CHAPTER XXVIII: LAST NIGHT

Falo Tarandrus • District Ten Female

Ballroom / July 7th, 10:43 PM

It's taking much longer than Falo expected to get to the banquet venue.

Nearly two hours of interviews passed by in a blur. After the last tribute walked off the stage, each of them were corralled into personal vehicles to be driven to the next destination.

There wasn't much to do in the vehicle at all. The windows were tinted black, and Falo couldn't see out of them. The entire ride passed in silence, not a single word out of Falo or the Avox chauffeur.

Falo has only heard about Avoxes in passing; silent servants who obey without delay. The rumor goes that they were dissenters that had been brainwashed or had their tongues cut out, shackled to a life of servitude with no choice in the matter. It was a cruel and ironic way to deal with rebels, which Falo imagines must be the Capitol's appeal with the practice. Her skin crawls with the mere thought.

In her sheltered bubble in District Ten, Falo was far removed from the world of rebels and politics and the Capitol's cruelty. As the daughter of one of their export providers, she never thought she'd be subject to their wrath firsthand. Perhaps she was foolish to assume that she and her father weren't as expendable as the rest of the District folk. Even on the way to the banquet prepared in the tributes' honor, she can't help but feel overcome with dread. Falo knows that this is little more than fattening a lamb for slaughter.

The tires crunch softly against the ground as the chauffeur slows the vehicle to a stop. From the backseat, she makes eye contact with the driver through the small mirror.

"Thank you," Falo whispers.

She can't make out his expression through just his eyes alone, but he seems almost somber as he gives her a small nod. Beside her, the door is opened by an uncanny mechanical figure.

Falo sucks in a frightened gasp. The figure is completely sleek white, vaguely humanoid save for its jarring lack of a head. It looks like a mannequin wearing a porcelain suit, and its joints move robotically as it gestures for Falo to step out of the vehicle. Shoving down her unease, Falo reluctantly clambers out of the vehicle and follows the mannequin servant to the tall, five-storied venue that glows gold from the inside.

The mannequin escorts her to the top floor. When the elevator doors open, Falo is immediately blown away by the sight. It feels like a strike across the face, her vision left swimming and dizzy by the brilliant whites, cremes, and golds of the ballroom. It's an extravagant, columnless expanse, with dozens of chandeliers scattered across the ceiling, more than Falo can count. Not one inch of the room is left untouched by light. As her legs take her into the space, her eyes are drawn to the silky, embroidered flowers etched into the carpet, so plush that she feels she could sink right into it. The depths of the fibers, the painstaking artistry, the interior design — no expense spared. It makes Falo lightheaded to consider how much this room alone cost, just to be used as a location for a single night.

Falo nearly jumps as something hazy and blue whisks past her, in the direction of another tribute. Upon closer inspection, she realizes the ghostly silhouette is merely a virtual projection; the silhouette's feet hover slightly above the ground, not quite making contact. She can hear the faint buzz of static and see the occasional flicker as the hologram maintains its form. Observing the ostentatious way the hologram people are dressed, Falo can tell they're Capitolites — eager ones at that, as they attempt to swarm the tributes just for the chance to converse.

Admittedly, she feels embarrassed by how lost she feels in these proceedings. Is this how the Capitol always conducted banquets for their tributes?

More Capitolites flit around, enjoying the festivities. They appear thrilled to be here, interacting with the other tributes in the quote-en-quote flesh. She only hopes no one will be so forward as to approach her. She doubts anyone wants to talk to her about her mediocre interview anyway, and much less her private sessions score. Even hours after the fact, her stomach still feels unsettled, and she can't seem to remove the taste of bile from her palate.

Falo didn't think her performance in private sessions had been poor. Which is a horrible thing to say when she essentially flayed a mock human corpse, but she truly thought her demonstration would've warranted a higher score; up until she vomited, that is. Alas — Falo wasn't pleased, but she supposes a 5 is nothing to complain about. And Asahel, being Asahel, was eager to reassure her that she need not worry about a thing.

Speaking of the farmhand — Falo doesn't know where he is, and she's a little relieved by that. She's not quite sure yet how to address her actions during interviews, even if it did seem to have the intended effect on the boy. As for herself, she'd felt unbearably warm, nerves alight with the gesture of affection — not dissimilar to how such a thing is often described in romance novels. Regardless, she'll enjoy this brief solitude while it lasts, before she has to conjure up whatever's supposed to come next in this arrangement.

Falo never imagined that she'd spend the evening of her 18th birthday drifting alone in a busy ballroom, but she doesn't mind. It's nice to blend in, pretend to be another anonymous face in the crowd. Nobody knows it's her birthday, and she has no intention of telling anyone.

She wonders what her father is doing without her. Likely sitting alone at the dinner table, in their empty mansion with no one to break bread with. The thought sends a pang through her chest. A small part of her thinks he's probably glad to be spared of the effort of guessing what gifts she might like. Another berates her for being utterly ridiculous.

(Falo just hopes that he's well — and that he'll find a way to be okay after everything is over.)

She idles around the ballroom for a few minutes, watching as those uncanny mannequins scurry back and forth with platters of refreshments. The room starts to rush with life as more tributes and more Capitolites arrive; a very decent portion of the room's habitants are in high spirits, determined to enjoy one more night.

Someone behind her taps the back of Falo's shoulder. "Hey."

Falo recognizes the soft voice. She's already smiling, anticipating the face of the girl whose name she had learned the previous night. But when Falo fully turns, her greeting is promptly knocked from her tongue.

Wisteria looks… enchanting. There's no other way to describe it. Falo feels nearly ashamed to look, as if she's not allowed. The girl from Nine's dark tresses frames her face and shoulders artfully, her curls shimmering and slightly wet as if she'd gotten caught in the rain. Fresh daisies are woven in the sea of her hair. Freckles scatter all over her skin like little seeds, on her face, her neck, her collarbone, her…

"That is," Falo says, struggling to lift her eyes, "quite the dress."

Wisteria smooths down her hair before adjusting the top of the bodice, which Falo hurriedly looks away for. "Light purple – it's a little on the nose, don't you think?"

Falo clears her throat. "It suits you, though."

She beams. "Sage suits you, too."

Falo can feel her cheeks prickle with warmth. The sensation is unfamiliar, but perhaps not so unwelcome. She's saved from having to fumble together some sort of response when Wisteria sighs and starts to spin, her warm brown skin glistening underneath the chandelier lights.

"I've only seen a place this beautiful in my dreams," she says.

"It's nice," Falo agrees, watching Wisteria.

The other girl snorts. "Just nice?"

"It's gorgeous," Falo says, correcting herself. "This is certainly the most lavish place I've ever set foot in."

Wisteria gives her a skeptical look. "If you say so, Miss Five-Hundred-Acres."

"I do say so," Falo insists. "Well-off in the Districts is nothing compared to well-off here."

Wisteria hums, moving to stand closer to her. Falo fixedly ignores the inch or so between them, the shallow distance separating their shoulders. "Did you attend lots of balls back in Ten?"

"Not exactly, no," Falo murmurs. "I lived — live in a rather isolated area. Acres upon acres of farmland. Not many people around at all; just staff, and the occasional visitor."

"Lonely?"

"A little," Falo replies. "But it's not so bad."

One of those mannequins suddenly approach her and Wisteria with a platter. On it, there are two tall flutes containing some kind of drink. A beautiful iris rests on each of the rims.

Wisteria takes one of the glasses. Falo follows suit, inspecting the mysterious drink closely. The liquid has a subtle golden color, and bubbles steadily rush to the top like it's just been poured out. She takes a small sniff; the smell of flowers hits her nose like a kiss, and underneath that, there's the pungent smell of something fermented.

Falo looks up when she hears the sound of Wisteria laughing. "What are you doing?" she snickers, her glass already halfway drained.

"I'm… investigating it," Falo mutters, her face flushing with warmth.

"Investigating?" Wisteria laughs. "It's just a drink."

The girl from Nine tilts her head back and takes another sip, heartier this time. Her motions read so confident and natural, and it makes Falo wonder how many times Wisteria's done this. Can she tell how inexperienced Falo is?

Falo raises the flute to her lips before she can keep overthinking it. It tastes… quite good. The initial sting of alcohol is unpleasant, but it's quickly smoothed over by the taste of honey.

With every sip, she feels herself becoming more habituated to the taste, more at ease. Her nerves start to feel less fraught around Wisteria, if just slightly so. She's quite content to continue lingering by the other girl, and doesn't find herself so uncomfortable as she likely should be when their shoulders touch, skin against skin.

"Could I ask you something?" Falo suddenly blurts. "Random — it's quite strange, really."

Wisteria tilts her face to look at her, brown eyes large and bright. "What is it?"

Falo hesitates for a moment, mustering the courage to come out with the words. "Do you believe in love?"

"Like, romantic love?"

Falo nods.

The other girl pauses. The silence that stretches between them becomes thick, contemplative.

"Not one that lasts," the girl says after a beat. "Why?"

The laugh that comes out of Falo's throat sounds strained, even to her own ears. She suddenly feels foolish for even asking. "No particular reason. I — I just wondered."

