Cain was set up in a viewing room after spending most of his day chatting with sponsors. A part of him was ready to retreat into the quiet of Two's floor, but the bigger part of him was too comfortable sprawled out on the plush recliner to move. He had snacks, drinks, and the drone of Arena commentary to lull him into a state of total calm. It was only broken by the sound of someone else entering the room. "Interesting idea, huh?" He posed the question to Astorian. "Reusing the first Arena for the last Games. It's a cool full circle moment." After a pause Cain continued. "Do you think those are the actual old mutts from other Games, or do you think they, like, regrew them super fast?"
Astorian was heading into the viewing room to see how INdigo was doing, he had just gotten back from seeing her off to the Arena when he walked into the room and was poised with the question, eyes scanning over the source of the question, Cain Gunn, grandson of a former Victro from Two. He was a year or two younger than Astorian, and he remembered he had rooted for him as a child. The idea of a kid Victor had been exciting at the time, now....it felt gross. Someone that young in the games. He pushed his glasses up his nose a little.
"We learned about older Mutts in school, most of the ones for the arena were bred to die quickly after the games. Though my dad said the Capitol destroyed them immediately after to prevent a breakout. They probably kept the genetic files though, I would have imagined Vox would have destroyed them though, if they had planned on ending the games. I'd have hoped so anyway."
Monty had taken to pacing the halls of the Tower at night. It was his, finally, to do so. All these years of wanting exactly this: the inside angle, the Mentorship. Usually he was ushered out by close of day, only allowed to stay overnight if he was with a special guest or crashing on his brother's couch. But now the Tower was fully his.
He found his way up to the observation deck, curious to see the training floor from above during the night. He had been in many of these viewing rooms as a Sponsor, hobnobbing with Mentors and others who supported the Games. They had been fairly empty this go round. Disappointing. If this were to be the last Games, where was the support? The excitement? But then again, the shadows of the midnight Tower suited Monty just fine.
Only, when he pushed his way into one such room, he found it already occupied. His eyebrows raised as this young man immediately started apologizing. Monty smirked. "You're not in my way," he said simply. "I didn't realize anyone else would be up this time of night."
Astorian chuckled a little, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, feeling his legs start to straigten out too. "Still I don't know if these rooms were exactly made to sleep in. I'd also hate to offend anyone my first.....and last time here." Astro offered a hand to the other man, leaving his sketches on the chair behind him, "Astorian Waldorf, the new designer for Eight. I uhhh already know who you are....I remember your games, Mr. Cannon." Astro had been 12 during Monty's games, he remembered his father and mother hosting a rather big viewing party during what was expected to be the final moments.
Indigo stood on the dais, her face resolutely creased into a scowl. She kept her chin level with the floor and her eyes rolled slightly up; she wouldn't look at this dress if it was the last thing she did. As Astorian explained his process, she couldn't stop the scoff in her throat. "Of course," she said, words dripping with ice. "Make sure the rich are happy. I would hate to disappoint them."
She shook her head slightly. What a concept - a story. She had met plenty of this type back in Eight: would-be textile storytellers. But what did this Capitolite kid know about Eight? Nothing. Nothing at all. Even if he was saying the words of the people - parroting the betrayal of the Vox - it was hardly coming from the same place.
"If you make me wear indigo because of my name, I will jump off the starting platform just to spite you. And you will have to know that my death is not because of the Games, not because of the Vox, but because of you."
Astorian chuckled a little at the morbidness of what she was threatening him with, he couldn't blame her....wouldn't blame her for that. Lifting up one of the skirts he nodded his head, "Yep still looks like black to me, not indigo." Another small chuckle, "I won't make you wear indigo simply because that's your name. I promise." He sighed softly. "I do need to make the rich happy, yes, but I still want to make sure you're happy....with this look...so are you happy wearing this? Your thoughts about it, this look specifically matter a lot more to me than anyone else. You're uhhh the first Tribute I'm ever dressing....and I just...I want you to feel good."
