lee-hatchett

[lee-hatchett]

[lee-hatchett]

Lee's brow furrowed and he shoved his hands deeper into the pocket of his hoodie. He was less than thrilled to be dragged out into the cold for any reason at all, but certainly for a "mystery." Colton had - as could be expected - been less than communicative with him, but he supposed it was worth it to get out of the Tower one way or another.

"Does this mean you're finally going to tell me what the item is?" he grumbled in response. "Or what it is for? Or literally anything other than, 'Lee, put on some proper pants and meet me downstairs - it's an emergency'?"

Colton felt guilty prying away from watching his tributes, but he had an absolute emergency on his hand and he needed an essential tool for a sponsor party he had been invited to tomorrow night. Still, he didn't wanna go by himself and he knew that Lee had been feeling bad about being in the Tower, so he asked his friend to come with him only telling him it was a vital mission. Rounding the corner onto the block that the building he needed to go was on he smiled at Lee.

"Ok, this is an essential item that we have to hope there wasn't a run on because of the war. If I don't get it, I don't know what I'm going to do, it'll be a crisis."

@lee-hatchett

[lee-hatchett]

Lee snorted into his tea, causing a sudden influx of rather foul odor to invade his nostrils. "Oh god," he moaned. "If Nerissa is considered the 'good' sister for her to have an evil one, I don't ever want to meet her."

What an odd place their lives had led them to, that these murderous delights might become such banality. That they could curl up in relative comfort, both opposed to the thing on the screen, but cheering them on in their own small ways, knowing it meant the end of them.

"Yeah," he said with a small sigh. "Hard to know what to root for. No winners in all that."

"Maybe snow's evil sister will do it." Linden laughed, clearly not believing it, just entertaining absolutely absurd ideas for her own entertainment at this point. she was tired, she was broken, but they were laughing together. Life could be good like this. Complicated but good.

"No." Linden agreed, looking at the screen. "or, if it's bad, I'm bad too. Not sure which."

[lee-hatchett]

Lee welcomed the touch, gently resting the side of his head against hers. His laughter was becoming shorter, dryer, and airier the more Linden coaxed it out of him.

"Yeah. Can't imagine the Vox is breaking anyone out of their own Arena." His voice dropped in volume, recognizing there were any number of cameras and microphones around. Even their own phones, set to buzz at a moment's notice if their Tributes did anything notable, could probably hear and report on them.

"Is it bad I kind of hope it is short? Just one, quick, final Games and then we can leave it all behind us?"

Linden smirked, leaning further into him, her head falling on his shoulder. She pulled her legs up onto the couch too, leaning back into it with him. The comfort was good. the feeling of companionship was needed. "Maybe." She agreed, unsure. But she believed Lee's idea, mostly because she trusted him. He seemed certain. "Don't want to give them time to break out?" she suggested.

[lee-hatchett]

He let out a small chuckle. "I forget." But a dry smile cracked his face and he glanced over at her with a wink and the smallest of nods.

He leaned back in the couch, gathering the blankets around him. Images of violence flashed across the television, falling almost idly on his vision. It was as if it were the weather, the way people wielded weapons against each other. He found his heart going out to the people he knew more so than the Tributes in the Arena: Cat was out entirely, but Colton still had both of his Tributes in the running.

"I just, uh," he sighed. "Think this one's gonna be a short one." The Arena was small, historical, and packed to bursting with Mutts.

Linden dropped down beside him, taking the blanket and leaning her shoulder against his. She wilted, next to him. He seemed tired, broken, and there was a part of her that was too. When she was a mom, a mentor, she wasn't allowed to break. but she could right now. what was he going to do? break more?

"Promise." she said, looking at the screen. The boy. Willow. Then back to that poor kid from three stepping off on one, not after. blasted sky high. She was silent, as he took a sip, taking a long moment of silence and solace beside him. and then, the awkward question. "Was I your favorite?" she asked.

[lee-hatchett]

Lee was huddled on the couch of the D7 apartment with three different teas, piping hot in front of him. A dark, rich black tea for caffeine and energy, an earthy, ginger-based herbal tea for tension control, and a subtle green tea that smelled slightly of skunk. That last one was for... well, everything. He had spent the morning much the same as he spent every launch: wrapped in blankets and staring stonily at the television.

