LASTING

𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙪𝙨, 𝙛𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧, 𝙟𝙤𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙠𝙞𝙧𝙖𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙥𝙜

[evenfalls]

Where: The 75th Hunger Games Arena

When: July 15th, 75 ATT

Who: Rosmarinus Morrissey and Fletcher Cresta — @bloodmoonriising

While heading to the fish traps both Fletcher and Rosmarinus had set up earlier in the day, a twig broke under the weight of his footfall, but he dismissed the crisp snapping sound and kept his gaze glued to what was in front of him. Alert and apprehensive, he had to remain exceedingly conscious of his body and his surroundings. Every brush of a leaf against his skin, every sharp breath he took, and even every scent—be it the pungent brines of the waves or the rusty iron of blood—had to be immediately recognized for what it was; otherwise, it would become a fatal distraction. Ultimately, each sense he detected and anything associated with it must be distinguished between being lifesaving or life-threatening.

Although the hyper-vigilance kept him secure for the time being, it was overwhelming and took quite a bit of his energy to remain so aware of himself and his environment, causing him to more easily fall into paranoia and despair. Dehydration made matters worse, but with the welcome addition of Rosmarinus’ spile, hunger was the next limitation to overcome.

Fletcher thought about the high probability of him dying in the arena and, more woefully, all the loose ends he would leave behind if he did. Letting his concentration stray for a moment, he looked over to Rosmarinus and squinted his eyes in disdain, but not at her as a person, but at a choice she made. She chose to be in this harrowing predicament. Was one of those followers blind with devotion who volunteered seeking glory. Xander was just as foolish. But he reminded himself that both Xander and Rosmarinus were only kids. Impressionable. A victim to a ruling power that wouldn’t care if they lived or died. At least she carried determination and conviction on her back, making her more likely to be victorious. If Rosmarinus were the one to survive the Games in the end, maybe she could deliver Annie one final message for him. He did not want to think so negatively, but he had to be prepared for the worst.

“Your mother,” Fletcher began saying, but paused after hearing some rustling in the distance. “Your mother, what’s she like?”

[evenfalls]

Where: The Presidential Estate

When: July 6th, 75 ATT

Who: Open to anyone — @eventidestarters

“What did you do to it?” Alessandro, Fletcher’s uppity stylist, asked in a tone laced with accusation.

“Dashed it,” Fletcher answered curtly, taking the last swig from his glass.

His response was met with an indignant, wounded scoff. The words struck the stylist hard in the gut.

“That headpiece took weeks to make. Hundreds of thousands of beads and pearls. Hand-sewn! I got carpal tunnel from all that work.”

“Listen, I wouldn’t care if you accidentally sewed your hand to your ass, I’m not wearing that shit,” Fletcher declared with a single shake of the head to express finality. The insanely wealthy had already robbed him of his personal autonomy the moment District 4’s escort pulled his name out of that glass bowl; he refused to let them do the same to his dignity.

“It’s what ties the whole ensemble together,” Alessandro said as if that fact should be glaringly obvious. “Where is it? I know…”

Fletcher tuned out his nagging, allowing himself to get lost in the cacophony of voices and music that swelled within the acoustic walls of President Snow’s estate. He listened as a woman wearing a tower of a wig laughed at an unfunny joke so as not to damage a powerful man’s ego. His gaze then caught a glimpse of another Capitolite invading a fellow tribute’s personal space by placing his liver-spotted hand on the small of her back. With a hopeless defiance to him, Fletcher took a stance against pandering to the elite. There would be no bending down and kissing their feet, even if it meant costing him an advantage in the arena.

“Are you even listening?” Alessandro asked, breaking through Fletcher’s lapse in concentration. The stylist, shimmering with glitter, leaned in to keep his attention, enough for him to get a whiff of his breath. “You reek of whiskey. You know, you should be out there making an impression. Not lingering by the open bar. What would your daughter think? You, mphf—”

At the touchy subject of Annie, Fletcher shut him up by shoving his palm onto his face and withdrew himself from the one-sided conversation. He decided he had enough of Alessandro’s lecture on trivial matters, especially when his time was limited. Ignoring the consequences, he sought the company of someone who didn’t have the same plummy lilt to their accent that was characteristic of Capitolites, but mostly he searched for another drink. A clink sounded as he grabbed a cocktail from a tray an Avox was holding, sighing before taking a sip. He turned to the person nearest to him.

“How’s it going?” Fletcher asked with such nonchalance he almost forgot what was to come in mere days. He allowed himself to pretend, for a moment, that he was not going to participate in the Hunger Games the following week. It made things easier, a minuscule amount, but easier nonetheless.

[evenfalls]

A continuation of this — @perfectaches

When his breath had finally evened out, and he could think more clearly beyond the fog that shrouded his calm, Fletcher lowered his temper to a simmer. At the suggestion of the plant identification table, he softly chuckled. Thea’s slight was humorous; he’d never admit it. But, she was also right. He couldn’t climb against the slippery slope of his own growing doubts.