Everett tilted his head to the side. "Evil?" he repeated. Astorian sounded a little like Alder. All black and white. Everett wasn't a fan of the Games anymore, but he would also not call them evil. He understood what the Vox did: the Games were a means to an end. But it was a surprising take from Astorian, of all people. A Capitolite. A former high-ranking Peacekeeper. And now a stylist -- for the Games.
"What's that make you then? The Games were evil but you were still supporting the regime?" He didn't understand what mindset could make those things make sense together. "Ah, but you were one of the 'good ones.'" He snorted a laugh. He'd accepted long ago that he wasn't one of the good ones, that he was incapable of it. Maybe he could do small good here and there; but only maybe. The most dangerous thing was a Capitolite who was utterly delusional to that. "Are you a good one now? Now that you're, what, playing dress-up as part of the evil Games?"
"I understand my role in helping support a wickedness in this world. Unfortunately, so many of us have, in so many different ways." Astorian didn't think he was innocent, who could truly say they were, children, but few others could claim that innocence. There was a mass collective guilt when it came to the games considering how many industries worked to uphold or support the games. "My genuine hope is this is the last ones, like Vox claims. But my hope is to help the tributes of District Eight, feel seen, beautiful.....for the first time, maybe last time."
He wasn't sure if Everett disliked him or was just trying to get a rise out of him, but he wouldn't get that type of reaction if that's what he sought. Astorian was used to the judgment, used to being thought of a certain way, the angry stares. "I am sorry though, that you're so set on being angry right now. I hope whatever it is causing that....that you can find peace."
It had been a late night in the studio with last-minute touch-ups on the outfit he had designed for the interview. Working late into the night, rather than head back up to Eight's floor, Astorian had decided to set himself up in one of the viewing rooms with a blanket and his sketch pad. Deciding to draw up looks for a future collection he was planning, it wasn't long before he dozed off. He didn't know how long he was asleep for, but he heard someone coming into the room, and he felt himself stretching and yawning.
"Sorry...sorry I didn't know anyone was planning on using this room." He was trying to get up out of the seat, which was proving more difficult than usual. "I don't wanna be in your way sorry."
Everett quirked an eyebrow. "That's where you were stationed? Not sure if being stationed somewhere as a Peacekeeper is really making a connection with the place. I feel like I learned that the hard way when I was stationed in Nine, and then Twelve." He couldn't quite imagine a Capitolite Peacekeeper being welcomed, anyway. Especially if he hadn't been particularly welcomed in Two, which was a Capitol-loving district as a whole.
Astorian nodded his head. "I learned a lot of things that the Capitol or Two couldn't teach me. Showed me why the Games were evil. How so many were suffering. Helped me decide that I was going to help where I could. Usually came in the form of paying for things with a little extra than they wanted for it, especially on my off days. Took a long time, for them to talk to me, but they eventually decided I was one of the good ones. It's surprising....what talking can accomplish, even if the other side isn't ready to talk yet. I found it easiest to talk to the people in Eight......didn't have to worry about them running to my father."
Needle resting between his lips, the training day had ended and Astorian currently had Indigo standing on a platform so he could work on fittings for her interview outfit. He wanted to make sure she looked good in what he had made. It was one of his first fully produced, ready-to-wear pieces. Of course, if it went out to the public there would be alterations, this was to remain a one-of-a-kind piece.
"So I remember from watching the Games, Stylists for Eight always did lots of colors, or mix matched fabrics, and they were usually loud and ugly or just loud or just ugly. I doubt many of them actually ever stepped foot in Eight." He hummed sewing up something so it sat the right way. "What I remember was the spirit, the hard work, the determination. I wanted to tell that story. Of course, we have to mix it with elements that the rich would like, to make you more appealing to get you sponsors. Still, I decided to go with black, because this is a sad occasion......Vox going back on the promise of no more games......unless you have a color you'd rather wear?"
