VII. Eminence

You won't forget me on nights like this
The moon will cast upon you the shadow of my kiss
No matter where you are, with whom you are
You'll think of me, you won't forget me

Belacaine Beaufort. 18.
District Two Female.

It's easy enough for her to pretend that everything is fine.

Nobody cheered as it was decided that Belacaine is to be Two's female sacrifice; nobody shouted at her, "Thank the lord she's leaving!" Nope. Nada, zip, zilch! Literally, none of that happened.

This is all just a bit. The whole concept of an installment of the Games where all the Tributes are infamous in their Districts for doing whatever-the-fuck has to be some kind of a joke, right? Belacaine would undoubtedly be laughing if she wasn't, y'know, one of the said pariahs. She certainly was in hysterics when the Quell was first announced, at least until she realized there wasn't a chance in hell she wouldn't be voted in.

It makes sense that it'd be her, really. As much as the Core Four wants to have influence in Two's Tributes for the year, there was no way a big enough plurality would form that'd be willing to vote in yet another dull ass cadet girl with a bad attitude. Especially not when Belacaine exists, a fun and exciting not-cadet girl with a bad attitude. That, and very many completely valid reasons to be loathed.

There's the whole "participated in a scam line of protein juices that really make people gain weight instead of muscle" shtick with her name on it, but it's not like Belacaine had a choice in getting herself involved in all of that. Hell, she was practically born with a bottle of Beaufort Brand Ultra-Strength Serum wedged up her ass.

(That, and the known truth that committing the violent murder of Two's Head Bitch In Charge just weeks before the voting period and not exactly being discreet about it doesn't really make people like you.)

Belacaine's only surprise from the entire reaping ceremony is that her twin-brother Ronin wasn't sentenced to death alongside her. Sure, Ro's not entirely as amoral as she is, and he's real chill despite being involved in the family business, but most people don't know him. All they know is that he's a Beaufort, for Panem's sake, and that really should be enough to get him murked.

She'd probably be less flabbergasted if Osman Harlow, the bastard endorsed by the Core Four, were here by her side. Notability aside, he's arrogant enough that people should want to see him dead. But nope! Neither Ratty Ronin nor Ostentatious Osman is sitting across the train from her. Instead, there's this skinny fuck called… Shit, what was his name again? Was it Larry?

Whatever his name is, Belacaine's literally never seen him before in her entire life. Based on their mentors' confusion this afternoon, they haven't either.

"Hey, you! What's your name again?" She figures it's probably a good idea to ask now before shit gets too awkward.

The boy looks up from his vigorous cuticle picking and rolls his eyes. "Lorian. Lorian Naciri."

"I'm Belacaine Beaufort." She'd get up from her seat and offer him a handshake if he hadn't previously rejected her as they walked over to the justice building. That was really fucking rude of him, by the way.

Lorian crosses his arms and sighs. "Yeah, I sort of know that. I don't think there's a single soul in District Two who hasn't at the very least heard of you."

"Well, not to speak for all souls, but I don't think there's a single soul in District Two who has heard of you." If he's going to be a sarcastic piece of shit, two can play at that game. "Much less, seventy-eight percent of District Two."

Seriously, unless Belacaine's head has been under a pile of rocks without her knowing, she'd know at least a thing or two about this bitch Lorian. If she didn't, at the very least, Ethereality would've known. And if she did, that means Belacaine would know too because of the transitive property of toxic lovers who claim to tell each other everything but really don't, or whatever.

(Maybe Ethereality was going to say something to her along the lines of, "Hey, you should be worried about this brute called Lorian Naciri," the last time they met, but Belacaine was too busy caving in her skull to pay attention.)

"Well, I can name at least four who have heard of me," Lorian retaliates. "They're my family, but that's beside the point."

"I didn't realize your quaint family of five made up the entirety of District Two," she says mirthfully.

Lorian scoffs, tilting his head to the side in disgust, his nose pointed upwards. "I never said they did."