Possibly he could win the Games with a more pacifist approach by hiding like the morphlings had. Survive off of and blend into the land, but not everyone had the same idea. So Fletcher had no other choice but to learn how to at least defend himself. He had to either outlast or defeat. But in the end, he believed the longer he waited, the more time the others had to hatch a plan and hunt him down. He knew early on killing would not be a last resort given the circumstances. Each victor had earned their crown on a heap of corpses, and he would not be the exception if he won. Thea, he learned within the past few days, was a living example of when skill and luck worked in one's favor. As was Finnick. As was Annie. But in Thea's case, as demonstrated by her stealth, he discerned from her composed, somewhat derisive demeanor—seemingly not one she bore to compensate for any shortcomings, but one she earned through years of strenuous work—it was mainly skill that led to her victory despite not recalling how she prevailed during her Games. It was either that or time really did heal all wounds.

To his dismay, his fellow tributes were not the only obstacle in the way of changing the trajectory of his life. The Gamemakers surely cooked up some poisonous plants and venomous beasts in a laboratory. He had seen the monstrous mutts during the final moments of last year’s Games, the dead’s faces morphed onto these abominations, taunting the last few alive. This knowledge provided him no comfort. He was now aware it would only get worse near the end when he most likely had little fight left in him, but that was only if he even made it that far. If. His nostrils flared, a small shift in his expression. He inwardly criticized his lack of faith in himself, specifically his habit of placing an “if” instead of a “will” before every positive outcome. In order to quell his dread, the possibility of him surviving must no longer be a possibility, but a guarantee. He only had to convince himself.

“Shouldn’t you be giving Ezra tips on how to kill me?” he asked. Inside, Fletcher was disheartened, but he couldn’t let her see any evidence of his crumbling fortitude. Instead, he feigned strength against the odds that were against him. Presented a challenge. An implicit dare.

[incaensio]

setting : post broadcast, somewhere around the museum. with : johanna mason @evenfalls

it's unfortunate her words come true — by the time she's returned to the main saloon, the first thing she notices is how loud it is. it's as if they haven't just seen over sixty children die on screen, before getting called out for allowing that to happen. it's another day in the capitol, where even misery and a seemingly threat of non - compliance (she's trying not to say or think of a rebellion) just flies over their colorful heads; all it has done is sparked conversation, seemingly ranging from confusion to excitement to simply lack of tact. katniss had thought herself socially inept, but the way she heard a stylist comment that this is the perfect opportunity to bring back wildflower crowns makes her sick.

katniss can't tune out and just smile as she leans on her husband today, as she had done on their wedding, so that makes it worse. she has promised to at least try and let chandler know she is not letting him go into the arena unassisted by her, and this is her last chance; if she has to stay in this horrible event, then she has to make her time mildly useful. but she also can't force herself not to be horrified at their near-purposeful ignorance, or bite her tongue just so they'll be pleased when they don't even try to do the same on her account.

she needs someone who won't mind her thorned tongue, even if that comes to the trouble of getting a lash or two herself, and as her eyes fall on johanna mason, katniss knows she's found just the person. it's a risky move, to approach someone whose only meeting has made her uncomfortable beyond words, but no one else is approaching johanna now, and katniss rationalizes her gamble that, at the very least, it will be just her and johanna, and johanna will not ask her to dress them in flowers like she's done to rue. "johanna mason." she is barely attempting friendliness; she's made an effort to point out they're not friends before, and katniss isn't sure she intends to change that. she just wants to get away from the brainless capitolites. "no one’s 'round your pleasant company tryin' to get some answers, or fashion tips?” johanna’s own flash in the video consisted of carrying blood from the other tributes all over her clothes, and katniss supposes even capitolites draw the limit there.

[evenfalls]

Just as a majority saw Katniss as a symbol of peace and harmony from the way she treated Rue so gently even in death, most people perceived Johanna as a deceitful savage. Her plan to make her opponents underestimate her was seen as cold and calculating rather than clever and self-preserving. What made matters worse, she had laughed after driving her ax into the throat of her final adversary. It was a soft chuckle, but noticed and picked out by the viewers back home. The strangers who scrutinized her every move during the Games—the ones who thought they knew her—pegged her as a murderous sadist. Johanna did not relish her display of brutality or revel in her triumph. In actuality, she was in utter disbelief. And a little part of her was relieved it was over. Her victory meant she was able to hear her mother’s tired voice comfort her. Or listen to her older sister sing softly as she carved into wood. Witness her father’s mastery of storytelling, despite already knowing the end of the tale as he told the same stories countless times before. Reflect the smile her little brother had when he discovered a new species of mushroom. Even roll her eyes at Rowan’s attempt at a jest. Only her family truly knew what her laugh meant. At times, they knew her better than she knew herself. But no one, not even her family, saw her cry alone in her room at the powerless manner in which she surrendered her humanity to survive.

Seeing herself drenched in the blood that she had drawn from people who had their own cherished memories and their own loving families, she was reminded of what she had taken and what she had lost. It was difficult not to blame herself. Desperate acts of violence saved her, but shattered her mentally. And one defiant “no” cost her everything. But the more she fell deeper into the remorse, the more she thought about why she felt the pangs of guilt. Why should she? She was placed in those harrowing situations because of a fucked-up system, one perpetuated by the true murderous sadist. President Snow only needed to lift a finger and a family along with their history were set aflame. No one should have that kind of power. He was no god. He was as human as the rest, but not nearly as humane. The blind loyalty of the military with their weapons and threats of destruction gave him the power. The revolution just had to tip the scales and no one would ever have to feel as desperate and powerless again.

