XV. The People Are Mere Players
I'm telling my own fortune
Something I cannot escape
I can see where this is going
But I can't find the brake
Edric Grendel. 18.
District Six Male.
Ripley's less-than-stellar interview performance has him on edge.
Earlier this evening, Edric felt completely fine about his interview. It'd come and it'd go and that would be that; nothing to worry about. But now that Ripley's been reduced to a blubbering mess, Edric isn't as secure.
He feels genuinely bad for her as they stutter, clearly completely out of their element. Edric thought that Ripley had become better acclimated to social situations these past few days, he really did. But all of that progress seems to have been tossed out the window as Lucky asks her question after question - none too invasive -and Ripley can't find the answer to any of them inside her head.
"Dear lord, she's a mess," Edric hears Moxie mutter under her breath from beside him as Ripley continues to flail. He gets the feeling that he wasn't supposed to overhear that, especially considering Ripley's been all over Moxie as of late. He'd think it's sweet if he didn't know better, didn't know that Moxie's clearly playing with them because she wants something. She tried buttering up Asherah at first, but ever since that's proven not to work, she's been hot on Ripley's tail.
A part of Edric wants to tell Ripley that they shouldn't be trusting Moxie, that she's a ravenous lion who feasts on people's trust and spits it back out in their faces. But he doesn't know how the Five Tribute would react to that, and he'd hate to be the one who breaks their heart. It's beyond clear that Ripley has some sort of craving for love and admiration. He doesn't want to take it away from them, even if it isn't real.
Besides, Edric has more important things to worry about, namely himself. Never did he think he'd actually feel compelled to put his own needs first in any situation - back at home everything he did was for his mother - but if there's any time for him to do such a thing, it's now. Last night, after the scores were revealed, Asherah told Edric that she thought he may have a fighting chance. If he didn't listen to her, he'd be giving that chance up.
Problem is, it's going to be hard to convince somebody that a kid seen as useless by their District is worth sending gifts to. As of now, Edric hasn't given them a reason why he should be the exception. Even if Moxie got a nine, a score of seven certainly isn't the worst in the world, but it doesn't really tell potential sponsors much.
That's what his interview is for.
When talking to Asherah earlier in the day, she told him that the goal of the interview should be to appear sympathetic to the Capitolites, to make them feel guilty that they enabled your District to vote you in because you deserve a second chance. It's what she plans to do when it's her turn, and it's what Edric's going to do as soon as Ripley finishes up, provided he has it in him.
"Do you think he'll be as hard on me as he is Ripley?" Edric tilts his head to the Seven girl on his other side and asks.
Asherah sighs. "How would I know that?"
At first, Edric worries that he's annoyed Asherah; lord knows Moxie would be annoyed if he asked her a similar question. But then, Edric reassures himself that Asherah is not Moxie and there's genuinely no way for her to know what's going on in Lucretius' head.
"Genuinely, how would I?" Asherah adds, noticing the slightly downcast expression on Edric's face. "For your sake, I hope so, but ultimately only time will tell."
Edric nods. "You're right."
He stays silent until Ripley walks backstage, sniffling. Before he can offer them some sort of assurance since that's the right thing to do, Moxie wraps them in her arms and puts her head on their shoulder. "It's okay, Ripley. I'm still proud of you."
It takes everything in Edric's body not to roll his eyes at them. How Ripley can't see that she's clearly being manipulated is beyond him. But again, that's not his problem; it can't be.
"Good luck," Asherah whispers, tugging at the sleeves of the royal purple suit Edric's wearing. "Just remember what I told you!"
"Well, would you look at that, we are nearly halfway done!" Edric hears Lucretius say from behind the curtain. "There is no time to waste, so let's move right along to District Six."
Edric feels his stomach tying into a knot despite his slow, careful breaths. His strategy is simple: explain everything that happened in Six that led to him being here and then apologize. If it means calling out his own parents in the process, so be it. That's clearly what Lucretius wanted Ripley to do, but since she didn't, it'll just hit twice as hard when Edric informs the entire nation that Viori and Erish Grendel are not to be trusted.
(He wonders if that makes him selfish. After all, he's spent his whole entire life being so selflessly devoted to them without being given as little as a thanks for his efforts. Even if they gave him a place to live and food to eat, Edric's parents never gave him the one thing he needed, love. Still, does that make them worthy of being exposed on such a large scale?)
(And what happens if he wins? If Edric goes back home after leaving his parents to the wolves, are they just going to kill him the moment he steps off the train because he betrayed them?)
He sighs. Even if it's going to be hard, Edric knows what he has to do. This whole week, District Six has been a ghost, its memory following him around and haunting him in every waking moment. If he wants to survive tomorrow and the upcoming days, he has to leave his homeland where it belongs, in the past. Not addressing what happened in Six to lead him here would make that impossible.
"First up, we have our dashing gentleman," Lucretius proclaims, Edric's stomach again curling into a knot. "Everybody please put your hands together for Mister Edric Grendel!"
He steps out of the curtains slowly and carefully, his eyes squinting as the blinding lights flash in his direction. As he walks closer to Lucretius, Edric feels his spine stiffen, his entire body feeling tight and out of his control.
But, he has to carry on. Asherah told him that he has to carry on.
The soft cushioning of the chair is a great relief; Edric's finally able to relax his posture once he sits. He takes a deep breath, fixes the collar of his jacket, then eagerly blinks his eyes at Lucretius. "Thank you so much for having me here today."
"It's my pleasure," the older man responds. Edric gives him a polite nod, knowing that Lucretius has said this shit in every interview thus far. As of now, Edric's on the same plane everyone else who's been interviewed started off on. It's up to him to be better. "Tell me, Mister Grendel, what was it like growing up in District Six?"
Cutting right to the chase, now are we? Edric muses. He presses his lips firm into a line and ruminates on what his answer to Lucretius' question should be. If he tells the truth, he'll be seen as a pessimist. If he lies, he'll sound awfully strange when he suddenly bashes his parents later on.
"There were good and bad things both," he decides to say. Worried that it'll make it seem like he doesn't have a personality, he tacks on, "Would you like to hear about either?"
"A tasteful response," Lucretius quips. "Why don't you tell me about the good things first."
Edric pauses. Even if he presented the two sides of living in Six as equal to Lucretius, the bad outweighs the good by an incredible degree. Really, Edric can only think of one good thing about living in Six. "Well, I have a cat. His name is Car, and I've had him since I was fourteen."
"Interesting," Lucretius says, raising a brow. Edric recognizes that he's being rather mundane but hopefully there's somebody out there in the audience that finds him talking about Car somewhat endearing. "I can't say I've ever come across a cat - or really any animal named Car. Is there a reason you named him that?"
"Yes, actually." Edric nods. "I found him with his tail stuck under a truck where he was making noises to get my — or just somebody's — attention. I named him Car because his meow was so loud and husky, it sounded more like the sound that cars make."
He hears a collection of "aww"s from the audience and grins. It takes him back to the day he first met Car, his fear-stricken temperament still etched in Edric's mind. He wonders what Car is up to right now. Edric knows that the cat most definetly isn't watching his interview with his parents. They wouldn't ever let Car inside the house, claiming they were both allergic - something Edric knows isn't true.
(Please, as if his parents are even watching his interview. Knowing them, they probably forgot it was on and are squabbling about deliveries again. Even if they did know when it was on, Edric doubts they actually care enough to watch. He doubts they even care at all. For all he knows, they've probably replaced him already.)
"Fair enough," Lucretius remarks.
"Yeah, he's a really sweet little guy," Edric says. "I used to put him in the basket of my bicycle and we'd go on rides together. We had a lot of fun together."
