June 19, 22:15

Gamemaker's Suite

Every time she closes her eyes, Reyna sees that girl's bloodied and broken body lying on the floor.

God, why has it been bothering her so much? Reyna has seen it all before – played her own role in the Games, even – so why is this death weighing on her so heavily? The screams, the brutality… none of it's new. Most capitolites were glued to their screens during the entire show, and then the carnage that followed back at the Cornucopia. Leon himself was practically giggling like a schoolgirl, gleeful that his Games were shaping up to be so interesting.

Reyna, on the other hand, staked out a spot by the monitors keeping an eye on the two kids. They're almost out of food, they don't have a weapon between them, and they haven't run into anyone in days. Deep down, Reyna knows that'll have to change soon, or else they'll become the victim of something worse than another tribute. But for now… they're so happy. Content. It shouldn't be possible.

Maybe she's just not cut out for this anymore.

It's hard to consider that a possibility. Reyna doesn't know what else she's supposed to do. All of her skills are geared towards gamemaking, and without that she's… nothing at all.

(And that's hard to wrap her head around. Reyna went through years of schooling, spent even longer as a nobody running errands in the background, and now that she's finally worked her way up the ranks… why can't she just be happy?)

Reyna sighs and rests her head against the desk. Normally she'd just go on a walk to clear her head, but she doesn't think that'll be enough this time. Not when Saccharine smiles at her from every shadowed corner.

So instead, she goes to find Leon. That's still her instinct, after all these years. He'll be in the gamemaker's suite somewhere, probably poring over his notes or trying to make last-minute changes to something that doesn't really need to be fixed.

Nighttime during the Games is typically a rather slow affair. Many gamemakers are off to bed somewhere, dozing lightly in case something ends up happening. Not many tributes prowl around at night, and this year they're mostly just licking their wounds. Healing supplies are in high demand, and the number of tributes that know even the basics are in short supply. It's been a while since Reyna's seen infection take a life in the Games, but this could very well be the year for it. Leon would be terribly disappointed.

The few lingering gamemakers are clustered together, likely gossipping about the events of the day. One of them waves at Reyna, and she gives them a nod in return. Leon isn't with them – not a surprise – so she doesn't stop to chat. She keeps moving, ducking her head into some of the private rooms until she finds who she's looking for.

Leon's holed himself up in the room containing a holographic model of the Arena, the kind that mimics what's happening in real time. Tiny tributes sleep the night away, blissfully unaware of the fact that even in sleep their every breath is being scrutinized. Leon tracks the infrastructure of the city with a finger, grinning to himself about something Reyna can't see. She watches the gears turn in his head, wondering if he even notices he's not alone anymore, but all he does is mutter to himself. Reyna sighs heavily and takes a few steps towards him, wondering what she can do about any of this.

Something bumps into Reyna's foot, and she looks at the ground, startled. Lemon backs up slowly and runs into her foot again, more urgently. She scoops him up off the ground and peers at him, trying to scrutinize what the little hamster wants. It's a little difficult to tell what's in the mind of a robotic creation, but when it starts sluggishly blinking at her, the light in its eyes dimming, it doesn't take a genius to know what's happening. She'll have to figure out how to recharge him, since Leon appears to be far too distracted to take care of that task anymore.

Reyna slides the hamster into her pocket, giving him a gentle pat that will hopefully reassure it. If Lemon can even tell she's giving it affection; Reyna has no idea. The gesture might be more for herself than anything else.

"Leon," Reyna calls gently. He doesn't even register her speaking. "Leon," she tries again, stepping closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He frowns, still staring at the city map. A few seconds tick by without a response before he blinks and looks over. "Oh, Reyna! When did you get here?"

"I've been here for a while," she says, taking note of the dark circles under his eyes. "You don't look well."

"I feel great," he breathes, focus immediately returning to his damned Games. "Everything is going well, isn't it? I've tweaked the structure in a few spots, picked out where the Feast will be… there's a list somewhere compiling all the people I want interviewed for top eight – I think tracking down that Donovan person will be great insight for Guinevere, and it'll be a real pain trying to gather Aleksei's whole family together for one interview." He pauses, and then laughs. "Provided they both survive that long, of course."

There's something sour sticking in the back of Reyna's throat. "Of course," she echoes. "But Leon, you- you can't keep going like this. What about the Quell next year?"

"So much planning to do…" Leon mutters to himself. A long silence stretches between them before he remembers she's there. "What did you ask?"

"You can't keep this up, Leon," Reyna says through gritted teeth. "And with the Quell-"

"The Quell!" He visibly brightens, giving her his full attention. "We've got so much work to do, I'm not sure if we'll have enough time to structure both halves-"

"Leon."

"-but we'll find a way to make it work. The technology is in the final stage, but that's the trickiest part. I keep hearing they're burning through avoxes to test, but I know we're close, so close I can practically taste it-"

The rest of his rant goes completely over Reyna's head. Her lips flatten as she tries to come up with some way to snap him out of it. This is the worst she's seen him in years.

