cw: uhhh subplot stuff is kinda starting to take off on a darker route and it won't really get better so this serves as a general "if u can't get through a pov just dm me and i'll give u a tl;dr." anything particularly upsetting will still get a tw tho.
Ariadne Valade, 25
District Eight
Victor of the 117th Games
"You know," Ariadne says, leaning back in her chair, "you still haven't told me why you wanted to see me."
"Is it not enough to claim I wanted to spend time with my favorite Victor?"
She laughs, the sound perfectly rehearsed as if she's done this a hundred times. (She has.) "You might flatter me like that, but you and I both know that the last thing you want is my company."
"I quite enjoy your company," Maddox insists, taking a moment to look up from his papers and smile at her. It's hardly a kind gesture.
"Not all on its own. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to know what you want."
He hums, back to whatever he's working on. Ariadne doesn't bother trying to catch a peek — he may trust her more than most, but anything he has the audacity to flaunt in front of her face is mindlessly dull at best and completely worthless at worst. Besides, trust is a strong word for their relationship. More accurately, Ariadne's just the closest to him - a fact she isn't exactly proud of, even though it provides a strange sort of comfort.
"Have you chosen yours yet?"
She hums. How very like him to get straight to the point. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Maddox laughs and shakes his head. "You never leave them out to dry, but there's always one you put more of your energy into."
"That's not true," she counters. "Sometimes neither of them are worth my time."
"Would you consider helping both?"
"Only if I had to. It spreads resources too thin. Only one wins anyway – everyone knows that much."
"So you have chosen." Maddox looks all too pleased. "Which one, then?"
A warning flares up inside Ariadne, and she hesitates. "What does it matter to you?"
"I like knowing who to keep an eye on," he says, leaning back in his chair. "The strong, the impressionable, the wild cards… anyone that strives to make the game more interesting."
"And you trust my judgment."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Well, I haven't exactly brought any of them home yet."
"You've come close, haven't you?"
She laughs humorlessly. "Close means nothing. Second place is just as dead as twenty-fourth. A few more days of survival just increases your chances of ending up on some Capitolite's list of best Games moments or facing something bigger and badder than a quick death at the hands of a bloodthirsty Career."
There's a beat of silence in which Ariadne realizes she's made the mistake of showing too much. How foolish of her, really – she knows better than almost anyone how good Maddox is at listening.
"Interesting."
She tries not to appear visibly annoyed. "Interesting how?"
"I always admire your opinion on such matters," he says, finally setting aside his paperwork. "The outlook of someone that has gone through the Games is often… enlightening."
"Hence why you want my opinion on this year's tributes?"
A smirk flits across his lips. "Something like that."
Ariadne spends a moment silently debating what to say – or, really, what not to say. She admittedly hasn't paid much attention to the other tributes, but the way Maddox keeps nagging her about an answer… he's clearly looking for some response, she's just not sure what.
"What's this really about?" she settles on.
"I don't know what you mean."
"I thought you knew by now that you couldn't play me for a fool. You've always got some sort of ulterior motive going on."
Sighing, Maddox shakes his head, as if she's finally found him out. Ariadne nearly rolls her eyes at the dramatics. "I hadn't counted on Bastian falling through so soon, and I didn't have a replacement lined up. Depending on the outcome of these Games, maybe I'll be able to sort something out."
"What about the girl from last year?"
"She'd be too much of a liability. With all those siblings running around, I'd hate to see someone get caught in the crossfire overhearing something they shouldn't have. And besides, her family does great work with all those kids already – I'd hate to undermine that."
"Surely there's a previous Victor you can work with."
"Thea's already fallen through. Madoka has the potential to be just as much of a loose cannon as Bastian was. Her tie to that peacekeeper girl is helpful, but based on her sister in these Games… well, I'm not optimistic about the outcome. Then… there's always Tessa. I've given her a few tasks here and there, but she's a little too… frivolous to be involved in much more. I could keep going, but at a certain point the Victors get old and settled enough that they'll be particularly resistant to assisting me."
Ariadne hates whatever he's trying to insinuate, but she knows that getting worked up about it won't amount to anything. "So you want me to see if this year's group has any possibilities?"
"To the best of your abilities, that is," Maddox says, too pleased with himself. "There's no way to say for sure until the Games hit. At least a couple tributes always go through a startling revelation about how far they're willing to go."
Some sort of expression flickers across her face, too fast for Ariadne to wipe it away before Maddox sees. She doesn't even know why the comment stung – most days, she's completely numb to her own actions in the Arena. She was a completely different person.
(Was she different enough? Some days, Ariadne can't say. Especially not when the endless nightmares reveal that she's more similar to her eighteen-year-old self than she wants to believe.)
(In many ways, that's not such a bad thing. But since Ariadne has done everything to make sure she's never that weak again, it's not exactly a comforting thought.)
"Of course," she says, immediately trying to block all that out of her mind. "I don't have any faith in the Ones after last year."
"Because Alila won?"
"Because I don't think either of them can measure up to her. Back to back Victors are possible, but it would take a lot more than what they've got going for them this year. The Twos… they're strong. Callan knows what he's doing. They don't have a bullshit prophecy working against them. I'd say it's possible."
"Very thorough," he muses, leaning back in his chair. "Going District by District?"
"Only the ones that interest me," she says flippantly.
"Doesn't that just make room for you to be surprised?"
"I'll be surprised no matter what. Someone always goes into the Games all tough only to fall hard and fast, and someone always crawls their way nearly to the finish line like a goddamn cockroach. You asked for my opinion, so that's what you're getting right now."
He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Fair point."
"Neither of the Fours have the attitude for it, but they at least look capable, so they've got something going for them. That Five kid might have a chance if she wasn't so… like that. Seven might be promising. Maybe the Nine girl if she wasn't wrapped up with the other one. The Eleven boy."
