CHAPTER XXI: NIGHT I
Kai Thana • District Four Male
District Two Suite / July 5th, 7:38 PM
The Bone Demon is finding the Capitol difficult to get used to.
This opulent, pristine place is so far off from his world of slippery decks and dreary skies, fish entrails and emaciated figures. He has never had access to such a gross display of surplus; he is barely able to stomach the food here, too rich and too extravagant for his innards brined by bone and salt.
Not only that, but no one here seems to fear him like they should. He knows it is better that nobody knows who he is, but he likes to think that his presence commands fear. Back home, just a dart of his eyes would send street scum running for dear life.
Back in District Four, he was the Bone Demon. But here, he is… just Kai.
A change in scenery, he can manage. But not being taken seriously undeniably bothers him, makes his hands itch.
The constant close quarters with other people only seems to exacerbate this urge. Ever since he has gotten here, Kai has been bombarded by human presence. Even now, after dismissal from the Training Center, he cannot seem to get rid of his allies. Kai severely underestimated the amount of time he would be able to have to himself before the Games.
Kai is as familiar with the Games as he needs to be. Even the poorest, most isolated part of District Four could not avoid the broadcasts. Rare morsels of electricity from his side of town were used to power a screen in the once-bustling fish market, against a blank cement wall. When he was young, Kai always thought that piece of technology looked remarkably strange against the desolate backdrop of his hometown. And every summer during the hottest week of the year, the screen would power on to broadcast footage of children dying in excruciating ways.
The scenes sickened a younger version of him to the core. Even now, Kai can almost recall that primal fear of the Games he had once held in his small body. But nostalgia always makes memories more potent; Kai can hardly imagine that the grisly scenes he had once seen on TV are worse than the sights he has seen in the flesh, the sights that are more than commonplace to him now.
All of that is to say, Kai is not afraid of what lies ahead. Right now, there is more routine and rigidity than he anticipated, more company, but he knows none of this will matter much when he enters the arena. He just needs to hold out until then, the blessed day when he can break out of bounds, bloody his hands again.
As aggravating as he finds their company, he knows being apart of the Careers is advantageous for him. With this group, slaughtering shall be easy. His allies seem competent, with the exception of the new additions; Five is aggravatingly enthusiastic, and Three is built as scrawny as a sardine. Kai doubts they will add much — if anything — to the alliance, and he is unsure why they are here at all.
But the true Careers are decently strong; Kai saw that for himself earlier today. Strangely, he finds himself most wary of the District One Female, Reverie. She moves with a predatorial swiftness and smiles like a wolf. Kai is not sure what to make of her; she presents herself as friendly enough, but she is always alert, always observing. There is an uncanny depth behind her dark eyes, something that blazes uncontrollably. If Kai had to mark anyone down as dangerous, it would be her.
But weak or strong, Kai does not see the others as a true threat. He is sure that none of them have seen blood and gore the way he has, have felt it underneath their fingernails and between their teeth. They may have trained in an academy, may have achieved a passable imitation of the act of killing, but Kai knows his experience trumps all.
His fingers yearn to hold a blade against skin, against anyone in this suite, but even he knows what kind of sanctions he would receive for harming another tribute before due time.
The self-proclaimed leader, Sergeant, had invited the alliance to his suite to discuss business. But the longer this affair goes on, the more Kai begins to suspect that this meeting is more social than structured. Kai resents admitting that something so trivial has spun him off base, but he is completely out of his element in this casual setting.
His allies easily participate in back-and-forth exchanges with one another. Kai finds the trajectory of the conversation virtually impossible to follow, the topics ranging from somewhat important to useless interpersonal trivia. One minute, the others are strategizing for tomorrow's training day and discussing outer-District threats, and the next minute the conversation has wildly oscillated to Academy stories and unconventional smells (the scent of freshly cut grass is something both Sergeant and Reverie seem to be quite passionate about, apparently.) Even unsociable Three interjects here and there, but a single word is yet to be uttered from the Bone Demon's lips.
Truthfully, Kai does not remember the last time he has held a proper conversation. It was likely when his brother was still alive, but it has been years since that was the case. Out of all the muscles Kai has exercised, his tongue is certainly the least practiced in recent years. The social feels like a hostage situation; Kai is not at all keen on taking an active role, but he is unsure how much longer he can bear to play observer.
"Night's young," Sergeant exclaims, banging his fist against the couch. "Anyone wanna play some kinda game?"
Reverie turns to him, a sly smile creeping on her face. "I've got cards, if anyone knows how to play B.S.?"
What in God's name is B.S.? It seems to stand for something, but all the possibilities Kai can come up with make his skin ice over. Being stabbed? Big shark? Brother sinking?
Sergeant snorts. "Nobody wants to play cards with you, Rev."
Reverie sticks her tongue out at him. "Sore loser much?"
Kai notices a sharp flicker of upward eye movement from the District One Male, Kieran, before he turns, obscuring his face. Beside him, Five clamors enthusiastically. "I wanna play cards with Reverie!"
