reblrths

[reblrths]

as they lay there on a stiff hospital bed in an underground bunker, limbs aching and sore, wounds still going through the long process of healing, finch can only bring themself to think one thing: death would be kinder. not just for them, for every single person who has ever played a hand in the games, every person in 13 who took too fucking long to get them out. their rage has always run deep but this time they aren’t sure they’ll be able to come back from it this time — they aren’t sure they even want to. their anger is what has fueled them their whole life, that bitter spiteful hatred that, in truth, likely caused this from the start. the only people that had ever had the power to calm them down were dead.

well — except one. head in their hands, finch hadn’t seen her walk in. the moment the door opened, they’re cursing about leaving them alone and fully preparing themself to throw whatever’s closest at the door if they didn’t. they’d spent the last two days or so in and out of sedation — everytime finch woke up, they’d go into a fit of rage. they’re fairly certain their kicking and punching even as they were held down made contact somewhere, and it only made them feel a little better. they’d woken just under an hour ago, still feeling slightly loopy, but now they just seethe.

her voice brings them out of it. when they look up, for a moment they think they’re seeing things. a side effect of whatever drugs they’ve been pumped with — they’d dreamed and hallucinated too much in this awful room. finch is speechless, just looking at her, and their fists clench instinctively around a token that wasn’t there. the rage seems to be displaced for a moment and now they only feel hollow. she sits next to them and the weight of her against the bed nearly convinces them this is real — one person that’s still here. even if they thought they’d never see them again. finch’s mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to make the overflow of words they want to say in their brain make it out of their mouth. they’re still, but their breathing isn’t. “how…. how are you here?” finch asked, confusion clear on their visage. then, budding frustration, though they know it’s likely misplaced. “did you know? about thirteen? about — any of it?”

WHO: Primrose Everdeen & Finch Delval (@reblrths) WHERE: The medic bay, District 13 WHEN: Hours after visiting Katniss

The promise of reuniting with her loved ones brought a sense of peace to Prim, but she already knew being locked underground would make her antsy sooner rather than later. It hadn't even been a full day before Prim asked to volunteer at the medical bay-- insisting that she would be more useful healing the injured tributes than waiting around in her dorm. Plus, this way she could keep a close eye on those she cared about.

Perhaps that's why she found herself wandering over to Finch's room. She told herself it was merely to see if they were okay, but truthfully, their heart had missed Finch from the moment she left their apartment the night of the interviews. She knew the victor may never reciprocate her feelings, but even just being around them was enough to make her content.

She quietly peeked her head into their room, eyes widening when she saw they were awake. Her heart raced as she gently slipped into the room, a light smile perched on her lips as she settled next to their bed. ❝Hey, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?❞

[reblrths]

peeta has been in the capitol for a long time - granted, not as long as some others, but long enough to know they hadn't expected to make any genuine connections while being here. especially during a games where his family is supposed to be competing against other families going back in. but in reality, he simply felt safe with annie - they were both dealing with the same insane circumstances, and no matter what outcome snow intended for it was nice to find a friend here for once.

when she takes his hand, he does not waste a moment squeezing it, taking both hands to hold hers. though the years have hardened him in some ways, peeta would never truly be able to shut himself off completely from the connection of others. in part, it's what got him here. they think of the day outside of the tribute center, walking around the block with her -- if annie needed grounding, peeta would gladly be that for her. they think for a moment at her words, a slight frown on their lips. "i think we just have to take the blessings as they come, annie," they decide. "there's not many going around. but i wouldn't blame anyone if they felt the opposite. it feels like there's more than one game being played."

Annie didn't know Peeta too well, but she knew enough to feel a kinship with the victor. They were the only victors who felt the pain of watching their spouse and child compete in the games--- who lived through that trauma once before, only to find themselves helpless the second time around. She couldn't offer him any comforting words about the current situation they find themselves in, but Annie felt like she could at least offer him company for the time being.

