Estelle Duvont, 23
Victor of the 119th Games
1249 - June 12, 123 ADD.
It's another one of those days.
Estelle has tried to make herself feel better about everything. She's kept busy, kept a cheerful smile plastered on her face, and done everything in her power to keep herself from thinking.
This would be much easier if she was at home. Estelle would give anything to be able to curl up in bed with her two dogs, Ruby and Emmy, and forget everything for a while. That usually fixes things.
Estelle knows it's silly. The world keeps moving even when she stays still; she stays safe and comfortable, but no one else does. Estelle is secure in her own bubble, like always, with a perfect view of everyone else's suffering. She doesn't know how to help.
No. She can't help. They won't let her.
(Do they not trust her?)
Though there are parts of the Capitol she loves, things are worse when she visits. Her mother crumbles every time she leaves. Bastian grows more and more distant. Her tributes always go in so confident, and she has to watch them slowly get broken down. This year Alila is with her, but her new Victor is too stubborn to ask for any help.
Maybe Estelle is too. After all, she's the one paired with Saccharine.
So, in short, Estelle is… overwhelmed.
It doesn't take much for her to get this way. But today, she feels an… absence of sorts. Of a way to busy herself, to feel like she's doing something.
Instead, all she's doing is crying about it. After taking a phone call from her mother earlier, she's been pacing the area outside the elevators downstairs. She can't go back up, not like this. Alila will immediately notice something is wrong, and then she'll expect answers that Estelle doesn't know how to give right now.
What's she supposed to do?
Her pacing continues. Estelle is not sure how much time is passing. For all she knows, she could be doing this for hours.
Then, when Estelle turns on her heel, she finds that she's no longer alone.
"Estelle," Ariadne says, surprised. "What are you…?"
Mortified, Estelle swiftly turns away. She spent a chunk of the morning at a sponsor party, which means she put on mascara that is now staining her cheeks. Estelle swipes the heel of her palm over her eyes, trying in vain to compose herself, even though she knows her effort is futile.
"I'm fine!" She laughs nervously, replying too late to come across as genuine. "It's just… one of those days, you know?"
When she dares to risk a look at Ariadne, the other girl stares back at her, clearly not buying it. Even when Estelle tries to smile, she can tell her expression falls flat.
"Sure," Ariadne says slowly. "Why are you out here, then?"
"Um." Estelle's mind blanks. "I was going for a walk?"
"You don't seem very sure of that. Come up to Eight with me."
It's not an invitation. Estelle obliges, trying not to think too hard about the fact that she hasn't been on Ariadne's floor before.
She's hardly been anywhere with Ariadne before.
She tries not to think about that too much either.
Estelle didn't quite know what she expected, but she's surprised to see that the eight floor looks largely the same as her own floor. The layout is a bit different – the rooms are in different places, and the furniture has been moved around – but the decor is all the same.
She's a bit disappointed. Estelle thought the Capitol would've at least tried to make each floor resemble home.
"Eirian's asleep, so try not to make much noise. You want tea?"
"Huh? Oh, um… yeah. Whatever you have is fine. With honey."
"I'll be right back with it." Ariadne disappears into the kitchen, and then peeks her head back out. "By the way, if you see yarn, try not to be too surprised."
Estelle blinks. "Yarn?"
But Ariadne is already gone.
With nothing better to do, Estelle cautiously sits down on the couch. She takes a moment to look around the room, then at her hands in her lap, then at the ceiling. She's not exactly sure how long it takes to make tea. That was something her mother used to make for her before bed, and she's fallen out of the practice in recent years. She does know that the clock is ticking every so slowly, and Estelle might go insane because of it.
Something fuzzy brushes against her arm. Estelle jolts back, startled to see an orange kitten rubbing against her. When she doesn't immediately touch it, the cat stares up at her with wide eyes and meows loudly, as if trying to get a point across.
She needs no further instruction. Carefully, Estelle extends her arm and begins scratching its head. It mewls at her, this time in contentment, and settles against her leg.
Huh. It's sort of nice to be completely mindless like this. The Games never fail to be the longest few weeks of the year, and she doesn't even have to be in them anymore; Estelle had almost forgotten what it was like to be relaxed.
"I see you found Yarn."
A mug clinks against the table in front of her. When Estelle looks up, she notices Ariadne sitting in a chair adjacent to her.
It takes her a moment to figure out what Yarn is. "I think Yarn found me," Estelle says, smiling a bit.
"He's very good at that."
"I can tell."
Humming to herself, Estelle begins to relax. There's something about the way Ariadne looks at her that makes her feel a little more stabilized. Like things are going to be okay.
Maybe this is all she really needed.
After a few minutes pass, Estelle quietly sipping at her tea, Ariadne leans back in her chair. "Okay. Now, I have to ask. What's got you so upset?"
She should've known this was coming. "It's stupid," she mutters bitterly.
"If you really believed that," Ariadne says gently, "you wouldn't be crying over it."
Estelle hates it when people tell her things that are unequivocally correct. She sniffles. "I guess. I'm not crying anymore, though."
Ariadne hums. "Tell me about it."
"I can't," Estelle blurts out. "I wouldn't want to bother you."
"You're not bothering me if I'm asking."
God, she hates how stupid she feels right now. Estelle swears she's pouting, even though she doesn't mean to. "It's… well, it's a lot of things. My parents. Bastian. Alila. Saccharine."
"Sounds like a pretty comprehensive list. What's wrong with them?"
Estelle squeezes her eyes shut. "My mom called this morning. Father had another affair. He told her about this one, which was supposed to help ease the blow so she wouldn't find out on her own."