"It was beautiful for my parents at first," the other girl sighs, swirling her empty glass. "And then it ends how it always does."

"I'm… sorry to hear that."

Wisteria shrugs. "It's pretty normal, to be honest. Nothing special, at least not in the part of Nine I'm from. Everybody I know has a parent that stayed and one who left, if even that. You never see people who stick around. A town full of wanderers, myself included. It's just the way, I guess."

Falo takes a sip from her drink, not really sure what to say at all. It's sad, but she's glad to know a little more about Wisteria.

"What about you, though?" Wisteria says, nudging Falo slightly with her elbow. "Your family?"

"Just my father and I," Falo answers. "My mother and father parted amicably when I was young."

"I never hear about mothers leaving," Wisteria muses. "What was she like?"

Falo furrows her brows. "Mm… I don't remember much, truthfully. I never knew her for myself. Just the things my father has told me. "

"Tell me what your father says, then."

"The gardens were her favorite place on the estate, he says. She had a beautiful voice and liked to sing to the birds. Not a talent I inherited, unfortunately." Falo laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. "But sometimes when I'm on the piano, I imagine her singing to it." She pauses. "I think it would've been nice to grow up in a house with less quiet. More music."

Wisteria hums, the side of her arm grazing against Falo's. She pretends not to notice.

"Do you believe in love?" the girl from Nine asks her after some time.

Falo pauses, trying to figure out the words. "I'm not sure," she admits. "I don't understand it, but… I think I'd like to."

Wisteria shuffles beside her. The girl from Nine's hand suddenly reaches out, tucking a strand of Falo's hair behind her ear.

Falo's breath hitches in her throat — she nearly stops breathing entirely.

"Y'know," Wisteria murmurs. "I think I get what Asahel sees in you."

"Ummm," Falo stutters eloquently, "You — you do?"

"Yeah," the other girl smiles. Her eyes flit to something behind Falo, and the grin on her face becomes cheeky. "And speak of the devil…"

Falo suddenly feels an all-too-familiar presence enter her space. It's Asahel, positioned by her side like he never left to begin with.

There it is again, Falo thinks to herself, her jaw tensing. That strange feeling, like something she can't see is closing in on her.

Asahel angles his head at Falo, giving her a sheepish grin. "Sorry, Miss. Took me a while to find you."

"No worries," Falo says, keeping her voice light.

"Looks like you had someone to keep you company, though," he says, giving a friendly nod to Wisteria. "Nice t'meet you."

"Likewise," Wisteria says. "

"Is your cowboy accent real?"

"Pardon?"

Wisteria does an impression of Asahel off the cuff, much like she had with Falo the previous night. He laughs, and politely obliges her requests to pronounce certain words. Wisteria seems fascinated by his long drawls, the elongated vowels.

Falo silently watches them go back and forth, feeling odd for a reason she can't explain. It's like seeing two very shallow worlds collide with each other, transient as an eclipse.

Another mannequin arrives with a brand new tray of drinks. Happily, Wisteria nabs another glass. Falo attempts to reach out for a second of her own, but Asahel acts faster.

"That won't be necessary," he tells the mannequin, dismissing it with a small wave of his hand. Without delay, it swivels away with the remaining drinks.

Falo feels somewhat miffed as she watches it leave, but she doesn't say anything. Asahel's likely correct, that it's not necessary — it wouldn't be very wise to overdo it the night before. Even if two drinks hardly constitutes overdoing it.

Wisteria stirs, looking between them both. "I think I'll leave you to it," she says, eyes resting on Falo's. "Bye, Falo."

Something in Falo's chest lurches in protest. But her body betrays her, and she just gives a brisk nod toward Wisteria in lieu of a goodbye. Falo almost doesn't notice the peculiar way Asahel observes Wisteria's retreating silhouette, something in his expression guarded.

The girl from Nine heads toward the larger crowds, into the sea of Capitolites and tributes. A heavy feeling sits in Falo's chest as she wonders whether she'll ever see Wisteria again. There's still so much she didn't know about her, so many things she wanted to ask. Falo wanted to know what kinds of flowers she liked, what else she wrote about in her journal. She wanted to know why she thought the way she thought; she wondered how Wisteria could be so romantic about life, but so cynical about—

"—me, Miss?" Asahel says.

Falo blinks, whipping her head to the person standing in front of her. "I'm sorry?"

One of Asahel's hands is outstretched toward her. He looks at her, wide-eyed. There's half a smile playing on his lips, hesitant but hopeful.

"Dance with me?" the farmhand asks.

Falo glances back at the direction where Wisteria walked off, but the girl from Nine is long gone. She shoves down the disappointment that blossoms in her chest, compressing it into a place deep inside where she doesn't have to wonder what's wrong with her, why her heart is trying to follow after the wrong person.

Asahel is still watching her. The boy who gave up everything to protect her, the boy she finds herself indebted to; he's waiting for her answer. At last, she slips her hand into his and nods, hoping the wordless gesture is more convincing than it feels.

Because for Asahel, isn't this the least she could do?

[…]

[𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?]

[𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘩.]

[𝘒𝘛 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘣𝘺. 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘭.]

[𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.]

Shaffa Zorp • District Three Female

Ballroom / July 7th, 11:20 PM

"Neffilus's iconized daughter! You look simply marvelous, Shaffa!"

"Are you supposed to be a butterfly?"

"No, you dimwit! She's clearly a lily!"

"Could you ask your father to put me at the top of his bookings? My third wedding is next week, and I can't have the same face as I did when I got married to my last two husbands!"

Smiling as widely as she can muster, Shaffa shoots off rapid-fire responses to the hologram Capitolites that surround her. "Thank you!" she says to the first. "I don't know if I'm a butterfly or a lily or anything at all! My stylists — shout-out Ecks, Wye, and Zee! — just put me in whatever!" She turns to the last Capitolite. "And I'm sorry, I really have no control over my dad's bookings! Congratulations on the wedding, though! Third time's the charm!"

A couple of feet away from Shaffa, Keesha receives similar attention from the Capitolites, though it looks less overwhelming on her side of things. The Capitolites' staticky voices overlap over one another as they each 'ooh' and 'ah' over her suit, complimenting the crisp edges and the slinky silhouette it gives her.

Keesha looks clean, lean, and mean. Her collar is stylishly flared and set in a deep v-cut, and the cuffs of her dress shirt are partly folded over her blazer sleeve. Shaffa thinks it's giving pimp, but make it feminist… somehow. Or maybe it's more the aesthetic of a mob boss with a closeted passion for rock and roll, in a good way. The point is, Keesha looks great, but that's not surprising at all. Shaffa is kinda convinced the girl's confident enough to rock anything.

Keesha notices Shaffa looking, and shoots a sly wink in her direction. Shaffa laughs, returning one right back. Celebrations are so Shaffa's thing — she remembers the last time she, Fae, and Tarley crashed a party, their night somehow ended with them drunk out of their minds in a random stranger's hot tub. This banquet's definitely on the swankier side of things, but the music's bumping, there's crazy people, and she's got someone to kick it with — she has everything she needs to enjoy herself.

A short distance away, another tribute — Shaffa thinks his name is Delano — takes a drink from one of those freaky mannequin guys. But as he grips the stem of the glass, his mechanical arm jerks suddenly, shattering the drink all over himself.

He curses loudly. Shaffa's eyes widen in alarm — instinctually, she starts to move in his direction to help, ask if he's okay, but a Capitolite abruptly rushes in front of her.

"Shaffa!" they exclaim. "Has anyone else told you?"

"Has anyone else told me what?" Shaffa says, plastering a smile on her face for the sake of being polite.

"Your father's here!" they chirp excitedly.

"My stylists told me the night of the Parades that he was in the Capitol," Shaffa says.

"No, he's here here! At the banquet! Your father is coming to see you!"

Shaffa's eyes nearly bug out of her head. "He's what?!"

The Capitolite nods violently, looking like a bobblehead. "Each of the visitors only get ten minutes at a time here! They're trying to regulate all of the lottery guests, and Neffilus is one of them. But he's coming! Coming soon!"

"Oh my god," Shaffa whispers, taking a step back. She could hardly understand anything the Capitolite said, except the most important thing: she's going to see her dad again.

She sucks in a breath, her heart pounding in her chest. Does Shaffa really want to get her hopes up again, after she couldn't find her dad's face in the crowd during Parades? Is this different?

It has to be, right?

"I," Shaffa starts, suddenly feeling lightheaded. "Thank you so much — I, I have to go!"

She breaks away from the Capitolite and rushes toward Keesha, her voice catching in her throat. "Keesha," she says. "I — my dad—"

"I was right here, I heard," Keesha assures her. "That's fucking dope, dude."

"I can't believe it," Shaffa breathes, shaking her head. "I can't believe he'd come all this way…"

"Your dad must love you a lot."

There's a strange quality to Keesha's voice, one that Shaffa can't quite figure out. Stiff, a little too level. Shaffa, being Shaffa, can't quite shake the feeling that something's wrong.

"Are you okay, Keesha?" Shaffa asks, as gently as she can.

