this will get ugly // self
“Are you coming back?”
The interviews were always difficult to watch. Maybe it was the bizarre clothing, or maybe it was the statements that objected to everything he’d seen of some tributes in the last few days. He almost envied the tributes who could lie so easily, somehow seem both threatening and endearing at the same time. He’d seen them all, though. He’d tuned up the simulation stations so they were easier to navigate, and he’d watched from afar as they cut down pixelations. Most of it was over cameras, because his attention was required elsewhere.
It’d been over two years now. Two years and he hadn’t burned out like a lot of new recruits. Over two years, and he was no longer working on half as many red herrings. He knew the arena would be an ancient town for at least three months before launch.
So as much as he could, he watched from afar during training. Watching over cameras to make sure no one fucked with the technology in the training center too much. The same consoles that he used to fiddle with like they were toys were now viewed as prized possessions. Only he was allowed to fuck with them. Aside from updates on the simulations some tributes wanted in their skills presentations, he had very little contact with the tributes this year. It was better that way.
Especially when they were plastered in makeup, dressed up in chiffon, and sent out to talk to Calix. He didn’t want to see the tributes from Three in their interview. He’d successfully avoided them for over three days, he could continue that now. But every television in the Tower was tuned into the interview. He had no desire to go home. Evie and Paslee left that morning on the first train to Three, an agreement decided upon in the last few Games with Belle that it was best for Evie to be away. Easier to control what she saw, either on television or in her uncle’s tired eyes when he came home.
Chip knew every television in the HQ would be tuned to the interviews, too. The psych department would be taking notes with each second that passed, and they would be feeding information along to supervisors for adjustments. He walked from bar to cafe to bar to lounge, and everywhere he looked, a tribute was seated across from Calix Crystal. Absolutely insane, really, that this was the last “pleasant” memory afforded to the families of tributes watching. He couldn’t pretend to be that mad about it, really. He just selfishly didn’t want to see.
He descended in the elevator this time. The training center was brightly lit, still, but there was no one there that he could see. Outside the elevator, he used his keycard to open a Gamemakers Only door and took a winding flight of stairs. The room overseeing the training center was brightly lit, too. It had been cleaned up nearly entirely since the presentations, but there were a couple glasses of wine that he spotted tucked discreetly behind a cushioned chair. More like left, and just out of view of Avoxes who weren’t allowed through the Gamemaker entrance.
Chip hadn’t been asked to attend the skills presentations this year. It was usually just an occasional courtesy. They would randomly invite a couple people from the fringes of tech and landscaping and agriculture to help weigh in on presentations that weren’t so obviously impressive.
He walked to the glass at the edge of the viewing area, the tip of his nose cool as it barely brushed the window. He wondered if someone from the tech team had been in the room during his skills presentations. His eyes easily traced the pattern of small explosions and sparks he’d set off once upon a time. He could’ve done better. He could’ve placed a dummy within the line of fire, or built a more complex trap. But he was eighteen, and he was stupid. He had no idea what was to come.
Chip shoved his hands in his pocket, looking around the various television screens in the room to see they were all dark. The interviews never lasted long, so he was certain by the time he left the room and got back up the elevator, he’d have missed all the District Three tributes had to offer. He ran a hand over the top of his hat as he walked toward the door, turning his head to the side. To see the wine glasses.
They were still there. They’d likely been there for over a day.
Chip’s knuckles went white as he clutched the doorknob. He’d never liked wine, anyway. It always tasted like vinegar to him, but it’d never stopped him.
Did it still taste that way? He could take a taste. Sommeliers did it all the time, and just spit it back out in a bucket. There was no bucket around, but a few drops, or a few sips, wouldn’t do anything.
He let go of the knob, and walked to take a seat in the cushioned chair. He tapped one foot agains the floor, then another. He finally pulled his hands from his pockets and reached back. He took only half a sip before he spit the red wine back into the glass. It tasted awful. He reached behind him for the other glass and stood up, placing them both in obvious view on a coffee table. He should go.
But he took a sip. And awfulness aside, he hadn’t swallowed, had he? He’d always preferred beer, something with a little more body, with a little more fizz that almost resembled a soda. It was best that he tried a sip of wine first, really. To show he hated it. To show he could try it, though, too. To show he wasn’t eighteen anymore, that maybe with age, with time, with wisdom, he could have a drink. Just one drink, now and then. It was such an important part of the Capitol social scene, to just go for a drink. Such an important part of life in Three, to go to a friend’s house and crack open a cheap beer to talk shit about an employer.