Belacaine sighs. That Lorian, he's definitely going to be a fun one. From what she's gathered, just based on how he carries himself and seems to think he's hot shit, the boy's most definitely a cadet. He's probably the sort to go on a mind-numbingly boring rant about the importance of bringing glory to District Two, which is Belacaine's least favorite kind of cadet.

These fools really run their mouths about how "important" it is to honor this place as if it's the goddamn Capitol and not just in charge of digging for rocks and bastardizing cops. If only they'd take a minute to reflect on just how fucking stupid they sound. It's not like Belacaine hasn't tried the whole "training to compete in Panem's Next Top Murderer" thing herself. She has, and it was well… underwhelming, to say the very least. She doesn't miss it at all, not in the slightest.

(Being a cadet was just a role she was shoehorned into to help promote the family business. It was fun for a while, watching all the preps run around with knives and even picking up a weapon herself, but she knew she couldn't stay at Copper Peaks forever. Slowly but surely, her identity was morphing into that of a cadet, the same breed of people she hated, and Belacaine would not let that fly.)

(Sometimes, the best way to destroy the person you've become is to kill the one person who always played the role better.)

She doesn't quite know how to continue her conversation with Lorian. That's an odd feeling too, because normally, Belacaine can talk to anybody about anything. At the very least, she's capable of banter that isn't completely awkward. Vaguely implying that she thinks Lorian is a cheater probably hurt her here. Unfortunately, she still thinks he did. There's just… no other way. Typical of an Academy brat, thinking he's above the rules of the Quell and can somehow get into the arena anyway.

A part of her wonders whether or not he'd ever admit to cheating. It's not like they can un-reap him now that they're already on the train. They can't kill Lorian either because twenty-three Tributes in the arena is less exciting than the standard twenty-four. Belacaine figures his pride will be the reason he stays silent regardless.

"What do you think of the other Tributes thus far?" She attempts a new conversation with him, more out of boredom than anything else.

Belacaine's always been the sort to get twitchy when she's not fully engaged. Probably 'cause her father always favored Ronin over her, but that's not something she particularly cares about. She turned out just fine regardless. Well, not actually, but at least she isn't dead.

(Yet.)

Lorian sighs. "Oh? Do my opinions suddenly matter to you?"

"I sort of assumed we'd be allying together, so yes, actually." Belacaine quips back. As intolerable as Lorian's slowly proving himself to be, his years of academy training mean he's likely one of the stronger Tributes in the arena. Even if he wasn't selected, he's likely better prepared for the troubles of the Games than the average outer-District psychopath.

"And why'd you assume that?" He raises a brow.

"We're both trained, even if my time at an Academy wasn't as extensive as yours probably was," she attempts to rationalize with him – as if that's even possible. "Even if some of the other kids have been voted in for murder or whatever, our training still puts us at an advantage. It would be wise to team up until we get a good sense of our competition."

"That's the smartest thing you've said all day." Lorian cracks a sly smile. "What do you think of the Ones this year?"

Belacaine shrugs. District One's had an Academy spring up within the past five years, and their Tributes have been allying with Two ever since. From what she's heard, though, trained kids from One still aren't up to par with those from Two. Maybe that means they'll actually be tolerable. "It depends on whether or not they're trained."

It's a safe enough response. Based on the One girl's cheeriness and the boy's evident volatility, Belacaine can't really tell whether or not they are. She doesn't know much about One's training programs since the family business was busted before her father could fully explore his plans to expand beyond Two.

"I'm not too sure myself," Lorian admits. "The boy was too upset about getting chosen, while the girl was too excited."

"Maybe she was excited because all her hard work training paid off?" Belacaine suggests, a mocking tone in her voice. "I'm sure you'd know all about what that's like."

"Definitely," he deadpans. Belacaine can't tell whether or not he's just admitted to any wrongdoing. Stars, this Lorian character is suspicious.

"The boy from Three seems promising, even if he seems like a handful," Lorian adds.