Annie settled in beside Peeta, a soft smile crossing her features before it quickly faded. ❝Only to me. I'm sure the rest of the room doesn't suspect a thing.❞ She listened to his question, a hesitance in her eyes as she thought about the answer. Did she truly know how she was feeling? One moment she felt elated at the extra time to spend with her family, the next moment the realization of their fate began to sink in. After a while, she finally answered, ❝I feel... lost. I don't know whether to feel happy or sad. I just--❞ She paused, reaching for his hand. She needed a tether to hold onto, or else she was afraid her mind would begin to slip away once more, ❝I thought this delay was a blessing, but I'm beginning to wonder if it's just another punishment from the Capitol.❞

[reblrths]

the first thing you learn in this world is that there are few people you can truly trust - doubt, doubt, and doubt again. everything is a performance, you must give them what they want. the hardships endured in twelve instill even worse things in you, but if there is one thing peeta knows they have had, it's a sense of community - peeta has always felt kinship with those in twelve. they struggle together, though he realized too late that even that was not entirely true. peeta and madge were both townies - they had it easier than those in the seam. peeta is grateful for their friendship, especially now. a grounding force, kinship -- this is what they need.

he relaxes a bit once able to recognize their voice. "i - i don't know," he answers honestly. "i haven't looked." he doesn't care enough to look, his own well-being so far down on the list of his priorities at the moment if not the very last. eyes glued to the screen, he struggles to formulate a sort of plan. "i've got to talk to sponsors." he decides. he prays haymitch and effie have more sense than he does at the moment. "that's the only way i'll be able to help them - have they said anything about - about where they're at?" peeta asks, finally tearing his eyes from the screen to his friend.

something is wrong. like a slightly out of tune piano, the current aura surrounding the games felt peculiar. the victors have yet to step foot into the arena, and already does madge suspect that some underlying force would alter the games in ways they least expected. she clutches the charm of her necklace out of a habit, her free hand coiled self soothingly around her waist. it is her obligation as someone who’s never entered the arena, someone who never had a relative reaped (not including an aunt reaped prior to her conception), to remain composed and steadfast— a grounding presence for those around her. it is the least you can do, they remind themself, pleading with their heart to decelerate. 

the count down is replaced with a dull ringing that pervades all her senses. an unfortunate side effect of playing in an orchestra for so long— and one that seemed aggravated further by stressful situations. the crashing of a chair in a nearby room whisks her away from her anxieties. madge shudders in response, whirling on her heels to uncover the source of the noise. 

they are met with their dear friend peeta mallark, a reoccurring presence since their early childhood— and one of the few friends she maintained contact with after her departure to the captiol. their present condition is alarming. madge hurries to his side, eyes returning momentarily to the screen, and it abruptly dawns on her that there is a significant amount of tributes missing. katniss and peeta’s child, for one. she instinctively reaches for peeta and eventually retracts, not wanting to startle them further. compassion is woven throughout her composed demeanor. “you don’t have to apologize for having emotions,” madge insists. “how are your injuries. do you need medical attention?”

[reblrths]

maxim, despite being a twin, was the youngest of his family. he'd been told many times he acts this way, and despite his adamancy that he doesn't see it -- he's never seen it more than when he interacts with the dewitt child. you could say he's getting a taste of his own medicine, but he'd absolutely never admit it. so when he exits the tribute center for one moment of peace (laughable in itself - you were never really alone in the capitol, he knows) and is greeted by the sight of ash dewitt with a lighter in hand, he cannot help but sigh. since when did he become a babysitter?

really, he isn't. he could just as easily walk the other way and ignore that she ever spoke to him. he could save himself the headache of one of their conversations that usually just consisted of bickering and max stooping down to her level. but ash looked upset - not out of the usual for her, but considering two of her sisters were in the games right now, he felt as though it would have been a little rude to leave her alone despite her telling him to fuck off. the thing with maxim crane is that it would take much more than a few mean words to scare him away, and if there's one thing he knows he can do in this situation, it's distract her from whatever is on her mind with stupid banter.

"glory days?" he scoffs, strolling up beside her. "even on my worst skating days am i better than you, dewitt." he rebuts easily, hands stuffed in his pockets. max glances from the lighter to the trash can and raises a brow and speaks dryly. "what is this, a new pastime the kids in the districts have come up with?"

WHO: Ash Dewitt & Maxim Crane (@reblrths) WHERE: Outside of the tribute center, day 2

Ash would never admit it, but Blanche not being on her screen made her scared. She was supposed to be the last Dewitt sibling sent into the arena, not Blanche. Her little sister was supposed to be free from the pain and trauma she went through, but instead, she was nowhere to be found two days into the games. Was she already dead? Or was she out there alone, scared, and fighting for her life? Ash couldn't decide which outcome was worse.