That's the worst part of this whole mess, truthfully. Gamemaking was never Reyna's passion, but it was Leon's, and she was perfectly willing to go along for the ride. But… the man in front of her hardly seems like Leon anymore; it's just the empty husk of a person Reyna used to know. She's not sure how much of him is left – if anything.

"Leon, I'm here to say goodnight," Reyna says loudly enough to catch his attention.

"Oh." Leon shifts his weight between his feet. Despite everything, this isn't exactly a sentiment they express regularly. "You'll be back soon?"

Reyna tries to smile. She's not sure it's convincing, but Leon probably won't notice regardless. "I just need some time for myself."

After dropping Lemon off in her room – and spending entirely too much time trying to figure out what the hell powers a robotic hamster – Reyna has finally figured out what she wants to do. In a sense, anyway. She figures the best place to start is with Emerson. She probably owes the President an update.

There's a strange sense of guilt gnawing at Reyna, like every step she takes is an active betrayal of Leon. She does her best to rid herself of the feeling, but it lingers in the pit of her stomach, an open, festering wound.

She remembers the path to Emerson's office from the one time she's ever visited it. Reyna's pretty sure that most people don't just waltz up to the office of the President and request a meeting with her, but… well, Reyna hasn't really thought this through much. It'll be fine, probably. She'll figure it out.

As Reyna approaches, she sees that the door is open and the lights are on, so that much is a good sign. But when she goes into the area where she knows Emerson's office is, there's someone she doesn't know at the desk blocking her from going through the President's door.

"Ah," the man smiles at her and takes his gaze away from the computer in front of him, "Miss Stellata. It's a pleasure to see you here. What do you need assistance with today?"

"Um," Reyna says intelligently, frantically searching for the nameplate on his desk. "Mr. Henb-"

He holds up a hand to cut her off, and then winks. Reyna can't explain why it makes her skin crawl. "Just Maddox, please."

"Right." Reyna swallows. "Maddox, I- I'm seeking counsel with the President. Please."

He leans back in his chair, studying Reyna like she's some insect under a microscope. Reyna gets the sense that, somehow, she's in danger. "I can certainly mark you down in her schedule. May I inquire what this is about?"

If you have any concerns, I want you to report them directly to me. No one else.

She can't say she's worried about Leon. Not to someone besides Emerson. She can't cause him any more issues.

"I'm- seeking reassignment," Reyna blurts out. It's the only thing she can think of. "I don't… I don't think-"

"Ah, I see."

"... You do?"

"Of course!" Henbane leans closer, a playful smile lingering on his face. "I can only imagine the toll your role takes on you. And after such a strenuous day in the Arena, who could blame you for seeking out a new position? Are you interested in continuing to pursue gamemaking at all?"

Reyna gets the distinct impression that this man will walk all over her if she lets him. She straightens her shoulders and tries to regain some control over the situation. "Not this year. I would like a break, to really ensure I'm in the right mindset for the Quell."

"A completely understandable desire."

Henbane starts typing away on his computer like she's not even there. Several seconds pass by in silence before Reyna figures out what he's up to.

"Remind me what your particular skillset is," Henbane says, gaze flicking up to Reyna. "There are several openings that we could slot you into tonight, depending on where you might fit in."

"My specialties were flora and muttations. So… a decent enough background in biology, I guess."

"Life sciences," Henbane mutters to himself. He clicks around a few times before smiling. "Any interest in medicine?"

"Sure," Reyna breathes. She feels strangely faint. "Like in the hospital?"

"Depends. Would you prefer direct patient care, or a research position?"

"What would research entail?"

"Classified information, I'm afraid. Unless you intend to contribute?"

"I…" Reyna's eyes dart around the room, avoiding Henbane's piercing stare. "I… yes, I can. I will."

Henbane smiles at her, but all Reyna registers is a flash of bared teeth and something predatory. "Excellent. I'm so very glad to hear that, Miss Stellata. This branch in particular will be excited to have an extra set of hands going into the Quell, and they'll be particularly thrilled to have someone with your background on their side."

"My background?"

"Your insight as a gamemaker will prove invaluable, I'm sure. Their current project pertains to the upcoming Games."

"But… that's over a year away."

"It's never too early to begin planning, and this particular project requires quite a bit of… setup. As far as I can tell, they are still in the testing stage."

Reyna frowns. "Does Leon know about this?"

"Of course he does. This was his idea that got him promoted to Head Gamemaker."

"Oh," Reyna says softly. Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

It definitely doesn't bother Reyna that she's never heard of this. It doesn't bother Reyna that she's heard out every idea that's ever crossed Leon's mind since they were in school together, but she can't even fathom what this one could be about. It totally doesn't bother Reyna, not at all, because she's got her own interests she wants to pursue, and maybe she doesn't need to be by Leon's side all the time because he doesn't need her anyway.

