CHAPTER XXVII: INTERVIEWS
Reverie Berlusconi • District One Female
District Seven Suite / July 7th, 7:12 PM
"What do you want?" the boy in the doorway grunts.
Before her is Lucifer Bishop, the District Seven Male. Physically, Seven is intimidating; he lumbers a few inches above Reverie's head, jacked to the nines. His gaze holds hers well enough, but strangely, it doesn't quite focus all the way. And despite the sharp edges of his chin and his cheekbones, the rest of his face still hasn't outgrown the roundness of youth. He's large and imposing, but he's also just a boy.
(Reverie supposes she's also just a girl.)
(But she won't make the mistake of thinking of him like that. First lesson in the Academy: never think of your opponents as people.)
"Right to the chase," Reverie comments, keeping her arms crossed. "Don't you want to exchange some pleasantries first?"
Seven stares at her. "No."
She and Sergeant had spent last night planning this meeting with Seven. Sergeant's concerns about the three biggest outer-District threats — Crossland, Asahel, and Lucifer — were no secret. Perhaps "concern" was too generous a word, but Sergeant was certainly of the opinion that it would be best to get rid of them sooner rather than later.
After scores were released, Lucifer, who obtained a score of 9 and a predicted placement of 5th, had become the top priority threat. Underlined and in bold. It worked out, because Reverie thought he'd be the most likely candidate to agree to something like this.
"Fine, then," Reverie sighs. She levels a look at Seven. "I want you to dispatch one of my allies at the Bloodbath."
"One of them?" Seven repeats.
"I have a specific one in mind."
Reverie's not at all surprised by the question that comes out first — it's the one that everyone asks, after all. "What's in it for me?"
Reverie hums under her breath. "That boy from Nine," she muses. "Emilio Carver, I believe. You're allies, aren't you?"
Seven says nothing. While it's true that Reverie doesn't need an answer to confirm what she already knows, it's still a little awkward to be talking to herself.
"Is he worried about the Bloodbath?" she asks.
Lucifer just keeps slowly blinking at her, waiting for her to continue. Damn these silent types, ruining the fun of a good old-fashioned bribe.
Or threat, depending on how you look at it.
"He doesn't have to be," she finishes at last. "I promise you, if you do this little thing I ask, no one will touch him tomorrow."
Reverie can practically see the gears in Seven's head turning. She can't be wholly confident that he cares about the fate of his ally at all, that he won't just slam the door on her right now. It's a risk, and it relies entirely on how soft Seven's heart is. But she has a feeling the odds are in her favor.
"Two," Seven says finally.
"Pardon?"
"Two. Promise Emilio and Jillion."
"Jillion. The Eleven girl," Reverie repeats, giving him a strange look. He nods. "Two for one. Does that seem fair to you?"
Seven nods again. "You want me to kill one. Permanent. I want you to not touch two. Temporary."
Reverie supposes she can't argue with that logic. Not that it matters, anyway. She knew he was softer than he looked.
"Deal."
At last, Seven asks the question that matters most. "Who?"
[That's where it gets tricky. So many options, and Reverie can only pick one.]
"Orion," the Two boy decided.
He was all roses and relaxed lines after his shower, towel still hanging around his shoulders as his arms draped across the length of the couch. The only thing about him that betrayed any sort of uneasiness was his jaw, which was tenser than usual.
Sergeant looked good. He was confident and charming and that was Reverie's type in a guy. She could sit closer to him; she could put her lips on his, and she knew he would respond. Best of all, it wouldn't mean anything. Sergeant should've been the perfect person to use to move on.
Still didn't change the fact that she felt jack shit.
"Orion?" Reverie repeated.
Sergeant exhaled. "Yeah."
"What about Cassia?"
"I know," he said. "I just…"
"You don't need to explain, actually. I get it."
"Yeah. I didn't want to."
Reverie tried her luck. "Why not pick Five?"
Sergeant drummed his fingers against the arm of the couch. "I think Fio's worth keeping around.," he answers. "He would do anything I told him to do. But for Orion, I can't really say the same." A pause. "And I don't need dogs who don't listen."
[Orion: Sergeant's selected scapegoat. As far as his knowledge of the plan goes, Reverie will tell Lucifer to kill Orion in exchange for Emilio's immunity at the Bloodbath, under the pretense that she's going behind her allies' backs. Lucifer might successfully kill Orion, or he might not. That doesn't matter. What matters is that he'll be staying around the Cornucopia, long enough for Sergeant or Reverie or maybe even one of the other Careers to stick a weapon in his back, eliminating the biggest non-Career threat in the Arena.
But by sending Reverie to make the proposition, Sergeant has given her an absurd trump card. She can say whatever she wants to Seven right now. She alone dictates how this all shakes out. And she's going to play the hand she's been given to her own advantage — even if it means going against direct orders.
Even if it means actually going behind the other Careers' backs.]
[Fioynder: Reverie was opposed to letting him in the pack to begin with, and his loose tongue at training yesterday only proved her instinct right. How did Fioynder know that she had killed Callista, that sorry excuse for an assigned Volunteer? Of course, Callista's murder had always been District One's worst kept secret, but the Academy never outright confirmed the rumors to the press. To protect their most prodigious students, they poured significant efforts in keeping scandals ambiguous. And God knows Reverie has quite a few under her belt.
She had managed to convince Sergeant that it had been a training accident, but she can't let Fioynder run his mouth again. It looks bad if there are too many questions. The point is, there's no way Fioynder, a random fifteen year-old from District Five, should've known that information, unless he somehow managed to get into the Academy's highly-protected, encrypted database. But Reverie won't underestimate a tribute from one of the most technologically advanced Districts, even if it's Fioynder.
It makes her wonder what he does or doesn't know. If he knows about Kieran, about Aurelius.
It doesn't matter. She doesn't need another person who can drop her history at any given moment, royally fucking over the trust she spent the last few days cultivating.
It's truly unfortunate; she can't kill Fioynder off without Sergeant getting pissed at her for shanking his pet, or without arousing suspicion because of what Fioynder said the other day. She'd really love to do it herself, but she doesn't have the Academy to hide her tracks this time — not in the Games.
This is the only way she can get rid of Fioynder. The sooner he's dead, the easier she'll be able to sleep. She sics Lucifer on Fioynder, Fioynder dies, Lucifer dies. Every loose end all tied up. Happy, happy.
But of course, there's a third option.]
[Kieran: … It's just something Reverie briefly, very briefly considered.
Lucifer could get the jump on him. She could watch him squeeze the life out of Kieran's eyes, see Kieran get beaten to death without having to lift a finger. All she needs to do is tell Lucifer his name, and it would solve all her problems. It'd remove the Z factor from her plans entirely. It'd be like an easy ballot to victory.
…
(… but reverie wants to do it herself. she wants her teeth on his neck, her claws on his skin. she wants to personally rip him apart, not a shred of distance in between them. maybe then he'll finally know how she feels. how badly this all hurts.
how she can't forgive him for leaving her, but how she can't stop wanting him, either.)
Yes. She wants Kieran's blood on her hands, on her terms. She tells herself that's what it is, and why she chooses…]
"Fioynder," Reverie tells Seven. "District Five. Short brown hair, blue eyes. Can't miss him."
Lucifer gives a slight nod of his head. "Okay."
"'Okay?'" Reverie repeats, blinking. "That's it?"
"Yeah."
"I… no pressure, but I kind of expected you to have more questions." She can think of several right off the bat. 'Why are you asking me, of all people?' 'Are you going behind the Careers' backs?' 'How do I know your allies won't come after us in the Bloodbath?' 'Why do you want your ally dead?' 'Why don't you do it yourself?'
Lucifer shakes his head.
His lack of pushback kind of instills confidence. Seven seems like a very face-value, one-track-mind kind of guy; it gives her hope that he might actually manage to take Fioynder out. But Reverie also expected more street-smart skepticism from the outer-District that beat a Career out from top five. Maybe she overestimated how intelligent he was? Or maybe he's just brained out for the day?