Like always, Ash determined that the best way to cope with this circumstance would be to destroy stuff. It might not have been the healthiest way to express her frustrations, but she long gave up on healthy coping methods after almost dying in her own arena. Instead, she grabbed a few lighters from her room and the trash from the kitchen and set out to distract herself from her family's potential fate.

Ash threw the trash into one of the trashcans and was about to light it on fire when she noticed a shadow lurking behind her. She quickly turned around, eyes narrowing when she realized it was none other than MAXIM CRANE. The man had become a semi-regular presence in her life, but she wasn't quite sure whether he was a welcome presence or not. Right now she was leaning towards an unwelcome presence. ❝Fuck off, Crane. I'm not in the mood to listen to you reminisce about your glory days right now. ❞

[reblrths]

whereas most people in the capitol seem to speak with him in an unkind fashion, or have him question whether they were laughing with or at him, he never had to guess with celestia. mostly because she was too busy talking about herself to really do any of those things, and if alo could appreciate one thing, it's not being the center of attention in a conversation. so really, talking to cece helps way more than it ever hurts, even if he does struggle to keep up with how fast she changes topics. it's usually easy enough to reel back in, though - she was extremely easy to talk to. and after the days he's been having, alo could use a good distraction.

he rubs at his arm where she'd hit him absently, a nervous chuckle falling from his lips. alo nods as she speaks, once again trying to keep up with her. he thinks back to his conversation with the stylist the other day - if he had retained any of that knowledge, he might be able to contribute a little more. "i do the same thing," he admits. "but i also spill stuff on myself with any other color, too." alo considers her resolving statement and tilts his head a bit, "aren't wedding cakes usually white?" he asks rhetorically, mostly to himself.

alo looks at the dress again. he briefly wonders if he should be following these rules too, if perhaps it might make his life a little more interesting to have some constants. and if repeating outfits means they're ruined -- he's ruined a lot of his own clothing. like, most of the outfits he wears. cece's question takes him off guard - so much for getting a break. "uh - um. i don't know, actually," he admits. "i assume so? because the launch is actually one of the biggest parts of the games, you know, everyone likes to tune in to see the start of it, and we could possibly, um, lose viewership if we don't." he rambles, looking over to her. "so i would say yes... do you buy a new outfit for every event?"

Sometimes, Celestia felt like people didn't always take her seriously. Or as though they didn't really care about what she had to say. Which was ridiculous, of course, because Celestia always had fun and interesting things to say, because she was a fun and interesting person. It wasn't her fault that some people were too boring to appreciate that. Aloysius, however, always seemed to have time for her. Some people might find him a little bit awkward, but Celestia didn't mind that he sometimes seemed to trip and fumble over his own words – it just gave her more opportunity to speak, which she saw as a win for everybody involved.

"Lo-Lo, you are literally the sweetest," She says, playfully batting at Aloysius' arm. "And you're totally right, I look amazing in pink – that's why I was so excited to wear it to the launch party today, but it's been, like, postponed, so I got all dressed up for no reason." She huffs, brushing a loose strand of hair back over her shoulder. She shakes her head at the question, "No, I only spill stuff on myself when I'm wearing white. I think I'm like cursed or something – I'm not even going to be able to have any cake when I get married because I'll just ruin my dress." A brief pause, as she considers this, "Unless I get a white cake, then you won't be able to see where it spills. That's such a good idea." She'll need to add it to the scrapbook.

"Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah, this dress." Celestia laughs, "It's ruined because now everybody's already seen it. And I've only got three rules in life, and the first one is to never repeat an outfit, so now I'll have to find something new to wear whenever they redo the launch." Another pause, long enough for Celestia to take a few ( much needed ) breaths. "You like, work for the broadcasting people don't you, Lo-Lo?" She asks, "Do you know if they're going to redo the launch?"