The Five girl's response comes immediately. "I'm fine. Why?"

"I don't know," Shaffa admits. "I just feel like you're upset."

Keesha's eyes widen. "Upset? No way, man. I'm happy for you. Seriously." She says this part strongly enough for Shaffa to believe her a little more, but something still feels unaddressed.

"Okay." Shaffa hesitates. "Do you want to come with me to meet my dad?"

Wide-eyed, Keesha throws both of her hands up."Shit, I've never been good with parents. It's probably better if I don't."

"Are you sure?"

"It's your dad, Shafs," Keesha murmurs, voice unusually quiet. "Do what you gotta do, spend time with him. We've got the whole night after."

"All right," Shaffa whispers. "I'll see you later, then."

"See ya," Keesha agrees.

She turns to walk away. Before Shaffa can think about it, she's reaching toward Keesha, yanking the Five girl back to pull her into a hug.

Keesha stiffens sharply, but in Shaffa's embrace she slowly starts to thaw. She reaches around Shaffa's back, wrapping her arms in tight.

After a couple seconds, she gives Shaffa a graceless shove, like she's overcompensating for something. "Stop with the sappy shit," Keesha orders. There's a weird sound, almost like a sniffle. "Go be with your dad."

Shaffa gives the Five girl one last watery smile, before disappearing into the thick of the crowd.

She feels like she's swimming in this blue sea of holograms. Luckily, with her tall, six-foot stature, she can see above most people's heads. But her height advantage doesn't help much with avoiding the virtual Capitolites that rush past her. She knows they're just projections, but she feels like it'd be sorta rude to run straight through them.

Shaffa attempts to weave in between the Capitolites, occasionally bumping into loose virtual limbs. Making contact with the holograms feels like touching the surface of a television screen, warm and buzzy and slightly electric. Shaffa tries to steal glances at the people she passes, but she doesn't see anyone she recognizes. All of these faces and figures, but none of them are the one she's looking for—

"Shaffa!" a man's voice calls out, frantic.

Shaffa whirls around hastily, and she sees him — her dad. His ruddy brown hair, his sharp nose, and his worried eyes, widening when they land on hers.

Shaffa's eyes start to well with tears. It's undeniable that it's him, but somehow, he looks so different. She's never seen her dad this way before — so tired, so weak, so old.

"Dad?" Shaffa chokes out, clambering toward the man that glows brighter than the rest. "Is that really you?"

"It's me, baby," her dad tells her, instinctually reaching out to touch her arms. "I had to see you one more time."

"You look awful," she says, attempting to crack a joke. But her voice warbles a little too much, cracks at the tail end — before she can stop it, there are tears streaming down her face.

"Please don't cry, Shaffa," her dad tries to say, but blurry tears are already forming in his own eyes.

Shaffa feels a dull vibration against her face as her dad lifts a glowing hand, attempting to wipe at her eyes. She leans into his touch, trying to feel as much warmth as the hologram will allow. It's not much, but it's as closest to the real thing as she's able to get.

The thought brings a fresh well of tears. She sniffles loudly and swipes her hands over her face, not caring that she's crying in front of everyone, that she's probably smearing makeup all over. In front of her dad, she just wants to feel like a kid again — protected, comforted, safe.

"Are you eating?" Shaffa blubbers. "Sleeping?"

"You don't have to worry about me, darling," her dad smiles weakly.

"How did you get here? How did you afford this? And what about work?"

"I would've paid any price to be here with you. Money, work — none of that matters as much as you do." Her dad's voice breaks. "And I should've realized that before… before—"

"Dad, don't talk like that. I'm still here. And you're here now."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm so sorry. For this, for being busy — for everything."

Shaffa makes a pained sound. "Don't be, please. You didn't do anything wrong."

Her dad just keeps rambling, running his hands through the front of his hair. "I keep thinking I shouldn't have worked so much, shouldn't have taken so many weekend trips. Every time, you wanted me to stay, and I just… didn't. Why did I do that? Why didn't I listen to you? I should've spent more time with you. I should've had more time with you."

"You couldn't have known this would happen."

"I couldn't have," her dad admits. "But still, I — I should've—"

"I know you love me," Shaffa says. "So I tried not to let it get to me. You were busy, and I told myself to grow up. But sometimes, it got so hard. I felt so lonely."

"I know, baby. And I'm so sorry for that." Her dad's hologram blinks rapidly. "I don't know how I could ever make it up to you."

"You already are," Shaffa whispers.

There's nothing she wouldn't give for a real hug right now. Her dad still feels so far away, despite being right here, in the same place at the same time as her. Why can't this be enough for her? Why does she always want more — more love than people can possibly give her?

Her dad's hologram attempts to brush her hair back, tender and gentle. "The moment you were born, I felt like that was it," he murmurs. "I felt like everything I'd done my whole life led up to you, that moment. And everything I'd ever do again would somehow trace back to you."

"Dad," Shaffa protests, a lump rising in her throat.

"Something about the way I thought just changed for good. My whole life suddenly revolved around this little, tiny baby — you. You became everything to me." A pause. "You still are."

"You have to keep living," Shaffa's voice wavers, "even if I don't."

"I don't know, baby," her father whispers, cupping her cheek. "You're the reason, the reason I do anything at all. I don't know how to live in a world without my baby girl."

"Don't say that, Dad." Shaffa is sobbing now. "It makes me feel like you're going to do something bad."

Her dad gazes at her with shiny eyes — at least, as shiny as the hologram can translate. "Please don't worry about me."

"I always worry about you," Shaffa chokes out. "I love you."

"I love you too, baby," he whispers. "But tomorrow you're going, and I can't help you or do anything for you. I — the only thing I can do is watch. You need to take care of yourself for me."

"Only if you promise to do the same."

"Shaffa," her dad says.

She tries to make her voice as stern as possible. "Dad."

"I promise," he relents. "Of course I promise."

Shaffa heaves a trembling breath, before throwing her arms around her dad's projection. The blue hologram hums underneath her hands, an empty vibration. But if she closes her eyes, she can pretend he's here, he's real. And it's enough.

It has to be enough.

Her dad rests his hands on her back, rubbing soothing circles. But the warmth starts to flicker — with a start, Shaffa realizes that her father's hologram is starting to disappear.

"My strong, smart, beautiful girl," he whispers. "I've always been so proud of you, Shaffa."

"Don't go," she sobs weakly, knowing it's impossible.

He gives her a sad smile. His voice comes out in pitchy static. "Be brave for me one more time, dove."

Technicolor blue flickers out once, twice. Then Shaffa's dad is gone for good, the warm traces of a photoelectric embrace the only proof that he'd been here at all.

[𝘋𝘈 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺.]

[𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥?]

[𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺.]

Dottie Dressel • District Eight Female

Ballroom / July 7th, 11:23 PM

Oh, yeah. This place looks just like the drawing she made during private sessions.

It's like the Capitol somehow harnessed the sun into one big room. There are more lights than Dottie can comprehend, halos upon halos all over the sky, and all of it just keeps on going for what seems like forever. She thinks there are certainly worse places to be poked to death.

Ghosts flit around all over the glowing room, misty and mesmerizing. Yuly tried to tell her that they weren't actually ghosts, but Dottie doesn't believe him. They're see-through blue and it's nighttime; all the evidence points to the obvious. She wonders why Yuly has trouble grasping that undeniable fact.

The Eleven boy is a really interesting person; he's like if an older brother was sometimes a single mom that worked two jobs. He contains multitudes. But for the record, Dottie still likes Quentin better — no one comes close to beating out her cousin.

(Dottie's realizing that she might not be able to report back on their purple game, after all. Which is a shame, because she's seen more purple things than she can even count in the Capitol. Quentin would be so jealous if he knew…)

"All right, guys!" Yuly exclaims. "I'll let all of you go have some fun on your own, now. Make sure to chat with the Capitolites if you can — it'll be a great help when we get into the Arena. And of course," the Eleven boy casts a sunny smile to the skinny, straw-haired girl, "Welcome to the alliance, Mavis! And a big thank you to Artan for changing her mind!"

Artan gives Yuly a pained smile.

Yuly rattles off some rules one last time, which Dottie doesn't listen to. Instead, she finds herself admiring Yuly's puppy suit closely. She wished her stylists let her have a cool puppy dress — better yet, with cool purple puppies. But no, she has to wear a dress with dots on it for whatever reason, and a funny little feather headband thing.

At last, Yuly stops being a talkative goose. He gives everyone in the alliance a high-five before briskly excusing himself.

Mavis turns to Ginseng, trying to subtly wipe her hand against her dress. "That wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be," she whispers.

Ginseng just stares at her, bewildered. "Why would it be bad?"

"Um…" Mavis darts her eyes around before pointing in a random direction. "LOOK OVER THERE!"

Neither Dottie nor Ginseng look over there. They watch as Mavis scurries away in the opposite direction, impossibly slow.

Ginseng shakes her head slightly. "How do you even turn out like that?" she asks.

Dottie just shrugs. Beats her.