It began and must end with the Games. Time was ticking away and the Second Rebellion would commence at the 75th anniversary. Mere hours remained and, at this point, Johanna considered whether it was too late to recruit more rebels or not. She also pondered if she would put more or less lives at risk if she had more on the side of change. But she knew the answer: it depended on the person.

And she saw no greater potential than in Katniss Everdeen.

Johanna scoffed at Katniss’ question. Then a bitter laugh. She would almost find Katniss’ boldness humorous if not for the Capitolites’ apparent indifference to the plight of district citizens, even after watching decades of pain and trauma on screen. Her humor had been drained until pure disdain remained.

“They find it all so fucking amusing,” she said, seething. So angry and resentful her eyes began to water. “Playing with our lives like that.”

Her voice broke. On the verge of tears or an outburst, she couldn’t tell in the moment, Johanna fought to compose herself, counting in her head. One, two, three, four… Inhale, exhale. She couldn’t risk saying anything she’d regret, not so close to the beginning of the revolution.

She looked at Katniss with her eyes soft with melancholy, but soon they hardened, burning a controlled flame, not targeted at Katniss. But deliberate, purposeful.

[evenfalls]

Where: Rooftop of Ceres Hotel

Who: Cashmere Gemarius and Kiran Kotak — @diamondpressed

Dante Kotak, the embodiment of hedonism. Exuding the confidence and insouciance required to follow through with his most potent or carnal desires, Dante was the only son to a wealthy entrepreneur and grandson to an even wealthier financier for President Snow himself, affording him the means to act on his every wish. Having access to everything he desired provided him with a skewed and often incorrect view of what other people wanted, namely his older cousin, Kiran.

Other than a familial bond, the Kotak cousins also shared a birthday, but while one welcomed a surprise party or sometimes opted to throw one himself, the other found the attention both unnecessary and unwanted. So for each other’s sake, Dante garnered all the attention ever since Kiran came to be under Yiorgos’ patronage. This year Dante held his birthday celebration on the rooftop of a reputable hotel, very few knowing Kiran had grown a year older as well.

Knowing his cousin was not materialistic, Dante had no idea what gift to purchase him other than some equipment or books he himself knew little about; he did not want to completely overlook his cousin’s birthday. But weeks prior, an idea presented itself in the form of a woman gift-wrapped in an ensemble so tempting, anyone who appreciated the fairer sex would want to rip away the layers. While an item may not have been special enough for Kiran, possibly an experience would be more to his liking. Anything to get him to relax would be good for him.

“Cashmere Gemarius, welcome! You look stunning!” Dante said, moving to give her a kiss on either cheek. “You know of Miss Gemarius, yes?”

Kiran gave a little nod to confirm.

“Have you met my cousin, Kiran? He’s a Gamemaker. Utter genius. Ask nicely and maybe he’ll give you the conditions for this Quarter Quell’s reaping.”

Dante chuckled at the disapproving look on Kiran’s face and parted his lips as if to continue speaking, but paused to survey his surroundings.

“You’ll have to excuse me, I have to make my rounds. Thank you for coming,” Dante said, straightening up and patting Kiran hard on the back before whispering to him. “Happy birthday, Cousin. Enjoy yourself.”

Upon hearing this, the fellow birthday boy in question turned his head, not feeling or appearing very celebratory. His brows furrowed, puzzled, but soon the light in his eyes shifted and was layered over with suspicion. For those who've known him for years, they would easily decipher his face as saying, What have you done this time?

Dante did not see this expression. He was in the midst of giving Cashmere a knowing nod with a matching wink and smirk as he retreated into the crowd. Kiran’s gaze lingered toward where Dante had left them, delaying the upcoming, regularly stilted interaction of small talk with a stranger. His eyes eventually found their way back to Cashmere’s.

“How—” Kiran began to say before a few rowdy guests cheered loud enough for him to wince at the unpleasant volume.

“How, er, do you know Dante?”

[evenfalls]

A continuation of this — @fatefought

The Hunger Games had grown mundane, save for the last few years. Before that, the same well-trained and well-prepared tribute from District 1 or 2 predictably took the crown, but not without bloodying their hands first. At least some amusement could be derived from the manner in which a tribute became a victor. But witnessing the whole affair up-close and behind the scenes has rekindled his fascination with the spectacle.

His prior disenchantment with the Games was not rooted in how it was won but rather who won it. The career districts had so much of an advantage that their win became almost guaranteed. A level playing field was what the competition needed to pump up the ante. However, the 74th Games did stray from the norm, which was welcomed. Although there was an appeal to the victor being from District 12, having two of them made Aloysius instinctively shake his head. What were the Gamemakers going to allow next? That all the tributes hold hands in the arena, dancing and singing “Ring Around the Rosie?” There was no glory in that. No display of strength and power. No vindication. How else would the rebels remember what they’ve done?

