CHAPTER XIX: PARADES

Shaffa Zorp • District Three Female

District Three Salon Suite / July 4th, 6:12 PM

"What about this indigo?" Ecks suggests, holding an eyeshadow palette up in front of the other stylists.

"It washes her out!" Wye complains as she swipes some sort of translucent powder onto Shaffa's cheekbones. "Try something… softer."

"Lilac would brighten her hair," Zee hums. "Don't you think so, Shaffa?"

"I've always looked best in pastels," Shaffa agrees enthusiastically, trying to sit as still as possible as the Capitolite ladies tackle her hair, makeup, and measurements all at the same time. They chirp in unison, clearly pleased by her response.

Her stylists love her, Shaffa can tell. They also love listening to themselves talk and talk and talk. She doesn't mind; it's a more-than-welcome distraction. When a response is required of her, she mirrors their speech back to them — just the way she learned to talk to people in order to make them like her, or even just to please them.

But she didn't have to do much to win them over in the first place — the moment she was brought into the room half an hour prior, all three of the ladies recognized her immediately.

"It is her," the first of them exclaimed, mouth hanging agape. "Dear goodness, she's his spitting image!"

"I'm such a big fan of your father's work," another added, joining the fray. "What Neffilus Zorp does with a scalpel is simply divine."

The third's hands rose to squeeze and tug parts of her face and arms. "Oh my, this skin elasticity… this work is flawless, not a single blemish. No doubt this is his signature!"

Initially, Shaffa was caught off guard. But after affording it some thought, she supposed it just made sense that they knew who she was immediately. It's not like Zorp is the most common surname in the world — not to mention that the overwhelming majority of his clientele are exorbitantly wealthy Capitolites, even as far as Capitolites go.

Her father's plastic surgery bookings stretched out to two years in advance, but there had never been a single person who minded the wait. After all, time was no matter if Neffilus Zorp could undo twenty years of aging in twenty minutes. People liked to say that he was more of a sculptor than a surgeon. Each one of his clients emerged from under the scalpel like a brand new person, rejuvenated, transformed — Shaffa included.

After the operation was completed, Shaffa looked like she had been born with her features, like her slopes and soft edges came to be under a purely natural process. A delicate process, a seamless graft, and a happy seventeenth birthday — a priceless gift from a father to a daughter, who could truly feel like one for the first time in her life.

All that's to say, her father's talents were used on a very select few. For how much her stylists, Ecks, Wye, and Zee, rave on and on about Neffilus's handiwork, Shaffa can tell at an immediate glance that her father had never operated on them. They're completely identical triplets, save for their wildly fluctuating physiques. Their bodies were undoubtedly the work of someone else.

The way they look reminds her too much of the oddly-proportioned women who would try to take advantage of her father for money, for surgeries. In those women, Shaffa saw more botched than beautiful, but she'd never say such a thing to their faces — or to her father's.

Or to Ecks, Wye, and Zee, who have been nothing but overwhelmingly kind to her, even if over-familiar. Everything that comes out of Shaffa's mouth is what other people want to hear, which is perfectly fine by her — if she says the right things, people will love her more. And she loves being loved.

"Oh, you are simply precious, Shaffa dearie," Zee coos. "Why haven't I ever seen you before? Why didn't Neffilus ever let you tag along with him to the Capitol?"

(Shaffa feels a sharp pang in her chest. She thought her first time coming to the Capitol would be alongside her father; she never thought she'd be here under these circumstances.)

She presses her lips into a tight line, hoping it looks close enough to a smile. "I'm not eighteen yet," she answers, "and minors aren't permitted to travel between Districts unless under extenuating circumstances."

Wye gives a dismissive snort. "Those rules are so silly and asinine. It's necessary for a child's development to see different places. My son isn't even four years old yet, and he's already seen District One and District Six."

"District Six is a good one," Ecks croons. "It's important for the children to see how much better they have it than District kids. It convinces them to finish their dinners, knowing there are children dying from starvation in the streets of Six, bless their souls."

"Truly," Wye clucks sympathetically. "No offense, Shaffa."

Shaffa makes a noncommittal gesture. "None taken," she smirks, almost entertained. She has to say, it's a well-intentioned but ridiculous strategy to teach Capitolite children empathy. At least they're trying…?

"My father used to do something similar," Shaffa decides to say, scouring her brain for a relatable example. "Ever since I was little, he'd go on these long business trips to the Capitol. He always felt bad about it, and tried to cheer me up by bringing back lots of gifts." Shaffa sighs. "I was still sad, but y'know, I try to be grateful that I get to see him at all. And that he has a good job, and we live in a nice house. I know at least I get to spend more time with him than other kids in Three with their own parents, who have to work the factories day and night."

The ladies all hum and nod. "Darling," Wye smiles, "you'll be pleased to know what I've heard from a friend of a friend of a friend."

