out. A friend would have been nice during this entire in-between, as well, but Pietro must cast aside the idea of the mere thought if he wants to win.

And he does, of course. More than anything.

"We'll talk tonight," Vesrin decides. "Let me think on it."

Pietro nods. He's been doing a lot of thinking, too. The difference is nothing seems to work. There's nothing in his head that tells him how to win when so much of his luck has already been used up.

Hopefully someone else has a better idea for him.

Jordyn Palladino, 17
Victor of District Four

These outings are what keep her sane.

It's a sad state of affairs when Jordyn is using a daily walk to cling to her own sanity, but she's not sure how she'd be fairing otherwise.

The apartment is huge, everything she could have ever imagined. There's a pool and a full gym and a well-manicured terrace on the roof, every meal prepared for her and every speck of dust brushed away before it can properly settle.

It's just not where she thought she would be.

Though her time had not been nearly as lengthy as Jordyn had prepared for, Four had been surprised to have her back. She was their unlikely girl, the one who took years to procure a favorite weapon and even then took years to get good at it. Of everyone expected to come back, it was not her. Never her.

The strangest part of all was that they never seemed disappointed. Outside of Naida's boyfriend threatening to strangle her within five minutes of being at the train station, Jordyn had been welcomed back with open arms; people lined up to talk to her, boys and girls alike all clamoring for her attention. While Amani had faded, spending more and more hours locked away at home, Jordyn's shine only grew.

She missed that. The attention, the voices, the adoration. Granted yes, everyone here was much the same, but it all felt so distant.

Any walk she wanted to take required a guard. Any member of the paparazzi that got within ten feet of her was at risk of getting throttled. Even the every-day Capitolite, doe-eyed and mystified by her presence, put their life on the line simply by remaining in her presence long enough. The orders were clear—they were esteemed guests, Victors of the Capitol.

But they were also prisoners.

In a few weeks, there was a chance she would be free once again.

Jordyn tightens her coat around her shoulders, lashing the tie tight around her waist. "Hey, Juno?" she asks, eyeing the park at the next block. "Are you going to miss me when we have to go back to the Tribute Center?"

As per usual, her guard is silent. Calling her old would be disrespectful, but Juno is much older than any of the guards Jordyn was assigned previously—married, too, with three children all younger than Jordyn.

They finally found someone who wouldn't crack under a barrage of Jordyn's antics. Everyone else had. The first had been the best—a young, strapping gentleman named Valerian, who blushed when Jordyn looked at him for too long as if he had never looked at a girl in his life. After a few days of being tailed by him everywhere she went, Jordyn didn't even blink at the startling blue hair, curly strands of it always escaping from the dark cap he wore. She wouldn't have minded running her fingers through it. She wouldn't have minded getting him to let her off the leash once in a while.

As soon as she had pondered such things, Valerian was gone. Jordyn still had no idea who made the call to remove him from his post, but whoever it was deserved a special place in hell.

"Juno," she tries again. "How'd you get stuck with me?"

Because Valerian had been removed. Because Theodora was tall and strong and beautiful, and had hugged her once when she had gotten too emotional to hide it. Because Carus was old enough that she would have never considered it, but he called her an entitled, sycophantic brat and asked to leave his post.

Because no one else wanted her.

It was a tough pill to swallow. Jordyn had never tasted such bitterness before.

"You know why," Juno says flatly, dark eyes hawkish as she scans their surroundings, following Jordyn into the park without question. The gun at her belt gleams dully in the cold winter light, the metal baton even less so.

"Will you root for me?"

"I don't root for anyone."

"Why not?"

"Conflict of interest," Juno replies. "Don't entertain those two up ahead."

A pair of girls lingers at the bend in the path ahead—both of them have pink hair, but the shades couldn't be more drastic. They're clearly excited to see her, a Victor within their haven-like bubbles. If there was more time, Jordyn's nearly certain they would both be bouncing on their heels, reaching out to her.

But they're not allowed.

Juno waves them off, her glare harsh enough to melt the lingering ice left on the path. Jordyn doesn't say anything because it's not proper of her, but she allows herself a secret smile in their direction. She waggles her fingers at the one on the right, from a place Juno can't see. She winks at the one on the left, who has the undeniably more attractive face.

It's all over in a matter of seconds, but a thrill runs through her regardless. There's nothing harmful about a smile and a wink, nothing wrong with enjoying a satisfied look in a stranger's eyes.

It's much better than the lingering image of Benny's eyes, just before he went under. The look has stayed with her, almost a year past now, and it's that look alone that makes her understand what Amani did, even just a little.

Jordyn's not suicidal. Never has been, never will be. There's really only one option in escaping those visions, though, and it's just like she said—Amani faded. As he went, he couldn't escape it anymore than Jordyn could escape her desire to thrive, to be free, to see the beach again.

