Svelte Rasa, 17
District Eight Male, he/him
This is very quickly turning into Svelte's own private hell.
God, that's a funny thing to even think. Svelte's been stuck in his own private hell for years, so how much worse can this really be? At least here he's far away from the scrutinizing gaze of Vaurien, and while there's a certain thrill of freedom running through his veins, Svelte can't truly embrace the sensation.
Instead, he's wildly out of his element. First on a train headed towards his death, then shackled to his District Partner for the foreseeable future, and now he's a Capitol plaything, soon to be paraded in front of all of Panem.
(At least the spotlight is something he's used to. Not that Svelte considers that to be much of a good thing anymore.)
"All done," Ambrosia says, flashing him a brilliant smile as she steps back. "Want to take a look?"
Svelte blinks and tries not to let his expression sour. "Sure."
His stylist moves aside so he can look in a full length mirror, and even though she's no longer touching him – a relief, truly – he can't manage to fully relax. She's still watching him expectantly, the narrow slit of her pupil reminding him of a snake ready to strike. Now that he thinks about it, her skin is green and scaly too. He shudders. That's not a comforting comparison.
"Do you like it?" she asks, teeth glinting as she speaks. Her canines are unnaturally sharp. "Not that there's much we can do now, but I can take notes for next time."
Her words finally convince him to look in the mirror. Svelte had a feeling he knew where this was going, but seeing himself like this is still… different. He's not sure how Ambrosia managed to know his occupation back in Eight, but he's dressed as an acrobat, almost as if he's been taken straight out of the Bizarre and glitzed up even more. He has sparkles everywhere, from his sheer white sleeves to the deep neckline to his eyelids and cheekbones to a silver circlet glistening in his hair. There's a certain radiance about him, as if he's a star soon to make his debut.
It's almost like when Monsieur Vaurien got him ready to shine at the Bizarre for the first time. That memory, which had felt like the start of a new, better life at the time, has very much soured now. Svelte pushes it to the back of his mind.
(A world away, and Svelte's still a pretty ornament on display for everyone watching. He wonders if there will ever come a time when that's not the case.)
Despite asking for his opinion, Ambrosia has gone off in her own little world. She begins to dart around him, picking at his clothes as if she sees some imperfection that's beyond Svelte's comprehension. His shoulders tense up more and more, and he hopes she'll be done soon enough.
"It's hard to figure out what to do with Eight every year, since textiles is both so broad and so constricting. It's an insult to turn your District into a haphazard mess of fabrics and patterns, as it doesn't give either of you anything to showcase or be proud of. And it's hard to catch attention that way."
She pauses in the middle of her tangent and frowns, snatching his hand. Svelte takes half a step back, fingers curling into a fist, but she merely adjusts the end of his sleeve and lets go. He clutches that hand close to his body, unsure of what her goal was.
"It's hard to cover up some of your bruises, but I've already made a note of where they are so we can either use makeup or clothes to make sure they're not seen," Ambrosia says, voice entirely too light. "You must be rather clumsy, huh?"
His lip curls. "None of your business," he bites out.
She titters behind a hand as if he's said something funny. Svelte gives her a filthy look, but she hardly notices at all. "Must watch out for that in the Arena! I'm no good at the advice, but I try to help where I can."
"I didn't ask for any advice."
Ambrosia pouts, shaking her head at him as if he's a petulant child. He hates the new condescending layer she's added to her tone. "Now, now, is that really how you District people show your thankfulness? I drafted up this outfit just for you, so you wouldn't have to be stuck in some drab old fabric! You ought to be more grateful."
Before Svelte has time to respond, the door opens and Ariadne steps in, her arms notably empty of Yarn. Svelte doesn't consider her to be much of an upgrade to his stylist, but considering the way Ambrosia sniffs delicately as if the other woman's very presence is offensive to her, he'll take this as a win.
"Get out," is all Ariadne says to his stylist.
Affronted, Ambrosia lifts a hand to her chest in protest. "Excuse me?"
Ariadne spares a glance at Svelte. "Are you done?" When he nods, she smirks and gives Ambrosia a look. "So you're not needed anymore."
His stylist begins muttering to herself angrily, snatching up a few papers before scuttling out of the room in a hurry. Ariadne looks pleased with herself, tapping her fingers on her leg as the door snicks closed. She looks around the room, taking in the discarded fabric and makeup from when his prep team had argued over what exactly to do with him.
"I've been hoping for years that someone would come along to replace her, but it hasn't happened yet." Ariadne shakes her head. "A real shame."
She doesn't seem too eager to explain why she's here, but Svelte's beyond tired of being poked and prodded today. "What do you want?" Svelte asks, not caring that he's too defensive.
"I remember you."
He pales. This was exactly the conversation he'd been hoping not to have. "You…?"
She hums and brushes past him, appearing not to notice as he shies away. Svelte ducks his head. He wishes he had his hair down to shield his face from view. Instead, it's tucked neatly into a bun at the nape of his neck, pinned in place tightly enough that he knows it'll be a nightmare to take off this outfit later.
"I prefer not to beat around the bush for these types of things," Ariadne says, surveying the room instead of looking at him. Svelte can't tell if he's grateful or not. "I can only assume you'd been listening in on my conversation, and if that's the case, you're some sort of spy or informant. Am I on the right track?"
Svelte's throat is closing off. He gives a muted nod.
"Did you overhear my discussion?"
Another nod.
"Did you relay it to anyone?"
This time he shakes his head.
She looks mildly relieved, giving him the slightest of smiles. Svelte doesn't return it. "Good. You don't have to give me details. There are no listening devices in the prep area, but you never know. I won't press the issue more." She pauses to look over at him, tilting her head to the side. "They cleaned you up nicely."
His jaw tenses. "Thank you," he grits out.
A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "Always a pleasure to see Eight get the recognition it deserves."
Svelte isn't sure how he's supposed to respond to that, so he doesn't bother. His mind is working a mile a minute, attempting to figure out why the hell Ariadne is visiting him like this. Does she want something from him? Is she going to get him in trouble? Did Monsieur Vaurien manage to forge a connection with a Victor, ready to give Svelte hell from halfway across Panem?
"You don't trust me," is what Ariadne says instead.
He blinks, mildly surprised by her bluntness. "I don't," he replies, more carefully. "I have no reason to."
"Incredibly fair," she remarks. She doesn't seem deterred by his behavior. Svelte wishes she was. "You're displeased with me, though."
"I am."
"Because I suggested you ally with Gwen?"