"What did you hear?" Shaffa asks.

"Your father's on his way to the Capitol as we speak!" Wye cheers. "At least, that's what my friend's friend's friend who's an airline ticket keeper told my friend's friend who told my friend. Right after District Three's train took off, he rushed to the port. He paid for an express ticket, and boarded the very next sky shuttle to the Capitol."

Shaffa freezes in disbelief, locking eyes with Wye in the mirror's reflection. Her heartbeat quickens. "Really?"

Zee whirls toward Wye. "No. Way."

"Way," Wye confirms.

"Those tickets cost an arm and a leg during this time of year!" Ecks exclaims.

Wye nods so enthusiastically Shaffa wonders if she'll accidentally kickstart a seizure. "Shaffa, if your father manages to get his hands on an entry ticket to the Parades, then you very well may see him in the crowd tonight! Isn't that exciting?"

Shaffa's thoughts race a mile a minute. Truthfully, she doesn't even know what she feels in this moment. She wants to see her father really bad, more than anything. She knows it'll make her feel so much better, but so, so much worse again when she's torn from him again.

Just the thought of another goodbye makes her heart want to give in on itself. All of the feelings she's successfully kept buried since the goodbyes will come gushing out again the moment she sees him again. Shaffa thought that was the last time; but it seemed that her ingenious father has come up with a way to be there for her, for what might be her last week alive.

Dozens of memories flash behind her eyelids of all the times her father's had to go somewhere, do something, leave her by herself. She can remember too vividly the feeling of betrayal every time she begged for him to stay, only to be met with a soft, gentle, "I'm sorry, love."

Does she want him to come back for her? Is it too little, too late? A small part of her thinks yes, but the rest of her screams I don't care, I don't care — Shaffa just wants her father to be there and hold her, for him to tell her everything will be okay.

Shaffa doesn't even realize she's crying until she feels a handkerchief gingerly being dabbed underneath her eyes, careful as to not smudge the rest of the finished makeup. Ecks is rubbing soothing circles on her shoulder. Wye hands her a pillow, which Shaffa instinctively takes and holds close to her chest.

"Oh, Shaffa," Zee's voice murmurs, compassionate. "Don't cry, darling. I know you must be feeling so much right now."

"We didn't mean to make you sad." Ecks sounds apologetic.

"I just thought you would've liked to know," Wye adds.

"I do," Shaffa says hurriedly, sniffling. "I… just miss him. So much. And I didn't think I'd get to see him again."

All the ladies nod understandingly. "You'll have to look your best then," Wye declares. "No more crying — let's finish up as fast as we can so you can find your father in the crowd, all right?"

A laugh bubbles out of Shaffa's chest. She tries not to sniff as loudly as she nods and pieces herself back together again. Ecks gives her another little pat before all three ladies resume, this time in busy silence as the soft salon music pours into the space.

Time always seems to pass so quickly after a good cry. It feels as if Shaffa just blinks, and then she's suddenly standing in front of a tall mirror, presented with her own fully furnished reflection.

She looks… incredible. The only way she can think to describe it is delectably avant-garde. Her makeup is sharp and flawless. Her hair is pulled back and gelled into a sleek updo. The dress on her body is made completely of circuitry, silicon reds, blues, and greens. But the most striking thing are her eyes, smoky and impossibly dark — the stylists had accentuated her features in a way that made her look like a strange and beautiful extraterrestrial being.

Even if the ladies' taste in plastic surgery is questionable, Shaffa has to admit that they knew their stuff. She never knew that she could look like this, look so… otherworldly.

"You look beautiful, Shaffa," Zee smiles, her expression sincere as Shaffa holds her gaze in the mirror. Ecks and Wye nod simultaneously behind them. "You're such a beautiful young woman."

Ecks starts to blink rapidly. "Even if Neffilus isn't in the crowd tonight, we know that he must be so proud of who you've grown up to be."

Shaffa feels a little choked up, strangely moved. "Thank you."

She meets her own eyes in the mirror once more, trying to steel her nerves. She won't break down, not again. If it's true Shaffa's getting one more chance to see her father, one more chance at a final goodbye, she wants to go into it as bravely as she can.

Ginseng Clarkson • District Seven Female

The Atrium / July 4th, 6:51 PM

The instant her stylists disappear out of sight, Ginseng stretches as much as she can in her fussy outfit. She sweeps out her arms in wide arcs, rolls her shoulders, touches her toes — when that doesn't do the trick, she starts squatting, kicking, punching in every direction, throwing her limbs around as spastically as she can in attempts to make what she's wearing more comfortable.

With every tight stitch that snaps around her bodice, she feels like she can breathe a little easier. By the time she's finished acting like a girl possessed, the dress is sufficiently broken in: the waist no longer cinches in as tightly as it once did, and half of the decorative flowers now litter the ground underneath her heels.