[reblrths]

nazanin has always struggled with stretching herself thin. if she could multiply herself and be several places at once, she would -- especially when things begin to get more and more tense with each day that passes. she knows this is what they've been waiting for, that this is the sole reason they are in the capitol. but it's when she sees her loved ones suffering -- in any way, no matter how small -- it's as if something comes over her, a natural instinct to protect. and no matter how much she would like to, naz cannot be in multiple places at once. so she settles for what she's done since childhood -- follow prudence.

two things were guaranteed when they were together. one, naz felt safe -- there was no performing around prue. there had never been any expectations, nothing to bring except what was authentically her. and two, she did not have to worry what danger her best friend might be in, because no matter where she was, this was a given. all of her thoughts, rambling and coherent alike, would return back to prudence warren like a boomerang.

so it's almost a comfort to know that they were side by side when the city caught fire. it's a comfort until they lose her in the streets and rubble surrounds their every direction, casting them in darkness save for dusty streams of orange shining through cracks in the building surrounding them. they tried to stay close to prue, holding onto her hand for dear life and trying their best to remember the layout of the city but everything looks the same when it's engulfed in flames. everything looks the same when you're underneath the buildings.

the first thing they hear is her voice -- like some sort of beacon, guiding her out of a haze. their neck aches from where they'd been smushed up against one of the fallen pieces of architecture around them. if they're injured more than aching limbs, naz cannot tell from the pure adrenaline coursing through their veins once fully awake, and if they weren't before then hearing prudence beside her is like a bump of the capitol's finest. "i'm here." they manage weakly, though it's more of a croak than a real sentence, so naz tries again louder and coughs through it. they go to open their eyes and squint, trying to make out the curly hair and small frame and panic rises when they can't. "where -- where are you? i can't see you, prue."

ᴡʜᴏ: PRUDENCE WARREN & NAZANIN NABAVI ( @reblrths ) ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: THE CAPITOL – CITY CENTRE ᴡʜᴇɴ: SIXTH DAY OF THE GAMES, IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FIRES

DISTRICT THIRTEEN was many things, but forthcoming was not one of them. The task Prue had been assigned was simple enough – safe enough. Or, at least, this is what Prue had assumed. She'd been instructed to head to the city centre, to keep an eye out for peacekeepers, for Capitol reinforcements. Just simple intelligence gathering – apparently, there was going to be some sort of resistance activity happening later in the day. What, exactly, Prue didn't know – she didn't have the clearance for that kind of information. There had been the consideration to simply go by herself – but when Nazanin had offered to tag along, Prue had been quick to agree. Then again, she was quick to agree to most things that Naz suggested. Especially if it meant spending time alone together.

All had been going well – they'd been scouting the streets for peacekeepers, bantering, and Naz's shoulder had even brushed against Prue's own in a way that made her heart flutter. She'd noticed the hours quickly ticking away – the time that she'd been instructed to return and report back long since having passed. Ordinarily, Prue was a stickler for a deadline, but she had become quickly engrossed in some story that Nazanin was telling, which led to another, and another – and by the time she'd found the presence of mind to tear her eyes away from Naz's lips and to her watch, dawn had slipped into early morning. She'd muttered something about needing to get back – but, before they had the chance, the Capitol started to burn.

She won't ever remember much of what had happened next – she will remember grabbing Naz's hand and starting to run as the building beside them was suddenly engulfed in flames. She will remember the screams of frightened Capitolites as building after building caught fire, as the foundations began to collapse and smoke clouded the streets. She will remember choking on the smoke and dodging debris as more and more of the city centre became an uninhabitable inferno and flames licked at her exposed skin. She will remember seeing blue sky in the distance – and almost, almost making it to safety, before the building in front of their path to escape came crumbling down.

And then, she won't remember much of anything at all.

Consciousness returns slowly. The first thing that Prue becomes aware of is a painful pounding in her head. The second is a raw feeling in her throat, cotton in her lungs. The third is that she is in the dark – surrounded by debris on all sides and trapped by large slabs of concrete. The fourth is a dull throbbing over her arms and legs. She squints against the darkness to see that her skin is red and raw, and her left arm has started to blister painfully from where it was exposed to the flames. The fifth ( and, by far the most important ) is that she is not immediately sure where Nazanin is. They'd been together, hadn't they? Naz had only been here because Prue had dragged them along – and now she couldn't see them.

"Naz –" Prue starts, cutting off as she coughs violently. Her voice is hoarse, but she swallows thickly a few times before trying again. "Naz?" She calls out, louder this time, as tears sting against her eyes. Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay. "Can you hear me?" It's impossible to miss the way that her voice cracks on the last syllable.