Considering he tackled a Peacekeeper after getting reaped, he's definitely on the stronger side of the spectrum. It also means he's probably a lot of fun, but it's not like Lorian would know what that means. Belacaine reckons that somebody who's already exhibited an anti-Capitol mindset wouldn't want to ally with kids from Two of all places, but what does she know?

Seriously, what does she know?

(Not much.)

"Don't they teach you in your academy that it's always fun to have a human shield?" Belacaine asks. She's not sure if that's something they actually teach at the academies, as she was never great at paying attention, but it does sound like the sort of thing they'd say.

"They don't say that it's fun," Lorian explains to her. His voice is condescending, almost as if she's his child, which would be disgusting. "They say that if there is an outlier who seems strong, competitive, antagonistic, or a mix, one strategy worth looking into is faking an alliance with them. That way, it is easier to take out everyone else, as we'd be less worried about being followed. Three, however, doesn't seem like the sort of person who'd be willing to work with us."

"So now you're the one making assumptions about others?" Belacaine teases him. "It was just a suggestion, my guy. There are literally so many other Tributes. You're acting like we're suddenly legally bound to allying with this fuck and turning him into our meat shield."

"Well, to be fair, you seemed serious about it." Lorian huffs. He returns his arms to the folded position and paints an angry expression on his face. Belacaine gets the hint that he no longer wants to talk to her, and this time, she makes the conscious decision to respect his wishes.

It's best if she doesn't upset him, just to be safe.

The role of Lorian Naciri, clearly disgraced cadet, may be one Belacaine needs to step into when push comes to shove. She already gets the feeling that he's the sort of person whose bad side you really don't want to get on.

(She feels sick to her stomach. She's already acting like a cadet again, and it's not even intentional.)

It's probably for the best that he doesn't get on her bad time all the same. The last time that happened, a small fragment of Belacaine Beaufort's identity broke away from her. For the sake of everybody, it'd be best if nothing happened to make her completely shatter.

Moxie Adegoke. 19.
District Six Female.

Well, this definitely is one way to turn nineteen.

Moxie can't exactly say that her ideal birthday includes waking up on a shaking train cart and promptly remembering that fourteen percent of her District decided she was "disposable" and deserved to be shipped off to the Capitol to prove them otherwise, but maybe that's unusual of her. Maybe most people like beginning the first day of their life forever free from reapings by swiftly being told, "You really thought, huh?" and Moxie's just being difficult for no good reason.

(It certainly wouldn't be the first time.)

At least there's the silver lining of eating the most excellent food known to humankind as she celebrates how life decided to, yet again, fuck her over.

As she chews down on her ham and gruyere omelet, her escort, Rayle, sits across from her, flicking through his paperwork before saying, "Now, Ms. Adegoke, why didn't you tell me it was your birthday today, honey? We could've arranged to have a cake made and everything!"

"Didn't seem important," Moxie replies in between bites. "Birthdays have never really meant much to me, anyway."

That's a lie. Birthdays mean a lot to her now that this one's been ruined.

More than anything, she's properly annoyed by yesterday's events. She really was this damn close to no longer having to worry about a death match being the consequence of her actions, and yet. Lord knows, Six's aristocrats are probably rejoicing in the streets because she's finally "getting what's been coming to her" for the past three and a half years. Moxie herself knows they're plain wrong. That, and they're a bunch of cowards.

If they'd seen even a sliver of what Moxie's seen on the streets of Six, her oppressors would realize that the Hunger Games aren't all that bad in comparison. If they had an ounce of empathy, they'd recognize Six as the crime-ridden cesspool that it is and know that if Moxie was able to conquer its dozens, an arena with just twenty-three others is a walk in the park.

If she weren't busy being frustrated, Moxie would be laughing at them because they wasted their votes on somebody who's bound to return back to them with ease. Do they think she'll be less forgiving after going through the troubles of the Games? If they did believe that, they'd be so terribly wrong. Again, that tracks.

"I understand," Rayle replies to her, beginning to pick at his own entree. "Maybe in the Capitol, they'll throw you a celebration. I could ask them very nicely!"