(She just wants to.)

"It's rather unconventional, but I could get you set up to start there tomorrow, if you're interested," Henbane continues, oblivious to Reyna's dilemma. "I can only imagine Leon will be pleased to see someone he trusts as much as yourself on this team."

She flinches. "I'm interested."

"I'm so very glad to hear that. I'll finish all the necessary paperwork, and you will be ready to report to your new assignment when morning comes. You're dismissed."

His dismissal is so abrupt that it takes Reyna several moments to register what he said. "I'm- what? But I wanted to-"

"Ah, right, you still want a meeting with Emerson," Henbane says flippantly. He turns the pages of a calendar on the desk and scribbles something down on one of the dates. "How does noon on August the sixth sound?"

For several seconds, Reyna genuinely can't summon a response. She just stares at him, aghast, and does the math in her head. "In August? Surely there's a closer time-"

Henbane tuts and shakes his head sadly. "I'm terribly sorry to disappoint, but between the Games eating up much of her time now, welcoming a new Victor in the coming weeks, and the meetings that have been on her calendar a year in advance, I'm afraid she's all booked up."

"There has to-"

"If the matter is truly urgent, then I'm happy to lend an ear and escalate your situation as necessary. Otherwise, the only thing you can do is bide your time."

Frustration mounts, and Reyna stands abruptly. She's sure she makes for an awfully pathetic sight right now, eyes glistening and jaw trembling. It doesn't help that she's run out of words to say to make her case.

"Now then," Henbane says coolly, hands clasped together on his desk. "You've been reassigned, as per your request. You'll find that in the morning, you will no longer have permission to access the gamemaker's suite, but your badge will allow you access to the labs on floor three. I'm sure you're accustomed to long hours, but it would be wise to rest up for your first day. A peacekeeper will escort you back to your room for the night."

Panicked, Reyna strains to see if there's even a light on in Emerson's office. Before she can come to any definitive conclusion, a hand clamps down on her shoulder, and Reyna knows it's futile to try. She balls her fists up at her sides and tries to maintain her composure – if there's anything Reyna grew up learning, it's that appearances are everything. No matter how desperately she wants something, the instant she lets that desperation show is the same instant she loses everything.

"Thank you for your time and your willingness to help," Reyna says, a touch too stiffly. "I was hoping to make one final visit to say my temporary goodb-"

"I'm afraid that won't be necessary."

"I- what?"

Henbane shakes his head sadly. "It simply wouldn't do for your departure to, ah, distract Mr. Kimura in this pivotal time of the Games. I insist on you giving him space, at least for now. If abandoning your colleague is truly weighing on your heart, however, might I suggest an email?"

Reyna's jaw drops, and she takes a step towards the desk, only to be held back by the peacekeeper's firm grip. "An email?" she exclaims, incredulous.

"You're right – a farewell of this magnitude should've been done prior to your resignation. At this point, I'm afraid it's too little, too late. A shame, really. He always seemed rather fond of you."

At that, Reyna clamps her mouth shut. She's sure her composure is slipping with every second she's in this office, but there's nothing she can do. It's been a long, long time since she's felt so… so helpless.

"Not to worry," Henbane says, voice brightening. "I'll take the time out of my day tomorrow to ensure things are running smoothly on Kimura's end, as well as make sure you're settling in nicely. I would hate to see any of the Capitol's best assets go to waste."

He must give the peacekeeper some sort of signal, then, because Reyna is swiftly ushered out the door. No sooner has she stepped outside than the door has shut behind her; she can feel the wind gusting against her back. The peacekeeper stands still next to her, and when Reyna tilts her head up to look at them, she can't even see a hint of humanity behind the tinted black visor covering their face.

Shit. Reyna steps away, forcing distance between them so she can regain her bearings. She's worried about Leon, worried about these Games, and now she's lost any chance she had at directing the path of either one. There has to be some way she can get into contact with Emerson – she'll just try again tomorrow. And the day after that, if she needs to. Whatever it takes.

There has to be a way to fix things.

June 19, 22:48

Training Center, Floor One

The door shuts behind Estelle with a click. She leans against the door, letting her head thunk dully against the wood.

She hasn't cried yet. That's unusual. A strange numbness has consumed her in the wake of Saccharine's death. A breath in, a breath out… nothing. She hardly feels like herself at all.

(It's always been easy to slide the mask on. Smile prettily. Stay perfectly poised. Act like nothing can touch you, and it won't be able to. You'll own this world, whether it's through riches or power or glory. It's your legacy.)

(It's not something Estelle ever wanted. None of this was.)

The phone on her nightstand rings. Estelle stares at it blankly, wondering who would have any reason to contact her now. There's no need for sponsors. Alila is more than likely holed up in the apartment somewhere. Bastian is still back in the mentor lounge.