She really needs to stop overthinking this. Something's gotten to her the last couple of days. But all that matters is Lucifer's agreed to the deal. Sergeant will get what he wants — to kill Lucifer. And Reverie has a good shot at getting what she wants, too — for Fioynder to die. The only thing Reverie has to do is make sure Sergeant doesn't find out she went against him, and that Lucifer's in the right place at the right time.
As long as she can make sure everyone gets what they want in the end, she's good as gold.
"That's settled, then," Reverie says. "I'll be waiting, Seven."
…
"Repeat to me what you think the plan is."
"I know the plan. It's not rocket science, Sarge."
"Just repeat it."
She rolled her eyes, but she repeated the plan.
"Cool, cool." Sergeant's expression suddenly went sober. "This stays between us, Rev. Don't tell any of them about this."
She knew who Sergeant was concerned about. There was only one person it could be, after all.
"Tell them what?" she said.
The corners of Sergeant's mouth rose. "Attagirl."
Backstage / July 7th, 7:51 PM
Reverie can feel his eyes on the back of her neck.
She's no stranger to stares, but Kieran's have always felt different somehow. Warmer. Sharper. His eyes make her feel more aware of herself, how she looks.
She never used to have a problem with that. He'd always been rather easy to read; all she'd have to do is turn around to see the gentle glint in his eyes, the awed smile spread across his face. But that was a while ago. In recent times, that gentleness contorted into fury, and his smile into a snarl.
(So much has changed in a year.)
However, this time, his gaze feels different. Not kind, not mean. But it's peculiar; it lingers on her skin, and she's not sure he's looked away once.
Reverie turns, making eye contact with her District partner. "It's not very polite to stare, you know," she says simply. It's not as snarky as she wanted. Maybe she doesn't have the energy tonight.
He looks away quickly, as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Strange. "You wish," he scoffs.
On the other side of the large, dark backstage area, more tributes begin to trickle in as they arrive. Velvet curtains drape from the top of the room to the bottom, obscuring Reverie and Kieran from view.
"There's no reason to be shy." She pauses. "A compliment goes a long way."
"I'm sure."
And that's it. That's all he says. Reverie doesn't know how she's supposed to respond to that. And she still can't figure out what he's thinking. Why he was looking at her like that.
She suspects she already knows.
The Capitol could salvage Sergeant's necklace of bruises and the bleeding constellation across Cassia's cheek, but they couldn't fix the mess Kai made of her hair? Fuck that noise. Reverie's bitter. She can't get used to the length; she's never had it this short before. It's stupid, because Reverie knows she still looks good — and yet, she can't fight off this flicker of self-consciousness.
For as long as he'd known her, Reverie had her hair long. Blonde layered waves, down to the bottom of her shoulder blades. She never thought she cared that much about it, but now she can't help but feel its absence. She never realized how warm it kept her neck, and how frigid the air feels without it. She feels like she's puppeting the wrong body. She's not quite sure who stares back in the mirror.
Is she unrecognizable to Kieran now?
(Why would it even matter? Why does she even care?)
"C'mon," Reverie whispers, trying for some sort of provocation. But her voice wavers slightly, and she's never felt more pathetic. "Tell me I look pretty."
The silence that follows after is long, too long. "I'm sure someone will," Kieran manages at last.
Reverie sneers, trying to recover the mask. "Got someone in mind?"
"Given your lack of standards, it seems like anyone would do."
"You," she deadpans, "are so fucking stupid."
The irony seems to soar right past Kieran. He just keeps running his mouth. "Yup. Too fucking stupid. That's why you should ask your new best friend Sarge for a compliment instead; maybe he's smart enough to come up with a convincing lie."
She barks out a laugh, incredulous. "Don't tell me you're jealous? Of Sergeant?"
She'd considered that it would affect Kieran in this way. She wanted it to.
(But it doesn't feel as good as she expected. It actually doesn't feel good at all.)
Kieran barks out a strangled laugh. "For the love of god — you're a phenomenal actress, but you could really work on the subtlety. I mean, eyefucking each other at every given opportunity? Really?"
"Have you ever considered," Reverie scowls, "getting your head out of your ass? Or is it so buried in there that you need a shovel?"
"Oh, God no. I think I'll stay in here if it means not having to see all that."
"Sarge and I are just friends. Panem forbid I make those, right? Something you ought to try."
"Maybe I would, if you weren't gonna go out of your way to kill everyone I've ever given a flying fuck about."
"Please," Reverie hisses. "I left Pandora well enough alone."
"Am I supposed to thank you or something?"
"You might as well show what you learned in those mandatory Academy etiquette classes, since you seem hell-bent on hiding the things that you're actually decent at," Reverie snorts. "Like, all those hours you've spent at the sword station the past couple of days? Who do you think you're impressing?"
"It's called a strategy," Kieran says pointedly. "Something you might want to invest in."
"Aw, very cute. Your 'strategy'. To make yourself look like a last-ditch effort Career."
"Personally, I prefer that to being the biggest target in the Arena, because you couldn't stand not having the spotlight for ten goddamn minutes." Kieran sucks in a deep breath, baring his teeth. "You've always been so fucking reckless, Reverie. You just — do things, do whatever you want, like you don't give a shit what happens. Like it can't touch you. It's as if you've never been told no in your life!"
Reverie doesn't know when it happened, but they're only inches apart, if even that. At some point during their conversation, with no barrier between them, they started subconsciously moving toward each other.
He seems to realize it at the same time she does. But he doesn't move. Why? Why doesn't he?
She can hear every breath he takes, now shallow in their proximity. Between them, there's nothing but air and two thin layers of fabric between her hand and his chest. She's close enough that she could reach out and rip his heart out through his ribs, if her nails were sharp enough. If she wanted to.
(She wants to, doesn't she?)
"You certainly never did," Reverie murmurs. "Say no to me, I mean."
"Get away from me," he grits through clenched teeth.
"There's nothing stopping you from leaving yourself," she says.
She watches Kieran swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Her eyes flicker back to his but he's no longer meeting her gaze. He seems to be trying to look away from her, but every few seconds his eyes betray his will.
Reverie opens her mouth, but she quickly realizes she doesn't know what to say. Nothing feels right.
I don't want to do this anymore. I hate this and I hate what we've become. I want the clock to turn back but it'll never turn back and it'll never go back to the way it was.
I don't know what to do with this distance between us but I don't know why I can't leave you behind either. The old us would never believe we've become so empty. So nothing.
"Kieran." It's barely a whisper.
"Don't," Kieran grits. His voice wavers.
This close, Reverie can see every eyelash, every pore. Once in a dream, she was once able to look at this face and think hers, hers.
She wishes she could see a stranger, but it's the same boy. The same dark brows, the same clever lips. The only difference is the dark circles under his eyes that Capitol makeup can't hide. Not from her.
(Is it so selfish of her to want him to still think of her the same way?)
(As the same girl as that first day of band practice? That girl, under the lights at the De Lu Iris?)
She doesn't know why this suddenly feels so important, but it is. "Kieran," she whispers again. "I want you to look at me."
I want you to, she had said. Reverie knows that he knows that's the closest she'll ever get to saying 'please'.
Slowly, he lifts his eyes to hers. He fights it so hard that it looks painful. But once his eyes are on hers, it's like he can't look away.
Anger. Hatred. Hurt. Want. After all this time, she still has so much power over him. But it's different in a way that makes her feel sick. She wants so badly to be that monster that Kieran makes her out to be. Then maybe hurting him would actually feel good.
I don't know what I want from you. It's sure as hell not your forgiveness. Maybe I want you to know how I felt, what I was thinking. Maybe I wanted you to understand me.
I didn't mean to hurt him. But I didn't want—
I couldn't let—
God, fuck.
… Do you believe I get scared, Kieran? I do. Often. More often than you think. I've had to teach myself not to show it, but you're the closest any person's ever gotten to knowing my tells. You're the only person I've shown that side of myself to.