Reverie wrinkles her nose. "Never mind. Let's do something else."
"Seven Minutes in Heaven?" Kai's District partner, Jupiter, suggests, waggling her eyebrows exaggeratedly. Next to her, the District Two Female flushes a vibrant shade of red.
Seven Minutes in Heaven? Kai is even more unfamiliar with the name of this game than the last — what a limited time frame in a place none of them can access as mortals. No, Kai only knows eternity — in hell! Where he sent those blasphemous sailors and that miserable wretch of a captain to rot until the end of time!
"Let's not do that." Kieran's voice is flat.
Jupiter shrugs. "Jokes."
Reverie turns her head in Kieran's direction, brows raised like she's unimpressed. "That's the first thing you've bothered to say all night," she says pointedly. "Hate fun much?"
"I'm so glad you've got it in yourself to have fun right now," Kieran drawls. "Really, I am." He opens his mouth as if he intends to add more, but thinks better of it.
Reverie's lip curls, seemingly amused. "Aw. Me too, Kieran. Me too."
Kieran's mouth flattens into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I just think I'm tired is all. Didn't get much sleep last night."
"Oh. Is that so?"
Kai watches as Sergeant's eyes shoot back and forth between the Ones, interjecting before Kieran can reply. "You know what, it's been a long day and there's all of tomorrow. We can wrap it up since Kieran wants his beauty sleep."
"Appreciate it," Kieran says drily, hauling himself up to his feet. The others take this as a dismissal as well, gathering loose belongings together. Kai clambers out of his spot in the corner of the room, bolting toward the exit. Watching the District One Male's back disappear out the door, he finds his chest swelling with the closest thing to gratitude he has felt in years; at last, he can isolate himself away from these mongrels—
"Stay back, Kai," Sergeant orders.
Kai jerks his head toward the District Two Male, twitching. He watches as the others escape through the doorway he almost managed to reach, imagining himself ending all of their lives in increasingly violent ways. Unfortunately, he knows nobody else would be able to tell what he is thinking because his face muscles don't move; they are frozen from years of killing countless men in cold blood.
"Pardon?" Kai whispers, sinister.
"I want you to stay back for a minute," Sergeant repeats.
Kai struggles to keep his voice level. "For what purpose?"
"I just feel like we haven't talked enough," the District Two Male says in that way he seems to think is disarming. "So, let's chat."
"We have been 'chatting.' For the whole day."
"Everyone but you."
"I do not enjoy talking."
"Oh, trust. I can tell. But I have to get to know you somehow." Sergeant raises his hands in a laughably casual display of surrender. Kai has had grown men blubbering pathetically, on their knees — this does nothing for him. "Don't fight this."
He can hear the deafening crash of waves against surf inside of his ears. "If," he hisses, "you really insist, Sergeant."
"You don't have to be so formal, man. It's Sarge."
"Serg…eant."
"Just Sarge. Call me Sarge."
"I… cannot," Kai says tightly. For some reason, his tongue rejects the nickname.
"You can't? Or you won't?" Sergeant cocks his head to the side, his stare piercing. "I guess the distinction doesn't matter, really. 'Cause what good are you to me if you don't follow basic commands?"
Kai gets the feeling that this is a rhetorical question. He keeps his mouth shut, not answering, but a violent tremor has started to build in his fingers.
"I think you're under the impression that you have a place here," Sergeant comments, casual as ever.
"What do you mean?" Kai grits through his teeth.
"I mean you're not actually one of us." A pause. "You know that, right?"
"I am," Kai inhales forcefully, "just as capable as you lot."
"You're not a Career," Sergeant continues, as if Kai had not said anything at all. "And I've wondered since the Reaping whether you know how to control yourself."
Kai is clenching his fists so tightly that he might be drawing blood. He swears he can smell it. "I can control myself perfectly fine."
Something drips onto the ground from his hand.
Sergeant's gaze goes from Kai's face to his fists to the floor. Kai does not need to look to know the color of the stain.
"I didn't want to embarrass you in front of the others," Sergeant says after a long beat of silence. "I wanted to let you know privately that you're being tested just as much as Fioynder and Orion are. I know you can kill; that part's easy. But are you useful? Are you an asset? Are you worth keeping around?"
"You will see just how useful I can be."
Sergeant surveys him again. "You've got until day three to prove it to me, then. Participate. Contribute. Do what I say. You're nothing to me or this alliance if you can't. The second you move an inch out of line, it's game over."
Violent scenes flash in Kai's mind, of gouged eyes and bronze skin mauled crimson. This imbecile does not even know how close to death he is right now. Foolish. He knows nothing of Kai or what he has already accomplished in his mortal life.
"Are you," Kai hisses, "threatening me?"
"I'm just letting you know how it is, Kai." That awful smile resurfaces once again. "Consider it house rules."
Sergeant's fingers lands briefly on Kai's shoulder — Kai nearly kills him for it before the contact vanishes, leaving behind a repressive emptiness.