Estelle doesn't want to talk to anyone, not when it feels like she's choking. But the continuous noise is what finally brings tears to her eyes, so before she can come up with a better solution, the phone is in her hands and pressed against her ear.

"Hello?" Estelle whispers into the receiver.

"Estelle," her mother says, relieved. Her voice is hoarse, like she's been screaming. "I know I'm not supposed to call while you're in the Capitol, but- I can stay in your house, right? Just for a few days. Just until you get back."

"I- what? Mother, why-"

"I need space," Blanche Dupont croaks out. "I'll clean for you, I'll watch your dogs. I just… please."

Her hands tighten around the receiver. Estelle could count on one hand the number of times she's heard her mother say please. There's no need for it, not when you have all the money and status anyone in Panem would dream of. Mother has scolded her for using it before, claiming that please reeks of desperation, that Estelle is too good for that.

(She's not.)

(But her mother… why now?)

"Yeah," Estelle says gently, sinking into her bed. "Yeah, of course. You know how to get in. But… you'll tell me about it, right?"

There's silence, and then a sniffle on the other end. Estelle pretends not to hear it.

"When you get home," her mother concedes. "This is nothing you need to concern yourself with now."

"But-"

"Estelle," she says, sharp enough to make Estelle flinch. Her mother must realize her mistake quickly, because she softens her tone. "You have responsibilities to attend to. I do not intend to get in the way of that."

There's a lump in her throat when Estelle tries to answer. "R-right. I'll… see you at home then, okay?"

"I'll be here."

Neither of them hang up, not yet. Estelle clutches the phone tightly enough that her hand aches.

"Mom, I-"

Click.

"-love you."

Estelle flops back in bed and lets the phone drop out of her hand. In a moment of true luck, the phone manages to bounce off the bed entirely, clattering onto the floor. She sighs and stares at the ceiling.

It's hard not to think of Nectarine these days. Estelle supposes that, in a way, that means Saccharine got what she wanted.

It's not as if she has many memories of the girl. She was quiet, kind. Hard-working. She sported callouses on her hands, the sort that any other trainee would be mortified about. She kept to herself more often than not. Nothing specific sticks out in Estelle's mind.

(Honestly, the one thing about Nectarine she'll never forget is the funeral.)

There's a knock at the door. Estelle smiles, just barely, because she knows there's only one person it could be.

Alila pushes open the door, carrying a tray large enough that it looks as if she's attempting to bring the whole kitchen to Estelle. The two steaming mugs are the one thing Estelle's gaze narrows in on, and she realizes that she really is rather thirsty.

Ever so carefully, Alila manages to fit the tray on top of Estelle's nightstand. Pleased, she steps back to survey her work.

"I'm no good at tea," Alila says, sitting next to Estelle. "I tried three times before I realized I was more or less just making poison. So it's hot cocoa – homemade. Thee's favorite, actually. For when he has a bad night. We have those shitty little marshmallows at home, but I couldn't find anything like that here." She pauses, and then gives Estelle a bashful smile. "We usually don't talk on those nights, though. You're far better at filling the silence than I am."

"Most of the time," Estelle admits. Even though her fingers itch to wrap themselves around a warm mug, she can't bring herself to sit up yet. "I'm not sure I'm any good for that tonight."

"Are you still up for company?"

"Yours? Always."

Alila lays back, shoulder brushing Estelle's. It's nice to be close to someone like this again. The mentor lounge always feels lonely, but without Alila, with Saccharine as her only hope for victory…

Estelle sighs and curls up on her side, leaning her forehead into Alila's arm. The other girl is strangely stiff, but slowly begins to run one hand through Estelle's hair.

"I missed you," Estelle whispers.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry. This is your first year, but I'm the one that's acting like… this."

"I like being able to help you. It feels like I'm finally making up for everything you did for me after I won."

"That was my job. It shouldn't be yours." Estelle squeezes her eyes shut. "Wait, that's- that's not what I meant."

The hand in her hair doesn't stop moving. "I know."

"I'm your mentor. You shouldn't have to worry about me, not about this."

Alila hums.

"And I'm sorry too, you know. About Callum. About everything. I should've prepared you better, somehow. Or him. I should've said something about Saccharine sooner. Or talked to her, somehow. I… I…"

Tears well up in her eyes, and Estelle buries more of her face into Alila's arm, hoping to make them go away. They never do.

"There are so many things I could've done better- should've done better. Maybe all of this could've been avoided. I wonder if this is why Saccharine hated me. And by watching her die, I let her down one last time."

Alila snorts. The sound makes Estelle's head pop up, and she tries to wipe away her tears.

"You don't mean any of this. Not really. Everything is fresh, and we're still in the Capitol, and by the time you get home it'll all be like a bad dream. Even if these thoughts are rooted in truth, that doesn't mean they're perfectly accurate. You never let me down. You never will. You can't blame yourself for the actions of someone else."

