Jasmine McCoy, 16
District Twelve Female
0635 - July 13, 124 ADD.
"So. Have you finally gotten your shit sorted out?"
One thing Jasmine can admire about Tessa is the way she refuses to beat around the bush. She's clearly the kind of girl who knows what she's about, and that's rather helpful considering Jasmine is stuck relying on Tessa for sponsorships and advice to get through the Games in one piece. Or, really, just alive. Tessa keeps saying that no one escapes unscathed.
Whatever that means.
The part about Tessa that Jasmine isn't much of a fan of, however, is the way she constantly acts holier-than-thou, as if the six years between them are an insurmountable gap that Jasmine can't hope to bridge anytime soon. She acts like Jasmine is some sort of child – as if Tessa herself didn't win the Games at a mere fifteen years old. Being condescended to isn't exactly morale-inducing.
But… Jasmine doesn't really have a better option. Besides maybe Ariadne - Jasmine would have loved to learn from a woman with the reputation of being a ruthless backstabber - Tessa is the best mentor she could've gotten. Sure, Tessa may be something of a bitch, but at least she's a bitch that Jasmine can learn from; all things considered, Jasmine is in a decent spot.
And so, Jasmine tries not to be irritated. She really does. There are far more pros than cons to having Tessa as a mentor, and she should keep her chin up and ignore all of the girl's… flaws. Her situation could certainly be worse.
She bristles anyway. "Obviously. I've got an ally, we've got a plan, and all I've gotta do is make it through private sessions with a decent score. Something that shows I'm capable, but not too capable."
"Any ideas on that?"
"I know enough edible plants and pressure points to make it clear that, given the chance, I could make a kill."
Tessa hums. "Are you hoping that such an opportunity will fall right in your lap, or are you going to seek it out yourself?"
"I know my limits. I've been keeping an eye on the other tributes throughout training. Anyone who has fallen in with the Careers, I'd stand almost no chance against. I'd be forced to rely on something as fickle as luck."
"Optimistic," Tessa says dryly, folding her hands on the table. "Is that all?"
Sighing, Jasmine leans forward, taking a long sip of water. "I'm in over my head," she admits. "I chose this, I know that. But it's hard to look at everyone around me and try to categorize them as a threat or… less than a threat."
"Right, so… you're feeling bad for yourself now?"
"It's just so… against everything I believe," Jasmine mutters. "I don't think many people here deserve to die like this."
Tessa laughs, shaking her head. "It doesn't matter what anyone deserves. The world exists in shades of grey, kid. It's about time-"
"Don't 'kid' me," Jasmine says, cutting her off swiftly. "I won't participate in a conversation where you consistently put me down."
Tessa holds her hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Alright, alright. My point still stands. The world exists in shades of grey, and that fact is most prevalent in the Games. You'll make hard choices, and you'll make wrong ones. There aren't a lot of 'right' decisions. It would be easier that way, yeah, but there is no easy when your life is on the line."
"I know." Jasmine clenches her hands into fists. She can't explain her reasoning to Tessa. Even if it helped her mentor understand why she's so hesitant to kill so… indiscriminately, it would be counterproductive for her to confess to a murder she volunteered to avoid facing the consequences of.
"How can I help you here, then? You've gotta start distinguishing between threats and targets.."
"Fine. Threats… clearly the Careers. Most of them have been trained for… for god knows how long. Put me up against either of the Twos, for example, and I'm a goner."
"What about the others, then?"
Jasmine frowns. "Saccharine gives me the creeps. Sometimes it feels like someone is watching me during training, and I look to see her staring at me. Then all she does is smile and wave. She's pretty tiny and physically nonthreatening, but there's no way in hell I'd try to get in a fight with her. The boy… eh. The Seven kid they brought into the pack seems to know what he's doing more than Callum."
"Maybe he has something up his sleeve."
"I'm not sure. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, considering where he came from, but… he'd be one of the least repulsive options."
"Wise to be wary."
"The Fours…" Jasmine takes a moment to think. "Ibai tries to keep to himself, but I've seen him wield these weird knives, and I wouldn't want to find myself on the receiving end of his blade. The girl, though… she's certainly talented, but maybe a little… vapid. She acts as if she'd rather socialize than pay attention to the oncoming threat of the Games."
"Maybe she finds she doesn't need to focus on it."
"That's sheer overconfidence, then. It'll surely be her downfall."
Tessa shrugs. "We'll have to see. So… is that every threat you've identified? No outliers?"
"Zephyr, the one that's with the Careers. Besides them, I'd have to say Nolan. That's why I approached him for an alliance. I needed a strong physical threat by my side. Countering my own weaknesses and the like."
See, what Jasmine expects Tessa to say in response is something about how that's an exceptionally clever idea, something that she herself would do. Half of Tessa's compliments are phrased like that. The only behavior worth commenting on in a positive manner is something Tessa might find herself doing.
Instead, Tessa tilts her head to the side. "Oh, the escaped convict? I suppose he would be a rather impressive threat. Best to keep your enemies close, and all that."
Jasmine freezes. "The what?"
The older girl's lips curl up into a smug smile. "Oh, did you not know about that? Your new ally didn't tell you?"