Everett had heard that Astorian Waldorf was going to join the Games staff, and he'd been subconsciously avoiding him for the past few days. There was no reason for them to ever interact -- it wasn't like Everett spent much time in the stylists' studios, nor on the District Eight floor -- but when, on the morning of the second day of training, he joined the very long coffee line in the lobby, he found himself standing just next to him.
It'd been a long day and a long night. He'd worn himself out trying to work with and manage his tributes, and then he'd failed, as he had for many nights now, to get any sleep. His body was tired but his mind was on high alert, as if the Tarrens would come grab him to finish poking and prodding him, as if they'd finally get his secrets, one way or the other.
Tired, crabby, and without having yet had his morning coffee was not really the way he wanted to approach someone he didn't like. The Cannons had always disliked the Waldorfs -- Capitolites who involved themselves in the military so easily, gaining positions through connections and power, were not looked upon favorably in most of Everett's circles in Two. Everett had met Astorian up close at the Academy, during the times he'd been brought in to combine his own Peacekeeper Officer training with his experience in the Games and as the Quell Victor. The boy had rubbed him wrong. The way he seemed to have no gratitude for his position, the way he acted withdrawn -- which Everett interpreted as him being stuck-up, not wanting to associate with the rest of them, who were District -- it made Everett dislike not only him but Capitolites as a whole even more.
When he'd heard that the aloof Capitolite who'd forced his way into Two's Academy and then into respected ranks in the Peacekeeping force was now a stylist, he had balked. It seemed exactly in line with what he already knew about the boy though -- he'd floated into the Academy on his father's coattails and now he floated into the Tower on a bed of wealth. He'd heard that he'd joined the Vox after the tide had turned, just like Everett, but it seemed that even in these times, which were so awful for just about everyone, the Waldorfs somehow still came out on top. The Cannons were not so different, but Everett had felt every damn rung on the ladder to where he was now.
"Heard you're styling for Eight now?" he said without preamble, by way of cool greeting.
Astorian had been excited for once, to finally jump right into his work. He was finally doing the work that he'd always wanted to after all, finally free to be his own person, not having to keep looking over his shoulder, worried about what his father would say or do or how he would respond. He was currently standing in line for tea, wanting something to drink while he worked, he knew that these games would hopefully boost his name, and his designs and so he was designing his first collection that would hopefully be able to roll out shortly after. Simple fabrics, simple patterns, but still sleek, and still elegant. Working with what he had access too had become a commonality, that hopefully would soon change once this war ended.
He was sketching out a design when he heard Everett's voice, he shouldn't be surprised that he was here, he was after all a Mentor, smiling a little, he gave him a wave closing the sketch pad. "Everett hey! It's been a while since I last saw you." Everett had always seemed a little standoffish, but Astorian had chalked it up to him being older, and a Victor. He was also probably always getting harassed by people in Two or the Capitol and just wanted to be left alone. Astorian got it, the need for alone time, to not be hounded. He nodded his head at the question,
"Yeah, I am, now, actually. I requested it because of the time I got to live there, I feel like I have a connection there with it. Appreciate Vox being willing to do so."
Astorian Waldorf (He/Him). District Eight Stylist. 23. Drew Starkey.
What was their childhood like?