"Go take a nap, yeah?" Sergeant says, waving him out. "I'll see you bright 'n early tomorrow."
The whole way back to the District Four floor, his vision is bathed in red. The dried blood staining his nails, smearing his palms is not remotely close to enough. A primal part of him cannot seem to remember why he cannot decimate every living soul in this building this instant. But slowly, common sense starts to trickle back into him as he gathers himself within the confines of this suite.
Kai just needs to hold out, restrain himself until it is time. He has succeeded in slaughtering everyone who has ever wronged him in the past, and there is no doubt in his mind that he will succeed again, with Sergeant and the rest of his pathetic Careers.
He just needs to wait, keeping in mind why he is doing any of this at all to begin with.
Not a soul can stand in between Kai and impunity.
Lucifer Bishop • District Seven Male
District Seven Suite / July 5th, 8:01 PM
Before he even steps foot into the District Seven suite, Lucifer smells it: a combination of smoke and spices.
The elevator doors open and he spots his mentor standing in the kitchen, ladling something over the stove. The common area is swathed in a dusky red glow, incense wafting through the open space.
The aura instantly strikes him as familiar. Lucifer wonders if it's a strange coincidence.
Jo darts their head out from the edge of the kitchen. "Bishop, buddy!" They beckon Lucifer forth, a lit joint between their fingers. "C'mere. Chat with me for a few. You hungry? Want some grass?"
Lucifer opens his mouth to respond, but his stomach beats him to the punch.
"Um… just hungry," he mutters, embarrassed.
"Yeah, yeah, come on over," Jo drawls, lazily gesturing in the direction of one of the swivel chairs flanking the island counter. "We ought to have a talk. Mentor to tribute."
There's something to the way Jo speaks that makes the hairs on the back of Lucifer's neck stand. His eyes dart from the kitchen to the individual rooms then back to the elevator, mind already trying to map out the quickest escape route.
"Do you, uh," Lucifer coughs slightly, "want me to call Ginseng?"
"She's not here." Jo takes another drag of their joint, puffs of smoke coming out with each word. "So I figured we should just get this out of the way tonight."
Lucifer's blood runs cold. "What do you want?"
Jo's lip curls. "What?"
"Did you do something to her?!"
"You're paranoid," his mentor laughs. "Kid's on the District Eight floor. Having a sleepover, it looks like."
The tenseness in Lucifer's shoulders eases slightly. "Oh."
"Dude, just sit. Don't be weird."
Stiffly, Lucifer brings himself to the kitchen and lowers himself into one of the chairs across Jo. His mentor's back is turned to him as they tend to the stove, the smell of seared meat so much more intense in close proximity. He can't discern from scent alone what Jo's cooking, but that's never mattered much to Lucifer; as long as the food is unpoisoned and relatively edible, then it's a fine meal in his eyes.
Lucifer watches as Jo sets two plates on the counter, one for themself and one for Lucifer. Something about this feels undeniably strange to him; as Lucifer's mentor, Jo possesses an authority that gives them a much higher place in the pecking order. They should be treating Lucifer like an inferior, yet they stand here, humming under their breath as they lay out silverware before the boy. The leaders of Lucifer's gang never acted so casually with him; there was always a carefully maintained distance. They certainly would never lower themselves to eat at the same table with him, the way Jo is doing now.
(Back home, Lucifer always knew his place. Here, the lines feel blurred in a way that Lucifer can't quite make sense of.)
"Did you know Ginseng's already got herself an alliance?" Jo comments, scooping out two large portions of rice.
Lucifer nods slowly, recalling the large group she sat with in the Training Center cafeteria. "I… thought it would be easy for her to find other people."
"How're you doing on that, making allies? If that's something you want at all."
"I don't know," Lucifer confesses. "But I, uh, talked to someone. The District Nine Male."
Jo places a lamb chop on each plate before they look up at Lucifer expectantly. "And?"
Lucifer thinks. "He's quiet. Smart." He tries to think of something else to add, but the words don't form on his tongue.
Jo snorts, sitting down across Lucifer. "Huh. It's like I already know him."
He flushes, hands feeling sweaty. "We didn't talk that much, but he seems… good."
"You trust him?"
Lucifer's quiet for a long moment before he realizes Jo's expecting another response from him. It takes more effort than it should to come up with an answer. "I don't know."
"You shouldn't," Jo states simply. "People from the Underworld work best alone. You sure you want someone else in the way?"
The Underworld.
The dread from earlier washes back over Lucifer in an instant. He suddenly realizes why he recognizes this red lighting, why the way this incense burns his nose feels so familiar — it feels exactly like the place he's been trapped for months.
"You're one of them," he says, mouth dry. "You're a Chimera."
The rival gang. The enemy. Lucifer grew up hearing awful things about what the Chimeras had done, the havoc they wreaked in the alleys and streets in Seven uninhibited by Peacekeepers. He's seen the way they treat their brawlers, like fresh meat tossed to animals.