Svelte stiffens. When she says it like that, it sounds so silly. Childish, even, as if Svelte's feelings on the matter are something far more trivial than they really are. He didn't come all this way just to be shoved in yet another box, forced to play by someone else's rules.
(Though his stylists are very proficient at their jobs, meaning no one sees them but him, Svelte can still feel bruises littering his skin, hidden by makeup and clothing. And even then, their physical toll is nothing compared to the years he's suffered at Monsieur Vaurien's hands, his freedom held tantalizingly close but never quite within reach.
With his luck, Svelte will never get a taste of that freedom at all.)
He realizes that he's been quiet a little too long. Svelte coughs and darts his eyes away. "Yes," he says, somewhat reluctantly. "I don't appreciate decisions being made for me."
She nods once. "Something I can more than understand. In that case, I do apologize, but do you see the benefit of having an ally?"
"That's not relevant," he insists. "Shouldn't I be able to reach that conclusion on my own?"
"I only want to act in your best interest-"
"I've heard that one before," Svelte snarls. "I'm not falling for it again."
Her eyes soften. Svelte fears that he's given too much away. The last thing he wants is the pity of a woman such as Ariadne Valade.
"If that's the case, then I have no intention to prove you wrong. You can take my word for it, or you can trust only yourself."
"Thank you for your permission."
"Not permission. I'm only saying I won't force your hand."
"How kind of you."
"I thought you'd appreciate me being upfront about my intentions."
Even though Svelte can't say he believes her, he finds that she's not entirely wrong. Not that he'll admit to it.
"Is that all you came here for?" he asks, changing the subject abruptly.
Ariadne doesn't even blink, as if she expected this. "I came to ask you a couple questions."
"A couple more?"
"How do you like your costume?" she asks, dusting off a chair before sitting down. "You and Gwen don't exactly match, but you certainly coordinate."
"Stop playing around with me," he snaps, digging his nails into the back of his chair. "Just… say your piece and get out."
Ariadne pauses and looks at him. She doesn't move to leave. "I'll get to the point, then. Do you want to go home?"
He blinks. "Home?"
"Yes, as in… do you want to make it out of here alive? Not everyone does, and I'm not going to waste my resources on someone that doesn't want to be helped."
Svelte squints at her. "Did you ask Guinevere this too?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"That's her business."
That makes sense. Svelte's not sure why he asked, anyway. He remembers a flash of a ring and a fond smile. Guinevere still has someone to get back home to. She's going to want to fight her way home, using every resource Ariadne is willing to give her. And right now, Svelte himself is one of those resources. He's not too sure how he feels about that.
"I do," Svelte says slowly. "Want to make it out of here alive, that is."
She nods, as if expecting his answer. "Do you want to survive, or do you want to win?"
Svelte doesn't need her to explain the difference. Surviving is what he's been doing for years, ever since his parents died and he had to create a spectacle out of himself just to get by. He suffered all sorts of humiliation just for a scrap of bread to keep him from starving, then found Monsieur Vaurien, the man who's kept him on a short leash for years. Between his acrobatics at the Bizarre and running around the District under the cover of night seeking out information, there wasn't a moment where he felt truly like his own person. Each and every second of his day was dictated by someone else, and if he dared to step even a toe out of line, or even if he made an honest mistake, he was punished for it. But if he wins…
God, if he wins, Svelte might finally attain the freedom that's always lingered just outside his grasp.
"I want to win," he says finally. "No more just getting by."
A hint of a smile crosses her lips. "I knew there was something I liked about you."
He shrugs, glancing away from her. Svelte still isn't interested in the attention of someone that claims they'll assist him, not when he's been more than burned by that before.
Does he believe that she has good intentions? Not really, but Svelte already has a sinking feeling that he's going to be stuck in yet another cage before he can break free of them entirely. Hopefully this one will at least be roomier than the last.
"I'm still going to give you advice," she says. "I'm your mentor, that's my job."
"I thought Eirian was mine."
"We switch off when necessary. Know how to complement each other's weaknesses and all."
Svelte twists his lips into a frown. "And that's what you want me and Guinevere to do."
"Precisely. Are you up for it?"
"Not really," he admits, "but I'll play along for now."
She doesn't seem bothered by his lack of enthusiasm. "That's all I can ask of you."
Even though Svelte's now trapped in the Capitol and soon the Games, he can't help but feel the slightest bit of hope flare in his heart. If he can outlast twenty-three other tributes, not only will he return to Eight, but he'll be a Victor. He'll be untouchable. No one will be able to tell him what to do again.
But if this is as free as he ever gets, then Svelte will make sure to live every day as if it's his last, to play by his own rules.
He refuses to be pushed around ever again.
Xander Luman, 16
District Five Male, he/him
Xander is beginning to worry that not even the passage of time will make everything fully sink in.
This entire journey so far has been… strange. His ears are still ringing from the fight Akira and Madoka had gotten into. Well, fights. Silly him to think that Akira pouting in her room was the end of it. Dinner was a particularly frustrating affair, as evidently the variety of Capitol foods was inefficient, and only pasta with olive oil and cheese would suffice. This managed to spark yet another argument about Madoka knowing nothing about her sister… and from there Xander got a terrible headache and doesn't remember the rest.
If he doesn't get off this topic soon, he's going to spark another headache. Ugh. He hopes that training will at least give him an excuse to get away from Akira and Madoka so they don't make him pop a blood vessel.
Maybe things would be better if Akira was the type of person to actually listen to others. That would give Xander something he could work with. Instead, he's pretty sure they're slightly off her rocker and hates following anyone else's orders. Xander's been dragged into a conversation or two, but all they could talk about was how stupid and lame Madoka is.
How the hell would Xander know anything about that? Madoka's not his problem, and soon enough, he hopes Akira won't be either.
Besides, Akira's extremely hot and cold on Xander as a whole. Sometimes she's poking and prodding at him as if he's some sort of experiment for her, and when he tries to tell her to stop doing that! she snickers loudly. Other times, like at breakfast, they decide she's tired of Xander's existence and try to throw something at him so he'll go away. Which is ridiculous, really. Where the hell is Xander supposed to go? They're sort of stuck together at this point.
He's finally done it. He's found someone more intolerable than Odette.
What is his life becoming.
"I think you're all done! You can open your eyes now!"
Xander blinks and glances up at his stylist, their completely black sclera making him shudder. His stylist also insisted on him closing his eyes while they got him dressed, claiming they wanted some sort of grand reveal. Xander didn't get it, but he was tired of staring at Ursa's pale pink face, so he went along with it, hoping to get a few minutes of rest out of the matter as an added benefit. He keeps trying not to make eye contact with them, but they have a funny habit of shoving their face right in front of his. No matter how many times Xander insists that he needs space, Ursa hasn't exactly gotten the concept.