That night, I never meant to hurt you. I was scared — so fucking scared. I thought you would've known that. I thought you knew me better than that.
Stupid, right?
It feels as if her heart's caught in her throat. "What are we doing?" she whispers.
Kieran swallows again. "What we have to."
It's the right answer, but the worst one.
A loud, crackling sound shatters the spell. Reverie stiffens, whipping her head to the speakers.
"Reverie Berlusconi," the intercom announces. "Please make your way to the stage."
It's her time to shine — her time to show the Capitol exactly who they should be rooting for. Her time to live out what her little self worked so hard for, but her littler, romantic self never dreamed of.
After twelve years of training, she was supposed to finally be ready. But she still feels like that six-year old girl strumming her dad's banged-up guitar, singing a love song she had been too young to understand, still naïve enough to want.
"Get out there," Kieran forces out, but it's too weak to bite. "It's everything you've been waiting for, right?"
Reverie clenches her jaw. Without another word, she turns on her heel and walks away from Kieran, toward the mouth of the stage.
Beyond the curtain, the world turns into sensations. A ravenous audience roars her name. White-hot vibrations pulse through the air.
But in the blinding lights, she can only see the smile of the boy that doesn't belong to her anymore.
⩇⩇:⩇⩇
[Description: The first interview of the night is no other than the District One Female. The second she steps onstage, Reverie Berlusconi is radiant, magnetic, and striking in her icy, crystalline dress. A long scarf of white fox furs ornament her neck and wrists, and a crystal tiara adorns her head.
Perhaps the most riveting part of the look is Berlusconi's new hairstyle: short, sleek, and sharp. The pixie accentuates the District One Female's cheekbones, giving her a cold and lifted appearance. The audience goes ballistic for her ice queen look. It's a fascinating and audacious juxtaposition, to take bold and fiery Reverie and encase her in a dress of ice. She's impossible to look away from as she struts, waves, and smiles her way across the stage, without a shred of wasted effort.]
K. Mahadio: Starting off fierce with District One's finest! How are you feeling tonight, Reverie?
R. Berlusconi: [She grins slyly, shooting a wink into the audience.] Oh, I've certainly had worse days.
[The audience, half of which are probably convinced Reverie was winking at them specifically, screams.]
K. Mahadio: [She makes a shocked expression, lifting her hand to her mouth.] Would you look at that reaction? It's safe to say the Capitol already loves you!
R. Berlusconi: [She takes a hand and appears to make a sweeping gesture off her shoulder. But when her hand hits air, she abruptly puts it back down.] The pleasure's all mine, sincerely. Everybody here looks divine tonight — I'm very lucky to have gotten the chance to see all of you first. I wish I could keep you all to myself.
[The entire room seems to shake with how deafeningly loud the audience's response is. At the top of their lungs, someone shrieks, "REVERIE, BE MY ROCKSTAR GF!"]
K. Mahadio: Oh, my! It's only been half a minute, and they're already going crazy for you! You sure know how to rile up a crowd, don't you?
R. Berlusconi: [She smiles.] I've had my fair share of practice.
K. Mahadio: No, no — some people can practice for years, and they still never figure out it out. It's more than practice, darling. You have to give yourself more credit than that!
R. Berlusconi: [She laughs.] Some would argue I need to give myself less credit. But yes, I'm very inclined to agree with you. I love being seen, always have. You'd love to have my parents on here, Kishor — they would have so many good stories to tell you of the things I got myself into as a kid. I sure gave 'em hell.
K. Mahadio: I'd be over the moon for the opportunity to talk to them, Reverie! Promise me you'll make it to Top 8!
R. Berlusconi: Top 1, baby. You have my word.
K. Mahadio: [Her voice takes on a playfully sarcastic quality.] You certainly don't need to be so humble!
R. Berlusconi: [She laughs aloud, leaning back into the chair. She looks confident, self-assured.] Oh, God no. I'd say I have quite a few virtues; unfortunately, humility has never been one of them. What could I possibly need it for?
[The audience whoops and cheers.]
K. Mahadio: Reverie — I heard from a friend of a friend that you had a short-term stint as the lead vocalist of a band at several swanky venues in One. Care to comment?
R. Berlusconi: [Something shines in her eyes.] Hands down, the best year of my life. It all just feels like a blur now, but I remember most vividly what it felt like to get onstage. Every night, it felt like the first time. It felt like being born again.
There's just something about a crowd that makes me feel electric. Free, somehow. I don't know every face in the audience, and they don't know who I am, either. But while we're in the same place, breathing the same air, alive at the same time, none of that matters. For one night, we can all listen to some good fucking music and just be human.
K. Mahadio: Sounds like you were happy performing. If I recall correctly, the band abruptly fell apart following the death of one of its members. Could you tell us what happened?
R. Berlusconi: [She gives a tight smile. Her voice takes a slightly sarcastic edge, thin as a razor.] I'm afraid you'll just have to wait for my Victor auto-biography to come out.
K. Mahadio: Fair enough! We'll get the answer out of you eventually, one way or another! Let's talk about your motivation: what possibly could've compelled you to Volunteer for the Games?
R. Berlusconi: I don't come from anything. And in One, you're nobody if you're not already filthy rich. The straightest path to get there is by becoming a Victor — then you're set for life. I once told the Academy Headmaster that my guitar was my first love, but my knife's a close second. Just a different kind of instrument, you could say. And I'll play it as long as I need to get where I want to be. I don't want my parents to live and die in Jade City. I don't want that for myself, either.
K. Mahadio: [She turns to the crowd, giving them a conspiratorial smile.] Safe to say we know what Reverie's going to do with her Victor fame! Someone get this girl a record deal, stat!
R. Berlusconi: [She grins.] One thing at a time.
K. Mahadio: It's been a dream, Reverie, but I'm afraid that's all the time we have here today. Your last words?
R. Berlusconi: [She stands and looks beyond the audience, straight into the main camera. Her gaze is piercing, penetrating, like she has one particular target in mind, someone who isn't here.] I worked my ass off to be here. And I want every drop of blood, sweat, and every fucking tear back when I'm done. Nobody's taking this from me. Nobody.
Fioynder Itamor-Nilth • District Five Male
Backstage / July 7th, 8:20 PM
Kai's outburst earlier felt like something straight out of a movie!
A tribute going berserk and attacking other tributes before the Games even started! In a group of Careers, no less! That hasn't happened in decades of Hunger Games history — well, at least as far as Fioynder knows, anyway! And Fioynder basically knows everything there is to know about the Games!
That could've actually been deadly if Peacekeepers hadn't flooded the scene as fast as they did. It was actually super quick — they couldn't have arrived more than a minute after Kai attacked, maybe even less than that. It's almost like they had been waiting outside of the door or something, haha. Either they knew what was about to go down, or Capitol surveillance technology was just that good. It makes Fioynder kind of wish he grew up here, but then he never would've gotten the chance to experience the Games for himself.
It's true that if he grew up in the Capitol, Fioynder probably would've experienced less ostracization for his interests. Growing up, the other kids in Five thought he was weird because of the amount of hours and passion he poured into his deep study of the Hunger Games. But now he gets the last laugh, because he's surrounded by real, larger-than-life Careers, and they're not! So what if he's not quite of their caliber, and they don't really consider him an equal, and they're leagues more skilled and fit than he could ever hope to be? So what if they could all probably beat and brutalize him with a blunt object in a couple of seconds? That doesn't matter at all! Fioynder's just beyond thrilled that he gets to be included in the pack at all, that he gets to be a part of this one-in-a-million — no, ten-in-a-million opportunity!
Joining the pack has to be the third best thing that's happened to Fioynder in the Capitol so far. Second place goes to Reverie v. Kai from the second training day. That spar had been vicious! He wasn't sure what would happen first: Kai fileting Reverie or Reverie shanking him ten times. And of course, having front-row seats to Kai's freak out tops everything else!