It wasn't going to be easy, but it turns out nothing was. The rosy life she had been blessed with only made her current reality all the more harsh.

But she was alive. Jordyn was meant to be, and she knew it.

That was something they would never be able to take from her.

Alia Maduro, 15
Victor of District Three

The dead of night is somehow the only time Alia feels truly safe anymore.

She's aware it doesn't make sense. Night is the thing people are afraid of; it's when the monsters come out and children cry for their parents. It's something meant for hiding beneath the covers and hoping that the night-light was enough to drive the terror away.

Here, at least Alia knew that such evil wasn't present. Some would argue that her partner of all people came close, but Sloane was mostly harmless as long as you stayed out of her way. Alia did. That was how they worked.

The eventual outcome still weighs heavily in Alia's mind—what if Sloane had actually gotten up and passed between them, deciding to slit open one of their throats? Who would she have chosen in the end? They may as well have been the same lying there on the ground, two defenseless little girls just waiting to see which of them died first.

Alia was alive because of circumstance, because her heart had held on longer. Not because of her fight or drive or determination.

She was a technicality, and none of the people on the television before her could say the same.

None of them would want to, either.

The Capitol was doing this more often, it seemed—at least late at night, re-runs of the same old thing to appease the night owls looking on. Sometimes it was fragments of the Games, but more often than not recently it was a smash-cut of the reapings, all twenty-four victors picked out of the overall field for everyone to finally get a good look at.

The ones, both standing tall and proud. Different looks resided in their eyes, but you could tell they were both happy to be on that stage. The Two's and their odd juxtaposition; one more collected, the other terribly eager.

And then Sloane, of course, dragged so callously up onto that stage and dropped there with no care for her disposition. By the time Alia had been called up Sloane had looked half-asleep, and the cameras seemed so much more fixated on that than the steadiness that Alia had forced into her walk, the steeliness hiding the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

Of course none of these first impressions truly mattered anymore. Sloane had done things no one thought her capable of whilst Alia had been a scant inch from death, clinging onto life with her fingertips.

They knew her as the accidental killer, the failed leader.

Like she said—a technicality.

"You look pensive," Voxel says behind her, voice quiet to ensure she doesn't jump. After he caused her to do so a handful of times he got good at it. No longer does he frighten her, his much taller form appearing like a specter in the glow of the television as he reaches over the back of the couch to hand her a mug of tea, steam still floating gently from the top.

He's gotten better at that too. Apparently Voxel doesn't even like tea.

Alia hums in agreement as she takes a careful sip, cradling the warmth between her hands. She has no idea what to think of the Fours as they fill the screen—they are both even bigger wildcards than they were before. It's not as if she'll end up with either of them, or anyone near their caliber. Alia isn't meant for such great things.

"I should get you a notebook if you're going to keep at it like this," Voxel says. It's not the first time he's caught her watching this at an inopportune time, but Alia's brow furrows as she turns back to him.

"A notebook for what?"

"Notes," he replies flatly, though she's at least gotten used to his deadpan tone to the degree that it no longer bothers her. "More specifically, on the other tributes. I know you've watched the Games, but watching them and remembering them are two different things. There's a lot you'll need to remember."

Weapons. Traits. Alliances. The things that mean the most to people, the kind of which others would happily exploit if it meant getting a step ahead. Alia knows she's not that person.

"If nothing else," Voxel says. "Start noting down who you may like. People who you could get along with."

"Why?"

She knows why. Alia still thinks of Vahla, though, and all the others. Of leaving Aisa to those damn robots and of Idelle leaving while she was asleep, dying just a few door-ways down. A body she never found. Everything fell apart in such ugly ways, each day somehow more hellish than the last.

Allies are logical. Most people need them, in the end.

Alia's just not sure if she can go through that pain again and survive when it barely happened the first time. Even looking at these people makes her heart ache—she can see friends in there, people she would have liked very much if she were back home.

Now they're all just people she could potentially lose if she allows herself to go there.

"Just think about it," Voxel reminds her, clearly sensing her discomfort. He pats her on the shoulder and departs, just like always, leaving her with her perfectly made tea while his slipper-clad feet pad away. She stares at Five, Six, Seven, and her heart drops. Eight, Nine, Ten. Can she really do this? Eleven, Twelve… Alia doesn't know if she wants to.

But it's not about what she wants, anymore. She has to figure it out, and fast.

Before she has no time left at all.

Tova Revelis, 18
Victor of District One

It's a typical night, one in which she's unable to find sleep.

Tova isn't quite sure what the reason is behind her newfound comfort in the twilight hours, whether it's because the memories seem softer in the dim light or the predicament she's gotten herself into now.