"Neither of your own?"
It's truly stunning, the way Maddox keeps prodding for more information. Ariadne wants to keep something close to her chest.
She shrugs. "I had a talk with them." Win, or survive? "The results were… inconclusive. No way to tell until I see what they're really capable of. I don't bet early on my own tributes."
They both know it's a lie. If a sniveling twelve-year-old lands on the train, Ariadne's going to make sure they're well taken care of until their inevitable doom, but she won't be working herself to death searching for sponsors. Maybe some of the other mentors disagree with her methods, but it's really for the best. Ariadne doesn't believe in giving kids more hope than they can reasonably be afforded.
His lips curl up into a smile. "Wise of you to keep a few things to yourself, Miss Valade. In the end, I suppose you're right. We'll just have to see how things shape up."
"Am I dismissed yet?" she asks, already standing up. "I assume you'll want to meet with me in a few days."
"If you happen to find yourself with time during the Games, go ahead and drop by. If not, don't concern yourself with the matter until after. I'll send for you."
"I'll keep an eye out."
"Ah! Before I forget," Maddox rustles through sheets of paper on his desk, procuring a blank white envelope, "can you give this to Callan? Immediately, of course – it's sort of a time-sensitive matter."
Ariadne's jaw tightens. She hates nothing more than when Maddox forces her into positions like this, where she has to act like some sort of emissary for his plans.
Really, this is nothing but another test. That's what everything is with Maddox: a test to see how far he can push things. And while Ariadne doesn't like continuing to play directly into his hands, she's got people at home that need her to keep her head down.
(For how long?)
(Long enough.)
"I was planning to drop by anyway." Ariadne smiles blandly as she takes the envelope. "We've hardly gotten to see each other this year – whatever's been going on in Two has taken up all his time."
"I understand," he sympathizes. Ariadne's skin crawls. "Distance is hard on a young couple."
Distance makes it hard to keep up the charade, really. Ariadne is sure that Maddox knows they're only pretending to be a happy couple for the cameras, but if he's not going to call her out on it, she won't admit to it. With the amount of stress – however minimal – this game of pretend has relieved from Callan, Ariadne finds the whole matter to be worth it. Not like she's missing much anyway.
(Missing anything she can actually attain, at least.)
She can't come up with a sufficient answer, so Ariadne doesn't bother. Instead, she turns and heads towards the door, only pausing when she hears Maddox speak again.
"Good luck to you, of course. Or- ah, what is that old saying… may the odds be ever in your favor?"
Ariadne hums. "You know I don't particularly believe in luck."
She can nearly imagine the smile on his face. "Maybe not, but one day you might find yourself needing some."
It's dark when she wins. So dark she can hardly see a hand in front of her face. The last bit of light died when she smashed a lantern into the side of the boy's head as soon as the Career's cannon sounded. The only thing standing between her and victory was a boy stupid enough to accept her help, not knowing that four other people made the exact same mistake.
Use and dispose. It's the mantra Ariadne has kept up for days. Encounter a tribute, concoct a situation in which she's beneficial to their cause and shouldn't be immediately killed, and then kill them before they can kill her. She's seen it before. Unless she strives to take advantage of every opportunity presented to her, Ariadne will become nothing more than a number.
She can't let that happen. She'll do anything to make sure it doesn't happen.
He's too blinded by his own minor victory to notice Ariadne's been waiting for this exact moment. And as soon as the lights go out, and neither of them can see anything at all, Ariadne relies on muscle memory as she grabs the blade from her waist and plunges downdowndown-
When the final cannon goes off, Ariadne's too blinded by her own relief to notice that her hands are trembling, like she hardly expected her plan to work. Like she was deeply scared it wouldn't.
When it's all said and done, she makes herself a promise that she'll never be scared again.
(Whether she admits it or not, that promise has been broken many times.)
She only barely gets home in time for her sister's birth. Seeing her mom taken care of in a real hospital is more than worth everything she went through. So is knowing her sister will never go a day without food.
Things are better. They're better because Ariadne made it so. She clawed her way to the end, using every dirty trick at her disposal, and she regrets nothing. The Capitol has scrubbed her clean of any physical flaws. Capitolites fawn over the way she remains detached, like none of it even happened. The Games didn't break her. They made her stronger. It's undeniable proof that the Games are good, that in the end, they really do help people.
(Ariadne has never needed their help. She learned how to help herself.)
The nights are the hardest. Ariadne closes her eyes and remembers the petrifying feeling of all her other senses being heightened. Every tiny sound is a threat coming her way. She can't relax, and when she does, she falls deep into a pit of nightmares that sap away at her energy, her strength, her mind.
It's lonely in the Victor's Village. But Ariadne would rather sleep in that big house all alone than wake her sister up with her screams.
Things get better. Not all the way, but enough. Ariadne learns how to manage. Sometimes she takes pills just to make sure she sleeps so deeply that not even nightmares can disturb her. Sometimes she accepts the company of someone else in her home. Sometimes a sewing project can keep her mind so blissfully empty that she wakes up without dreaming at all.
The biggest help of all is the lamp she keeps at her bedside. The light stays on most nights.
She's starting to believe she doesn't remember how to turn it off.
Jasmine McCoy, 16
District Twelve Female, she/her
When Tessa finds out that Jasmine went through with an interview without consulting her, she might have a fit. But honestly, Jasmine feels far more capable of this than the whole ally debacle from earlier.
Okay, it didn't go terribly. Jasmine knows she still has a chance to score the ally she wants, and she's going to find a way to make sure it happens. But throughout the whole encounter, Nolan looked more perplexed than anything. Maybe she didn't quite nail the delivery of the lines Tessa fed her, but he didn't run away screaming, so things could've gone far worse.
