âOh, good God.â Asher chuckled to himself. This guy was fun, but nuts.
Like a drunk toddler; hilarious, but a little frowned upon.
The bartender handed him a bright purple drink with a crazy straw and about four pieces of fruit on the rim. Asher couldnât help but notice the smallest of smirks on his face as he turned away.
Fucking smartass made it look as gay as possible.
Asher sighed and sucked down his first sip.
And it was delicious.
But no one could know.
âUgh. This is like all syrup, man, whereâs the booze in this thing?â He pushed it so that it was hidden from Dorsett as he took another sip. âSpeaking of which, if you manage to get me drunk enough to forget Iâm straight, then I guarantee that we will not be wasting any alcohol. It will be drunk or stored properly.â
He snuck another sip from his margarita, secretly very glad that Dorsett had ordered it for him.
âTell me about District 8, man. Whatâs life like?â
This wasnât the first time Dorsett had bought booze for a less-than-homosexual man, and Asher wasnât exactly subtle with his enjoyment. Dorsett tried to quell the smile playing on his lips, but he wasnât particularly successful.
âOh, trust me, the booze is there. It just sinks to the bottom. You gotta drink the whole thing to get to the goods. If you finish it all, maybe Iâll buy you a banana flavored one. Those are even better. More booze. Whatever youâd like.â
Dorsettâs eyes lit up momentarily. Only once had a man been âdrunk enoughâ to forget he was straight; even then, Xavier had later come out as bi. Dorsett didnât like his chances currently with Asher, but at least he liked to play along. Good for him. âStored in our stomachs, most likely.â
Reclining against the bar, Dorsett allowed his frame to stretch out. âItâs not much, you know? Factory work if youâre lucky. Janitorial if youâre not. Starving if youâre less lucky than that. Thereâs only a handful of us who live in the Victorsâ Village. Threaderâs... old - thatâs my mentor, you see. Heâs old and angry and cares too much about too many things and too many people. But he keeps me sane, I suppose.â
Dorsett hadnât thought about life back home in some time. The glamor of the Capitol had swept him up and away. What was District 8 doing back at home?
âBut I guess Iâll find out soon enough. The Reapings are right around the corner. How about you? Excited to get back to all that... lumber back in Seven?â
Somehow the air on the train seemed somehow even more sterile than it had been on the ride to the Capitol. And yet, the stench of the white roses still clung to Dorsett's nostrils like a leech. While Dorsett had anticipated the reason he had been called to the Capitol, it had made the meeting no more enjoyable.
As the Districts raced by the windows of the train, the Capitol stuck in Dorsett's mind. Its opulence was almost repulsive, but still, it had its charm. The people were fabulous, if stiff and plastic. And he was treated so well there. But the stench of the roses was everywhere. It would be nice to get home.
Soon, the familiar smokestacks of District Eight were flying by his window. A haze of smog overtook the train, and a small smile came to Dorsett's lips. It was odd how such a gross thing could feel so real and comforting. A silent Peacekeeper appeared, and Dorsett was escorted off the Train.
Apparently he was to have no rest whatsoever. As soon as he stepped off the train, he could hear the silence. It was an incredible thing. District Eight was among the least populated Districts, but the simple sound of all the population together at once was deafening. Even though he hadn't laid eyes on them yet, he knew they were all there, waiting for him.
Dorsett glanced around and found a Peacekeeper. "Uh, what am I supposed -" A small piece of paper was shoved into his hand, and he was pushed through a series of hallways. He unfolded the paper to find a simple script. There wasn't much for him to go off of; it said "Watch movie. Reap girl. Reap boy. Enter building."
"Uh..." Dorsett stuttered, but he didn't have time to form a coherent thought before he was thrust into a small room. Almost instantly, two Capitol-raised stylists were on him.