"They are," he echoed, his voice a bit cracked from stress. He shimmied one of his blankets off of his shoulders, offering it to her as consolation. The television cut between the two of them, cementing the fact that both D7 Tributes were safe, but quickly returned to the Bloodbath which was still "exciting." Twelve of twenty six; in a normal Games, it would be half over by now.

He hummed gently at her statement. "'sfine," he said, scooping up the foul-smelling tea and taking a sip. "Ultimately only one can come home, though. So if it's not your favorite, make sure you forget you had one."

@lee-hatchett

"They're alive." Linden debreifed, although Lee certainly already knew. it was evening, Elowyn playing with some kind of plastic magnetic tile toy in their bedroom, and Linden sought out lee. his advice, his comfort, his opinion. She needed him like a tree needed sun. "And I have a favorite. between them." She knew it was okay, when one was alder. was it okay when neither were old friends, when she had a favorite between two tributes she was meant to mentor evenly?

[lee-hatchett]

He nodded, taking a moment to appraise Willow. She was quintessentially District Seven, down to her name. "Yeah," he agreed gently. "Can be. This isn't... a very Seven place. Only thing I can tell you about that, though, is that's kind of... part of it. They all want to see a little bit of Seven." He sipped his tea.

"Think about it this way: almost none of the other Tributes have traveled through the Districts. You very well might be the only person they've ever met from Seven. And for any Capitolites? You're certainly the only interaction they have. So just by virtue of you being here, from Seven... That's most of the battle already."

His brow furrowed at his own words. How mortifying it must be to hear that: that she was to be a representative. A token. An avatar of Seven. "We just have to figure out how to make that Seven weirdness... work. In training, in the Arena. However we can."

"Oh, well, thank the gods," Willow said, mimicking Lee's smile. She liked that Seven was a bit of a misfit group – though she supposed she should've realized that between meeting Alder and Linden and well, now, Lee. He seemed even-tempered, compared to the rest of the lot. It was a relief, in a way, to not be the odd one out.

"Being myself is a little hard, though," Willow commented as she gave a pointed glance to the room around them, "They have us in a fish tank, doing something that is not...in pretty much anyone's routine, right?"

[lee-hatchett]

Lee felt like a ghost in the Tower. Perhaps it was by design, but the white walls had a way of stripping his mind of thought and putting him into a trancelike haze. But luckily for him, he knew one very good antidote for this: tea.

There was an upper level viewing room that he had spent some time in the other day in a brutally failed attempt to woo what few Sponsors were around the Tower in which he had spotted a rarity: high quality, silk tea bags. They were practically a luxury in and of themselves at this point in the economy of Panem (so of course the Games staff had found a way to get them for the elite). Feeling like a cat burglar, Lee padded towards the room in his sweats and oversized hoodie, angling for some of his own.

He pushed the door to the room open and gently slipped inside. He was halfway to the drink cart when someone spoke. He yelped, leapt in the air, and pivoted fully around before he realized whoever this was was not a threat. He pressed a hand to his chest to steady his suddenly-racing heart.

"Holy shit crackers -" he gasped. "No - fuck, oh my god - no, you're fine. I just. Tea. Good tea up here and I -" He took a moment to pull a full breath through his nose. "Sorry. My bad. Didn't realize anyone would be here this late. Lights go out and all."

It had been a late night in the studio with last-minute touch-ups on the outfit he had designed for the interview. Working late into the night, rather than head back up to Eight's floor, Astorian had decided to set himself up in one of the viewing rooms with a blanket and his sketch pad. Deciding to draw up looks for a future collection he was planning, it wasn't long before he dozed off. He didn't know how long he was asleep for, but he heard someone coming into the room, and he felt himself stretching and yawning.

"Sorry...sorry I didn't know anyone was planning on using this room." He was trying to get up out of the seat, which was proving more difficult than usual. "I don't wanna be in your way sorry."