As for what she's supposed to show him tomorrow, Jasmine hopes that Nolan hasn't learned too much about edible plants back in Eleven. In a pinch, she can try to show off some healing skills, but she wants to keep her knowledge about poison largely under wraps. If Jasmine doesn't get an ally out of this, she'd hate to walk away knowing someone else recognizes her biggest strength.
There's a lot for Jasmine to think about, and honestly, this interview with Itara Kulkarni is about to be the least stressful part of her day. Jasmine isn't stupid – she's not going to start yammering on about how corrupt the Twelve government is or how Orson is a piece of shit, however correct both of those statements might be. If Jasmine gets an interview that'll last as long as she wants it to, then she knows exactly what – or rather, who – she's going to talk about.
"Jasmine McCoy?"
She spins around and nods at Itara once, trying to keep her slight nerves at bay. "Very nice to meet you," Jasmine says. "I hope this interview is more of a casual affair."
"I hope to make it exactly that," Itara says, waving her inside. At Itara's direction, Jasmine sits down in a chair facing the camera, smoothing out the fabric of her shorts. "While I love the real interviews, they can be rather stuffy, and several tributes clam up when a literal spotlight is shining down on them. This is the chance for everyone to relax and talk about whatever they want, without anything as restricting as an angle to make sure they come off a certain way. This year, I'm looking for something a little more… honest. Real."
"Which makes sense," Jasmine says, nodding along as if she has any care for which the Games are presented.
"I didn't expect to see you so soon," Itara admits as she sits in the other chair. "Not that I'm complaining, of course."
"Today felt like my best chance," Jasmine says, folding her hands firmly in her lap. "I've got other arrangements tomorrow, and I don't want to cram it in on the last day. Besides, I already know exactly what I want to talk about."
"You seem very certain about that."
"Of course I am. That's the reason I'm here, after all."
Itara nearly looks startled, raising an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Sheridan Huntsman," Jasmine says, a fond smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "My best friend in the entire world. She was something like a sister to me, really. In all but blood."
"Was?"
Jasmine forces a laugh, feeling a familiar sting in her eyes. Good. The tears are real, of course, but she's also been building them up for the past several minutes. Whatever will help her showcase Sheridan to the world as best she can.
"She's gone," Jasmine says. "Murdered – and rather cruelly at that."
Itara gasps, a hand covering her mouth. Jasmine finds that she appreciates the dramatics. They make it easier for her to slip into this exaggerated persona, to give Sheridan everything she can. More than anything, Jasmine wants to make her friend's name known. Sheridan will not be forgotten.
"Do you know what happened?"
"I'm afraid I'll never know the full story," Jasmine says, shaking her head. "I wasn't there. The peacekeepers did everything they could, but there was no final outcome. Whoever did it has almost certainly gotten away with it."
It's a lie, but quite simply, there's nothing more that Jasmine can reveal. If she says anything more, then Orson's father will make good on his promise to make her life hell. He'd cut short her goodbye with her parents by storming in and ordering them out before insisting he knew what she did. Jasmine played dumb long enough for him to admit that he only has a hunch that she was involved with Orson's death, but if he ever finds out for certain, he'll make her regret everything. There's certainly not anything he can do to her from so far away, but with Jasmine's parents back home and oblivious to her actions, she can't let them get caught in the crossfire. This is her burden and her burden alone.
(And besides, she'd do it again. Orson was nothing more than scum, and she treated him exactly how he deserved. She's glad his body didn't get found until reaping day so the Peacekeepers didn't even have a chance to investigate her.
If that's the most she can do to honor her friend, then so be it. Jasmine has no regrets.)
"That's so awful to hear," Itara says, shaking her head. "I'm so sorry to hear about your friend and the lack of a resolution."
"More than anything, I'd like an answer," she sniffles, "or some kind of justice. I'd like to think Sheridan at least deserves that."
"Would you mind telling me more about her?"
"She was incredible," Jasmine says. She coughs a bit. "Sweet and spirited. We spent most days together. She taught me a lot – more than she'll ever know, really. We only met because she kept me from eating nightlock. Where I'm from, there's hardly any nature to be seen, but she lived right by the woods and recognized what I was about to do."
"Is nightlock a regular danger out in Twelve?"
"Depends on the area. There's a lot of mountains full of nothing but stone, but the valleys are known to grow some unsavory plants. Some will make you sick to your stomach for a few days, and others will kill you within hours. Not many people are well versed in what they look like, so a lot of accidents happen."
"Does that frighten you?"
"Not particularly. I wasn't aware that there was a danger for quite a while, and safe to say my curiosity got the best of me when I almost ate that nightlock. I'm lucky Sheridan was there to guide me away from it."
Jasmine could continue on and talk about how this led to her current job as a toxicologist for the District, but she figures this is good enough for now. After all, Jasmine doesn't want her interview to be about her as much as she wants it to be about Sheridan.
"Do you feel ready for the Games?" Itara asks, directly going against Jasmine's silent wishes. "Not to condescend you, but we don't see many volunteers so young."
"I understand," she says honestly. "And… well, I don't feel completely ready – that's what the next two days are for, after all – but I wouldn't have volunteered if I didn't think I could make it out."
"What makes you so confident?"
"Let's just say I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."
"Cryptic." Itara leans forward. "Not even a hint?"
She hums. Jasmine doesn't know if any of this will be aired to the other tributes, but just in case, she wants to keep her true talents as secret as she can. As long as no one besides an ally knows her blades will be covered in poison, she should be able to get in a nick on anyone she comes across. Her poison will take care of the rest.
"I've learned some skills back home that I believe will be able to supplement whatever I learn during training," Jasmine finally decides on. "I won't be a force like last year, but I'll have my own ways of keeping myself safe."