"OOH!" One squealed. "Look at his hair!" She grabbed a chunk of it with lime green nails and began lathering some sort of chemical into it as her friend, a squat man who had dyed his skin pale pink, yanked Dorsett down into a chair.
"Uh, what? Hi?" Dorsett stuttered out as the man began wrestling with his fly.
"Oh, don't mind us," the man said, smiling up at Dorsett. He pulled Dorsett's pants down and began working on unbuttoning his shirt. "I'm Luccio, and that there is Fabrica." Fabrica moaned a small "hey" as she continued work on Dorsett's hair.
"We're the stylists for you and your lovely Tributes this year!" Luccio had finished undressing Dorsett and was already moving towards a small closet. "Now. You have to look your best if you are going to go out in front of District Eight. I mean, really! Textiles!" A small squeal leaked out of Luccio's throat. He threw a simple black shirt at Dorsett, along with a blazer and a pair of tight jeans. "Yes, yes," he murmured. "This... and these!" He brought out a pair of bright orange alligator skin boots.
Somehow, Fabrica had already finished with Dorsett's hair, and she pushed him up out of the chair. Dorsett instinctively began getting dressed, pulling the jeans on quickly. As Luccio stood by, he tutted. "No, not those boots. Let's just do the blue suede ones." Dorsett blinked as Luccio handed him a new pair.Â
Things were going faster than Dorsett's mind could handle. Wasn't he supposed to see his family? Maybe actually breathe the air of District Eight for a few seconds? Apparently not. The Justice Building was directly attached to the train station, and Dorsett could see a Peacekeeper stationed outside the door of this room. He was, after all, the Capitol's.
"You are going to look so good," crooned Fabrica. "We just finished working with Threader. And he looks great, considering how old he is." Dorsett's eyes lit up. Threader Rixley. He hadn't seen his Mentor in some time. In fact, Dorsett had been confused why Threader hadn't been chosen as this year's Mentor, but there was no way of figuring out what Snow's intentions were. You just had to follow the commands.
"And viola!" Luccio clapped his hands. "Spin! Spin for me!" Dorsett had no clue how he looked; there was no mirror in the small room. But he slowly pivoted on the heel of the boot, and Luccio and Fabrica oohed and ahhed. "Perfect! Oh, I could just cry!" Luccio clapped again.Â
"Is Threader here?" Dorsett asked. Luccio shook his head.
"No, he's already out on stage. Now go get 'em, tiger!" Luccio ushered Dorsett out of the room and flagged down the Peacekeeper, giving the silent guard a large smile and a thumbs-up. As Dorsett was led away, he could hear the two stylists still gasping over their quick work.
The Peacekeeper said nothing as he led Dorsett through the halls of the Justice Building. It amazed him that even he knew nothing about the insides of this building, even though he had lived in the District his whole life. Finally, the wide doors leading to the stage rose like monoliths in front of him. These he recognized; his mind flashed back to when he had walked through them many years ago with Perry Richards by his side.
The doors opened slowly, and Dorsett was struck by how little the light outside affected him. It was so different in the Capitol; every time he had stepped outside, he had felt blinded by the dazzle. In District Eight, everything was always tepidly neutral.Â
Sure enough, the entirety of District Eight's population was spread across the ground ahead of him. His breath caught in his throat, and if it weren't for the Peacekeeper behind him, he would have turned and ran. But a gentle prod from a tazerstick was all he needed to shuffle forward onto the stage.
Dorsett glanced sideways and, to his ultimate relief, saw his trusty old Mentor, Threader, standing just off-center. He flashed the old man a smile, who returned it quickly and jerked his head towards the microphone and two glass bowls. Threader had never been big on words, and Dorsett could still feel the Peacekeeper behind him.
He stepped up to the microphone and cleared his throat. "Good..." Dorsett was taken aback as his voice boomed out across the otherwise silent air. "Uh, good afternoon. Welcome to the Reaping. I am Dorsett Jacobsen, the Mentor for District Eight this year." Dorsett's eyes darted sideways towards Threader, but he couldn't catch sight of the man. Instead, he had to look out at the thousands of dead, cold eyes in the crowd. No one would look him in the eye.