Neither of them care to linger on the topic of their new ally. "Wanna find my District partner and his friend?" Ginseng suggests. "They've been acting funny all night, and I want to laugh at them."

Dottie hums. "Sure thing, root girl."

It takes her and Ginseng a couple of minutes to find them in an area at the center of the room, which seems to have turned into an unofficial dancefloor. The space is corralled off by the ghosts, tripping over themselves to see two boys giggling and getting low like no one's watching. Ginseng's smiling as she observes them — she peers from the sidelines for just a minute before rushing into the square, duplicating their moves with much better coordination.

Dottie's grin grows wider as Ginseng moves in tune with the music. That's exactly what she likes about the Seven girl so much — she just throws herself into things and figures them out. At fifteen, Dottie's been drifting through life, but Ginseng recklessly carves out new paths for herself. She seems to live for the crash, the shatter, the upheaval.

Following her friend onto the dancefloor, Dottie finds an empty patch to stand in and closes her eyes. The thrum of the music pulses through her bones — it's synthy, ritzy, melodic in an alien way. Dottie bobs her head, letting her limbs do what feels right. Her feet bounce up and down. She starts making wavy, worm-like motions with her arms.

All around her, the ghosts start to cheer. The music presses on, groovy and unabating. But all of those sounds pale in comparison to Ginseng's bright, chime-like laughter.

Several minutes later, the ghost hoard starts to disperse, leaving the four of them mostly to their own devices. A fancy, headless robot guy rolls out toward them, a tray of drinks in hand. It skirts right past her and Ginseng over to the older boys.

The twig-looking boy tentatively accepts a glass. He takes an even more tentative sip, before passing the rest of the drink to the buff black-haired boy. He downs half the glass in one go; it seems like water to him.

Dottie watches as Ginseng taps him and stares up with shiny, brown eyes. "Can I have a sip, Lucifer?"

The black=haired boy, Lucifer, stares back. It takes several long seconds before he responds, like he doesn't know if this is a trick question. "…Nnnnno."

"Pleaaaseee," Ginseng says, blinking fast. She pouts her lip — a damning strike.

Lucifer squints and starts rubbing his eyes. "Fine. Only a small sip. Tiny."

Ginseng practically buzzes with joy, using both hands to take the glass from Lucifer. She lifts it to her lips and…

And she's fine. At first. Then there comes the instant recoil. Her face screws up, twitching like a dog that swallowed a bee.

"Oh, no!" Dottie clamps a hand over her mouth. "What's wrong with the cock's tail?"

Ginseng's expression is still sour. She keeps opening and closing her mouth, like she can't stand the taste of her own tongue. "It was okay, and then it was so bitter," she grimaces, passing the glass back to Lucifer. "How do people like this stuff?"

Lucifer just shrugs before downing the rest of the drink. He follows the twiggy boy to wherever he wandered off, leaving Dottie and Ginseng to their own company. But it's not long at all before someone else joins them.

"Mademoiselle!" a princely voice calls out from the distance. It's Artan, arriving with his own drink in hand. It has a swirly straw and a tiny little umbrella in it. "Allow me to cleanse your palate!"

As Artan barrels up, Dottie casts a glance behind him. In the distance, Mavis enthusiastically gives the Twelve boy a thumbs up. But when she sees Dottie looking, she squeaks and darts back behind the robot she's using to hide.

Ginseng doesn't seem to notice. She points at the glass, skeptical. "What is that?"

Artan puffs his chest out a little, kind of like a bird. "Only the juice from the finest apples, my liege."

Dottie can tell that Ginseng wants to decline the gesture. But she must seriously dislike the taste of whatever she drank out of Lucifer's cup, because she eventually resorts to the desperate measure of accepting Artan's. The Twelve boy looks surprised, like he didn't expect her to do so, but he quickly wipes the shock from his face.

She takes a long swig. "That actually is pretty good apple juice," Ginseng comments, using the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. "Way better."

"It's yours, then," Artan preens. "I procured that glass for you."

"Sweet," Ginseng says, passing the glass to Dottie to try. Artan's face falls. "Thanks."

"I meant the drink is for you," Artan says, pursing his lips. "Not for—"

"If you gave it to me, doesn't that mean I can give it to other people?"

"I suppose, but that's not what I—"

As Artan and Ginseng go back and forth, Dottie takes it upon herself to inspect the glass. It's tall, cylindrical, and surprisingly heavy. She sips from the straw — oh, this is good stuff. This is definitely apple juice times ten. She tunes back into the conversation just in time to hear Ginseng ask, "Where'd you get it?"

Artan points to one of the four bars in the room, on the right side. "They serve everything, not just liqueur."

"Why did you say it with an E?" Dottie wonders aloud. "Isn't it usually spelled with an O? We're in Panem."

Before anyone can answer Dottie's super important question, Yuly suddenly comes bounding up to their little group, out of breath like he just ran a marathon.

"Have any of you seen Delano?" The Eleven boy asks, frantic. His eyes are darting all over the room. "Dottie, do you know where he might be?"

Dottie just shakes her head and shrugs. Yuly runs off again, re-embarking on his self-imposed marathon.

Ginseng looks at Dottie. "That was weird."

Artan clears his throat unsubtly. "I wholeheartedly agree, Ginseng. Would you mind accompanying me to a more private, distraction-free locale?"

"Um," Ginseng says, "I think it's comfy right here."

"I would like to talk to you alone," Artan reiterates.

Ginseng glances at Dottie. "Like—"

"Without her," Artan agrees.

Ginseng frowns. "Whatever you can say to me, you can say in front of her, too."

Dottie's sips reach the end of the glass. A raucous sound emerges from the bottom of the straw, bouncing against the glass and the ice cubes. Ginseng and Artan both turn to stare at her. Dottie tries to stare back at both of them at the same time, but it's kind of hurting her eyes.

Artan slowly turns his gaze away from Dottie. "I… really must insist, Ginseng."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"You'll like what I have planned!" the Twelve boy pleads.

Ginseng freezes. The silence that stretches on is razor-thin, like the edge of a blade. The tension feels so palpable that Dottie feels like she has to take the straw from her mouth.

The Seven girl's voice comes out strained like she's fighting to keep her voice down, but Dottie isn't sure it's working so well. "How could you possibly know that?"

Artan practically wilts. "I… what do you mean?"

"How could you know what I like, if you've never even bothered to ask me?" Ginseng grits through her teeth. "Unless your strategy is to keep throwing things at me until something sticks?"

"I, I've been trying," Artan stutters. "I just haven't gotten the chance to get to know you in a more romantic setting — the way you deserve."

"Why does it have to be romantic?" Ginseng yells, furious now. "Why can't you just talk to me like a normal person?! A friend?!"

"What I feel for you goes so much deeper than friendship!" He casts a glance at Dottie, his expression becoming icy. "Friends betray you. Even best friends can't be trusted. A lesson I know all too well."

Dottie frowns, not liking where this soap opera is going. "Now what does that have to do with me?"

"Just because you had awful, terrible friends doesn't mean the rest of us do! Dottie's been here for me the most out of anyone. I just wanted a friend, and she's been my friend."

"But would she keep you safe? Give you gifts? Read you poems? Can she even read at all?!"

"What the heck is wrong with you?!" Ginseng seethes. "Of course she can read, I think—"

"I can read," Dottie confirms.

"—but that's not the point! She doesn't have to do any of that for me, because I don't need or want any of that!"

"That's what you think," Artan counters.

Ginseng practically glows red. "Are you saying what I think is wrong?"

Dottie blinks rapidly, trying to recall what Ginseng told her the other night. Boys are mean, the Seven girl said. Artan didn't seem mean, but for some reason, Ginseng suspected he was just acting. And she said something about a punchline, a crush, which Dottie still can't wrap her head around.

All of these secret, violent words are confusing her, but if there's one thing she can read plain and clear, it's that Ginseng is angry. Dottie can feel it just by looking at her; it's red, hot, searing against her skin.

"No!" Artan blanches. "I wouldn't dare — I would never disrespect the woman I love!"

"I don't even know who you are!" Ginseng screams. "I don't know anything about you and you've never bothered to learn a thing about me!"

Artan looks stricken. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish with too much air to breathe, before jabbering something in response that falls like cold rocks against Dottie's ears. She can't hear anything he says — anything anyone says.

Dottie feels herself growing dizzy, watching her allies argue back and forth. Their yelling voices start to swirl with the music until she can hardly separate what's what, who's talking.

She stumbles back, holding a hand to her head. Amidst the screeching noise and the searing lights, she's starting to not feel right. Ginseng and Artan's voices bounce uncontrollably in Dottie's skull like a cacophonous duet, nearly threatening to split her skull down the middle.

Something needs to happen. Something's got to give.

Dottie's hand tightens around the empty glass.

[𝘠𝘔 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘉𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.]

[𝘞𝘢𝘪𝘵. 𝘏𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵.]

[...]

[𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴. 𝘑𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘷𝘢 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳.]

[𝘚𝘪𝘳?]

[𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯.]

[…𝘊𝘰𝘱𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.]