"In that case, I guess I'll have to wait and see what you show us in the Games," Itara says, sitting up a little straighter. "Do you think you have what it takes?"
"I think I'm willing to do whatever I need to in order to get home."
Jasmine can't yet be certain how true those words are. But she knows she's already done plenty to get herself here. As much as Jasmine looks down on the Games for their unnecessary violence and cruelty, she's done similar. Orson is probably barely into his grave as she sits here now, reminiscing on the friend that was taken from her too soon. Sheridan deserved the world; the world didn't deserve Sheridan. Now that Jasmine sees the truth of how ugly Twelve is, down to its core, she can find a way to eradicate that venom entirely.
But first, she has to find her way back home. And no matter how confident she sounds now, Jasmine knows that surviving the Games is going to be the hardest thing she's ever done.
Zephyr Vitale, 18
District Seven Tribute, he/they
All things considered, things are going well for one Zephyr Vitale.
With an alliance secured, Zephyr doesn't have any reservations about spending the end of his training day talking to Itara Kulkarni. When he gets back to the floor, his mentors might complain that he should've conferred with them first, as it's not like Zephyr is going into this with a strategy in mind. That being said, they're plenty confident in their own abilities to talk.
The part that Zephyr might get stuck on is actually not talking. They know there's a better than decent chance Itara will ask about why they volunteered, and Zephyr doesn't have a suitable excuse yet. They can't exactly say his father told him to or else unspeakable things would happen to their loved ones. That might not go over well back home.
(Not to mention when Zaidra finds out the truth, Zephyr wants to be able to explain it to her himself. This is their chance to make things right once and for all.)
They sigh and rest their head against the wall. When Zephyr volunteered for the last slot of the day, Itara had looked rather excited before disappearing back into the room she'd spent all day in. But based on the brief glimpse he'd gotten, there's not much in there besides a couple chairs and a camera. Maybe she's looking over notes or conferring with someone – Zephyr hopes it's nothing too serious. But the longer they have to wait out here, the more anxious he gets.
Deep down, he knows this sudden spike of nerves is foolish. The only secret worth keeping is the one between him and Velour. But the Capitol has a way of knowing everything, and Zephyr almost feels as if they'll somehow find out something they didn't know before.
"Zephyr Vitale!"
They blink and turn their head to look at the now-open door. Itara beams at him, holding a pen and clipboard in one hand while holding out the other for him to shake. Zephyr does so, giving her a nod of their head.
"Lovely to meet you, Itara." He steps inside the room after her, following her directions to the chair positioned in front of the camera. By the look of it, they're going to be the only one in the frame. Zephyr doesn't exactly mind the spotlight, but something about this setup rubs them the wrong way.
"It's already rolling, but don't let that worry you." Itara settles down in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "This is nowhere near as formal as our other interview will be – think of it as a chance to relax and talk about whatever you want to share."
"I'm not worried," he says honestly. "Though, I figure you do have at least a few questions for me."
"Enough to keep you here all day. I'm quite curious, and the Capitol is too."
"I can't imagine why," Zephyr teases. "Where do I start? The beautiful scenery back home? My daily schedule?"
"Both tempting, but I was thinking more…" Itara's eyes glimmer. "I hear you got invited to a rather elite alliance. What are your thoughts on that?"
Zephyr chuckles and shakes their head. Word must travel fast if it's already reached Itara, who's spent her whole day back should've guessed that she'd have eyes and ears to report back to her between sessions.
"They're certainly an interesting crew," Zephyr says, trying to stay neutral. And besides, they don't really know much about their new allies besides the fact that interesting really is the best word to describe the whole group. "Nearly split in half, really – Theo and Thess are always looking for something new and exciting, hence how they found me, while Ibai, Nerissa, and Saccharine prefer to keep to themselves. Callum knows how to enjoy a casual conversation, but he's not quite as… confident as Theo and Thess."
"And where do you think you fit in?"
"Strangely, I find myself most like Callum right now. It's been less than a day, of course, so we'll see if I can somehow match the energy of Theo and Thess, but I'm most comfortable with someone I can just talk to."
"Do you have a favorite ally yet? Or a least favorite?"
"Aw, come on now, Itara," he chides playfully. He's not about to answer that question without knowing how this footage will be used. "Surely you're not about to get me in trouble with my new allies. It wouldn't be right to play favorites on the first day."
"First impressions are quite important though," she reminds them. "Surely someone has made an impact on you already, otherwise you wouldn't have joined."
"Well, quite simply, how could I resist such an incredible offer? I've got a few tricks up my sleeve, sure, but I have no doubt these new allies will be able to help me out once the Games arrive."
"In a way you couldn't help yourself?"
"I've been told that it's not always wise to do things on my own. You could say I'm trying something new here."
"Oh really?" Itara leans forward, eyes brightening. "Who told you that?"
"My sister, Zaidra."
"Zephyr and Zaidra…" she muses. "Older? Younger?"
"Twin, but technically I'm older."
"Are you close? I find it's a mixed bag with twins. Sometimes they get along a little too well, and sometimes they dissolve into petty squabbles at the drop of a hat."
"Used to be."
Itara raises an eyebrow. "I assume there's a story there?"
"My mom always says there's a story anywhere, as long as you know how to look." Zephyr tries to smile, but he's not sure how convincing it is. They sigh. "We had something of a falling out. There's nothing more painful than growing apart from the one person you've had by your side for literally your entire life."
"I can only imagine."
"She's been there for… for everything, really. She's my other half – no, more than that. She's a part of me. Always will be."
There's an unspoken even when I'm gone that hangs in the air, whether Itara notices or not. Zephyr isn't sure how this will air for the general public, but they hope Zaidra sees and understands.