As the audience again reacts positively, Edric can't help but think, I hope we have more fun together…
(But for that to be the case, Edric Grendel will have to kill. Nobody wins the Hunger Games by being a pacifist. If he wants to go home to Car, he'll have to hurt people. He'll have to succumb to being the monster people in Six lied and said he was. If he returns, sure he'd be with Car, but he wouldn't be able to say he was voted in for a reputation that wasn't his.)
"Now, you also said there was some bad in District Six," Lucretius says. "Would you feel comfortable telling us a bit more about that?"
Edric sighs. Well, shit. Here goes nothing.
There's something in the back of his mind telling him that he shouldn't go through with his plan. Edric isn't sure if it's his own anxiety, memories of his parents, or a genuine warning. He contracts his stomach and darts his eyes back and forth, the world around him becoming a blur as he debates whether or not he should say what he knows has to be said.
"I can, sure," he begins, stomach still swirling. "Growing up in Six was hard for a lot of reasons, but most of them boil down to my parents."
The audience falls silent, the same way they did when Dasani was talking about his lifeguarding accident. Edric wasn't sure then and he still isn't sure now if that's a good thing or a bad thing.
When Lucretius doesn't say anything, Edric continues. "I don't know if you know this or not, sir, but District Six has a bustling industry for morphling and other illicit substances."
"Is that so?" Lucretius asks in a way that's almost mocking.
But for once, Edric isn't going to let himself be pushed around. This is his interview. It's his chance to show the Capitolites that he's actually worth something, that he's not just trash District Six decided to throw away.
"Yes, it's so," Edric replies as if the Master of Ceremony's question wasn't rhetorical. "My parents actually are big names in the industry. They have quite the operation going on. Remember when I mentioned going on bike rides with Car earlier? Those were because I had to deliver drugs on my parents behalf."
Though Lucretius looks confused, Edric continues to speak. "If I had the choice, I wouldn't have. I know that addiction is a problem, and it's even worse when my parents cut the products they sell."
"What do you mean, cutting the product?" Lucretius raises a brow. It makes Edric want to sigh, mainly because of course a Capitolite would be so spoiled with designer drugs, they wouldn't have to worry about whether or not they're actually receiving what they paid for.
"Well, morphling is pretty expensive in Six since it's native to the Capitol," Edric explains. "So my parents would basically mix other things in with the morphling so that it'd look like there's more than there actually is, so they could get away with selling more while purchasing less. And yes, I know it's unfair. But the way my parents phrased it to me made it seem like it was normal. I know now that I was wrong to believe them, and that's actually why I'm here."
"Oh?" Lucretius leans forward.
"Yep," Edric says. "When I delivered products, people would accuse my parents and I of cutting them down, but I refuted them. When they pushed on, I got more verbally aggressive with them, and well, when people tell their friends about instances, sometimes they can be overdramatic, so there was a rumor going around that I would hit people if they disagreed with me. It wasn't the truth, but it still led me here."
It still led him here because ultimately, it doesn't matter what your intentions are. It doesn't matter if you think you're acting with kindness and with fairness because if somebody thinks otherwise, that can easily become the truth. Just like now. Even if Edric Grendel is a terrible son who doesn't deserve any of the things his parents actually did do for him, if the Capitol sees him as a savior ready to make a change, they'll be willing to open their pockets for him.
"So yes, I realize that I did bad things when I defended my parents for doing worse," he continues. "But, I apologize deeply, and I hope that anybody watching this in Six can understand and potentially forgive me."
Lucretius sharply exhales. "Wow Edric. That was, well, a lot. Thank you for sharing."
"You're welcome?" Edric hunches over, suddenly worried now that he said the wrong things.
"Now, I just have one more question for you, Edric. It's tangental to everything else you've said."
Edric nods. "Go on…"
"Why were you so willing to talk about your parents in a negative light with me tonight?"
Why?
Well, for eighteen years they treated Edric like shit. He was never a child for them, just a tool they could use to further build up their empire of lies. If they cared, they would have at least paid attention to Edric once in his life when he wasn't cycling around town for them. They would have shown him some sort of respect every once in a while.
They didn't, though. They never saw Edric as anything other than a tool, something they could use and take advantage of. And for so long, it worked. The worst thing is that it fucking worked.
Not anymore.
"Erish and Viori never treated me like I was their son," Edric says. "Why should I treat them like they are my parents?"
The audience erupts into applause as Edric rises from his seat and shakes Lucretius' hand. The older man pats Edric on the back and sends him backstage. As he walks, he finds he's unable to hide the smile on his face, somewhat in disbelief that he was actually able to do something.
But he did.
Edric finally said what he wishes he had the guts to say earlier, and now District Six is far away in his past. Now, he can finally think about what he wishes to do in the future.
Because yes, Edric Grendel will have a future. He refuses to let it slip away.
Olathe Whitethorn. 18.
District Seven Male.
Everything is going exactly as planned. Did Olathe expect otherwise? Well, not really, but still, it's nice to see just how well things have progressed.
Lucy and Aleister are slowly splintering, and once they completely fracture, they'll run to Olathe for advice. Now, it's just a matter of delaying their implosion until just the right moment. It's a bit tragic just how quickly they'll individually crumble in the palm of his hands. Well, tragic for them at least.
Even despite his lackluster training score, Lucy still is hot on his "the Devil is my father" bullshit. Even if he is, for some reason, correct, it's up to Olathe to convince the young boy that he's perfectly normal and that the only reason so many people voted him into this hell is because they were sick and tired of him using his delusions and an excuse to rant and range.
When Lucy falls, Aleister's sure to follow. He looks at the Twelve boy like he's everything, like he actually believes Twelve's infernal lies. Once the truth of Lucy's mediocracy is revealed, it won't be too hard for Olathe to soothe Aleister. He's already desperate for Olathe's attention, after all. Really, Nine's just desperate in general.
As the girl from Six charms Lucky Flickerman to holy hell, all Olathe can do is snicker. She's successfully secured both the Master of Ceremonies' and the audience's attention, and in just moments, Olathe will do the exact same, only better.
If there's anything recent years have taught Olathe, it's that seduction is a careful art. He's drawing things out with Aleister because he knows he'll be in the other boy's presence for a while. With Lucky, and everybody else for that matter, though, Olathe's going to have to act quickly. Five minutes isn't a lot of time to make somebody want to fall at your feet; thankfully, Olathe's lured people in even quicker than that.
He looks in the mirror and adjusts the golden chains draped atop his décolletage. They match the golden leaves woven in between strands of his hair as well as the loafers his stylist dressed him in. While the outfit Olathe had to wear for the parade made him look hideous, now he wears clothing fit for a king. Thank the heavens for that; it'll only make his job easier.
After he's ensured the green mesh top is perfectly tucked into his black leather pants, Olathe winks at himself and smiles. "What are you looking at?" Aleister croons, taking a step toward Olathe and glancing at the mirror.
Olathe crossings his arms and pouts. "I'm just making sure my outfit looks alright, if you must know."
He's not used to dressing up so elegantly. No, back in Seven, Olathe wore the same white shirt and brown slacks nearly every day, occasionally wrapping himself in a robe to clean his primary outfit in the lake. He didn't need all of the frills and pomp to look angelic. He didn't need to expose his abdomen and have golden cream smeared over his eyelashes to convince people that he was not a monster but a god who they should give their bodies to.
Here, Olathe's a trophy. He's no longer the wicked wandering spirit that Seven feared him as but instead some sort of a prize that people surely feel the urge to win. Those bastard Peacekeepers trapped Olathe in their net and now they're selling him out to the highest bidder. He doesn't need to look like a Capitolite for them to relish in his beauty. He'll show them what it truly means to be gorgeous; it's certainly not the lies they're eating for breakfast.