(Lucifer has killed some of those brawlers before, forced by the hand of his own leaders.)
(The enemy, or his own people; for a long time now, he's been unsure of who's worse.)
"Not quite," Jo responds, putting out the remnants of his joint on the table. Ash smears against pristine white. "But old habits die hard, Bishop. I know one of Brenton's when I see one. I was trained to kill you guys."
Lucifer's hand clenches around the silver knife that Jo had given him just minutes prior, so tightly that his knuckles turn white.
Jo casts their eyes downward, sighing. "Put the knife down, kid — I'm not gonna do shit to ya."
Lucifer's voice comes out hoarse. "But you're—"
"No. I used to be one of them." Jo bares their teeth in a smile, revealing a mismatch of both bronze and silver crowns. "But they can't touch me anymore."
Lucifer looks at them for a long moment. "…What do you mean?"
"I escaped," Jo says simply. "I volunteered nine years ago. I set myself free."
Lucifer narrows his eyes. "I don't understand."
"Buddy, how about you sit there and eat your food, 'ight? Just sit there and listen. I ain' got time for the 'huh,' 'huh,' so just chow down and let me talk."
Lucifer is really hungry. He obliges, forking a large chunk of lamb into his mouth.
"You don't know what it's like being a Chimera, but I'm sure it's just as bad as working under Brenton. They beat you. They work you like a dog. They don't feed you. They treat you bad, sick, awful, whatever.
"That was home. I didn't know anything else. Those were all the people I'd ever known, all the people I'd ever loved. I respected the bosses. I went on all the missions they assigned me, did every fuckin' thing they asked of me. Scrub the floor. Burn it down. Shoot the kid. Jump in front of the bullet. Whatever they told me, I did. I trusted that every order had a purpose, that the bosses would take care of me. That I was a part of their plan."
It sends chills down Lucifer's spine the way Jo talks about this, like they're reciting something off of a list. But something shifts when Jo opens their mouth next.
"Well, I was. But not in the way I hoped. One of the bosses fucked up — had a habit of sweeping things under the rug. I was so happy to obey, to help him, even, before he pointed that nasty, crooked finger at me, before I realized I was just a scapegoat. Long story short, all my years of loyalty, obedience, they meant nothing after that." A pause. "They slated me for execution. I couldn't go down like that. So I volunteered for the Games."
"I didn't know you could do that," Lucifer says, mouth full.
Jo gives him a look. "You ought to pay more attention at the Reaping, kid. But yeah. None of the gangs want to make it look like it's an option, but it is, and I took it." Jo pauses again. "I had nothing to lose. Anything seemed better than dying underground."
"And you won the Games."
"I got lucky," Jo smiles. "And it turns out, killing isn't so hard when you've already done it so many times. Funny how that works, huh?"
The corners of Lucifer's mouth tug down. "I don't know if I'd call it funny."
"Well, killing is only half the challenge. The other is actually figuring out why you should even bother." Jo observes Lucifer across the table. "Why are you still alive, Bishop?"
A face surfaces to mind instantly, and the name is out of his mouth faster than he can think. "Henri."
"A little boyfriend, huh?"
"She's a girl," Lucifer corrects.
Jo gives a noncommittal wave of their hand. "Whatever. Point is, this makes things easier. They gonna want you when you come back?"
Lucifer nods firmly.
"You sure?"
His mind flashes back to the Reaping, the way Henrietta screamed herself hoarse as the Peacekeepers dragged him into the Justice Building. He can still hear her words in his ears, see the furious, frantic expression on her face when he closes his eyes.
He had never seen her look so scared. Not even for herself, as two black-clad individuals grabbed her wrists and pulled her away from the crowd — for him.
(The leaders were never going to let her say goodbye to him. But if Lucifer comes back, she'll never have to.)
"I'm sure."
"You've gotta lot of faith in this girlie."
How could he not? It's Henrietta, who wipes his knuckles clean of blood at the end of every night. Henrietta, who kisses him with painstaking gentleness, as if it'll take away the bruises from the rest of his body. Henrietta, who sees him do awful things and still chooses him, again and again and again.
"She's my best friend," Lucifer whispers.
Jo exhales, slow. "She's the most important thing in your life?"
"My life."
Jo says nothing, just looking at him. Lucifer holds his gaze, unblinking.
"You know what that means, right?" Jo sets their arms on the table. "You can't let anything… or anyone in this place get between you and home."
"I know."
"Including the Nine boy. And anyone else."
A pause, before Lucifer answers again, "I know."
"I know you didn't ask to be here, but look at it like a blessing." Jo's eyes sear into Lucifer's. "The Games can save you. You get out of here? They can't fuck with you anymore. None of the gangs want that kind of notoriety. You listen to me, Bishop; you gotta make it so they don't even think about going after you ever again."
There's something hard in Lucifer's throat. "What do I have to do?"
"What you've always done," Jo murmurs. "Fight."