"Still shitty."
"I know. It didn't help at all. She was crying and hardly let me get a word in edgewise. Not like it matters. I know she won't leave him."
"What makes you say that?"
"This is at least the third time. There might be more. She won't look into it further. She hasn't done anything before, so why would she start now? And she loves calling me while I'm here, because I'm not at home to help. Not like she'd even want me to help. By the time I get back to One, the whole thing will have blown over, and they'll be back to playing their happy little family. We'll all know it's a lie, but neither of them care as long as they can keep their status. Money and power above all else."
"That's…" Ariadne trails off, likely looking for words to soften the blow.
"Sad? Pathetic?" Estelle offers. "I know, and she does, too. She's said as much to me before. Still doesn't change anything. And… please don't say you're sorry. People always say sorry even when it's not their fault. It drives me insane."
Ariadne's lips twist wryly. "I wasn't going to. I was just going to say that fucking sucks."
This startles a laugh out of Estelle. "Yeah, I guess it does."
They fall into a relatively comfortable silence, only broken up by the sounds of Estelle's sniffles. She wishes she was less of a mess right now. Then again, maybe she's a little grateful. It's not often that she gets to spend time with Ariadne, and she hasn't devolved into a stuttering mess yet, so this is almost a victory.
"I should really-"
"Go? But you're not done yet."
"Huh?"
"You mentioned three others. Bastian, Alila, and Saccharine. So you're not running out on me until you talk about what's going on there."
Estelle ducks her head. "Well… there's not much to say about Bastian. I don't know much about him anymore. Ever since… well, you know… he's been distant. It's like I can't reach him. He hardly talks to me. He visited once, back in May, but since then…"
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. I haven't seen him since I got to the Capitol. I wish I could figure out a way to help, but I'm not sure he'd accept help from anyone right now."
"It might help to just… know you're there. Stay within reach, but don't be overbearing."
"I know, I know," Estelle mutters. "Just… easier said than done."
"Everyone grieves in different ways. He'll come back. It may just take time."
"I guess so." Estelle takes another sip of her tea.
"And then… Alila and Saccharine?"
She hesitates, cutting a glance over at Ariadne. "I don't know… I don't mean to complain to you, when…"
"What, you think I'll care because your kid won last year?" Ariadne shrugs. "Your kid won, mine didn't. Life goes on. Every year is a new year. I ultimately have no control over what they choose to do in the Arena. As long as you aren't behind my back telling your kids to kill mine, I don't give a shit."
Her eyes widen. "I would never," Estelle insists frantically. "I- that's not-"
Ariadne laughs, waving a hand through the air. "Chill out, I'm just making a point. Whatever our kids choose to do has nothing to do with us. Keep talking."
"Right." Estelle swallows and stares at her hands, which are folded tightly in her lap. "They go together, I guess. Things aren't exactly… ideal in the mentoring department this year."
"Are they ever?"
"Well, no, but… usually we can all get along."
"But not this year?"
Estelle hesitates. "They're both just… I don't know. I can't explain it."
"You don't have to play nice for my sake. Say whatever you want. Who am I going to tell?"
The words fall out of her mouth before Estelle can think twice about it. "Callan? You guys are…" She tries to say the word dating, but the word sours in her mouth and Estelle trails off instead.
The look that Ariadne gives her is careful, but Estelle cannot tell why. "We don't talk about our kids. He doesn't like feeling obligated to tell his tributes something I share. Besides, he's a little… busy this year. So believe me when I say your secret is safe with me."
This makes Estelle's shoulders relax. "Okay," she whispers. "I don't think this is going to be a good year for us."
"What makes you say that?"
"Callum wasn't supposed to volunteer. And he doesn't seem to like… people like me and Alila. Trainees. I can tell it bothers Alila, but she won't say. It's her first year, and she wants things to go well, and she wants to do it on her own."
"Would it help if you switched?"
"No!"
Ariadne leans back in surprise at her outburst. "No?"
Estelle freezes. This is the part of the conversation she doesn't want to continue. "I don't- I don't want that."
"Why not?"
"It's… not important."
"Estelle," she says, frowning, "you're clearly upset about it. It is important."
"I just don't know how to explain it."
"All you have to do is try."
"She's nice," Estelle starts. "Quiet. Unassuming. She makes breakfast for us. She's quiet and respectful and…"
"Those all sound like good things," Ariadne points out.
Estelle squeezes her eyes shut. "And then out of nowhere she says things. Oh, not all of us can win by accident! It's not just that I don't need your help, I don't want it."
Ariadne's face turns conflicted. "She said that to you?"
"She's been so nice otherwise!"
"Other than making digs at you out of nowhere?"
Estelle wilts. Her hands clasp together even more tightly. Her eyes begin to sting again, and she blinks rapidly to prevent any more tears from slipping out. "I… yeah."
"God," Ariadne breathes. "And I thought mine were a handful. At least they know their place."
"It's fine," she insists. The last thing she wants is to cause trouble. "Really. I offered to trade from the start, and Alila didn't want to, and…"
"And if Saccharine is going to make her little 'comments,' you'd rather them be directed at you?"
"Pretty much."
Ariadne sighs. "You're too nice for your own good."
"That's what people keep telling me." She sniffles. "Sometimes I wish I wasn't."
"I didn't mean it in a bad way. It's… refreshing. I wish I could be more like you."
"You're just saying that."
"I'm not. I don't say things I don't mean, Estelle. It's something I greatly admire about you."
Her face flushes hot. Estelle prays that Ariadne doesn't notice. "I wish I was more like you. You're really…"
There are a million different ways Estelle could finish that thought. No word even comes close to what she thinks of Ariadne.
