slate-skylar

[slate-skylar]

Slate held out the pizza in front of him like an offering, but also a protection. "I'm fuckin' tired, man. Do you wanna split this? Eat ourselves sick?" He hoped she'd say yes, take the offering; he simply couldn't keep losing people.

She'd spent the day fiddling with tech, avoiding sponsors and mentors and – much of anyone. Cat felt more in the way than helpful to the people from Six. District loyalty had certainly died with her when she found herself favoring Juno more than her own Tributes but then the bloodbath happened and they were gone within the first blow. She prayed there wouldn't be a next time where she'd have to leave Six disappointed again.

The elevator opened with a ding and her ears perked up. She was the only one meant to be here but then – Slate. Cat groaned for second, burying her head in her hands, because that was another thing she had so wholly fucked up. She pushed up from her bed, where she had been rotting, and out the door. "Coming!" Cat called down the hall as she approached. Her arms crossed over her chest and she gave a raise of her brows as he finally came into view, "What's up?"

[slate-skylar]

Slate nodded. "I'll pass it on to Cress. I had guessed it might be something like this... I do like it better than other options they could have used. A smaller footprint. Less expensive, that's for sure. But you... I mean, this is your whole thing, yeah?" He smiled, though a smile felt odd on a day like today.

Denver had calmed down a bit in the hours after the Bloodbath. She wasn't sure what she was feeling, but it wasn't the panic that had risen through her when she first saw the arena, or the waves of sadness that pummeled her with each cannon blast. Now she needed food. She needed to write her reports, an obit and a recap. She needed to be loyal to the Vox, or they would surely kill her, or lock her up again. She needed to-

And there was her boss himself. She wondered how much Cress would have told him about the arena beforehand. Was this why she was called from the front lines? Not because she could spin the story the best, but because she knew the arena the most intimately? She was a damn scholar on this arena.

Denver nodded and smiled, unsure just how much or of what her face betrayed. "Ideal," she repeated. "If I were to have designed a final arena, it would be exactly this." Her voice cracked as she said it, but she tried to push through. "Yeah, give my compliments to the Gamemakers. This is...this is really special."

[slate-skylar]

Slate felt that he and Cat had reached a tentative agreement, a truce of understanding. They both felt stuck, like their hands were tied, but neither was the enemy. He wanted to continue to repair the friendship, though, as it was important to him -- she was important to him. So he made his way to the sixth floor, balancing a pizza box in his hand, and when the elevator doors opened, he called out, "Cat, you around?"

@catmillers

[slate-skylar]

Sed and Iggy had both made it through the Bloodbath, which had been as it sounded -- lots of unlucky souls this time around with no opportunity to go any further. He was feeling relieved, and yet he also worried, because this Arena did not play to their strengths very well. Unless the team managed to get them their weapons of choice, things were pretty dire. There was no trapping of animals, no foraging. Nothing that someone from Twelve would know how to do. Slate was glad he'd spent as long as he had with them working on fighting skills, given the terrain.

"Hey, Denver," he said, snagging her by the arm as he spotted her walking through the lobby. It was a few hours after the Bloodbath and he'd been asked to get someone to write something up about it for the T0MMY. Ridiculous, stupid -- TH3 T0MMYKN0CK3R isn't a damn Games reporting station -- but he had to go with it. "How're you feeling? This is kinda your ideal arena, right?"

@denverneumann

[slate-skylar]

Slate did as she'd wanted -- he let out a slight gasp at the press into the bruise, though he enjoyed it and she knew it -- aroused him, excited him. Pain was so similar to pleasure, and in a life like his, he'd had to learn to enjoy both equally.

"Yes, or more," he said, coming close to her now, cupping her cheek in his hand, returning her push for pain with a push for pleasure. "Victory," he whispered, closing the distance between their lips, intent on showing her just what victory could entail.

[slate-skylar]

Slate snorted a humorless laugh at that. "I don't know if I have the energy for that," he admitted, though awhile back, before his Games, before his imprisonment, he'd have said he'd have energy for as long as it took. Whatever it took. Now, he just wanted to set up at home with Cress, Kya, and their friends. He wanted them to be safe but effortlessly so. He didn't want to fight to make it happen. "We've already done so much, been through so much."

It resonated, something deep in her gut – mainly because she hadn't heard anyone else actually voice what she feared. That they were evil, the same as Snow and that regime. "Feels like we're the bad guys," Cat agreed, voice hushed. She tracked his gaze over the training center; different kids who were as unlucky as they had been to fall under the thumb of a dictator trying to scrounge up skills so they might live. "Think we were like, dunno, workin' from the right place but –" Cat cut herself off and gave a laugh, "Makes me wanna torch the whole thing again 'til we get it right."