Ginseng kicks the heels off and squats, thwacking them against the floor to see if she can pop the heel part off. She spends a couple minutes on this before deciding, ah, to heck with it — she picks up the now-battered heels, tucks them away in some dark corner, and walks out of the room completely barefoot.

It was ridiculous how long the entire styling process had taken, how long she was expected to sit still and not move. Ginseng knows she's supposed to be a forest fairy or something — a sprite, maybe? She can't remember what the stylists were mumbling on about; she was zoning the heck out. Not like it matters, anyway. At this point, Ginseng probably looks less fairy and more… creature.

She's never liked getting dolled up. It stirs up memories of early mornings: her mother's scolding voice, a tender scalp, scratchy lace. By the end of it, she just sees herself transformed into an unconvincing imitation of her older sister.

Min. That's all Ma and Ba wanted her to be. Perfect Min with her perfect report card, perfect straight, black hair, perfect manners. Ginseng can't remember a time when she wasn't the subject of comparison.

As much as she hated it, that was normal for her. She almost misses it, even. Maybe miss isn't the right word, but she'd rather be home right now, getting chewed out by Ma for not brushing her hair properly, than in this unfamiliar place. She wishes being compared to Min and Bo was the most of her worries; it was much easier to only wonder whether her parents were going to kill her for the grade she got on her math test. Now, she's wondering whether she's actually going to live to see the end of the week.

It all feels like a bad nightmare…

Ginseng slaps herself across the face a couple times, just to check if all of this is just something her unconscious brain decided to conjure in the middle of Mr. Lindewall's painfully boring class.

To her severe disappointment, she doesn't wake up. And now her face just stings really bad.

Petals flit to the floor as Ginseng rakes her fingers through her impossibly tight braids. Her eyes dart around, exploring her new environment.

The door she emerged from is one of many, all in District order. The doors feed into a massive atrium, so enormous that it barely feels like she's indoors, with tiers upon tiers of seats lining the walls. The entire room is brilliantly lit, endless rays of sunlight streaking in through the stained glass ceiling.

Seven's salon suites are right in the middle of the hall, a great vantage point. Ginseng can see almost everything from where she's standing. She watches as handlers lead horses to where their chariots await and strap them in. Meanwhile, Capitolites slowly start to trickle in, filling the seats that extend as high as she can see.

She also spots a couple other tributes who are also finished, waiting like her. Some look around wildly like her, trying to take in all the sights; others just stand there, probably overwhelmed. A few even look bored, like the boy standing in front of the District Three doors. The girl next to him, on the other hand, appears to be searching the crowd for something, or maybe someone. Meanwhile, a pair of kids her age sit on a bench toward the very back of the strip, the auburn-haired boy looking incredibly annoyed as the blonde girl next to him jostles his arm back and forth.

A lot of the other tributes look like they could just be kids from her high school, except for the guy a door over with full-blown facial hair. He looks like he could be a grown man. And there's a girl with dark, coily hair that might be just a little bit younger than her. But everyone else seems within her age range.

Ginseng turns back around and sighs, exasperated. She's officially bored. There's nothing to do here, no trees to climb, no rocks to look at. No one to talk to. Standing still is making her paranoid, making her imagine the prickly feeling of eyes watching her.

When's Lucifer going to be done? She frowns, glancing at the closed door of his stylist room. She wants to tell him how bored she is, and maybe ask him to flex again like she did on the train. Her District partner has these huge, beefy arms that look really good for punching stuff. She wonders if he could one-hit K.O. someone or something cool like that.

She and Lucifer don't have that much in common. She asked him what high school he went to, and he just seemed really confused. Ginseng doesn't even think he knows how to read. Maybe she isn't as smart as Min and Bo, but at least she's not as bad as this guy.

Either way, it doesn't matter. Lucifer is nice and nods when she talks, so even if he's a little dumb, he's all right in her book.

Ginseng spins around a couple times, making herself dizzy. She raises her palms to the sky, about to fall into a cartwheel before she thinks twice — she's wearing a dress. Ginseng should've asked the stylists to let her have some shorts. Is it too late to ask?

She settles for skipping around instead, with no cartwheels.

Gradually, more and more tributes start to come out of their rooms. There's a boy with a futuristic-looking metal arm — so cool?! — and a girl Ginseng's age spinning in circles around him, her neck craned to look at the ceiling. Ginseng sees the younger girl from earlier, who looks even more sullen up close as she stands alone in front of the Eleven doors. Her partner is talking to the fair-haired kids in the back — for some reason, the blonde girl is staring at him like he's grown a third arm.

A stylist emerges from a Ten door, flanked by a broad-shouldered boy dressed in leather and tasselled cowboy hat. The Ten boy is tall, and he's tan like the sun loves his skin.

The stylist whistles as he pats the Ten boy down, securing his handiwork. "You're all set, Asahel," he says. "Knock 'em dead. You can find Falo one door over."