"As with every year, we will start with the video. From the Capitol." Dorsett cleared his throat again, and on that cue, the infamous video glorifying the Games played behind him. Dorsett couldn't imagine how this video would ever inspire anyone to do anything, but it was a required viewing year after painful year.
It came to a close and an iciness filled Dorsett's veins. This was the time. It was a time he had dreaded for years, and finally it was his fateful day when he was called. And now, here he was, on the other side. But still... he was here, wasn't he? That meant these children could make it back. There was hope for the names he drew.
Well, for one of them.
The realization shot Dorsett's hopes. He hastily opened the piece of paper he had been given. Watch video. Reap girl. Reap boy. Enter building. Nothing else. Dorsett could feel Threader's eyes on him, and he stepped back to the microphone.
"As always, I suppose we should begin with the girls." A feeling of lead overtook his hand as he dipped it into the bowl. His fingers, more out of fear than control, latched onto a name. He hoped someone like Perry would be drawn. Someone strong and feisty. Someone who could win.
He opened the small piece of paper. "Hummer Jakson. Will you please come join me on stage?" Seeing the crowd from this perspective was new. Half of the people - the girls - visibly slumped in relief. All but one section, that is. And even though he couldn't see her, Dorsett could feel the electricity from Hummer. He saw her in the crowd, slowly pushing forward.
She was tiny. She was frail - probably hadn't ever worked in the factories. This was his female Tribute. As she climbed the stairs to the stage, she glanced up at Dorsett and... what? She gave him a small smile. An apology. A forgiveness. Dorsett was struck dumb until he caught Threader's eye. He snapped back to the task at hand.
"Are there any volunteers?" Of course, there were not. "How about a round of applause for Ms. Hummer Jakson?" Of course, there was none. Dorsett shuffled his feet and cleared his throat again. "Well, alright. Let's move on to the boys."
Dorsett's mind began hoping long before his fingers had touched a name. But he forced himself to stop; see what it had done to the girls. A name was drawn. A piece of paper was unfolded.
"And our male Tribute this year will be Pol Quental."Â
It was truly spectacular to see the same thing happen; everyone relaxed until Dorsett could see the pillar of energy radiating from the boy. He, too, pushed his way through the crowd and Dorsett's heart dropped. He, too, was tiny. Both of his Tributes - his first two Tributes - would be snacks for the others. But as Pol climbed to the stage, he had a fire in his eyes that was completely opposite of Hummer. Maybe he had some fight.
"Are there any volunteers?" Dorsett forced himself not to look at a sobbing couple in the back of the crowd. "Thank you. This concludes the Reaping Ceremony." A shuffle of movement began in the crowd. Dorsett turned to look at the two children before glancing up at Threader. The old man shook his head, then jerked it back towards the Justice Building. Dorsett nodded.
"C'mon, you two. Let's go inside. You'll have a few minutes to say goodbye to whoever comes." He ushered the two kids indoors.
He was surprised when Hummer took a hold on the sleeve of his jacket. "Mr. Jacobsen," she said. "Don't worry. I don't blame you."
"I do," muttered Pol. "I blame you completely."
Dorsett blinked at the two of them for a moment. "First, Dorsett. Call me Dorsett. And secondly... that's fine. Both of you. If you need to blame me, do. But know that I will help the two of you as much as I can. Pol, your room is that one, and Hummer, this one is yours. I'll see you both on the train later."
Pol sulked into his room, but Hummer remained for a moment more. "I don't blame you, really." She said. "But also, no one is going to come visit me. Can I just get on the train?"
Dorsett shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. You'll have to wait til a Peacekeeper comes to get you."