Astorian’s childhood was rather different from the majority of the other children in the Capitol. While most enjoyed carefree and spoiled youths Astorian was expected to work hard and train harder. His father was a high-ranking General and eventually, Minister of Defense of Panem, and he expected his son to follow in his footsteps. That meant making sure he focused on his studies at the Academy, along with his athletic training and learning the military history and maneuvers of Panem. Astorian hated it. He had no interest in his father’s interests, he was always more fascinated by his mother, and her love of clothing, jewelry, and shoes. He knew then that that was what he wanted to do, which was to make beautiful things for people to wear. His father scoffed at the idea and told him it was ridiculous, that it would never be acceptable for a man of the Waldorf Family. So Astorian was forced to power through, put on a facade, and hide away his real self to keep his father happy. He became quiet, and distant from his colleagues, but to keep himself from being completely miserable kept a hidden sketchpad, where he would draw out his design ideas. Sure they’d never be real, never be worn by anyone, but they would be his, and he wouldn’t force himself to not have some creative outlet. After the Academy Astorian continued to do as his father asked of him and took the Peacekeeper Officer test, which he passed with flying colors as was expected of him. He was shipped off to an elite training program in District Two, and when he graduated Astorian was assigned to District Eight as the Aide-de-camp to the Head Peacekeeper. There when he wasn’t working, got to see first-hand fabric production, which inspired new ideas in the notepads he was still keeping. Astorian lived and worked in District Eight for the next few years, distinguishing himself as a hard worker, who was loyal and was promoted a few times. Behind that though, he also saw suffering, hunger, and anger. Something he would never forget. When Vox got bad, he was recalled to the Capitol to serve there, but once the fighting broke out in the streets, Astorian saw it as his chance….his chance to have his own life, but also a chance to help the people he saw in Eight. He sided with the Rebels without hesitation. His father perished in the fighting, too stubborn to forgo the Capitol. Astorian inherited the Waldorf Family wealth, their home…everything. He resigned as a peacekeeper, and instantly decided he was going to go into fashion, like he always wanted. When it was announced that the Hunger Games was coming back, he was shocked, but he also saw it as his chance to really get his name out there as a designer, to be a Stylist for the last Hunger Games. It would be historical, so he dropped a kind monetary donation to the Vox government and a request to be a Stylist, along with copies of his sketches proving he had experience in design.
How do they feel about the Games?
The Games like anyone raised in the Capitol were a big part of his life, in that the time around them was a series of massive parties, and events to attend. He picked out his favorite tributes and felt joy when they earned kills, elation when they won, or disappointment when they lost. He saw them as a natural part of life, they helped keep order in Panem, and they were for the benefit of everyone. When he lived in District Two the many elements of how they lived there reinforced his beliefs, they had a vibrant volunteering system, so many wanted to go into the games, and he imagined it must have been like this in every district. That worldview was shattered when he was put in Eight. When he saw how much they lived in fear of the games, how despondent someone could become when they were selected. He was in District Eight for seven games, and each time he never saw someone happy to be going in, but some one who was all but being dragged into the games. This opened his eyes, and made him realize maybe the games weren’t as popular as he thought, was lead to believe. Maybe they were causing more pain than Panem needed. Still now as a Stylist for the first and possibly last time, he realizes they are a great pathway to fame for a young designer in the Capitol.
What drove them to be a stylist? Do they enjoy it?
Clothing started out as an interest for Astorian. That interest quickly then turned into an escape, an escape to get away from what was the reality of his life. He didn’t want to be a Peacekeeper officer, he knew that he wanted to do something with clothes. He was always far more interested in the gowns and elaborate pieces that filled his mother’s closet than in listening to his father prattle on about old Panem war stories. When he was refused what he wanted he started designing in secret. Sure, he had no access to fabrics or the time to actually make any of his designs, but late at night he would go under the covers to draw outfits for all sorts of occasions, and events. He was more creative than he expected himself to be, and once he got to District Eight and saw all the patterns, and textures that real unused clothes had, Astorian realized his potential designs had no limit, he could make almost anything he wanted. While these games are his first time getting to see his designs come to life, Astorian is excited he has a passion, a desire, and a love for drawing out his designs, and now he can finally bring them from the page to the real world, that real people can wear.
How would they describe their style?
