I knew it. I fucking knew it.
Chardonnay had been plunged on her bed all afternoon watching recaps of what everyone is saying to be “the bloodiest arena in a while” when she begs to differ.
The moment she had seen the arena she knew it was bound to go down in literal flames. It was so obvious; there were people just now, days later, finally realizing the arena was based off of religious concepts.
However, she was tired. She was tired of everyone and everything. The games were finally over and she couldn’t be more thankful. She just wished that either Athena or Pegasus had made it out.
The humiliation of being the escort for the Capitol was no longer a position of pride nor joy...it was pathetic.
Year after year the tributes from the Capitol seemed to dwindle like dust under the bed. What could possibly be the problem? They were given private training, the best penthouse suite in the entire tower, and the luxury of getting to remain in the Capitol unlike 99% of all the other tributes who had to leave their home and adjust to a totally new environment.
Yet somehow, someway, they almost never made it to the finale, or even halfway through the games for that matter. Chardonnay was on the phone earlier with Fiorella who resigned from her position as four’s stylist simply because she couldn’t handle the grief anymore. She had gotten too attached to her tributes and jumped ship as soon as she was unable to concentrate on work.
Fiorella claimed it was all due to the fact that Capitol citizens are spoiled for the most part and never had a reason to prep or train for the games, considering that they’ve never had to participate in them before.
Nonetheless, she fell back on her bed and arranged plans to go back home until the return for the next game cycle. She begged Fiorella to come back, to suck it up and hire an on-call therapist if it had to go that far, to not leave her alone to suffer like this. But she refused. And if she were to ever work for the games again, she would never go back to four.
With her bags half packed on the side of the bed and some already done and left in a straight line by the door to be picked up by Avox’s, she look up at the too familiar ceiling.
“Now what the fuck am I gonna wear to the ball?”