Hummer's head fell a little, her long black hair falling over her face. With that, she turned and entered her room. Dorsett let out a massive sigh and was shocked to hear it turn into a stifled sob. Before he could express any more, he forced himself to follow the Peacekeeper to the train.
Lips curving, Valor gave a slight laugh at the manâs humor. Her mind was still fuzzy, slow and in flux, but that was only to be expected from its lack of nourishment. Food for thought, it appeared, was spread unpleasantly thin throughout her neurons.
Green eyes scanned the horizon, watching empty tableaux fill and be filled. A child slept, warm in its bed, while an avox dreamed of a heart that fed. Valor wondered where sheâd fallen through the cracks.
The Capitol, in her eyes, was misleading: its lights glowed warmer than a thousand suns, yet burned colder than the sharpest snow storm. If anyone was proof that looks could be deceiving, it was Valor, but she hadnât preempted the depth of the cold. If beauty was a temptress then the Capitol knew her well.
Turning her attention towards the other Victor, Valor shrugged, eyes widening as she noticed the sun peeking over the skyline. âBoth, I guess. Iâm still trying to acclimate to this whole âmentorâ thing, you know? I wish I knew how long it was going to take.â
Dorsett nodded in agreement, his own eyes following hers out over the city. It was a sight, that was for sure. The twinkles of early risers also up and about caught his attention. What would a Capitolite need this early?Â
"Yeah. Me too. I don't know that we ever will 'get used to it.' Is this your first year?"
He glanced sideways at her. She carried herself with such poise that he instantly regretted his question. She seemed like the type who would have obviously have been a Mentor for some years. Perhaps she was just a few years more experienced than he was. His mind thought back to his meeting with Snow, and the scent of the white roses made his nostrils turn up in disgust.Â
After a moment, he stood and approached the edge of the roof. Of course, there was no chance of falling over - or jumping, he supposed - because of the forcefield. But the wind pushed through his hair a little faster and the slight chill felt nice against his skin.
It took a moment for Rosa to run through her catalog of faces, but finally she settled on one. Jacobsen, the boy no one expected to amount to anything, let alone a victor. When he was reaped Rosa was a proper Capital girl, having left her district years ago. Still, she was only eighteen. Had she never been reaped years ago she would still have her name in that glass bowl. What she would give to have that be her truth.
But yes, Dorsett Jacobsen that stuttering boy from District Eight. Had it not been for his female companion he would have died long before the last cannon shot off. How the Capital swooned over them, the soft little weaver and his Amazonian companion, knocking children left and right until one of them got the best of her. That should have been Rosa and Sycamore in the 58th games. Still, in the end Dorsett survived, so there must be some strength in him to have made it to the very end.
âDorsett,â Rosa spoke finally. She extended her hand to him; Rosa doubted he would respond in the âCapitalâ way of kissing the back of her hand, which was good. While they would never be pitted against each other with spears and knives they would have to fight for the sponsorâs favor. She planned to keep those kids alive as long as possible, and no tailor from eight was going to get in her way, nor anyone for that matter.
She chuckled, âIâm enjoying it as much as a victor can,â she admitted, glancing over the balcony at the crows of people eating and chatting. âThough itâs not like this is a special occasion for me. I moved here a long time ago,â she explained. âI guess all the fine food and dress hooked me the first time around.â She finished off her glass of champagne. âWhat about you though? You still live in the District, correct me if Iâm wrong.â From what she had heard Dorsettâs vice was alcoholâwhich was fine but Rosa found the hangovers to be not worth it. Morphine was much quicker than liquor, and it had yet to give her a headache, only cravings. Â
Dorsett took her hand with the a gentleness that belied his tall stature. Handshakes had always been something Dorsett tried to avoid; men mocked him for his femininity and women often were confused by his lack of firmness. Usually a nod or a wave from afar sufficed for his greetings. Still, he was in the Capitol now, so that would have to change.