"What do you know?" Jasmine asks flatly.
Tessa's nails click against the table a few times as she tries to decide whether or not to stop fucking around. When she figures out that Jasmine isn't exactly going to start begging her for information, she sighs and rolls her eyes. "Not much," she admits. "I heard about your alliance plans and decided to do some of my own investigating; Vitali gets pretty loose-lipped when you get him drinking. I know he was in jail. I know he escaped. I know he's been in hiding for around a year. Vitali won't say what he went to jail for, though, so I'd watch your back."
Jasmine groans and drops her head into her hands. All of her alliance plans are unraveling in front of her eyes. Nolan's been pretty standoffish and wary about her, but maybe that's just a facade. Maybe he's biding his time, waiting for her to lower her guard, and then he'll reveal his true nature and strike.
She tries to think through everything she knows about Nolan, but Jasmine keeps coming up empty-handed. The whole point was to not know much. Jasmine has no interest in getting close to an ally, but now she's been blindsided. The only possible indication is when he got reaped – Jasmine remembers seeing him try to run. Maybe he figured this was some sort of punishment for his escape, and he wanted to continue trying to outrun the fate he deserved.
Her own internal sense of justice rears its head, gnashing its teeth as it thinks about Sheridan again. Jasmine can barely pause her own thoughts long enough to wonder if Nolan even does deserve it.
"Well, I don't see what the big deal is," Tessa cuts in. "Isn't this what you were looking for?"
"I'm sorry?"
Tessa bares her teeth into a wicked smile. "A threat," she says proudly. "One you can use and dispose of without any hard feelings."
Jasmine hesitates. She hadn't thought of this yet. "I suppose so," she says slowly. "But…"
Sighing heavily, Tessa stands up from the counter. "If you keep trying to rationalize this shit to yourself, you'll become more focused on being a 'good person' than actually surviving. And I'll give you a hint – no one who wins gets to retain the title of good person. The sooner you get over that, the sooner you'll be able to focus on more important things, like winning. You want to stay alive? Figure out what you're willing to do to make that happen, and then come talk to me. I'm not sticking around to help you deal with a moral dilemma."
Jasmine grits her teeth tight enough that her jaw aches. She's not in the mood to argue with Tessa about this, especially when the girl doesn't even have it in her to try to understand.
But… she can accept the fact that Tessa is right about one thing. If Jasmine has any interest in making it beyond the first day, if she has any intention of staying alive at all, then she has to figure out how to make some concessions.
And, well, maybe those concessions start with her own ally. If he's really a convict like Tessa says he is, then Jasmine has some sleuthing to do.
Jasmine sighs and straightens, already thinking ahead. A betrayal is something that can only happen between friends. It implies a relationship, something deep enough to warrant the devastation of betrayal. They have already stated their mutual disinterest in forming a friendship, so any outcome that involves them turning on each other is… to be expected.
This is the Hunger Games, after all. All Jasmine wants is to be able to go home.
Akira Hinode, 16
District Five Tribute
0813 - July 13, 124 ADD.
Akira is with their friends today.
Well, really, friend singular. Gwenny is the only one that's really there. The others are just in Akira's head. They're her friends, but they don't really exist. Not anymore.
And you remember why, don't you?
It's lonelier now. Louder and quieter, all at the same time. The buzz of other tributes in the room isn't enough to block out the noise inside their head. It threatens to overpower Akira entirely. At night, when the silence is overpowering enough to suffocate, Akira presses her hands to her ears so tightly that the world around her rings.
(It doesn't work. Nothing works. Nothing is enough to make them leave her alone. Their friends will stay with them forever, like a punishment, a reminder.
But they deserve it, don't they? They deserve all of it.)
(At least, that's what the voices like to tell her.)
Things are easier when Akira isn't alone. Gwenny is a welcome presence, and Akira takes her up on the offer to visit the Eight floor as often as they can. That's where Ariadne is too, and Akira likes her quite a lot. She's nice and makes pasta and other yummy things and she listens.
Not everyone listens to Akira. Madoka doesn't. She likes to hold her head when Akira talks, like the mere act of listening is enough to give her a headache.
Her own sister. Guess sisterhood really does mean nothing.
Not a sister, just a failure a fraud a disappointment a freak a blight a jinx a waste of space a basket case a-
Akira throws her can of spray paint as hard as she can against the wall. To their immense disappointment, it simply clatters and then falls to the floor. No explosion of paint, no nothing.
Boring. Akira would've liked to see neon pink rain down on the tributes sitting at the station adjacent to theirs. The girl is glaring at Akira, but the boy just looks surprised. She sticks her tongue out at both of them.
"What did you do that for?" Gwenny asks, not unkindly.
Akira appreciates her tone. Not everyone talks to them like that. Madoka likes to use all her Kiki words in that tone that screams annoyance, like talking to Akira is the worst thing she could be doing at any given time. Gwenny isn't like that. Ariadne isn't like that either.
(It almost makes Akira feel like they're not a total inconvenience.)
"I like the noise," Akira explains. A thought occurs to her, and they reach out for another can.