Dottie Dressel • District Eight Female
District Eight Suite / July 5th, 10:53 PM
"My name's Artan," Dottie croons, attempting a deeper register as she shoots a cheesy wink at her new friend. "But you can call me yours~"
"Dottie," Ginseng groans, burying her face into a tightly-clutched pillow.
Dottie cackles, trying to yank the pillow from Ginseng. It doesn't even budge; the girl has a shockingly powerful grip, and Dottie's not sure if she's actually just that strong or if she's just that embarrassed.
Dottie didn't expect to click with the other girl so easily, or by pure accident. Ginseng nearly tripped over Dottie while she was lying on the floor, and then the rest was history.
Well, the rest has only been a day so far, but Dottie's quite pleased at the prospect of many more. Ginseng reminds her of Quentin, in the way she indulges Dottie and her abstract musings. She knows that she's not an easy person to follow, but confusion doesn't seem to be an obstacle for Ginseng in the slightest.
In fact, nothing is. Dottie has to admire the way Ginseng just does things. The other girl had never handled a knife before, but that didn't stop her from slashing open a cloth dummy with reckless abandon at the Training Center. She boldly guesses wrong answers at information stations and keeps trying until she gets it. And even though she knows why they're here and where they're going, she always manages to throw an effortlessly blinding smile when she looks at Dottie, one that Dottie can't help but match in return.
There's a lot to admire about her new friend. The days ahead seem daunting, but surely they won't be so bad if she'll have Ginseng by her side.
"Don't be shyyy!" Dottie purrs. "You can tell me your name… unless I should just keep referring to you as Beautiful?"
The other girl gives a muffled squeak, somehow sinking even deeper into the pillow. "Dottie, stop!"
"What's wrong!"
"You're embarrassing me," Ginseng bemoans, sounding downright miserable.
Dottie wishes she could see the expression on Ginseng's face right now, wishes it wasn't obscured by an absurdly large pillow. "But it's just so funny," she sighs wistfully. "I have to do a reenactment."
"I don't need the reenactment! And he didn't even say it like that!"
"I'm taking creative liberties," Dottie beams. "Artan and Root Girl, sitting in a tree—"
"Stop it!" Ginseng shrieks, thwacking Dottie hard with the pillow.
A helpless laugh bubbles out of Dottie's chest as she falls backward, reaching out to arm herself with a pillow of her own. She makes it just in time to block another assault from Ginseng, using the soft object as a shield. Dottie uses this brief moment of protection to roll over and position herself upright on the carpeted floor.
But shield be darned, Ginseng remains undeterred as she whips back over Dottie, knocking Dottie's pillow to the side with a deafening thwump! She then launches a flurry of blows with her own pillow, the attacks somehow both senseless yet efficient. But the force of the barrage sends Ginseng crashing into Dottie, toppling the Eight girl over again.
Even as her head spins uncontrollably, Dottie can't stop laughing. She raises her arms, trying to fend off Ginseng and her deadly weapon in vain. All she can feel are tangled limbs, stifled impacts, loose feathers and a lightness in her lungs as she tries to catch her breath—
A firm knock sounds from outside, and then her mentor's voice. "Are you girls okay in there?"
Ginseng rolls off with a loud thump, bouncing back up on her heels in a flash. "Yes! Everything's okay!"
Dottie's chest heaves as she tries to regain her bearings, now that Ginseng's full weight isn't on her anymore. "Just dandy!"
"Glad to hear it!" Minisa calls out. "Can I come in? The cookies you asked for are ready."
Ginseng rushes to the door, swinging it open. "Heck yeah!"
Dottie watches Minisa's eyes widen slightly as she takes in Ginseng's appearance. "What… happened to your hair?"
Ginseng reaches back to smooth her hair, jumping slightly at an audible crackle. "Oh. Must be the static."
Minisa smiles, handing the tray of cookies over to Ginseng. Dottie bounds over to Ginseng's side, lips parted as she looks at the cookies. She's never seen cookies like these, with different colors and weird little chunks and bits of other stuff on them. It's like they grew at the end of a rainbow or something.
And don't even get her started on the smell — that alone is intoxicating, nothing like the strange rubbery scent of the plastic-wrapped pastries she's used to. Her mouth waters in anticipation for how these cookies must taste.
"Do you girls need anything else?" Minisa asks.
"Actually," Ginseng says, "If it's not too much to ask…?"
"I can do my best," Minisa says. "What is it?"
Dottie watches as a smile slowly stretches across Ginseng's face. "Can you get us something… bubbly?"
"Like soda? I think I have a couple of kinds—"
Ginseng cuts her off. "No, like…" She gives Minisa a meaningful look. "...you know."
A brief flicker of understanding passes over Minisa's face before it's leveled into an unimpressed look. "You're both fourteen."
Dottie doesn't really know what Ginseng is gunning for here, but she's going to try to help her anyway. "Actually, I'm fifteen."
Ginseng crosses her arms victoriously. "Yeah, she's fifteen."
"Still underage," comes Minisa's retort, but there's a dry amusement behind it. "I can't give you alcohol."