She's the only one that could.
(Of course, the when implies that Zephyr is counting on dying. He's not. There's a chance of living as much as there's a chance of dying – he's merely aware of their odds.. And whether Zephyr makes it out of the Arena alive or not, part of them will be gone forever. As much as the Games claim to give, they take far more than they're ever willing to return.)
(Zephyr only hopes to make it home in one piece.)
"Can I ask what happened between the two of you?"
Zephyr blinks and looks at her. Despite the fact that they know she's only doing her job, that she's supposed to pry and ask questions to unveil every interesting aspect of the tributes' lives, she seems genuinely curious. Maybe that's how she got this job in the first place – a fascination with carefully dissecting every person that sits down across from her. She could probably theorize better than the vast majority of Capitolites based solely on the three-minute conversations she has with the tributes.
"I'm not quite sure," he admits. "And, honestly, I'm not quite sure Zaidra knows either. We both have our gripes with each other, but the more I think about it… the more I think the true cause is a genuine misunderstanding that has been building between us. One that corrupted and degraded the core of our relationship to the point that the origin may have been nothing more than a spat that got out of hand. All I know is that these days, all we do is point fingers at each other."
"Sounds lonely."
"In a lot of ways, yes," Zephyr admits. "But I wouldn't consider myself to be alone. I may not have Zaidra anymore, but I have my mom, Galenos, Kiara… all sorts of people that I'm glad to have in my life."
Itara gives them her first genuine smile. "I assume that's who you're doing all this for?"
"Precisely." More literally than she'll ever know. Zephyr has no intention of making the deal with his father known. The last thing they want is for Velour to make good on his promise to hurt Galenos or Kiara or their family.
Sure, maybe this is all the result of a hole Zephyr dug for themself, but he'd do it all again if he had to. At least they know there's enough money back home for his mother and sister to take care of themselves for a while.
It has to be enough.
(And sure, maybe they're a little scared that with Zephyr out of the way, Velour will lash out at the people they had to leave behind. But that's why Zephyr has to try so hard to get back.
There's no other way, really.)
Bastian Allard, 22
District Four
Victor of the 120th Games
It doesn't take much for the long days in the Capitol to begin bleeding together. And when they do, Bastian longs for an escape that isn't there.
For many reasons, this year is different from others. Bastian's never felt so overwhelmed before, not even last year. At least then he could distract himself, work as much as he could to try and prevent Makani's inevitable fate. But now he's so… alone. Faye's off partying with Capitolites like every other year, Estelle keeps avoiding him, and Bastian doesn't even know where to begin with Thessaly and Ibai.
He can barely stand to look at them. He can barely stand to see the hope in their eyes. They really believe that whatever is waiting for them on the other side of the Games is better than wherever they came from.
(More than anything, he hates that he was like that once, too. And now, only a few years later, he has nothing. Some days, he wonders if this was Maddox's plan all along: to cut him off entirely.
He doesn't know where he's supposed to go from here.)
And so, just when things become too much, he slips away without warning. He doesn't give himself the chance to think about his actions, he just does. Maybe it's cowardly, and maybe he doesn't care. There are plenty of places to disappear to in the Capitol, and Bastian knows one thing for sure.
No one will bother looking for him.
He stumbles into the first place he can find outside the training center. It briefly crosses his mind that going to a bar and holing up for a while is something Faye would do, and he told himself he'd be better than her. But Bastian quickly shuts down the thought. He needs some kind of escape, some kind of vice, before he falls too far.
Honestly, Bastian isn't sure where he is right now. He knows that he's at least a couple drinks in, he knows that the Capitolites buzzing around have barely noticed he's there, and he knows that those two facts alone are making him the most content he's been since he stepped foot in the Capitol. There will more than likely be consequences for this at some point, but for now, Bastian can hardly feel a thing.
He watches the crowd aimlessly from his seat at the bar, quickly losing track of time. A blissful sort of numbness overcomes his body, and he thinks he could be content to stay here forever, trapped in a stasis where he doesn't have to worry about anything.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Bastian jumps at the intrusion, head whipping over to see who's there. The movement causes his head to spin, and he nearly laughs. Maybe he's a little more fucked up than he thought.
He finally manages to focus on the figure next to him, the familiarity quickly sinking in. Bastian's eyes track over dark hair, slightly mussed as if Callan's been incessantly running his hands through it. Maybe he has – Bastian's seen him do it before in the Control Center. His eyes skip down to a clean white shirt – top two buttons undone, sleeves cuffed – before going back up to Callan's face, which he soon registers as distinctly unamused.
A lazy smile. "You look nice," Bastian says.
Callan's mouth tightens. "You look like shit."
"Ever the charmer."
The District Two Victor sits down next to him, and Bastian wonders why the hell he's here. Based on all the predictions, District Two has it all this year. Again. Like the year before, he supposes, but the whole destiny nonsense was annoying at best anyway. Either way, Bastian doesn't think Callan is the type to wallow in his own self-pity in a place like this, so there has to be more behind his presence.
He's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't realize Callan has said anything until he notices the other man staring at him expectantly. "Huh?"
His frown somehow deepens. "Do you even know where they are right now?"
"What the fuck?" Bastian breathes. They? "What are you going on about?"
"Answer my question. Do you know where they are?"
Bastian pauses, trying desperately to pull his thoughts together into something coherent again. He first registers that Callan's words are vague, second that he's annoyed, and then…
Wherever he's going with that train of thought, it quickly leaves him, and he has to take another moment to think. His brow furrows, and Bastian stares intently down at the counter of the bar.
He hears an irritated sigh next to him. "Thessaly and Ibai."
"Oh," Bastian says blankly. "What about them?"