Sergeant Andronicus • District Two Male

Ballroom / July 7th, 11:32 PM

Every time Sergeant closes his eyes, he can feel his fingers closing around his throat.

Nothing could've prepared him for the way Kai lashed out — his hands wrapped around Sergeant's neck and squeezed, like he meant to wring him out like a sopping towel. Sergeant could feel himself being suffocated, could feel the breath being forced out of his throat — it was too similar, too familiar to memories he'd much rather forget.

The screaming shatter of glass being thrown against the wall, inches away from his skull. The pungent stench of alcohol on his father's breath not even an inch from his face, burning the inside of Sergeant's nose. Too strong. Too close. Sergeant wanted to recoil, but he couldn't move with his father's hands gripped around his throat — couldn't gag, couldn't breathe—

"Are you out of your goddamned mind?!" the man bellowed. "The fuck were you thinking? You forget I own you?!"

Sergeant's head was starting to pound uncontrollably. His lungs ached for air. If Sergeant wasn't struggling to breathe as it was, he'd cuss out his sad, drunk, prick of a father, and then spit right in the old man's face. But as it was, his vision was getting woozy, and his lips were starting to feel numb. Nothing was coming out of his mouth except these horrible, helpless sounds.

"Get all of this out of your system, boy," the man snarled. "I ain't gon' say this shit twice — come August, you gon' shape the fuck up. Come back acting right or don't at all.

"A son that don't listen is worth less than a dog."

Yeah — you can say Sergeant's not exactly having the greatest night of his young life.

He never thinks about his father, if he can help it. And he's trying to help it, but sometimes, it's not so easy. The scent of alcohol blankets the ballroom — it's not as strong as it is in the living room on a Saturday night, but notes of it still linger and Sergeant can't ignore it. Every cell in his body feels on edge, like by standing here he's asking to get hit all over again.

He can still feel where the fingers bruised the soft skin of his neck, like indents on a mattress. The "medicine" his stylists applied on him seemed mostly cosmetic. He watched the purple leave his skin in real time, but the tenderness still remained, creating nothing more than an invisible wound.

He feels pissed, but more than that, he feels guilty. He's supposed to be looking for Cassia, but he didn't consider for a second that Cassia might be caught in the crossfire. He wants to ask if her cheek feels any better, from where Kai struck her. But he feels like she'd just smile and tell him it's okay, not wanting him to worry.

Sergeant can see her near one of the walls in the ballroom, chatting energetically with Orion. They seem to be having fun and enjoying each other's company, and Sergeant's not really keen on ruining their vibe. Especially considering he doesn't know how much more time Cassia will have with the guy, before… yeah.

He swallows and looks away, trying to shove down conflicted feelings. He'd have time to check in with Cassia after they get to the Two Suite for the night. He just hopes this shit'll be over soon. It's unbelievably loud in here; the droning bass of the music gives him a headache. And it's too bright — everything in this room is dazzlingly dizzy, and he can't look anywhere without squinting slightly. It's a perfect storm to get Sergeant wired.

Adrienne's voice drifts through his head, high and grating. What's your deal? she sneers. Why can't you be chill?

Sergeant wishes he knew. But the only thing he's sure of is that this party's wasted on him. He needs a break from all the excitement. But before he can slip out, there's one last thing he has to make sure of.

Sergeant locates her quickly. Reverie's already hard to miss on a good day, but tonight she shines like a beacon in the ballroom.

Her stylists really did that girl every favor in the book, with the tiara and the shimmery white dress that shows off her legs real nice. The hair's different, that's for sure, but Sergeant kind of likes it. Makes her look interesting. As Sergeant approaches the One girl, he notices that she's got an even frostier expression on than usual, icy and untouchable.

"You talked to Seven?" he asks her.

She rolls her eyes, swirling around whatever it is she's drinking. "Lovely night we're having, Reverie. How are you? Good. I'm glad to hear it. I'm good, too."

"How are you, Rev," Sergeant deadpans.

"Fine," she says, clipped. "Yeah, I talked to him."

"What did he say?"

"He agreed." Reverie holds out her half-finished glass to Sergeant. "Finish my drink? It's a little too sweet."

"Do I look like a sweet drink kind of guy?" Or an anything drink kind of guy? He declines with a wry wave of his hand; Reverie just shrugs. "That's… it? He just agreed?"

She throws back the rest of what's in her glass, hardly making a face despite her supposed displeasure with the drink. "Yup. Didn't ask a single question. I was surprised, too."

"Huh," Sergeant says. He peers at her, trying to see if he can glean anything from her expression. But he honestly can't tell; he can't really read the One girl the way he wants to. "Guess we'll just have to wait and see what happens."

"Yup," Reverie repeats, popping the 'p'. "How's your neck feel, by the way?"

"Like shit," Sergeant snorts. He winks at Reverie, trying to butcher the memory into a joke. "Not my preferred way to get marked up. But maybe someone could help with that?"

She scowls — seriously scowls. "Grow the fuck up, Sergeant."

"Chill," Sergeant frowns. "I'm just messing around. It's not serious."

"Is there anything you take fucking serious?" she snaps.

"It was a joke," Sergeant reiterates.

"Hilarious," she says, dry as a dead bush. "I'm getting another drink."

Without so much as goodbye, Reverie spins on her heel and walks off. Her body language makes it abundantly clear she doesn't want to be followed.

Sergeant scoffs, watching her walk across the room. Jesus. It seemed like the very last thing she needed was another fucking drink. What's her deal? It's not like they've never done this bit before. And her interview went amazing, as far as Sergeant could tell. She was all laughs and smiles there. So what the hell was the problem?

Whatever — he's done here. He needs to get some fresh air.

Sergeant walks out the leftmost side of the room, where a sizable balcony overlooks the Capitol skyline. It's nice, with strong white stone railings that match the inside of the ornate ballroom. The terrace stretches pretty far out, with ample distance from the noise and the smell indoors.

It's surprisingly vacant, which Sergeant honestly finds himself thankful for. The breeze brushes against his skin, gentle and cool. He feels a little more like himself again. It's no woods air, but this high up, the oxygen feels crisp enough to satisfy. Night air has always calmed him like nothing else.

Sergeant leans over the railing, taking in the view. Beyond the balcony, the streets and skyscrapers of the Capitol splay out before him like a circuit board. This doesn't really look like the view from the Two suite, but he figures it's just a different angle of the city. All of the lights are a blur of glitz and technicolor glamor, appearing almost on fire with how bright everything is.

The city oozes cash, like everything is built straight from gold and jewels. There's a huge Ferris wheel just a few streets away. A glowing A-shaped tower hovers over a longer, shorter building, like it's squatting. In the distance, Sergeant can see impossibly tall fountains that look like infinite, sky-sourced waterfalls. He doesn't even know what to think about the giant sphere that takes up half the goddamn block. The Capitol's even more over-the-top and tacky than he could ever imagined, which he supposes is on brand considering their whole thing is excess. Still — good lord.

He tugs his sleeve up to check his watch, the one that he brought along as his token. It reads 11:40 PM. Behind him, the banquet still seems to be in full throttle, with no signs of stopping. When the fuck does the Capitol expect them to sleep?

"You're not partying?"

Sergeant throws a glance over his shoulder. A foot or two to his left side, the One boy faces the balcony, his elbows resting on the ledge.

Kieran looks like he usually does — good for lack of trying, if that makes any sense at all. He's clean and casual in his silver-blue blazer, unbuttoned and tieless. His hair is slicked up and he's got this nice taper going on. The way he regards Sergeant makes it seem like he honestly couldn't care less about his response, or whether he responded at all.

Sergeant can count on one hand the number of times he's directly interacted with Kieran. It's not like he hasn't tried, but he's gotten the general sense that the One boy's been avoiding him. Until now, he supposes.

Sergeant repositions himself so that he's leaning with his back against the railing, a better angle to conversate. "Nah. Not my scene, actually."

Kieran cocks an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

"All the liquor, it gets messy," Sergeant explains. "And loud."

"You don't drink?"

"Leaves a bad taste in my mouth," is what he decides to say. "You, though? What're you doin' out here?"

The wind combs through Kieran's hair like gentle fingers. He shifts his head slightly; the shadows on his face shift as well, making the One boy look much older than he is.

"Not really in a celebrating mood," Kieran says after a beat.

"Fair enough," Sergeant shrugs. "I s'pose I'll let you keep me company, Kier."

His expression darkens. "Don't flatter yourself," Kieran glowers. "And don't call me that, either."

Sergeant thinks back to his notes from the first day of training. Doesn't look like Kieran approves of the nickname, after all. "Sure. Noted." He crosses his arms. "Touched a nerve?"

"Something like that."

"Let me guess: an ex used to call you that?"

Kieran scowls. "I'm sure you already know all about it, huh?"

Sergeant furrows his brows. "What?"

Kieran stares at him for a long moment, wary. "…Never mind."

There it is again, that testiness that seems to be reserved just for him. Cassia says she hasn't seen it, but Sergeant swears to god he's not making this up.

"Okay," Sergeant says slowly. "What should I call you, then?"

"My name, maybe?"