"Up, up!" Ursa says, tugging on his arm. "Over here, to the mirror!"
With his eyes open, Xander takes a peek down at himself, and stumbles. Ursa continues to escort him in front of the mirror, but at this point Xander doesn't particularly want to look. He has a feeling that he's not going to like what he sees, and having to see his own face drowning in so much fabric will be… quite the shock, he assumes.
"There!" Ursa claps a few times. "See for yourself!"
It's hard to hide the disgust on his face, so Xander doesn't bother trying. He waves a hand to make sure the figure in the mirror really is him. When it waves back, he can only wrinkle his nose even further. "I'm… yellow."
Ursa nods excitedly. "A hazmat suit! I imagine you've seen a lot of those around lately, considering the explosions in the factory section of the District. My partner and I wanted to bring awareness to such a serious subject, and hopefully drag in a few sponsors for you as well."
"And this was the best way to go about that?" Xander stares at himself in the mirror. This is way more color than he'd ever willingly wear, and it's so… so… ugly.
He thought Capitolites were supposed to have good fashion sense. He won't make that mistake again.
"Yes!" they cheer, spinning in a circle. "It's our first year working together – bet ya couldn't guess, huh?"
He huffs. There's only one way to deal with this. At least his stylist appears to be airheaded enough that he can use it against them.
"I could," he says, shaking his head morosely. "I presume you made these yourself?"
"Yes! Well, mostly. Sometimes the machines did the work for me. But I designed them!"
Humming non-committedly, Xander stretches his arms out in front of him as if admiring the work they'd done. "And this is all you have to show for it?"
They blink. "What do you mean?"
"You have a whole year to make up an ensemble that will be paraded in front of all of Panem. Surely this can't be your best work. And, if this is your first year, this is also your debut, correct?"
"That's right."
"And surely you want to be able to look forward to future years as a stylist?"
"I- well, yes of course, but-"
"And this is all you have to show for it?"
"It's not as if this is the only outfit of mine you'll wear in the Capitol!"
Ah, finally, he's getting somewhere. "Oh?" Xander tilts his head to the side curiously. "You're saying there's more up your sleeve?"
Their cheeks puff out indignantly. "Obviously! I'll show you."
Ursa doesn't bother to elaborate, instead spinning on their heel to start picking up their sketchpads. Xander watches for a moment, the slightest smile creeping onto his face. His father would certainly be proud to see him now.
"You're free to go," Ursa calls over their shoulder. "The chariots await!"
And with that, they slam the door, leaving Xander all alone in this cramped room. He lingers in front of the mirror, taking note of the hood he's supposed to pull up and cover his face. He plays with it for a moment, indecisive.
It's quieter now, and Xander finds that he's uncomfortable with only his own thoughts for company. He doesn't particularly want to go out and face the other tributes like this, but he knows he'll have to at some point.
God, this is so embarrassing. Xander can hardly think of anything more mortifying to wear while being paraded in front of the entire country.
If he thinks about it for much longer, he'll get angry, or worse, upset. Xander can't handle the thought of embarrassing himself even further, so he turns on his heel and exits the room as quickly as he can. Even though he's wearing the most obnoxiously bright outfit he could possibly imagine, part of him hopes that no one will pay much attention to him.
Someone rams into his side, sending him staggering into the wall. Xander seethes and whirls on whatever fool wasn't looking where they were going. "Watch it," he snaps.
The girl stumbles back a step, looking up at him with wide brown eyes. Between that and the flowers scattered through her long black hair, she sort of looks like a startled wild animal. Actually, now that he looks her over further, her entire ensemble aligns with a forest aesthetic. Patches of skin have been painted to resemble the bark of a tree; Xander recalls learning about a creature called a dryad recently… some form of… tree nymph. This must be the girl from Seven. Not that Xander can remember her name. Or cares enough to try.
"Sorry," comes another voice, and Xander quickly realizes that someone else is in the hallway with them. "You good, Marri?"
She nods and tries to fix her hair. "Fine," she mutters, her voice rather meek. "I guess I wasn't paying attention."
Xander almost voices an obviously not before his eyes lock onto the other person and his words die in his throat. They've got the same aesthetic as Marri, so this must be her District Partner. Xander hurriedly looks away before his thoughts can form something mortifying. Even so, there's the lingering thought that Seven is pretty, and Xander's not too sure what to do with that right now.
"What about you?" Seven asks, his question clearly directed at Xander now. "You're… Five?"
Of course the vivid yellow of his hazmat suit would give that away. Xander can't be certain, but his horrid outfit is definitely Akira's fault somehow.
"I'm okay," he says delicately. "And… it's Xander."
"Zephyr," he responds easily. "You're partnered with the one that explodes things, huh? Must've made for an interesting train ride."
"That's one word for it," Xander mutters, wincing as he remembers her shrill screams and the fights with their sister.
Zephyr laughs, entertained, and Xander quickly squashes the feeling of something fluttering in his stomach. It's been ages since he had to deal with this sort of problem, and now is certainly not the time for it to pop up again. He suddenly needs Zephyr to leave now, and then never interact with him again.
"I have to go," Zephyr says, as if they're reading Xander's mind. Xander tries not to visibly relax. "I think my stylist wanted to fix something before I got on the chariot. See you in a minute, Marri."
They leave quickly, but Marri stays frozen in place for a moment. Upon further scrutiny, she's thinking very hard about something, but Xander doesn't have it in him to ask.
"You should really be more careful," he says instead. "And you didn't say sorry."
There. Now he feels better. She'll give him an apology, and Xander can be on his way, ready to forget this whole encounter entirely.
"I am quite sorry," Marri claims. "I really didn't see you coming – which I know is foolish, since you're very… yellow, and there's no way to miss you."
Xander's lip curls. "Thank you for reminding me," he says stiffly.
"Not that that's a bad thing," she continues, tilting her head to the side as if inspecting his outfit. "It's very… eye-catching. No one in Panem will be able to miss you."
"Except you, when you ran into me."
"Well, yes, but I did say I was sorry."
He's quickly tiring of this conversation, so Xander sighs. "If that's all, then I'll be going."
"Wait!" she firmly grasps the sleeve of his suit, preventing him from going anywhere. Xander is mildly shocked by the display of strength, but he just as quickly gets over it.
"What is it now?"
She hesitates, the cogs turning in her head once again. "Would you… want to ally with me?"
Xander stares at her, affronted. "You ran into me and now ask if I want to ally with you?"
"Yes," she says stubbornly, fingers digging in even more.