Anticipating what they were about to do, Gwenny swiftly confiscates the can. Before Akira has the chance to pout about it, Gwenny shakes it and sprays a rose on the fabric spread out in front of them. Or, at least, that's what Akira thinks it's supposed to be. If roses were green, anyway.
"You like the noise, huh?" Gwenny hands over a tube of paint this time. Akira considers adding it to their collection, but after the first day, the trainers have been checking her pockets before letting them leave the room. It'd be worth it to try, but Akira is getting sick of the constant distrust. They just wanna have a little fun – what's so wrong with that?
"Yeah. Makes everything else quieter."
"What's everything else?"
Akira pauses. She can't say the voices, because that would make them sound fucking insane and she's not, she's really not, they're just…
Aren't you?
"My head." Akira gestures with her hands. "Everything in my head is… quieter."
Gwenny nods in a way that indicates she doesn't quite understand, but she's not exactly patronizing either. No long-suffering sigh and Yes, Akira, to make them go quiet themself.
"Would it help to talk with me, then?"
"I like talking. Not everyone likes listening, though."
"Like your sister?"
Akira pouts. "I don't wanna talk about her."
Her ally raises her hands in surrender. "We don't have to. More paint?"
Akira chooses a few more colors and begins covering their arms in vivid dots and swirls. She's pretty sure this station is all about camouflage and hiding, but paint is all about expression, the kind of shit that should be seen. That's why Akira keeps trying to steal away paints to use in her room. It's not vandalizing if they're making it better.
(That's what they keep trying to tell Madoka. Madoka, who found Akira holed up in her room late at night after the first day of training, painting away on the walls. Madoka, who ratted them out in the first place. Madoka, who is the reason for everything, good or bad, that happens in Akira's life.
Akira wants to be left alonealonealone, but Madoka still insists on fixing things. What doesn't she understand? If Akira's broken, then Madoka is the last person they'll go to for help.)
(Not broken. Not broken.)
They've made a mess of tubes on the ground. Most of the caps lay off to the side, forgotten. Akira raises one fist above their head and smashes it down as hard as they can, beaming with delight as light blue paint sprays out for several feet.
"Okay, you two are done," a trainer cuts in. "We can't have anyone making a mess of the room before private sessions, so go find another station to work at."
Akira leaps to their feet in protest. "But-"
The trainer's face remains entirely impassive, even as Akira blows a raspberry at them. "Another station." They take care to enunciate clearly, as if Akira is some dumb kid that doesn't understand what they're saying. "Now. And no taking supplies with you."
She stamps her foot on the ground, face growing hot. This injustice is enough for Akira to feel like they themself could explode, could take out everyone in this room with her. And no one would see it coming, because Akira's just a fuck-up that can't do anything right, anyway-
"C'mon," Gwenny says, fingers encircling Akira's wrist as gently as she can manage. "You wanted to check out trapping too, right?"
Their negative feelings shrink down in an instant, back to a manageable size where Akira can still feel them tucked behind her ribcage, but they're not about to swallow her whole. The trapping station has all sorts of trinkets to play around with, and she wants to see what they'll be able to get their hands on for private sessions later.
"Okay!" they chirp, tugging her wrist free and skipping away. Akira keeps an eye out for another friend to make, but most of the other tributes avoid meeting her gaze. She waves at one anyway, but he doesn't see. Or, at least, he pretends he doesn't. The smile that disappears from his face says enough, though.
The change in scenery, at least, is nice. And Akira likes having something to do with their hands. She digs through a box of trinkets, pulling out odds and ends until they're satisfied with the collection they've amassed. Gears and springs and scraps of metal… if Akira scratches their brain just right, maybe they can figure out something to do with all this.
Gwenny carefully plucks a gear from Akira's pile. "Fascinating," she mutters.
"What is?"
"Including these materials with the trapping stuff. I'd think trapping materials would skew more natural, but… interesting."
"You're thinking about something," Akira points out. It's a not-so-subtle hint that they don't like being left out.
"I've been trying to figure out the Arena," Gwenny confesses. "Or at least narrow it down. There are clues everywhere, so I've got some solid guesswork, but nothing concrete. I don't think it's particularly nature-based."
"Oh. That's good, then."
"Good?"
"Yeah. I don't know much about nature, but I know about this." Akira jingles the metal parts in front of her. "More like home."
Gwenny's smile turns wistful. "That would be nice."
Nice is not a word Akira would use to describe home, but they like the usefulness of familiarity in a situation that is incredibly foreign. They like being able to think that maybe, just maybe, she can do something useful, too.
Glancing around at the other tributes, Akira finds her gaze drawn to the same one from earlier. His head is ducked so dark hair falls in front of his face, obscuring his features from view. Akira wants to talk to him, but then she feels stupid for feeling that way, so she turns to Gwenny.
"Svelte isn't coming back, is he?"
Gwenny stills. She dabs at a spot of paint on her arm, but it's still wet, so all she does is smear it. "I don't think so."
Akira frowns petulantly. "He left us."
"I don't know if he was ever really with us. Ariadne wanted him to consider allies, and he… wasn't exactly open to the idea."
"He doesn't want us."
"Not as allies, no."
"Or friends."
Gwenny tilts her head to the side. "I don't think he really knows what a friend is."