[slate-skylar]

He had never been good, was the thing -- he was unpracticed, trying out muscles he hadn't known he had, and ones that certainly were weak from disuse. And he wanted her badly, right now, though he also -- if equally -- wanted her to show him what was going to happen next, to continue to open up these new feelings, experiences. Never had he felt so submissive, so well-behaved; never had he felt so out of control, and happy to be so. He whined, "But I'm not good, Cress--" as waves of pleasure mixed with pain, delicious, spread through him from his base.

"I know," Cress cooed, saccharine sweet, bordering condescension. Could she be blamed when Slate sounded like that? Looked like that? What was she expected to do -- observe? Cress' desire was tactile. Corporeal. He reached for her, and she obliged, crawling closer until they merged, his collapse inevitable, though premature. They were far from finished, and Cress wasn't ready to permit his release. His mouth was frantic, fueled by the hunger she'd seen in District Zero. Nearly otherworldly, almost inhumane.

"Stay here," Cress instructed, dipping back, though it was difficult to separate. Her breath came labored against his lips, body trembling with her last ounce of restraint. "Be good and wait." Then she was gone, disappeared from beneath, rummaging needily through the trunk in their closet.

[slate-skylar]

Slate did as she'd wanted -- he let out a slight gasp at the press into the bruise, though he enjoyed it and she knew it -- aroused him, excited him. Pain was so similar to pleasure, and in a life like his, he'd had to learn to enjoy both equally.

"Yes, or more," he said, coming close to her now, cupping her cheek in his hand, returning her push for pain with a push for pleasure. "Victory," he whispered, closing the distance between their lips, intent on showing her just what victory could entail.

Cress basked in his praise, in the warmth of liquor and the stretch of muscles that were sore. "Or more?" It was a ploy, a cloying innuendo. Admittedly, there was little Cress found more arousing than a well-executed scheme. Slate knew that, playing into her machinations. She was grateful to be indulged. "Yes, precisely," Cress purred, imagining the pieces moving, bodies once again inhabiting these catacombs. "A use for the money that's lost its value--" Which would surely supplement their lost victor salaries. "And for the remaining ether--" Her fingers crawled up his leg, until she found a tender spot, one that would surely bruise. Cress pressed, wanting to draw out a whimper, a cry of pain. "To soothe." So what if she was trying to coax him into another tryst? Wasn't that what everyone was seeking -- escape? Release? Points were meant to be proven. Games were meant to be played. "To celebrate victory."

[slate-skylar]

He allowed Cress's touch, not flinching away as he'd have done were it anyone else -- and he knew she was signaling for him to calm down, but he had no intention of doing so. "But it has changed for the better, Cress is right -- there's already more available. Once again, Link, you're only looking at your own life." He seethed. "In Eleven, people are finally able to eat from their own orchards. In Ten, they're drinking the milk from their own cows. In Twelve, they're heating their own homes with portions of the coal. It's not perfect, but I'm sorry that you don't get your little middle-class fantasy anymore. Even now, you're still not fucking starving, you're a Victor. And you can't even look past your own experience." He glanced at Cress, the anger in his eyes evident, asking her to back him up on that point -- even if there were flaws. "There are kinks we have to work out, but it's a hell of a lot better than the fucking Tarren. Do you hear yourself?"

@cress-meadowforge

Cress scoffed, lips parted incredulously at the blatant disregard for her statements, for any point she was trying to make. Both of them had breezed past it, so wrapped up in the details of deception, of allegiance. But it was a game she'd been playing far longer (and for better), so she let them carry on singing self-pitying tunes. Cress had been a pawn the longest. Her sister had died first. Every horrid landmark had been past prior, her own sorrow having had time to ripen, and wilt, and decay. Scabs and scars she'd learned to drape in finery. Slate and Link, though, were still slashed open.

Cress touched the small of Slate's back, gaze measured. Easy. Breathe.

"If Panem can change, then so can we," she spoke, searching within herself for belief. "We've all committed affronts to ourselves and others as a means of survival. Perhaps there is more available to us on the other side of this war."

@linkcache

[slate-skylar]

TH3 T0MMY crew + this twitter meme

[slate-skylar]

Slate nodded. "It's okay, I mean... shit felt a lot more simple back then. It was straightforward. Now I feel like we're the bad guys, when I was so sure... I was so sure we were the good ones." He peered around the training center in defeat. "And we just routed everyone back here."