Astorian would describe his style as a blend of the various worlds he’s seen, the glamour of the Capitol, the straight edged lines of being a Peacekeeper, the factories of District Eight, they’ve all played a part in helping him figure out his personal style, and what he wants to put others in. He wants to bring new eyes,and new, bold, designs to Panem. Where better to show that off than on the Tributes? He isn’t afraid to try new things, to take risks in what he designs because he knows he’s new on the scene of fashion and that means he’ll have to do a lot if he ever wants to be taken serious since he has no formal training with design.
How do they treat their tributes?
Astorian treats the tributes like anyone else. He’s learned from his youth from living in District Eight that the tributes are mostly scared, lonely, afraid of the people of the people around them or hungry and desperate to get back home, or to have a dignified death. He understands that as a Stylist even this one time he is helping in turning them into a spectacle but that doesn’t mean he can’t try and help them where he can while they are in the Tower. He wants to be able to offer an ear, lend a hand, and help make their last week or so before they head into the Capitol as comforting as it can be. Besides any designer is only as good as the relationship with their models and muses.
What is their personality like?
Astorian unlike a lot of Capitol natives is personally not loud, or bold. He’s quiet, keeps to himself, in fact you could almost call him shy. He’s never cared for parties, and never sought the limelight. He would describe himself as sensible, and pragmatic. He does view himself as hard working, and dedicated to what he sets his mind to. While he may not be rushing to make friends, he is loyal to the ones he has, and would never betray anyone who has gained his trust. He never backs down from a fight that he believes in, especially now that he’s finally independent to be who he wants, and do as he pleases. Astorian is not a person who expresses himself fully, and lot of his fear of personal expression comes from how he was raised, having to hide who he really was, having to live up to his father’s expectations of him. Now that he can be himself, Astorian finds himself having to fully figure out who he is as an individual beyond a rich, former peacekeeper who wants to design clothing.
Three strengths and three weaknesses?
+ Articulate + Dutiful + Meticulous
- Asocial - Fickle - Timid
When she squeezed his hand, and told him to close his eyes, Ash nodded his head. Swallowing hard. He would be lying if he said he wasn't afraid, or that he didn't want to die. No one wanted to die, but he was glad that it was him in this moment and not his baby sister. He squeezed Farina's hand back, and gave her one more look, eyes like a deer's. He was looking over her features.
"Thanks, for making my last few days outside this arena pretty cool, Farina." Shutting his eyes, he waited for it, knowing that in being here he had saved a life, a very important life to him. Besides he was off now, off to see Dustin again. He was sure that no matter where you went when you died, the first face to great him would be Dustin's.
She opened her mouth to say something-- maybe something clever or cutting or reassuring-- and nothing came. There were no words for a moment like this.
Farina hesitated for a moment, then pressed the tip of her knife to his throat. She closed her eyes too, unable to watch, and pressed harder. At first, nothing, then she felt her knife give, the involuntary gasp from Ash. Farina choked on a sob of her own, but kept pressing.
Her hands were wet and hot, a metallic smell filled her mouth and nose, and the sounds he made--
She pulled the knife out and stumbled backwards, eyes still closed. Another deep sob tore through her throat, and she looked away, turning to collapse onto her elbows. Her stomach rolled and clenched, and her morning's foraging was made null.
Farina wailed, rolling over to her back, staring up at the sky, refusing to look at what she'd done.
Winning this. It wasn't something she'd seriously considered until now, the idea that maybe she could go home. Up until this point, despite her fight, her strategy, her resilience, she hadn't allowed herself to think it.
Now, she carefully probed the idea, let it open up in her mind. Ash believed she could do it, and there had been so many cannons now...
Could she?
She gripped his hand, holding it tight. "Close your eyes," she instructed, voice choking up.
When she squeezed his hand, and told him to close his eyes, Ash nodded his head. Swallowing hard. He would be lying if he said he wasn't afraid, or that he didn't want to die. No one wanted to die, but he was glad that it was him in this moment and not his baby sister. He squeezed Farina's hand back, and gave her one more look, eyes like a deer's. He was looking over her features.