Beetee was a difficult man to crack. Crack a smile, that is. The robot must kill a room’s energy like he killed those six kids. Absolutely humorless. But Aloysius has been in District 3 long enough to understand that some intelligent types were not as quick to pick up on social mores such as jokes. It was like his brain had used too much processing power on innovating to comprehend the nuances of interpersonal interaction. Shame, he could use a laugh in this line of work.

“It was my mistake being disappointed,” he blithely said, painting a smile on his face, keeping up with appearances always at the forefront. “Should’ve known they didn’t stand a chance against the careers. Still, negativity won’t benefit anyone. Better to have Discord and Devyn believe they’ll survive than give up now before it’s even started.”

[evenfalls]

A continuation of this — @incaensio

“Eh, it’s more of a fair assumption than a rude one. Either way, I’ll admit, it was wrong,” Johanna said, pausing to grab her champagne flute from the stone handrail that bordered the terrace. No use to not take Katniss’ word for it. Though whether her marriage was out of love or out of necessity did make a difference. At least to Johanna.

“I don’t need anyone holding me back,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s freeing to speak freely. I’d suggest you try it more often, but I figure you’re protecting those close to you.”

An implication was laid out the moment she made her statement. Without context, what Johanna had said carried one of two possible connotations: she had a steadfast dogmatic mentality so her jabs or unsolicited opinions were shared like toy weapons to kids during the Games—consequences be damned—or it could be the more solemn alternative of her no longer having anyone to protect. Not even herself. She would not delve deeper than an implication. Being explicit, especially with this personal topic, prompted her to knock on the door she had closed and turned her back to years ago. The very same door her older sister meticulously hand-carved, a family tree at the front representing generations of the Masons. A door no one would answer ever again. It had been reduced to ashes along with her loved ones behind it.

“So your relationship is genuine. Good for you,” she said dryly, raising her glass in the air. “Here’s to young love.”

At Katniss’ final question, Johanna lowered her drink from her lips and immediately shot down the possibility of telling her the truth at that moment. Not solely because she still thought Katniss wasn’t being entirely truthful herself. Because I can help you out of the relationship if you’re only in it to save your ass. More specifically, ending the tyranny could provide Katniss the liberty to not feel pressured into a marriage by the powerful and wealthy admirers of the triumphant pair from District 12. She had to tread carefully into that discussion. Instead she put on a feigned quizzical expression. Her gaze lifted toward the sky and wandered aimlessly as if the answer could be found among the stars. Why did she ask Katniss that?

“Because I wanted to,” Johanna finally said with a smirk and a shrug of her shoulders, fully aware of the immaturity of her answer. But she felt that it was the best way to begin changing the subject of the conversation to what she had originally wanted to discuss with the newest victor: the revolution and how to achieve it.

“I believe friends should feel free to say what they want without the fear of being punished. Don’t you think so?” she asked, her cheekiness replaced with curiosity.

She gave in to the hypocrisy of her behavior. While openly advocating freedom of speech, she chose her words carefully when it came to the rebellion. Saying the wrong thing to the wrong person would put a target on her back or even leave a trail of breadcrumbs right to the rebels’ base of operations. Any comments she made relating to major reform must leave just the right amount of room for her to backtrack if needed.

Johanna worried she had left a little too much room; Katniss might take her inquiry at surface level. She wasn’t talking about the nuances of friendship. Not really. In actuality, she believed everyone should feel safe enough to speak their mind without the looming threat of Peacekeepers dragging them away and putting a bullet in their head or a noose around their neck.

[perfectaches]

where / the training center with / @evenfalls

There isn't much to do when the tributes are training. Some mentors watch their own tributes, some mentors find themselves in the sparring room to pass the time, some mentors simply drink themselves to sleep. Thea usually partakes in none of the above. She'll stop by the mentor's lounge here and there but rarely does she speak to anyone, more often than not floating in and out as the day progresses to check her tributes' stats. If she absolutely must, she'll make an attempt to charm sponsors, but even that is rarely necessary — Brutus is more than capable of securing the money and she's much better at giving the tribute's one on one advice.

Though, this year is different. This year she will do anything she can to ensure a win.

If that means stalking around the training area, so be it. She doesn't get actively involved, instead sticking to corners and watching from afar. But none of these tributes have truly stood out to her besides her own — and she tells herself that's bias aside, although that may not be true. But one man in particular piques her interest. He's middle aged, a bit lanky but she recognizes him briefly from the reaping — from Four. Annie's father. Thea makes no hesitation to pounce.

"You're doing that wrong." Her statement comes unannounced, said softly over the man's right shoulder after Thea has all but snuck up on him. She's still got the stealth of a fox, quiet and light-footed. It's always proved to be a useful skill. "You're supposed to go up, then over. Any other way will get you killed." That may be an exaggeration, but everything Thea knows about this man has led her to pure disdain, so she's more than happy to taunt him a bit.