"There's no need," Moxie scoffs.

There truly isn't. The Capitol will celebrate her plenty after her brief excursion in the arena.

After that, Moxie will finally be able to become one of them, just as she's deserved her entire life. She won't have to deal with the demons and douchebags of Six for a moment longer. Finally, she'll be on top, right where she belongs.

She notices the jubilant expression on her escort begin to fade, likely from her snakiness, so she quickly says something so as not to ruin her relationship with him. "But if you insist… Who would I be to say no?"

Moxie knows that if she wants a better chance at winning, she will have to open herself up to any Capitolite she meets. After all, the Games have never been about who's the strongest. Really, they're more a matter of who has the most people lining their pockets.

Luckily, Moxie's skilled in making herself available. Back in Six, it certainly wasn't difficult to find her. In fact, she always seemed to be one step behind all the mania going on and be precisely in the middle of it when it came time to take testimony.

(Of course, everything's easier when you have spare tesserae to toss around as a bribe. Not everybody in Six can be a flesh-eating predator like her. Somebody has to be the prey, and it's those people who are willing to nibble on crumbs in exchange for their secrets.)

"Oh, is it Moxie's birthday?" Her District partner Edric speaks up for the first time all morning. "Happy birthday, Moxie. Sorry that it's like this…"

"What are you apologizing for?" She sneers at the boy. Even though she's hardly spoken to him, she can already tell that there's something about Edric Grendel that's undeniably off. Perhaps she's just biased because his parents were late on their payments to her on two separate occasions, but the apple never falls too far from the tree.

(For better or for worse, Moxie's definitely her mother's daughter. If she were her own child, she wouldn't have much remorse for her shortcomings. She, too, would force the blame on her child again and again. Everything terrible is avoidable if you're willing to work for it, after all.)

Edric stammers. "I just am assuming that going on a train ride to the Capitol isn't your ideal birthday, but maybe I'm wrong. Maybe—"

"You're not," Moxie says, cutting him off before he can be bothersome. "But there's nothing I can do that'll better these circumstances for me, so I might as well make the most of it. You should try doing the same, dear."

He doesn't say anything else after that, thank the lord. She has very little use for his attempts at making conversation – mainly because she's already decided that he's far from a possible asset to her. Perhaps it'd be wise of her to get to know him better at some point, but if the Hunger Games are to be her business, Moxie certainly doesn't want Edric. Not even as an intern.

Then again, Moxie can't be too picky. Yesterday's reaping recap hinted that this year's Tributes very well may be less practical than she is very well. Lucky was careful not to reveal too much about possible rationale as to why any given Tribute was voted in, but just based on his hints, Moxie knows that she has her work cut out for her.

She also knows that she isn't like any of them, mainly in the sense that she doesn't deserve to be here. Moxie was told she'd be entering an arena of infamous murderers and cultists, which makes her think that she isn't all that bad in comparison. All she did was play the game and play it well. That's hardly a valid reason for her to be sent to die. It's a good thing she doesn't plan on it.

(Even if she does die, it's not like the secrets of those who troubled her will be buried with her. The fact Moxie's been voted in is enough to create animosity in Six. It's enough for people to stop trusting one another in fear of what they've told Moxie about them. Before they know it, their secrets will start to spill over. Moxie just hopes she'll be there for the aftermath.

No. She will be there.)

"It's nice to see that you're so well thought out about everything, Moxie," her mentor, Vipsania, comments. Though Vipsania's never been in the Games herself, she's watched from the mentor's room for the past fifteen years, and that's long enough for her to know a thing or several. The fact she decided to remain a mentor even after bringing home a victor herself is enough to convince Moxie that she knows what she's doing. Not that it particularly matters to her.

She offers Vipsania a sly smile. "Why, of course. I've been thinking about who I'm going to ally with, as well."

"And who's that?" The mentor's brow furrows.