He came so close to watching someone get killed in real life! During pre-Games! And now, the only indication that anything happened at all is this heavy quiet that rests on the whole pack. Nobody seems very eager to talk at all. Capitol medicine patched up the Twos perfectly, but Sergeant keeps rubbing his neck where Kai's finger bruises used to be, and Cassia looks even more like a kicked dog than usual.
Fioynder doesn't know if he's supposed to keep Kaimageddon a secret. He'd imagine the Capitol would make some sort of announcement if Kai was being removed from the Games entirely, but they haven't. So that must mean the District Four Male is still in the running. But does that mean Fioynder's not allowed to talk about Kai attacking the other tributes? None of the Peacekeepers said anything to the Careers as they dragged Kai's unconscious body out of the room, so maybe he can?
Gah! All of this stuff is so complex and unpredictable! Fioynder kind of loves it, but he also kind of hates it! This isn't the way the Games have run in the past, which means he's experiencing brand new Hunger Games history. But it also means he has no way to narratively or strategically predict what happens next, and that— that…
…scares him…?
No. No! Hahaha. What? Fioynder? Scared? Impossible. He's shaking because he's just so excited to see how everything will shake out when they all get to the Arena and actually start killing each other. Fioynder imagines it'll be just like VR, except realer and better. It can only get better — especially when Orion bites the dust in the Bloodbath.
Which reminds him…
TOP 3 WORST MOMENTS:
3. Orion getting invited to the Careers. Fioynder didn't think that affirmative action was a thing anymore — it's so unfair that Orion scored a free ticket to the pack just because he and Cassia both like stars or something. And no one else seems to have any sort of problem with it!
2. Orion getting a higher score than Fioynder. Because how in fresh Panem did that happen?! Fioynder can't think of a single category where Orion's skills surpass his, besides maybe first aid, but who actually cares about that? That's boring. The District Three Male must've cheated somehow.
1. Orion. Orion in general. Fioynder knows his vitriolic hatred is totally objective — he's sure if anyone was in his position, they'd also despise Orion this much. He's a totally useless side character. A filler. A plant. A plot device!
God, Fioynder just can't stand him! The District Three Male is on stage right now, giving the Master of Ceremonies lackluster responses — the Master of Ceremonies! Making her sound boring should be punishable by the law! Orion's probably getting thousands, billions of downvotes on the r/Hunger_Games page as he speaks.
There's absolutely no way that guy has any fans. Besides Cassia. But Fioynder can accept that she has awful taste.
Nearby, Fioynder hears a girl laugh loudly. It's the District Three Female, Shaffa Zorp, who looks not nearly as useless as Orion, but still pretty useless. And she's standing next to…
"Keesha!" Fioynder calls out, swaggering up to them. "Long time no see!"
The sly smile on his District partner's face promptly disappears, replaced by a mask of nonchalance. "Oh. Fioynder."
"Bet you're jealous," he says, "that I hacked my way into the Career pack, and you didn't."
Keesha levels a stare at him. "Jealous that I'm… not surrounded by people who are ready to kill me at a moment's notice? Yeah, no, not really."
Shaffa gives Fioynder a little excited clap. "Wow, you're in with the Careers? That's so cool!"
Keesha grabs Shaffa's wrist. "Don't encourage him."
"Don't be a bad sport," Fioynder preens. "You should just admit when you're beat. I'm beating you at being good at the Hunger Games, something possible to achieve and normal to want."
"Well," Keesha snorts, "have fun with that."
Keesha starts to walk the other way, Shaffa following after her. She's leaving in the middle of their conversation?! How dare she not take him, Fioynder Itamor-Nilth, outer-District Career seriously?!
It feels like steam's coming out of Fioynder's nostrils. "No, YOU have fun!" he retorts at her shrinking silhouette, balling his fists. "Dying at the hands of my SQUAD! Or from completely preventable and foreseeable survival scenarios like food poisoning, scrub!"
His fierce and powerful threats don't inspire either of them to turn around and face him. In the distance, he watches as Keesha lazily moves her head from side to side, mouthing 'blah blah blah'. The District Three Female bursts into a fit of snickers.
(Making fun of him, just like the rest of the kids from Five.)
They've got 'Bloodbath' written all over them. Keesha Cathode, Shaffa Zorp, and Orion Amsel. Soon, they're all going to realize they all should've feared him — but by then, it'll already be too late.
Fioynder can't wait!
⩇⩇:⩇⩇
[Description: The District Five Male nearly bolts onstage, immediately blowing kisses left and right to his enthusiastic audience. He wears a luxurious suit made of velvet and patterned with bright gold and silver paint splatters, a very loud and bold choice. His ears and fingers are decorated with silver jewelry, and his bowtie is extravagantly laden with rhinestones. The entire ensemble is almost reminiscent of a disco ball, quite a fitting match and aesthetic for the tribute.]
K. Mahadio: Fioynder Itamor-Nilth! [She extends out a hand to clasp.] It's so good to finally meet you!
F. Itamor-Nilth: Are you serious? It's so good to finally meet you! Kishor Mahadio, vivacious Master of Ceremonies and the prodigious daughter of Panem's President! I can't tell you how many dreams I've had of this exact moment!
K. Mahadio: [She laughs.] Of meeting me?
F. Itamor-Nilth: No! Of being interviewed as a Hunger Games tribute!
K. Mahadio: Of course, naturally! It's a one-in-a-million opportunity!
F. Itamor-Nilth: That's exactly what I keep telling everyone!
K. Mahadio: Fioynder — I noticed in your Reaping footage that you said it was your birthday! I wish we could've gotten you a gift, but I'm afraid that would've given you an unfair advantage against the rest of the tributes.
F. Itamor-Nilth: [He scoffs incredulously.] Being Reaped was the best 16th birthday gift a boy could ask for! [He suddenly pauses, realizing something.] Hold on — a gift for my birthday is an unfair advantage, but a whole robot arm for the District Eight Male, Delano Astarte isn't?
K. Mahadio: [She hums thoughtfully.] Do you think it is?
F. Itamor-Nilth: Oh, duh. Absolutely.
K. Mahadio: [She 'aww's.] And how does that make you feel?
F. Itamor-Nilth: Well, I just think that doing something like that makes the nature of the Hunger Games essentially meaningless. I mean, there's no such thing as equalizing—
K. Mahadio: Yawn! Would we rather talk about something else, my lovely Capitolites?
[The audience screams in affirmation.]
K. Mahadio: It's your interview, so let's keep it about you, Fioynder! What's something that has surprised you so far about the Capitol?
F. Itamor-Nilth: [His eyes widen with excitement, his rant completely forgotten.] Oh, I want to tell you guys so bad. So so bad. You don't even know how bad! But I don't know what I can or can't say and Sergeant might get mad at me.
K. Mahadio: [She gasps.] Sergeant, the leader of the Careers? Are you one of them?
F. Itamor-Nilth: YES! [He clamps a hand over his mouth.] Oh, crud. Maybe I wasn't supposed to say that. …IT'S TOO LATE, NOW! Yes, as of this afternoon's score announcements, I'm OFFICIALLY A CAREER!
K. Mahadio: No easy feat! You must be really something, Fioynder! Congratulations!
F. Itamor-Nilth: I try not to brag, but I kind of am. How many outer-District tributes can say they're trained?
K. Mahadio: Wow, you're trained?!
F. Itamor-Nilth: Heh. How else do you explain this?! [He points to a faint line on his chin.]
K. Mahadio: [She tilts her head to the side, examining it further.] Explain… a papercut?
F. Itamor-Nilth: What? No. It's a battle scar! I got it while throwing knives. Which reminds me — I find it very pertinent to announce a few of my achievements!
K. Mahadio: What might those be?
F. Itamor-Nilth: Over the course of my career as a r/Hunger_Games user, I've earned a total of thirty-one gold medals on my posts!
[The audience 'ooh's appreciatively. Several whoops and hollers soar through the crowd.]