[lee-hatchett]

Lee found an actual chuckle at Greer's astute observations. Linden had adapted almost eerily well to life after Victory, though he attributed much of that to Ellie; Linden kept herself plenty busy and distracted. Plus, she hadn't had the 'typical' Victor post-Games experience, what with the rebellion and all. "If I could find a way to bottle what Linden has, I'd be richer than all the Capitol together."

He shrugged at her continued questions. "I think it's in the air up there. No one's quite 'normal.' Though, I guess I'd actually say the rest of Panem is who's weird - Seven is just home to me. Those are my neighbors." A dry snort fell out of his nose. "Exactly. 'specially when I've apparently spent the last several years pissing off Sponsors 'cuz I was home with my dad."

Greer grimaced on Lee's behalf. She would've loved to say that she was doing the same as Alder, but the truth was that Greer hadn't even spoken to her tributes enough for that. It was better that way. "You jus' gotta tap into all that misplaced optimism Linden's got goin' on," Greer teased without really meaning anything by it. Greer knew first-hand how supportive Linden could be.

"What is with y'all an' the weirdos?" She asked, and the question was sincere. "Is all'a Seven jus' like that, or is your reapin' bowl rigged for it?" Their tributes seemed to regularly have some kind of intense spiritually that wasn't common in much of Panem. "Yeah, I hear ya," she agreed. "Honestly, I don't think it matters what we do," Greer admitted. "You either get a tribute who's got what it takes and gets lucky, or most'a the time, you don't. Don't think three days'a trainin' and us tellin' 'em to smile for Calix fuckin' Crystal actually matters a whole lot."

[lee-hatchett]

A ghost of a smile tricked across his lips as she spoke. "That's the thing - lumberjacking didn't particularly suit me. But I was still five years out from figuring that out and moving to admin or a paper mill or something. But I was thrown in at eighteen. More than half my life has been this. Didn't get a chance to, you know, make a change. Figure it out."

He quirked an eyebrow at her as she continued. "Sign language, eh?" Another phantom passed through his brain and he instinctively held out his hand, wrapped around the cup. His other hand folded neatly into an ok sign and he dipped it into what would be his empty hand, instead bouncing it off the lid of his tea. "Tea," he said softly. "One of the few words I know. A uh, friend of mine taught me that one once."

He blinked the memory away. "Well, if this really is it... who says that can't be the next chapter of Ms. Merielle Sands?" He tried to inject some levity into his words, but like all of this conversation, the ifs and hopes hid in the crevasses like monsters in the night, waiting to snatch these would-be realities back into fictionality.

Merielle’s arms crossed tightly over her chest as she listened, her gaze intent on Lee. When he finished, she let out a quiet breath, her jaw tightening as she tried to imagine who she would be without the Games and came up blank.

She looked down, her voice soft but steady. "I was fourteen when I won. The Games have been my entire life. First surviving them, then helping others survive them - or at least trying to - so I’ve never had anything else. No other job, no other path." Her lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers gripping her elbows as if holding herself together. "So trying to imagine Panem without the Games? It’s not just imagining a different world; it’s imagining a different me. And I don’t think I know who that is."

Her eyes flicked back to him, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. "I, personally, think being a lumberjack suits you. Plus, it's comforting, in a way. To know you can see yourself outside of all this." She hesitated, glancing past him as though searching for something invisible. "I think if the Games had never existed, I’d just be…some kid from Four. Maybe I’d have worked on the docks, or helped with the kids - maybe I'd be teaching sign language." A romantic fantasy of a life that didn't exist.

[lee-hatchett]

Lee shook his head with a small smile on his face. "I guess you're right about that," he muttered as Colton guided him back into the lobby. He couldn't stop the inhale of breath as white tile and glass reflected again directly into his brain, but maybe the hat did something to protect him - because before he knew it, they were outside again in the cold air.

With a scoff, Lee quickly took the hat off his head and returned it to Colt's. "No, no. If I'm gonna do that, I'm at least gonna get one that fits right." He said this with a small smile. Colt had always been the overly generous type - it was something they had initially bonded over, in fact. "Plus, no one is looking to Lee Hatchett for trendsetting."