With a pleasant smile on his lips, Dorsett sipped at his champagne. "Hooked, huh? I guess so." He glanced out over the Captiol with its twinkling lights and bright colors. Perhaps for some the excitement could get to them. Perhaps.
"Ah, so you're an expert, then. This is... my first time back since my Games. It's a bit overwhelming. But yes, I live out in District Eight with my family. The Victor's Village is nice. Not to crowded, but nice."
Still seething, the victor ran a frustrated hand through his thick head of curls. It was in these moments that he could easily remember what Michael told him in the arena. âYou have to be calm, El. Deep breaths. Calm. Strong. Unstoppable. I know you can do that.â So he tried, taking in several deep takes of air, his lungs filled with air as his stomach released the negative tension.Â
At this point, Elius didnât care whether or not Dorsett watched as he continued this exercise. As long as he remained in control, all would be fine. He was not crazy. He was fine. Perfectly capable of doing anything he wanted, regardless of what this man or Snow thought.
Casting a glare from the corner of his eyes, he tried deciphering Dorsettâs words. What did he mean by that? Was this just another ploy to confuse him? Clicking his tongue in disdain, he turned his gaze back to notice his shaking hands. Desperately needing time to stabilize independent of so many conflicting thoughts, he exhaled sharply and waved Dorsett away.Â
"I canât be your confidantâ"Â Iâd only let you down.Â
"We canât be friends no matter what heâs told you, and you know that, too. He lies just like you. I canât trust youâŠand you canât trust me." He said quietly, his words a somber admittance.Â
Curling further into his chair, he wrapped his arms over his chest as a chill shook his body. âGo. Go on. Cute or not, thereâs nothing here for you.â
A dark cloud hovered over Elius in front of Dorsett. It was truly a saddening sight: the absolute wreckage that the Areana could leave behind. Dorsett had his demons, he knew, but this man... What could have been was so much worse. Dorsett gently shook his head.
"Maybe you're right." Dorsett didn't want the man to be right, of course, but perhaps he was. Trust was one of the virtues that was killed during the Games, and it wasn't something that really grew back. All Victors lacked trust. Even friends, even lovers, even family were never to be trusted again.Â
With another small half-attempt at a smile, Dorsett turned away. He looked down at the table of food and scooped up a small chocolate-dipped strawberry. He left the room and the man in it. As he bit into the strawberry, the chocolate let out a deep hidden taste of rose petals.
How disgusting it all was. Back in District 11 everything was dirty, covered in dirt and pollen. The worst was the blood of course, spilled by some poor soul who got caught trying to steal and apple for lunch or something along those lines. Yes District 11 was filthy, but the Capital was the only place that could truly make Rosa gag. On the second floor of one the finer restaurants of the city she looked down at all the socialites, chatting and eating with gusto. Rosa wasnât close enough to hear every word out of every mouth hole but the looks in the peoplesâ eyes told her everything.
The games were soon, and with the games came bets and favorites and gossip, all about children. She remembered it all, from when she was just a tribute. Little Rosa Najjar of District 11. Oh but whatâs this? A score of six? Quite high for someone so young and from such a poor district, and did you see her dress? Oh what a wonderful colorâyellow just like the wheat she harvests in the fall she said. Her and her brother are so wonderful and sad and Iâll shed a tear when one of them has their guts ripped out in the arena by another child.
Rosa often considered going back home for the games to get away from all this talk, but she knew it would be more direct at home. After all none of the people below were talking about her, if she went home every whisper every hushed sentence would be poisonous words about her. Not to mention she wasnât allowed to leave the Capital now.
Taking the last sip of her champagne she felt someoneâs eyes on her. Peering out of the corner of her eye she spotted a recognizable face. Â âWell,â she started, rolling the stem of the glass between her fingers. She turned, leaning against the balcony banister, âfancy seeing a face like you here.â
A morning jog and shower had brought Dorsett to the end of his daily ritual. It was one of the few things he had to keep himself sane, and on top of that, it pumped him with energy after his usually-sleepless nights.