"Thanks, for making my last few days outside this arena pretty cool, Farina." Shutting his eyes, he waited for it, knowing that in being here he had saved a life, a very important life to him. Besides he was off now, off to see Dustin again. He was sure that no matter where you went when you died, the first face to great him would be Dustin's.
"I can't-- I can't do that!" Farina gasped, shocked at the request and voice high. She knew she'd already killed, but those had been complete accidents, defensive, no forethought. This was-- this was different. Completely different. "Ash please, please don't make me do this," she pleaded, throat closing up.
Her mother's voice was in her head, now, from a time someone dying of some disease Farina couldn't see had come by and Farina had asked her Momma why she hadn't given him anything to cure him. Sometimes the best medicine we can give is helping someone die with care and dignity.
"I don't know if I can do it," she then amended, voice small. She reached for her knife.
He winced, not at the pain he was in, but rather the pain that this was causing her. The idea of having to kill anyone, it bothered him so much that he had made the vow that he wouldn't do it, even if it was in self-defense. Now here he was asking Farina to kill him.....but this was different wasn't it? It wouldn't be cold-blooded or cruel, but rather born from necessity. Neither of them had planned this, or premeditated it. It was fate, it was the Hunger Games. Speaking through the pain, and the tears he could feel forming in his eyes.
"I know....know that this probably isn't how either of us planned our games to go. Especially.....well after that night before launch....but....Farina...if you don't." He shook his head, "Someone or something else may come along that may not be as gentle. I'd rather know....it's a friend, who isn't going to hurt me." He went for her hand that wasn't near the knife, squeezing it. "This doesn't make you a bad person, no this is a good thing. We both know.....without....without my legs....I can't win. But you can....you can go on and win this whole thing."
Farina stared, a numb panic rising up her throat. As her feet hit the ground, she looked toward Ash's legs and--
She couldn't process it. It was too much, too horrific. It wasn't even intentional, she had to look away. The brief flash of it she got, though, she knew she'd never forget.
She approached quickly, dropping to his side around his waist, so she didn't have to look past it at the carnage there. Carnage that not all the plants and medical knowledge in the world could fix, she knew that instinctively.
"It's fine," she promised him anyway, putting a hand on his chest to calm his breathing, as she often saw her mother do with panicked patients. Her thoughts were spinning out of control-- could she make him more comfortable? Could she numb him, somehow? How the fuck was she supposed to do that with just a dried creekbed and some dusty food stands around? "You're fine. Just breathe. It's not so bad."
He felt her hand on his chest, and despite the pain he started to relax, steadying his breathing. He shook his head when she said that he was fine, that it wasn't bad. He may have been an optimist, he may have been naive, but he wasn't an idiot. He couldn't move his legs, wouldn't be able to move them, and without them with this many people left? He was never gonna win. Another animal was going to come along and finish the job he was sure of that.
"Farina.....Farina. It is bad.....it's really bad. I know that." Fuck....he felt his eyes watering up, wiping at them. "At least....at least I got to warn you yeah? And you're ok, you are ok, right?" Biting his lip, nodding his head. "I'm dead....no matter what....I'm dead, yeah? Shit." He laughed a little. "Shit, I don't really want to die, but........I wouldn't....wouldn't change what I did. Saved my sister.....and now....I guess I'm off to see my boyfriend." He bit his lip.....nodding his head.
"Farina, could you? Could you....you know....I don't wanna suffer."
Farina had wandered away from the riverbed, still feeling sluggish, out to one of the paths running the length of where it used to be.
At first, she thought it was just her head, an aftereffect from the ride that had driven her out of her mind, and she grabbed onto a tree to steady herself, wondering if maybe she would be sick.
However, it didn't stop, instead it got more intense. Blinking, she turned around to see a... dust storm? A dirt cloud?