The look on Callan's face is getting harder and harder to read. "I'll take that as a no," he says, eyes scanning the bar. "Have you been drinking?"
"Only a bit."
"Oh my god," Callan mutters, rubbing his temples. He appears to be taking a moment to collect himself, though Bastian can't quite determine why. "You're skipping out on mentoring for this?"
Bastian frowns petulantly, taking offense even though that's exactly what he's doing. "They're doing fine," he insists. "They made a friend."
"Yes," Callan says, a bit impatiently. "That's why they're on the Two floor right now."
"Oh," Bastian says again. "Cool?"
"You don't care, do you?"
Bastian immediately bristles, even though he knows he doesn't have much of a defense now. "I don't see how that's any of your business."
"They've gotten close with my kid," Callan says easily. "I want him to do well, so by extension, I also want them to do well. It seems I care more than their actual mentor."
"That's not fair." Bastian rises to the bait all too easily, just like he always does. "You don't know anything."
"I know you did this same shit last year."
"Fuck off," Bastian hisses.
"I'm not talking about Makani," Callan says, voice still level. Bastian hates the way he can keep his composure so easily. "You did everything you could, but you weren't technically her mentor."
"God, what the fuck is your problem? Can you just make your point already?" Bastian spits out, hoping desperately to get this conversation over with faster. He doesn't want to think about last year again.
"What about Kano?"
A beat. Bastian gives him a strange look. "What about him?" he asks slowly.
Callan's face is as impassive as ever. "I think you already understand what I'm saying."
"If I did, I wouldn't be asking," he says, gritting his teeth.
(If he's honest, he does know. Bastian's more than aware of his own shortcomings, but having them exposed to him so casually makes him feel so hopelessly vulnerable that all he can think to do is fight back.)
"Why didn't you warn him to stay away from the One boy?" Callan asks, tilting his head to the side.
Bastian digs his nails so hard into his palms that he worries he might draw blood. The pain doesn't make his growing shame any less palpable. "I didn't know."
"Didn't know what?"
"I didn't… notice," Bastian admits, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I was preoccupied."
"With Makani?"
"With a lot of things," he says, the excuse falling flat. He's not sure how else to explain the state he was in this time last year. He doesn't remember much of it, anyway.
"So you left him to deal with things on his own," Callan says. There's an underlying implication that Bastian doesn't like.
"Are you saying his death was my fault?"
"No," Callan says calmly, "I'm saying your actions – or, rather, lack of them – were one of the factors that contributed to it."
A laugh tears out of him, and the sound is strained even in his own ears. "What is this, some kind of intervention? What do you want me to say, that I'm sorry? I don't know if you noticed, but there's not much I can do about this now."
"Not exactly," Callan says, nodding his head. "But there's always this year."
The mere thought of his tributes this year makes him ill. Bastian's been doing his best to avoid them whenever he can, which is what brought him here tonight. They're… nice, he supposes. But nice doesn't win the Games, and it certainly doesn't prepare you for what comes after. There's no point in helping what will only be a doomed mission.
(In a way, he is helping them. It's better this way. Easier. The price of winning is always far too high.)
"I guess," is all he says in response.
"So that's it?" Callan asks, watching him intently. "You're just going to let them figure it out on their own again, after that went so well last year?"
"God, why does it matter so much to you?" Bastian blinks rapidly, hoping desperately that he's not about to cry. "Is this because they're close with- with Pantheon?"
"Theo," Callan corrects lightly. "And if that's the explanation you'd most like to hear, then yes."
Bastian can't even begin to unravel what that's supposed to mean. But by now, his head is fuzzy with a flurry of emotions, and he can't properly untangle them. He's tired of whatever half-conversation they've been having, where he's constantly having to defend his actions.
(Because Bastian knows. He knows he's fucked up. He knows that other people have paid the price for it before, and they probably will again. He knows that all he's ever done is try - and that trying is a useless endeavor. These days, he can barely take care of himself.)
(He doesn't know what he'd do with himself if he failed again.)
"If I wanted mentoring advice, I'd go to Estelle," Bastian hisses, eyes flaring. "At least she's managed to succeed."
Callan flinches – the first visible reaction Bastian has managed to get from him so far. Somehow, the sight only makes him feel more defeated.
"I'm sure she's… preoccupied this year," Callan says, finally glancing away. Something in his jaw ticks, but he doesn't elaborate.
"And you're not?" Bastian says, leaning closer. Even as his stomach twists, even though he knows whatever he's after won't give him any sense of satisfaction, he continues prodding, as if he can't stop. "You're on my ass about being here, but the way I see it, we're in the same damn place, Callan."
"You're right," Callan admits carefully. His eyes are still focused on the crowd around them, searching aimlessly. "That's not fair of me, is it?"
He fights back a laugh. Bastian can tell he's missing something, but Callan doesn't appear to be inclined to tell him anytime soon. "Not particularly."
"You must think I'm some kind of hypocrite."
The other man's words are completely devoid of any inflection, so Bastian can't get a real read on him. "I'm not sure what I make of you," he says honestly.
Callan hesitates for a moment, somehow caught off guard by Bastian's words. He sucks in a slow breath, still refusing to look over at Bastian. "You don't remember, do you?"
Bastian pauses, genuinely taken aback. "Remember what?"
Callan opens his mouth, then closes it again. After a pause, he shakes his head. "It's not important."
Bastian thinks it sounds important. He clenches his jaw, suddenly not in the mood to question it. "Whatever," he mutters.
As they lapse into a brief silence, Bastian realizes that this is somehow the most clear-headed he's been in weeks. He doesn't quite know what to do with himself, and he certainly doesn't know how Callan managed to get him like this so easily.
"So is that it?" Callan looks back over at him, as if their brief exchange hadn't happened. "After Makani, you don't have it in you to try at all?"