His day had passed uneventfully, and he needed something a bit more spectacular for his evening. So, with a suit a neighbor of his had probably constructed, he went for a classy restaurant. He had been there a mere few minutes, though, before the noise and bustle overtook him.
He scooped up a second glass of champagne and made his way to an open balcony. He took a deep breath of the evening air to clear his senses, and took a sip of his champagne. Odd - it was empty. He flagged down an Avox and acquired another glass. It was going to be a long night.
With a chance glance sideways, his eyes caught sight of a woman who was clearly also not quite enjoying the ambiance of the restaurant. She looked oddly familiar, and Dorsett took a second to place her. Of course! Rosa Najjar - the Victor from 11 several years prior to his own Games. Her Games had been highly publicized. With two siblings in the Games and one winning, her Victory was paraded as a herald of the Capitol's glamour. Even though he had been quite young at the time, Dorsett still vividly remembered her face on every screen in District Eight.
"Ms. Najjar!" He said, taking a cautious step towards her. She greeted him, taking him slightly aback. The two had probably run into each other a few times in the Capitol, but he would hardly consider them to be on a friendship level. Still, she was a nice woman, and was probably extending him the courtesy.
"Well, they pay the Mentors more leading up to the Games. I needed to get out tonight. How are you doing? Enjoying all the Capitol has to offer?"
âOh boy.â Asher downed the last of his whiskey as Dorsett continued pressing him. âListen, if youâre gonna get all touchy, I need to get way drunker.â He caught the otherâs eye traveling to a rather southern region of his body.
âWhich apparently you are all for.â
He chuckled to himself as the food he ordered finally arrived. âUgh yes.â He embarked on a pseudo sexual experience of his own as he stuffed his face with the fresh hot wings.
He turned to his admirer.
âAm I still pretty?â
He smiled mischievously; this guy was a dyed in the wool homosexual and hell, he was fun.
With the gin from earlier finally kicking in, Dorsett looked down at the empty whiskey glass and mostly-empty margarita. He blinked a few times, then glanced back up at the bartender, indicating he'd like another.
What the hell.
"Don't give me ideas, Asher." He said. "I might just try to get you there." Dorsett winked again, and ordered yet another margarita. As the bartender turned to make it, Dorsett called out, "Wait. Make it a raspberry margarita. For my new friend with the hot wings."
Dorsett looked over at the District Seven mentor. As Asher crammed wings into his mouth, Dorsett let his jaw fall open in an overplayed mix of shock and arousal.Â
"Oh, honey, you absolutely are pretty." Dorsett opened his mouth and used his tongue to draw in the straw of his margarita. "Ravishing. I could take you right now, here on the bar." Dorsett took an exaggerated pull from his straw. "You and me, tequila splashing everywhere - sounds simply fantastic."
Head bowed, Elius was not directly looking at Dorsett but he could hear the defensive tone he was beginning to take.  With each word Dorsett cast away the feeble armor that Elius created to protect himself. It had taken so much strength just to try pushing the other away, yet Dorsett remained. At the end of his rope, the docile Victor was desperate to escape now. He had no true advantage in this match and he knew that; all his hopes had simply been invested in Dorsett leaving just like everyone else.Â
And it wasnât just a physical shortcomingâDorsett was better in every single way. This transgressor accepted his sins and allowed them to guide instead of mislead. Dorsett refused to accept death and instead faced it regardless of the oddsâthough when you look death straight in the eye itâs hard to ever fully recover from the nightmare. And Elius could see that in this man. There was so much darkness radiating around this man; regret and fear were synonymous with the air this man breathed. In that aspect, he and Dorsett were alike butâŠ
What could Elius do?Â
Nothing. And thatâs what frightened him the most.