"You hardly know me."
"And if we ally now, I'll get the chance to know you better."
He glances around the hallway, but no one else is there. Marri's still latched onto his sleeve, looking as if she intends to stay there until Xander gives her an answer she likes. She's… eager. It makes Xander sick.
(He recognizes it. This desperation for someone to like her, to want her around. If Xander did a little soul searching, he might find that sort of attitude reflected within himself.
But that's not what his father taught him. Instead, Xander sees this as something he can use, and he begins to plan.)
He crosses his arms and huffs. "Why would I do that?"
Her eyes widen as she's forced to defend her position, to actually fight for what she wants. If she simply chooses to give up, then Xander is back to square one, but strangely, he doesn't think that's what she'll choose. And sure, some scrawny girl from Seven isn't exactly prime ally material, but Xander will take what he can get. After all, anything is better than Akira.
"It would be mutually beneficial," she blurts out. "Allies are always a hit with sponsors. We'd be able to work together during training, pool our resources, and we could run right out of the bloodbath no problem. Or, if you wanted, I could just help during training if that's more what you're looking for."
Frowning, he taps his foot. "What makes you think I need help?"
Marri's eyes widen. "I didn't mean to be presumptuous! I only meant that we could each learn a skill, or maybe help each other learn a skill, and even if we didn't stay allies, it would still help us individually in the long run. We don't even have to stay allies through the Games!"
There, now he's getting somewhere. She's desperate to spend time with him, any time at all, and that's something Xander can work with.
"How about this," Xander says, coolly cutting her off. "We don't ally. We train together tomorrow and see how it goes. If it goes well, we see about making it official. If it goes poorly, then neither of us lose out. Deal?"
Her eyes light up, seeing this as a victory. Marri doesn't seem to realize that her excitement puts her right where Xander wants her. "Deal."
"Fine," he says, waving a hand to dismiss her. "I'll see you at training tomorrow, then."
"I really do like your outfit, by the way," she says, bringing Xander's attention back to the monstrous suit he's still stuck in. "It's very colorful."
"Not necessarily a good thing."
"But not a bad thing either."
"Whatever," he mutters. "I just hope my stylist has better taste next time."
He doesn't allow her to say anything more, walking off before she can get the chance to follow him. Marri is certainly too much for his taste, but hopefully she can pick up a skill or two that he can use down the line. And even if she manages to be tolerable enough for him to stick around up until the Games, he has no intention of staying with her all the way through them.
If he's going to get home alive, then Xander is willing to use every tool at his disposal to get him there. And if Marri happens to be one of them, so be it.
Sagan Pomare, 15
District Three Female, she/her
This whole thing is like a never-ending nightmare.
Sagan feels so… so useless. Taken from her home, away from her mother, unable to be any help at all. She's given everything she has to keep her mother safe and now it won't be enough, all because she's been sent to die. It's not fair that the only one who loves her mother is also the only one to be forcibly taken away.
(Does no one know that Sagan is the only one keeping her mother together at all? Does no one know that without Sagan, her mother would have no one? Does no one know that the only person either can truly rely on is Sagan herself?
They can't, because if they did, then Sagan never would've been taken away. If she hadn't been sure before, she is now: the entirety of Panem is out to get her.)
Her new companions are… not the worst, she supposes. Quark likes to talk about his cats a lot, Liana mostly keeps to herself, and Coyle… mainly just tries not to cry. (Sagan can't entirely blame the kid, considering he's twelve, and at least he can keep it to himself.) Sagan made it clear that she doesn't intend to ally with anyone, and they mostly left her alone after that. Perfect. Just how she likes it.
Her prep team and stylists, on the other hand, love to talk Sagan's ear off. She stopped listening about two seconds in when they decided to go on and on about other stylists and how certain looks were "so last season." Personally, Sagan doesn't care what they put on her body as long as she's wearing clothes and looks relatively presentable.
It's not like her outfit now is much to look at, anyway. The most notable thing she's wearing is a white lab coat to demonstrate she's a lab technician or something. Completely dull, but it's not like she's hoping to attract attention, so this works well enough. Her stylists made plenty of comments about how easy she was to work with – for the most part.
They were, however, mildly horrified by the state of her hair. Her bangs, which Sagan had been used to cutting herself, were evidently too uneven for their liking. Sagan herself never found much of an issue with them, but her prep team seem to be the sort that are personally offended by lots of things. As long as Sagan closes her eyes and tunes them out, they're no problem at all. And besides, it's not like she'll have to deal with them much.
Sighing, she leans against her chariot. Since there aren't exactly a lot of moving pieces to her outfit, Sagan has gotten out early, and thus has nothing to do except stand and wait. Standing and waiting usually means standing and thinking, so all she's really doing is replaying the reaping again and again in her mind. She still can't believe she's unlucky enough to end here, far, far away from where she can help her mother.
God, it's just not fair.
"Whoa," a boyish voice says behind her, "what are you, a chemist?"
This is the last thing Sagan needs, so she tries to keep her head down. Maybe he'll go away. "Lab technician."
"Is that sort of like a chemist?"
"I guess. I don't know. Why do you care?"
"I think it's cool," he says, giddy. "You look like a real professional!"
"How do you know? You thought I was a chemist."
"Aren't they sort of interchangeable?"
"Not really."
"Oh. Well, I still think you look cool."
Sagan hums and glances over her shoulder. The boy's only about an inch taller than her, and he's got a wide grin on his face as if this is the most enthralling conversation he could possibly be having right now. Based on his blue suit and hat, she guesses he must be a train conductor, and thus must be from Six. Hopefully he'll skip the part where he introduces himself and leave her alone instead.
"I'm Aleksei, by the way." Shit. "You're from Three, right? I don't remember your name, so you should introduce yourself for me."
"Why would I do that?"
He grins widely and tips his hat. "More polite that way. I'm tryin' to impress here."
"Impress?" Sagan stares at him, incredulous. She can't figure out what this kid is going on about, and even though she just wants him to leave her alone, part of her can't help but engage anyway. "What are you going on about?"
"You know, like a friend." Aleksei sizes her up and then nods approvingly. "Yup, I can tell you're a good one."
"You don't even know my name."
"That's why I'm tryin' to learn. You could tell me. That would make things easier, huh?"
Sagan taps her foot and glances around the area. She doesn't recognize any of the other tributes milling around, and the area is still sparsely occupied enough that she doesn't figure they'll be starting for a while. By her best guess, she'll be stuck here for a little while, and this Aleksei kid is nothing but persistent.
And annoying. But as long as Sagan can keep her head down, he'll give up and go away.