F. Itamor-Nilth: And also, I have a bullseye rating of TWELVE PERCENT!
[The audience 'ooh's again, albeit a little more unsurely this time. No whoops or hollers.]
K. Mahadio: Deeply fascinating…
F. Itamor-Nilth: If any of you wonderful Capitolites are looking to put bets on an outer-District, I'm the best candidate for your sponsorship money! Apart from the Careers, my Games knowledge, both technical and applied, far surpasses the other tributes! Not to mention I have a wide repertoire of strategy and battle skills! Don't underestimate me!
K. Mahadio: Bold claims! We certainly won't! Well, Fioynder, I'm afraid we don't have much time left together today. Any last remarks you want to leave with the audience?
F. Itamor-Nilth: [He points to the microphone.] Can I—?
K. Mahadio: [With an amused shrug, she hands over the microphone.] Ten seconds. Knock yourself out!
F. Itamor-Nilth: [He takes the microphone in hand and rises to his feet. With the other hand, he begins waving furiously to the cameras in the crowd.] Hi, Mom! Do you see me!? I'm in your city!
Dad, Azoel, I miss you! Don't wait up on me for dinner though, I'm having a great time! I love you — I love all of you guys! Thank you so much for the best 16th ever!
Delano Astarte • District Eight Male
Backstage / July 7th, 8:45 PM
Being a friendless loser fucking blows.
Like, seriously. All of the other tributes are chatting amongst themselves backstage, waiting for their turn. District Ten stand together a short distance away from Delano, exchanging quiet conversation. Past them, the Careers stand idly in the same-ish vicinity, but they all seem uncharacteristically quiet.
For some reason, Delano doesn't see the batshit nutso guy from Four standing with them — or anywhere at all, for that matter. Weird. One part of his brain wonders if he should be worried, but the other part's going, that's a whole lot of not my problem!
On the other side of the room, two guys his age lowkey look high as they laugh and lean against each other. More people his age, two girls this time, point at other tributes and snicker loudly to themselves. One of them sports black box braids and the other, a scarlet orange updo; together in their cocktail attire, they look like if someone anthropomorphized the concept of Halloween into two dope-looking teenage girls.
(Fuck. If he dies here, does that for real mean he's never going trick-or-treating again?
This is so fucking fucked up.)
Last and probably definitely least, there's Yuly's fucking daycare center — the other kids are deadass freshman age, but Yuly seems committed to treating them like they stopped breastfeeding yesterday.
Honestly, it probably doesn't even matter how old anyone is, because Yuly just has that woobifying effect on everyone — even Delano. He does not miss sucking on Yuly's weird, lowkey ableist, savior complex-y tits.
It's not even like Delano was spouting heresy or anything. He just said the fuck word a couple times — was that a crime? And they're like, fourteen or fifteen, not two goddamn years old. Delano's not gonna become fluent in Googoogaganese just to appease Yuly, for fuck's sake!
It's not even like he wants to hang out with a bunch of baby-faced freshmen anyway. Well, maybe he's also a baby-faced junior, but that's besides the point. He likes Dottie, of course, but he didn't really know anything about the others. Delano supposed Ginseng seemed normal enough, but Artan had that weird, not-like-other-boys vibe about him that just got annoying. It doesn't even seem like anyone missed him anyway, by the way they immediately replaced him with some scary blue-eyed bigot child.
Yeah — he's glad he's out of there! And he's not jealous at all, not even a little bit!
…
Okay, fine! Maybe he is jealous of the babysitter's club! At least they've got people to talk to, a place to go at the end of the day! Everybody's got somewhere to be — everyone except Delano.
He can't remember the last time he felt this alone. Delano feels like if he keeled over and died right now, nobody would even give a shit. Like, people would just start stepping around his corpse to get to the stage. What Delano wouldn't give to be remembered by somebody—
Beyond the curtain, he suddenly hears a gauche, grating voice say his name. "Wait, a gift is an unfair advantage but a whole arm for Tribute Delano Astarte District Eight Male isn't?"
… forget he even asked for anything. What the fuck? Why did the rando onstage just drop his full government name? Why is everyone here a fucking freak?
Someone taps his right shoulder. Delano whirls around to find — nobody. Bamboozled, he turns the other way to see Dottie over his left shoulder, looking particularly impish and proud of herself.
(It's such a stupid prank, if Delano can even call it that. Quentin did that shit all the time. Dottie's goofy mannerisms remind Delano of him so much that he wants to cry.)
(Dottie's cousin; Delano's best friend.)
( God, he misses him so much.)
"Hey, Dottie," he says.
"Hi, Del-bell."
Delano gives her a small nod of his head, hoping he doesn't look downright pathetic just standing here by himself. "What're you doing here?"
"You looked sad by yourself."
Delano rubs his temples. "Sometimes I wish you'd be less honest."
"Did you know isolated prey animals are almost two-thirds more likely to be eaten by a predator?"
Delano does a flat-lipped smile, recalling their conversation from the train. "Yeah. I also remember you saying the funny-looking animals die first."
"They have it on TV all the time. There was that one episode where the little baby zebra got separated from the momma zebra. The baby wandered off by itself, and…" With her hands, Dottie proceeds to reenact a very graphic depiction of a baby animal getting brutally torn apart with her own two hands.
"If this is the baby zebra…" Delano points to one of her fists, "...what the hell is that supposed to be?"
Dottie snaps her hand open and shut like the jaw of an animal. "Crocodile."
"Oh, duh. Should've known that."
"You should've," Dottie agrees.
Delano laughs, and then sighs. He looks around to make sure no one (ahem, Yuly) is watching him, before lowering his voice. "Dottie… you know I'm not a part of the alliance anymore, right?"
His District partner nods. "Yuly told us about that."
Delano can't help but ask. "Yeah, uh, what did he say exactly?"
Dottie hums, tapping her chin. "He said you two had a big argument. You didn't like the way he was leading and you didn't feel included. He said some not-so-well-thought-out things and you got mad, so you left. He told us he felt bad it went that way but he won't make you change your mind."
Guess none of that is technically wrong. Did Delano expect Yuly would lie or blow it out of proportion? Maybe he just wishes Yuly did — maybe he wishes Yuly was an overt asshole so that Delano could really justify why he hates his guts.
Alas, in no universe does Delano get what he wants. Whatever. Yuly can just stay frustratingly reasonable, and Delano will keep being petty until he's lying cold in a casket, being shipped back to Eight.
"Yeah," Delano says, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. "That's basically what happened, I guess."
" Womp," is Dottie's really intelligent, really necessary comment. She looks largely unbothered, content to just linger for a little.
Delano exhales again. He crosses his arms (which basically is just him holding his nub.) After a beat, he turns to Dottie again. "Aren't you gonna say something?"
"Like what?"
"Like, I don't know. Ask me to come back?"
"Do you want to come back?"
"No," Delano sighs.
"Then why would I ask?"
"I — I don't know," Delano says, frustrated. "I just…"
He can't figure out what it is he wants to say. I just thought you'd want to stick together? That you'd want me around too, even if I can't protect you?
He knows how ridiculous that sounds, how impossible that is to ask. Hey, kid! You wanna come kick it with me, even though that basically means guaranteed death? Not to mention, Dottie's already found a friend in Ginseng — Delano wouldn't ask her to leave her, and he wouldn't want her to, either. Not while his ex-alliance already has a good thing going.
He hates to admit it, but those kids are better off and safer with Yuly than with anyone else. Even as much as he hates the guy, for some reason he has no doubt that Yuly would look out for them with his life. Like, he's almost certain the dude would sack himself for them.
So with that built-in meat shield defense mechanism, Dottie really doesn't need Delano for anything. And really, it's probably for the best that he and Dottie stay apart, so that he can focus on keeping himself alive.
(And so that he doesn't have to watch anything bad happen to her. Because he's sure as hell not strong enough to prevent it from happening, or selfless enough to prioritize her life over his.)