[reblrths]

CLOSED STARTER | @wvrricrs

if the fires that had taken to her city shook her, it did not show. there was one thing bellona was sure of, and it was her father's inability to simply stand by and let his authority be undermined -- a snow trait, it seemed, no matter the bloodline. she'd been in the room when he announced the strike on twelve. in fact, she'd suggested they take more than just twelve -- but she knew no such thing could be done. despite its nature, war was a delicate thing -- the slightest wrong move would tear them asunder right alongside those they aimed to destroy in the first place.

her destination was clear even with a jumble of thoughts taking root inside of her mind, something to sort through later when she had more time to put the beginnings of more course of action to fruition -- she was not heartless, after all. a friend was a friend, and nobody was immune to flames. "aria." she croons, a small smile on her lips as she greets the girl. "how are you doing, dear? not too charred, i hope."

[reblrths]

Sarah Shahi for New Beauty by Dennis Leupold | Oct, 2022

[reblrths]

CLOSED STARTER | @gcdeater

maxim had been in the studio when the attack had occurred -- sitting right next to the host when the screaming began, when people poured into the hallways in a panic to see what was happening, when an emergency broadcast was put out for all capitol citizens to evacuate, head to safety, whatever they could do. maxim has felt fear before, been surrounded by various cacophonies of voices, but never like this. never so frantic, never watched his home burn so viciously. he worries for his family, lives in a reality where he may lose more than one member in a week for a moment before he's reassured everyone is fine.

it all goes by in a blur - he'd tried to help get some of the people still within the studio building out just before it caught the flames. luckily, they have other studios to film in, he'd only suffered minor burns and a minor scratch on his forehead from a falling sign dodged at the last minute. he'd gone from spending his day in front of a camera to spending his day getting treated for more injuries - this is no doubt the longest week of his goddamn life.

he sits in the waiting room for longer than he needs to after he's already been treated. he spends most of it ruminating - finds he couldn't care less about whether or not his apartment went up in flames. everything feels so minuscule compared to everything else going on, and part of him longs for when he had cared about such things. it would be far easier to have no conscience at all, he thinks, especially when aurelius comes into view and the first thing maxim asks is if he's alright. he sits a little taller in his seat, like he's expecting something from his brother. news, most likely. "do you have any idea what's going on?" he asks. "actually, it's better if i don't know. i have a feeling i won't like the answer very much."

[reblrths]

if there is one thing she is certain of, it's that not a single person in the capitol can be trusted. but trust has little to do with her job - as long as the quickest and smoothest course of action is executed, bellona could care less who is taken under the current. that includes the children and former victors surrounded by mutant wolves in the arena right now.

she looks to the girl that joins her - libra, if memory serves (she makes a habit of familiarizing herself with anyone who works within the games) - and her brow raises. "it certainly is -- just one big twist out of many. ratings have never been higher. aside from - well, the whole everdeen thing."

libra clearmark & open ( 1 / 3 )

her fingers fly over the keyboard , glowing blue buttons hover in the air before her as libra takes part in this collective condemning of twenty four children . she watches them , the wolves which circle them , those waiting in the tree line , searching for a way to their loved ones . she is despicable , and libra is certain that she needs a break , she needs a drink .

she frees herself of the gamemakers room , walking as fast as her feet will take her to the downstairs bar when she orders a drink , breathless . " pretty big , isn't it ? another twist in the games . . . those poor kids . "

[reblrths]

𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝙶𝙾𝙳, her mind’s like a diamond. bellona snow, capitolite.

➶ i recognise that face! that’s bellona snow, the forty-five-year-old cabinet member from the capitol. they’ve been in the capitol around her whole life, long enough to gain a reputation for being so beguiling & virulent. they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character isn’t part of the uprising )

BASICS.

name: bellona iphegenia snow

age: forty-five

gender / pronouns: cis female, she/her

orientation: bisexual

home: capitol

countenance: helix and lobe piercings

faceclaim: sarah shahi

BIOGRAPHY.

you know luxury before you ever realize who your father is. not biological, of course -- in reality your family had been close to the current president since his peacekeeper days. some might say it's a matter of bad luck that your parents aren't around and you end up being taken in by snow, but you could not disagree more.