"... Sagan," she finally tells him. "Happy now?"
His resulting smile is so blindingly bright that Sagan could've just handed him a ticket out of the Games entirely. "Very. See? This is fun, isn't it?"
"Which part? The standing around and waiting? The slow, creeping doom? The knowledge that all of us except one will be dead in a couple weeks or so?"
Aleksei's expression dims, but only barely. "That's kind of morbid. You shouldn't think like that."
"And why not? It's the truth, isn't it?"
Tilting his head to the side, Aleksei thinks about it for a moment. "I guess so," he says, "but I still don't think you should think like that."
Sagan's lips pull down into a frown. "Why not? I can think however I want."
"You can," he amends quickly, "but that's not always a good thing."
"Do tell."
"I mean… don't you want to go home? I know I do."
Sagan remembers the sight of her mother back home the morning of the reaping. She could barely get out of bed that day, and even though she waved off Sagan's every attempt to help her, Sagan knew it wasn't the woman's fault. She was just tired, that's all. And unless Sagan can get back to her mother, who will take care of her? Even though she has two siblings and a father, they've all abandoned her mother before.
(They've all abandoned Sagan before.)
And now she's… just like them. Sagan may not have chosen to leave, but she left all the same. Will her mother understand the difference?
(She hopes so. Her mother is the one person in the world that Sagan considers hers. She doesn't know what she'd do if she lost that too.)
"I do," she says, a little too quietly.
"So it's best to focus on the positives, right?" Aleksei blinks at her innocently. "That way all the bad stuff can clear out of the way and leave room for good stuff to take its place!"
Sagan isn't sure that's how the world works, but she doesn't feel compelled to argue either. "Much easier said than done."
"Maybe so, but you never know until you try! What's the point of being here if you're just gonna be miserable all the time?"
"It's not like I want to be here," Sagan says, digging her nails into her palms.
Aleksei's eyes widen. "Sorry! I'm not saying you did. I'm just saying… I'm just saying that since you're stuck here now, you might as well try to make the best of it, you know?"
"Again, easier said than done."
"I can help!" Aleksei says suddenly, as if struck by a great idea.
"Help with what?"
"Make the time pass. Make things less miserable."
Sagan crosses her arms. "How're you supposed to do that? You talk too much."
"I could talk less if you want," he says eagerly. "Or maybe that's a good thing in case you don't want to talk much. I can just fill the space."
She scrutinizes him for a long moment. He's starting to remind Sagan of a puppy: overeager and a little overbearing. She can't decide if he's well-meaning or not.
"You want something," she decides. "What is it, then? Out with it."
Aleksei starts to bounce back and forth on his feet. "I want you to be my friend," he blurts out.
"You mean an ally?"
"No, a friend."
"Well, what's the difference?"
"My mentor says they have to fill out all sorts of paperwork to form an alliance. I don't need any of that; I just want someone I like and want to hang out with."
Sagan twists her lips. "And you think that should be me, even though I'm too much of a hassle for paperwork?"
"I've never needed paperwork to define friendships before," he says. Sagan can't tell if his movement is from excessive energy or nerves. "So I don't see any need for it now."
She stares at him. Aleksei gets as still as he possibly can – which is to say, not very. He really just looks like he's holding his breath, waiting for Sagan's answer as if his very life depends on it.
(It's sort of strange. Sagan's never had anyone so blatantly determined to spend time with her, and this kid hardly knows her at all. Her siblings and father all left her as soon as she put her foot down, but Aleksei isn't giving up so easily.
Either he's the most genuine person Sagan's ever come across, or he's deliberately trying to be her downfall.)
"You won't leave me alone, will you?"
"I can if you want me to," he insists. "No, really! But I promise I make good company. If you say yes, you won't regret it!"
Squinting, Sagan looks him up and down once more. She gleans no further information from this, but at least it makes her look like she's thinking real hard about it. "Why me?"
"Huh?"
"I said, why me? You could've approached anyone here, but you chose me. I want to know why."
The look that crosses his face is almost shy, and Aleksei ducks his head. He drags his toe against the ground. "I liked your outfit. I wanted to come over and say so."
"Is that all?"
"Does there need to be more?"
"Well, you told me why you came over. I asked why you want to be my friend. That didn't exactly explain my question."
"I thought you looked nice," Aleksei says, voice achingly honest. "And… and if this is gonna be my last couple of weeks, then I'd be okay to spend them with you."
Nice isn't a word that people normally associate with Sagan. Hell, she hardly associates it with herself. But Aleksei seems to really believe it, and Sagan finds herself wondering how. It's been a long while since she's found any use in kindness towards anyone but her own mother, and she doesn't intend to start looking.
Tapping her foot a few times, she sighs, taking a moment to think. Sagan would prefer to be left alone, but… well, there's not really an easy answer there. Sagan would prefer to be alone, but she's hesitating and can't figure out why.
She doesn't really want to get into this right now. Or ever, preferably. If Sagan can just get him to shut up for now, then he'll eventually get tired of her and leave just like everyone else.
(No, not like everyone else. There's a clear difference: when everyone else leaves, it hurts. Sagan won't let herself be hurt again.)
"We're not friends," she says, taking note of how Aleksei instantly deflates, "but if you really want, you can train with me."
"Really? I can?"
"Well, I just said so, didn't I?"
"I mean, yeah-"
"Then don't argue, or else I might change my mind."
Aleksei snickers, trying to hide a grin behind his hand. But considering the way his eyes dance with delight, there was no use in him trying at all.
"Don't look so excited, I only said you could hang around. I didn't promise anything more," she reminds him.
"That's fine!" Aleksei twists his hands behind his back. "Do you have anything in mind?"
"For what? Training?"
"Yeah."
"Well, no. I don't know what they have yet."
"But what about… I dunno, weapons or something?"
Rubbing her temples, Sagan shakes her head. "We can figure it out tomorrow, all right?"
She realizes her mistake too late: Aleksei is even more thrilled by the use of the word "we." But she can't really take it back, not when he's jogging backwards, nearly running into a girl in flowing white clothes with flowers in her hair. He barely flinches at the sight of her scowl.
"I'm holding you to that!" he calls.
"You really don't have to," Sagan mutters.
Sagan has no intention of letting him get close. Anyone that gets close enough to stay is just one step closer to leaving.
And there's no way Sagan will let herself be left behind ever again.
Pantheon Lexicus, 18
District Two Male, he/him
God, how Pantheon Lexicus cannot resist a challenge.
After all, this is it. The moment he's been working his entire life for. The moment everyone in the world has been waiting to see. And even though there's still a long road ahead of Theo, he's more than ready to face everything the Games throw at him.