She stretches out, toes curling into the cool sheets, her leg quickly brushing up against another's.

Beside her, Maderia doesn't stir. She never does.

The amount of time this has been happening is lost to her, now. It had been weeks following their removal from the arena before Tova could even get through a conversation without screaming, blaming everyone and everything for the reason she was stuck in the Capitol. She was supposed to be home, not trapped in a too-big apartment with a girl who flinched every-time she raised her voice.

Maderia wasn't scared of her, though, not in the ways other people were. Tova never apologized for driving that weapon into her chest; Maderia never asked for one, either.

It was the end of summer, surely. Perhaps moving into the fall. Maderia's face had been reddened, her cheeks puffy when she cracked open Tova's door halfway through the night and did nothing more than sit at the end of her bed and cry. It was a desperate, almost shameful attempt at finding company. It's like she knew Tova had cried for Ives, too.

They hadn't talked about it. Just like always, things were safer in the dark.

It turns out they could be much bolder, too.

She's watched the recap dozens of times. Tova knows if Catelaya were here instead, that's who Maderia would be in bed with. She knows this doesn't really mean anything, because it can't.

They should spit vitriol at each-other, come to blows, be so far apart that they couldn't dare to dream of a reality where they were pressed against one-another in the center of this luxurious bed. With everything in the theoretical in-between, it never should have happened in the first place.

Ives' corpse. Her axe, cracking open the center of Maderia's chest.

It doesn't make a lick of sense.

Tova rolls onto her side, pulling the sheets back a scant half an inch until she can see the very end of the scar that cuts through the center of Maderia's chest. The tip of her finger rests uncomfortably against the knotted tissue, applying just enough pressure for Maderia to reach up and pull her hand away.

She doesn't like when anyone touches it. Likes it even less when someone points it out.

Of course she does.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" Maderia asks, voice muffled.

"Sleeping's for the weak."

"Thanks."

She's good at that now, the whole self-deprecation thing. As much as Tova hates herself for living without Ives, Maderia hates herself for dying. How does that happen to a Career, so caught off guard and unaware that they needed to be revived on a hovercraft a few thousand feet in the air, floating above the Capitol?

Nobody quite understands it, least of all Maderia.

"Get the rest while you can," Maderia murmurs. "In a few weeks—"

"In a few weeks I could be back home," she interrupts. "I'll sleep then."

It's the way she should have been already. Tucked away in her own bed, with Aviya and her Dad safe under the same roof, content only with the knowledge that she was home for the time being.

"You're getting angry," Maderia tells her. Tova feels herself tense with the words. "Don't."

"Why not?"

"There's no use in it."

Of course there isn't. Because Maderia is good and noble even if she hates half the things the world stands for, now, and Tova wishing death on Amani fucking Layne is none of those things. She can't let her anger swell and boil over because he's sheltered away in some other Capitol apartment while Tova is stuck here, wishing she knew how to find him.

He's the source of all her problems. He's the reason why she's not home, why her and Maderia are in the same bed.

Things would have never gotten this ugly without him.

Maderia sits up without warning, leaning over to press a frighteningly soft kiss to her cheek. She turns away, leaving Tova to stare at the expanse of her bare back as she reaches for her discarded shirt, no scar there between her shoulder blades to suggest anything ever happened like there is on her front.

"Where are you going?"

"To my room."

It's not the first time Maderia has left in the middle of the night, and it certainly won't be the last in their last two weeks here. When she goes, it's easier to reconcile with the fact that this doesn't mean anything. At the end of the day, they're two warm bodies with nothing else to reach for.

That's why it doesn't sting when Maderia leaves, the way it ought to.

Complications are just that. Tova refuses to allow herself to linger on any single one for too long. A part of her nestled deep inside knows that she hates Maderia, still, and that Maderia no doubt hates her in the same way. They each ruined each-other's dreams, the fragile truths they had dared to create.

Hatred is easier than anything else. It's clear cut. Simple, even.

That's why this all has to end. Tova will break it apart the same way she has everything else, with hair-raising shrieks and the blade of an axe. She's waited half a year to get to this point, and finally it has almost come. She's going home. Tova has always known what that would entail.

Everyone has to die—Maderia too.

And everyone will.

Yeah. Surprise. Oopsie Daisy.

But also, Happy Pride Month. I guess it fits.

On another note, for those that haven't seen the results of the poll, they are now up. Congrats to Tova, Zoya & Casia for being our top three after weeks of me trying to get them separated. I'll say this until I'm blue in the face, but they truly have zero bearing on the eventual outcome of the fic and any of my associated plans.

If there are coincidences at any point... just ignore them.

Until next time.