you are raised alongside your brother as an equal - your father ensures it. you are loved - despite what many may say about snow, he has never shown you anything but the utmost care, given you opportunities you may have never gotten without his help. you are placed on a pedestal far above anyone's reach - be a god, admirable yet untouchable, your father always crooned.

you call yourself a woman of heart, let someone else piece together if you mean love, or just the blood. (you mean the blood.) people will try to pin reasons for your impatience, your divine anger -- you expect nothing but the best. whether it is handed to you on a silver platter from easy smiles and confidence, a seductive purr on a plush lower lip, or if you have to craft it to life with your bare hands; two halves of yourself delineated by a cracked mirror: not quite biblical, not angelic or demonic, but something infinitely more ruinous. this is how you earn your reputation.

it is no surprise when you are placed on your father's cabinet - a higher position than anyone else might get did they have to earn their keep. but you have been working for this title far longer than when it was officially given, whispering in his ear and silently cleaning up messes that might have ruined everything had you not been there. it is no secret the president is getting older - you are the one who guides decisions that do not come easily to him anymore. you've spent your whole life watching him, learning from him. some might look at you as if you're snow's most loyal dog -- you like to think of it as the other way around, and that they're simply too stupid to notice.

PINTEREST | SPOTIFY

[reblrths]

to their credit, they do try not to laugh. the first thing in their mind is that the viewers must love this, the melodrama with which caius speaks, drawing out his kill. anyone that's rooting for this guy had to be out of their goddamn mind - or maybe they've got it all wrong, and his ruthlessness is exactly what they should be taking notes on to get out of this hellhole -- again.

"helpless lamb?" finch nearly chokes on the words through their breathy laughter. "you sound like you walked right out of a soap opera. you're a real class act, gallio." granted, they should not be prolonging this - they should use this time he's wasting to wax poetic about art and murder and run around him, but when he tosses the axe to the side they figure it's likely too do it the smart way. he cracks his knuckles and they roll their eyes as they make their move -- at first faking him out, attempting to go one way and darting the other, just barely missing his grasp.

Caius had never been the type to linger in the snow. His home was often filled with warm, sticky nights and bright, sweltering days. The rare times he's witnessed snow has been on his way to the Capitol. One might think that upbringing would negatively affect him in the arena, but quite frankly, Caius barely noticed the cold. The excitement and adrenaline in his veins kept his body warm, and where the other tributes saw a snowy wasteland, he merely saw his home. He was right where he belonged, and as he stared down Finch, he was ready to prove it to the audience watching back home.

Their words did nothing but make him laugh--- a sinister, agonizing laugh that could turn anyone's blood cold. He always liked to play with his food, and Finch's sharp tone only made him more eager to fight the victor. ❝Tough words for such a helpless lamb.❞ He called out, continuing his leisurely descent towards the victor. At their demand for a quick death, Caius scoffed, ❝You can't rush art, Delval.❞He slowed down in front of them, head tilting to the side as he examined their haul. Killing them almost felt too easy, so Caius thought he'd level the playing field by tossing his ax to the side. At least then he might get a little bit of effort out of them before it comes to an end. He cracked his knuckles before finally making his move, lunging forward to try and wrap his hands around the victor's throat.

[reblrths]

it feels almost like a mirror to just days ago - when livinia had been the one to try and calm maxim. it was often said twins had a particular way of communicating, and for a lot of his life max had just deemed that cheesy and complete bullshit - but it had always been true, in some way or another, whether he'd realized it or not. usually not, considering the stubborn refusal to believe anything that was not what he already firmly believed in. and yet he watches the fight drain from her expression once realizing who stands before her, and he believes it a little more.

"oh, i'm only reminded of it every time i see your face," he teases dryly, bumping her shoulder a bit as they walk. usually, the tribute center is crawling with people - gamemakers, sponsors, anyone of influence. even peacekeepers - max tries not to dwell too much on their presence, and it's easier when he's in the company of someone else, but in the end it does little when he remembers that he had been surrounded by people before - well. before. "well i won't be the only one of us that eats something. that's embarrassing," he says, already ordering two of the first thing he sees. maxim begins making his - what, third? - coffee of the day but stops short at her words. "it certainly got a reaction," he says, a dry, humorless chuckle falling from his lips. "sure do know how to put on a show, don't we, livi?" sardonicism drips from his tone and his smile is stretched thin across his face as he brings the coffee to his lips.