"Your outfit looks fine," Aleister says. Olathe narrows his eyes towards Aleister'sreflection, the Nine boy blushing even though they're both still looking in the mirror. "Well, it looks more than fine, actually."
"Thank you," Olathe replies. He looks Aleister down from head to toe, struggling to hold in his laughter over the ridiculous sparkling suit and cape his stylist chose for him. Again, what is it about these Capitolites and their belief that you need to be artificial if you want to be divine? "You look nice as well."
Before Aleister can respond, Lucy pushes in front of them and smirks at his reflection. "So, what are you two talking about?"
"Just small talk," Olathe tells him with a nod. "Nothing you need to worry about."
"It's okay." Lucy chuckles. "You're allowed to tell me you're planning for my birthday party later. I already know that you guys have some tricks up your sleeve and believe me, I can't wait to see what you've done."
"You're going to have to wait a bit longer," Aleister says, ruffling Lucy's hair. "I promise though; It's going to be worth it."
"It better be!" The Twelve boy rolls his eyes and huffs. "You know what they say… you only get to turn thirteen once."
Olathe doesn't remember his own thirteenth birthday. He reckons though that it was spent alone in the forest, just like most of his days, only the animals to keep him company. Chances are, Olathe didn't even know it was his birthday. He only knew the time of year based on the weather and the sound of Reaping bells chiming every forth of July.
Life was nicer that way. Olathe wishes he could've stayed in a land so peaceful for eternity. Alas, he wasn't in the Hissing Woods to relax. No, Olathe's parents told him to run because they wanted him to get revenge on the heathens that wronged them. He could never afford peace, and the same holds true now.
"It will be," Aleister assures Lucy. "I promise; it's going to be the best birthday known to mankind."
Lucy smiles. "Now, that's what I like to hear."
Olathe sincerely hopes that Aleister's actually put some thought into this whole birthday party bullshit because he certainly hasn't. It's not that he doesn't care —wait, no, it's exactly that.
As Lucy hurries away, Olathe taps the Nine boy on the shoulders, matches his gaze, and asks him, "Do you have any ideas for later tonight? I've been struggling myself because I just really want this to be perfect for him."
"I thought you'd never ask," Aleister says with a smirk. "I reserved the rooftop for us, and let's just say I've arranged some special guests for us."
Olathe raises his brow, feigning genuine interest. "What do you mean by special guests?"Perhaps, if they're any useful, Olathe can lure them in too. It never hurts to have contingency plans when in a place as hectic as the arena.
"My mentor and my District partner," the other boy answers. "I have an activity for them that's well, interesting, to say the very least."
"May I know what it is?" Olathe asks, though he's not too curious about the details of the plans. The only thing he cares about is whether or not it's going to put himself at risk.
Alesiter puts his thumb on Olathe's lips. If he thinks he's trying to seduce Olathe, that's simply hilarious because it sure isn't working. "You'll have to wait and see, my friend. I promise it'll be worth your while."
"It better be," Olathe says in a tone so bothered he's beginning to sound like Lucy. "Now, move along, dear. I'm going to be going on stage soon and I don't want any distractions."
He doesn't bother waiting for Aleister to respond, instead inching towards the stage as he suspects the Six girl will be finished soon. Olathe's right, just like he always is.
"Well, thank you so much for having me, Lucky," Six whistles, sounding somewhat artificial. Olathe can't blame her for that; he too plans to be fake.
"It was my please, Miss Adegoke," Lucky replies. After the audience drowns the two of them out in applause, the Master of Ceremonies enthuses, "Ladies and gentlemen, that was Moxie Adegoke from District Six!"
Again the people cheer and Olathe watches Six strut through the curtains. When she gets close to him, Olathe winks, but she rolls her eyes in disinterest.
"Suit yourself," he mutters under his breath. At least her not acknowledging him is proof there's people in this group with something resembling a brain.
He listens patiently, taking deep breaths and grounding himself until Lucky finally announces, "Put your hands together for District Seven's one and only Mister Olathe Whitethorn."
Olathe pushes the curtain back and walks onstage, using his left hand to tuck his hair behind his ear as he offers the audience a smile. Based on their applause, they already seem to admire him, which quite frankly makes Olathe feel sick. It's just additional proof that he is all but an object to him. He'll forever be one until the moment comes where he can give them a show.
He sits down in the seat beside Caesar and crosses his legs. "It's nice to see you today," he says with a subtle wave.
"Nice to see you too, Mister Whitethorn." Already, the man seems nervous. Is Olathe really this fucking good at his job? "How have you found the Capitol thus far?"
Horrible, he thinks. Everything about the place is fucking deplorable. The buildings are just as artificial as the people and the food is so rich, it's made Olathe feel sick on several occasions. But of course, he's not going to say any of that to Lucky. As much as he misses Seven, he has to pretend the Capitol is his paradise for now, as that'll make it more likely that he returns home in one piece.
"It's decadent," Olathe replies, biting down on his tongue. "Believe me, District Seven is lovely too, but I didn't realize just how nice it would be to get away from it for a while and experience something new. I never dreamed I'd travel somewhere as stunning as the Capitol, but I sure do feel blessed."
The sound of his voice speaking such blatant lies makes him want to puke. He's used to licking boots in order to get what he wants, but now is different because now he's on display. Olathe Whitethorn wasn't meant to be perceived by this many people at once. He was born to be people's dirty little secret, the poisonous kiss that renders them breathless when they least expect it.
"Have you had a favorite part?" Lucky asks.
No. Olathe certainly hasn't. His favorite part of this whole ordeal is yet to come. That'll either be the moment Lucy and Aleister finally fold into him or when he's lifted from the arena in a hovercraft to go back home, no longer obliged to deal with everyone's bullshit.
But, again, he has to lie.
"My favorite part is going to be tonight." Well, technically, that's more of a white lie than a full-on one, but whatever. "My allies and I are having a party because it's Lucy's birthday today."
The audience coos and Olathe chuckles. These fucks really are so desperate for anything resembling normalcy with the Tributes. Is it just because it'll add layers their emotions when their little showponies start to croak? Fucking disgusting; so fucking disgusting. At least during the first decade of the Games, the Capitol locked the Tributes up in a human zoo before sending them into the arena, basically treating them like animals. Somehow that's better than Capitolites pretending to care by suffocating them in short-lived luxury.
"That's really sweet of you two," Lucky gushes, and again Olathe hates just how fake it all is. "I think it's really admirable that you two have decided to take young Lucy under your wing."
Admirable? Again, Olathe wants to laugh. Nothing about his plans for the Twelve boy can be regarded as anything close to admirable. Maybe it's respectable that Aleister has become Lucy's glorified nanny even though he'd be way stronger if he ditched the little brat, but his reasoning is so stupid he loses any potential redemption.
"We adore the youngster," Olathe responds, careful not to call Lucy a kid since that'll just lead to a temper tantrum. "I promise, Lucky, there's a lot that he's capable of."
Olathe can just imagine how honored Lucy must feel hearing this. He has lamented on several occasions about not living up to his "potential" as the "antichrist," leaving Aleister to assure him that he's good enough. Hearing such high praise from Olathe will only make Lucy trust him even more.
"I imagine you're capable of a lot too," Lucky remarks. "A ten in training is no laughing matter, you know. Do you care to tell us what you did to earn such a high score?"
Really, it was far too easy. Olathe walked into that room expecting to get one of the highest scores, so it was hard for him to pretend he was shocked when his wish came true. All he had to do was skin a couple dummies down to the stuffing, duel a trainer and end the affair straddling him against the ground, and identify just about every plant in the book. That's light work for Olathe, not that he's going to admit that aloud.