"What's the fun of that, though? I've got a nickname for everyone. Cass for Cassia, Fio for Fioynder, Rev for—"

"Reverie," Kieran finishes, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I've got it."

"Speaking of, she's in some sort of mood t'night."

"...Okay?"

"Got any idea why?"

"Why don't you ask her and find out?"

Sergeant gives him a long, hard look. "Did I do something to you, man?"

"Excuse me?"

"You don't like me for some reason," Sergeant says. "I can tell that much. And it started when Rev and I started getting tight. It's like you flipped a switch."

"Is there a point with any of this, or are you just theorizing?"

"I'm just tryna say, whatever you think is happening, it's not like that."

"Is that what she told you to say?" Kieran sneers.
"Nah," Sergeant says. "It's just the truth."

There's a frustrated, confused expression on Kieran's face. "I thought you — Reverie?" He hesitates. "…Last night?"

Sergeant barks out a laugh. "You think I slept with her?"

Kieran stares at him. "Did you not?"

"I mean, she's gorgeous and everything. I'm just…" Without meaning to, Sergeant's mind wanders to Adrienne. "…kind of over blondes."

Kieran blinks. "Huh," he says.

"So, chill. I'm not putting moves on your girl."

The walls are back up instantly. "She's not my girl."

"Y'all clearly got some kinda history." He gives Kieran a pointed look. "You thought you were slick? You thought nobody noticed y'all going at it back and forth in my suite?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Yeah," Sergeant says. "It matters a lot to me, actually, considering I'm s'posed to be running this pack."

Kieran's mouth thins into a flat line. "There used to be something," he answers at last. "And now there's nothing. It's dead. Happy?"

Sergeant sighs quietly, troubled. "Not really. But it's good to know. So thanks for being honest." He pauses. "I don't know why Rev would keep that from me."

There's a strange expression on Kieran's face. "I don't know, either."

They both get quiet. It's tense for a while, before Sergeant breaks the silence again.

"You're into blondes?"

"What the fuck kind of segue is this?"

"Humor me, man. I just wanna get to know you better. Considering we're allies, and all."

"I'm sure you could be asking me more productive questions than what my type is."

Sergeant just shrugs. "There's a time and place for business. And there are other times." He makes a vague gesture with his hand. "This is other times. I mean, we're at our banquet, for fuck's sake. I think we can afford to take it a little easy."

Kieran huffs, but Sergeant swears he can hear the slightest amusement behind it. "It really doesn't really matter to me," he says.

"Then what does?" Sergeant abruptly pauses when Kieran reaches out and puts his hands on the cuff of Sergeant's blazer. "What are you doing?"

"Sleeve's crooked," Kieran explains. "I'm fixing it."

Sergeant looks at him funny, but he goes along with it, letting him do whatever. Kieran's from One; it figures he'd be neurotic about appearances as the rest of them are. Sergeant keeps staring straight on at Kieran, even as the other guy's eyes are lowered. "You're avoiding the question."

"You seem unusually invested."

"I'm just curious."

Kieran considers for a moment. "Let me think."

Sergeant snorts. "Take your time. At this rate, we're lucky if they'll ever let us out of this place."

Sergeant can feel the tips of Kieran's fingers graze the soft underside of his wrist. This is weirdly thorough.

"Personality," Kieran finally answers at last.

The One boy retracts his hands. Sergeant glances down at his sleeve; he supposes it looks smoother, but he doesn't really have any sort of eye for that. Proper Suit Attire 101 isn't really a priority in the Two Academy.

"'Personality?'" Sergeant repeats, cracking a smile. "That's it?"

"I mean, yeah," Kieran says, shoving his hands into his pockets. "That's it."

"Vague. You gotta be more specific than that."

Kieran shrugs. "If you're a decent human being and we click, that's all that matters to me, really."

Sergeant shakes his head. "You're so full of shit, man."

"Serious," Kieran insists, his lips crimping like he's holding back a small smile. "If someone's nice to look at, that certainly doesn't hurt at all. But I feel like that just naturally comes along with everything else."

"That's a nobler answer than I expected," Sergeant admits. "Pegged you for the heartbreaker type."

There's a funny glint in Kieran's eye. "What makes you say that?"

"That's just the One stereotype," Sergeant says. "It was never officially taught in the curriculum, but it kinda goes without saying to not entangle yourself with Ones. It's like asking to get manipulated."

"That's shallow," Kieran replies, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I chose to be born in this District. It's just the way it worked out. Could've just as easily been from Two."

"Oh yeah?"

"My dad's from Two. Came over for work, fell in love with my mom. She was a model."

"Naturally," Sergeant laughs. "What work?"

"He's a Peacekeeper."

"Shit," Sergeant says emphatically. "Been there, man. Awful bounce."

"Actually, my dad's great," Kieran says, a softish edge to his voice. "He's busy a lot of the time, but he tries to be around when he can."

"Oh, word. Good for you, then." Sergeant sticks his tongue in his cheek, drumming his fingers against the railing. "You an only child?"

"Uh… technically, I guess."

"Technically?"

"It's a lot," he mutters. "I'd… rather not get into it."

"Okay," Sergeant says. "I can respect that."

"Thanks," Kieran says, a dry smile buried beneath his voice. "You got the time, by any chance?"

"Yeah, it's…" Sergeant lifts his sleeve, freezing when he realizes his wrist is stripped bare.

"Never mind," Kieran says, laughing. There's a watch on his own wrist, awfully familiar. "It's 11:52."

"Hey," Sergeant protests, "that's—"

The corners of Kieran's eyes crinkle slightly. "—a nice watch, isn't it?"

Sergeant grins, incredulous. "How the fuck did you do that?"

"You'd be surprised what you can get away with when people are distracted," Kieran smiles. The lights of the Capitol paint the side of his nose and his grin in a hazy blue wash.

It dawns on him quietly. "That bullshit excuse about fixing my sleeve," Sergeant realizes. "That's when you did it."

"And you didn't even notice a thing," Kieran says, his grin growing sly. "What kind of Career are you?"

"A straightforward one," Sergeant replies, the corners of his mouth rising. He leans in slightly, closer to Kieran. "But you're more of a bastard than I gave you credit for."

"Slow on the uptake," Kieran drawls. "Personally, I think our spar should've painted a clear picture of that."

Sergeant swings his arm, attempting to grab ahold of Kieran's wrist. But Kieran's frustratingly quick to react, holding his arm above his head — much higher than Sergeant can reach.

Sergeant laughs aloud, unable to help it. "What kinda games are you playing, Locke?"

Kieran doesn't react poorly to the nickname this time. Maybe his smile even gets a little wider. Sergeant's never noticed it before, but Kieran's canines are pretty distinct, sharp in a boyish way. "Who says I'm playing games?"

Kieran's shit-eating grin is making him feel a way he can't quite describe. Kieran clearly doesn't take him seriously — maybe never has. But Sergeant isn't pissed the way he probably should be. It's a new feeling to be challenged so blatantly, so unexpectedly. By the quietest member of the pack, no less.

Maybe he's kinda into this.

"There was that little stunt you pulled in training. Now you've stolen my watch and you're playing keepaway." Sergeant cocks his head, observing Kieran in better focus than ever. "That's a neat party trick, but doesn't get you a 10 in private sessions. I'm still waiting to see some real action from you."

"Vague," Kieran says, repeating Sergeant's exact phrasing from earlier. "You gotta be more specific than that."

Sergeant draws his eyes up and down slowly, before bringing then back up to the One boy's smug grin. "What're you tryna get into right now?" he murmurs.

"Depends," Kieran shoots back, a daring glint in his eye. "On what you mean by real action."

...That feels forward as hell.

Yeah, fuck it. Sergeant doesn't overthink it. He closes the gap and leans in, kissing Kieran.

It's shallow and chaste. Brief made briefer when Kieran takes a jerky step back, breaking contact. The tips of his ears are flushed bright red.

"Uh," Kieran laughs nervously. He looks completely taken aback. "What—?"

Against his will, Sergeant's face starts to grow hot. "Shit," he mutters, running a hand back through his hair. "Maybe I read this wrong."

"Look," Kieran stutters, "you're good-looking — really good-looking — I just… don't know if I'm into guys."

Sergeant clears his throat with maybe a little too much force. "Nah, my fault. It's all good. And for the record, I, uh, don't know if I am, either." A pause. "Just so you know."

When Kieran doesn't respond immediately, Sergeant keeps running his mouth. "I just thought I'd try something different, in case this really is my last week alive. But yeah. I'm not — y'know." Another long pause. "I like girls."

"You can stop now," Kieran says. "We don't have to talk about this."

"For sure," Sergeant coughs. "Maybe we should go inside."

"Yeah, I think it's getting—"

"Kinda warm—"

"Exactly what I was going to say," Kieran exclaims, but before he can add anything else, a loud sound erupts from the intercoms indoors.

Sergeant's head whirls around to the ballroom. One image is plastered onto every screen in sight, even on the gargantuan sphere down below, blocks away: a close-up of the Master of Ceremonies' lips, stretched into an ominous smile.