"That's sad," Akira says, though they certainly don't feel pity for him. "I know what a friend is."
"And I'm glad for that." Gwenny pauses. "Do you consider us friends?"
"Of course we are," Akira responds immediately. "Aren't we?"
There's something a little sad about Gwenny's smile, but Akira doesn't know what to do about that. "Yeah," Gwenny says, "I think we are."
Xander Luman, 16
District Five Male
0849 - July 13, 124 ADD.
This is getting entirely out of hand.
Obviously Xander Luman did not intend to get reaped. He did not intend to be here, on a one-way track to his own death, and he certainly didn't intend to be trailed after by not one but two helpless children. At least one of them on their own was tolerable – the newest addition, however, gives off the constant aura of a dog begging for scraps.
Ridiculous. All Xander wants to do is be left largely alone. There's no one here that he – that his father – would deem worthy, so Xander should keep his distance. He must keep his chin up, his eyes leveled on the tantalizing prospect of Victorhood. Any sort of distraction will lead to sure failure.
Xander sighs and rubs his temples. Aleksei deciding to tag along with them for the day has driven him halfway insane over the course of just a couple hours. Marri, at least, knows how to stay quiet sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. Aleksei, on the other hand, feels this incessant need to fill every momentary silence with his own mindless chatter. Not a single peaceful moment drifts by in the boy's presence.
The only bright spot is the fact that Aleksei hardly seems to notice that Xander isn't listening to a word he's saying. Maybe he's so caught up in his conversation with Marri that he's not concerned about Xander at all. Either way, it's nice. Xander doesn't have to pretend to care.
Xander takes a moment to watch them. Marri seems to get along with Aleksei well enough, though things aren't quite… right. Her smile is wider than Xander has ever seen it, but it looks particularly forced, as if she's merely trying to maintain appearances. She's certainly trying, and Xander can give her credit for that much, but he can spot a fake bitch anywhere.
The thing with Aleksei, though, is that he's much easier to read, especially considering Xander was forced to be in close proximity to him yesterday. He's just as talkative, just as excitable, just as strange, but… Aleksei's acting as if he's overcompensating for something. It doesn't take a genius to guess what.
It took him a while to figure out where the Three girl went. She's good at keeping her head down, and today she appears to be avoiding attention as much as possible. The only reason Xander was able to find her holed up behind a station was because Aleksei kept glancing over in her direction.
Ugh. He's completely useless. If this is how Aleksei is acting after a few hours of being ignored, then how's he going to cope when the Arena throws something much worse at him?
"So where's your little friend?" Xander interrupts. He's not even sure which one of them was talking, and he doesn't particularly care. "Sagan, wasn't it?"
Aleksei shifts, caught off guard enough to finally fall silent. Marri, on the other hand, gives him a reproachful look. "Xander," she chides. "You shouldn't-"
"I'm just curious," Xander says, the lie slipping out easily. "You were attached at the hip yesterday, and she won't even look at you today. So, what happened?"
"Maybe it's none of our business," Marri argues.
"It is if we're the ones he's come to bother."
"He's not a bother!"
Xander shrugs and focuses back on Aleksei. "So? You finally annoy her enough that she ran?"
"Xander-"
"I'm, um, not sure," Aleksei says meekly. "We were talking about family, and then she was yelling about how I think she's going to die and I don't have any faith in her, and then she told me to leave her alone forever."
"And… that's it?"
"Yeah, I think. I mean, I don't know. I don't know how it happened."
"Has she ever talked about her family before? Does she even like them?"
Aleksei frowns. "I'm… not sure. She doesn't really like talking about herself."
"She doesn't like it, or you don't let her?"
"Both? I talk a lot so she doesn't have to."
"How kind of you," Xander says dryly.
"You should try talking to her," Marri says. "I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding."
"I dunno," Aleksei mumbles. "I tried to say hi this morning, but she practically ran away from me. I don't think she's very interested in listening."
Oh god. It's like Xander can see the next week of his life play out in excruciating detail. This conversation will be rehashed more times than he can possibly count, and the near-peace that Xander had achieved with Marri will be ruined forever. It'll be even worse than Odette.
Aleksei sniffles. Xander tries not to look horrified. Oh god, if the boy cries…
Xander crushes his pride between his teeth. "Marri is… right," he manages.
His ally blinks at him in shock. "I am? I mean, uh- yes! I am!"
"The party is tonight. You have time to figure out what you want to say. Attempting to trap her in a conversation would end poorly, and the locale gives her enough escape routes that she feels like she has a way out, should the need arise."
Aleksei nods along eagerly. "But what should I say?"
"How am I supposed to know?" Xander wrinkles his nose. "She's your friend, is she not?"
"Well yeah, but… I'm not very good with words. I could mess it all up again and then she'll leave and never come back."
Good lord, friends sound exhausting. Xander is suddenly glad that he's never had a real one. "You're… earnest," he finally says. "She might appreciate that."
"And who knows – maybe she misses you, too," Marri adds.
Aleksei's eyes widen. "You think so?"
"Maybe." Marri manages a smile – one notably softer than the previous ones, much less forced. It's also sadder, which makes Xander frown. (He wonders why he did that.) "But it's better to try than to let her slip away without so much as a goodbye."