Estelle sniffles. "I… I guess that's true."

"And I know it's true. You know why? Because you helped teach me that."

"Did I?"

"Of course you did. You helped me survive that first year. And even though you may think otherwise, it's my turn to help out now. You don't have to be strong for everyone."

"I don't think I'm very good at it, anyway."

"Oh, I'm excellent at it. But I've been told it's not very healthy, so I'm here to make sure you know that, too. I'm here with you. I'm not going anywhere."

"Sometimes, I think you're the best thing I've ever done," Estelle whispers. When Alila looks at her, surprised, she quickly amends her statement. "I don't mean to take credit- you won, and you did that all by yourself. I just… getting you back home, getting to see you flourish with your family… it feels like I did something good for once."

There's something sad about the way Alila looks at her now, and Estelle doesn't know how to cope with it. She coughs and sits up, wiping her eyes again and hoping she's done crying. She pastes on her best smile and reaches for the hot cocoa. It's more lukewarm by the time she manages to take a sip, but it's what she imagines home would feel like. Warmth pools in her stomach, heavy and comforting, and Estelle downs half the mug in one go.

"This is good- really good," Estelle says, forcing brightness into her voice. "Way better than anything I've made you."

Alila hides a smile by grabbing her own mug. "I've spent quite a while perfecting it. And it's only your tea that's bad – I love when you go on those baking sprees at home. The kids love it, too. They try bribing me for a heads up so they can call dibs on a sleepover."

She can feel the way her cheeks flush pink, and Estelle turns to the side. "I like it when they come over."

"Estelle," Alila says, then pauses. Her fingers skate over Estelle's shoulder before she gains the courage to say, "I know you think it's your job, but you can talk to me the way I talk to you. Or if you'd prefer, we can take this out to the living room and play one of those trashy reality shows. Either way, I'm not leaving you alone tonight, even if that means I sleep outside your door."

"Oh my god." Estelle shakes her head furiously. "You are definitely not doing that. We can… we can migrate to the living room. I'll be perfectly content to watch anything besides the Games."

"And I'll braid your hair if you want," Alila says, sizing up Estelle's straight blonde locks. "I bet I can figure something out for you."

"Of course," Estelle breathes. She stands up, eager to head to the living room, but Alila catches her arm and laughs.

"Get showered and changed first. You'll feel better after."

That's right – Estelle's still wearing the same clothes she's been in all day. It'll be impossible for her to relax like this. She feels stupid for not thinking of it sooner.

"Give me thirty, then," Estelle says, already headed towards the bathroom. "And- more hot cocoa?"

"I'll have it ready for you."

When Alila heads towards the door, Estelle recognizes that quiet confidence in her, the kind that was almost snuffed out last year. Estelle loves to see her alive again. Alila won by herself, but she needed help relearning how to live. Estelle will forever be glad she played a part in that.

"Alila," Estelle calls softly. When the other girl turns back, the words get caught like a lump in her throat. When she can't force the right ones out, she tries the next best thing. "Thank you."

Based on the way Alila's eyes soften, and how she turns to hide her own blush, she knows what Estelle really means.

June 19, 22:59

Mentor Lounge

His shoulder still aches.

That's fine. It's manageable. The ache is a constant reminder, but it's nothing Callan hasn't experienced before. Diamond nails are a real bitch, but he'll go to his usual appointment before leaving the Capitol to get the marks removed, and he won't ever have to see them again. A blank slate, just like always.

(Except for the ones Callan can still feel, though the scars are long gone and the bruises have faded. His body may forget, but he still remembers.)

The mentor lounge has finally quieted down from the events of the day. Callan sits in his chair with his arms crossed, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the screen in front of him. Theo has finally managed to free himself from whatever stupor he was in, though something about his eyes just… isn't quite all there. He keeps staring at the corners of the room like he's waiting for something. He hasn't sought out his allies yet. He hasn't even questioned the cannons that fired.

Tessa is still completely unbothered by her tribute's untimely death, but Callan's pretty sure she wouldn't have minded either outcome. Her ornate sponsor gift drained the alliance's money pool enough that Vitali can't even buy anything to ease his tribute's pain. At this point, Callan doesn't even think Tessa is terribly invested in bringing home a Victor; she just wants to be entertained and relive the high of ruining someone's life.

The Sevens look far less sure about their chances now that Zephyr is injured. He'll certainly make it through the night, but strangely, they aren't convinced by Xander's willingness to lend a helping hand. Ariadne is smug that her own tributes have managed to stay out of trouble for a bit, but Madoka looks at Akira with growing concern as the hours pass. Callan has decided he doesn't want to think about whatever they're concocting right now.

Then there's Estelle, busy packing up her station. The screens for both Ones have gone dark. Her head is ducked, her hair shielding her face, and if Callan watches her closely, he can spot her hands trembling. That's the only sign of nerves her body gives away.