(But why does it hurt so much that no one depends on him? Is he really doing the right thing, or is he just too pussy to try? Does that make him an awful person? What would Quentin think?)
"…never mind," he says at last. "I take it you're staying with Yuly?"
Dottie nods.
Delano scratches the back of his neck. "It's kind of late to ask, but, uh… has anyone told you exactly what's gonna happen after tonight?"
Something in her gaze goes strange, but it disappears so quickly Delano wonders if he just imagined it. "Yeah."
"Just to check… what do you think is gonna happen?"
"God is going to put us in a box and make us poke each other until we die."
"Yeah, close enough." Delano faces Dottie, putting both his hands on her shoulders. "Yuly's gonna take care of you. But if anything happens, you just run the hell out of there, you hear me?"
Dottie nods.
"Don't wait on anyone else. You gotta look out for yourself first." His vision is getting kind of weird. There's something in his — ah, fuck. It's water. His eyes are really fucking watering. This is so goddamn embarrassing. "You gotta try to go back for Quentin."
"What about you?"
"I'm gonna try, too," Delano says, voice thick.
Dottie reaches out with her hand, setting it on top of Delano's head of curls. She starts… petting him. Like a dog.
It's kind of nice…
"Be good," she says, blinking at him with these huge glass-green eyes. "Okay, Del-bell?"
Delano barks out a wet laugh. "I'm s'posed to be the one telling you that."
"'Supposed to' this, 'supposed to' that," Dottie hums. "All that's silly. I don't think we're 'supposed to' be anything, besides who we are."
Harshly, Delano rubs his nose. "You know you get freaky philosophical sometimes?"
Dottie tilts her head to the side. "Who's Freaky Phil?"
"Um," Delano says, "just some guy I know. Don't worry about it."
"Okay," Dottie says immediately, happy to leave it at that.
Neither of them says anything for a moment, until Delano coughs awkwardly. "You can stop petting my head now."
"Okay," Dottie says again. She gives him one last head scratch before putting her arm down. "I'm heaving now. I have to go save Ginseng."
Delano casts his glance over to where Dottie's allies are. It really does look like Ginseng needs saving; she looks extremely reluctant to be having a conversation with Artan, who's… flexing…?
"Yeah, you do," Delano says, cracking a small smile. "I'll see ya, kid."
Dottie bobs her head once before bounding off, snapping back to Ginseng's side like two perfect puzzle pieces. They grin widely at each other, Ginseng's spirits instantly lifted. The two girls run off together somewhere, much to Artan's displeasure.
Seeing Ginseng and Dottie together makes Delano feel both happy and heartbroken. They shouldn't be here; they should be at the playground, frolicking around or committing domestic terrorism or whatever it is teenage girls do. But that's neither here nor there. Delano's interview is coming in about twenty minutes, and he needs to get ready. Stop crying and get zen again – that was way too much bitch boy shit for the day.
He heaves in a deep breath before letting it out, unfurling his fingers slowly. All right, he thinks to himself. Time to lock in, Del.
⩇⩇:⩇⩇
[Description: The Master of Ceremonies calls Delano Astarte to the stage. The audience immediately starts cheering, but a couple of seconds pass and the tribute is nowhere to be seen. The Master of Ceremonies is about to call out for him again when he strolls onstage, a wide grin on his face.
The audience roars loudly, pleased by his clever delay. He wears a full suit, sporting a chic blazer and a frilly blouse underneath it. He strikes several ridiculous poses as he makes his way across the stage, including several peace signs, a few dance moves, and a quickly-aborted attempt at the splits.]
K. Mahadio: Look who decided to finally come onstage!
D. Astarte: Decided to what onstage?
K. Mahadio: [She laughs.] I know you can do better than that, Delano.
D. Astarte: Please, Delano was my father. Call me Del.
K. Mahadio: So you're Del Astarte Jr.?
D. Astarte: No. That was a lie. I'm a pathological liar.
K. Mahadio: Are you, now?
D. Astarte: Nah, that was also a lie.
K. Mahadio: [She laughs again.] Y'know, I'm not supposed to pick favorites, but I've must admit I've really been looking forward to talking to you.
D. Astarte: I couldn't blame you for that. I mean, check me out. [Delano gestures to his outfit, then makes a limp-wristed gesture.] The ladies love D-Dog.
K. Mahadio: [She starts to fan herself with her hand in a playful manner.] Your stylist really understood the assignment. But I want to talk about your Reaping outfit — what inspired the skirt?
D. Astarte: [He lowers his voice, taking on a grave tone.] You see, from a very young age, I suffered from HDS — huge dick syndrome. [He wipes a fake tear from his eye.] Pants are too painful to wear when you're packing a footlong like me.
K. Mahadio: Wow, sounds terminal. Loved the skirt pattern though, I'd love to snag one for myself. Where'd you buy it?
D. Astarte: I didn't buy it, actually. Stole it off a homeless guy. Just pantsed him while he was sleeping on a bench
K. Mahadio: Hope it wasn't winter.
D. Astarte: Oh, it was. And he froze to death on that bench. That's how I earned my street name, 'Stone Cold Del'.
K. Mahadio: [She taps her chin.] Surely people have given you better nicknames than that?
D. Astarte: [He scratches his head, as if deep in thought.] Well, my District partner Dottie — you all just saw her — she likes to call me Del-bell. My best friend back home — shoutout Quentin! — calls me… actually, I can't repeat that on TV. But other than that… [He appears to remember something very visceral.] Oh, fuck.
K. Mahadio: Hm?
D. Astarte: [He starts to smooth the back of his head, smiling awkwardly.] This is so embarrassing, honestly. Well, uh, when I was a kid, I was kind of a chonker. Kids at school would call me Tubby. And then when I lost my arm…
K. Mahadio: I love where this is going.
D. Astarte: …they started calling me Tubby Nubby.
K. Mahadio: Wow. [A pause.] Kids are brutal.
D. Astarte: Don't I know it!
K. Mahadio: You kind of have to admit it's good though.
D. Astarte: Oh, I know that now. But fresh out of post-op, I was this close to bringing a large, black backpack to school.
K. Mahadio: How would you even shoot, though?
D. Astarte: …oh my god, you're right.
K. Mahadio: I usually am. [The audience laughs.] But enough about me. You mentioned post-op; I want to hear about that.
D. Astarte. Oh, yeah. Well, my arm got run over by a car.
K. Mahadio: Is this another lie?
D. Astarte: Actually, no. This is hashtag for realsies. I swear to god, it hurt so fucking bad that I just blacked out on the ground. Next thing I know, I'm in the hospital and my arm's fucking gone.
K. Mahadio: Did they let you keep it, at least? A little souvenir?
D. Astarte: NO. AND I'M STILL PRESSED ABOUT IT. They just THREW IT AWAY. Can you believe that? They OBLITERATED my tissues and then threw it in the DUMPSTER.
K. Mahadio: Not very considerate of them!
D. Astarte: Dude, I'm saying. What if I wanted to put it in a jar? Or what if I wanted to fry it up? Put a little seasoning on it and eat it, kind of like how some crazy fuckers do with their placenta.
K. Mahadio: You mean, in a cannibalism kind of way?
D. Astarte:
D. Astarte: …I don't want to give you any ideas.
K. Mahadio: [She hums conspiratorially.] Oh, don't worry. Our Head Gamemaker already has plenty of those.
D. Astarte: Oh. That's reassuring.
K. Mahadio: It wasn't meant to be!
D. Astarte: I… what am I even supposed to say to that?
K. Mahadio: Hmm… that little prosthetic of yours was one of her brilliant ideas, so you could thank her for that!
D. Astarte: [He sounds almost reluctant.] Oh — uh, yeah, thanks. Me and Armold have spent some real nice quality time together. We've gotten really intimate.
K. Mahadio: I absolutely don't doubt that! Alas, Del, I'm afraid all good things must come to an end. Any words of wisdom for us.