The sentimentality of the conversation is starting to go over Xander's head, but he silently concedes that she probably has a point. "There are few things you can be sure of in a situation as precarious as ours. Hesitation will get you nowhere."
"Right," Aleksei says, nodding furiously. "So I gotta say something."
"Just don't be overbearing about it," Xander says. "The last thing you want to do is scare her off again."
Aleksei's brows pinch together in concern, but Marri places a soothing hand on his shoulder. "You'll do great," she tells him, all too gently.
"Promise?"
Marri hesitates. Xander watches her carefully, but her smile doesn't slip; he can almost admire the way she carries herself. It's just a shame that she's so… sensitive. If he was home, his father would disapprove immensely. Such weakness is shameful. There's no room for it here – or ever.
"Yeah, of course! You two will get along swimmingly in no time."
Xander doesn't bother to hide his scoff. He's certain that Marri is giving him another look, but he ducks his head to ignore it. "There's no such thing as a certainty right now. You should focus on more important things until tonight – like getting ready for your private session."
"Oh yeah!" Aleksei's eyes light up, and he jumps to his feet. "Kass says I should practice a few times to get used to the layout. I'll catch you guys later!"
"You know where to find us!" Marri calls.
Xander shakes his head as Aleksei scampers away. "He talks too much."
"He's just excitable."
"Like a puppy."
"It's rather endearing, really."
"If you like dogs, I guess." Xander sighs. "Maybe Sagan will take him back."
There are several long moments where his companion doesn't say anything. When he finally looks up, Marri is staring at him with wide eyes, her expression so strange and unreadable that it makes Xander mildly perturbed. "What?" he asks.
"That was almost helpful of you," she says, ducking her head to hide a smile.
"It was not," Xander insists. "Don't read into this. He was annoying me, so I got rid of him."
"By inspiring him to reconnect with his friend! That's very sweet, you know."
"The alignment of our interests was purely coincidental."
"Mhm." The look on Marri's face is almost proud. "I'm sure he appreciates it."
"If she even wants to ally with him still," Xander says. "She might not. She didn't seem the friendly type when we met her."
"Still. He's the persistent type. It'll work out."
"You're optimistic about this."
"Aren't you?"
Xander wrinkles his nose. "No. Why would I be?"
"Because it's nice to have hope."
He scoffs. "That line of foolish thinking will only lead to disappointment."
Marri goes quiet for a moment, contemplative. Xander turns his head so he doesn't have to watch. "Maybe so," she says, "but I am already a fool that is going to die. I'd like to retain what little hope I have left."
Callum Cadogan, 17
District One Male
0934 - July 13, 124 ADD.
Make a friend.
A friend. Just one.
It's a simple mission, but one that suddenly seems more daunting than anything else in Callum's life right now. He's made plenty of friends back in One, and he'd happily entrust his life to most of them.
But this is… different. Callum came here to save a friend, and now he needs a friend to save him.
(Isn't it funny? Callum has entertained the thought before – what if he and Rhydian could go in together? They'd fight side by side, bending over backwards to protect each other even in the most dire of circumstances. They'd never leave each other's side for even a moment. When death came, they'd face it together.)
(Of course, that's not a possibility Callum can stand to think about – his stomach twists if he thinks about Rhydian for too long. It was a betrayal, he can admit that now. One born from care and devotion, but a betrayal nonetheless.
Callum is not sorry. But maybe…)
He's been trying to figure out which of the others would make for a good companion, someone that he can at least spend some time with in these last days. Saccharine is an obvious no; besides the fact that she's quiet and hardly speaks to anyone, Callum just finds her… unsettling. In the fleeting moments when she makes eye contact with him and smiles, Callum feels like a bug pinned down and about to be taken apart, piece by piece.
As for the others – Pantheon is too loud, too volatile; Nerissa too cold; Thessaly too… much. There's Ibai, but he shies away from anyone that isn't Thessaly. So, really, Callum's options are limited to one person.
It's not like he minds. Zephyr made for lovely company the day before, when they were paired together for training; they're remarkably easy to get along with. Perhaps it's because they're clearly the other outlier of the group. Callum hasn't point that out yet, but it's not necessary to; neither has the same practiced surety in their movements that their allies do.
(Maybe this is why Alila suggested he find a friend in the first place. )
He frowns at the thought of his mentor. She claims to be happy, but there's something somber about the way she carries herself now. She lost everything she'd come to know in the Games, and even though she clearly had a happy family waiting for her-
Well, Callum doesn't know. Happy seems like a stretch. That's all he's ever wanted for Rhydian – happiness. And he feels very sure that winning the Games – or dying in the process – isn't going to make his friend happy.
(But… then again, Callum is growing increasingly unsure that Rhydian will be happy the way Callum left him. Rhydian is ambitious, and Callum... Callum left his friend without anything to strive for.)
"You're doing quite a lot of thinking, and not much training," Zephyr cuts in. "Care to share?"
Callum startles, giving Zephyr a weak smile. "It's nothing, really. Just… missing home."
Zephyr laughs and shakes their head. "You're a terrible liar, but I'll bite. What're you missing about it?"