When she's all done, she sighs to herself and surveys the room silently. Callan studiously avoids her gaze when it falls on him. After a moment, he hears her footsteps pass behind him as she approaches Bastian, who remains paralyzed in his seat. He startles as she runs a hand through his curls, but relaxes ever so slightly under her comforting touch. The smile that crosses his face is faint, and Estelle whispers something in his ear before pressing a kiss to his temple.

The ease and familiarity in their interactions makes something in Callan's chest lurch. He turns away once more, unwilling to let himself linger on the thoughts beginning to swirl in his mind.

Instead, he watches Theo again. He's alive and well, if you don't take into account his current mental stability. It's possible a sponsor gift could help his morale, but it could also encourage this sort of behavior, and Callan doesn't particularly want to bring home another version of himself. He'll hold off for now, wait until Theo is feeling more… himself, and then find something to send.

Right now, all he can do is sit and watch.

Callan checks the time again, and then runs a hand through his hair. He really should leave now, give himself some time to thoroughly empty his mind, but instead Callan finds his gaze wandering again, back to…

Bastian's leg bounces restlessly, and he gnaws on his lip as he stares blankly at the screens in front of him. His fingers hover over the controls, like he's trying to come up with a sponsor gift but can't even fathom what he could afford.

Out of curiosity, Callan pulls up the list. His own exorbitant amount of sponsor money sits up in the top corner, taunting him. At some point, he'll get a letter from Maddox cutting him off from spending anything more, but for now…

He hesitates. This would be a downright foolish thing to do. But… it's his money. Callan's paid for it in every way that matters.

Once the deal has been made, Callan gets to his feet and goes to stand behind Bastian, placing a hand on the back of his chair. When that doesn't provoke any sort of reaction, Callan leans forward and lowers his voice. "You need to rest."

That makes Bastian jump. He stares up at Callan with wide eyes. "Huh? But I-"

"They're taken care of."

Bastian turns back to the screen as a parachute floats down to Thessaly and Ibai, containing an assortment of medical supplies. In the long run, it won't be much, but for now it's everything. Bastian's mouth opens and closes several times before he looks up at Callan again. "Did you…?"

"There's no way for you to dress their wounds yourself. The best thing you can do to help them right now is rest. Come on."

Without saying anything further, Callan heads out of the room. He's pretty sure he hears a few spluttered protests from Bastian, but that doesn't stop the other boy from following him.

"Why'd you do that?" Bastian asks as soon as they step into the elevator.

Callan raises a brow and presses the 4. "Do what? Assist my tribute's allies? They're of no use if they're injured as badly as they are now."

"I-" Bastian shudders as the door closes. "That's true, but P- Theo's not even with them right now. You can't guarantee he'll find his way back. For all you know, you could've just wasted your sponsor money."

Callan can't help it – he snorts. "It wasn't a waste. And even if it was, don't worry about depleting my resources."

Bastian squints at him. "What does that mean?"

The elevator reaches the fourth floor, and Callan walks briskly into the living area. There's no sign of another living soul on this floor. That would normally relax Callan, but he's pretty sure it'll just stress Bastian out more.

"Callan."

"Rhosyn's asleep on the second floor if you don't want to be alone," Callan says, ignoring him. "I won't be using mine, or Nerissa's is clean and won't be used again."

"I-" Bastian finally pauses, squinting at him. "You won't be using yours?"

"No." Callan resists the urge to check the time again. "I have business to attend to."

"Like… business business?"

"I would prefer if you didn't dance around the subject. Just ask, if you're so curious about it."

Bastian's jaw clenches. "You're… meeting with a client. Right?"

"I am."

"When?"

"In a bit," Callan says, determined not to give a definitive answer. "To mine, then?"

"I- yeah." Bastian stammers. "Just… give me a moment."

He disappears back into his room, presumably to gather clothes. Callan wanders into the kitchen to wait.

The Four floor is surprisingly colorful – or maybe Callan's just used to the slate grey of Two. It's something of a relief to see this floor looks almost like a home. The floors are the color of sand, and the walls fluctuate between blue and green depending on the lighting. This late at night, the walls are midnight blue. The counters have seashells embedded in them, like they've just washed ashore.

Callan remembers Four from his Victory tour. Once he got past the overwhelming hostility from the locals, it was a rather lovely place to be. Disgustingly muggy, sure, but the view of the ocean was hard to pass up. He would've stayed on the abandoned beach he found for ages, if Audesia hadn't found and dragged him back.

Something grazes against the sleeve of his shirt, and Callan flinches away. He only relaxes when he realizes it was Bastian, who looks concerned and immediately withdraws his hand.

Stupidly, Callan wishes he would come back, that he could experience touch without feeling the desperate need to claw off his own skin. He wants to remember when physical contact was a good thing, something he craved instead of tolerated through gritted teeth. Instead, there's an insurmountable distance between Callan and the rest of the world.