"Well, it certainly took me by surprise," he says. "I was expecting I'd get maybe a seven at best, so to see that my session was so well-received… well, I just didn't see it coming."
Olathe hopes that Lucky didn't notice his avoidance of the second part of the question, but alas the older man once again asks, "And what did you do that gave you a nine but also made you doubt yourself?"
"Oh, Lucky, you're an insistent one," Olathe curls his lips and sneers. "Don't you want to be surprised during the Games?"
Lucky's face reddens, forcing Olathe to hold in a sigh because stars is this both embarrassing and boring to watch. In all honesty, Olathe was more concerned with seducing the audience than he was Lucky, but he certainly doesn't mind this change of pace.
"Let's just say, I plan on showing you something you'll never forget," he drawls. "I'm assuming you want this Quell to be something far more grand than previous Games, no? I'll put the twenty-four years that preceded this one to shame."
Olathe can't help but wonder just how far is too far in these idiots' eyes. If the Quell is unforgettable, does that mean next year has to be the same? Are they really going to repeat these pageants of selfish violence until they get too out of hand? What's going to happen after of that?
(Is he the bad guy for giving into their expectations even if he's only doing it so he can live?)
(Does that even matter when the world is a vile, rotten place to begin with?
His parents may have died to promote a life of peace, but that doesn't mean Olathe has to be the same as them. If he wants revenge on the world that's wronged his family, or more revenge rather, it may mean temporarily regressing to cruelty. It doesn't matter, though, not when it'll all be okay in the end.)
"Well, Mister Whitethorn, I certainly hope that you're not all talk." He can't tell if Lucky is actually doubting him (which would be a horrendous mistake), or if he's just pushing him to be even more extreme in the arena.
Olathe snarls, "Now why would you assume that of me?" He glares at Lucky until the man seems to arc his stomach in fear, then continues, "With all due respect, I got the highest training score, my allies both did quite well, and I seem to have already made an impression on the audience." A few people whistle at Olathe in awe. "I hardly think there's a reason that you or anybody would be disappointed with what I plan to do tomorrow and in the following days."
Lucky just smiles, as if he can play Olathe's game better than the master. Olathe winks and brushes his thumb against his lips. "Have I rendered you speechless, then?"
He knows there's something that Lucky wants to say, but if he says it, surely he'll just embarrass himself. He's backed himself into a corner by daring to challenge Olathe Whitethorn, and lord knows that's never worked well for anybody before.
After fifteen more seconds of silence, Lucky finally speaks. "Fine then, Mister Whitethorn; I don't think you'll disappoint anybody here."
"Glad to see we're on the same page here."
(Sure, he won't disappoint the Capitolites when he shows them just how unforgettable a man can be, but he definetly will disappoint his parents. Hell, Olathe already did when he plunged his knife into Peacekeeper's stomach for the very first time.
There's nothing he can do to rewrite history, though. It's all or nothing and lord does Olathe want it all. He's been a wolf in sheep's clothing for far too long to let it all go to waste now.)
Lucky looks down at his watch and stammers, "I'm afraid to say that we're out of time for now."
"A shame," Olathe deadpans. He steps out of his seat and walks to the center of the stage, taking a bow while Lucky stands by his side. Olathe turns to the man and whispers, "I'll see you in a few weeks, dear."
Hopefully his voice was so quiet that Lucy and Aleister were unable to hear him. As far as they're concerned, Olathe's only purpose is to die and further Lucy's bullshit agenda. As if Olathe Whitethorn would ever give into something so maddening. As if he'd ever bend for people who just want to see him break.
The audience claps as Olathe walks backstage, but he still can't stop himself from pitying them all. They're all fucking numskulls who believe in manufactured lies and abhorrent ideas of beauty.
At least soon Olathe will teach them just how fucking wrong they are.
Elio Basanti. 15.
District Ten Male.
At the very least, his interview can't possibly be worse than the whole parade fiasco.
Even if Elio is a wee bit nervous 'cause he's 'bout to talk to a whole ton of folks, at least this won't end with him convulsing on the ground like a fish out of water. Or, maybe it can if Elio falls out of his chair on accident, but he's determined not to do such a thing. As hard as sitting in chairs can be for him, Elio's mighty prepared to sit on this one like it's the back of a cow-cow. That means he's going to respect the chair and treat it like a living being and not even dare to mess around in it.
(He's already made a fool of himself once here, darn it. Elio can't fudge up again and make even more people dislike him, especially now that he has allies and they're depending on him. It's the first time in Elio's life that he's been included by a group that wasn't the cow-cows. He needs to assure his allies that they were right when they decided to include him.)
"You're not nervous now, are you?" Dasani asks Elio as he paces around backstage, waiting patiently (or as patiently as he can) for his turn.
As good of a friend as Dasani is, Elio doesn't want to be a burden to them. Elio's father once called him a burden and… well, Elio didn't like that one bit. Even if Mateo said that he was just being dramatic and apologized profusely, it still hurt Elio like a dozen angry honeybees and he reckons it'll hurt like fifty of them if he upsets Dasani too.
"I'm not nervous," Elio lies, even though lying is a bad thing he knows he shouldn't do. He just really doesn't want Dasani to worry about him. The Four boy has enough running through their mind as is.
But Elio's shaking and shivering gives his lie away, which is why Dasani says, "Elio, it's okay. You're allowed to be nervous."
"I just said I'm not nervous," he protests. "C'mon, 'Ani! Why would I be nervous?"
"Oh, I don't know," Dasani comments. "Maybe because the last time you were in front of a major Capitol audience, it sort of ended with everyone getting numbed and you being named pubic enemy number one."
Ouch… Elio winces. The truth sure can be ugly at times, and this truth was definetly hideous.
"Was that too harsh?" Dasani notices Elio's downcast expression and immediately apologizes. "I'm sorry about that, buddy."
"It's okay," Elio insists. Already, he doesn't feel so great. "I'm sorry that you had to apologize because I couldn't take a joke."
He can feel his heart racing in dread, going pitter-patter because it's just so awkward and bad now. But instead of saying something mean, Dasani runs his fingers through Elio's hair and pats him on the back.
"Listen up, buddy," Dasani says, bending their knees a bit so that he looks Elio directly in the eye. "I want you to make a promise to me. Please never apologize for how you feel, Elio. If somebody doesn't like you because of things you can't control, they're not worth your time. Do you understand?"
Elio nods his head even though he doesn't completely get it. His whole philosophy is that no matter what, people are deserving of kindness and respect. Even Levine and all of her unkindness could possibly be fixed if the world was just nicer to her. There truly is no reason that the world has to be so mean.
Dasani curls his left hand into a fist and dangles it above his head, prompting Elio to do the same and then jump. Their fists bump against one another, Elio's knuckles stinging a bit as he lands back on his feet. Dasani pats him on the back and says, "Knock 'em dead, kiddo!"
Elio shoots him a concerned look 'cause he doesn't want to hurt anybody ever and definetly not during his interview. When Dasani notices that Elio understood them wrong, he explains, "That's just an expression for go and do your best. I know you will."
Ah, that makes so much more sense! He flashes the Four boy an eager thumbs up. "Thank you for believing in me, Dasani. You're real swell for that!"
As he turns to walk towards the stage so he can begin his interview, Dasani shouts at him, "You're real swell too, Elio!"
He smiles. After his mistake, Elio Basanti never though he'd manage to make a real friend in here, and that just makes Dasani's companionship all the more sweet. Sure, he has Ripley, Moxie, Asherah, and Edric too, but he doesn't think any of them respect him the same way Dasani does. For example, when Elio was sparing with her yesterday, Moxie kept shooting him all of these confusing looks and his brain just could not for the life of it figure out what they meant. Maybe it'd be better if Elio never figured it out.