"My friends, mostly. My mom. I didn't tell her I was planning this, so she was… pretty understandably devastated. But she has faith, and so do I, so I'll try not to disappoint her too much."
"Oh, she didn't know?" Zephyr makes an odd face, then shakes his head. "My mom would've killed me if I hadn't given her a heads up. I wouldn't have made it out of the Justice Building."
Surprised, Callum laughs. "Really?"
"Yeah, she would've been pissed. I tell her everything."
"Is she all you've got?"
"Not exactly. Right now she's the only family I'm close to, if that answers your question."
Callum hums and picks up one of the knives at the station. It's much smaller than what he's used to – back home, he wields a lightweight sword, but he doesn't want to start swinging one around while everyone is watching. Besides, he's been hoping to pick up some basic knife skills so that he can conceal one on his body if a situation ever calls for one; he might as well use this time to his advantage.
"Any siblings?" Callum finally asks.
Zephyr's lips twist into an almost smile. "Yeah, a sister. My twin, actually. Zaidra."
"And you're not on the best of terms?"
He snorts. "That's an understatement. During my goodbyes, she came in and yelled about how I'm selfish, so… yeah, not the best of terms."
Callum whistles lowly. "Damn. Were you close before now?"
"We were practically inseparable. Twin shit, yanno? Been through the best and worst of times together. Now… well, siblings go through phases. I just never thought we'd end things here."
"Yeah… yeah, it's like… you were supposed to be together forever. Like some sort of united front."
Zephyr tilts their head to the side. "Yeah, like that. You have siblings?"
"Nah, it's just me and my mom. Always has been. But…"
"But?" Zephyr grins. "You got a secret sibling stored up your sleeve?"
Callum cracks a smile. "Not a blood relation, no. But… we're almost like brothers. Or we were, at least."
"Were?"
"Yeah, I… sort of had my own confrontation during goodbyes." Callum chuckles and scratches the back of his head. "I'm not sure if he'd consider us close anymore."
"Damn. I'm sorry to hear that – really."
"It's just… hard to lose someone you knew better than yourself. And then end up here, where you can't exactly fix any of it."
Zephyr is watching him with a knowing look. "Yeah, yeah exactly. The only way for me to try is if I can get home, but… well, look around. The odds of that are pretty shit, huh?"
"We're in a good position. There are worse places to be."
"And also better ones. Like not being here at all."
"Strange coming from someone that volunteered."
"Sure looks like it, huh? And besides, didn't you do the same?"
"Fair enough," Callum concedes. He pauses. "For what it's worth, I've got your back. If you need."
Zephyr looks surprised, and then quickly tempers their expression. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I trust you more than the others."
He laughs and cocks a brow. "You hardly know me."
The reason for Callum's (mostly blind) faith is simple: they are both othered. They're not trained for this, so even though they both volunteered, it's… different. Callum doubts his own ability to turn to cruelty in the Arena, but everyone else has prepared extensively for that exact outcome. Callum could fully believe that any of his other allies would plant a knife in his back in a heartbeat – all except Zephyr, that is.
"Don't get me wrong, I don't think you're some kind of saint," Callum jokes. "I just think… you're not a bad guy. And I want to trust where I can."
"High praise," Zephyr says dryly.
"I'm not trying to flatter you or anything. Just being honest."
The ghost of a smile crosses their face. "I appreciate it. And… same goes for you. Though I hope the situation never calls for it."
"If only we could be so lucky."
Silence settles over them. Callum feels relatively at peace; somehow, he's accomplished his mission. Friends might be a stretch, but he certainly feels a stronger connection to Zephyr than the rest of his so-called allies. That must count for something.
Still, there's something that bothers him about their conversation. It's a word that sticks out to him, one that sours Callum's mouth, makes his stomach twist. He can't quite explain why, and he doesn't know how to begin trying.
"Were you?"
"Was I what?"
"Selfish."
Zephyr pauses, quiet and contemplative. He runs his fingers along the edge of the dulled knife. It takes a long while for them to answer.
(When they do, Callum realizes he's been holding his breath. )
"In a lot of ways, yeah." Zephyr admits this truth aloud like it's a painful conclusion to reach. "I did what I thought was best. And in other ways, not at all. I can't quite wrap my head around… all of this, especially when I can't exactly go back and change anything. And besides that – every choice I've made was born of love. It's difficult to fault my past self for something they so wholeheartedly believed in."
"Oh."
A few beats pass before Zephyr looks over at him. "Why do you ask, anyway?"
Something tightens in Callum's chest. He manages to shrug, his best attempt at remaining casual. "Just curious."
Zephyr hums. "You're still not very good at lying."
"Sorry."
"Don't be. I'm just taking note. I'm not expecting you to share."
"I don't know if I could explain, anyway."
"Then don't. Time's running short, anyway. We've got more work to do to finish out the day."
A lot is riding on Callum's private session, but he can't quite get himself to focus. His time is running out – and the longer he's away from home, the less sure Callum is about anything.
(And, really, the less sure he is that he'll ever get the chance to fix things.)
Ibai Zubizarreta, 18
District Four Male
1303 - July 13, 124 ADD.
Time is running out.