No, she realized-- there were animals in it, big ones. Mack had been telling the truth after all. And sillhouetted against them was a figure sprinting toward her and yelling. Her eardrums still ached, but she made out enough: Farina. Move.
Thinking quickly, she started to scale the tree. She couldn't outrun these things, for sure. However, they didn't look like deft climbers, either. So up she went, ignoring the sharp burn as bark dug into her already scraped hands and her muscles screamed from exertion it couldn't afford.
She couldn't go any higher-- the mutts were upon them, and she wrapped her limbs awkwardly around the trunk and clung tight. She closed her eyes. There was nothing else to be done.
The shaking grew thunderous, rocked her from side to side, then just as quickly, it faded.
She cracked an eye open. The herd was receding into the distance, and Ash was nowhere immediately to be seen through the branches. "Ash?" she called, tentatively starting to climb down.
Once he saw that Farina had gotten to safety, Ash now had to find somewhere to bunker down until the elephant stampede passed. Diving into one of the booths, he thought it would be strong enough, but evidently, it turned out, was not. Feeling as the elephants came bursting through it. The whole thing coming down, he managed to mostly get out of the way, of the rubble and the elephants, however was caught under something, and before he could move to get out from under it, one of the last elephant's feet came stepping down on both his lower legs and ankles. Watching as they kept running, he was in so much pain he didn't even know if he could yell, silent tears just running down his face. Before finally the noise came out of his mouth, after he heard his name faintly.
"FUCKING FUCK! FUCK !! SHIT! FUCK!" He was punching the ground not caring that his knuckles were quickly bloody. He couldn't even feel the pain in his hands. He tried to move, and he just yelled out again. He couldn't move....he couldn't win like this, how would he win like this? And then he saw Farina, and his eyes watered up even more.
"Farina...my legs...I can't.....I don't.....the fucking elephants....fuck.."
Ash was waiting for the security guards to return, and then nothing. Literally nothing, no lights, no guards, the amusement was completely dark. Then there were a few loud noises that had come from near the safari. He needed to get moving, those animals had been no joke. So he started to move, maybe higher ground would be safer? Who knows, those Giraffes were tall after all. Going into a light jog, he was glad that he didn't have much to carry. He had to go find Finch too, he had promised to keep her safe. He didn't plan on breaking that promise. And he planned on getting her home to her family.
That was when the ground started to shake though, as he was moving....an earthquake? No, he doubted it, nothing but the the ground was really moving.......he was looking around trying to figure out what was happening, where would it be safe to go? The longer he didn't move though, the more the ground was starting to shake. So he started running, and then he saw it and realized what it was.....elephants....running parallel to him. They hadn't seen him, so he let out a breath, but then he saw what was in their path.....gasping, he started running as fast as he could....
"FARINA!! MOVE GET OUT OF THE MOVE!! He wasn't sure if she was aware of what was coming, so he was trying to yell as loud as he could to her, hoping she heard him over the animals.
"Yeah." she agreed, nodding. "are... are you hurt?" Linden was embarrassed how long it took her to reciprocate the question. he didn't seem hurt, but neither had she. she should've checked.
"How's finch?" She asked, checking in. "I saw her a while ago, but there have been deaths... is she okay?" Linden cared about her. she cared about ash, she cared about fucking farina, even, and she'd cared so much about Al. it was setting herself up for heartache, but it wasn't like she could stop.
Ash quickly shook his head, "No, no I'm good. Nothing on me, except for some minor scraps and bruises from getting off that roller coaster, and helping that girl from three get away from killer vines. Oh yeah, if you haven't been to the lazy river don't go in it. There are killer vines that want to drown you."
When she asked about Finch, he frowned a little, not sure how she was with the security guards. "Last I saw her she was good. But then these guys showed up and in our trying to get away, we got separated. I'm sure she got away though, if I did, she for sure did. She's better at this whole survive the Hunger Games thing than I am.. Sure you are too. I've always been better at taking care of other people than myself."