Livinia has never known a life without Maxim. Well, she's never known a life without any of her siblings, but, with Maxim, it felt different. Most of the time, the twenty-odd minutes that existed between them felt insignificant. A glitch – a failing of simple biology the only thing keeping them from coming into the world at the very same moment. Other times, it felt like a chasm. Like when Livinia held back her brother's fists, or scolded his behaviour. Like now, when Livinia feels herself about to break – lashing out like some sort of feral cat, and Maxim needs to be the one to calm her. He is unique like that – capable of taking the high road when the rest of their family would have lowered themselves to Livina's level in a heartbeat.

Livinia feels the fight drain out of her almost instantly. She's exhausted, cognisant enough to know that's why she'd been so furious in the first place, and that is was also why, the moment Max doesn't bite back, she feels as though she could collapse in on herself. "Thanks." She says, voice dripping with sarcasm rather than vitriol, this time. "We don't all have a personal make up team, you know." She nods at her brother – his face still made up from being on stage. They'd managed to cover the bruising better than she'd expected. Livinia, for her part, had done her makeup – unfortunately, that was about thirty-six hours ago, and she hasn't deigned to look in a mirror since. "The rest of us just have to make do."

She watches Max glance over his shoulder and back again. Huh. Apparently this was a nervous habit they'd both picked up over the past few days. She would say that horrific torture ought to do that to a person, but she was quite deliberately ( and somewhat successfully ) repressing any memories of that night. So, making mention of it would be breaking her own rules. And Livinia Crane is nothing if not a stickler for the rules. "I'm not hungry." She grumbles, but she follows after Maxim all the same. "What did you think of the launch?"

[reblrths]

the joke might have landed if they were anywhere else, if peeta's mind was clearer and able to focus on anything at all. it's just two thoughts playing in their mind - katniss is fighting for her life. rye is missing. in reality, they can barely hear a word that comes out of her mouth. it feels like one big line of interference playing on a loop in their ears, but they do catch one thing she says - it wasn't supposed to go like this. we tried. they turn to her then, as if snapped out of the trance they feel like they are in. katniss is fighting for her life. rye is missing.

"it's not your fault," they assure softly, almost shocked that she so clearly blames herself, at least in part, for what has happened. as if she has had any say in these things as much as peeta has. they find their way onto a nearby chair, thankful to be off of their feet but making sure a tv was in direct view. caesar flickermann's voice greets their ears and they suddenly want the tv on mute. they are silent for a moment before speaking, as if debating on whether or not to really speak to her. "to be honest, talking about it at all might just get me in more trouble," peeta chuckles but it ends in a grimace - no one in the rebellion, save for maybe three, knew about the lie they'd told on stage during the interviews. putting prudence in even more danger than she is already in would not fall on peeta's conscience. it wasn't right. they sigh frustratedly, turning back to her. "doesn't this just feel wrong? it's all off. not just because of --" peeta falters, refusing to speak of his son's whereabouts out loud lest he breakdown completely, and ends up gesturing broadly to the screen. "this whole week has felt off."

There is a sense of relief that comes with Peeta accepting her offer of refuge, and she extends a hand to the victor as she leads him out of the crowded room. She is glad, selfishly, not to feel useless, even for a brief moment. It was beginning to seem that everything she had done in the last few days – hell, in the last few years, since she had first signed her life away to the rebellion – was amounting to nothing at all. The games had gone ahead as planned, and Prue was still left in the dark, without a word from District Thirteen about what was supposed to happen next. And if Prudence was frustrated, she could only imaging how the victors who had placed their trust in. the rebellion must feel.

"I am," She says, nodding as she answers Peeta's question. "Probably not for much longer if Caius has anything to say about it, though." She chuckles softly, though it sounds forced even to her own ears. They're away from prying eyes, now – she glances left and right to make sure that the room she has led Peeta to is deserted, the only signs of life coming from the television mantled in the corner, the games proving inescapable. Prue shakes her head emphatically as Peeta continues, "You've got nothing to apologise for," She says, "If anything, they should be apologising to you."