"What about a mocktail?"
"Yeah! What about that?" Dottie exclaims, even though she doesn't know what kind of an animal a mock is or why Ginseng wants its tail.
"It doesn't have any alcohol in it," Ginseng adds seriously. Dottie finds herself nodding seriously in solidarity.
Minisa sighs. "The best thing I can do is root beer."
Ginseng starts clapping her hands excitedly, whatever it was she actually wanted immediately forgotten. "Root beer! Yes! Yay!"
Dottie and Ginseng just about demolish their cookies by the time Minisa is back with their root beer, poured in fancy, tall glass cups. There's a fluffy white foam on the top, and even a small green garnish on the edge of the rim. Dottie plucks hers off, disappointed when it detaches with no resistance. Obviously this leaf did not grow from this glass.
Ginseng is still looking at it for some reason, oohing and ahhing. "You made it look just like a real drink," she says in awe.
Minisa waves her hand, a small smile on her face as she turns to leave. "It's just a little something I can do. Enjoy, girls."
As soon as it's just her and Ginseng again, Dottie grins. "Root beer for root girl."
"This stuff is so good," Ginseng exclaims passionately. "If I drink one can of these, I can climb like five trees."
"Tree-climbing juice," Dottie whispers. Both of her hands wrap around the glass, the icy chill pleasant against her palms. "That's so cool…"
Ginseng puffs out her chest a little, pleased. "Yeah, I'm pretty cool."
Dottie stares down into the cup. "Why does it have little circles?"
"Bubbles," Ginseng corrects, "It's the carbo—" Dottie doesn't wait for Ginseng to finish before she takes a large swig of the root beer.
Ginseng stares. "—nation."
Dottie blinks slowly, trying to process the sensation happening in her mouth. It's like a bunch of tiny staggered explosions, and she can hear a pop pop pop inside her ears as she opens and closes her mouth, confused.
"I dunno whuth happening," she admits at last, her tongue numb.
Ginseng giggles, brows screwed in amusement. "What do you mean?"
"I think my thongue ith melthing. Ca' you thee?"
"Your tongue isn't melting, dummy. I was trying to explain earlier before you just went for it. That's the carbonation. It's supposed to feel like that."
"Ith thuppothed to feel like athid?"
"I don't know what acid actually tastes like, but kinda like that, I think."
Dottie slowly retracts her tongue back into her mouth, considering it a good sign when the roof of her mouth doesn't start disintegrating. And it feels like her tongue's starting to regain sensation, too. The effects must only be temporary.
"It burns," she mumbles, adding onto her assessment out loud. "But in a cold way…"
The conversation spirals rapidly from there — Ginseng barely finishes explaining carbonation (wherever that is, anyway) before the topic morphs into school to her siblings to Dottie's hodge-podge family to everything else that their brains can think of at 11 PM.
At some point, after the lights are turned off and they're cozy as bugs in Ginseng's bed, their new ally Artan is brought up once again.
Ginseng's brows furrow together, self-conscious. "I wish he wouldn't do all that," she sighs. "All the… romantic stuff."
"Why?" Dottie asks.
"It's embarrassing…"
Dottie can't help but notice that Ginseng keeps emphasizing the word embarrassing, like it's the worst thing something could possibly be. She's not positive she's ever felt such a way before.
"What's embarrassing about it?"
"It just is," Ginseng insists. "I don't like him like that!"
"Yet." Dottie wiggles her eyebrows, even though she's not positive Ginseng can see her in the darkness.
"No!" Ginseng retorts immediately. "Never. Boys are gross."
Dottie casts her a sidelong glance, thoughtful. "You really think so?"
"Well, boys our age, at least."
"What's wrong with boys our age?"
"They're just so… immature." Dottie hears the other girl give a long sigh — no, a yawn. "And they're mean and they're rude and they're ungentlemanly."
"Artan talks like a TV boy, though."
"A what?"
"A TV boy. Like those people in the light boxes that wear the suits, and smile, and laugh at all the right times."
"Oh. You mean an actor."
Dottie pauses. "They're acting?"
"Yeah," Ginseng says slowly.
"I didn't know that." Dottie hums thoughtfully, her lids starting to grow heavy. "I guess that makes us actors too, then."
"I guess," Ginseng mutters, quiet. She looks small like this, body burrowed under an impossibly large swath of blanket. There's a rather unassured expression on her face; the image strikes Dottie as wrong. It makes Ginseng look even younger than she already is. "Not really, though."
"Do you think Artan's acting?"
A pause. "I don't know," Ginseng whispers. "No one's ever liked me before. Or at least not seriously, I think. It was always some weird dare, or a punchline to a joke."
"I like you." Dottie looks at Ginseng. "It's not a joke."
"Yeah, but I mean like like."
"Like like…?"
"In a crush kind of way."
"I would never do that to you," Dottie says seriously, as seriously and sincerely as she can. There's a long stretch of silence as she mulls over everything Ginseng's said.