"Brave," Estelle finishes. "Like you always know what you want, and you know how you're going to get it."
"I'm not sure everyone would call that bravery." Ariadne laughs and shakes her head. "Foolishness, maybe? Selfishness? I've heard those before."
Estelle bristles. "No one's opinion matters unless they know what you've been through. If they'd experienced everything themselves…"
"I know, I know. Don't worry about me too much, 'stelle. I'm not trying to add anything more to your plate."
"I wouldn't mind if you did," Estelle replies, a little too honestly.
Ariadne pauses, tilting her head to the side. Estelle can immediately tell that her words have sparked some sort of change in tone. The way Ariadne is looking at her now makes her unspeakably nervous.
And just like that, her reprieve is broken. She's suddenly reminded of a line she cannot cross. Try as she might, Estelle cannot get rid of her own want, and it's not fair to subject Ariadne to that.
(Or maybe it's not fair to subject herself to that. Estelle can still feel the bitter sting of rejection – no, of silence. She never even got an answer. She was shut out just as swiftly as she was let in.
If there is something Estelle is stupid for, it's the way she longs for more even when she knows it's a fruitless endeavor.)
(She knows when she's not wanted.)
Estelle jumps to her feet. "I have to go," she blurts out.
Confused, Ariadne tries to follow. Her hand barely brushes against Estelle's wrist. "Wait-"
"Thank you," Estelle manages breathlessly. "For- for all of this."
Ariadne wrinkles her brow. "Estelle-"
She's gone before she can hear more. Estelle frantically slams her finger against the button for the elevator, gratefully darting inside as soon as it opens. She notices that Ariadne hasn't followed her.
Her chest squeezes painfully. Estelle leans her back against the cool wall of the elevator, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. She feels like a complete mess. Estelle doesn't know how to face anyone back on her floor. Maybe she'd be better off if she found a way to keep running.
Some would say that's all she was ever good at.
It takes a moment for Estelle to even realize it's over.
Her rapier went in cleanly. Blood coats the blade, runs down her hands, soaks into the ground. Every cut on her body is superficial – Estelle won't even scar. For a final battle, Estelle got remarkably lucky.
Darius, on the other hand…
"I'm sorry," she whispers. She only gets the words out after his cannon goes off. Any sound she makes is drowned out by the announcement of her own Victory.
Days of weariness and exhaustion catch up to her at once. Estelle sways violently, sinking to one knee in the mud. She dips one hand down, and a mixture of blood and water swirl through her fingers. She can't tell how much is hers, and how much is…
She swallows. Estelle can reflect on her actions later. For now, she needs to smile, just like her parents taught her. She has to become the perfect Victor she was raised to be.
She's terrified, but she's alive. For what feels like the first time in her life, she can breathe clearly.
It's exhilarating.
She didn't hear the rumors until she got out.
They say she cheated. Or if she didn't, her parents did. The details ultimately don't matter. What does matter is that every inch of Estelle's Games is relentlessly rewatched, looking for even a hint of solid evidence that someone didn't play by the rules.
It doesn't matter that nothing can be found. It doesn't matter that Estelle knows nothing happened. It doesn't matter that she sure doesn't feel like she got the easy way out like everyone says she did. No one wants to listen to any of that. If Estelle proclaims her own innocence, then she's covering up her own actions. If she stays silent, then she's too much of a coward to own up.
Lucky. Dim-witted. A fluke.
Estelle's heard it all. She tries not to listen, but it's hard when that's all people seem to want to talk about.
She's not stupid. She's not. Estelle Duvont knows exactly what she is, and she knows what everyone else thinks she is too. She knows enough to feel certain that the one thing she can't escape is her own reputation, the one she's been locked into since she was born.
But god, is it too much to hope?
Bourbon Jaque, 17
District Nine Female
1025 - June 12, 123 ADD.
Somehow, this interview bullshit is the worst thing that has happened to Bourbon so far.
That's saying a lot considering she's spent the past couple days shackled to Kodo Hotakim. More than shackled, at times.
God. Bourbon doesn't even want to think about it.
Truthfully, this should be some sort of reprieve. Bourbon gets to go into a room for as long as she wants to talk about whatever the hell she wants, and it keeps her away from Kodo's inescapable chatter. It's like he doesn't know when to stop fucking talking. And, worse, he's constantly seeking out attention. Usually from her. She's the constant victim of the most annoying person alive. Dying in the Games would almost be a sweet, sweet respite.
Almost. Bourbon's not gonna pussy out too soon and let Kodo outlast her on top of everything else. That would be an unbelievably humiliating way to go.
Whatever. All that to say: Bourbon is having a shit ass time all around. The news about this preliminary round of interviews led to Gia sitting her down last night and going on and on and on about how important first impressions were, and how she should really work on her posture, and how she should act like she cared.
There are a lot of problems Bourbon wants to break down with that. Her first impression has already been made several times over. If anything, Kodo made that for her when he pulled that stunt before parades.
Her posture? Cut her a fucking break. This isn't even the interview where Bourbon will get all trussed up in sparkles and whatever bullshit her prep team thinks she'll look "positively divine" in. She's being filmed in a pair of shorts and a beige t-shirt – not exactly the height of luxury. Bourbon can very safely assume that literally not a single person is going to care about her posture in this moment.
"Act like she cared." What a stupid fucking sentiment. Bourbon is only putting herself through all this because she gives a shit about her siblings back home. Puckering up for Kodo will be the least of her problems if she can pull this off.