Asahel smiles, nodding in thanks as his stylist disappears back through the door they came from. Ginseng watches him scope the atrium briefly before he walks over to Falo's door, turning the knob.

Immediately, exclamations burst from the room, swiftly stifled as Asahel slams the door back shut. His face has completely flushed red in a matter of seconds.

"I'm sorry, I thought— I—" He cuts himself off, turning around and distancing himself from the door. He pulls the rim of his hat down, tassels now obscuring his face.

Wow. This is awful second-hand embarrassment. Ginseng thinks she's going to walk away now. She turns on her heel to spare herself from watching any more of the aftermath — and accidentally trips across a person lying on the floor.

"Hey!" Ginseng blurts, catching herself just in time. Startled, she snaps her head down to see that girl from earlier, the one that was making circles around the boy with the cool arm. Her bouncy hair is sprawled disastrously across the floor, making a fan around her head. Her eyes are closed and she seems completely at peace — Ginseng thinks she might even be humming a little.

Ginseng pauses, trying to make sense of the picture. "Are you… okay?"

The girl opens her eyes, startlingly glass-green. She gives Ginseng a mischievous smile, like she's about to tell a joke Ginseng isn't in on. "Just nifty."

Ginseng crouches down, leaning her chin on her knees. "Why are you lying on the floor?"

"To look at the sky," the girl replies.

"But we're inside," Ginseng counters. "And your eyes were closed. You weren't looking at anything."

"I was looking at the sky behind my eyelids. There's a whole 'nother world there, full of fire and flashing ghosts."

The way she talks is strangely melodic. It's not fast, but it's not slow, either. Her cadences almost seem to float, unpredictable but pleasing to the ears. Nothing she says makes sense.

So weird, Ginseng thinks to herself, smiling.What the heck?

"Can I see what you're seeing?" Ginseng asks.

The green-eyed girl pats the ground next to her. "The floor's all ours."

Ginseng fully lowers herself to the ground, smoothing her skirt underneath her as she stretches out her legs. Gently, she places her head next to the girl's and clasps her hands across her stomach. She winces as she stares straight ahead at the sunlit stained glass ceiling.

"You have to stare at the light," the girl says.

"Ow," Ginseng protests, but she tries to keep her eyes open. "When do I get to close my eyes?"

"Hm…" The girl hums for about ten, maybe twenty seconds. "Okay. Now."

Ginseng lets her eyelids flutter shut. In the hazy black, floating specters bloom to the surface. They pulse in and out, flashing from maroon to mint green to golden, changing color faster than Ginseng's mind can make sense of.

"Are you seeing the ghosts?" the girl whispers.

"You mean the afterimages?" Ginseng laughs. "They're just light floaters."

"Ghosts," Dottie insists.

"Calling them ghosts makes it sound scary."

"I'm not scared of ghosts."

"I sure am."

"They're just memories," The girl replies. She sounds like she might be frowning, but Ginseng can't tell for sure. "Nothing scary about a memory."

Ginseng doesn't have anything to say to that, so she doesn't. She keeps her eyes closed, content to bask in the busy ambiance. The room grows louder and louder as more people start to trickle in (Ginseng presumes), but she feels pleasantly disconnected from it all, on the ground next to this strange girl.

She's gently pulled out of her daze by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching her, and a voice that sounds familiar. "Kid. Been looking for you."

Ginseng slowly opens her eyes, squinting up at Lucifer's perplexed expression. She raises a hand to shield her face from the light. "You have?"

"Yeah," he says, slightly lowering himself to give Ginseng a hand. She takes it, lifting herself up to a sitting position. "They're calling for us to get in the chariots."

"Already?" Ginseng says, slightly disappointed. She turns to look back at the girl; at the same instant, the girl opens her eyes and meets her gaze, as if she knew Ginseng was looking at her.

Ginseng pouts. "We have to go now. But thanks for letting me lay off the floor with you."

The girl's lips curve into a happy line. She stretches across the ground, a strikingly similar visual to a kitty cat at its most content. "You didn't need my permission. The floor belongs to everyone."

"That's true," Ginseng concedes. "What's your name, by the way?"

"Dottie."

"Nice to meet you, Dottie. I'm Ginseng."

"Ginseng," Dottie repeats, her voice as musical as ever. "I've never heard that before."

"It's a root," she explains. "It grows in Seven."

"Ginseng, ginseng… rhymes with…" Dottie pauses. "I don't know. I have to think."

Ginseng grins. "Tell me tomorrow?"

Dottie's eyes crinkle into crescents. "Sure, root girl. Tomorrow, then."

Ginseng's face almost hurts from how hard she's smiling. She gives the girl a wave before hauling herself to her feet, following Lucifer to the chariots.

When she looks back one last time, Dottie has already vanished.

