Chantilly Lovelace

District Nine

She/Her

"Of course we can fit you in, Miss!"

Her voice is too cheerful. Too cheerful, and already Chantilly is kicking herself for it. Still, the smile stays painted on her face while she types, not quite sure whether she's got the keys right. She has, though, and when she looks down the screen is flashing.

"We have an appointment booked at… 12:30. But then we can do a mani-pedi at 4:00, if that works? Oh, it does! Fabulous!" There's a smile on Chantilly's lips, always a smile, as she types in that, and comes up with a number that seems eye-wateringly large even for her. "Twelve hundred talents, please, Miss. Round numbers are always nice for these things, helps keep it all grounded." It's but a moment's work to tap that into a machine, hold it out and watch what would for Chantilly be three week's salary flow into the pockets of a business that most definitely did not need it.

The woman moves off without even a word of thanks, and Chantilly has time to breathe. To recuperate, to wait, to ignore the scratching of the pen as the girl next to her - a real One, not an impostor - writes something down while on the phone. Chantilly can hear every word. Or half of every conversation, given the situation. 'Yes, sir, of course we have rooms available. The penthouse? Certainly a good choice, sir. Of course, of course. We'll get someone up there.'

"Chantilly!" Corusca's voice is sharp, piercing even. "We need someone up in room 81, people want to stay in there in four hours. Yes, they're already on the train, and it's short notice but if you could get it cleaned up and such, I'd love that."

The walk through the corridors of work is, more or less, sedate. It's early enough most customers are busy doing something, late enough everyone's checked out and earlier than check ins. So, save for the occasional passer-by who doesn't need any help, the walk ends at the doors of the staff room, where a knock and pushing the door open is enough to have half the people in there standing ready for instructions. There's always at least one or two people, after all, waiting for something to do.

"Audubon, Cay." That's two names Chantilly can remember enough to ask for and not feel too bad about. Two people she has to look at, to feel fully Chantilly- Lovelace-the-receptionist, with almost a mild disdain. "We need a clean-up in 81, people want to go in there and you know how the bosses get if the room isn't clean." A nervous laugh is allowed to ripple around. "They'll be there in four hours; think you can get it handled?" Nods all around, and then Chantilly is free to head her way back towards the desk because they've been directed to do stuff, and if she can say one thing about the domestic staff, it's that they may not get paid as much as the front-line Ones, but they do a damn good job.

You should be with that staff, the little voice in her head whispers, and it's a struggle for a second to get that voice to quiet, but it does. Of course it does. What else is it going to do, keep sitting on her shoulder like a bird in all those silly movies?

But it's right. Obviously, it's right. Chantilly-Lovelace-the-receptionist managed to get a job because she could put on a good smile and reassure the bosses that she'd be indistinguishable from any One. If not, then she'd be Chantilly-Lovelace-the-cleaner, and while that may have been a more relaxing job... Oh well.

There's already a queue of two at the desk when she gets back, and Corusca flicks her hand at Chantilly, a clear encouragement to get things handled. "Hello sir, I'm Chantilly! What can I do for you today?" A couple first, man and woman.

The smile in her voice isn't matched by one on her lips for a second, before Chantilly remembers. Thankfully, there doesn't seem to be any notice paid to that and for that she's glad. Instead, the voice is higher than she'd expected, the woman holding his hand laughing a little at the momentary start from Chantilly. "Yes, dear. We'd love a nice room with a view over the Valley, we've heard it's gorgeous this time of year, so if we have to pay a little more we don't mind." There's a smile in those words, a smile it takes a second for Chantilly to pull her eyes away from because the smile isn't polite but sickly-sweet, the kind of smile that tries too hard to be convincing and is failing miserably at it.

"Give me one second." Raising her hand as she's found charms visitors for some reason, she types with the other, eventually coming up with a whole host of rooms. "Yes, we can get that done for you. Any preference on price range?" A shake of the head, and she can make a suggestion. "Sir, madam, the North wing has just been cleaned, we've got room North 88 open if you'd like that. Lovely view, bit of a longer walk to the springs but it's just down some stairs and you're out into the bike rental if that's more your speed."

A smile and thanks, a tap of the credit card, a note slipped into her hand and in an instant Chantilly feels a little happier. After all, any tipping is good, any tipping at all.

Shift's almost up (as indicated by the buzz of her wristband), and there's time enough to smile at the final customer, a big man with a dog just as big and a case that looks to be almost suspiciously light. There's a tremor in her voice, covered and yet at the same time all too audible to those who she expects know what they're looking for. "Sir, if you're here for a room it may be a- "

"I've got one booked." His tone is brusque, inviting no argument. "West 18, they said. Which floor would that be on?" The question is slightly more politely phrased, and Chantilly does know.

"First floor, sir! Just one level up! Rooms 0 to 9 are on the ground floor, 10 to 19 are on the first floor and so on until you hit the 80s, which is the top floor!"

"Thanks," is all she gets, dog barking and sending a momentary flinch up her arms and into shoulders and back, but then she's done. Her shift is done, and she can stand and feel the stretch in her body, straighten up and head to the back room because she can't walk home in her work uniform. Might set the wrong impression, according to upper management, and evidently they knew best.

"Tilly!" The nickname, unwelcome, and the excited tone means Chantilly can already tell what's coming next. Corusca, who'd been sitting opposite her for the past eight hours, "We're doing a… thing, it's Diamond's 18th! Diamond W, not Diamond E. Anyways, if you'd like to come along. Well, you never seem to come out, and it's fixing to be fun, and we've got spare space if you want to come!" For a moment, Chantilly feels her guard being worn away. But, of course, it has to be ended as all these conversations do, in spite of Corusca's beam and the invitation.

"Sorry, Cor." A frown gives the impression that she's almost a little conflicted on this, and Chantilly can already feel Corusca forming a frown of her own. "I've got home stuff to do, and you know how it is. Trust me, wish I could, but I can't. Maybe next time, okay?"

A dejected "okay" is all she is given in return, and for a moment there's a flicker of apology, but that's squished. Apology isn't needed.

Home is quiet, save for the mewl of a cat that seems to seep into every corner of the room and sends a small laugh through Chantilly. "Heya, Peebs! Yeah, I'm back! Today was a long one, wasn't it? Yes it was, yes it was!" The tiredness in her voice is deafeningly audible to Chantilly, and yet it's paid almost no mind as the cat slinks around the corner, Pebbles a patchwork of different colours that screams messy. Still, she's a million times better groomed than when she arrived in the apartment six months ago.

The cat near on jumps into her arms, and gets caught with more than a touch of effort because as much as Chantilly loves Pebbles, the cat's weight is increasing rapidly. Still, it's enough to carry her into the kitchen, set her on a table and give hands a quick wash before pulling out the bread and setting to work. A slice of Ten cheese, the kind that's only sold because for all its cheapness it's apparently a Capitol 'comfort food', and a piece of Ten ham, to go between two slices of the local white bread made from the flour not good enough to go Capitol but too good for Tesserae. Not exactly the most fitting lunch, but after an early morning shift that paid a tad better but took a whole lot more out of you it worked. Cut in half, toss the ham fat to Pebbles, and Chantilly can sit at the table with the cat, occasionally picking up the sandwich to keep it out of her reach.

"Yeah, Peebs. It was a day, I can tell you that much. The second that I don't have the looks to work there, I'll be glad of it. Might even be able to head home." That's all she has the energy, at the moment, to say. Instead, the rest of it is spent in quiet companionship with the cat, and that quiet companionship is enough for now. Pebbles bats her tail in the air, Chantilly takes another bite and the cold flavour tastes just so good after a long day, and all feels right in the world.

Of course, after lunch comes the single most important thing in the world. Chores. What with Aryll working a double shift, it's up to her to get the majority of stuff done today.

Starting with the laundry. All neatly kept in two baskets, one for hers and one for Aryll. Two baskets is a good system, at the least, prevents any confusion as to what belongs to her (regardless of how unlikely the chances of that are) and what doesn't. The baskets don't weigh a lot, even with one in each hand, but it's still a struggle enough trying to carry them out the door that she regrets not going one at a time.

The baskets are set down outside and… of course she needs to go back inside because she's forgotten something. Two things, because keys and money for the laundry machines aren't going to find themselves. Would have been a bit of a mess to go down and have to go back up. It takes a second of fumbling around for the money, but some's been left on the counter and she's pretty sure it wasn't her. All the better, that's swiped up and put into a trouser pocket for later. Of course it is.

Her knee twinges heading down the steps, twinges again and hurts more this time, but that's only to be expected. What with the constant standing that comes courtesy of the job, it's to be expected that some issues emerge after a few years. Still, it causes a stumble that could only too easily turn into something far worse, and that definitely isn't good. But what else is there to do, especially if she wants the money that comes with work?

It does mean, when she tries to take it slow, that what should be a two-minute dash is turned into ten minutes down.

Laundry is deposited in the machines, along with the necessary coins that represent all too large a cost of daily income, and Chantilly can say that she's got at least one chore done today. The chug of the machines starts, permission to head back upstairs (an agonizing further 5 minutes by the time she's limped her way up the stairs) and find an open door because of course she forgot to close it. Pebbles is waiting by the door. More concerning, Chantilly can already hear the sounds of rummaging coming from inside the apartment, as if something or someone is inside.

"Hello?"

It's time to stop at the door, to be greeted with a "Chantilly! You know you're not supposed to leave the door open; that's how evil things get in. Like Pebbles. Or, a hundred times more worrying, myself."

This, if nothing else, entices out a laugh that she's hard-pressed to stop. Aryll's blond head sticks itself around the corner, and… well, she hadn't expected him back this early.

"You're back early."

A nod, and he puts himself more fully around the kitchen door, half-eaten sandwich of his own in hand. "Boss said I could go early. An hour left, and we weren't expecting anyone else. Saw a big dog, though. Guy with a big dog wanted his case carried up, and I swear that case was a million times heavier than it looked to be. Not quite sure what was in there, but I don't think it was big enough to be a corpse.

"Stars above, you look wrecked." He puts the observation to her with a slightly concerned voice. "Might want to get some sleep, isn't it another early one?" She can only nod, yawn pouring out of her lips.

"Midnight 'till twelve. Got a discount on train tickets for the Reaping, and of course you've already booked yours, but I need to make up the money somehow or else Mom and Dad will be worried. You know how they get."

He only needs to nod, having known her parents almost as long as he's known her. It's been a while, after all, a long while since they've met. "Yeah. I know how they get. Busy as all farms, don't think I coulda worked half as hard as them if I tried. And still want you. Still, you need some time for yourself, and chores don't make money." She can give a weak nod at this, swaying slightly.

"Sure, but-"

"Bed. Now." He looks at her, gives a slight frown. "And if you argue again I'm taking your keys. Oh, fair warning. I'll be out, going to the Valley with-"

"Tyler? You have fun, two of you seem to get along like a house on fire. Just don't go waking me up when you leave, ok?"

He nods, a little bashful. Closes the door.

"Night, Peebs." The cat's curled up in her arms, and it may only be 3 in the afternoon but with an 8-hour shift and that never ending tiredness laid over her like a crushing blanket? She's more than content to get some early sleep, catch up to when she'd initially tried to keep the kind of sleep schedule that school forced her into until 15 and wound up catching a column of early morning shifts.

Peace. Quiet. Serenity.

Alexander Alagarto

District Nine

He/Him

Alexander's perch in the trees is nice. There's none of the voices that sit at home, none of the uncomfortable warmth and the need to constantly do. Instead, he can just sit and be. Feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. Hear the rushing streams below, and know they carry all sorts of treasure inside if you know where to look. Smell the stories of a thousand trees, of moss and reeds and water, and know that all is well.

There's the occasional creak, but that's just normal. The winds and their gentle hands, giving the tree a little shake. That's all it is, nothing more. And besides, it's not like he's going to slip.

Please.

He can't slip.

Still, eventually he has to come down. He can hear a pig rooting somewhere off in the distance, the hiss-crackle of the brush as all kinds of small animals crawl through it. Smell the earthen mud, the water that trickles ever so steadily through a hundred hundred different channels, the sap and woody scent that comes with each and every tree that stands. It's his environment – his home. The kind of environment that's everything to him.

The kind of environment that, when he gets home, he's sure he'll be told he should want to leave. The kind of environment that Penelope always complains is just too busy, too dull, too boring and she just wants to go somewhere else. But she's a complainer – probably took the complaints out of his head at birth, and Alexander (to tell the whole truth) is glad she did so. Means he can focus on life.

And why should he ever leave? Sure Penelope says that she wants to go, but they're siblings – twins, even. They're not leaving, not when there's no reason for them to leave because what is there beyond?

He's got family, for one. All the family he could ever want, uncles and cousins and parents and siblings and all spread out across their home. They all go out, make their food and drink and find everything they need, or else make money outside the house by bringing what they have and find into town.

Eventually, though, he can shift back towards staying in the hunting stand. Sitting there, watching down as small animals rustle around below him. Nothing he can see, but all kinds of stuff he's perfectly able to hear. All kinds of stuff that he could kill, but small animals are Percy's forte. Not his. No, he's content to sit. Watch. Wait.

Eventually, of course, he has to see something worth his while, something he can go down and kill for an actual reason. And the pig, rooting through the undergrowth, definitely counts as something. His spear's out – he always has it with him, and it's looking down. Doesn't see him stalking forward. Doesn't hear his boots on the undergrowth, each careful step measured to avoid any chance of the thing catching hear of him. The wind's blowing from it, and while that does mean he's catching the stink full in his face? Well, there's some benefit in that it can't smell him.

Climbing down from the hide is an agonizingly slow process – takes longer thanks to not having to make a sound lest the pig hear. Every step comes with the wince that something goes wrong, that he'll push his luck too far and some noise will alert him. Every slight sway of the tree brings a thud of his heart, but he's got to do this. Got to flex his ability, got to show just how good he is, got to prove that he's got what it takes. Got to take just one more kill, rather than come home empty handed.

He wouldn't be doing this were it bigger. Really wouldn't be doing this. He'd be going home, or looking for easier prey, or doing something that didn't involve him bringing a spear to a tusk fight. But this, for once, is a small one, not like those who've grown oh-so-fat in the swamplands of Nine. A young one, perhaps. One that's not had enough time to grow yet, not enough time to taste bad. No. It's a good find.

But it's only small. Twenty, twenty-five kilos. Nothing more. And it would be good food, once dad or whoever can properly clean and prepare it for eating. And then he could say he's done something good, for a while at least! And that would be good, would show that he's still contributing to the family, still helping them to work and survive. And the tusks are small, and it's not going to be a threat.

And so he approaches. Holds the spear lightly, stepping closer. Closer. Closer.

Waits until he's almost right on top of the pig, letting it finally catch wind of him. Lunges forwards, and in one fresh movement the spear sinks deep into the skull. It tries to push against him, push down the spear, tusks small but still a gleaming white. There's no use in that movement, not for the pig – the crossguard keeps it back, and he's at least strong enough so that it can't force and break the crossguard. No, instead it squeals, and kicks at the earth, and bleeds down the shaft until, finally, there's 30 kilograms of pig dead at the end of the spear, limp and unmoving and so, so heavy.

And once it's dead? Well, then he has to get dirty. Quickly. Cutting, stabbing into the pig and making a neat cut. Slipping his hands in, deftly using knife and hands to dress the animal. Because, well, otherwise it's going to go to the dogs. No other way to put it, really – it's not going to be good meat. Not going to be the kind of meat anybody would want to eat, and when this is what's likely going to be dinner for the week? Well, he needs it to be perfect.

That done, he can sling it over his shoulder. Wince a little, more than a little, over the twenty or so kilos that he's carrying, but walk home. Not stagger, not limp, but walk home, with the carcass lain across his shoulders. It's a burden, but one he can shoulder. Another trophy. And, after all, one less pig in the woods makes them that little bit safer for him – for family, for everyone.

"And I don't want to waste the rest of my life out in some cabin!" Penelope's voice is raised when he gets back in, and she's staring down cousin Jack with a fiery… anger?

"They don't like us out that way." The drawl's a rolling thing, and Jack looks at Penelope. "You'll not be happy, you'll not be okay, and then y'all'll be out in the big city without anyone there. Better stay here."

"They don't know who we are!"

Al slinks past them, trying not to get caught up in this discussion.

"I'm not going to stay here for the rest of my life, making clothes for the family. If you want someone who can stay back and do that, why don't you learn that yourself!"

Words keep firing, but he can pass the argument into the kitchen and see the rest of the family listening through the door. They're all there, even if not all of them are standing. He moves to sit down on the nearest bench – heavens knows he deserves it enough, to be stopped by what is almost a bark from his grandmother.

"No! Not dressed like that you're not." She gives him a quick once-over, enough for that eye to pick out every bit of grime, all the blood and mess, and then she's waving her hands at him, flapping them like some over-eager owl. "Upstairs, upstairs! The basin should be full, but you were out late enough it's not our fault if the water isn't hot. Get into something more presentable."

Uncle Edward tries to conceal a laugh, Ma throws a nod towards the stairs, and after taking off his boots by the side door Alexander can head upstairs, hearing the yells still rattling through the floor as Penelope and Jack continue to go at it.

"I don't want you to go away and then feel disappointed when this is all over! You're my cousin, not some city brat!"

"And I don't think that I should stick around. Me and Ulises can get our lives in order and go live somewhere nice in the city, you can live in your little cabin. Neither of us want you to be forced to do something you don't feel like doing!"

"Well I just think…"

It goes on. And on. And on. While Alexander is changing from outdoors clothes to the relatively clean ones hung over the banister. While he's sponging himself down with tepid (at best) water. While he's just sitting, listening to the calls of birds and the whirs of insects and all the sounds of the swamp just outside his walls. They're good sounds, the kind of sounds that he can listen to for hours because (at least to him) they're a million times more familiar than the words of his family.

In fact, it's only when there's a yell of 'Al! Dinner!' from someone downstairs that he finally musters the energy to stand and walk downstairs, feet padding down wooden stairs worn smooth from decades of use. Can head into the kitchen, sit at the table with the rest of the family and glance across at Penelope, his twin still sitting at the table and seething. Best case, he's just left alone, and can sit and eat and not get into any…

"Al." Of course, and now Penny's looking at him with wide eyes and clear disappointment in them. "Why do you want to stay here? I mean, Jack wants me to stay, and I'm pretty sure you want me to stay… why? I'm not cut out for this, okay?"

His tongue's tied back for a moment, before he can finally respond. Finally offer up some sort of defence. "I, I… I just don't get it, Penelope." A moment of hesitation, most of the family giving short nods when Penelope looks away from them, and then finally continuing. "I mean, we have a family. We have it all out here. You don't have to hide your… friend away because you're embarrassed. But you want to abandon us. We're twins, that's meant to mean something. You're my sister. You shouldn't run away at the first sight of trouble."

She glares at him for a minute. Then her eyes soften. Then she collects herself, and they harden again, and of course he can never have a normal conversation here. He can only be stared at, with silver-steel eyes that don't offer any softness, any warmth.

Why can't he just be out in the swamp?

But he isn't. And while there's a silence, this silence isn't lazily stretched across the swamp, lying thin and warm like a comfortable blanket. No, this silence is engorged, like a tick full with blood and ripe to burst. It sits at the table with the rest of them, and no matter how Alexander wishes he could dislodge it, it feels like after the aural chiding from Penelope… well, he just can't. So instead he starts to eat, when mom places the plate before him, and waits for the bursting forth of conversation.

It does. Penelope's reaction wasn't that bad as to stop any conversation, and so soon enough Uncle Edward is laughing and slapping his hand on the table as he recounts a story. "And then, get this, he's said 'Edward, what're you doing? I thought we're mates', and I'm out there with him right hung over the edge, like, and he's acting like he doesn't know nothing about what happened with my money when I know for a fact that he'd been running all kinds of mess."

There's a general roar of laughter, and Aunt Sophia turns on cousin Andreas with a tone in her voice that suggests some disapproval of his present… habits. Namely, not going out daily or even regularly, like the rest of them have to do to get the house in good working order.

"Hear that, Andy? Rather than stayin' 'bout the house all day, you can go out and help Uncle Edward make some real money workin' with people who don't do what they should. Quick, easy, safe enough. Might yield a sight more money than whatever it is you usually do, and then you can actually get shifting some of your weight around here, every fly in this swamp knows you should be doin' more than what's being done currently.."

"Hey!" Andreas, to put it kindly, does not take well to that suggestion. "You know I more than pull my weight around here, oh yes I do. Don't forget, not a year ago I-"

"Caught the cougar." At least half the family intercepts his words, in the same dry, papery tone, and there's another round of laughter. Infectious laughter, the kind that even catches Penelope.

Alexander just takes a bite of his rabbit. Chuckles briefly, but returns to flavours that pop and dance in his mouth like fireflies, and the kind of cooking only home can provide.

And even if there's some strain. Even if Mom, and Pa, and everyone can sometimes be a bit too loud, a bit too over the top, a bit too… well, everything…

They're his family. And as long as they're all at home? So long as they're all together?

Well, there ain't exactly much to worry about.

Author's Note

Intros 1! So many thanks to Maitiu for Chantilly, and TintinnabulousRunes for Alexander! Full cast list is now on my profile - all these kids are great 3, and I'm excited to launch them all!

As always, tysm Ama for betaing - I really appreciate it!

District Four next week, and I'm really looking forward to them!