The girl from Nine walks through the curtains to polite applause, signaling Elio that his turn is just around the corner. He tries to smile at Nine but she just turns her head in disgust and mutters, "Please don't ruin this for everybody too, Ten."
A part of Elio doesn't really understand why people are still mad at him for the parade. It was an entire four days ago, for cow-cows sake! So much has happened since then and if any of it was bad for anyone, it isn't Elio's fault. Why can't they just leave him be?
As much as he wants to cry, Elio refuses to let the tears fall from his face. He remembers what Dasani told him, how he doesn't need to apologize for feeling any certain way. At the parade, Elio felt like giving the ponies the freedom they deserved. How was he supposed to know what it would lead to?
"And with that, we are two-thirds done with our interviews for the night, bringing us to District Ten," Mister Lucky Flickerman says from the stage. "Everybody please welcome to the stage… Mister Elio Basanti!"
The people don't clap as much as Elio was hoping they would but he smiles anyway and gallops onto the stage like a little pony, just to be silly. Still beaming, Elio waves at the audience then sits down in the chair, folding his legs into criss-cross applesauce.
"Good evening, Mister Flickerman," Elio enthuses at the Master of Ceremonies. "How have the interviews been going so far?"
"They've been going great, thank you, Mister Basanti," Mister Flickerman says, his voice slightly emotionless. "Have you enjoyed listening to them?"
Elio nods eagerly even though he's only been half paying attention to them because he was so nervous for his own interview, he got a bit lost in his silly little head. "It sure was neat to hear from everybody, Mister Flickerman! I especially enjoyed hearing from my own allies 'cause they're real important to me, you know."
"I'm glad to hear it," Mister Flickerman whistles like a birdie-bird. "Now, I could ask you some more filler questions and make more small talk, but there's one thing that's on everything's mind regarding you, so I'll just cut to the chase."
"And what's that?" Elio questions him. He has a hunch that Mister Flickerman's talking about the whole incident with the ponies but he doesn't want to make any unreasonable assumptions, especially now.
The Master of Ceremonies sighs. "I'm talking about the parade, obviously."
"What about the parade?" Again, Elio doesn't want to assume. For all he knows, his costume could be the talk of the town and that's what Mister Flickerman means. Maybe everyone has been chatting up a storm about just how creative it was for Elio's stylist to dress him up as a chicken, and how it's even more creative that she has him wearing a feathery coat for his interview as a reference.
"When you tried to poison the horses," Mister Flickerman deadpans. "Please for the love of Panem tell me that you remember that."
"Oh!" Elio says with a deep breath. "Yeah, that does ring a little bell in my mind, though I'll have you know, I did not try to poison the ponies!"
"Then what were you trying to do?" The Master of Ceremonies' brows furrow. "Based on the interviews I conducted with officials, it looked like you were."
"Well, I didn't, actually!" Elio crosses his arms. "It's actually a simple explanation too. The ponies on my chariot were neighing real loud so I walked over to them and could immediately tell that they were hungry. I've worked with ponies on many occasions, Mister Flickerman, so believe me, I know when ponies are hungry."
"Is that so?" Mister Flickerman asks.
"Sure is!" Elio replies then continues to explain what happened. "There was some hay in my chariot meant for decoration, so I decided it'd be a good idea to feed it to the ponies so they didn't get all tired during the parade. I was awfully worried for them, you know. I didn't want something bad to happen. And yes, I know they didn't tire during the parade, but it was a very reasonable concern."
"Well, we were concerned when we saw you trying to put something in the horses mouth," Mister Flickerman says. "Do you see why that's reasonable, especially given the Quell's nature?"
"Not really," Elio admits with a straight face, causing a few people in the audience to burst out in laugher. "I assume that you know why all of us were voted into the Games, Mister Flickerman, which means you know that I was voted in for trying to give the cow-cows back in Ten a better life. That should tell you that I love animals a lot and would never do something bad to one. If anything, my District parter who was voted in for animal cruelty would be the sort to hurt ponies. Did you mix us up?"
"I didn't, no," Mister Flickerman responds flatly. "We're supposed to treat all of you Quell Tributes equally, actually. I know that you are all here for varying reasons, but it would be unfair of us to discriminate."
"Well, that isn't very fair!" Elio protests. "I mean, I don't know why everybody is here but I can assume there's some real human murderers here and I'd like to think that they're more likely to hurt the ponies than me. I just don't understand why you all thought so little of me."
He can feel his tummy getting warm and sweat dripping down his face so Elio takes a deep breath and reminds himself not to get all worked up, 'cause it isn't worth it. Mister Flickerman is the sort of person Dasani would say Elio shouldn't waste his time on.
"Let's take a step back and talk about the cows in Ten," Mister Flickerman remarks, all but ignoring Elio's small outburst. "If you freed them from their pen, how were we supposed to know you wouldn't do the same to our horses?"
Well, it certainly wasn't for a lack of trying, Elio thinks, remembering just how tight the ponies' chains were. "Because they were so strongly attached to the chariot, I couldn't have if I wanted to… which I didn't."
A few people laugh again, and Elio can't decide if it's at him or with him. For his own sake, he decides it's the latter.
"Do you understand now?" Mister Flickerman asks him, as if the past few seconds have even changed anything. Elio nods though, because he doesn't want to get into another long argument when he already has the feeling the first one is going to lead to him possibly getting into big trouble with the others.
"I'm sorry," Elio says finally. "I shouldn't have done that."
Dasani's probably mad at him for being a coward and giving in to somebody that was just trying to put him down, but right now, Elio doesn't care. He can only continue to make a fool out of himself for so long, and that time has come to an end. It has to if Elio wants to live through everything that's coming.
(He doesn't think he can live through everything, anyway. Surviving the Hunger Games means that not only does Elio have to watch people die, he too is probably going to have to kill. There's no way in heck that Elio's going to do that, so why is he still acting like he still has a chance? Really, once this interview is up, the only thing that's left for Elio to do is die.)
"Thank you for apology," Mister Flickerman chastises Elio in a way that makes his tummy hurt a little bit. "We're all out of time for the day, but I appreciate you giving us some insight into your thought process."
"Anytime!"
Mister Flickerman drags Elio center stage, prompting the audience to clap even though very few of them do. As Elio walks through the curtains and hopefully back to Dasani, the best Elio can hope is that he was able to clear his reputation with the other Tributes and that maybe a few sponsors did see the good in him.
But before he can find Dasani, Moxie stops Elio in his tracks, her hands on her hips. He tries to walk past her but the Six girl grabs onto his wrist and says, "Elio. I think it's about time that the two of us have a talk."
"What do you mean?" Elio asks, raising his brows. "You and I talked yesterday when we were sparing. If you want me to apologize for not being good at it, I can."
"That's not what I want to talk to you about," Moxie replies. She begins walking away from the curtains, gesturing for Elio to follow her. Once they're a safe distance away, she continues. "You know, Elio. You're not very good at being slick."
"Huh?" Elio tilts his head to the side. "Do you think I should cover myself in oil or something? Do you have any?"
"That's not what I mean by slick." Moxie rolls her eyes. "I mean, you're not being subtle, Elio. I know that you're onto something."
"Onto what?" he asks. Genuinely, Elio has no idea what the Six girl means. If he's doing something sneaky and suspicious, that's news to him. Really, Elio's been trying to take this whole training thing one step at a time; that's all.
Moxie's lips curl. "You see, that's what I'm trying to figure out."