He can't explain why, but it sends his heart dropping into his stomach. Next to him, Kieran's turned a shade paler.

Sergeant's voice comes out hollow. "What the fuck is happening?"

AUDIO TRANSCRIPTION OF A CAMERA FEED. LOCATION: LEVEL 5 PALAZZO BALLROOM, CAMERA #23. 11:49 PM.

[The sound of running water fills the lavatory. It has been running for twenty-six minutes. Underneath the water, there are soft human sounds, like somebody is crying. The door swings open with a loud whoosh.]

Jesus—

Thank god. I've been looking for you everywhere.

[A frustrated noise.] What the fuck. What is wrong with you?

Del—

Did you follow me in here? What happened to leaving me the fuck alone?

I — I was going to. That was my plan, to respect your distance. But then I started getting this bad feeling — there's weird energy here. In this place. And then I noticed you weren't in the ballroom. [A pause.] I had to find you.

I'm basically just hearing you followed me to the bathroom. That's fucking weird, man. Genuine freak behavior.

I needed to make sure you were alive.

Why the fuck wouldn't I be alive?

We're not safe here. We need to leave.

Why would I go anywhere with you?

Del, just come—

[A short scuffling sound, like a shove.] Don't fucking touch me. I will fucking hurt you.

Fine. You want me to explain it to you?

I'd probably prefer that to you going off like a schizo!

Haven't you noticed? That the District Four Male has been gone for hours?

Well, yeah, I've noticed — but what the hell does that have to do with me?!

The Four Male being gone is making me feel off—

[Interrupting.] You feel off about a lot of stupid shit, man.

—and there's only one other thing I've felt blatantly weird about. Your arm.

[A scoff.] I'm very well-fucking-aware how you feel about my missing body parts.

I'm not fucking around, Delano. Yes, I said the word 'fuck'. Don't give me that look, the kids aren't here. There is something seriously wrong. That prosthetic of yours has been breaking things left and right. That night at my suite, and back there in the ballroom. You've probably broken even more things I haven't seen. Don't you think that's strange?

I… honestly thought it was just because I was clumsy. [A pause.] Or brain-damaged.

…I think your arm is a set-up, Del.

[A pause, before somebody laughs.] You're fucking insa—

[A door slams on its hinges, making a deafening sound against the wall. Someone enters the lavatory common space with erratic steps, snarling like an animal.]

[In a small voice.] Oh fuck, oh fuck—

Behind me!

[The snarls turn into loud, angry bellows. There are sounds of a brief but forceful scuffle. Something metallic clang against the sink. There's a short, non-verbal exclamation, abruptly cut off by two wet squelches, simultaneous.

Something slumps against the floor. Transcription ends.]

Jupiter Fairhope • District Four Female

Ballroom / July 7th, 11:36 PM

Jupiter hasn't forgotten about what Maritza wants her to do.

How could she? The Kai fiasco in the Two suite essentially proved her mentors' fears right. He managed to attack both Cassia and Sergeant in the span of seconds — who knows how much worse it could've gotten if Peacekeepers hadn't swarmed the room in the nick of time.

She can't help but feel responsible, but what could she have done? Jupiter sure as shit wasn't going to try and jump Kai's ass before they got to the Arena. Maybe she's a fucking idiot for hoping Kai could contain his mess until the Bloodbath, but seriously, what could she have done?

Jupiter hasn't seen her District partner since the Peacekeepers took him away. The Capitol blipped over his interviews in the name of technical difficulties; she can't decide whether that means they put him down, or they've got him cooped up somewhere for god knows what reason.

Right now, her suspicions lean toward the latter. Glancing around the ballroom, she watches as hologram Capitolites flit around. From what guests have told her, the hologram stuff is new technology, a convenient way for guests to converse with tributes without the obligation of being physically present. But Jupiter suspects it's more of a security measure than anything else — in the case of an emergency, just turn off the system, and the virtual guests vanish like smoke. It's a clever way for the Capitol to avoid injury and liability, but the fact that this is being introduced now makes her the opposite of reassured.

Nobody else seems keyed up like her, though — in fact, everyone else seems to be having a grand ol' time. Jupiter's watched tributes and Capitolites alike traverse throughout the room, migrating to wherever seems the liveliest. Even her own allies are living it up; across the ballroom, Jupiter can see Cassia and Reverie dancing together to the music. There's an easy smile on Reverie's face as she holds both of Cassia's hands, trying to guide the Two girl through the rhythm. They attempt a spin, laughing even when Cassia stumbles.

Watching her allies temporarily takes her mind off things, but her stubborn paranoia won't stop knocking on the door. God, Jupiter has got to stop thinking about Kai. It's a party, for fuck's sake; she's meant to be enjoying herself. No one else seems to be having a problem with that, and she shouldn't be, either — she's never had a problem with letting loose.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Jupiter stalks off to the bar. She desperately needs a little something to take the edge off, something so that she stops driving herself insane.

One shot. Jupiter thinks to herself, jaw tense. Just one.

Four shots of tequila later, her vision's starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges.

Okay — maybe Jupiter overdid her initial estimate, but she's not worried. She's always held her liquor well, and from past experience, she knows she can sober up fast. She's walking in a straight line just fine, and she still feels in possession of her own face — she passes every test she can think of.

Not to mention, this was definitely the strat; Jupiter's feeling drastically more at ease about everything. Her anxiety is long forgotten, nothing more than a quiet whisper in the crook of her skull. Her rate of vision is only a couple of steps faster than her thoughts, so she's in that nice hazy area where she can still form coherent thoughts if she wants to. Otherwise, she's on autopilot, cruising through the people that stream past her to get to the bar.

"Jupiter!" she hears Cassia's voice exclaim, a short distance away. The Two girl's barrelling towards her, a giggle spilling through her lips. "One of the Capitolites bought this drink for me! Isn't it pretty?"

Jupiter cracks a small grin, looking at the drink. It's set in a tall martini glass, like a Cosmopolitan — ohh. That's pretty funny, actually. The drink is a deep indigo liquor that glitters like a galaxy, with a salt rim and a fresh, pink grapefruit slice hanging off the edge. The chandeliers overhead cast sparkles against the glass, but all of it's pale in comparison to the lights that reflect in Cassia's eyes.

"You're really goin' all out for your first time drinkin'," Jupiter smiles.

Cassia beams. "Wanna try some?"

She passes the drink to Jupiter, and she takes a sip. But she realizes it's not salt on the rim — it's sugar. Jupiter forces herself to swallow the sweet liquid down, trying not to grimace.

Cassia notices Jupiter's expression, her face dropping slightly. "You don't like it?"

"It's not for me," Jupiter admits, returning the drink. "But I'm real glad you're enjoying yourself, Cass."

Cassia smiles in that real gentle way of hers, the one that makes her look as soft as cotton candy. She lingers close to Jupiter, like she wants to touch but she doesn't quite know how to close the distance. Luckily, Jupiter's never been one to leave a woman waiting. She links her arm through the Two girl's, pulling her in closer.

Cassia's face goes pink almost instantaneously. It's honestly endearing how easy it is to read her, and how easy it is to make her happy. With Cassia, Jupiter doesn't have to worry about games or masks or different pretenses. It's clear as day that the Two girl's nursing a small crush on her.

Under normal circumstances, that should be flattering. But Jupiter can't forget these aren't normal circumstances. She can't let herself get caught in Cassia's orbit. She's a cute girl, but she's naïve in a way that can only be dangerous. Too open, too soft, too trusting. And being tipsy seems to amplify this vulnerability. She's gazing up at Jupiter with these wide, shining eyes — like she feels a real way, a way that isn't smart to reciprocate.

Instinct tells Jupiter to lean in, give in. Kiss her like all those drunk girls she's kissed before, in dimly-lit house parties and backyards. Give her everything she wants — leave her swooning and starry-eyed.

But Jupiter can't do that. She can't help but feel wrong about it, somehow. Maybe it's because those girls from before were always just a means to pass the night. And she can't pretend like she doesn't know Cassia hopes it's something more.

Maybe it's more. Maybe it's not. But it doesn't matter, regardless. Cassia is beyond the realm of possibility for Jupiter. She doesn't know how to explain it other than that; she just knows it's true. Jupiter can't tell whether it's because of the Games, or the type of the people they are, or the fact that Cassia's too good for her, plain and simple. But the point still stands — Jupiter shouldn't open a box she can't close.

Jupiter maintains the distance between their faces, and the moment passes. Cassia sighs softly, rubbing her face against Jupiter's shoulder. She seems more than content with this closeness, as if she can hardly believe her luck.

Seeing her like this makes something helpless stir inside Jupiter's chest. Cassia deserves so much more, but Jupiter really shouldn't be the person to give her that.

"I don't want tonight to end," Cassia confesses.

Jupiter hums. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Cassia whispers. "Everything's perfect just like this. My heart feels heavy, but… full. Heavy-full."

She laughs. "I hear ya."

"I love everyone so much," Cassia sniffs. "All of my friends. Everyone's been so good to me. I want to keep this forever."

"You chose an interesting place to make friends."

Cassia laughs sheepishly. "I… didn't know this would happen."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… I've never really had friends before."