So, as a final gambit the District Nine Victor retaliated in a meek voice. âYouâre wrong.  I have my wounds but theyâve healed. I just donât want them reopened and you are threatening me.â Standing he dared to look the other straight in the eyes. A boulder weighing his heart down, each heartbeat felt like it jerked his body in a violent shake. âIâm not crazy. Iâm perfectly fine.â Elius swore, his words taking a harder tone. âI am not like you. I am not insane. And Iâll show you both. Iâll show you both that youâre wrong about me. I will not let you ruin my plan.âÂ
A dark grin came to Dorsett's lips as Elius claimed he was healed. No Victor was healed. Dorsett's own Mentor wasn't healed, and she had been out of the Arena longer than Dorsett had been alive. Victors never healed; they simply broke again and again, fragmenting into different versions of their old wounds.
That same grin fell completely, though, when Elius accused Dorsett of attacking him. The thought of "That's not fair!" jumped immediately to his mind, but he couldn't quite vocalize it. Perhaps Elius was right.Â
Instead, Dorsett quietly said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." His eyes fell to the floor, and he squished a stray crumb into the carpet with the toe of his shoe. "I will say this, though. There's going to be plenty of people legitimately attacking us during these Games. I hope I can trust, at the very least, some of the Mentors." Dorsett's lips thinned, and he quickly glanced up at Elius.
"Anyway, I'll just leave you alone now. I'm... I'm sorry. For hitting on you and all that." A small chuckle escaped. "But, you know, you are really cute. Just so you know."
Maybe light fell because heaven gave up. Because night was a sin so imbued in her skin that God fucking shook. With four four a.m.s and no sleep to show for it, Valor couldnât help but feel violated. If anything, sleep was a right, and she felt entitled to some form of reprieve. So why did it continue to elude her?
Disgruntled, the newly christened Mentor rolled out of her bed, unable to stay still for much longer. As she stood, her foot grazed a shard from the night before, cutting, drawing. It left little more than a paper cut, but the damage had been done. Her mouth breathed a curse word, then another. Soon, the Navy had spilled from her lips, floating, swimming, drowning. How predictable it was for her to have murdered.
Sighing, the Victor stuck a band-aid over her cut, hiding away her imperfection. God forbid someone find out she was only flesh and bone. Smirking, Valor let her eyes wash over the room, paying heed to unpacked suitcases and piles of unwashed clothes. Sheâd been there for a couple of days, but couldnât find it within herself to settle. The games always left her uneasy, after all.
Pulling a large shirt over her head, Valor looked out her window, marveling at how close the sun was to rising. She hadnât seen a sunrise in a long time, though sheâd had plenty of opportunities. âWhy not make the most of it?" She thought, in a half-hearted effort to seize the morning. Two feet stepped into the elevator in her hallway, and before she knew it she had reached the roof.
"Hello?" She called out, seeing another figure up before her. Realizing sheâd reached the point of no return, she repeated her first question as a statement, sealing the deal in flashing the man a warm, albeit sleep-deprived smile. "Have you come to see the sunrise?" She asked, quirking an eyebrow as she made her way towards his bench. "Or has that scoundrel known as sleep just happened to elude you too?â
The twinkling lights of the Capitol provided a wonderful lull against Dorsett's eyes. He was completely entranced until a voice called out, startling him. He jumped visibly and whipped around.Â
A tall blonde woman had joined him on the roof. With the immediate threat gone, Dorsett relaxed. A small, embarrassed smile found it's way to his lips. He shook his head at her question.
"That scoundrel, for sure. He's been evading me all week. I don't know why he won't give me a chance. I'm sure I fulfill him." Dorsett stretched an arm out across the back of the bench and felt the stress of the evening in his shoulder. He jabbed a finger into the socket and wrestled with the knot.
"How about you, darling? Are you here because of sleep or sunrise?"
A clock blinked a bright, angry "4:16 a.m." in Dorsett's face as he pulled the covers closer around his body. A small pillow was clutched in his arms, providing no comfort against the dark. His eyes shut for a moment, but were torn open again as horrid memories of his Games crashed into them.