Chip kept his eyes on the training center as he approached the mini fridge against a wall. When he opened it, there were several bottles of champagne inside. He closed it, headed for the door, and backtracked. Champagne was for a celebration, and this was a celebration. All the bullshit he’d overcome, this was a perfect reason for champagne. Just a glass, though, he reasoned as he used a key to tear off the foil. Liquor, beer, wine, had never been the real problem, after all. Just something he swore off. Gotta twist this wire shit off. This was different. Pop. Just one glass.
It was easier to swallow than the red wine, but the fizz reached his nose. He squeezed his nostrils and walked back toward the window, looking down over the training center. It was remarkable, really, how despite all the changes above ground, this place stayed the same. They updated it every year, of course, but he wondered if it really looked all that different from some of the earliest Games. Sleeker, most likely, and shinier, but had weapons really advanced that much? When was the last time someone invented a new patented object to kill someone with?
He forgot how small champagne glasses were. It had to only be about four ounces, at most, with all the fizziness of the drink. Hardly the equivalent of a real drink, even a single drink. He poured another glass and turned on the nearest television. It flickered to life, and Calix Crystal’s face was the first he saw. He sat back on the arm of a sofa and watched as another tribute came out. The carbonation hardly bothered him as he gulped down the second glass. He waited, impatiently, until at least the next tribute’s interview to pour another glass.
A jolt went through his elbow as he used it to lean against the door to the staircase, but it was easily ignored as he paused, refilled his glass, and then very carefully went down the stairs. He pressed his thumb over the top of the champagne bottle and used the weighted bottom of the glass to push open the door to the training center. As the door closed behind him, he took a long gulp from the champagne flute. He was drinking from a glass, much more controlled than he’d ever been before. After not drinking for so long, he’d probably have a hangover after finishing this bottle of champagne, but that was just a fun complaint of life. Oh, I’m so hungover. Like it was nothing. It was nothing. He’d just drink water once he got home, and have an extra cup of coffee before his launch shift. That was all it took, right? For everyone else? Why couldn’t he be like everyone else?
He topped off his glass and set the champagne bottle down very, very carefully in a trash can. Flute still in hand, he took a lap around the training center. He touched nothing, just looked at it all with a critical gaze. Noted where things needed unnecessary improvements, like he was the mastermind who would truly change how tributes trained for the Hunger Games. For the Games he thought he was doing something to end, but he hadn’t done enough. Because his foot was always out the door; out the door on the rebellion, on Three, on the Capitol, on this job, on his sobriety, on Evie.
Leaves. He’d scattered leaves across the ground, and put small bombs and sparkers all underneath. How fucking understated, considering what he could’ve done.
Chip took a long sip from the flute, and turned his gaze from a ball of wires to the rack of knives. He approached, taking a couple more sips in the time it took him to close the space. The large blades were still immensely intimidating, but there was a small survival knife that caught his attention. He shifted the glass into his left hand and picked up the knife. He could not clearly make out his own reflection in the blade, but he could make out the silhouette of every person he could cut through with it.
And he could feel nothing. Finally, it was back.
As a child, he’d been sent to several different psychiatrists and therapists. They’d said a lot of words that didn’t make sense to his young mind. A few stood out, though. Intelligent, naturally, stuck to his ego. Shy, like anyone needed confirmation.
Empath. It didn’t make sense, and it made every bit of sense. It explained every lack of expression, or emotion, behind his gestures and tone. He was hiding, because everyone else was so easy to read, so easy to take in. The world was all just a math problem, after all. The warm smile minus the blank eyes minus the sagging posture minutes the back-handed compliment equalled a total lack of approval, of support. It was all so easy, to see facial features, posture, and hear tone, and put it all together into a formula that equated to an unspoken emotion, an emotion that, according to order of operations, affected him last.
He felt Seraphina die first. He wanted to know why, and he dug in. All problems have a root calculation. If one dug deep enough, they could surely find where Chip’s formula met Sera’s, met Freyja’s, met Perl’s, met Vidia’s. If they just got to the core of the problem, that would solve everything.
But who the fuck wanted Chip Foster solved?
The knife was returned to its spot on the rack. Chip finished his drink, and hung the flute ever so carefully on a few spare hooks. He needed to go home, to his house that was now empty, and relax and drink water and recover. He found his way up the elevator, and out to a cab, and said something to the driver, and then was somewhere more familiar than his own new home. Champagne tended to end him up here, so he gave in to old desires. This was controlled. This was just to say hello to old friends, and then head home. Maybe have one more drink, but that was it. The world was starting to get a little less concise, a little less upright, and he shouldn’t push it.