Maybe it's not fair, what she does next – but Prue has been eaten alive by guilt since the countdown had begun. Guilt that she couldn't stop the games. That her efforts weren't enough. That, now, Peeta's family was paying the price for the rebellion's shortcomings. "I'm sorry, too." She whispers – allowing the facade to slip, but only slightly, always careful of ears in the Capitol. "That this is happening, I mean – we tried, and I –" A pause, and she shakes her head again, "It wasn't supposed to go like this."

She chews her lip for a few moments, before resolving to snap out of her self-pitying stupor. "Do you... um, do you need anything? I can get water, or something, or I can just –" Another pause, "I don't suppose you want to talk about it with a relative stranger."

[reblrths]

Roberta Colindrez

The Cut - Oct 2020

photo by Camille Lepen

[reblrths]

peeta knows better than to be making such a public scene. it was irresponsible - peeta has seen the repercussions of such firsthand. katniss and his' victory tour, four one -- loud bangs still make him jump from time to time. so many innocent lives lost because of them, and now perhaps one more - their son.

so when someone comes to calm him down - to save him really, peeta should be thankful. he's already caused more than one stir in the capitol, he's paid more than enough consequences for it, the last thing he needs is to continue that streak. he needs to be strong, to be there for his family - as much as he possibly can be. which, admittedly, was not much.

they look up to the girl - small in stature, looks like a timid thing, really. but peeta knows how deceiving looks can be, and this girl certainly is no capitolite. over the years, they've become too acquainted with them. that fact should sadden them, that they've had no choice but to become aware of who they speak to, but that's how you grow up in panem when you're on the outskirts of the country. "i have to keep watching," peeta says, gesturing to the tv. then again, there are TVs in every room of this building, making sure no one wasn't watching the games. so they nod, agreeing to follow her out of the room and somewhere quieter. "you're the stylist, right?" peeta asks quietly, once they're away from such prying eyes. "i shouldn't have done that. i've already made quite a mess." he laughs but there's no humor in it, self-deprecating as a sigh falls from his lips.

Prue had wanted, so desperately, for it to have been enough. For the rebellion efforts over the previous few days to have meant something, anything at all. And yet, in the end, it seemed that it had all amounted to nothing. The countdown had still gone ahead, and the bloodbath had commenced. She doesn't feel much of anything as she watches the bloodbath – the profound feeling of failure sitting heavy in her gut, dulling everything else around her. Part of her wants to hope that this is all some sort of master plan – that District Thirteen, her home, would still pull through on what they had promised. But another part of her has stated to lose hope. This isn't how it was supposed to go.

She is only pulled from her thoughts when she hears a commotion on the other side of the room. She is not the only one who turns her head – several other oddly dressed inhabitants of the viewing area each glancing at Peeta Mellark in unison. Though she does not know the victor well, she is instantly hit by another wave of guilt at seeing them – at seeing their rage, their pain. Prue knew what it was like to lose family, but not like this. As the Capitolites in the room become quickly bored when Peeta collapses, head in hands, Prue instead tentatively approaches.

She reaches out a hand, but thinks better of extending it fully to touch, instead letting it over in the air above him until the victor jumps at her approach, mumbling something she can barely make out over the sounds of the broadcast. She crouches down so that she is on Peeta's level, trying to meet his eyes. "Peeta?" She says softly, "My name's Prue." The Capitolites have long since lost interest in the situation – instead going back to their obnoxiously loud chatter about who will be the first to die. "Do you want to go somewhere a bit quieter?" She asks, extending a hand.

[reblrths]

in hindsight, lilith hadn't realized just how many filmmakers resided in the capitol. she should have guessed, considering their affinity for whatever material will get them the next big hit of attention. what's shocking is how many there are, and yet so few of them actually do make it big. standing before the person now, she has no idea who this person is. "this is a public space," she retorts lightly. "i can walk wherever i please. don't you need a permit to film? ever heard of disturbing the peace? you're certainly disturbing mine."

little camera, huh? cressida’s eyes narrow in defense of their camera, resentful of the woman’s mischaracterization. they hadn’t been the one just walking into people’s shots all willy-nilly. there’s no mistaking the other— just as unsettling dewitt sister. (they are aware they’re are more, but these two commanded a special kind of fear. if they weren’t so intimidating, they might’ve made excellent film subjects.) “you’re the one who walked into my shot,” cressida grumbles. “but whatever— i’ve got more than enough footage. no thanks to you, of course.”