Colt was shaking his head as he finished cleaning up his shirt and coat, pulling them both back on. Lips pursed, grin on his face his eyes narrow. "Nuh-uh, no way are you the sane one. We're both Victors. And nobody gets outta the games sane. Some people are just better at hiding their new quirks than others." Wrapping an arm around Lee's shoulder, he pulled him in close as they headed back out into the lobby.

"A walk sounds nice, yeah, and trust me, buddy, I could never judge you." Grinning a little bit more, "Except I will say I think that hat suits you more than it does me. Keep it, start a new trend in Seven."

[lee-hatchett]

A dry exhale forced its way out of Lee's nose in absence of a laugh. "Sounds about right. Worst part is: that's my job on our team. Linden's still too fresh to the Mentoring and I don't trust Alder to not help them find the best place to jump from." He shook his head.

"We've got a weirdo and a recluse this time, too. Typical D7 fare, but always... I don't know. You always hope that one of these days you'll get someone who just... Doesn't know what they're in for. Or they do, and they know what to do. Not that anyone knows what to do in an Arena."

“Right,” she nodded, trying to keep her expression neutral despite the grim circumstances. It was logical to assume that someone would call Lee if there was anything he needed to know. That he hadn’t been called meant that it was probably more or less fine. “Like keepin’ your tributes from tryin’a launch themselves off the roof?” A dark joke that was also not a joke at all. If his tributes were anything like hers, that’s what he was worrying about. “‘Least I’m assumin’ that’s what Colt’s up to anyway— pep talkin’ ‘em for the win, instead'a lettin' 'em take their chances with the force field.”

[lee-hatchett]

Lee's mouth fell open in slight bewilderment. "I mean, yeah." His brow furrowed. "My parents had them their whole lives, my grandparents too. Might even go back another generation past that." He blinked, trying to will his imagination to kick into high gear, but it stalled out.

Still, he revved the engine at her question. What would he be without the Games? "I'd be a lumberjack still," he said gently. "But that's not right. Not 'still.' I never would have stopped being one." The tires of his mind were still stuck in the mud, but he was trying.

"But that's if the Games never had happened. If they stopped, for real? I can't just forget that they once existed." His head was starting to ache from the intensity of his scrunch. He pressed the warm cup of tea to his forehead in an attempt to iron it out a bit. "But if they had never happened - or, like never existed - would I have been a lumberjack? What would Panem even look like?"

Merielle stopped with him, watching Lee with a quiet understanding. "It’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?" she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of bitterness. "The Games have been everything for so long - identity, punishment, entertainment." It was like they’d taken root in them, twisted into everything they did now, took over everything they knew.

She sighed, frowning down at the floor. "But maybe that’s the problem. None of us can picture a world without them, so we just keep spinning in the same circle, convincing ourselves it’s the only way." Her gaze returned to him, and softened slightly, though her tone stayed steady. "You’re not alone in that confusion - Victor, Mentor, Rebel - none of it makes sense anymore." She hesitated, then added quietly, "What if it’s not about understanding what it all means, but about figuring out who we are without it?"

[lee-hatchett]

There was little that could be said to lighten the mood unfortunately. Lee's mouth pulled into a small line. "Trying to tell myself that, at least," he said. "And when I got the call myself that we'd have to be back here... I haven't been able to keep an eye out, y'know?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "But Blue or Ma would call if." He shook his head. "So. Can't worry about it. Got plenty here to worry about."

"Yeah, guess it worked out this time." The odds apparently were in their favor this time around. As long as this remained as the last Games then it had been the right choice. Not that Greer was involved in making it. She'd never had a say in anything that happened regarding her family, and now, she'd put herself firmly in the position of last to know— mutually.

Greer nodded as Lee spoke. "Nurse is probably the best thing to be, if you gotta be out there," she offered. "Doubt they're lettin' medical staff get as close to the action." Though, Greer didn't actually know if that was true. Maybe Lee's sister was right on the front lines with the soldiers. Maybe she was back at some makeshift base treating patients away from the field. Who knew? "S'a good rule'a thumb," she agreed, glad she'd managed to guilt Mahlon into at least a few letters back. "She's probably jus' real busy. Probably ain't gettin' a lotta time to sit down an' write, or call, or whatever."

[lee-hatchett]

Lee nodded. "Me too. And my parents. And their parents, too." He stood for a moment, stunned by just how long these Games had been in Panem's history. What had been lost over those years? What had been learned? Remembered? Forgotten? Lee genuinely couldn't imagine a world without the Games. Try as he might, he simply could not fathom it. Maybe a Games that went back to an annual schedule. Maybe a Games that was scaled down and not so elaborate. But truly, a world without the Games? No one in over a hundred years had dared think it. Why would the Vox be any different?

He shook his head, trying to escape the thought. "I get it," he said gently. "Back when I knew what... this meant." He gestured between the two of them. "What Victor versus Mentor versus... whatever else meant. Now I'm all confused."

There it was again - hope - like it permeated the air they were breathing, like it might eventually suffocate them. Merielle took a deep breath to steady herself. His was a valid question, what else could Panem offer aside from violence? Instead of picking names from a bowl and watching them fight to death?

She didn’t have an answer, or not one that felt useful anyway. "I don’t know," she admitted, her voice soft. "I've only ever known the Games." She resisted the pull of weariness, fighting the urge to sink to the ground in defeat. "I mean, before the recent attacks, I was teaching Capitol kids how to play hopscotch. Strange as it sounds," she added with a faint, almost bitter smile, "I almost miss it, y'know?"

[lee-hatchett]

A small smile pressed its way into Lee's lips. He allowed a large sigh to fall out of his body. "Yeah. The trick is making it likable. Good news is: District Seven has built somewhat of a brand around weirdos. So if that's who you are, you're already giving them exactly what they want to see."

He leaned back against the counter for a moment. "It's not so much about being yourself as it is figuring out what version of you they want to see. But that's more for me to figure out, so don't stress too much about it. If you're weird, lets lean into that, and I'll keep an eye out for what people are saying."

He paused for a moment, with another thought in his brain. They. People. Who were these people now? Would old Sponsors reemerge, or would there be new ones, hungry to get their slice of the last pie? Or would there be no one - everyone wanting to watch the end of an institution as it purely falls apart?

She gave a heavy sigh, curling back inward toward herself – she wanted to thrive in the arena, more than just survive. Willow had watched the videos of previous Games, focused on the Careers, how they'd behave, how they would work around the arenas. It frustrated her she didn't have those skills because those felt more surefire to get out of there alive than any nurturing skills she had to offer.

"I talked to Linden about getting people to like me and she was telling me to just 'be myself' but I..." Willow trailed off, mouth still slightly open as she thought aloud, "I don't know if that will be helpful for me – I know I'm weird and not the perfect person for these people to want to back but I want to figure out how to make these weird parts likable...so...help?"

[lee-hatchett]

Lee caught the hat haphazardly, fumbling for a moment. Once he got it under control, he sat it atop his head, knowing no better way to store a cowboy hat. "Hate to break it to you, but I think I'm just the sane one between the two of us." He said this without irony, with someone else's cowboy hat tilted backwards on his head and a comically small cup of tea clutched in both of his hands.

"I'd appreciate it. Hell, even just a walk around the block a couple of times would help. And don't judge me if I completely disassociate when I have to walk back through the lobby on our way out."

"If I'm a weirdo than I hate to see what that'd make you." Looking into one of the mirrors that lined the wall, Colt pulled off his hat throwing it at Lee. "Hold that for me man." Pulling off his coat and the flannel standing there in a tank top, he started to dab at them to get the milkshake out. "So fun fact, working in the bad place I did, I learned how to get stains out pretty fast, because my ma and pa didn't really have the stuff to get them out without some work. I don't if life in Seven lead to a lot of messy clothes. Wood chips in your beard? Wait you didn't have a beard as a kid did you? I knew a kid who did, he was like 15, and boom, there it was."

Colt nodded a little, chewing his lip. "When I'm done with this, I wouldn't mind going out with you, getting you away from this. We could go to my place, your place I have about fifty million games lying around for when my nieces and nephews are here.....ya think Vox opened the zoo back up yet?"