D. Astarte: Kick names, take ass! Tubby Nubby's gotta bounce, but don't forget about me in the Arena! [He waves his prosthetic hand enthusiastically.] Armold's counting on you guys!
Asahel Cervantes • District Ten Male
Backstage / July 7th, 9:27 PM
Something hit the side of Asahel's head with a loud thwack , leaving a sharp, throbbing pain. "What'cha got there, jefe ?"
Asahel jolted out of his seat, shoving both of his hands behind his back. His chair made a loud screeching noise against the tile. "Jesus, Ainara!" he hissed. "That hurt!"
She snorted, unsympathetic. "No, it didn't. You're a real princess, you know that?"
"At least I'm not a crazy person that just… goes around hitting people," Asahel retorted lamely. "Why are you up so early? Early for you, anyway."
Ainara took off her hair tie, letting her braids undo themselves. "Just got back, actually." That made more sense — traces of night air and booze still lingered on her, like sweat on skin. And that would explain…
"The floor," Asahel gritted out. "You… tracked mud all over the floor."
Ainara looked down at her boots. "Oops."
"'Oops'? I mopped everything yesterday morning. It took me hours to get the dirt out. Are you even a little sorry?"
"It's not a big deal," Ainara insisted, chucking off her boots. She ripped the bandana off her hand, scrubbing it against the tile. "See? All better now. Spotless, even."
He watched Ainara haphazardly smear mud around the floor, silent. He was scared if he opened his mouth, he'd start yelling at Ainara, and that never went over well. He had never won a screaming match against his silver-tongued sister, no matter how in the wrong she was.
"You was doin' something?" Ainara probed. "What'cha hiding behind your back?"
"Nothing," Asahel said, doing a poor job at concealing the frustration in his voice. Or maybe he subconsciously wanted her to hear it. Maybe then it'd get her to start taking him seriously.
Ainara tried to circle behind him, waggling her fingers. "Show me. I wanna see."
"I said it's nothing!"
"Ooh, getting feisty now, eh? You're making a big deal out of it, which makes me want it even more."
Ainara threw herself at him. He ducked. She righted herself and swung out her hands, attempting to pry it from his fingers. Ainara smirked triumphantly when her hands found purchase on the object — Asahel tried once, twice to yank it back, before at last relenting, letting his older sister look at the object. He would rather have that than break it.
Ainara turned it over between her hands. "Oooh. It's a… I don't know what it is."
"Piano," Asahel said flatly.
She laughed aloud. "Good thing you're a farmhand and not a woodworker."
"If you're just gonna be rude, give it back."
"Nah, nah, I'll be nice. Niceness starts now." Ainara whistled, now playing hot potato with the wooden piano. "Fancy shit, 'sahel. Didn't know you liked instruments so much."
Asahel fought the urge to say, 'What do you know about me?' Instead, he went, "It's just something I saw while I was working,"
"Oh, at that rich people's place?"
"...the Tarandruses, yeah."
"Ay, Rezo!" Ainara exclaimed loudly. "Where you at, baby bro?"
"It's not enough that you invited yourself into my space, you gotta invite Rezo, too?"
"Daw, don't be like that, jefe . It'll be like a little party."
Asahel could hear Rezo's eager footsteps in the hallway long before his little brother even stepped foot in the room. Twelve years old, but he still hadn't lost any of his childlike happiness. He was all smiles as he threw his arms around Ainara's torso, peering at the object in her hands.
"What's that!" he asked.
Ainara passed it to him, and Rezo's hands hungrily nabbed it up. "Is it a chicken?"
"'s not a chicken," Asahel said, trying not to sound annoyed.
"It's actually the first installment to Asahel's rich people shrine," Ainara murmured to Rezo conspiratorially.
"I am not making a shrine. For them. Or anybody."
"You might as well, for how much you loooove licking those rich people boots."
"I'm not licking their boots. And even if I was, so what? You forget that those rich people pay our bills?"
Ainara barreled right through him, not even listening. "You gonna give this to your little boss when you're done, maybe ask for a little raise? Pray he'll give you a promotion and make you their royal plumber?"
"Royal plumber?!" Rezo said, eyes wide and shining.
Ainara started laughing, which made Rezo also start laughing, and then everyone in the room was laughing – except Asahel.
Everyone in this household just loved laughing at him. One of these days, he was going to make salsa so spicy that everyone else shit themselves. Then, who'd be laughing?
When Ainara finally decided she'd had enough fun, she tossed the wooden piano back to Asahel. He shot her a scowl, but she just shrugged.
"You're an asshole, Ainara."
"C'mon. You know I love you."
"Do I?" he muttered. But she was already whistling her way out of his room, Rezo in tow.
He peered down at the object. Ainara was kind of right — it was a poor excuse for a piano, sad and lumpy and unrefined. Why did he even bother working on this to begin with?
Asahel was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to throw it across the room, but it left as soon as it came. Like all things, this little piano wasn't anything that time, patience, and effort couldn't make better.
He just had to keep chipping away at it.
That's the memory that comes to mind as Asahel fidgets with the wooden piano in his pocket. Thank God he didn't lose it; this morning, he found it lying in front of the Ten suite door. Must've fallen out of his jacket or something.
He had been trying not to be overly upset as he searched for it last night, wondering where it could've gone. He could've asked Falo, but he didn't want to bother her. Or explain why he had a small replica of the piano in her estate.
Speaking of Falo, she stands next to him, looking unbelievably elegant in her sage green gown. Well, Asahel thinks she always manages to look elegant somehow, but she's especially elegant right now. He's been trying not to stare, but he's gotten brief glances of the lacy flowers that snake up the skirt of the dress, that sorta match the ones on his Western-style jacket and boots. Right now, he can see her fiddling with her white silk gloves, her gaze far-off.
"You nervous?" Asahel asks her.
She startles slightly, her eyes darting back and forth before she realizes Asahel was talking to her. "I know it doesn't help to be, but… yes, I must admit. A little."
"That's okay," Asahel says, attempting a smile he hopes is reassuring. "Me too."
Falo lowers her eyes before returning a small, unsure smile. Now that Asahel's paying more attention, he sees that her hands have the slightest tremor to them.
A strange thought enters his head: he should reach out and steady them.
He doesn't, though. He wouldn't. After all, Falo's a lady, and he's just… him. Even standing side by side, Asahel remains painfully aware of their distance. But he can't bridge the gap himself — overstepping with Falo feels like the worst possible thing he could do. He couldn't forgive himself if he sent her sprinting off.
"What are you nervous about?" Asahel asks instead.
Falo laughs, a little breathy and rushed. "You'd be better off asking a different question. Otherwise, we'd be here all night."
"Try me."
Falo exhales through her nose quietly. "If you want the shorthand list… being in front of an audience, full of people who have different expectations." She takes another deep breath. "Making a bad impression. Not living up to the invisible standard. Failing to earn their respect. Being a disappointment."
Asahel's mind wanders to his family. It felt like no matter what he did, he never managed to earn their respect, but he's moved past caring whether they think he's a disappointment. They took him for granted, and he supposes they'll have to miss him now that he's gone.
(Something soft and broken turns in his chest.)
"I get that," Asahel says. "But you could never be a disappointment."
She gives him a weak smile. "I'm afraid I already am."
"Not to me," he says.
Falo blinks, looking away quickly. "I…"
Asahel coughs. "Sorry. That's…" His shirt collar suddenly feels too tight. Was that weird? Was that too much? Quickly, he tries to salvage the conversation. "I mean, I think you're awful hard on yourself. I — lots of people think you're great, but you don't have to please everyone. That's too many people to worry about."
She smiles again, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Those are kind words."
Asahel feels like he's choosing the wrong dialogue options left and right. But at this point he's run out of things to say, and he doesn't want to make it worse by dragging it out. "Just bein' honest, Miss."
Falo hums. "How about you, though?"
"Me?"
"Why are you nervous?"