He wishes he was normal enough to close the gap.

Instead, Callan lifts his chin and pretends like nothing is wrong. "You're ready?"

"I- yeah, but- answer me first. Why are you doing this?"

"I wasn't aware I needed a reason."

"You-" Bastian squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. "You don't, but you're being so nice, I just…"

Ah, Callan recognizes that sort of wariness. You're being kind, so what's in it for you? He softens his tone accordingly. "Strategically, it doesn't benefit my tribute for his allies' mentor to be exhausted and prone to making mistakes."

"Right," Bastian says dryly. "Strategic."

Callan coughs and glances away. "And on a more personal note, I could tell you were on the verge of panicking. I did not want to leave you alone in that state."

"Oh. That was…" Silence lingers as Bastian struggles for words. Callan hits the button to call the elevator. "Thank you."

"It was a taxing day. You need the rest as much as your tributes do."

"Bit of an overstatement." The elevator dings, and they get back inside. Bastian leans his head against the wall as they head down. "They'll be fighting those injuries through the end of the Games."

"They were trained well; they'll find a way to fight through the pain."

"They're certainly trained to fight, but no one really prepares you for the constant sensation of your insides threatening to become your outsides. Scrapes and bruises yes, but… that degree of stab wound?"

Callan nods along absently as they venture into the second floor. He can't necessarily agree with Bastian's sentiment, but he definitely understands it. Normal trainers probably don't strive to make sure your practice fights are 'as close to the real thing as possible.'

"Jesus," Bastian mutters. "And Saccharine was their fucking healer. Thessaly let that girl tend to her face. There's no guarantee they know much at all about medicine. Shit. Even if nothing was laced with poison, they're still prime targets for an infection."

Despite the circumstances, it's nice to see Bastian care again. Even though the Games will end in some form of heartbreak, at least this Bastian remembers how to live. Callan will take every win he can get.

Callan walks into the kitchen, and Bastian wanders past him towards the hallway. Before he can stray too far, Callan calls after him, "Do you want anything to drink?"

Aghast, Bastian places a hand to his chest. "Callan Levisay, are you trying to get me drunk?"

It takes everything in him to fight back a smile. "I'm here to deprive you of all manners of fun. I'm afraid it's water or nothing."

"Damn. I'll still take it." Bastian hesitates, and then asks, "I can use your shower, right?"

"Knock yourself out."

As soon as Bastian disappears around the corner, Callan lets out a shuddering sigh. He's not ready for tonight, not now. He's not familiar with the name Luxor, and Maddox is frustratingly vague when it comes to expectations, so Callan hardly knows what he's getting himself into. Don't be late. Strive to please. Keep them coming back.

Eight years ago, this was easy. It was how Callan stayed sane. The Capitol loved him, and being their whore was one step above being a cold-blooded murderer. He loved their attention, the way no one flinched when he got too close. It made him feel normal again, like he was a real person and not just some Victor that got drunk on cruelty, desperate to return home and willing to do anything to preserve his own life.

(Because that's what he was trained to do – right? All those people he killed, that drive to return victorious… Maverick taught him all of it. A fight's never won until your enemy can't get back up. Callan just followed orders like a good little soldier.

It's not because deep down, despite all his insistence otherwise, Callan's nothing more than a vicious monster. He's not.)

Pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes, Callan tries to suck in a breath. He's spiraling too fast tonight. He needs to tuck himself away soon. Mx. Luxor needs to get what they're paying for, after all.

"Hey."

Callan looks up, startled. Bastian stands across the counter from him, brows creased in mild concern. His curls are still drying, and the shoulders of his shirt are damp, like he rushed out here too quickly.

"Hey," Callan replies, a beat too late. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah." He scans Callan's body like he's looking for some sort of tell, a sign that something's wrong. "You?"

"Same as before."

"That's not-"

"I have to get ready," Callan says abruptly. He fiddles with the cuff of his shirt. "You can make yourself comfortable. I'll be… I'll only be a few."

If Bastian says anything in response, Callan doesn't hear it. He ducks into his closet and blindly fishes out a dress shirt and slacks before disappearing into the bathroom. In a stroke of luck, the mirror is still fogged over from Bastian's shower.

Good. Callan doesn't think he can stand to look at himself right now.

It's only a few moments before Callan is dressed and ready again, though he certainly doesn't feel ready. The tips of his fingers prickle, uncomfortably exposed, but there's nothing that can be done about that. Callan's already covered every bit of skin he can. Anything more would be suspicious, bringing questions that he doesn't know how to answer.

Shit. Shit. He's not sure why this is so hard tonight. There's a thread in his chest that's been drawn taut, and any minute Callan will snap.

Unbidden, his fingers graze the tracker embedded in his arm – a constant, ugly reminder that Callan can't escape this mess he's put himself in. There are eyes everywhere, all trained on him. One misstep and he'll be dissected under a microscope.