It's Bastian's turn to flinch. "You don't understand," he says, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's more than that."
"Enlighten me," Callan says. This time, his voice is softer, gentler. It's an offer, one that he'd quickly rescind if Bastian wanted him to.
And, strangely, he doesn't. Bastian sits for a moment, trying to figure out where to start with all of this. "I fucked up."
"Must've been bad if it got you here."
He laughs humorlessly. "A lot of things got me here. I've always been good at avoiding my problems."
Callan hums quietly, leaning on the counter. "Not necessarily a bad strategy. What's the problem this time?"
"A lot of things," he admits, shifting uncomfortably. "But I made a bad call with the volunteers this year. I don't think he knows it was my idea. But everyone kept asking me questions, and I wanted them to leave me alone. I'm not a trainer, I don't- I don't like mentoring, I'm not good at any of this. So when the trainers asked what to do when they couldn't choose a male volunteer on their own, I suggested a few rounds of sparring. Something where they could show off their skills against each other and figure out who's better."
"That doesn't sound like a bad call," Callan says lightly. "We do a tournament every year."
"One of them died," he forces out. Bastian can't make himself look up as he says it. "And now Ibai's confidence has been shaken. And then there's Thessaly, and she's just so… so optimistic about everything. So far. But they get along well, and they're helping each other far more than I ever could."
There's a long silence from Callan when he falls quiet. Bastian twitches nervously in his seat. It's strange to share this with anyone, instead of just keeping it all locked up in his head like he has for the past… however long.
"So you have given up on them," Callan says, though his accusatory tone is gone. He's merely acknowledging what they both know to be true. "You're choosing the easy way out."
"I guess I am."
"That's not fair to them, is it?" Callan asks, voice even softer now. "I know Faye has been leaving all of the mentoring to you, and that's not fair either, but…"
"It's not fair," Bastian whispers, shoulders hunching. "I don't know how I'm expected to help them when…"
When I couldn't help her.
"Because otherwise it'll happen again," Callan says simply. "Year after year, it's the same deal. And the more you don't help, the more it weighs on you. You think it's easier now, but someday it won't be."
"And then they'll die too," Bastian says, trying to ignore the way his voice cracks. "And even if they don't, they'll win, and that's not any better."
"Maybe not," Callan concedes. "But isn't it better to give them a chance so they can make their own choice in the matter?"
"You're determined to make me try, aren't you?"
Bastian laughs, trying to stave off tears. He almost wants to ask why, but Bastian doesn't think he's ready for any answer Callan could give him. Evidently Callan has figured this out as well, because he waits a moment before speaking again.
"It's not what she would want." Callan watches him carefully. "Is it?"
His eyes briefly flutter shut, and he's briefly lost in a memory of the ocean, of sand beneath his feet and laughter ringing in his ears. Everything is bright and startlingly clear, and Bastian feels as if he could reach out and touch the waves, feel the water rushing beneath his hands. But he knows that when he looks beside him, there won't be anyone there.
"No," he murmurs, letting out a quiet sigh. "It's not."
"You know," Callan says slowly, "you don't have to do it all alone."
"Huh?"
"This doesn't have to be your burden to bear," Callan says, back to watching the crowd. "I'll help, but only if you give me the chance to."
"You will?"
The other man shrugs. "I'm making the offer. You can do whatever you want with it."
Something changes in his face then, and it's as if every emotion has been wiped away. Callan Levisay becomes a blank slate, his eyes trained on something over Bastian's shoulder. When he turns his head to see for himself, he can't pick out anything - or anyone - in particular. He watches, waiting for something to jump out at him, but when nothing does, he returns his gaze to Callan.
"I have to go," Callan says, voice level and measured. There's something more restrained about him, something that strikes Bastian as being so wholly incorrect that he feels briefly paralyzed by it.
"Go…?"
Callan gets to his feet, hesitating for a moment as he does. His hand flutters to his pocket before pulling something out – a card, one that makes Bastian immediately draw back. He places it on the counter next to Bastian's hand.
A flower. One with yellow petals and purple veins.
His throat tightens, and Bastian can't bring himself to look up at Callan again. There are a million thoughts running through his mind, each one worse than the last, but he can't focus on any of them long enough to make them tangible.
(He doesn't want to. Bastian doesn't want to linger too long on the past year of his life, on the days that passed in a blur and the nights he can barely remember. He's not sure how much he can feasibly blame on Maddox, anyway.
The only person responsible for his life spiraling out of control is Bastian himself. He's the reason Makani got dragged into it as well. And now she's gone and he's still here and-)
(-and wouldn't it be… easier…)
"We all have our roles to play," Callan says, drawing Bastian's attention back to him as he steps away. "I just… hope you figure out yours before someone decides it for you."
"Wait-" Bastian reaches out. He can't explain why he suddenly needs Callan to stay - maybe he craves answers, or maybe company - but it's the only thing he can think of right now.
Whatever the case, Callan twists out of the way as soon as Bastian's hand draws close. Bastian blinks in surprise, but when he looks up at the other man's face, he's struck by the fleeting panic in Callan's eyes. It's enough to make him pause, and he quickly withdraws his hand.
"I'm sorry," Bastian blurts out. It's the only thing he can think to offer. "I just-"
"Please don't."
Callan's words are quiet, timid. Like it's too much to ask for. Bastian can't make heads or tails of what's happening now, but even he can tell that he's overstepped somehow. There's nothing he could say that he thinks would help, so he bites his tongue and gives Callan nothing more than a nod.
He tries not to watch. He really does. Bastian doesn't want to overstep, not when he's unsure of what's going on, but there's something that strikes him as off about all of this and the way Callan's been acting: almost… nervous.
But what would give Callan Levisay of all people reason to be nervous?