Bourbon crosses her arms and slouches further down in the seat. Itara hasn't even asked her about anything actually interesting. It's all been mundane shit that no one cares about – school, family, her home life, her day-to-day routine. Bourbon hasn't felt inspired to answer any of these questions with more than a couple words. Her eyes are two seconds from rolling into the back of her skull.
Somehow, Itara remains completely unaffected by her attitude. Bourbon supposes that tracks, considering she's been doing this for years and is something of a professional. It would take a little extra effort for Bourbon to really incite a response from the woman, and quite honestly, she doesn't really care to.
So instead, Bourbon remains bored out of her fucking mind. If she can last a couple more minutes, she'll give the lady a swift goodbye and get the hell out of here.
"You know," Itara says, "people are still wondering what prompted you to volunteer. Would you care to comment on that?"
"Not really."
Laughing a bit, Itara tilts her head to the side. "You're a tough one to crack. That's the sort of attitude that could lead to you going far."
Bourbon doesn't even bother to respond to that one. These rich fucks are perfectly content to bet on their suffering like livestock, even though they've never known a day of hardship in their lives. Itara's idea of a bad day probably has to do with a wardrobe malfunction or a particularly rough interview, whereas Bourbon's is based on what it feels like to eat only tesserae for weeks at a time, or live through a winter in a house without heat, or, you know, be in imminent danger due to the Games.
So yeah, Bourbon's "attitude" is gonna give her something of an advantage. But she'd wager a guess that half the kids here have been through something similar – and, if they haven't, they're trained imbeciles.
"There's one other thing," Itara says. Bourbon prays to god that this means she's almost fucking done. "Your District Partner-"
"Kodo," Bourbon breathes. She sits up a little straighter. Now this is the kind of shit she can work with. This is Bourbon's chance to sell their relationship so fucking hard that Kodo's goddamn head will spin. He won't even be able to keep up.
Itara's eyes turn playful, like she knows she's finally found something good. Which, obviously, she has. Bourbon really doesn't know why Itara didn't lead with this.
"You two are…?"
"Dating. Obviously. It was a stroke of unbelievably shitty luck that he got reaped after me, but… I guess there's no one I'd rather be here with."
"That's a sentiment I've never heard before. Aren't you worried about the possibility of one or both of you dying?"
Bourbon shrugs. "It happens to everyone eventually. But I'd rather spend my last days with him than apart from him, so things could be a lot worse."
Itara shakes her head sympathetically. "You two must care for each other a lot."
Something like that. "More than anything." Bourbon winces and sends a silent apology to Bia and Scotch. Though Bia in particular knows when she's talking out of her ass, so she's probably got Bourbon all figured out by now.
"Would you care to share any details about your relationship?"
"Boy fucking would I." Bourbon grins and rests her arm on the back of the chair. "I'll set the record straight for ya. Kodo would love to tell you that I pined after him for months, but it's really the other way around. He had the hots for me for ages. Still embarrasses him a bit, so don't bring it up unless you want him to get embarrassed and try to pin it on me."
There. That'll cover her bases for a while. Now that Bourbon has set the record straight, Kodo can't try to make her seem like some poor pathetic pining sap.
"I've also heard rumors that you've hardly been able to keep your hands off each other during training."
"That's all Kodo," Bourbon insists. "He's a real… opportunist. He's fucking clingy."
"You sure talk highly of him," Itara says, amused.
"It's how I show affection," Bourbon replies flatly.
"How very charming. So, how did you end up falling for Kodo?"
"I'm not sure, honestly. It just sort of happened one day. I used to think he was an annoying prick, and then… I guess he grew on me." Like fucking mold.
"Sounds like a classic story. What about-"
The door opens. Itara cuts herself off swiftly, turning to see what could possibly be interrupting them. Bourbon isn't quite sure if she should take this opportunity to run or stick it out.
(She should've made a run for it.)
Kodo Hotakim himself strolls in, giving both of them a wave. Damn him. It's like he knew that Bourbon was talking about him. She's almost surprised he didn't do this earlier.
"Oh, Bonnie!" he singsongs, and she's sure that her face pales immediately.
"Kodo!" she returns, hoping her gritted teeth look like a smile. "What are you doing here?"
"I missed you so immensely that I figured we could just combine our interviews!"
Bourbon realizes what's about to happen about two seconds before it actually does. Since this setup was only meant for one person to be interviewed at a time, there's only one chair – the oversized armchair she's sitting in now. She opens her mouth, unsure of what she can even say to fix this, but it's useless. Kodo plops his bony ass right in her lap, kicks his legs over the armrest, and loops one of his arms behind her. And then he has the audacity to give her a kiss on the cheek - the cherry on top, truly - leaving her genuinely flabbergasted for a few moments.
"Has Bonbon been telling you any good stories about me?"
"A few," Itara says, glancing between the two. "You know, I'm not sure-"
"Aw, c'mon," Kodo wheedles. "You can't kick me out already! We'll give you the interview of a lifetime."
Bourbon decides she's not about to be outdone. She snags Kodo's free hand and laces their fingers together tightly. "I think that's an incredible idea, actually. It'll be best for you to talk to both of us at the same time."
"I do have a particular talent of lighting up every room I enter," Kodo points out.
"Yeah, by annoying everyone in it."
Kodo has this incredibly frustrating way of taking everything Bourbon says in stride. He laughs delightedly and turns his head to wink at Itara. "This is her way of saying she missed me."
"Desperately. You know I hate it when you're gone for too long. I may forget the sound of your voice…"
"Ah, and what a nightmare that would be. No one should be deprived of my voice. I'll make it up to you by keeping you up all night with it." Kodo waggles his eyebrows.