When Callan's slowed his breathing enough to pretend he's normal again, he steps out into the darkened bedroom. The lingering light from the bathroom illuminates a form on his bed – Bastian, who squints in the direction of the intrusion.

"Sorry," Callan says, shutting the door behind him. "I'll just…"

"Wait," Bastian croaks, sheets rustling around him. "You'll stay, won't you? For a few?"

It would be terribly unwise. Callan's low on time as it is. Even so, he gingerly lowers himself on the edge of the bed. "For a few."

"You've been thinking tonight," Bastian whispers. It's not a question.

"I have."

"Me too. I'm worried about them."

"They still have each other."

"Do they?" The question lingers in the air before Bastian laughs, the sound strangled. "Things are different now. I can see it. I know Ibai can see it, too."

"Not Thessaly?"

"I… Ibai's afraid. His friend is a powerful enemy waiting to be unleashed. And Thessaly is a mess. She's still reeling from Nerissa's death, Saccharine's betrayal… she'll remember that Ibai stood between her and Zephyr. I don't know what she'll try to do about it."

"Looks like Saccharine accomplished whatever her goal was," Callan mutters. "Theo will be pretty pissed the others didn't bring him along for the fun."

"I'm sorry, by the way."

Callan blinks. "What for?"

"Well- a lot of things, really. But I'm sorry about Nerissa. She was… she was important to Thessaly- to Thess. But she was one of yours, too. She didn't deserve a fate like that."

His jaw tenses. "Rhosyn was her mentor."

"Does that make you feel any less responsible?"

Pausing, Callan considers this. "No."

"You lost her, too. And I've been losing my shit over my two alive kids, and Nerissa is… gone."

"You fear what they might suffer the longer they last. You fear what they might do. That's just as understandable as grieving a loss."

"But it's not the same."

"Well, no." Callan pauses, his eyes adjusting to the dark enough that he can see Bastian again, if only barely. "There's no need for you to apologize to me."

Bastian huffs, displeased for some unknown reason. "I don't want everything to just be about me."

"Okay."

"So- so I want you to talk, too. About anything. Or nothing, if that's what you'd prefer. But I… you… it's not fair. I can't just sit around and watch. Not after everything."

"Nothing I can say right now will burden either of us any less," Callan says, as gently as he can manage.

Something indecipherable flickers across Bastian's face. He turns away before Callan can try to piece the emotion together. "Can we talk about something else, then?"

"Of course."

"What would you have been?" Bastian whispers into the darkness. "If you weren't pushed down this path, I mean."

"I still have faith that I may yet become something more. But for now… I garden. Using these hands to keep something alive… it helps."

"Gardening… I wouldn't have guessed."

"I know. That's why I like it." Callan smiles to himself. "What about you?"

"I, ah, play piano. Since I was a kid, actually. Hard to keep up with it and training, but… I think it helped keep me sane. For a while, at least."

Callan tilts his head to the side. "I didn't know you played."

He can hear the smile in Bastian's voice. "Even victors have their secrets."

"Why is this one of yours?"

"Because it's something that's mine. If no one knows about it, no one can take it away." Or use it against me, is the part he doesn't say, but they both hear.

And… Callan understands that intimately. When you become a Victor, every inch of your life is put under scrutiny. People are interested in you in ways they never have been before. It's suffocating. Nothing is really yours anymore.

(Not even yourself.)

"I'd like to hear you play sometime," he finally says, voice barely above a whisper. "If you're open to a private performance, that is."

Bastian snorts, and Callan feels strangely victorious. "I'll see what I can work into my schedule."

The string in his chest has loosened just enough that Callan feels like he can breathe easy again. The ache is still there, but Callan suspects the reasoning is different.

"Thank you, by the way."

Callan looks at him curiously. "What for?"

Bastian's responding laugh is interrupted by a yawn. "A bit of everything, I guess. You're just so…"

Whatever Bastian was going to finish his thought with, he doesn't say it aloud. Callan can't bring himself to ask. Instead, he slowly gets to his feet. He has his duties to attend to, after all.

"You'll be okay here for the night?" Callan pauses at the foot of the bed, the distance between them strangely insurmountable.

He can see Bastian blinking at him blearily, on the cusp of sleep. "Yeah, I'm fine. Aren't y- aren't you tired?"

Callan's fucking exhausted. He doesn't remember the last time he was able to relax. Though his body is physically fine, something inside him is on the verge of falling apart. And Callan can't afford to let that happen.

"I'm fine," he lies. "I'll meet you back in the mentor lounge."

And even though he'll be late, and Callan's sure that will have consequences somehow, the one thing lingering on his mind as he leaves is that he knows Bastian can tell he's lying.

welp. later than i anticipated (shocker), but here's that interlude for ya! hope everyone is having a lovely summer and is ready to see these kids up on the chopping block again next chapter

love all who have stuck with me for the ride

~de laney is out