Jupiter pauses. "Huh?"

"Unless you count my mama," Cassia blurts. "But — but that probably doesn't count."

"Never?" Jupiter echoes, still in disbelief.

"That's probably so embarrassing, huh," Cassia mumbles. "Never. Until now."

"Damn." She's at a rare loss for words. "Sorry, I'm just — surprised. 'Cause you're a real easy gal to get along with."

"Thanks," Cassia blushes. "I think you are, too. I think you've been the nicest to me, except maybe Sarge."

"He's sweet on ya," Jupiter comments. "I don't know if it's that Two spirit or what, but y'all're like two peas in a pod."

"I love Sarge," Cassia gushes, her voice fond. "He's an amazing friend." She puts loud, unsubtle emphasis on the word 'friend'.

Jupiter snickers, amused. "I don't doubt it."

Cassia takes a ginger sip from her glass, taking care to keep their arms interlocked. "You probably had a lot of friends back at home."

"You think so?"

"Well, yeah," Cassia says. "You're just so pretty and cool. And you're scary, but you're actually nice. And cool. Did I say that yet? Am I making sense?"

She laughs. "Yeah, you are."

"You're also so so confident, like you know exactly who you are. Makes other people want to know who you are, too. It's kind of like you've got a secret, better than everyone else's secret."

"Daw, Cass." There's a soft smile on Jupiter's face. "That's real nice."

"It's how I feel," Cassia insists.

"I don't really have that many friends," Jupiter confesses. "I can count mine on one hand. 'Cause there's a difference between knowing someone, talking to them, and actually bein' their friend."

Cassia blinks. "Is there?"

Jupiter nods. "Real friends — you'd take a bullet for 'em, knowing they'd do the same for you. Hard to come by, but worth holdin' onto."

"Like Dana," Cassia says.

Jupiter smiles, surprised. "Like him, yeah. That guy can be an annoyin' shitter sometimes, but he's family."

"Why would you leave Four?" Cassia asks. "If you've got someone like that?"

"Like, why would I volunteer for the Games?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I didn't want to at first," Jupiter says. "My folks forced me to start training, 'cause they never got good enough to volunteer. I hated training for a long time, but it was easy, and it became part of my life." She exhales slowly through her nose. "One day, I figured if I kept at it and saw it through, I could come back, pay my folks all the money in the world to leave me the fuck alone. Then live out the rest of my life by the ocean with no one ever telling me what to do again."

"That makes sense," Cassia whispers. At least it sounds more convincing to the Two girl than it does in Jupiter's own ears. She hardly believes what she's saying, but Cassia doesn't need to know that.

There's something she's morbidly curious about though. "Why did you Volunteer?"

"Um… what else would I do?" Cassia says. "I won the gauntlet."

Jupiter gets quiet. "What do you mean 'what else would you do'?" she asks. "There's a lot of things you could do."

Cassia shrugs, looking away from her. "They told me I was the best girl cadet. They picked me. How could I let my District down?"

"It's your life," Jupiter says, her eyebrows pinching in concern. "It's about yourself, first and foremost."

"But I'm not anyone if I'm not a cadet." Cassia's starting to blink fast. "Fighting's the only thing I've ever been good at. I don't know how to do anything else."

"Is that what you want, though? To be a fighter?"

"I don't know," Cassia mumbles. Her voice breaks. "I just wanted to be useful to somebody."

"Hey," Jupiter whispers, trying to make her voice gentle as possible. She really doesn't know if it's working; she's never been good at smoothing herself over for other people. "And you are. You're plenty useful. But you're more than that, too. You're kind and you're soft and you're good."

"Really?" Cassia sniffs. "You think so?"

Jupiter fights the urge to brush Cassia's hair back. "Of course, angel."

"Oh," Cassia whispers. "My mama used to call me that."

She bursts into tears.

Fuck, Jupiter thinks in alarm, feeling like total shit. She's god-awful at comforting crying girls, but she's still gonna try. Embarrassed, she rubs soothing circles on Cassia's back, before she notices the empty glass still in Cassia's hand. She gently tries to pry it from her fingers, and the Two girl relinquishes it without much of a fight.

"Cass," she says, as soft as she can manage, "how much did you have to drink?"

"Ummm," Cassia mumbles, her face wet. "This, and maybe… two flutes of champagne?"

Jupiter swears under her breath. Of course Cassia's a lightweight. "Let's lay off the drinks for the night, yeah?" Jupiter tells her. "I'ma get you some water, Cass."

The bar gives her the smallest cup of water imaginable, but whatever. She holds the cup to Cassia's lips, but the Two girl can't keep the water in her mouth long enough to swallow. It dribbles right through her lips.

Now that Jupiter's looking, a red bloom has overtaken Cassia's face, but it's more severe than just a blush — she looks overheated. Cassia stumbles, slowly shaking her head. "I — I think I need to lay down."

"Nonono," Jupiter says hurriedly. "We've gotta make sure you're not gonna throw up on yourself before we do that, okay?"

"Okay," Cassia responds weakly.

Jupiter's head darts around, searching for where the exit to the restroom might be. She lets Cassia put her arm over her shoulders and lean most of her weight against Jupiter, walking them toward a hallway blocked by a row of those mannequin robot servers.

"Hey, we need to get through," Jupiter tells them.

"You cannot access this path," the one in the middle states, monotone. The headless design is as jarring as ever. "Please enjoy the festivities."

"The fuck?" Jupiter scowls, pulling a face. "You let some other guy through here earlier. I saw."

"You are not permitted to exit the ballroom."

There's this awful, sinking feeling in her chest. Something's horribly off. "You let us out, or I swear to fucking god I'll pry you apart limb from robot limb."

The robot just repeats itself, impassive and undaunted. "I'm afraid you may not leave until it's time."

"Time?" Jupiter barks. "Time for what?"

The music pumping through the room suddenly coalesces into a canorous, reverberating shriek — the unending clang of coins taken through a Sisyphean journey inside a prison of metal, over and over and over. The sound sends something sharp into her brain, forcing on her a sense of dizzying acuteness and sobriety. There's too much sounding off at once — the colors around her are too vivid. One image is blasted against each wall: a pair of plush lips, belonging to the Master of Ceremonies. And a digital clock, displaying the precise hour, minute, and second.

It's like the breath's been robbed straight from Jupiter's lungs. She's paralyzed. She can't process what's happening. The only thing she can register is this sick dread that threatens to hollow out each and every one of her bones.

"Do you feel that, my darling tributes?" the Master of Ceremonies announces. "Your heart, throbbing in your chest? Your blood, simmering underneath your skin? The adrenaline that rushes through your body? All of these physical sensations that confirm you're alive, you're breathing — it's addicting, isn't it?"

Cassia's voice shakes. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Jupiter whispers, her voice taut.

"Welcome to Las Vegas, where twenty-three of you will be spending the rest of your lives — an unforgettable paradise, dead center in the desert. A grandiose oasis, blitheringly artificial and unapologetic. The old world's safe haven for sinners, criminals, devils-in-disguise. You can find every vice on the planet here, perhaps even innovate some of your own.

"If you're lucky, maybe you'll be able to reincarnate yourself in the city of second chances. If you aren't, you'll be swallowed whole by this city's dark underbelly, stripped bare of everything that you are. But no matter who you are, you'll keep coming back. You'll keep playing the game."

Shouts emerge as the chandeliers burn out, one by one. An impossibly large slot machine starts to rise from the center of the room, its frenetic, technicolor neons suddenly the only source of light. The contraption flashes and pulses like something alive. The reel on the machine rolls enticingly, almost mockingly.

"They might tell you this city runs on money, but really, it's nothing so noble. It's fueled by greed, primitive and vile and violently human. In Vegas, you have every luxury in the world, except your integrity." She pauses. "Abandon it. It's useless here.

"Use your strength. Use your wits. Use every ugly thing at your disposal. Bleed yourself dry. You want to win, don't you?

"Life's too short to suppress your desires," she croons. "So, indulge like you'll never be young again."

The clock slips from 11:59:59 PM to 12:00:00 AM. Midnight. A new night.

(For the first time in her life, Jupiter is afraid she won't see the sun rise.)

"Welcome to the rest of your lives, tributes. May the odds be ever in your favor."

The corners of her lips pull up into an unmistakable smile, before the projection flickers out like a firework. Past Jupiter, a blood-curdling scream erupts from the blocked-off hallway.

And it starts.

a/n: as the wise prophet chappell roan once said, everything good happens after midnight!

posting this on september 14th. happy birthday kieran!

today's chapter title comes from the french idiomatic expression LA PETITE MORT, translated as 'a little death.' colloquially used to refer to an orgasm, but i took it for its more literal meaning aha ha

ive had wet dreams about the party since 2021. a very special thank you to erik and linds for helping me out with the chapter so that i could surprise my usual beta readers! i seriously can't believe i yapped my whole life savings to linds all those years ago. i hope you were still surprised by some things, wifey!

with that, pregames is a wrap. see y'all for the bloodbath xoxo

deuces,
United Brookingdom