[evenfalls]

With the back of his hand, Fletcher wiped away the sweat that ran down his brow. Training had become much more advanced since his time at the career academy in District 4. And as the years passed, he had become much more rusty. Even against people-shaped pixelated holograms, he found himself bent over struggling to control his labored breath. Practicing with a spear, each session in the training room convinced him more and more that the weapon was not the best fit for him. He was able to strike effectively a few times at first, watching as the simulated adversaries broke apart and burst into a pile of cubes. But once he hurled the spear toward an opponent that leapt from above, he was left empty-handed and defenseless, allowing a glowing sword to painlessly drive straight through his chest. 

The determination to fight died little by little with every failure, especially when failure in the arena meant life or death. His eyes glazed over as he pondered his ability to kill. The act itself was not so unfamiliar to him. Countless times before, he bludgeoned a fish’s head to stop its flopping after he had reeled it out of water onto his boat. Will he be able to stomach doing the same to another person? Even when they were alive, fish had dead, expressionless eyes, so he could more easily detach emotionally while carving off its meat with a filet knife. Inflicting pain. Inciting fear. He had decided since the beginning he would do both if it meant preventing someone else from doing so to him.

At the abrupt sound of someone’s voice over his shoulder, he was pulled from his deep introspection. His back straightened up in an instant. Eyes wide as he turned. Alert on high. 

Inciting fear. Seems someone else had already beat him to it. 

He huffed to both catch his breath and as a reaction to her remark. The one thing he disliked more than unsolicited advice was unhelpful advice. 

“Oh. Up and over, huh? And how do you suppose I do that? With the wings I don’t fucking have?” he asked rhetorically, surrendering to stress-induced irritability.

[evenfalls]

A continuation of this — @incaensio

A flash of amusement splayed across Johanna’s face the moment she heard the word “fuck” pass Katniss’ lips. She fought to keep a smirk hidden. The corner of her mouth imperceptibly edged upwards and evened back out to indifference. Although some enjoyment could be found in Katniss’ small outburst, she didn’t want to appear condescending. What had just transpired was not funny to her, but rather she was impressed. The bitterness behind her words was refreshing. Possibly there was some bite behind her bark. For a moment, she had hoped the fire behind Katniss’ eyes matched her own vision of burning down the powers that orchestrated the sacrifice of innocents as a threat while promoting it as a necessity. If that were the case, maybe she could find it within herself to like her. She was beginning to already.

Taken aback, Johanna assumed the newlywed would be a follower of social etiquette. First impressions were difficult to shake. Last year’s Games were spent ensuring her tribute made it out in the end, so the moment Holly had perished, Johanna stopped watching. But it was difficult to avoid what was so widely broadcast. The victory of two instead of one was shoved in her face, particularly the image of a young couple embracing one another, rejoicing at their survival. There existed starry-eyed vulnerability behind their embrace despite what both of them had experienced. And with that single image, Johanna had pegged them as naive dependents rather than strong-willed independents, not necessarily dependent on one another. Even she fell victim to the manipulation of carefully crafted editing. While the sincerity of Katniss and Peeta’s bond was in question, the possibility of both succumbing to Snow’s influence was much more plausible. Johanna had witnessed it happen with every new victor that had triumphed in each preceding year. Too afraid to spark change. Look where it got her.

The Girl on Fire is a spitfire? What a surprise, she sarcastically thought to herself. She set down her glass.

“Hey,” she said, throwing up her hands and slowly shaking her head. “I’m not your enemy here.”

She stole a quick glance at the balcony where President Snow once stood, jutting her jaw back and forth in disdain. She also hoped Katniss did not have as poor of judgment in character as she did. Wallowing in hatred long enough could blind anyone to love and acceptance. There were a surplus of enemies at the Capitol, reminding her of the shortage in allies. Although she sought to deescalate the situation, she was not one to wave a white flag, but she had to relent if the opposite meant costing herself another potential recruit. That is if Haymitch hadn’t convinced her to join the rebellion already. She swallowed back a rebuttal.

“My Haymitch is called Blight. He gave up on telling me to ‘shut the fuck up’ a long time ago. He’s too spineless and I’m too stubborn,” she admitted.

Knowing there was no easy way to change the subject, she sighed as if dreading what she had to say next, fighting to look up from the ground into Katniss’ eyes. Apologies didn't come easy to her.

“Sorry if I overstepped,” she said, slightly through her teeth.

[fatefought]

annie had found herself in a coffee shop on a street corner not far from the hotel she was currently staying in. she never slept well in the capitol. the few times she's come to the cafe, it's usually been rather quiet, but today it was lively. the chatter had mostly been interchangeable. it's only a few hours since the passing of porter millicent tripp ; and even in the earlier hours of the morning, the capitol seemed to be deep in mourning.

she can understand why. a sudden passing was morbid enough. she may have not be close to tripp, but it seemed the older woman always made it a point to seek annie out at events. she was animated and cunning. you just knew when porter was in a room. she must of touched many in the capitol. though it's also bone-chilling to see people grieve a woman they had no issues sending into an arena to begin with.

and though she could continue to pretend she wasn't listen into strangers' conversations, she presses a button at her booth. a hologram pops up before her, and she scrolls until a newspaper appears. the fallen victor is front page news. it's unsettling that she'd seen tripp just the night before ; it's weird that she passed after captivating the room at the snow's gala. annie takes a brief break from reading to take a sip of iced beverage. it's then when she makes eye contact with another. " it's tragic what happened to porter, " she acknowledges.

[evenfalls]

Frittering away the hours before his mandatory training, Fletcher decided to spend his last few hours of freedom exploring the Capitol. “Freedom” was too loose of a term, especially when his stroll was being chaperoned by a Peacekeeper about ten paces back. The risk of fleeing was too great. The powerful and opulent would not want to lose one of their valued tributes. Then again, “valued” was too generous of a word. A tribute’s safety only mattered until they were dropped in the arena and their lives could then win Capitolites their own generous sum.

With every footfall, Fletcher missed the way his feet sank into the moss that neighbored the marshes or into the sand of the sun-baked beaches. Instead his steps echoed as they hit the cold concrete. When he first arrived at the Capitol, he was taken aback by how little natural life existed in the region. It was too clean. Any imperfection wiped away and replaced with white fluorescence or lurid displays. As he spotted a speck of verdant green in the distance, the sky became overcast, giving the world a drab gray atmosphere. Fletcher gravitated toward the inviting green until he was close enough to find out a park rested beside a strip of quaint shops.

To escape the downpour that began when the dark clouds rolled in, a bell rang as he entered a cafe that offered a picturesque view of the park. The bell jingled again a few seconds later; Fletcher’s personal shadow, a Peacekeeper named Ackley, marched in behind him. A waft of freshly baked bread and coffee beans made him realize just how hungry he was. He lost his appetite at Snow’s mansion. The constant reminder of his impending death made sustenance feel futile.

Scanning the coffee shop as he walked toward a booth, he stopped in his tracks upon seeing Annie behind the blue-tinted shimmer of a hologram. The layer of light covering her face made her appear ghostly, giving him some validation in the fact that he looked like he just saw a ghost. The moment Fletcher abruptly halted, the tip of Ackley’s boot painfully scraped against his heel. He guessed the young Peacekeeper had his sights elsewhere long enough for his leisurely pursuit to almost become a full-on collision. Fletcher turned and threw a disappointed yet indignant look his way. The look of contempt merely bounced off Ackley’s impenetrable uniform. Ackley remained statuesque. Not a single signal of acknowledgement or apology.

Taking a seat not far from Annie, Fletcher wondered what held her focus. From where he sat, her fixation seemed to be a wall of text, but it disappeared just as he tried to make out what it read. Instinctively, he diverted his gaze the moment his estranged daughter made eye contact with him. Like a novice spy getting caught skulking. If she didn’t spot him before, she definitely must have now.

Fleetingly expecting confrontation or retaliation, he nodded and cleared his throat at her comment that sounded too casual given their rocky history. Although they were more strangers to each other than family, the terms between them were not good enough to warrant anything that came close to a friendly exchange. He felt a peculiar itch of discomfort. To him, she rarely gave any indication of being the vindictive type, but a part of him believed he deserved hostility or at least a cold shoulder.

“Must’ve been too much excitement for one night,” he simply said, mitigating the tide of shame by tracing a hairline crack on the table with his finger.

“Were you two close?” he asked in an attempt to continue the conversation.

[fatefought]

@evenfalls sent: TRANSIT : for one muse to sit next to the other on a public transport.

one could only take the same train ride a certain amount of times before it becomes muscle memory. some years those trips are doubled. tributes become victors, but at a cost. last year, the children's luck was minimal. watching the boy's end almost made him wince. almost, thirty years makes it difficult to shock.

when the greenest member of the district three team sits beside him, beetee greets him with a nod. their tributes just retired to their respective rooms. both have families. both work in the factories. is it sadder than the usual tributes ? the mentor couldn't answer that question. " your curtness was lacking last year, " he notes.

the dynamics between mentors and escorts differ from the ones they share with tributes ; the former always end up back on for the train ride, after all. it's only aloysius rand's second year. they hardly know each other. tilly lavangeline was the one before him. he wonders how escorting district five is treating her.

[evenfalls]

District 3, as proven time and time again by the tradition of the Games, did not provide tributes who had strength in body but rather in mind and character. Although stationed there for most of his life, Aloysius became most aware of this inclination the day he plucked those little white slips from the glass bowls. Waiting expectantly to see the faces whom the names belonged, a boy and girl of age seventeen—near gaunt, shoulders hunched down from habitually stooping over gadgets at the factory—traipsed through the crowd onto the stage. Wearing his most convincing smile, he applauded them and their sacrifice despite having little to work with; he had to toil for sponsors. Ultimately, donations were given in vain the moment the boy’s neck was snapped by a career.

To his dismay and without difficulty, Aloysius could see his father's face back during those demeaning moments when he gave him a once-over. His brows perpetually arched in disapproval. The textureless skin sutured back at his temple to smooth out the wrinkles. Anteros seemed to have never looked at his son at eye level. Chin up, gaze down. A haughty way to keep his son beneath him, in eyeline and in status.

At the death of his tributes, he apologized to those he had convinced to bet on losing dogs. It was a humiliating affair. Those insatiable viewers. The sponsors. His fellow escorts. His father. They must all be laughing at him.

"Well, last year was..." Aloysius began to say, a far-off look in his eyes as he searched for the best description. "Quite a disappointment."

Possessing a lack of self-esteem while simultaneously having a big head, Anteros’ parenting achieved in producing a son who ended up just like him.

"Hopefully this year's tributes have minds as bright as yours," he said with a mischievous air, pointing to Beetee's shiny bald head.

[glitterintheair-deactivated2023]

@evenfalls (Johanna) 73rd Hunger Games

The extravagant viewing room was filled with eager sponsors, on edge mentors, and escorts who seemed to be a mix of the two emotions. Effie was leaning more towards on edge, ever hopeful her tributes may be touched by a miracle, but all too aware that the cornucopia was where District 12 (and the other lower districts) often failed. She tried scanning the room for Haymitch, but either he was lost to the crowd or hadn’t bothered showing up.

Loud chatter faded to excited murmuring as the giant screen before them finally revealed the arena. A dilapidated city with crumbling buildings and rubble littering the street created a chorus of 'ooooh's from the excited crowd. Once the tributes were in sight and the countdown began Effie started holding her breath, fingers gripped tight on the champagne flute she had yet to sip from. It all happened so fast once the timer hit zero, but Effie could not miss the brutality of both her tributes being slaughtered by the end of the bloodbath.

Her throat felt tight, her mind replaying the barbaric moment both had died over and over again. Just the night before she had been chastising them about table manners, and now... It was with alarm that she realized her eyes were stinging, the threat of tears suddenly upon her. She tried to swallow it down and keep it together, but for some reason her mind was not allowing her that control. She needed to get out of there, fast.

In her haste to escape the room, with her head down in case she lost the battle with her tear ducts and someone caught sight of her, Effie barreled into someone, her champagne spilling a bit on the other person . "Oh! I am terribly sorry." Her voice was strained and her situation did not improve when she looked up and saw it was Johanna Mason she had stumbled into. Perfect. "Miss Mason, I truly did not intended to do that. Are you alright?"

[evenfalls]

River was not a killer. Run. Hide. Scavenge. Outlast. That was Johanna’s advice to her tribute, a fifteen-year-old girl who’d willingly take the brunt of the force to protect someone before even considering inflicting pain on others. If River refused to get blood on her hands in a competition where the victor was also the only survivor, then she would have to wait until her opponents succumbed to starvation or the elements. It would not be the first time a tribute triumphed that way.

All Johanna hoped was that the arena’s fabricated environment did not put River at an immediate disadvantage. Like a frozen landscape or a barren desert. Anything extreme would be the end of her. Her gaze was fixed on the massive screen until it transitioned from the title card to the beginning of the Hunger Games in a flicker of a moment. The arena was finally revealed to all. At the sight of a city in ruin, she leaned forward on her seat, not blinking once until the countdown was over. She gave a subtle nod of approval as River ran away from the Cornucopia and disappeared into a wrecked building. Good. She followed through with step one of her advice. A small part of her worried River would go against her words as they did not see eye to eye on many things. For one, they could not agree on the emotional benefit of hugs, specifically how well one could lift a person’s mood. River was the type of naïvely blithe girl who enjoyed giving them. Johanna's arms remained stiff straight at her sides whenever the girl demonstrated and squeezed her tightly.

Thinking back to that moment, Johanna’s thoughts cleared from the fog of memory and returned to the present. Feeling a gentle caress, she realized her arms were folded inward as if she were hugging herself. She had missed the warmth of a loved one’s embrace. Her mom used to soothe her with one, and calmly tell her reassurances while doing so. Thinking hard, she tried to remember the sound of her mother’s voice, but each day it grew softer.

A Capitolite’s grating, taunting laugh rang in her ear and stole the voice away. What the fuck is funny about any this? The cacophony of voices and music all swelled and drove a desire to retreat from the viewing room. Johanna stood briskly and gave in to that desire. Turning the corner, she gasped, a quiet yet raspy breath, as someone collided with her. Cool liquid splashed onto her face and neck, soaking into the cloth of her dress that was resting on her shoulder, one minuscule droplet found its way in her eye. By instinct, her finger darted to the inner corner of it for relief. She huffed in frustration as she rubbed, finding smudged mascara on the tip of her nail.

“I’m fine,” she said. Her pursed lips indicated she was just the opposite.

Quirking a brow, Johanna recognized the woman from the intel she had gathered of the other tributes. As a mentor, she had to let River know who she was up against, so one of the first pieces of information shared was footage of the reaping in each district. Effie, she remembered. It was difficult to forget a woman like her. Since then, she had only seen Effie in passing.

After reading the other’s face, Johanna softened when she noticed Effie looked much more upset than simply sorry. But her concern quickly changed into speculation. Tears could represent a multitude of emotions and could be for anyone. Spotting someone else crying, most are left guessing for what or for whom those tears were meant. Was it sympathy? Grief? Guilt? No. Johanna could not expect that much from a Capitolite. Effie’s tributes must not have proved satisfactory.

“Disappointed?” she asked in mock astonishment. “I don’t see why. You’re the one who picked their names from that bowl.”

Although she did not intend to speak her thoughts aloud, the fear of repercussions became lost to her the day she lost everything.

[evenfalls]

For Katniss Everdeen — @incaensio

“Katniss Everdeen,” a man with a rich yet plummy accent said. “Or shall I say, the Girl on Fire?”

His veneers flashed a porcelain white as he laughed heartily at his own idea of a quip.

“Marcellus Fontaine,” he introduced himself, hand outstretched.

“The Girl on Fire,” Johanna Mason mused to herself, loud enough for Marcellus to hear. “Very fitting title.”

“Yes, indeed,” he agreed, turning toward the voice, beaming. His demeanor stiffened after realizing who had spoken. In a moment, a wall had been built up between them, uncertainty taking precedence. Johanna’s habit of being unpredictable and candid left him wary of what she might say or do next. Instead, he led the conversation back to Katniss. “Your stylist has outdone himself.”

“Oh no.” Johanna shook her head. “I’m talking about when she almost burned to death in that arena. Remember the fireballs hurtling toward her? Quite a spectacle!”

While Johanna’s eyebrows raised in feigned amusement, Marcellus’ own raised in disbelief. Her sardonic remark was met with a beat of silence. It was finally broken when he cleared his throat.

“You’ll have to excuse me, my wife—” he said timidly, waving his hand in an aimless direction.

“Yeah, why don’t you go find her,” she urged rather than asked. She patted his shoulder, giving him a gentle shove away from the two of them, allowing her to take his place next to Katniss. Johanna waited until he walked out of earshot before turning back toward her.

“Don’t worry. He loves it,” she admitted. Her eyes contained a gleam of humor, yet there was a morsel of truth to her words. Not all Capitolites lived in blissful ignorance of the brutality they inflicted on district citizens. Some salved the guilt by making charitable contributions to the tributes like Marcellus had for the past few years, and Johanna felt no shame in reminding anyone who shared his remorse of their idle role in the deaths of children. Others enjoyed being brought down a few pegs after having spent most of their lives in powerful positions; however, Johanna avoided playing into the likes of them and their fantasies as they usually sought sexual gratification. But most were too far gone, brainwashed into acceptance and compliance.

Although Johanna had earned a reputation of being volatile, she knew better than to cost her tributes their much-needed sponsorships. She was selective with her outbursts these days, learning the hard way not to bite the hand that fed her.

“Piece of advice, guilt-tripping works,” she said, raising a champagne flute to tinted lips. “I think you’re more suited appealing to that crowd. At least then you’re not pretending.”

She tilted her head toward Peeta, the day to Katniss’ night. The young pair’s romantic relationship being a façade was merely an assumption, but Johanna found it difficult believing there was enough privacy or emotional availability in this stringent environment for truly falling in love.

“It’s smart, what you’re doing,” she said, her words hushed. “I wish I’d have thought of it. You’d have to be a real heartless bastard to get in the way of young love.”

A laugh that sounded more like a scoff escaped her. There was a tinge of bitterness brought on by the cruel irony in being ruled under a tyrannical government. Love was a luxury in Panem.

“Who came up with that bright idea? Don’t tell me it was Haymitch.”

[evenfalls]

For Polly Lovelace — @scvrredsouls

Traveling over a hundred miles an hour, a train swept through an expanse of verdant trees toward the bustling metropolis that was the Capitol. Inside, two strangers were hunched over in contemplative defeat. Their surroundings, platters of amuse-bouche and bottles of liquor swirling with gold leaf, a stark contrast to their demeanor. Like winning a jackpot and still claiming to be a loser.

After the life-changing event that had just transpired at the reaping, a well-composed man marched into the boxcar. Aloysius Rand was out of his element; known to everyone but himself. Taking a place in front of the tributes, he folded his arms and shifted his shoulders as if uncomfortable in his own skin. He took the present situation too seriously for his appearance, donning a male-peacock-flashing-its-feathers equivalent to a Peacekeeper uniform. The previous Hunger Games was enough of an eye-opener to the stakes. Blamed on a lack of experience, he refused to allow his second year acting as the escort for District 3 to end in failure.

“Let’s skip pleasantries and cut straight to the point. I’m Aloysius, your escort. I am here to help you win the favor of the Capitol. What happens after, at the arena, is down to you.”

Stating the obvious was a means to awaken them to the reality of the situation. Whether reality sinking in ignited or snuffed hope was a slippery slope. He figured it was better than feeling nothing at all. Still, he tried to teeter the atmosphere to the former.

“Now, I know you two are smart. That’s our angle. Promise innovation. Stratagem. Handmade explosives. Use your cunning right, you’ll get the attention of sponsors.”

No air of remorse to his terseness, he had wasted too much time the year before making light conversation. The anecdotes he shared resulted in nothing but scared kids playing gladiator. His only goal was to give his current tributes a fighting chance. When his attempt at rousing morale merely led to the two of them adjusting themselves in their seats, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“At least start by believing you can make it through this. Hell, you could be the next Polymira Lovelace,” he said, finally addressing the mentor in the room. He pointed his thumb in her direction.

“Speaking of, Polymira? Have any words of wisdom to share?”