Edric leans forwards against the table with eager eyes. Moxie glares daggers at him, huffs, then addresses the room. "I'm not sure that I should be saying in front of so much company."

"Understandable," Vipsania replies. "Perhaps we can talk about it after breakfast?"

Perhaps… or, perhaps not. Though she's well-knowledged, Vipsania hasn't done anything that's led Moxie to believe she can trust her yet. She's openly admitted to being close friends with several of the other mentors. What's stopping her from telling them all of Moxie's plans and having that knowledge then passed down to their mentees? Worse, what's stopping Vipsania from telling Festus, Edric's mentor?

"I'd like to hold onto that information by myself for now," Moxie tells her, voice firm. "While I don't want to discount your advice, the risks of me sharing greatly outweigh the rewards."

(That, and there's a chance Vipsania could tell Moxie that her plan is anything less than perfect. She'd be wrong, of course, but Moxie doesn't take well to being challenged. The past three and a half years have taught her that she's always correct, no matter what, and anybody who tries to give her advice is using her or wasting her time. Whatever criticism Vipsania could possibly give her, it isn't like Moxie will listen.)

Vipsania rapidly blinks, clearly taken aback. "Suit yourself then, Ms. Adegoke."

Rayle glares at Moxie too, his nose tilted upwards. "Maybe we don't have time for a celebration for you in the Capitol after all."

If Rayle thinks that his snobby voice and threat are going to get Moxie to cooperate with Vipsania, it'd be best if he thought something else. Whatever his idea of a party is, it literally does not matter to her in the slightest.

(What does matter is the lack of control Moxie has over the situation. She wouldn't be half the person she is today if she wasn't able to grab life by the bullhorns, but now that she's a Tribute, Moxie doesn't have anything she can hold onto. She's no longer an urban legend, no longer the Prowler. No, she's just one of twenty-four who's been deemed worthy of the ax.)

(Is Moxie really deserving of death just because she puts a price tag on the secrets of those who actually are?)

"As I said, Mr. Mihole," Moxie enunciates, unintentionally mocking his pretentious accent. "Birthdays aren't very important to me."

"I'll take the celebration for myself then," Vipsania says, hardly able to contain her laughter from her own (horrible, predictable) joke.

Rayle and the two mentors explode into jubilous hysteria at that, leaving Moxie and Edric to watch blank-faced.

"What the hell is wrong with them?" Edric mutters under his breath. It's the most emotion Moxie's seen from him since he cried as she shook his hand at the reaping. "I don't get it… The joke wasn't that funny."

If Moxie was privileged enough to sit on the train with kids that are soon-to-be-dead more often than not, maybe she would think it's funny. Alas, she isn't, hence why she got into the business of blackmail that got her sent here in the first place.

"You should know better than anyone that rich people are full of themselves," Moxie replies to Edric, referencing his parents' more lucrative clients.

He shrugs. "What can I say? The upper class' audacity surprises me each and every time."

"It really is something, huh." She whispers, noticing that the Capitolites are coming back to their senses. "You know Edric, maybe we got off on a bad foot. I'm sorry for that."

"No need to apologize," Edric assures her. "If I were reaped the day before my nineteenth birthday, I wouldn't be in the best mood either. My birthday isn't until September, and I'm not pleased myself."

Maybe Moxie previously underestimated him. Maybe Edric could possibly be useful in some capacity. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt her to better get to know him…

If it turns out that he's just as worthless as Moxie first thought him to be, at least now she knows it for sure. At least then, she'll be able to say she's well connected to another Tribute, which means one less person who's capable of potentially tearing her down.

(If there's anybody who can pounce on Moxie Adegoke and rip her to shreds, it's the person staring back at her when she looks in the mirror.)

Sapphira Starlett. 17.
District One Female.

Of everybody here, she's the only one who actually wants to be.

Or at least, that's what Sapphira thinks. And she's probably right, too, because who else would be so utterly thrilled that a plurality of their home's population voted to all-but-certainly off them? Who else would walk up to the stage, waving their hand like an eager pageant girl at the prospect of being stuffed into an arena with twenty-three psychopaths waiting to dig their claws at them?