"Good luck then," Elio says in a lighthearted tone. Judging by the sour expression on Moxie's face, she seems to be taking this conversation far more seriously than he is. He's never been the best at being able to tell whether or not somebody is joking, but for somebody to accuse him of being a bad person, much less his own ally, that has to be a joke. "You're going to need it."
"See, that's what I'm talking about!" Moxie stammers, stomping her foot on the ground. "You're freaking hiding something."
"The only thing I'm hiding is some potato chips." Elio digs into his left pocket and pulls one out. He pops it in his mouth and crunches down on it, Moxie staring at him down like a hunter observes their prey… yikes! Once he swallows the chip, Elio opens his mouth and shows the Six girl that it's completely empty. "See? A chip! Do you want one?"
"I'll pass," Moxie deadpans.
Elio reaches for more chips. "Alright then; more for me!"
"Anyway, like I was saying." As he chews, Moxie continues to talk to him. "I know that you're hiding something."
"T̷̨͔̀ḧ̷͖́ē̵͍͘s̸̫͒͊ë̷͖͓̓ ̴̗̉͝c̴͕̾h̵͎̭̃̈́ī̷͓̆p̸̼͇͊ŝ̵͍̬ ̸̟̬́̊i̴̹̋ń̴̢̬ ̵̥̪̈́͘m̵̜̅͛y̴̥͎̚ ̶̭̊ͅm̷͌̍ͅo̷̯̾́ų̷͍͂̏ẗ̷̪̐ḩ̴͈̔̏?̵̡̜̾̓" Elio cuts her off, the crunching sounds making his words come out all muffled.
"Sure," Moxie says. She rolls her eyes and begins to walk away from him, stepping backwards. "I'd be on your best behavior if I were you, Elio."
He smiles and flashes her a thumbs up. Once he's finally swallowed his food, he calls out to her, "I'm on it, boss! I promise you can count on me."
She doesn't say anything back, leaving Elio just as alone as he was right after the chariots. He supposes he could look for Dasani now, but what good would that do?
Maybe Elio isn't good for the Four boy after all. Maybe Mister Flickerman and Moxie were onto something when they said that he was up to no good. Maybe District Ten was right when they said he didn't deserve to live anymore.
Elio Basanti has never considered himself the smartest person in the world but at least he knew who he was; at least he knew that he was a good person. Turns out, he doesn't even know that.
Gremory Rossmani. 18.
District One Male.
He doesn't think he's going to get his beauty rest tonight.
A shame? Yes. Definitely a shame. But also one Gremory can cope with. His plans for the night are far more important than sleep anyway.
He looks over his mental note of who he plans to visit before heading off to bed: Sapphira. Lorian. Belacaine. Charon. You know who. Gremory crosses off his District partner's name and sighs. He's given Sapphira enough trouble for the night. He'd quite like to give her more, but patience is a virtue and Gremory's content avoiding hell at all costs. After all, with the way things are going, soon Gremory and Sapphira will have a whole lot of time together. More than she expects, dare he say, assuming his plans for the evening go as expected.
There's no time to spare. When interviews conclude and Luxe takes Gremory and Sapphira back to One's apartment, he doesn't even dare to waste a second doing unnecessary, trivial things. Though Sapphira tries to flag him down for a conversation, her mind clearly in a haze thanks to Gremory's stardust, he doesn't have time for her. All he does before leaving the apartment once more is drape his green corduroy jacket over one of the dining room chairs and throw his bolo tie to the ground.
Not wanting to wait for the elevator, Gremory simply takes the stairs for his first appointment, so to speak. If he's lucky, both the Twos will already be in the apartment and Gremory won't have to say the same things twice.
He knocks once then twice on the door, impatiently tapping his foot. C'mon now; you both know I'm coming…
A few seconds later, a male voice calls through the crack in the door, "Who's there?"
"It's me," Gremory says.
His voice is distinct enough that Lorian opens the door without asking any further questions. "Good evening, Rossmani."
"A pleasure seeing you, Naciri," Gremory drawls. He peeks over the Two boy's head but is unable to see if anybody is in the living room behind him. "Where might Beaufort be?"
"She's in the shower," Lorian says, voice ever so serious like he still thinks there's a chance he might be able to impress Gremory.
Gremory nods. "I'll talk to you first then, and she can join us. I wanted to talk to you both during interviews, but I guess you could say I had my hands full."
"Is Sapphira okay?" the Two boy asks, but it's clear he doesn't actually care and this is just a formality. "Last I saw her she was—"
"She'll be fine," Gremory interjects. Yes, Sapphira spent most of the interviews puking her own guts out in the gender-neutral bathroom, but that was Gremory's plan. He knows how much stardust is too much for the girl and furthermore, that if he gives her too much, she'll start to feel sick. That's a good thing, because it means there's less time for her to bond with the other Tributes, less time for her to get attached to anybody who may conspire to take Gremory down.
Lorian shows him to the living room, Gremory taking off his shoes before he sits down in a black leather chair. Surely, Lorian's the sort who'd make a big fuss if Gremory dared to get even a speck of dust on the rug. The Two boy tries to walk toward the couch, but before he can sit, Gremory stops him. "Don't you want to sit next to me, Naciri? There's two chairs for a reason, you know."
"If you insist." He rolls his eyes and sits down in the opposite chair. "If you don't mind, Rossmani, I'd prefer we make tonight's meeting brief. I plan on getting at least ten hours of sleep before the Games. It'll be my last good night of sleep in a while, after all."
"Of course," Gremory says. "I need to sleep as well."
He snickers to himself. As if Lorian Naciri is capable of sleeping for ten hours straight. The kid's a walking anxiety attack, even if he'd never admit it.
"Anyway," Gremory continues. He licks his lips and pauses for a moment "…Actually, Naciri, I wanted to ask you something in private, before Beaufort gets here."
The Two boy raises an eyebrow. "And what's that?"
"Are you alright?" Gremory asks in a concerned tone. "I understand this week has been relatively stressful for you, my friend. Since everything is going to change tomorrow, I wanted to make sure you were feeling okay."
He thinks about Lorian's fit after his private session. At first, Gremory thought that he was being dramatic, but considering he got a four, the Two boy really did fuck up. A shame, really, since Gremory was counting on Lorian actually doing well so that he'd get an ego boost before the Games. Failure works too, though, because failure makes people like Lorian desperate. And when people get desperate… well….
Glasya certainly wouldn't have behaved the way she did at the celebration that ruined everything if she didn't want something. What exactly that is, Gremory doesn't know, nor does he care to find out for his own sanity. All he knows is that his brother is dead, his mother's in some psychiatric hospital, and it's all Glasya's fault.
(There are many things Gremory's delusional about - he'll admit it himself - but he was stone cold sober when the bloodshed occurred. And he saw exactly what Glasya did to cause it.)
Hopefully Lorian's desperation makes him just as corrupt as Glasya was that pitiful night.
"What do you mean, am I doing okay?" Lorian asks, slightly irked. "Sure, things haven't panned out exactly the way I would have liked them to, but I know how to make do. They prepared us to expect the unexpected back in Two, I'll have you know."
"Right," Gremory says with a nod of his head. Of course, he doesn't believe Lorian, not even for a second. "I just wanted to ask because you seemed rather peeved yesterday. As our alliance's leader, it's important that you remain in tip-top shape both physically and mentally. I want to ensure that you're ready."
Gremory knows that Lorian isn't, and that's what's going to make their time in the arena together so utterly blissful. He also knows that Lorian is far from the alliance's leader. If he was, he wouldn't be so clearly ripping at the seams, slowly deteriorating until he is nothing but a small thread of a man.
"I am ready," Lorian attempts to assure him. "Do you doubt that?"
"Not at all, I promise."