There's a countdown running in his head. He can't keep still. His mind is racing with everything from karambit technique to boat facts to an extensive internal monologue about every way this could go wrong.
Ibai stares resolutely at the ground. There's no one else in the hallway with him, not yet, but he feels eyes on him regardless. Maybe it's the incredible amount of attention he's about to receive that's getting to him.
So much of what Ibai has worked for has led to this moment. If he can't make anything of himself now, then what about later?
Footsteps echo down the hallway, drawing ever closer. Ibai grows more tense the louder they get. He doesn't have to wonder who it is.
"I don't know why you bothered to show up," is the first thing Dacre says aloud. The other boy looks straight ahead, gaze fixated on the closed door. Normally, Ibai would be relieved by the lack of eye contact, but he registers that it's an intentional disrespect. Not that Ibai knows what to do about it.
"A duel requires two people to partake in it."
"I know the fucking definition."
"So you also know showing up is part of the requirement for winning the spot."
Dacre laughs aloud, an amused smile crossing his face. "You don't stand a shot at winning. Don't make me embarrass you. Just give up now and save us both the trouble."
"A victory that isn't earned is no victory at all." Ibai tilts his head to the side. "I did not think you were the type to enjoy handouts."
The expression on Dacre's face grows cold. He laughs again, this time much more hollowly, and claps a hand on Ibai's shoulder. Ibai flinches.
"You're right, you're right," the other boy says. His teeth glimmer brightly. "I'm really going to enjoy this, you know? A final bit of proof that I've always been better than you."
Ibai's stomach twists. He can't come up with a response; even if he tried, he's sure that his words would slide right off Dacre - as they always do.
He's not going to lose.
(He very well might.)
He's finally going to prove himself.
(Even if he does, will anyone ever take him seriously?)
This is the end.
(An ending, Ibai knows, is inevitable. There is an end to everything. And no matter how hard he tries, he cannot control how this will turn out.)
"Ibai."
He blinks.
It's day three of training; the afternoon creeps slowly by. All of his allies have already gone back for their sessions, and therefore are presumably up on their floors by now. Except Thessaly, of course, who is still in the middle of hers. She's been overjoyed for this all day, despite not having a single plan in mind for what to do.
Ibai cannot relate. He's gone over his plan extensively for the past few days. It's relatively simple, but he's not sure he can handle much more than that right now. As long as he exhibits his vast knowledge of the karambit in a way that demonstrates his clear expertise with the weapon, that should be more than plenty. Ibai is not the type to possess an overabundance of showmanship – a fact that became increasingly obvious to himself and his peers over the years.
His leg starts bouncing again.
"Ibai," the voice says again, quieter.
Ibai forgot someone spoke to him in the first place. He looks to the side, surprised to see Zephyr next to him. Seven is (thankfully) keeping their distance, but Ibai finds his gaze lingering on soft eyes and long hair for a little too long before he remembers to respond.
"Why are you here?" Ibai asks, not unkindly.
Zephyr's lips tilt up into a smile. "You looked lonely. I wanted to fix that."
"Well, I'm not. I'm thinking."
"About a great deal, evidently. I had to try three times to get your attention. Care to enlighten me?"
"No."
Zephyr shrugs, unbothered. "You wanna know what I'm thinking about?"
Ibai just raises an eyebrow. "Not particularly," he says, but he's starting to feel he's in the sort of situation where he doesn't have much of a choice in the matter.
Just as he suspected, Zephyr leans closer anyway, dropping their voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think something happened with Nerissa and Thessaly last night."
"Like a fight?"
Zephyr huffs out a laugh. "Well, I guess… never mind. You remember when I dared them to go back into a room, and they came out and hardly looked at each other the rest of the night?"
Ibai does not. "Sure."
"They looked a little cozier this morning, didn't they?"
He ponders this for a moment. Ibai has not paid attention to the mannerisms of his allies in the slightest. The existence of relationships – good or bad – is irrelevant to his existence in the Games. As long as they do not affect him, then there is no need to pay them any mind.
"Sure."
"You have no idea, do you?"
Zephyr looks amused. Ibai doesn't know why.
Something twinges in Ibai's gut, and he looks away, digging his nails into his palms. He doesn't know why Zephyr is wasting their time talking to him. They sure have better things to do, more interesting people to see. They don't have to continue pretending like there's something fascinating enough about Ibai to stay.
"I'll go if you want," Zephyr offers quietly.
"I think you should."
"Is that what you want?"
Ibai is not focused on any of his desires right now except the immense need to get through his private session with a better-than-decent score. And a need to get through the Games alive. And totally intact. And without-
He squeezes his eyes shut, a fruitless attempt to erase splatters of blood from his vision. But all that does is paint them on the backs of his eyelids, where he can't escape from the sight.
Someone calls his name – not Zephyr this time. Ibai sucks in a deep breath. He's out of time. There's nothing more he can do.
A hand gently lands on his shoulder, and Ibai tenses, but doesn't move. "Good luck," Zephyr says.
Ibai stands abruptly, and Zephyr's hand falls into their lap. "I do not want your luck," he replies stiffly.
Zephyr does not say anything more. Ibai is glad for that.