Crossland Vectra • District Six Male

The Atrium / July 4th, 7:18 PM

By the time the stylists were finished with him, Crossland had hardly recognized himself in the mirror. The only tell were the dark eyes that stared back at his, void and steely.

The Capitolites liked his beard enough to keep it, apparently. Told him he looked older with it. They trimmed his eyebrows, oiled his body, slicked back his hair.

They repierced his ears with beady black studs.

Standing in the District Six chariot, that's the sensation that bothers him most: the slight soreness in his earlobes. He's always disliked the way earrings look on him, the way they feel — or perhaps, he dislikes the association tied to them.

(The first time Crossland had his ears pierced, Zhaust had told him he looked beautiful. That was the only reason he didn't take out the studs immediately. But after he saw Zhaust's body in the Square, he finally let the holes close up.

(So to re-experience the needle going through his skin, two years later… well, it felt like an old wound opening up all over again, to use the most fitting phrase possible. A memory he thought he left behind ages ago, coming back to bite him in the ass. He could almost hear Zhaust's silky voice curling up around the back of his skull: Have you missed me?)

Of course, the Capitolites had no way of knowing how Crossland might've felt about the earrings. It was a purely cosmetic decision on their part, and he isn't going to blame them for doing their job. Still, even without the bad associations, he still has a strong distaste for the sort of vanity that seems to control all Capitolite decisions.

What an ironic sentiment to have in this hall, as the object of attention in what is surely one of the most lavish displays of wealth and excess, even for the Capitol. Alas — he'll just bear with the metal in his ears until he has time to himself to remove the adornments and let the skin scar over ruined tissue once more.

Unfortunately, he isn't hopeful at the prospect of an immediate opportunity to escape from probing eyes. There won't be for the next couple of days, Crossland is sure of it. On the train, he steeled himself as best as he could for the days ahead, but truthfully, he knew he could never be completely prepared for the whiplash.

Being Reaped uprooted him from a routine of monotonous, endless nights at the factory where his presence went wholly unacknowledged, unbothered — just the way that he liked. Now, he can't retreat from the ogling under the suffocating sea of spotlights and spectators.

His District partner, meanwhile, visibly cowers under the attention as the chariots embark on their lap around the atrium. Juno can't even muster the courage to look at the crowd. Crossland observes her as she alternates between briefly peeking and then squinting her eyes shut. She swallows, clenching and unclenching her fists as a couple Districts ahead are called, and their chariot slowly approaches the front of the atrium.

He didn't make an effort to converse with Juno on the train. Juno appeared incredibly anxious about the prospect, so she didn't either. He likes her for it. One of the things that Crossland dislikes most in the world is a person who ruins a perfectly good silence with aimless chatter.

Juno can read a room, and seems nice enough. Nice from a distance is a fine combination in Crossland's book. But these qualities are likely just attributed to her debilitating shyness, which doesn't work in her favor here. Crossland can't imagine she'll be able to find allies unless a miracle happens.

Crossland sympathizes only slightly — God knows he's feeling a similar discomfort — but he feels a small sense of gladness that at least he's not buckling under the audience's very eyes. He's suffered far more difficult things than these Parades.

How can she survive a day into the Games if she lets something like this visibly get underneath her skin?

Crossland hates to make such a hasty assumption, but she'll probably be dead within ten minutes of the gong going off. Maybe if he was a kinder person, he'd give her a more generous estimate, but he knows kindness can't save her.

Well, it doesn't even matter. Only one person can go back home anyway, and he doesn't have any sympathy to spare people he doesn't even know. For Crossland to live, the other twenty-three have to die; likely, a couple at his hand.

He doesn't know what it's like to kill someone, doesn't know what it's like to sink metal into flesh, feel bone crush underneath his fingers, brutalize something or someone until it stops struggling for good. The only guts he's ever dealt in were mechanical, belonged to motors and machines.

But Crossland knows how to let people die, and he certainly knows how to let people go down for their own sins. There might be some blood on his hands, but he's not a killer yet.

He knows he won't be able to say that after this is all said and done.

(Crossland wonders if that bothers him. He isn't sure. The idea of it just feels murky, but probably necessary. He thinks he'll do it when it comes down to it.

(There's no one waiting for him in Six, not a soul. Just a salary. He has no reason to live besides not wanting to die, but Crossland doesn't need a noble motivation. Not wanting to die — that's as good enough of a reason as any, the way he sees it.)

His and Juno's chariot has almost approached the front. The Master of Ceremonies announces the one in front of them, exclaiming into the microphone clutched in her ridiculous acrylics. "District Five, my darling Capitolites: Keesha Cathode and Fioynder Itamor-Nilth!"

Crossland stares ahead at the individuals in Five's chariot. Their costumes, which at first looked plain and black begin to strobe with neon lights, seemingly woven into each fiber. The girl's shades start beaming with multicolored lights, a self-assured smirk on her face as she head-bops toward the crowd. The boy beside her waves furiously, blowing kisses left and right.