If Lorian weren't so… Lorian, Gremory would have offered him some stardust by now to temper his misery. A Career isn't going to take it, though. Gremory knows that the Academies have strict anti-drug regulations and Lorian's most definitely the sort to follow them like a holy oath.
The two boys sit in silence for a minute or two, waiting for Belacaine to come through her bedroom door dressed in silk pajamas. "Oh, boys, please don't say you started the party without me!"
"It's not a party," Lorian intones. "Gremory wanted to meet with us, remember?"
"Stop being a bitch, Lori," she jests, sprawling her body onto the couch and rolling her eyes. "Hiya, Gremgrem! Nice to see ya!"
Belacaine would maybe be redeeming if she weren't just as fake as Sapphira is at times. Gremory knows that she's just fragments glued together of a bunch of widely different personas, and he somewhat loathes that. There's nothing admirable in not knowing one's worth as a person.
"Naciri is right. We have to be serious," Gremory says. He takes a deep breath and sighs. "Remember our conversation yesterday about Eight?"
"Yes; most definitely." Belacaine nods. "Did you find out anything about him that you think we should know?"
Boy-oh-boy did Gremory find out something about Charon Tricolette.
He knew they didn't get along with their District partner, Lycra, all too well, so Gremory figured she'd be just the person willing to answer questions. While Charon was on stage for his interview, Gremory asked Lycra what exactly their deal was, and… well, they're more insane than he ever could have imagined.
Gremory had a hunch that there was something off about Charon. That's why he needed them as far away from Sapphira as possible. Of course, that was difficult at first since it was Sapphira's idea to bring Charon into the alliance. Luckily, Clarion took quick interest in Eight, which of course left Sapphira somewhat frazzled, giving Gremory the opportunity to find somebody to distract her. Ultimately, Talisa Azores from Four is just as disposable as most other people, but she was desperate enough for an alliance that she was willing to dote on Sapphira and keep her as far away from Charon as possible.
Ever since Gremory learned Charon's more maddening than he ever could have imagined, he feels justified in his decision to push them and Sapphira apart. Perhaps Eight will make a valuable asset come the arena when Gremory doesn't want to get his clothes dirty, but for now, they're nothing but a liability.
That is, of course, assuming that Lycra's telling the truth. Gremory doesn't know enough about her to judge her trustworthiness, but the things she said about Charon were nearly too absurd to be a lie. A circus performer who kills her own patrons in bed? That's bloody ridiculous. Funny, too, because Gremory now sees where Belacaine's theory that Charon is trained was coming from. Even if they didn't go to a proper Academy like the Twos, Charon is just as brutal, if not more so. But again, that's just assuming Lycra is telling the truth.
Luckily, Gremory has a way to test that later.
"I sure did," Gremory answers Belacaine's question. "Be warned, though; it's a bit shocking."
"Just spit it out," Lorian scoffs. "Remember what I said about needing to sleep?"
"Right," Gremory says. "Basically, I had a brief conversation with Charon's District partner, Lycra, and she swiftly informed me that that they are a killer clown."
"Cool! What the fuck does that mean?" Belacaine sneers whilst Lorian's eyes widen in a mix of disgust and fear.
"It means that they were voted into the Quell because they work at a circus but are a serial killer in their spare time," Gremory tells her. "Apparently it was a whole big thing back in Eight."
Lorian gasps. "I told you we shouldn't have let him into our alliance but, of course, nobody wanted to listen to me. It was so fucking clear that they're a freak yet you and Belacaine were so willing to agree to Sapphira and Clarion's bullshit and let them ally with us!"
"And I still don't see the problem with that," she snaps back. "Being a serial killer means that Charon's going to be valuable in the arena. Would you rather them wandering off on their own? Besides, a little murder never hurt nobody."
"A little murder hurt many many people," Lorian quips. "Lord, we are so fucked! We are so fucking fucked!"
"Not necessarily," Belacaine insists. "Being allies with a serial killer means they won't serially kill us!"
"We don't know that," the Two boy says.
"Naciri is right; we don't know that," Gremory finally interjects. Oh how he got a thrill watching the two of them argue like rabid dogs, but it had gone on long enough. He needs to pull them back together before things get too messy between them. "Lycra told me that they were a serial killer. That doesn't mean that he actually is. I don't know shit about her; I'm not trusting her blindly."
"Then why did you say Charon is a serial killer like it's the absolute truth?" Lorian crosses his arms and huffs.
"To be fair, he didn't," Belacaine remarks. "You just interpreted it as the truth before he could further explain."
Gremory puts his hand to his mouth, muffling out the sound of a snicker. Here he thought that Belacaine and Lorian's close partnership could be an issue for him later down the line. Of course they're just as fragile as everybody else here.
"That's exactly what I was going to say, Beaufort," he remarks. Gremory gently folds his hands in his lap and rotates his head. "But, don't worry. I have an idea of how to test whether or not Lycra was telling the truth."
"And what's that?" Lorian asks, breathing quickly to let his panic subside.
Gremory smirks. "Oh wouldn't you love to know that, dear."
"Yes, I would love to know," the Two boy says through gritted teeth. "And I'm not your dear."
"Just trust me," Gremory drawls. "When have I ever led you astray in the past? If my plan goes accordingly, it'll also solve another issue with our alliance that you've brought up to me."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Belacaine asks.
"Again, you'll see in due time."
Lorian had complained on several occasions that he was losing control of their alliance because it was getting too large - not that he ever really had any control to begin with. Luckily, if Gremory's plan is successful, little lad Lorian will have one less person to worry about. Not only that, but he will have gained the trust and respect of a serial killer. He really could use an attack dog, just in case.
"Why are you so fucking sus' all of the time?" Belacaine pouts.
"It's all a part of my charm," Gremory says with a wink. "Or some bullshit like that. Just be patient, please."
Before either of the Twos can further interrogate him, Gremory rises to his feet and puts back on his shoes. "Well then, I best get going. You two should get to bed. Tomorrow's the big day, you know. I'll let you know what happened during my conversation with Charon tomorrow morning, before we launch."
"Alright then." Lorian yawns. "I'll see you around, I guess."
"Remember what I told you," Gremory remarks. "You're more than capable of leading us. I'm just trying to help you out."
He makes his exit swiftly and returns to the hallway. Not wanting to walk up six flights of stairs, Gremory presses the elevator call button and sighs. If Charon is as volatile as Lycra said she is, Gremory is going to have to be extra careful with this conversation. Belacaine had a point when she said that it's best not to get on a serial killer's bad side. Gremory intends to follow that truth.
When the elevator arrives, Gremory presses the button for District Eight's apartment and leans against a wall as the vessel slowly lifts upward. With a ding! it lands at Gremory's destination. He knocks on Eight's door the same way he did Two, but this time, he doesn't have to wait for long.
"Clarion? Is that you?" Gremory hears Charon shout from the inside.
Gremory calls back, "It's Gremory, actually. Open up, please."
Immediately, the Tribute from Eight opens the door and crosses their arms. "Oh, dammit! You really are Gremory. I thought maybe Clarion was playing a trick on me."
"Unfortunately, he was not," Gremory says. "If you're expecting company, I won't take long, but I did want to talk to you for a moment."
"You're fine," Charon replies. "I think maybe I told Clarion I was meeting him at his place. Come inside and make yourself comfortable… just not too comfortable."
They snicker as they lead Gremory through the apartment and into a living room that's nearly identical to the Twos' apartment. The only difference is that this room is a bit more vibrant, the couch and sofas covered in houndstooth and plaid as opposed to stark leather. Fitting for the textile District, Gremory figures.
He sits in one of the chairs, his posture slightly less refined than it was around Lorian and Belacaine. He doesn't take off his shoes, either, because Charon's the last person to give a fuck about the carpet's cleanliness. Furthermore, if Gremory did take off his shows, Charon would probably say something weird about his feet.