"You wouldn't even last half that long."
Itara stares at the two of them, clearly thrown off. She doesn't seem like the kind of woman that gets shaken easily, so that means they're probably doing something right.
"Are we going to continue this interview, then?" Bourbon challenges. "My- boyfriend and I still have some training to do later."
Kodo squeezes her hand once. She hopes he didn't notice the way she almost stumbled over her words. "Absolutely. And since I'm here now, I think it's time to share some facts about my dearest Bonnie. Did you know that she scrunches her nose up when she doesn't like something?"
She gasps, affronted. "I do not!"
"See? She's doing it right now!"
"I am not, you-"
Before she can think, Kodo pokes her nose, effectively quieting her. Strangely, Bourbon feels herself flush hot. "I think it's adorable," he proclaims, grinning widely. "It's a shame she likes me so much, so I can't see it more."
If Kodo's right, then her nose is scrunching right now. Bourbon tries to ignore that, and instead plasters a sweet grin on her face. "You're just that special," she coos.
"And lucky."
"I can agree with that, considering the way you were pining after me for ages-"
Kodo gasps, affronted. He shoots Itara a look. "She told you that? It wasn't ages – and besides, sources tell me that you were just as bad, if not worse."
"Care to tell your side of the story, then?" Itara leans back in her chair, clearly willing to let Kodo steal the show for a while.
"Absolutely," Kodo says, clasping a hand over his heart. "It'll be a story you'll never forget, I can promise you that. There's no one in the world like Bonnie, and I count myself lucky for every day I've known her."
There really is something fascinating about the way Kodo can sell any story. It hasn't taken Bourbon long to figure out that if you just stick him under a spotlight, he'll talk and talk and talk until it's hard to stop listening. Bourbon has tried to tune him out on more than one occasion, but his voice is grating enough that she can't manage to do so completely.
She supposes she can make do. Bourbon could come up with a whole laundry list of things that irritate her about the other boy, but for now, everything is still going according to plan. As long as they can keep it up long enough for Bourbon to secure her victory and head home, she'll keep playing along.
Kodo had better hope that all of this happens the way he planned it to.
Saccharine Esculenta, 18
District One Female
1104 - June 12, 124 ADD.
Saccharine is almost happy to slip away for her interview.
She sits primly in the chair, perched on the very edge. Her back is ramrod straight, her legs are crossed, and her hands are folded in her lap. There isn't a hair out of place on her head. Her clothes are freshly ironed. To all those watching at home, Saccharine will come across as the picture of perfection, exactly as she intends.
After all, she hopes to blindside all of them as well.
"Saccharine," Itara says, looking almost relieved to see her. "It's so nice to sit down and chat with you."
"Likewise. I'm glad to have this opportunity so early. How have you been finding the interviews so far?"
Itara seems almost caught off guard to be asked a question by a tribute. "I've been enjoying the more informal setting," she replies kindly. "It won't replace the interview in front of a live audience, but this will… add a little something to the overall experience."
Fascinating. Saccharine stores that bit of information away for later. She suspected that there was a reason for this sudden addition, but Saccharine still can't guess what that reason is.
"I've talked to a few of your allies by now," Itara says, clearly ready to get down to business. "Tell me a bit more about them."
Saccharine hums to herself. "They're very… dynamic. Quite loud. They naturally draw a lot of attention, and I expect that will carry over to the Arena."
"I'm sure. Anyone in particular that you think everyone should keep their eyes on?"
Hmm, a chance for Saccharine to give someone a glowing endorsement. Maybe if she was one of her allies, she would brag about herself, rattle off some of her own accomplishments, but instead she merely shrugs modestly. "I think they all stand a shot at greatness. It would be foolish of me to only choose one. I have full faith that they'll all find their way into the spotlight at one point or another."
"A very humble declaration. You don't think one in particular stands out?"
Saccharine pretends to think on this for a moment. She does, but not for the reason Itara wants to know – and Saccharine can't say she's willing to share.
After all, they're most likely to garner attention from their own ruin.
She shakes her head gently. Itara, thankfully, takes that as a cue to keep moving. "Do you have any thoughts about the group as a whole, then?"
One thing that she has never really understood is the way people seek out kinship during the Games. Do they not understand what they've come here to do? All except one will be dead within a few weeks – any bonds forged will only weaken them in the long run. The attachments they seek out will only lead to hardship and ruin.
In a strange way, though, it works out. For Saccharine, at least. Her allies' "friends" will keep them busy for a while. None of them have noticed that she's lurking on the outside of everything. Saccharine sees everything, even though she never says a thing.
Pantheon seems almost desperate for relevancy. He flits between allies and hasn't managed to find a place to stick. Nerissa actively rejects anyone that gets too close, Ibai largely prefers to keep to himself, and Zephyr seems content no matter where he ends up. At first, she'd been concerned that Callum was on the verge of commiserating with her over their lack of acceptance into the main circle. This would've been rather… undesirable. But luckily for her, Callum seems to be getting along well with the Seven boy that they let into the group, so he's out of her hair for now.
The person that currently intrigues Saccharine the most is Thessaly. Based on her current observations, Thessaly is the current heart of the pack. She has the most ties to everyone else; o one else has managed to get close to both Ibai and Nerissa. She's just so… so lively. Saccharine can't help but wonder…
(What would happen to that liveliness when she gets her world ripped out from under her?)
Saccharine lets her thoughts slip away for now. Instead, she does a quick scan of her own appearance and adjusts accordingly. She crosses her legs at the ankles, smoothes out the front of her shirt, and brushes a section of hair over her shoulder. She refuses to let any part of her facade crack.