Because it was different this time.
Until the bouncer didn’t recognize him. He recognized the face as a victor’s face, and so Chip was let in, but there was no celebration, no grand welcome that he’d been expecting. A few steps into the club and he could feel his heartbeat eager to be in tandem with the bass. No one’s head turned at his entrance, as he’d expected. His cheeks went pink, not like anyone could see under the dark lights of the club. A bartender he didn’t recognize asked what he was having, and he told her a water. He needed a water, so he asked for it. He could have something that wasn’t liquor, even in this insanely uncomfortable scenario.
Then the manager came out from her office. Chip intentionally or not, who knew how he was acting now, was right in her line of vision. He saw the smile, and he smiled back, finally relaxed. Finally relieved. Finally fucking seen. He didn’t even ask, but a whiskey ginger was placed in front of him within sixty-seven seconds. He counted. He was always fucking counting, it came to him like breathing.
“Nothing’s changed.”
Chip was about to take a sip from his new cocktail but let the glass fall back to the bar suddenly, splashing whiskey and ginger all all over his hand. “I-I-”
“Shut up. You know.”
Chip only gave a slight nod, eyes drifting to his periphery as he took a long, long sip of his drink. He forgot how easy every liquor was to drink once it was mixed with soda. But he’d only have one. And he’d only look once at the stage, and the chairs on the edges where dancers were getting personal with clients. He didn’t recognize most of them, and quickly turned his attention away when he thought one looked at him. He finished off his drink, and waved down the manager to ask for his bill. He paused, and asked for another drink.
He didn’t recognize most of the dancers, but he recognized one. He was already standing when the manager slid him the fresh drink. One sip, and he tasted more whiskey than ginger ale. He swallowed down a gag, and kept walking. He took a seat on the side of the stage, consistently sipping on his drink through tiny straws.
He’d be hungover tomorrow, but that was just part of a stressful work life. He wouldn’t drink again for weeks, probably, at the very least. This was just a final night of fun before the arena. He was fully in control. Alcohol had never really been the problem, anyway.
A money clip always made this easier. He forgot why he got rid of it until now, when he was awkwardly trying to balance his wallet and his drink in his hand.
She took the wallet. He remembered her favorite ploy, that ended with the wallet tucked back in his pocket. He didn’t protest, sitting so stock still it made the final part of the performance almost impossible.
“Chip. C’mon?”
Remembered. She remembered him. He knew enough, logically, to know her manager might’ve whispered his name in her ear. Or maybe it was the victory. Or maybe this was the one arena where he’d really been special and notable.
He pressed his elbows into the sides of the chair and pushed his hips up before sliding down more in the chair. “Jewel. C’mon.”
She mastered that knowing smile, and he knew it. Every ounce of flattery afforded to him in a place like this, he knew was practiced. But that was part of the freedom. To know it was all bullshit but at least he’d be satisfied. He paid her the remaining cash in his wallet for a lapdance, and ordered another drink when the manager came to check on him.
“We still have the VIP room, Mr. Foster.”
“N-Nah, I’m-” He shook his head to deny the offer. He couldn’t afford it with the cash he had. Also, he told himself, he didn’t want it. This was just a night of fun ahead of a few stressful days. He would sleep, go to his next shift, and no one had to know where he was the night before. He’d just have to shower to get the scent off him. And if all it took was a shower, some coffee, and a nap to get him cleared up, well... He could have more fun, right? If everyone else could do it, he could. He was in control of this situation. He knew the actions, and the consequences. And he had room in his schedule for consequences.
When his money ran out, he only had cigarettes left to burn. He knew the way without direction. Through the bar door, through the kitchen, out to the back alley where he could smoke a cigarette in peace. And he had peace, for just a moment. Until Jewel joined him. He forgot this was technically for workers only.
“It’s almost closing time,” she informed him.
“I’m going home,” he replied, he reasoned, he implied. He said, whatever that really meant. He said a lot of things in the last hour he didn’t concretely recall.
“Really?”
“Really.”
This was all about control. He could control this. He could keep this, this thing he refused to apply a noun or verb or anything to, and still live his life. He just had to be careful about timing, careful about who saw him. So he would finish the drink still waiting for him at the bar, and he would go home, and he would have a half gallon of water, and he would sleep until his shift. And if he wanted to do this again, he could. On the weekend. Maybe even have another drink, maybe even do a line, maybe even, maybe even, maybe even...
But it really was all so clear. He could be totally in control this time.
Jewel had finished her own cigarette, and was standing with the back door to the club still open.
“Are you coming back?”
“Yeah.”