"Well, Charon," Gremory begins. "I noticed that you and Clarion have been getting relatively close these past few days."
"Close" is Gremory's polite way of saying he hardly can recall an instance where the two weren't sucking each other's faces off.
"Yeah," Charon says, trying to hide their smile. "He's a real cool one, you know. I've really enjoyed my time getting to know him."
Now that he has the context that Charon may be a serial killer, it's hard for Gremory to not exclusively see him as one. Even now, as they act so casual, Gremory can't help but envision Charon with sharp teeth and claws, desperately searching for somebody to prey on. Fucking sick.
"I'm glad to hear it," Gremory intones. "Do you think that you two are going to continue your romantic relationship in the Games?"
"I don't know, probably?" Charon replies, irritated. "The fuck does it matter to you? I know I told you not to apologize for coming to talk to me, but I'll take that back if you're just here for the second round of my interview."
"I'm not here for that," he tells them. "I just wanted to tell you something I learned about Clarion, because I care about you and you seem to care about him."
"Go on?"
Now comes the part where Gremory has to lie. Over the years, he's learned that lying is a careful art, one that can easily be messed up if you make misconceptions about your target. Gremory doesn't know Charon well, which means he has to be exceptionally clever now. He's already prepared the exact lie he wants to tell - he just has to word it properly.
"Well," Gremory says. "I happened to run into Clarion while you were on stage during your interview. Unfortunately, I saw him with Lycra, and they were really close together. I don't know exactly what they were doing, but it seemed like a kiss. Did Clarion tell you about this?"
Gremory chose this lie based on two factors. One, Sapphira was immediately drawn to Charon, and one of her most dominant traits is avarice. For her to instantly see herself in them, they must also be a rather jealous person. Two, if Gremory is still operating under the assumption that Charon is a serial killer, clearly they must have some sort of a deep-rooted psychological issue. Hearing shocking news about somebody they thought they trusted may be enough to push them over the edge and lash out at them.
"I'm sorry, what?" Charon shouts, just as upset as Gremory was hoping they'd be. "Clarion didn't tell me anything about that, no!"
"He didn't?" Gremory pretends to be surprised. "Oh, that's such a shame. Really, I'm sorry for you, Charon. I thought maybe you were in an open relationship."
"Oh, that is very much not the case!" They cross their arms then wait a second before asking, "Wait! How do I know whether or not you're telling the truth?"
"Why would I lie?" Gremory inquires. "We're supposed to be allies, you know. I'm just looking out for you, that's all."
"You are?" Charon's eyes widen.
He nods. "Of course I am! I'm sorry that I couldn't come to you with better news, but I would hate to see you get hurt. I figured it'd be best if you knew now before the Games."
"You're right on that," they say. "You know what? I'm glad you told me, Gremory. Really, I appreciate it, even if it means I'm going to have more to take care of tonight than I anticipated."
"Meaning?"
"Can you keep a secret?" Charon asks.
Immediately, Gremory leans forward in their seat. "Of course I can!"
"Alright then…" They take a deep breath and sigh. "Gee, Gremory… I don't know if you want to hear this."
"I do want to hear." He scoots onto the edge of his seat.
"I think…" Eight sighs, shifting his head from side to side in unease. "I want to kill Clarion." They take another pause and ask, "Do you think I'd get in trouble for that?"
Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. How the hell is Gremory's plan actually going this fucking well?
"The Hunger Games are for killing people," Gremory reminds Charon. "Of course you wouldn't get in trouble. I'll make sure nobody in our alliance sees you do it and we can just blame it on the chaos of the bloodbath and say we have no idea who killed him."
"No," Charon sternly intones. "I don't want to kill him in the bloodbath. I want to kill him tonight. Do you think I'd get in trouble for that?"
And yep, there it is. All the proof Gremory needs. Or at least, all the proof he needs so long as Charon actually goes through with it.
"Probably," Gremory says. "They don't really want people killing each other before the Games. That sort of defeats the purpose."
"You're right," Charon admits. "I think I just need to be careful with it. What do you think?"
"Careful, yes," he remarks. "Do you have a way you could do it that wouldn't make anybody think it's you? I support you doing whatever you want to cope with this betrayal. I know how much it probably hurts. But still, I don't want you to get in trouble."
"Well…" Charon licks his lips. "I did notice that Clarion seemed a bit sad earlier today. I had no idea why, but now it makes sense. The bastard was probably upset he was with me and not Lycra. Anyway, I think I can use Clarion's sadness to my advantage."
"How would you do that?"
"Well, I think it is reasonable to assume that sometimes Tributes are upset as the Games grow near," Charon begins, somehow saying exactly what Gremory wanted to hear. "They'd probably be even more upset because of the Quell, and well… curtains can be used as rope. Are you following me?"
"I think so," Gremory's eyes narrow. Really, he knows exactly what Charon is thinking but he wants to hear it first-hand. "Care to tell me?"
Charon nods. "I think I could frame it as a suicide if I was careful."
Perfect. So fucking perfect.
"Do you think you'd be able to do that?" Gremory asks. "It'd probably require a lot of tediousness."
"I know I can," Charon replies. "I'll tell you another secret. I've killed people before this way and it's pretty easy to make it look like that did it themselves."
"That's wonderful then. I say you should go for it."
"Wait!" Charon claps their hands together. "Do you not think it's weird that I killed people?"
Oh, it's something, but it's not weird.
Gremory shakes his head. "Nope. Not at all. I trust that you'll make the right decisions for the right reasons, Charon."
"Really?" they beam. "That's one of the nicest things that anybody has ever said to me. I'm going to get ready to go visit Clarion now but just… thank you, Gremory. I really appreciate everything you've said tonight."
"Of course," he replies. He stands up and brushes the dust off his pants. "I'll get going now, but best of luck with your adventure with Clarion."
And just like that, all the pieces in Gremory's alliance are perfectly set. Sapphira is distracted; when the time comes, it'll be easy for Gremory to turn Charon against her, now that they trust him. Talisa is dead weight and Clarion is going to be gone before the Games even begin. Lorian and Belacaine are beginning to fray, and once they do, they'll run to Gremory for comfort. It's almost going too perfectly.
He's not done, though. He may have six soon to be five fellow Tributes under his thumb like pawns, but Gremory Rossmani needs to cover the entire board. Luckily, when he took a walk as Charon threw knives one the second day of training, he figured out the final piece of his puzzle.
That's his final meeting of the night.
Gremory walks out of Eight's apartment and calls for the elevator once more. As he waits to arrive at his desired location, he releases a deep sigh. Everything is almost ready. Lord, Glasya's a fool for sending me here to my perfect chessboard.
The elevator stops and Gremory steps outside. This time, he rings the doorbell instead of knocking. He doesn't wait for his new colleague, er… business partner to say anything either.
"Oh Moxie," Gremory calls through the door. "I'm ready to discuss our arrangement."
Hardline - Julien Baker
*sips my leetol glass of tea with my pinky up*
ahh! (pretend that was a noise of immense refreshment bc i drank my tea)
As we reach the end of Miss Pre-games (there's something violent and feminine about Pre-games, I just decided), 'tis only fitting I behave in an incredibly dramatic fashion. Night before is even more dramatic and I'm not even mad about it.
Thank you Goldie for returning from war (camp) and seething and coping all over my doc. My favorite part was when you said something was perfect in bold. My least favorite part was when you said "i see where youre coming from however that is not how grammar works." I do what I want. But also yay for growth.
Question: what flavor potato chips do you think Elio was eating?
Okay, I have no life now, so I will actually see you next week for real.
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds