II.

proloquor — to speak out, declare openly

Mady Monsanto, 14
Tribute of District Twelve

Her mom's name was Madalera.

Madalera Alenna Cyriak-Monsanto, actually. A mouthful if Mady ever did hear one. There was something good about being named after a loved one—something honorable, even. You were meant to carry it with pride. It would be easier to treasure if Mady ever knew her.

She died on the table. Literal table, in the kitchen. Some half-assed crook who called himself a doctor cut her open, said the baby inside her that would become Mady was breach, and there she died. Dad chopped the table up into pieces and burned them in the hearth during winter, and by the time Mady grew old enough to recognize the bits of their home, there was a new table in its place.

Dad didn't blame her. Neither did Harkin or Orva or anyone else who knew the near-infamous Madalera, kind and good-hearted as she was. But Mady grew up hearing about her, the praises sung and the awful lamentations, and she feels guilt all the same. It's as if she shouldn't be here, that she stole the place of a better person.

So this is the universe coming to claim her. She escaped it fourteen years ago, and now it's time to pay the price, to lay down and die as she should have.

There's only one problem—Mady does not want to die.

It's a pretty significant problem, given the odds. What she does know is that they could be worse. Out of them all, one one is truly a terrifying prospect—the lumbering freak from Two, who smiles so widely on the television that Mady comes to the obvious conclusion his skull must be empty. No one is that happy about this. Doesn't matter who you her odds are better, though, his have skyrocketed. Who's he to be scared of? The twig from One who's even skinnier than Mady, with her nose stuck so high in the air she can't see where she's walking? The strange little kid from Four? Outside of his own District partner, who is and will remain half his height, those are the volunteers. No matter what the outers produce, it will never matter as much. She won't allow herself to fear them.

This is not a death sentence. It doesn't matter if there's a bounty on her head, if she was fated to go fourteen years ago: she can survive this.

"Do you mind if I join you?" a voice asks behind her. Mady allows herself a moment of silence as the train car rattles, gripping at the couch cushions to compose herself.

She doesn't need to be scared. Not of anything.

"Aren't you supposed to?" she asks, peering over the back of the couch to find her mentor's eyes, filled halfway with uncertainty.

"I'm… not sure," Ravi admits. "I've never done this before. So I guess I'm not the best person to ask."

"I guess not," she says quietly, her eyes remaining fixed on the television as he rounds the couch and takes a seat at the opposite end, almost careful to keep space between them. She is an animal having been prodded at, leashed and dragged away. He does not want to frighten her, nor risk any gnashing teeth. Mady cannot say she blames him.

She stares at the television, trying to process the splash of color that signifies a break in-between programming. The reapings have run through twice now, and this is the first time she hasn't been alone.

"Can I ask you something?" she wonders. Fear or not, Mady halfway expects him to get up without comment and leave the train car. It wouldn't exactly be surprising.

"Of course," Ravi offers immediately, quietly.

"I know Albie's off crying, but even then… I guess most people would have picked him. The gamblers. Random people. Mentors. I figured you'd have wanted the safer option. All of that to say: why me?"

Ravi fingers wring around one another, hands twisting anxiously in his lap. "Most people would have picked Pietro, too."

"And then he came twenty-fourth."

"And then he came twenty-fourth," Ravi echoes. "Someone had to."

His posture is rigid, unwilling to relax. Mady feels like she can do nothing more than the exact same, poised just at the edge of the couch, ready to leap up and flee at a moment's notice. She's not sure of what. The only thing that can hurt her now are words, the answer she's demanding of him.

Perhaps a knife to the throat, but that's still a ways off.

"Can I be honest with you?" Ravi asks. When Mady dares to glance to the side, he's suddenly fixated on her, as if forcing himself to truly look at her. Mady nods, albeit slowly. It's only words, she reminds herself. She's about to face a whole lot worse than just words.

"A few months ago I found out I had a sister," he explains. "She's become very…. important. To me. Walking into the reaping my biggest fear was hearing her name called. So I heard your name, you specifically, and I found myself breathing a sigh of relief."

It stings for all of a second before the words truly sink in. How many people reacted the same way, when they realized it wasn't their daughter, their sister, their loved one? Most likely everyone.

"Immediately after I realized how wrong that was," Ravi admits. "I'm not grateful that it's you. I'm not grateful that it's anybody else. Almost as soon as the shame hit me I made a promise to myself, that I was going to try and take care of you, do the best that I can for you. Of course, that's only if you want me to."

How anyone ever thought he was a bad person is beyond her. The staining of his hands aside, Mady doubts anyone else would so openly admit their own wrongdoings. She wouldn't even go that far. She doesn't mind a simple lie every now and then, an omission of the truth.

He's as good as they come, and he's possibly all that she has.

Mady nods again. She doesn't know why, but it at least feels proper to recognize what he's said, to take it all in. "How old is your sister?"

"Twelve."

She lets out a breath through her teeth. Maybe it was better to be Mady after all.

"Well, if we're being honest," she says. "I think I might need some help. Starting with getting Albie out of his room. Do you think we can do that?"

Ravi stands without preamble, eyes watching the television a moment longer. When he finally turns to her his hand is extended, palm flat. A clear invitation. A simple one. Although his eyes are filled with a great deal of hesitation, Mady doesn't see even the faintest shake in his fingers.

"I think we can try," he suggests. "Is that good enough?"

Mady takes his hand to lift herself up—it's going to have to be.

Laraki Napier, 18
Tribute of District Six

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Qereti exclaims, the rocking of the train car once again sending her staggering into the wall. "I've never experienced something so rough!"