Other tributes? Theo's been watching Games recaps for ages. He knows how they work, and he's extensively studied last year's to make sure he won't make any of the same mistakes. The gamemakers? Those might prove to be more of a problem, but Theo's sure it's nothing he can't handle. Besides, Leon's one of his producers. He'll just be doing his best to make sure Theo's show is the best Panem has ever seen.
So yeah, Theo would say he's feeling good. All the pieces are falling into place, and he's up for the challenge of doing the rest on his own.
(That all sounds rather good in his head, huh? Theo's spent quite a lot of time practicing just for this moment. The chariots represent his true debut as Pantheon Lexicus, future Victor. His audience has been following along, waiting for this exact moment, and everything about this transition has to be flawless.
He cannot afford to have any doubts going forward.)
"I think you're all set!"
Theo grins widely at his stylist, Ophelia, and she smiles back timidly. He's figured out by now that her attitude doesn't exactly fit well for television — she's a little too shy, though that makes her good at listening — but she more than makes up for it with her designs. Theo managed to talk her into flipping through her entire sketchbook while the rest of the prep team worked, and the producers really set him up here. Once she got to talking, she rambled on and on about which shades would compliment the exact dark tone of Theo's skin, and how she'd make sure he'd impress every step of the way as long as she's his stylist.
"I really don't think I could've asked for a better stylist," Theo says, lifting his arms to flex in front of the mirror. "You must be the most talented one out here."
Ophelia flushes bright red and scurries around him to brush off parts of his outfit. "You're flattering me too much."
"Just the right amount, I'd say."
"I just had an excellent canvas to work with," she says, stepping back and blinking at him. "Er, so to speak. You really didn't have to take off your shirt, though."
Theo definitely did have to take off his shirt. Ophelia made the suggestion in the first place, so why's she acting brand new now? This is the perfect opportunity for him to show off to all of his viewers, and probably snag some sponsors along the way. Not that he'll have any issues with that.
"Nah, I definitely did," he insists, stretching his arms up over his head. "Besides, gladiators don't really need shirts, right?"
"They definitely do," she says, scurrying to adjust the pieces on his shoulders again. "Or some sort of armor, anyway. I'm not really an expert in all this."
"You certainly made this outfit like one," Theo says, grinning. "An expert, that is."
"There you go again with the flattery." Ophelia tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before starting to shoo him towards the door. "Get out of here before you start making us run late."
Theo laughs at the mere thought. Him, running late? Never. This is his show, after all, so production would merely rearrange things. They'd understand, anyway. Theo has important things to do, important people to see. It takes a lot to be this full of star power, but Theo's always been up for the challenge.
"I'm going, I'm going," he says, dodging her hands. When he reaches the doorway, Theo gives her an exaggerated bow. "Thank you kindly for your work, Ophelia. I look forward to seeing what you have in store for me next time!" Her face turns bright red, but as soon as she opens her mouth to respond, Theo is out the door.
God, it really is a good day to be Pantheon Lexicus. Everything is going his way, and soon enough, he'll get to meet the remaining cast members. Nerissa is fine on her own, but he wants something a little more… dynamic. Hopefully they'll be able to deliver.
The hallway is mildly trafficked by now, as prep teams scurry to retrieve things for their tributes. A few others stand in the hallway chatting with mentors, but Theo doesn't recognize any of them to be the Ones or Fours. Considering he towers over most everyone, he'd certainly be able to find them if they were here. They must be either out at the chariots already or still in their rooms.
Probably the former. They're all waiting for Theo to make his grand debut, after all. How very considerate of them.
He finds his mentor a second later – Callan is idling across the hall, arms crossed over his chest. There's a slight frown tugging his lips down, and he's completely lost in thought. The moment Theo opens his mouth to say something, the man straightens, as if sensing he was nearby, and looks over. Callan scans him from head to toe, face slipping back to its usual impassivity. "Gladiator," he says, nodding. "Classic. You pull it off well. Ready to go?"
The words barely register in Theo's mind as his attention is instead captured by something else. "You have a cat," Theo says, blinking at the small orange creature in his mentor's arms.
The cat sinks its claws into Callan's shirt, but he doesn't seem to notice. "His name is Yarn," he says, as if that's all there is to explain.
"Yarn wasn't on the train," Theo points out.
Callan shoots the cat a mildly betrayed look. "Yarn isn't mine."
"Why not?"
"... I don't like animals."
"He seems to like you."
"It's one-sided."
It's at this point that Theo realizes he's supposed to be learning something right now. He's been finding it exceptionally difficult to get a read on Callan, and considering this is the guy playing the role of his mentor, Theo's probably supposed to win his affection somehow. This at first seemed like a monumental task, considering Callan did nothing but listen and nod to all of Theo's most engaging stories, but judging by the way his mentor is tenderly cradling a kitten while simultaneously proclaiming his aversion to animals, Theo himself may still stand a chance.
He nods thoughtfully. Theo had at first figured that his mentor character would be easier to win over, but now that he knows that's not the case, he can adjust accordingly. And, more importantly, he won't be deterred by Callan's usually stoic expression. This is just another challenge, one that Theo is determined to beat.
"You ready?" Callan asks, watching Theo lightly.
"I've been waiting my whole life for this," Theo proclaims boldly. "You'd think I was born ready."
Callan visibly winces. "Maybe don't go around saying things like that."
Right. Theo nearly forgot that that whole schtick was already done last year. He can't exactly say he was born for this, so maybe chosen is the better word. Yeah, that's it. Someone chose Theo, and now he gets to show all of Panem why.
Of all his new castmates, Callan's doing the best at giving Theo cues and making sure he stays on top of everything. Theo's really impressed. Once this is all over, he'll have to recommend this guy for an award or something.
"Any last bits of advice?" Theo asks, placing his hands on his hips.
Callan frowns and pets the top of Yarn's head. The cat purrs loud enough for Theo to hear even as people move around in the hallway. "Establish yourself early, but don't attract more attention than you need." Not possible. "Don't make any enemies." Maybe possible. "Look out for an ally that seems willing to side with you, and get close." Definitely possible.
"Wise words from a wise mentor," Theo says, chuckling. "You're really good at this, huh?"
Humming a bit, Callan starts heading down the hallway. "Appreciated, but you don't need to flatter me. I'm just doing my job."
Wow. He really is good at playing hard to get. Theo's mildly impressed.
It only takes him a few long strides to catch back up to Callan, who expertly weaves his way through the crowded hallway as if he has a million times before. He doesn't seem too keen on talking anymore, managing to avoid brushing up against anyone. Only when they've made it to the main area does Callan look back at him.