"How do you feel going into the Games?"
"Good. It feels like… like it's been a long time coming."
"Oh really? What makes you say that?"
"These past five years have been leading me to this moment. All I can do now is look forward to seeing everything play out."
"Would you care to elaborate on that?"
Saccharine merely smiles.
Itara laughs, not deterred in the slightest. "You'll be an interesting one, I can tell. I'll certainly look forward to talking to you again."
"So will I."
"Now… What about your family back home? How do they feel about seeing you go off into the Games?"
A vision of her sister, lifeless on the floor and surrounded by broken wings, comes to mind immediately. Saccharine has to force it back, making sure that her smile never wavers.
"It's just my parents and I." It's not a lie. Anyone who wanted to could dig a little deeper, could drag the truth out of her, but Saccharine doesn't intend to give them an opening. "They'll miss me dearly, of course, and I miss them. I hope to be able to return to them soon."
What she doesn't mention is the way her parents cried during goodbyes. When they came to see her, they begged and wondered what they did wrong. They'd already lost one daughter; they couldn't stand to lose another.
Saccharine had no answer for them. Only a smile.
(After all, what could she say to them that would make them understand? Saccharine stood idly by for years while the world killed her sister. Slowly. Painfully. It drained the life out of her, turned her into nothing more than a husk of her former self. In the end, Saccharine isn't sure how much of the Nectarine she knew and loved was left. Nectarine was too nice, too sweet, and the world tried to steal that from her.
But Saccharine?
Oh, Saccharine is going to make sure the world chokes.)
"I hope so," Itara says. "Tell me a little more about yourself. What do you do for fun?"
Saccharine nearly balks at the question. She splits her time between training and working at the Chrysalis Spa & Wellness Center. There's hardly any time for something as fickle as fun.
"Flower-pressing, card making… I've started working on my calligraphy recently as well."
Itara quirks a brow. "Very impressive. Have you found much time to do that since you've been here?"
"There are some lovely flowers up on the roof, but I'm afraid I won't be here long enough to do anything with them. It can take up to a few weeks for some of them to fully dry."
"Oh really? I had no idea."
"I suppose I could find something to try calligraphy with, but without my usual supplies, I'm afraid it would be a fruitless endeavor. Besides, between training and mentoring, I don't have much time."
"That's right," Itara says, grinning. "How do you feel about your chances this year, considering your district won last year?"
"I don't see how that makes much of a difference. Their performance has no impact on mine."
"Fair enough. How do you feel having Estelle and Alila as mentors, then? They've got the best experience out of all the mentors right now."
Her lips thin, but Saccharine keeps her smile intact. "It's really inspiring to have seen them overcome obstacles in their Games and wind up here."
"I'm sure – and one of them was a successful mentor last year. Out of everyone in the Games this year, you're probably the most set up for success."
"Indeed."
Truly, Saccharine has nothing against Alila. The girl made plenty of foolish mistakes, likely taking after her mentor in that regard, but she hasn't done anything. She seems to be trying her best to make this a successful year, despite Callum's… shortcomings.
Estelle, on the other hand… while Saccharine is relatively sure that she had no part in the hell Nectarine was put through during training, she still went on to volunteer and win the 119th Games. Nectarine's Games. Whether she played an active role in Nectarine's treatment didn't matter. Estelle Duvont directly profited off of her sister's death, and that is enough for Saccharine to condemn her.
"Alright, I don't intend to keep you too long, so I have one more question for you. Are you ready for the Games?"
"More than. I intend to win, after all."
Saccharine isn't going to win for herself so much as she's going to win for her sister. She'll win so no one else can.
And if she doesn't… well, then Saccharine intends to bring down as many people with her as she can. It doesn't matter how many people she'll reduce to nothing but collateral in the face of her endless wrath.
No one will see her coming. Not until she's rotted the pack from the inside out.
This is all for you, Nectarine.
For you.
Callan Levisay, 26
Victor of the 116th Games
0214 - July 5, 123 ADD.
It's later than normal when Callan gets back to his floor.
He's tired, but not so tired that he doesn't go through his whole routine before bed. He shoves his clothes in a laundry hamper, desperately hoping that someone will pick them up by morning so he doesn't have to see them again. He turns on the shower until it's a shade away from too hot, and then scrubs every inch of his body twice over. He knows that once isn't enough to get rid of the sensation of hands on him, and three is when the nausea and despair starts to kick in when he remembers nothing can get rid of the feeling. So two is a nice compromise.
It's almost relaxing under the water, even though it's so hot Callan feels like he could suffocate any moment. His hands skim new nail marks, brush over the occasional bruise, scrub off colorful splotches of lipstick.
But as soon as they find a barely noticeable lump on the back of his left arm, he suddenly feels ill - just as he does every time he touches it. Before he knows it, he finds himself standing in front of the sink splashing cold water on his face just to make sure he doesn't pass out.
It's been a week since the Games ended. Under normal conditions, Callan would expect to be here for at least another week, maybe more. But considering the situation beginning to unfold back in Two, Callan is being unceremoniously dragged back to take care of it. He has no idea why the downfall of some religious group is being put on his shoulders, but hey, why not? Just something else to add to his endless list of things to take care of. And even though his time in the Capitol is being cut short now, he's sure he'll be given the opportunity to make up for it later.
Just his luck.
The clock reads a quarter to three when Callan finds himself feeling almost like a real human again. He's bordering on all-too aware, which is typically only fixed by water and sleep. Considering he's got a train to catch in about five hours, he'll count himself lucky if he manages four. He'll probably have to spend the ride going through paperwork for the next batch of trainees, figuring out whatever the hell Styxia is, and starting to compile a list for things to improve on this upcoming year.