"Clearly she hasn't lived a very exciting life," Laraki snickers, watching as their poor, poor escort braces herself against the bar cart, which isn't fixed to the floor whatsoever. She's a bit dim, but not all that unpleasant. Laraki could say that about a lot of people.

They look to Aidan, but his smile is weak. Clearly the attempt at a joke hasn't exactly worked.

"I think it's the heels," he offers simply. A more obvious explanation, but clearly lacking any sort of thrill. It would be much better for Laraki to imagine that their escort was already drunk off her ass just shy of eleven in the morning. It's a state they wish they could match, but Everus has already cleared out most of the alcohol and Nico has kept a close on the remaining bottles. Laraki doesn't think they'd get away with it.

Oh well. Another day.

Then again, they're not sure how many they've got left. A little thievery might have to come sooner rather than later…

Laraki sinks into the cushion by Aidan's side, aiming for nonchalant and very nearly getting there. "Hey, partner," they say slowly. "Care to help me with something?"

"What?" He doesn't look suspicious per say, but the furrow to his eyebrows suggests this may not be as easy as Laraki had hoped. Of course they like a challenge, but is this not enough of one? They already had to leave their dad, leave Amax, and like hell if that kid isn't going to get up to the most trouble in the universe with them gone. He probably already has. Laraki taught him well.

They smile. It comes off kind enough. "Distract Nico for me, would you?"

"Why?" he asks slowly.

"Can't you just do it?"

"No. Tell me why."

"I just want one of those, okay?" Laraki offers finally, jabbing their finger almost discreetly at the few remaining bottles left on the bar cart. Qereti has teetered a few feet away, now, and Laraki waves at them when their attention turns. Their escort doesn't seem to mind them all that much; sure, would she be happier if Laraki put on something other than the stained shirt they arrived in? Probably.

But it's not going to happen. It smells like home, like their father's awful cigarette smoke and Amax's stinking dog. They would die in this thing if they were able to.

"Why?" Aidan asks again. It's almost endearing how confused he is. If Laraki didn't want one of the bottles so badly they would allow his naive charm to get to them.

"Don't we deserve to get shit-faced one night?" Laraki questions. "If we're going to die it's the least the Capitol owes us."

Aidan blinks. "I've never been…"

Laraki waits. They even try to be patient. It's not one of their more common traits; at least, that's what their dad always says. Not a shred of self-restraint and even less brain cells, though he doesn't exactly word it so unkindly. At the end of every day Laraki watches him sink into his favorite armchair and sigh, rubbing at the increased number of gray hairs that litter his temples.

They would feel bad if it wasn't so amusing.

Laraki thumps Aidan in the shoulder, hard. "You can say it, you know. It's not going to kill you."

He frowns. Laraki hits him again. He throws up a half-hearted hand, attempting to stop their next jab, but Laraki snakes their opposite hand in and digs their knuckles into his ribs. "You are such a stick in the mud," they insist. "I'm going to get you drunk once before we get shipped off, you mark my words."

"No you aren't."

"Mark my words."

Aidan rolls his eyes, something like a faint smile on his face. Somehow they've managed to vanquish the sadness from it. It feels enough like a victory than Laraki can live with it, alcohol or not. Some would say it was a risk attaching themselves to Aidan, but their own presence here feels like enough of one. How much worse can it be having an ally by your side, even if that ally isn't necessarily the pinnacle of confidence? Aidan's a good person, enough of a grounding force that Laraki feels they can go far enough together. Just because it's going to end horrifically one way or the other doesn't mean they can't enjoy what they've been given.

He stands abruptly, leaving Laraki nothing but empty air—they allow themselves to flop into the slightly warmed spot Aidan has left behind, eyes trailing after him as he crosses to the window. The car darkens. Laraki had been trying to ignore the encroaching buildings on the horizon, the mountains beginning to cast long shadows.

There is no ignoring it any longer. They offer a muttered curse, rolling awkwardly to their feet off the edge of the couch. Laraki wedges underneath Aidan's arm to press their face against the glass. That's the view these Capitolites deserve. They aren't a perfect person nor anything close, so why pretend? No matter how stupid these people are, Laraki isn't going to try and fool them.

Frankly, the Capitol is lucky to get such a hefty dose of them.

Light washes over them once again, though, the stark elegance of a train station the likes of which Laraki has never seen, and it is nearly empty. The crowds they had expected do not appear. As the train begins to slow only then do they begin to pick out a few faces—the occasional paparazzi, an older couple shielding their eyes against the buzzing lights as the train grinds to a halt.

"That's not normal, is it?" Aidan asks. Laraki doesn't truly need an answer, but turns to face their mentor anyway. Nico is slowly shaking her head, a repeated motion that seems to stretch on longer with the sections.

It's Qereti who looks entirely distraught, her lower lip caught between her teeth, eyes swimming with thought. It's the most emotion Laraki has seen from her—at least the kind that seems something beyond forced and staged.

They expected to walk out into a cheering crowd, roving hands and excited spectators. Laraki expected the opposite of Six, the masses of which were exhausted and oil-stained and hoping for an end they imagined would never come.

Put together though it may be, the emptiness says it all. The Capitol isn't so different from Six after all, nor the rest of the world.

They're all tired, aren't they?

"Well," they state. "I guess we have some work to do, huh?"

Aidan nods, a sigh escaping his lips. Laraki elbows him in the side, but this time it's a much gentler blow. Hardly one at all. When he rocks back into their side for a brief moment Laraki knows they have made the right choice, that no matter how vicious the fall one of them suffers may be it will have been worth it in the end.

If something is changing, how could it not be?

I guess no matter how long it takes me to write these baby ass chapters I WILL finish them eventually. That counts for something I guess.

Anyway, I missed these guys. Something something fanservice. Guess who doesn't care it's me.

Until next time.