The audience goes ballistic, gorging on the spectacle. The brilliant sunset that streams through the window ceiling brings a tight competition, but the District Five pair are easily the most striking, saturated subject in the room. They look ecstatic to be the center of attention, their very own spotlight.

Crossland knows the transition to Six is going to be awfully weak in comparison; he almost finds it humorous.

"Now, may I present to you District Six: Juno Rovensteine and Crossland Vectra!"

Crossland stands as straight as a machine as the chariot rolls around the front. It seems to be taking everything in Juno to not fully pass out on the spot, but Crossland pays her no mind. It's not his problem. If she passes out, he hopes at least it makes him look better comparably — not that he thinks managing at least that will be too difficult.

The cheering is not as loud as it had been for District Five, but it's still sufficiently enthusiastic. Crossland won't complain. He turns toward the crowd and tentatively raises his hand, feeling stiff.

It seems to work well enough? The audience becomes slightly louder, a couple hollers here and there. From one of the lower tiers, an object rapidly approaches straight toward him. His arm swipes out on instinct, fingers closing around a thick, waxy stem.

He observes the item in his grip: a flower, somewhat close to a rose, if he had to wager a guess. Its petals are a glossy black, nearly slick as oil. It doesn't appear natural, but what in the Capitol is? Crossland tucks the flower into his lapel and gives an acknowledging nod in the direction he thinks the rose was thrown from.

A woman dressed in the same gasoline-black as the rose swoons, nearly toppling over. The corner of Crossland's mouth threatens to lift.

Capitolites. Maybe they're easier to please than he thinks.

Their chariot eventually passes without any more excitement, no more roses, and no Juno passing out, thankfully. The Districts behind them are called gradually, one by one, until what seems like a lifetime later when the Parades come to a close.

The Master of Ceremonies makes her closing remarks. Crossland doesn't catch much besides flowery, honey-thick statements about beauty and pleasure and luxury and other things Crossland doesn't care for. As he dismounts the chariot, he humors himself with thoughts of how he'll take advantage of the amenities.

Perhaps he'll take a shower that lasts longer than five minutes, slightly above lukewarm temperature. Eat a hot meal, feel full for the first time in days. If he can manage to find earplugs, he might even be in bed by 10 p.m. on the dot. Now that sounds like luxury.

It almost brings a smile to his face. Perhaps this three-day stint in the Capitol won't be so awful, after all.

Reverie Berlusconi • District One Female

The Atrium / July 4th, 7:40 PM

Her throat was raw. Her head was spinning. Her chest heaved up and down, drunk off pure adrenaline. Under the scorching neon lights, Reverie felt as if she were on fire; she felt as if she had never been more alive.

That was that — their first set at the De Lu Iris. Many of the clubbers were still milling about, though the front of the stage was no longer as congested as it had been during the peak of the performance. The scent of salt and liquor still lingered in the air; to Reverie, it smelled like freedom, like another life.

Behind her, Reverie could hear Pandora helping the workers roll the equipment backstage. She wasn't sure about Aurelius's whereabouts, but she couldn't even pretend to care when Kieran was still lingering beside her, almost close enough to touch. She shoved down the urge to smooth her hands on his leather jacket before she thought to herself — why fight it?

As night bled into morning, time stripped Reverie bare of almost every one of her facades. Underneath the dizzying lights, she knew what felt right. Underneath all the smoke and mirrors, she wanted nothing more than to be honest.

The only way she could think to describe the energy onstage was spiritual, divine. But even then, it paled in comparison to how she felt underneath the gaze of the boy next to her. If Reverie's honest, almost nobody's attention felt as good as Kieran's. Right now, she could think of little else than Kieran here, Kieran now, Kieran looking at her like this.

Wasn't it about time she got what she wanted?

"It's over," Kieran whispered, breathless. He was looking at her like she was the only person in the room, something in his gaze so soft and so right that her heart threatened to burst with it.

God damn those brown eyes. This was going to wreck her — if not now, then maybe one day.

But future consequence mattered little when she felt so good now; Reverie was beaming so hard she felt as if her face might crack open and light would just come streaming through the faultlines. She wanted Kieran to look at her forever.

She wanted to stay inside this moment forever.

"Parades are over." An icy, bitter version of Kieran's voice shattered the memory into shards. "Let go."

Reverie startles just slightly, then looks at their entwined hands — she hadn't realized she was still holding on to his, which was now completely slack in her grip. Calmly, casually, she removes her hand from Kieran's. God forbid she looks bothered.

Kieran, however, immediately wipes his hand against his pants leg, like he can't stand to have any trace of Reverie lingering on his skin. Reverie tsks under her breath. So immature, so foolish — but what more can she possibly expect from Kieran Locke?