Thinking about it makes Callan tired all over again. The amount of sleep he's gotten since he got to the Capitol in the first place – at least a week before everyone else did – is laughable. He's been running on fumes for days. There's nothing he wants more than to lay down for a while, but everywhere he turns, someone is there, wanting another little piece of him. And they never take no for an answer.
(Callan has never been good at saying no, anyway.)
The rest of the floor is as empty as it's been all week as Callan pads his way into the kitchen, clad in a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. He may be alone, but Callan always feels a little safer when he can't see as much of his own bare skin.
There's a strange hollowness in his chest that he doesn't know how to address, so he tries not to look at the two rooms that shouldn't be empty. Try as he might, Callan can't manage to distance himself enough. The loss always hurts, even when he sees it coming. Maybe especially when – he hates the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to stop their deaths.
There's a strange tranquility about the training center when everyone is gone. Callan is relatively sure that the only remaining occupant is Estelle, who is likely worrying herself to death about the still-unconscious Alila. Everyone else vacated as soon as their tributes were gone. Home is, after all, much more of a comfort than the cruel embrace of the place that causes suffering year after year.
Even though home isn't all that much of a reprieve for him, Callan is glad to be returning soon. He set up his garden to be taken care of for another two weeks just in case, but Rhosyn doesn't exactly have a green thumb, and there are some things Callan would rather take care of himself.
The clock creeps closer to three as Callan sips at his water. His head is blissfully empty – a rarity on nights like these. He's relatively certain that he could fall asleep like this, without the use of pills. Those can be saved for the inevitable next time that everyone promises him.
(The elevator whirs to life behind metal doors. Callan ignores the sound.)
The void in his chest is back. He dumps the rest of his water in the sink before heading back to his room; the sooner he falls asleep, the sooner he can go home, and the sooner all of this will be nothing but a bad dream.
(Just like last year. And the year before that. And every year since Callan won, and, he thinks, probably for several years to come.)
(Winning isn't what he thought it would be. He just wishes he had a way to make more of it.)
The elevator dings. Callan's stomach drops. The only thing he can imagine it being is another request. He doesn't have any part of himself to give, not tonight, not when he's so tired.
Reluctantly, Callan turns his head over his shoulder to face the elevator. The person that stumbles out of the elevator is hardly recognizable – hair and clothes in disarray, face blotchy and tearstained, clearly unbalanced from what Callan assumes to be a copious amount of alcohol. Caught off guard, it takes him a moment to put the pieces together, and when he does, his eyes widen.
"Bastian?"
The other man's gaze snaps to him, clearly coherent enough to know where he is and who he was looking for. "You're here," he breathes.
Callan doesn't reply to that. Instead, he frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. "I thought you left over a week ago."
His face crumples, as if it's taking all of Bastian's focus not to burst into tears on the spot. Maybe it is. "I couldn't go h-home, not like… not like this. Not without-"
Her. It's unspoken, but Callan hears it loud enough anyway. His lips part in silent understanding.
"I didn't know where else to go," Bastian continues. "I didn't… I knew you would understand."
His jaw tightens. "Right. I guess I do."
Callan knows exactly what it's like to get a front row seat to a sibling's death.
He can still remember his half brother's death like it was yesterday. His body had gone through hell for days, and by the time it came down to him and Estelle… Darius hadn't lasted long. In a battle of attrition, he was the clear loser. Callan could recognize that.
That didn't make it better.
As a mentor, you're shoved into the frighteningly precarious position of being responsible for the life of your tribute - with no real way to save them. Sponsor funds dry up. You run out of plans. The longer they fight to stay alive, the less opportunity you have to help.
And just like that, they're gone. Their vital signs tick down to nothing. Their blood stains the ground, and even though they're miles upon miles away, you feel like you could've reached out a hand to staunch the bleeding.
You can't. You never can. And every year, you repeat the same song and dance. Every year, you lose and lose and lose, until the faces blur and they all remind you of each other. There's nothing you can do to save them, and there's nothing you can do to save yourself.
And some years, it becomes personal. Callan saw that for himself. He's learned that the only thing you can do is find a way to move on, to find new ways to atone, to realize you have to live for yourself before you can even think about helping others.
But that's far easier said than done.
"So what did you come here for?"
Bastian shrugs miserably. "I didn't want to be alone?"
He's playing with some sort of pendant around his neck. Callan remembers seeing it in the mentor lounge. He can assume where it came from.
"You should sleep," Callan says abruptly. He needs Bastian to stop lingering in the middle of the room like he's lost.
A mild panic fills Bastian's eyes. "I can't go back."
"I'm not saying you have to. There are beds here. Or a couch."
"Bed," Bastian manages.
Callan doesn't argue. He leads Bastian towards his own room – Audesia left her sheets in a pile on the ground, and the others should stay exactly as they are now.
He steps inside his room. Bastian follows more quietly. The other man hesitates, seeming to understand that he's intruding on Callan's space, but he thankfully keeps to himself. His arms are wrapped tightly around his body, and he's starting to shiver as if he's cold. He's watching Callan with furrowed brows, like there's something he's trying to figure out.
"Bastian."
He blinks. "Yeah?"
"You're staring."
"Right."
Bastian crawls into bed, still fully clothed, and instantly relaxes. He goes back to looking at Callan, somewhat blearily, and finally opens his mouth to say something.
"You-"
"It doesn't get better," Callan says, cutting him off. If he doesn't say this now, he'll never get the chance to again. "Not for a while. You remember everything. And it's no one's fault, but you consider it to be your fault anyway because you were supposed to be able to lend a hand. You promised."