The pillow couldn't substitute a person. Dorsett kicked the covers off the bed and swung his legs over the edge, feeling the soft plush carpet under his feet. With a resigned sigh, he heaved himself up and grabbed a robe off a chair. He pulled it tight around his body and approached his minibar.
As he poured himself a small glass of vodka and Sprite, Dorsett considered the term "alcoholic." Surely drinking at a quarter past four in the morning would qualify him as one. He swirled the drink around for a moment before throwing it down his throat. No. Alcoholics used alcohol to fall asleep, and he certainly wasn't going to be getting any sleep tonight.
Dorsett walked through the sliding doors of his room into the hallway and made a familiar path to an elevator. The roof, even with its force field, provided a beautiful overlook of the detestable Capitol.Â
Upon arriving, Dorsett took a long breath of the crisp air. The stars twinkled above the city lights, and for a brief moment, Dorsett's lips twitched upward. It was almost peaceful on the room. He took a seat on a bench, willing the sun to rise more quickly.
Anxiety mixed into the atmosphere until it was nearly palpable. It was the beast that lurked within Elius every day and he could feel its long arms reach out to wrap around Dorsett. It was truly remarkable how quickly fear could spread. A forced smile was forming on his lips as he shuffled around. How ironic: a murderer being afraid of his brethren. He never truly thought the day would come when such a thing would happen.Â
He ran his hands through his thick brown curls and gave a terse sigh. âSee, I donât believe that.â he motioned, eyes falling at Dorsettâs feet. âEveryone in the Capitol is a killer. Us included. Which makes you thinkâwhy is it that murder is an acceptable way to achieve wealth?â The victor tossed, words cold and bitter.Â
Expression taut, he words reflected years of contemplation. Poor Dorsett. Heâd flirted with the wrong person now. But it was better for Dorsett to be afraid than be fooled. Eventually he would have learned about Eliusâ games. It was better to come from his own tongue than that of someone else.Â
In that moment the sun was eclipsed by passing clouds so that the lounge was filled with dark shadows. It was perfect considering the situation. Living in such obscurity had been his forte, though he wasnât quite sure about Dorsett. Although his face was still a burning shade of red, he refused to acknowledge it. He had to be strong, to defend himself. If if that meant being alone again. Elius had already come to the conclusion that it was better than being afraid.Â
"So please. Go ahead and leave if you want. Thereâs nothing stopping you. Thereâs nothing here for you and youâve been wanting to leave since the beginning. Itâs only fitting that you escape now while you have a sliver of your sanity in tact."
"Why is it that murder is an acceptable way to achieve wealth?"
Dorsett shook his head, his hair flopping around his face. "I... I don't think it is. I don't think anyone outside of the Capitol thinks it is. I don't think it its." Dorsett's face crinkled. Was this man attacking him? For being a Victor? For surviving?
"It's not like I exactly asked for it. I didn't volunteer. But I came home because God knows I'm not going to roll over. You didn't roll over. You killed, and you're here. Yeah, it sucks. I don't sleep at night. But I'm here."
Without knowing it, Dorsett had taken a few steps forward.Â
"... while you have a sliver of your sanity in tact."
The words struck Dorsett. Sanity. It was something he had never really considered. Was he insane? Surely he had to leave some sort of sanity in the Arena. He had gone from scared and worthless to a killer within the first five minutes. That sapped sanity. But was he insane? Perhaps not.
"My sanity is already in scraps. That's what happens when you come out of the Arena." Somehow, a form of disgust had found its way into his voice. This man was being selfish. "You're not the only one, you know. We all hurt."
Dorsett turned his back, but something rooted his heels in place. He couldn't leave. Not yet. He snatched up his half-eaten croissant and took a huge bite, angrily chewing. For whatever reason, he had to stay.