Rolling her eyes, Reverie takes the ornate crown off her head, looping it through her arm instead. This year, the District One's costumes are chess pieces (Reverie must admit she's amused by such a blatant metaphor): Kieran, a black king piece, and Reverie, a white queen. It's unusual for a District to have such a stark color contrast, but she supposes if any District were to try something so flashy, it was naturally going to be One.

It's certainly fitting. Once upon a time, Kieran told her the meanings of his and Aurelius's names. Kieran: little dark one — Aurelius: the golden one. To this day, Reverie still thinks it's a cute naming scheme, quite clever of their parents. She'll get to feel smug about it when she dispatches their other son, snuffing out both night and day.

She ignores the hands of the footmen as she unmounts the chariot. "Would you perhaps happen to remember the advice that Himeros gave us?" she says, not looking at Kieran.

"Obviously," Kieran mutters, already walking off to a clearing in the center of the atrium. His shoes clack loudly against the elaborately tiled floor. Now that the sky outside has gone dark, amber lights pulse to life around the atrium; the glow bounces off the polished floor like molten lamplight, broken into shards and splintered across the jagged tiles.

"I can't tell," Reverie deadpans, following Kieran a short distance behind. "You're doing a piss-poor job at playing nice."

"Was holding hands during the entirety of the Parades not enough?"

"You could've smiled a little. Or at least tried to look like you can stand me."

"Consider this angle: the train was the first time we met, and you've already given me a god-awful impression," Kieran says cheerily, halting to a stop in the center of a tiled mosaic star, in the middle of the atrium. "Surely within the realm of possibility, right?"

"How about you just act your fucking age?" she sneers. A part of her delights in Kieran's visible apprehension as she starts to circle around him. "Grow the fuck up, and do yourself a favor: make yourself look even a little less manipulable. If any of the other Careers find out that we have history, they're going to use it against you."

"Why me?" Kieran retorts. "Why wouldn't they use it against you, too?"

"Because I know how to not look weak in front of other people," Reverie says. "I have discipline. Resolve. Initiative. You, on the other hand… you're nothing like me."

"I thank God every day for that."

"It's a shame, really," Reverie sighs. "If you were, even just a tiny bit, you'd maybe have a chance of getting out of here alive. But you're not used to working for what you want, are you now? You've always just had everything handed to you — at least one of us has the guts to see things through."

She can see it, the way Kieran's jaw trembles. Delicious.

"You're a heartless piece of shit," Kieran grits.

Reverie shrugs. "I'm just suggesting you take my advice." She can see District Two approaching them, Four a little ways behind. "Keep your shit together. And to yourself. It makes things better for the both of us — but mostly you."

Kieran scoffs, incredulous. "Really?"

"Yeah." She lowers her voice and leans, whispering right into his ear. "Instead of worrying about all five of your allies turning on you, you can just worry about the one."

"You just don't want them to find out about Aurelius."

"I promise you don't either," Reverie coos. "What are the others going to think if they find out you still cry over your dead baby brother?"

She doesn't stick around to hear whatever unclever response Kieran will come up with. Instead, she glides briskly to meet District Two: a good-looking guy with dreadlocks, and a shorter girl with round eyes and strong legs.

She greets Cassia first, leaning in slightly to give Cassia a quick hug. The girl practically squeaks as Reverie comes in close — "oh!" — before she hesitantly wraps her arms around Reverie's back, solid palms patting her awkwardly.

When Reverie breaks off, Cassia's face is almost completely engulfed in red. "Sorry, I, um," she stutters, "I'm Cassia. You're Reverie, right? I saw you on the recaps. You were really pretty. You're even prettier in person. Really nice to meet you."

"You too, Cassia," Reverie winks playfully. She points at the Two boy just as he hikes his thumbs in his pockets, the textbook definition of laidback. "I take it you're Sergeant?"

Sergeant's face breaks into a lopsided grin as he gives her a mock salute. "Sir, yes sir. Call me Sarge."

Reverie steps closer to him and opens her arms. Unlike Cassia, Sergeant doesn't miss a beat — he firmly embraces her, but he's not touchy the way the overeager boys in her cohort are. It's a perfectly solid hug. He smells good too, like… pine needles and roasted sandalwood. Or something ridiculous like that.

(She's spent enough time in pretentious, overpriced perfume stores to know exactly what smells insanely rich people blow their banks for.

(Reverie knows what sells the quickest, what gathers a crowd, so she can slip whatever goes unnoticed into her purse to resell later.)

She's still analyzing Sergeant even as she's pulling out of the hug. He's sort of classy, funny, and clearly takes care of himself. He might be good enough for her purposes. She certainly wouldn't mind if he were a little taller (after all, she quite likes wearing heels), but it's a non-issue. Reverie's not looking for longevity. No pun intended.

Kieran approaches from behind. "Kieran Locke," he says, offering a hand to Cassia and then Sergeant.

Sergeant's eyes gleam slightly as he shakes Kieran's hand. "Locke," he repeats, grinning.

Cassia's short brown hair whips as she turns around to face the newcomers. "Four's here!"

Reverie sees Jupiter first. She's about her height, but far more broad-shouldered and rough-looking in general. She offers Reverie a handshake.

Jupiter's hands are calloused, with flat and strangely smooth nails (probably a result of the stylists buffing the shit out of them.) She's quite handsome in a rugged way — her Parades costume features a net thrown around her like a cape, less a siren and more the fisherman capturing her. From the corner of her eye, Reverie can see Cassia stealing glances.

She smiles to herself. All of her allies are damn good-looking; this makes things a lot more fun.

Kai stands further off, a ways behind Jupiter. Reverie makes no immediate moves toward him, observing him at a distance; how should she approach somebody who's unhinged enough to knife someone at the Reaping?

Sergeant takes the initiative, striding toward him first. "Name's Sarge," Reverie can hear him say to the taller boy. "You're Kai?"

Sergeant's certainly bold, Reverie will give him that. Kai's piercing eyes bore straight into Sergeant's. Reverie squints; his irises are strangely light, almost silver. She gets an uneasy feeling from them, but she's not quite sure why.

On the other hand, Sergeant is unfazed, or at least doing a great job at looking the part. He stares back at Kai, unflinching, still just as laidback as he seemed upon Reverie's first impression.

"Nobody calls me that anymore," Kai finally says after a long moment, frowning.

"That's fine," comes Sergeant's brisk reply. "What do you want us to call you, then?"

"They call me the…" Kai falters slightly, seeming to rethink his words. "Never mind. Kai is satisfactory."

"Cool." Sergeant holds out his hand. "You do handshakes?"

"No," Kai growls menacingly.

"Okay. That's cool too." Sergeant retracts his hand and turns back to face the rest of them. Kai's eyes follow the back of his head, like the way a shark tracks a darting fish. If Sergeant notices, there's no indication.

"Kai, everyone, everyone, Kai," Sergeant declares, pointing at the other boy with a thumb. He glances back at Kai again. "I'm assuming since you're here, you're interested in joining the Pack?"

Kai nods slowly.

"Sure," Sergeant says, very neutrally. "I'll talk to you, 'nd we can figure out all that tomorrow. But…" he clasps his hands together, "now that everyone's pretty much met each other, let's get to the good stuff. Who else thinks they're interested in leading?"

Interesting phrasing, Reverie thinks. Who else. Sergeant already makes it abundantly obvious that he thinks himself fit for the job. It explains the cocky way he carries himself, like he won't be told no. Or he'll think of a clever way to make you say yes. Reverie thinks he seems like the type of person who'd take rejection like water off of a duck's back — his mind's already made up on what he wants to do.

Reverie's always loved playing leader. Lead vocalist, lead cadet; in the frontlines is where she naturally gravitates. But she knows better than to let herself do that here.

She considered it once.

"What do you think your role should be in the Career pack?" Her trainer, Violet, said, rapping her knuckles on the table.

"It depends on the dynamic of the group, of course," Reverie answered, swinging her blade into the tough burlap of a training dummy. "I don't mind taking a supporting role. Or leading, if there's not much of a fight for it. I think I could be good at it."

"It doesn't matter if you think you'd be good at it." Violet's words were blunter than the flat end of a hammer. "Being the leader always ends poorly. That person always gets backstabbed first."

The other Careers cast brief glances at each other. Reverie notices the way Cassia's eyes dart to Jupiter, like she half-expects her to speak up. But Jupiter's expression stays flat, ambiguous.

"Don't be shy," Sergeant continues, a little mirth already creeping into his tone. "I'm a reasonable guy. If anyone thinks they can lead better than me, I'd be happy to humor 'em."

He's laying it on thick. Sergeant's a confident one, Reverie can tell — like recognizes like. But her pride won't be wounded if Sergeant becomes the de facto leader of the Careers. He's just a boy, after all, and an arrogant boy at that. Surely there's a way to mold him into Reverie's decoy. She knows she can be very persuasive when she wants to be, and even more so when a man thinks her ideas are his own.

It's already worked out so well for her in the past.

That seals it, she thinks. Sergeant will do just fine.

"Role's yours," Reverie smiles. "Cheers, Sarge."

a/n: we're soo back. merry festivus! I LUV PARADES XOXO

song of the chapter is house of memories by p!atd. i know i knoooww what am i doing listening to p!atd in 2023. idgaf actually. forgot to say but song of last chapter was two to tango by vanessa daou. you will see that the overwhelming majority of my chapter titles are directly ripped off of songs.

god bless my ex beta reader goldie because shes being promoted to my fucking GHOSTWRITER at this point. truly how does she do it! christ on a fcking unicycle.

qotd: who's hotter: white santa or black santa? or maybe even asian or latino santa? tell me!

new sign-off because im a different person than i was three years ago.

deuces,

brock lee