The silence becomes longer than anticipated — Dottie stirs drowsily, remembering to continue the conversation. "You think Artan might crush you?"
"Just forget it." Ginseng sighs, wrapping her side of the blanket even tighter around herself.
"I'll never let that happen," Dottie mumbles, struggling to keep her eyes open. "Never…"
"You're falling asleep."
"No 'm not."
A soft laugh, then a yawn. "Goodnight, Dottie."
Her chest squeezes. "Wait. Don't go to sleep yet."
"I won't," the other girl reassures. "Not 'til you do."
.⋆⭒˚.⋆.
.✩₊˚.⋆ ⋆⁺₊✧.
.⋆｡ﾟ ︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ﾟ｡⋆.
(For Dottie, the lines between reality and dreamscape have always been blurred. Tonight provides no exception.
Dottie dreams of weightlessness, of flying. Of a fizzy feeling in her chest and roots burrowing deep into the earth.
She dreams of friends in low places, and black feathers drifting several stories down.)
Juno Rovensteine • District Six Female
District Six Suite / July 5th, 1:29 AM
Sleep won't come for Juno.
Juno's stiff as a corpse in a bed that isn't hers. The duvet and the satin sheets feel alien against her skin. They're too cold, too clean, too… incorrect. This bed is more comfortable than anything she's ever slept in, sure, but it provides no real comfort.
She watches the digital clock on the nightstand tick, tick, tick down the minutes until midnight. It feels like eons have passed, but her mind won't quit, keeping her eyes wide open as seconds turn into minutes into hours.
The lingering anxiety from last night's Parades kept her up for hours. Reaching sleep in the Capitol feels like an impossible journey. Juno's unsure whether the next couple of days will offer her a chance to recuperate, or whittle her down to even less than nothing. The way today's shaken out, she's becoming increasingly less hopeful for the former. Every action, big or small, takes a monumental effort, makes her feel hollower by the end of it. Juno thinks she's had enough excitement to last her a lifetime — although the way things are looking, that doesn't seem to be a very long time anyway.
Tick, tick, tick…
Juno blinks. Suddenly the clock reads 1 AM; she somehow feels even more tired than before, an exhaustion that sits in her very bones. Nearly delirious, she wonders how much worse her dark circles will look come morning.
She must've dozed off for a brief period, but she doesn't remember what she dreamt of, doesn't feel any more well-rested. There's sweat pooling under her back despite her skin feeling cool to the touch — it's as if her body is working against itself, exchanging rest for vigilance against the dark shadows of her room. Juno's never been an easy sleeper, but it's never been this bad.
(Probably because now, she has something to be truly afraid about.)
Back home, when forcing sleep became even more exhausting than waiting for it, Juno would clean. Quietly. She got mileage out of her sorry state by at least being somewhat useful. She did the leftover dishes in the sink, picked Lars's books off the floor, Vesta's clothes. The monotonous taskwork was comforting in a way, done in the hours when no one else was awake and nothing felt real, when Juno could pass through time and space invisibly.
She's not sure what in the Capitol — if anything — isn't already spotless, but she figures she might as well look. In the best case scenario, Juno will tire herself out simply by searching the countless nooks and crannies of the building, then stalk back to her room to claim a blissful two or three hours of sleep until it all starts over again.
Her feet pad against the carpet noiselessly. Juno has long mastered the art of moving silently, haunting every space she passes through. She opens the door with the slightest creak, eye peering through to survey the empty lounge room — unsurprisingly, no one is there. Neither her partner nor her mentors are the congregating type (especially not at one in the morning), which Juno supposes is both incredibly lucky and unlucky.
Lucky in the sense that Juno won't be forced to converse with anyone else if she can help it. Unlucky in the sense that the burden falls solely upon her own shoulders to help herself, because her mentors certainly won't.
One of them is a paraplegic, strapped to a bag of morphine by the straw like a pacifier. It had been difficult for Juno to ignore the instantaneous disgust that overtook Crossland's face when he first saw their mentor on the trains. He didn't even try to conceal his contempt — it morphed his face into something ugly and grotesque.
The other mentor is able-bodied, but Juno isn't so sure about his state of mind. He's talkative, but the only thing he seems capable of talking about is "Julia," whom Juno assumes to be an ex-lover. She can't discern much from his disturbing babbling except that "Julia" might've left him after he returned home from the Games.
The rest of his monologues are contorted in Juno's head, unprovoked screams and grisly descriptions she's trying hard to forget. She didn't know how to comfort him; she knew it wasn't her job, but she felt horrifically useless standing there, not being able to help him.
Or herself.
Juno's always known that she's a coward. And maybe that's why she's not trying as hard as she can to get home. She doesn't want to go through anything that turns a person into a husk of themself on the other side, like her heartbroken mentor. Even if she knows she'll have people waiting for her.