The training center is far bigger when Ibai is the only one in it. He takes a moment to scan his surroundings; a few weapons are slightly out of place, but other than that, the room looks exactly the same as it did a few hours earlier.
A shame. Ibai would've liked to guess what his other allies chose to show off.
He doesn't waste much time. Ibai straightens and heads over to the wide variety of knives spread across a table. He's had his favorite set of karambits picked out since day one – and, naturally, Ibai tested all of them to verify that he found the best fit. Once he's got them in his hands, he spins them once and begins to talk.
See, there is one particular thing Ibai enjoys about the karambit: it's nearly impossible to disarm someone who wields one. The blade itself is rather small, but wickedly curved; the handle fits cleanly against one's palm, and the small ring on the end of the handle is designed to fit on one's index finger. While they limit the wearer to close-ranged combat, they also allow for a full range of motion; wielded correctly, they serve almost as wicked claws, and extension of the wearer's arms.
Once he's done explaining the basics, Ibai picks out a dummy and shows off a few of his knife tricks. The ring makes it easy to spin the weapon around his fingers, and, if he's bold enough, he can use just one karambit and toss it between his hands. Ibai knows that he's not exactly flashy, and he's not exactly charismatic, but the ease with which he handles his weapon of choice should serve as something of a comfort to anyone watching him.
He's talented. He knows what he's doing. He's worked to get here every day for years.
(Or, at least, that's what he's trying to convince himself.)
Once he's done, Ibai requests a trainer. A close-range one, who has the confidence to try and disarm him. One of the high-level ones steps forward, armed with two short swords, and Ibai smiles to himself.
The fight does not last particularly long. Ibai is soothed by the familiar sensation of karambits pressed into his palms; this is something he knows, something he's good at. A fight is all about technique, and Ibai knows every technique in the book. A fight is something he can predict – every opponent broadcasts their movements in a way that Ibai can read and react to accordingly.
The trainer, as Ibai had dared him to do, attempts to disarm him. It doesn't work. It never works. His opponent's blade gets caught in the curve of his karambit.
Ibai manages to disarm the trainer instead. He lashes out with the blade at the same time as he hooks his foot around the back of the trainer's ankle, sending the man sprawling to the ground. Before the trainer can even think to get up, Ibai is there, one karambit aimed to kill.
The tip of his blade wavers at the trainer's throat.
At Dacre's throat.
The fight is over. It took longer than either of them anticipated, and Ibai is sure that the outcome was not one that Dacre expected. The other boy's face has contorted into an ugly expression, some mix of confusion and anger and dismay.
Ibai gets to his feet, not wanting to remain close for long. He takes a few steps back, mind whirling. He really won. The volunteer slot is his, so long as he wants it.
And he does – of course he does. Ibai finally allows himself to smile. His breaths are already beginning to even out.
(His back is turned. It's the perfect opening. They were handed real weapons to mimic the stakes of a real fight. Dacre doesn't lose, especially not to someone as pathetic as Ibai.
It doesn't even matter if he can play it off or not. Dacre is more widely liked, more talented, more charismatic – he's better in every conceivable way. The spot was always meant for him, and all Ibai did was get in his way. No one would blame him for taking what was rightfully his.
All it would take was one hit.)
Ibai senses movement behind him and reacts in an instant. The most pressing concern is a trident lifted high, ready to bury itself in Ibai's chest. He ducks under Dacre's trident, karambit swiping upwards to ward the other boy off. But as soon as his mind catches up with what he's doing, Ibai realizes he's miscalculated.
His karambit meets resistance, but the momentum carries, and it slices right through tender skin. Something warm and wet splatters Ibai's face, his hands, his weapon. He reels backwards, karambit clattering to the ground.
Dacre collapses to his knees. His hands clutch at his throat, but the blood won't stop pouring between his fingers. He gags, panic-stricken when he realizes he can't breathe, as more spills out of his mouth. It's everywhere.
When Ibai clasps his shaking hands together, they're sticky with the same dark red liquid.
Ibai recoils, and he's on his feet in an instant. The trainer says something to him – good job, maybe – but Ibai is already headed towards the exit. He pauses to throw his karambits back on the table where they belong, and then he's gone.
His hands itch. It's like no matter how hard he tries, Ibai cannot get the blood off. He can still see Dacre's body in front of him, eyes burning with hatred and vitriol even as the light left them.
(It's what he's supposed to do. It's what he trained to do. It was an accident. It was self-defense. He didn't mean it. Ibai has grown familiar with every justification in the book. No one else cares enough to ask, but Ibai can't reconcile with the fact that he killed someone. That he's supposed to kill more.
Maybe it was a mistake to come here at all.)
(Dacre's choked gasps ring in his ears all the way back to his room.)
i am alive. rip to the hoes that are not.
awkward. i'm really good at updating huh. it's been like a month and a half since ve and two and a half months since the last tfm update. the goal is to rush private sessions out in the next week - theoretically doable since i'm already like 2k into it teehee.
um. i guess this is proof that u should never trust a hoe ever tho. u know how it goes. four pg chapters left! and only two that feature tribute povs actually. CRAZYYY. idk i'm out of things to say i'm not gonna keep going i'll see you when i see you
~ de laney is out