"Do you need anything else?" he asks, still petting the top of Yarn's head. "If not, I'll see you after. Remember, this is your big chance to make a real first impression and catch sponsors. And meet other tributes, even though there's plenty of time for that during training as well."
"So use this as a universal first impression," Theo says, nodding to himself. "Sponsors should love me and tributes should want to stay on my good side. Sounds easy enough."
Callan exhales through his nose. "Not exactly, but looks like you've got the basics down."
"No need to worry about me," Theo says, placing a hand on his chest. "I'll make you proud!"
The barest hint of a smile tugs at Callan's lips. "Just get out there before they start to worry about you."
"I'll see you after! You won't be able to look away!"
Callan nods his head towards where the others are idling, already grouped together. Yarn meows and lifts his head to sniff the air. Theo feels the fleeting urge to pet the cat, but he instead offers his mentor a wave before turning on his heel and heading over to where four people have clustered together.
Now, Theo has already done plenty of research on his future allies. Er, "research." There was only so much he could do on the train, but he's learned their names and can certainly recognize them as long as they're not covered in extravagant makeup. Luckily, he's also been paying close attention to chariot style trends, and it's rather easy to tell the difference between the crystalline Ones and the oceanic Fours.
He's got this all planned out in his head. He'll introduce himself to them one by one, flaunt that he's been paying attention and knows their names, and they'll be so dazzled that they'll come to the quick agreement that he needs to be the leader.
Not that he really needs to convince them. His show would be rather dull if its main character wasn't the leader of the pack, right?
The first to spot him is Nerissa, whose eyes flit over him coolly. Even though they're in similar outfits – all brown leather and sharp edges – her fine, high features give her more of an elvish look. She sniffs, icy blue eyes meeting his.
"I thought you'd never show up, Pantheon."
He gives her a look. "I told you on the train it's Theo."
Waving a hand, Nerissa steps back a bit to allow him into the cluster. "I must've forgotten."
"Pantheon Lexicus, right?"
"That's me," he says, winking in the direction of whoever's speaking. "The one and only. But really, just call me Theo."
"It's so lovely to meet you," the girl says, presenting him with a painted-blue hand. When she grins at him, her canines are needle-sharp, and her eyes are somehow feline. She looks like she clawed her way out of the sea itself, her tattered dress a result of being battered by the waves. "Thessaly Akaste. Ner's told us so much about you."
"I don't do nicknames," Nerissa warns, as if she's already had to do so before.
Thessaly turns her head to grin at Nerissa. "I must've forgotten."
This surprises Theo, and he barks out a laugh. Nerissa manages to look even more unamused.
"Don't mind her, she doesn't know how to have any fun." Theo offers her a dramatic bow and kisses the back of her hand. "I hope she only had nice things to say."
"That you're loud and talk a lot, mostly," Thessaly says. Beside her, Nerissa shrugs in agreement. "Which I quite like. Means we'll get along excellently."
"Such high praise, Nerissa," Theo teases, still trying to get something out of her other than mild disinterest. "I didn't know you were so fond of me."
"I'm not," she says rather bluntly. "I did, however, mention that you wanted to be leader."
"And?"
"None of them had any pushback. Seems the spot is yours as long as you want it."
Huh. That was incredibly easy. Almost underwhelming, even. Theo tries not to get too down about it. Callan had warned him previously that there was an early power struggle last year, so maybe the producers just wanted something new and different for this year.
"I'm not really the leadership type," Thessaly explains. "Doesn't fit my style."
"And what is your style?" Theo asks curiously.
"Fuck around, find out, have fun."
"Good life motto."
"Thanks, I came up with it myself."
"Girl after my own heart," he proclaims, clutching a hand to his chest. "Where have you been all my life?"
"I was wondering the same thing." She pouts and mock glares at Nerissa. "No one knows how to have fun around here. You can call me Thess, by the way."
"Ooh, official nickname permission? We're getting close already."
"It's what all my friends call me, and I have a feeling we'll be friends rather soon."
"This is already a nightmare," Nerissa says flatly.
Thess shakes her head disapprovingly. "Now now, Ner, I know you're jealous but this isn't a good look on you."
"Jealous?"
"Don't mind her." Theo lowers his voice to something barely above a whisper, where he knows Nerissa can still hear. "I think her parents left her out in the cold as a child and that's why she's still so frigid."
Thess nods sympathetically. "I'm afraid that would make sense… I'd offer to warm her up, but I'm not sure she'd let me."
"I'd offer to help, but-"
"Definitely not." The tips of Nerissa's ears are turning pink. "Are you two done yet?"
"Aw, don't be that way," Thess says, leaning an elbow on Nerissa's shoulder despite the other girl being taller. By the looks of it, Nerissa is trying hard to act like she's not entertained. "We're only messing around, you know."
(Does she know? Well, obviously Nerissa does. She's been around this sort of dynamic before, and it usually only serves to annoy her. So, luckily, she's well equipped for situations such as these. And even though two of her allies are getting on better than she expected – a true nightmare – she'll surely be able to find some sort of solace in the others.
Surely.)
"I think you're up next, Ibai," Thess says, looking at the boy beside her.
The other Four's outfit is thematically far different from Thess's. He's in brighter colors, the blue and white of a sailor uniform. His brown hair has been thoroughly mussed, but considering he's spinning a sailor's cap between his hands, Theo can only assume it's his own doing. He hardly seems to notice that anyone said his name at all, too fixated on the task in front of him. It takes Thess saying his name again and nudging his arm for Ibai to look up, meeting Theo's gaze for half a second before looking away again.
"Nice to meet you." His tone indicates the exact opposite. He seems to be more reluctant than anything else. Maybe he's just shy and needs time to warm up. He hesitates before adding, "And… I know Thess just introduced me, but it's Ibai."
"Ibai Zubizarreta, I heard."
Ibai looks mildly alarmed and glances back up at him. "You heard?"
"Yeah, like from the reapings."
"Oh. Right." Ibai puffs his cheeks out. "I was worried you ran into Thess earlier."
Thess looks mildly affronted. For half a second it looks like she's going to sling an arm around his shoulders, but she changes her mind. "Hey, what does that mean?"
"You talk a lot."
"I can stay quiet!"
"That doesn't seem very likely from what I've gathered."
"Hey! I resent that!"
The Fours have already settled into an easy rapport, which eases Theo's nerves. He still worries that he won't know how to talk to Ibai, who looks very much on edge when anyone but Thess talks to him, but surely he can find a way. He's already fond of Thess, and so is Ibai, so they have one thing in common at least.