That's… difficult to answer. Asahel isn't so much afraid of the interview itself; he's more nervous about the specific questions that the Master of Ceremonies might ask him. He still hasn't quite hacked a way to skirt around the volunteering thing without sounding clumsy or straight up giving himself away. And there's no way to verbalize that without inadvertently confessing his feelings to Falo right here, right now. She doesn't need to think of him as more of an idiot than she probably already does.
"I've never been good at public speaking," he decides to say.
"It isn't so much public speaking, per se, as it is just having a conversation, right?"
"That's true, yeah. Sorry. I meant like speaking in front of a lotta people." He gives an embarrassed laugh, smoothing his hand down the side of his neck. "I don't know if they'll like me. I just feel like I'll make a real jackass of myself."
"Personally, I believe you'll fare just fine," Falo says. "You're companionable and down-to-earth. Hardworking. What's not to like?"
"Aw, shucks," Asahel murmurs, sheepish. "You ain't hafta say all that."
"Really," Falo insists. "From what I've seen the last few days, between the Three girl and the Six boy, you could get along with anyone. The Capitol included, I'm sure. You're always extending a hand to others, even when it gets you nothing in return. You're — you're a good person." She pauses. "Anyone who can't see that is a fool."
Asahel doesn't know what to say. Even if he did, he's not positive he'd be able to respond. There's a lump in his throat and he doesn't even know why.
"That means a lot," he manages at last, his voice just barely a whisper.
With a start, the intercom blares overhead. Falo Tarandrus, please make your way to the stage.
Asahel's about to open his mouth, wish Falo good luck. But as he turns to face her, he realizes her face is moving close to his, closer—
Soft lips brush against his cheek. Then they're gone, leaving behind a burning trace.
She… she just—
"You'll do well," Falo says. A statement.
"Y-yes, missus," he stutters, his face feeling unbearably hot.
Quickly, he tugs the brim of his hat over his face. He's gotta look so obvious — there's no way she doesn't know, right?
Is that why she did it?
He watches her take her leave, hoping he doesn't look like a lovestruck idiot. He doesn't take his eyes off her even as she becomes a small figure in the distance, stupidly hoping something else might happen.
And then there it is — a quick glance back, but it happens. She makes eye contact with him and gives him another small smile, slightly less unsure than before.
Flustered, he tugs the brim down further. His heart thumps in his chest, drowning out everything else.
Maybe he's got a chance after all.
⩇⩇:⩇⩇
[Description: The District Ten Male steps onto the stage. He wears cowboy boots and a leather jacket around his shoulders , both of which are intentionally worn and faded in certain places to convey a more authentic, outdoorsy Ten feel. But white embroidered floral designs throughout the outfit help to counterbalance and upscale the whole look, making it appropriately lavish for an interview.
Cervantes wears an easy smile on his face, but his gaze seems a little distracted. A flush of red is dusted across his cheeks — is it possible his stylist was going for a natural, sunburned look? As he makes his way to his seat, he keeps smoothing one side of his hair back, palm grazing against his cheek. He gives a bashful wave at the audience before sitting down.]
K. Mahadio: If it isn't the one and only Asahel Cervantes! How are you?
A. Cervantes: [He flashes a friendly smile.] I'm doin' all right, how about yourself?
K. Mahadio: Oh, I'm simply divine. Asahel, the Capitol has been dying to hear from you!
A. Cervantes: [He points at himself, eyes widening slightly.] Really? Me?
K. Mahadio: Yes, you — are you kidding? The Capitol can't get enough of the dashing cowboy from the Reaping. A handsome boy like you must have girls fawning over you left and right!
A. Cervantes: [ He becomes redder and laughs, embarrassed.] Can't say I've noticed.
K. Mahadio: Really? Not even girls at school?
A. Cervantes: I, um, never had the time.
K. Mahadio: Oh, come on. There's twenty four hours in a day!
A. Cervantes: Between work and family, I'm pretty strapped. Barely have time for myself, much less to galavant around.
K. Mahadio: Then that's a real shame for the girls of Ten, huh?
A. Cervantes: [He laughs unsurely.] I s'pose so.
K. Mahadio: I take it your family is important to you?
A. Cervantes: They're my whole life. Everything I've ever done is for them. [He looks almost guilty as he says this.]
K. Mahadio: [She nudges the tribute with her elbow gently.] Everything?
A. Cervantes: [He sighs.] …except one thing.
K. Mahadio: [She leans in close.] Say — that one thing wouldn't have anything to do with the reason you volunteered, would it? The entire nation has been speculating about it since the Reapings — won't you lay the rumors to rest?
A. Cervantes: [His voice takes on a joking tone, but it sounds a little flat.] Would you believe me if I said I wanted a change of pace?
K. Mahadio: [She levels Cervantes an exaggerated, unimpressed look.] Sounds like a load of bullcrap to me. Don't be shy! Pour your heart out!
A. Cervantes: [He hesitates.]
K. Mahadio: [She turns to the audience, making a circling motion with her hands.] My fellow Capitolites, don't you want to know why Asahel volunteered?
[The audience roars.]
K. Mahadio: What's that? I can barely hear you all!
[The audience's screams become deafening, ravenous.]
K. Mahadio: I know you can hear them, Asahel! Don't keep them waiting!
A. Cervantes: [He cracks an embarrassed smile.] All right, all right. S'pose I hafta keep all y'all nice people happy.
To be honest, I… still can't really explain why I did that. Volunteered, I mean. I'd say I'm pretty normal. I've always just done what I have t'do, do what I'm told. I never did anything crazy until that day, that moment, when the miss was Reaped.
K. Mahadio: The "miss"? Is it true, then, the rumors that Falo Tarandrus is the daughter of your employer?
A. Cervantes: [ His voice takes on a sheepish tone.] Yeah, it is.
K. Mahadio: Would I be right to assume she had something to do with your decision to Volunteer?
A. Cervantes: I… [He appears as if he's about to deny it, before something in his gaze becomes more resolute.] Actually, yeah. She's… she's a part of it.
K. Mahadio: Must I beg? Please, enlighten us!
A. Cervantes: [He pauses for a moment, gathering his words.] Falo is… beautiful. Not physically — I mean, yes physically, but that's not— [He's red as a beet, visibly flustered.] —I mean, she's beautiful inside.
K. Mahadio: [She 'awws'.] Isn't that so sweet!
A. Cervantes: She's kind and gentle and talented. She has so much grace and humility about things, and I really admire that. I — I admire her. A lot. She's, she's really wonderful, and she deserves to go back home. [His eyes flicker over to something beyond the curtain. It's unclear if he sees what he's looking for.] If I can be a part of that, then I'll be happy.
K. Mahadio: [She gives Asahel a pitying gaze. She places her hand over her heart before turning to address the crowd once more.] And there you have it, everyone! Give it up for Asahel Cervantes!
a/n: YIPPIE INTERVIEWS! *does a little jig* happy 21st birthday to me! you're all invited to my birthday party next chapter, going live on september 14th!
speaking of bdays, i made a gift for all of you! :3 d cast playing cards ft. interview fits! thank you guys for the stackedest cast ever and sticking around this far, i genuinely love u guys and ur kids so much ;;; i spent a lot of time on the art and i know it's a little inconsistent in places but i really hope you like them! MWAH
[ canva dot com slash ] design/DAGE5BtNlTI/9VTjwXZMW-OZH9ZAKK1lyw/view?utm_content=DAGE5BtNlTI _campaign=designshare _medium=link _source=editor
as always, a big big thank you to my betas goldie and logan for making sure this chapter was dandy! i also brought erik's eyes on to make sure everything was how i wanted it to be. i put a lot of thought and intention into this chapter and i really hope it shows! ;;;
today's title is POKER FACE, colloquially meaning 'an impassive expression that hides one's true feelings' . also i never knew poker face by lady gaga was the horniest bisexual anthem ever? what does it say about me that this was my favorite song when i was 6?
qotd: we've got falo, shaffa, dottie, sergeant, and jupiter on deck for next chapter. who are you most excited to hear from?!
deuces,
bingus