He's meeting with someone – a Capitolite, maybe a sponsor? She certainly looks like she has enough money to casually drop on tributes, and she titters as Callan draws close. She flashes a card at him, and even from a distance Bastian feels sure it matches the one Callan set down next to him a moment ago. A calling card of sorts. Callan takes the card and puts it in his pocket, just as the woman sidles closer and teasingly runs a hand along his arm.
Even from a distance, Bastian can see the way Callan stiffens.
He remembers a cruel smile, one that Bastian still feels is lurking around every corner. His mouth is suddenly dry, though he can't determine exactly why. All Bastian can do is watch as words ring in his ears, words that suddenly make a lot more sense than they used to.
And Callan is more than willing to appease the Capitol however they want.
Bastian tears his eyes away, too much of a coward to meet Callan's steady gaze. One of his hands steadily rubs at the lower part of his ribcage, an unseen but not forgotten scar. He doesn't… he didn't…
(Didn't know? Didn't ask? Didn't even wonder? Bastian's been too self-consumed for years; he never even considered what Maddox's role for Callan might've been.)
(Would anything have changed?)
(Maybe not. But Bastian finds he might've liked to help anyway, however he could.)
He thinks back far earlier than he thought he would, back to the apartment that he feels is a cage. Bastian can stand in the doorway of the kitchen and remember last year, when his sister was just down the hall, just out of reach – forever out of reach – and he feels… he feels…
He blinks. He's suddenly aware of where he is, and Bastian realizes that he hears something beyond the memories within his head. Quiet laughter, and the sound of some Capitol reality show playing.
Before Bastian knows what he's doing, he wanders closer. He almost expected to see the living room area filled with more people, but it's only Ibai and Thessaly, curled up on opposite ends of the couch. Ibai is watching with a pinched brow, as if attempting to decipher what's on the screen; Thessaly is waving her hands excitedly, laughing all the while.
They look… happy. Bastian still doesn't know what to do with that.
Noticing that someone else has entered the room, Thessaly hangs her head over the arm of the couch, her grin bright even in the dimness of the room. "Heya. Come to watch with us?"
His jaw locks in place. Bastian is filled with the sudden urge to flee without a word. He sucks in a breath, an attempt to at least think rationally about this.
Just try.
Just try. Easier said than done, he supposes, but tonight more than ever, Bastian feels like he has to do something. Anything.
Can't be too hard, right?
"Sure," Bastian hears himself say. He chooses not to remind them that they still have training early the next morning, and instead sits down in the chair next to them.
Thessaly blinks in surprise, her smile widening even more as she struggles to sit up a bit. Across from her, Ibai seems to notice Bastian's intrusion, eyes darting over and then back to the screen, but he doesn't comment on it.
Luckily for him, Thessaly takes this all in stride, eagerly filling in the silence to catch Bastian up on what's been going on. His mind is too sluggish to fully pay attention, but it's nice to have a sort of static noise going on, a buffer between Bastian and his own thoughts.
And all the while, Bastian cannot forget the image of a hand on Callan's arm, or the knowing look in Makani's eyes before the world crashed down around her.
He can't even remain standing for the announcement.
Bastian's breaths are ragged in his own ears; each inhale is barely enough to keep him conscious. Blackness prickles at the corners of his vision, threatening to take over. He doesn't have the energy to do anything but keep breathing, even as he chokes on the blood spilling into his lungs.
But he's safe – he has to be. The pain may be more than anything he's ever suffered before, but all Bastian can think is how happy he is to be alive.
(The sentiment doesn't last long.)
They put him back together, but not all the way. Only superficially. The scars are removed, but the pain stays. Bastian can still feel the things he can no longer see. He spends some nights in confusing agony, unable to figure out what's wrong with him, why he still feels this way.
It would be easier to die, he thinks. Easier than the suffering and the pain and the dreams and everything else he can't make himself confront.
(He's never been able to face death again. He's too much of a coward for that.)
Time moves in some sort of sluggish blur, too slow and too fast all at the same time. Bastian can't make sense of anything on his own, so when he's finally offered a way out, he accepts the outstretched hand without thinking of the consequences.
Bastian's always been prone to falling. When the rug is pulled out from under him and he's sent tumbling into a pit of his own ruin, he can't even be surprised. He wants to laugh, to cry, to scream, but his only exit is far, far above, and he hasn't been left with any kind of escape route. That's been stolen from him just like everything else.
But he can still see it. Flickers of something more. Of light, of happiness, of hope. Bastian's never been very good at being stagnant, so he forces himself to keep going even when all he wants to do is give up.
(It would be easier, he thinks. Easier to die, to give up, to rest. But he knows that would make everything he's been through meaningless, and he won't let himself be broken so easily.)
He sees her too, sometimes. Watching. Waiting. He thinks of home, of churning oceans and brightly colored shells and laughter ringing down the coast. He thinks of home and how she'll never go back.
So he forces himself back to his feet, forces himself to move, to breathe, to think. There has to be something he can do, some way to make everything worth it. He tells himself that someday he can rest, just not yet.
Not yet.
this chapter is dedicated to everyone that read the prologue and said wow! bastian is coping a lot better than i thought he would! it was a fluke 3 he is not mentally well 3
if you know me i've been antsy to get this chapter posted for ages solely bc i wanted the bastian pov to Exist. fun fact it's been in the works since mid august. no i don't really have any good reason why please don't ask. yes i know it's miserable. this is the hunger games things will continue to be miserable. i said pg were happy fun times i never said subplot counted.
i'm graduated now so i swear to god you'll see me within a month. i'll also be trying to pass my nclex so pray for me. next gen i do not want you.
that's all maybe? next up is night 1 which will obviously be more happy fun times! enjoy or smth xx
~ de laney is out