He needs to keep moving, so Theo glances around to see who's left. The only one he hasn't introduced himself to is the One boy, whose arms are crossed as if he's trying not to catch attention right now.
"And you're Callum," he says, tilting his head to look at the boy.
Under his scrutiny, Callum looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. Maybe it's in part due to the fact that if Theo squints, the boy's costume is rather ill-fitting. The gloves on his hands are slightly baggy, and the hem of his pants brush the ground. He almost looks like he's impersonating someone else. Maybe he really is and he's a last minute substitution that the producers couldn't work in seamlessly. Sort of like Nova.
Callum lifts his chin. "That's me. I'll make sure to pull my weight, so don't worry about that."
Theo furrows his brows. "I wasn't, but thank you for the reassurance."
Shrugging, Callum clamps his mouth shut, as if trying to avoid saying anything more. He's definitely rather… strange… but that's not Theo's problem right now. The boy is also somewhat jittery, as if he's waiting for someone to call him out on something. Theo doesn't even know where to begin with that, but if he's gunning for some sort of dramatic reveal down the line, he should probably learn to be more subtle about it. And more interesting, maybe.
Tired of thinking this one over, Theo glances around. "Isn't there one more? Where's-"
"Saccharine."
The voice from behind him comes so out of nowhere that Theo yelps in surprise. The intruder blinks up at him, not even shoulder height. She's so… so dainty up close that Theo is surprised that someone like her managed to make it through one of One's programs in the first place. Her skin shimmers like she's made of crystal itself. If he squints, Theo can spot patterned butterflies in her hair and along her face and throat. There's some scattered on her dress as well, each appearing as if it's about to take off in flight.
He's been staring too long. Theo swallows and tries to regain some of his bravado. "Huh?" is all that manages to come out.
"My name," she says, voice light and airy. "It's Saccharine. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," Theo manages. "You're…"
He doesn't know what he was trying to say, but Saccharine doesn't comment on it. She slides into place beside Callum, who shuffles aside to make room, and tucks her hands behind her back. "Sorry for disappearing," she explains. "I thought some of the butterflies on my skin were loosening."
"Gross," Theo blurts out.
She merely smiles. "I just needed them fixed. It's no big deal, really."
Theo finally remembers himself and pastes a smile back on his face. "I can more than respect someone that values their appearance."
"I'm not vain like that," she says, tone a bit more biting. But before Theo can even think to question it, she's back to normal. "I just want to make a good first impression."
"Even more commendable."
She merely hums, clearly done talking for now. Theo considers himself lucky that Nerissa already volunteered to deal with both of the Ones. They're not bad, but neither of them is exactly giving Theo anything to work with. And even though he can already tell Ibai's going to be tough to get close to, Theo feels like he's the right choice anyway.
(The existence of a right choice is both a relief and an added stressor. Theo can't afford to mess things up so late in the game. He's always been at the whim of his producers, and these days he feels like he understands what they want from him less and less.)
He coughs. "Now that we're all here, as the leader I should probably say a few words. We can get into more of this tomorrow at training, but for now-"
"Oh, my dearest Bonbon!"
Theo's words die in his throat as someone else intrudes on his speech, drawing attention over to a boy in rather understated beige clothes with a wreath of sunflowers on his head. Theo hasn't learned the name of this character yet, but if he's going to make a habit of drawing so much attention to himself, then Theo might need to find a way to talk to his actor about this. Doesn't he realize that Theo was in the middle of a big moment? This is his show, not anyone else's.
He's uncharacteristically at a loss for words, with no choice but to watch as he's upstaged by this extra, who prances around like he thinks he's the real star of the show. Bonbon ends up being a girl in a pristine white dress, which floats around her as if she's some sort of ethereal being, though she certainly doesn't carry herself like one. Her hair has been intricately braided back, and she's got a crown of flowers placed on her head.
The boy clears his throat dramatically, waving a hand through the air. "In your most painful absence, my beloved Bourbon, I thought long and hard about how to show you that I missed you. And though this is only a drop in the pond of my endless love for you, I hope you accept this token of my affection."
Beside Theo, Thess wolf whistles, then gives the boy a thumbs up when he glances over. He winks at her in return before pulling out a rose from behind his back and offering it up to Bonbon, who covers her mouth with a hand, likely concealing her shock and delight.
"Your beauty is like this flowering rose,
Tho trimmed from its stalk, it grows and grows
Your presence is charming, your smile is bright,
Won't you come join me at the end of the night?"
The boy has hardly finished before Bonbon throws herself in his arms, and he halfway topples over before managing to catch himself with a palm. Bonbon doesn't seem bothered that her white dress is scraping along the filthy ground, but Theo visibly cringes.
"Well that was sweet," Thess says, putting her hands on her hips.
"More like stupid," Nerissa mutters. "What's another pair of lovebirds doing in the Arena?"
"Statistically, dying," Ibai chimes in. "Even if one manages to win – a rare enough feat on its own – there's never been a case of two victors."
Saccharine and Callum say nothing at all. Callum looks conflicted by the matter, his hands twisting together in front of him, while Saccharine's pleasant smile hasn't dropped. She merely hums and looks away, giving them their privacy.
Something bitter twists in Theo's stomach. He doesn't understand how this could've happened. Someone else intruded on his big moment. It's the sort of thing that should be small, irrelevant, but it's cranked the white noise in Theo's head up to one hundred. He's bothered, even though he can't say anything about it aloud, lest he risk breaking character. Theo's never done that before, and he certainly can't risk it now, not when he's so close to the end.
Maybe this is a sign from the producers. This may be the final season of his show, but Theo has to work for his own spot, fight for every ounce of screentime. This is the big finale, so Theo has to do more, otherwise they'll become displeased with him.
His stomach twists even tighter. Theo feels the faintest tingling in his fingertips. His producers don't show him their displeasure all that often, but when they do, he takes note immediately. And if his moment was overshadowed here, then the only logical conclusion is that they wanted something else from him. He just doesn't know what. The only thing he can do is try to find out.
goldie wrote the poem not me. i don't do poetry. everyone say thanks goldie!
i don't think i have anything else to say except the usual. you'll probs see me back in like a month as long as school hasn't absolutely obliterated me and all. five pov chapter! lots to see lots to do training will certainly be an adventure.
also yes i love making alliances (or connections ig) start in parades. also fuck you i don't write the actual chariot procession bc i don't want to be bored and neither do you. enjoy camp instead
i think that's all? happy holidays if i'm not back before january. see ya!
~de laney is out