Well… does Juno know, really? Her mentor thought he'd have Julia, but she abandoned him. Foolishly entertaining a world where she makes it out of the Hunger Games, Juno can't help but wonder — what's stopping her parents and Vesta and Lars from doing the same thing? They barely seem to want the version of her that exists now — would they let a more reprehensible, broken version of Juno come back home, if she even makes it that far?
Juno struggles to keep these thoughts at bay as she gingerly steps into the eerily spotless elevator. Juno examines the row of buttons before her, pondering for perhaps too long before pressing one she knows won't lead to the Training Center or the other District suite floors.
(As Juno waits for the box to take her skywards, she wonders if there's another soul still awake at this hour. She doesn't know what she wants the answer to be, doesn't know whether or not being alone is a comfort.
(She has to remind herself that she's not up to think herself to death.)
With a soft ding, the elevator doors open up to a sizeable natatorium, dark windows bathed in the glow of the pool. The surface of the water looks nearly alive, lights underneath glowing with an impossibly gorgeous, otherworldly shade of blue that Juno's eyes can hardly process. Artificial waves roll out from one side of the pool to the other, casting gentle reflections against the glass windows boxing the other sides of the room. A beautiful statue-adorned fountain spills continuous streams of water into the basin, but it never seems to overflow. The natatorium is soundless, save for the twinkle of the fountain's endless trickle.
Juno wonders whether she is dreaming after all.
There is certainly nothing to clean here. The room is picturesque, perfect, like it repels dirt and grime simply by existing. Juno finds herself drawn inside nonetheless.
Again, she takes care to be quiet. Her feet cause a slight, wet echo in the room, but nothing more — if something were to happen to her, would anyone even hear?
She shivers, forcefully pushing the thought away from her mind. She carefully toes around the edge of the pool, still observing everything in silent awe.
Juno truly can't find anything disturbed or imperfect about the room. It's mind boggling, really — everything seems perfectly taken care of in the Capitol at all times, not a speck of dust to be found on anything.
Even the marble statues on the fountain look freshly polished, flawless. There are three, all men, a massive snake twisting between each of the figures. They're strikingly dynamic, even moreso with the blue light being casted from underneath.
Juno can't imagine that human hands have ever touched this marble. She can't even see a single chip or jagged edge from where she's standing; it's as if these statues were not carved, but born, whole and perfect.
How is any of this possible? Juno thinks, furrowing her brows together. She lowers herself into a tight crouch by the pool's edge. Something compels her to touch the water, cup it into her hands.
Her hand slices against the surface effortlessly. Something about this water is peculiar… sharper, smoother?
Juno wrinkles her nose. The pool is unchlorinated, but not quite natural, either. She can almost taste the water's warmth in her mouth; she knows this sensation, it's on the tip of her tongue—
Behind her back, a deafening crack penetrates the silence. Juno seizes before she whirls around; she moves too slowly, as if weighed down by water. A woman stands just a few feet behind her, dressed in grey with a thick black bracelet around her left wrist. She wields a mop and a blank expression as Juno locks eyes with her.
Juno scrambles to her feet away from the pool, her heart throbbing so violently she feels as if there's not enough room in her chest to breathe. She's awake, she's awake and this is not a dream; this feeling of intrusion is too sobering and too palpable to have been created by her slumbering mindscape alone.
"S-sorry," Juno chokes out, nearly wrenching the words from her throat. She felt so much less inhibited when she foolishly thought she wasn't being perceived — as if she could escape such a thing in the Capitol, of all places, as a human spectacle on their soil. Now her face bleeds with shame — the fantasy of isolation is shattered, and now nothing is left but the paralyzing sensation of glassy eyes boring into hers.
The woman just blinks once, twice. She doesn't look like a tribute or a mentor or anyone distinct at all. Nondescript, as if she was made to be nobody.
(It's like looking into a mirror.)
The woman slams the point of the mop against the ground again, the sound less loud now that Juno knows what's making it. Juno blinks. A cleaner, she realizes, feeling impossibly stupid. Of course there's someone that has to be doing it.
The Capitol has invisible servants of their own. What are they called? She's panicking, unable to recall their title as waves of unrelenting dread crash over her; she feels drenched by it as if she's standing underneath the fountain itself.
Juno remains frozen in fear, unable to run away. She wills her feet to move, to take her to the elevator and far, far away from here, but she can't. Not until the woman pauses, then unhinges her jaw — and then Juno has her answer.
In the space where the woman's tongue should be, there is only void.
a/n: hi! hopefully by the time i'm publishing this it's around the end of january. and hopefully you'll all be seeing me at least once a month until august! we're about halfway through pregames, and if i keep it up then we'll be in the bloodbath by the end of summer [blows everyone a kiss ]
as always god bless godie my ghostwriter. i typoed her name just now but this way i daresay is even more fitting
today's chapter title is brought to you by old habits by mick jagger and dave stewart!
qotd: maybe a relevant question this time… have any of my mentors stuck out to you so far? are you intrigued by any of them? they're not super relevant in the grand scheme of things but they've been really fun to build, so let me know!
deuces,
broke ngl