She spent the past two months besmearing her face against every flat surface she could find in town. Whenever people crossed her path on the streets, she'd hand them the glossy propositions of her death, kick back her heel, and say, "be a star and vote Sapphira!" before twirling into the next passerby and offering the same.

She didn't hear them utter, "finally, a chance to get rid of her." She didn't see them crumbling her posters into the trash. All Sapphira saw on her daily campaigning walks were stars.

And she still sees stars now as she takes her first steps off the train and onto the platform, lights flashing at her eyes before she can move further. With every iridescent flicker that radiates in her direction, Sapphira feels more alive than she has in all seventeen years she spent in One. Each photo that she poses for sends her into orbit, and she feels her head start to spin into an overwhelming euphoria. All because she's here. Finally, she's right where she belongs.

(Or maybe it's just because Luxe, her escort, confiscated her flask in the morning and told her, "it's best you sober up if you want even a slight chance of them liking you.")

"Hurry up," her mentor, Venus, says with an urgent tone to her voice. "We've got places to go and people to see!"

Though she hears, Sapphira chooses not to listen to her. Instead, she presses the ball of her left foot forwards and pivots right to the next closest photographer.

"Miss Starlett, Miss Starlett!" Her visage catches the attention of a tall man dressed in gold. "Do you have time to answer a question or two?"

Sapphira smiles, extending her hand toward the man. "Why, of course, I do dahling. It would be my absolute pleasure!"

Her intonation beckons the man to laugh for reasons she doesn't quite understand.

"You seem rather excited to have been chosen for our Quell, Miss Starlett," the reporter begins, and Sapphira can hardly contain her excitement. All her life, she's dreamed of being interviewed just like a real movie star, and even though she's not a star just yet, even the most venerable divas have to start somewhere. "May I ask, why?"

To her, the question's a no-brainer.

Why not?

For as long as she can remember, Sapphira Starlett has aspired to have her name in lights, her face plastered against a marquee, and dozens upon dozens of adoring fans waiting for hours on end, just to get a mere glimpse of her. For seventeen miserable years, she's laid in bed restless, fantasizing about what it would be like if her name meant something to someone and she wasn't just another ditz in District One's horde of hopefuls.

(Even the dust up her nose and the pills wedged down her throat can't convince her that she's somebody. While the highs nearly persuade her into thinking that she's a celestial being, each and every crash serves as a harrowing reminder that in all actuality, she's nobody.)

If she wins, everything changes.

If she wins, Sapphira gets the neon signage and autograph lines that consume her thoughts night after night, eminence only intensified by being Panem's very first Quell Victor. Winning the Games is proof that she's just as much of a star as her father told her she was when she was just a kid. It'd be concrete evidence that she really is the queen sitting on a throne of idealizations in her head.

(And if she dies? Well, an elaborate funeral for someone who gave their life for One is better than one for a pathetic child who's too busy drowning deep in fantasies to consider growing up.)

"For the glory," Sapphira answers. "The people of District One honored me by personally selecting me to represent them this year, and it's the least that I can do."

"I like the way you think," the man remarks. "You're far more optimistic than everybody else I've met today."

"I'm happy to hear that!" She nods her head and offers him a sly smile. "I don't know why more people aren't absolutely enthralled to be here the way I am. You should've seen my partner Gremory on the train. He brooded the whole way here."

Sapphira knows Gremory Rossmani well enough to know that being quiet for long periods of time is unusual for him. Why, back in One, the two of them used to speak all the time, and Gremory talked nearly as much as she did. Back at the Reaping, he seemed rather frustrated and definitely upset to be at Sapphira's side.

The reporter opens his mouth to ask another question, but Sapphira feels a sturdy pull against the back of her dress before he can speak.

"Did you not listen to me?" She twists her neck to see Venus standing behind her with her hands on her hips. "I said, we have to go."

"But I'm in the middle of an interview," Sapphira pleads, her eyelids fluttering like moths drawn to a flame. "It would be rude of me to leave this gentleman with unanswered questions, wouldn't it?"

She turns to point at him, but he's no longer in front of her. Instead, the reporter's already made his way to another Tribute, already engaging in a round banter with him.

"You were saying?" Venus squints.

Sapphira nods. "Places to go and people to see. Right."

She already misses the reporter. She already craves his spotlight shining down on her once again, his microphone in her face as she soliloquizes like she's the most important girl in Panem. Yes, their interaction was brief, but it was enough to remind Sapphira why she's here. It was enough to remind her just how much she adores feeling valued.

She never got that back in One. The people would laugh at her and go off on how she's "sick in the head." They'd scorn her for being an addict, ridicule her for daring to have a dream, and after that, they'd leave her alone and shellshocked. Even her father hardly paid much attention to her. Saffron Starlett just opened his wallet whenever she begged him, eager to pay his way out of her companionship. She's never known anything real. In a way, it's almost like everybody in her life is nothing more than an actor.

(The Viper's Nest was able to give Sapphira everything. Just a few words exchanged with Gremory or Glasya, and she'd be soaring, head in the clouds and ecstasy in her heart.)

Sapphira lasts maybe thirty seconds before she taps on Venus' shoulder to ask her a question.

"What is it?" Her mentor sneers.

Sapphira isn't sure why Venus is so unfond of her, but she has been since their first interaction yesterday on the train.

"I just was wondering where we were going," Sapphira begs, her eyes widening.

"We're checking you and Gremory into the Training Center, and then you'll be off to parade prep," Venus intones, her voice flat. "You don't have to ask me a million questions, you know. Everything's going to be explained to you eventually."

"I can't help that I'm excited to finally be here!" Sapphira throws her arms in the air and spins, not paying attention to the people in the crowded streets that she brushes up against. She hears a snickering sound, so she cocks her head to the side to see Gremory staring at her. "What's wrong, Gremgrem? Why the sour face?"

He rolls his eyes. "You realize that it's not a good thing we're here, right?"

"You're right; it's a great thing!" she enthuses, carefully watching and following Venus, so she doesn't get in trouble. "And believe me, I am thrilled to have you by my side! You've always been one of my most dedicated fans, Gremory."

(That is if holding back her hair while she drunkenly pukes out her guts counts as "dedication.")

(If you asked her, Sapphira would say there's no such thing as a "bad side" of her existence. However, that's far from the truth. Gremory Rossmani's been there for many of her ugliest moments, standing tall in the corner and only speaking when she addresses him first. Something is comforting about him – or maybe that's just the copious substances he sells to her talking.)

"I'm flattered," Gremory deadpans, just as unamused with her as he's been all day.

She doesn't think that he actually is.

In all of Sapphira Starlett's deep interpersonal relationships, there comes a time where she wonders, Have they hated me this whole time? Typically it's just a missed plan or a snide remark that leads to these thoughts of hers, but nevertheless, they consume her mind in full. People often tell Sapphira that she's "too much" for them, but that's never been something she's fully understood. If there's ever been a wrong time for somebody to "outgrow" her, this is it. She hopes that that isn't what's happening now with Gremory. He used to tell her she was radiant under neon red lights, and, of course, Sapphira believed him.

Maybe it's sheer desperation, but Sapphira hardly remembers a compliment she didn't see as entirely authentic.

Her father told her she's perfect just the way she is. Saffron Starlett said that Sapphira's his most darling little princess and that the entire world's her oyster if she so pleases. Why would he ever lie to her?

(He most certainly was lying the first time he hit her when he said he'd never do it again.)

"We're here!" Luxe announces once the group arrives at a large marble building.

Even though Sapphira's yet to go inside, she can already tell the interior will be absolutely gorgeous. After all, the Capitol's proven itself to be her dream come true in just five minutes. People here already know her. People here already care about what Sapphira Starlett has to say, even if it's only because she's a Tribute. She doesn't mind. Being a Tribute is the first step to being a victor, and once that ivory crown's sitting atop Sapphira's head, she'll never be forgotten so long as she lives.

They enter the building's lobby through a revolving door, Sapphira fluttering with glee as she spins through the glass chasm. As expected, the inside's absolutely splendid. A large chandelier hangs heavily from the slanted ceiling, an array of rainbow hues casting Sapphira's shadow onto the hardwood floors. As she walks toward the front desk, people stop in their tracks and stare straight at her.

She smirks and gives them a polite wave. When they clap at her, a red-hot blush possesses her body, and a whole swarm of butterflies soars through her stomach. It's undoubtedly a feeling that she can get used to. In fact, she can hardly wait to get accustomed to people calling her name and treating her like the star she's always known she is.

"I'll show you two to your rooms while the mentors finish up your paperwork," Luxe chirps, grabbing both Sapphira and Gremory by the wrist. "Isn't it incredible that we're finally here?"

"Oh, it's—"

Before Sapphira can say anything else, Luxe swings her hand over her mouth. "I've heard enough from you, Sapphira. I wanted to get Gremory's perspective."

"It's fine," the boy hums. "Let her speak; it's interesting."

Not even waiting for Luxe to give her the approval, Sapphira continues. "It's absolutely lovely to finally be here. I swear, I've been dreaming of this moment my entire life, and the fact I'm finally here feels absolutely surreal. I just can't wait to make the most of my time here."

"I can't wait to make the most of my time here as well." Gremory's voice has genuine enthusiasm for the first time all day. "I think you and I are going to have a great time, Sapphira."

"Of course we are," she responds, pressing the button that calls the elevator Luxe has directed them to. "We've always had such great times together in the past."

(They've always had times where Sapphira Starlett can say she's glistening and not fading like she usually is.)

"And we'll meet some more people as well." Gremory presses his lips into a devious smile. "How does that sound?"

Is it wrong that Sapphira's hardly thought about the other Tributes? She knows they exist - even though watching the Reaping recap was rather boring - but she never thought to consider which ones she should try to befriend. Venus warned her that many of them were voted into the Games for being potentially dangerous, so that means Sapphira will have to play her cards carefully. It'd be a shame if a mere understudy outshined the Quarter Quell's leading lady.

But she doesn't want Gremory to think she's more self-centered than he already does, so she tells him, "That sounds great!"

With a ding, the elevator door opens, and Gremory extends his hand, gesturing for Sapphira and Luxe to enter first. As the platform begins lifting her into the air, all Sapphira can do is smile until her cheekbones start to sting.

Even if she's only one story above the lobby, she knows in her heart that she's the closest she's ever been to the stars. The only thing left for Sapphira to do is open her hands and grab them.

You Won't Forget Me - Melody Gardot

And just like that, we're done with intros! Because I wrote these intros as I received forms that I was sure I was taking, this is actually the first chapter I'm finishing. Yes, that is right, I am coming at you from May 18th, so literally before subs even closed. Sometimes, somebody has to be built different.

Thank you so much to Dawn for Belacaine, Brooke for Moxie, and Will for Sapphira, as well as Laney for beta-ing.

Anyway, now that we've met all fifteen members of our POV cast, I'd love to hear what y'all think about this gang of weirdos as a whole. More specifically, what alliances do you see forming, since we've only seen a small bit of Tribute interaction thus far, and I purposely left it ambiguous as to whether or not these pairings from Two, Six, and One would be working together long term.

Next week, we'll be taking a break from the Tributes and hearing from Brooke and I— I mean you'll be hearing from our two assistant Gamemakers, but after that, it's full speed ahead into pre-Games.

Weekly Question #3: Fill in the blanks, Sapphira Starlett's biggest box office flop was called [BLANK] where she played a [BLANK] named [BLANK]

Thank you for all the support thus far, and I can only hope you enjoy everything yet to come.

Fuck this shit, I'm out,

Linds