"I promised," Bastian murmurs. "But it didn't do anything. I didn't do anything."
"You did what you could."
"But I-"
"If you keep thinking that, you'll never get past it." Take it from me.
"Does the guilt go away, then?"
Callan swallows. "No. It's something you learn to live with, just like everything else."
"I don't think I ever learned how to live with the everything else."
"Time doesn't fix everything. You have to learn how to try as well."
Bastian makes a noise that resembles a sob, and Callan tries not to look at him. "That's all I've been doing, but it's still… still…"
Not enough.
"It's different for everyone. I think you know that, so there's no use in me trying to lecture you on it."
"Mm."
He's slipping. Callan figured his time was short, but he didn't realize it was this short. He's very aware of the possibility that Bastian will wake up in the morning and not remember this - not remember anything Callan's said - and he'll go home and… well, Callan will see the result next year.
Callan is more than willing to help Bastian out of the hole he's found himself in - but he can only help if Bastian figures out how to take his hand.
"It's hard," he says, "but not impossible. And I…"
I'm here. If you need anything.
Callan's throat tightens. He can't force the words out; instead, he lingers in the doorway for a beat too long without saying anything. He wishes he could do more, but he's not sure if Bastian is even listening.
(But he knows he can't give up, either. Callan's hands are beyond stained red, but he wants to make a difference where he can.
That's all he can do at this point.)
"Call me," Callan says softly. "Anytime. For anything."
He turns off the light, and then there's a quiet rustle of sheets. "You won't stay, will you?"
"No. Not here." His answer is swift. Callan ignores the strange feeling tugging at his chest.
"Will I see you in the morning?"
"I'm not sure."
"I won't remember any of this, will I?"
"Probably not," Callan agrees, "but maybe that's for the best."
Bastian sighs, long and loud. There's a silence that stretches on after, and Callan begins to think he's fallen asleep. As he goes to close the door, he hears a soft noise of protest.
Right.
Callan leaves the door open, light from the hallway falling across the man's face. Even though Callan fully intends to sleep on the couch, far away from Bastian, he understands that the simple act of closing a door will make the other man feel truly alone.
He heads back into the living room, angling for the couch. Callan doesn't bother to check what time it is now. At this rate, he doesn't want to know.
His mind isn't as blissfully empty as it was, but Callan doesn't struggle to fall asleep, even with the couch digging into his back and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He feels uneasy, and he knows that whatever tomorrow brings won't help matters, but at least he tried.
Some days that's all he can do.
He doesn't feel like himself anymore.
The lead pipe is heavy in his hands, slick from blood and sweat. Something is burning again - the smoke sticks in his lungs, makes his eyes sting. There's a piece of metal slotted between his ribs. Callan can't feel it.
The girl in front of him can't be more than sixteen. Her gaze is locked on her fallen ally, one hand feebly reaching out to him. Her only weapon is gone, but that doesn't seem to bother her. From what he can tell, she's largely given up. There's nothing to do but accept the inevitable.
It's a shame, Callan thinks. Neither of them stood much of a chance.
She flinches when he draws closer. Her eyes are filled with all the startling clarity of a wounded animal. Her fingers dig into the dirt, and even though her lip trembles, she never cries. She doesn't stop looking at him, either.
Please, is all she says.
There's no answer Callan can give that would change how this story ends.
It takes three hits for her to go quiet. Five more to make the cannon go off.
(He can't shake the look in her eyes. The primal fear, like she was prey and he was... something else.
Something worse.)
The rest is a blur. It's not the triumphant ending Callan was told to expect. When he leaves the Arena, he feels certain that part of himself is gone forever. But everyone in the Capitol congratulates him, tells him how often they replayed their favorite moments, shares which one of his kills was their favorite.
He can't bring himself to smile. They seem to like that better anyway.
Home is different. Everyone holds him at arm's length, like they're scared to be around him. Callan fights back his own bitterness - isn't this what they wanted from him all along? Isn't this what they raised him to be? Why do they balk now, when he can't take any of it back?
(It takes him a few weeks to ask how many. Nine, Audesia tells him. Over a third of his opponents. More than anyone in recent memory.
He's conflicted. Wasn't that supposed to be a good thing? A strong showing - isn't that what Two wanted out of him in the first place? Isn't that what he was chosen for?
Audesia just shrugs and tells him that he'd better get over it before the rest of the districts eat him alive in a few months.)
(They do anyway.)
The Capitol is a reprieve. It's the only place Callan has been in months that hasn't shied away from his every move. He understands that they see him as some sort of doll, one that's shiny and new and all for their entertainment, but it's better than any of the alternatives Callan has been presented with so far.
So he plays along. It's the closest thing he's gotten to acceptance.
(More than acceptance. Callan doesn't realize he's in too deep until it's too late to back out. He's given an offer. Tries to refuse. He shows his hand, exposes a weakness he should've kept to himself – he flinches. The response is nothing more than a knowing smile.)
(He spent years as his parents' trophy, and then Two's monster, and now he's the Capitol's whore. Nothing more than an object to be passed around and marveled at. At this point, Callan supposes it's fitting. There's no use in fighting it. Everyone else has decided what they want him to be, and Callan has no say in the matter.
He never did.)
that was pretty poggers huh
lol! teehee! i should be back in a couple weeks and then i will probably disappear again for ve. but every chapter we creep closer to games and things i am very very excited for so there are many causes for celebration. but for now, i love subplot and gorgeous gorgeous girls.
happy pride month!
~de laney is out