"I miss that," Cat confessed, offering something like a grimace. She could envision it, all of them trapped together – or out in Free Eleven all together. It was a unity she missed because it felt like in the aftermath they were all so divided, that it was all so divisive where they'd landed on the other side of the revolution, no one was happy, everyone was alone. "I'm just..." She trailed off and let her head hang as if to find the words, "Look I'm sorry for bein' a dick I just – wanna go back t' last year when we all, like had each other."

[slate-skylar]

It was true, they would call her vain, and he allowed her that with a nod, continuing to work into her muscles. "You've just written the ad copy, my love," he said, humming in pleasure as she spoke because her words were beautiful, and he liked what she said. "Carnal, violent. With a mat for sparring. Or more." He thought for a moment. "No weapons. Just fists. Fair fights. And alcohol, of course."

"They'll call me vain, no matter the theme," Cress countered, though she did so while smiling. Slate's fingers worked against the muscles, kneading tender flesh, and Cress made a pained noise, short and brief. Pain was par for the course, though, so she stayed still, letting him do as he pleased.

"But if you thirst for blood, then so it shall be. Panem is at war, and we can offer relief--" Her eyes closed, and she could picture it: the thrum of a crowd, the smell of sweat staining the air, mixing with the metallic copper of blood. And yet, she was not ready to forfeit the gilded machinations of before. Cress' shoulders sank, easing, granting release. "Be it a haven for the imagination -- the last remaining indulgence from the old world," she hummed, content with the web they were weaving, the scheme that was beginning to unfold, "or a violent delight. A melding of desires: carnal and cruel, brutally refreshing."

[slate-skylar]

Slate dodged the punch, though it ended up being a feint, and instead nearly lost his balance as her foot hit his leg. He used the energy of what could have been a fall to throw himself to the side and toward her, with the aim to knock her to the ground beneath him. "It depends on the partner," he said truthfully. He liked sparring with a good partner.

Sable feigned a punch and then swept her leg out to collide her foot with Slate's leg. She twirled a bit to maintain balance, a bit more like a dance than something her power player sister might do, but it worked and she ended up back on the balls of her feet, ready for whatever Slate threw at her.

"Do you like sparring?" she found herself asking, a natural curiosity taking over. "Or is there another area you prefer for training tributes?"

[slate-skylar]

"No metaphor can go on too long," Slate said with a half-smile, joking along with her -- because of course, one could belabor a metaphor quite easily, and he was sure he did it all the time. "But they do have the right claws. I'm sure of it. I just... they're also becoming a bit attached to each other, which I worry about. The other tributes will probably see it as a weakness."

Denver nodded. When she'd fought for survival, those few weeks at BEEF, it hadn't been anything like an Arena, of course, but there was a weight to it, for sure. She'd had to keep moving, keep going, for Cain and for Monty and for herself. The only way out was through. Denver wanted to ask more about Slate, about his arena and that part of himself he'd had to unleash, but she didn't want to be rude. "Do Iggy and Sed have the right claws, do you think?" Denver asked instead. "Or am I just stretching this metaphor a bit too thin?" There was a half-hearted, self-depricating chuckle that she tacked onto the end of her words, the kind of sound she never would have made when she first got to the Tower. How had everything changed so fast?

[slate-skylar]

He hadn't been aware of that -- he and the rest of the team had all kept things pretty quiet, their sources mostly unknown even to each other in order to protect everyone. That had been proven to be the smart move, as Snow had, of course, tried to torture everything out of him.

"So what do you want?" he asked, deflating only just slightly. "Accolades? Do you want your name on a banner? You played both sides for a second. Congrats, everyone has played both sides. Everyone's lost shit. Family." His eyes fell to the floor for a moment, he sputtered out -- Ansel had died in the bombs, the ones that fell because Slate had been in the Arena, which had happened because Link had turned him in, which had happened because -- it could go on and on. The webs were so tangled.

@cress-meadowforge-

How are you agreeing with each other? Cress' brows arched, "That you have little room for false righteousness, and that the Games are an effective tool to quelling discordance among the districts? It all seems rather plain to me." There was additional context and nuance, of course, but these felt true at their core.

"I'm pleased to hear that your positionality grants you some emotional distance, some illusion of a lack of responsibility." It was a luxury Cress had not been afforded. She knew exactly how much blood was on her hands. Every time she looked down, she saw the stains, the crimson dye along the maps of her palms -- head, and heart, and life lines. You would have to put a bullet in my head before you could convince me to use my brain against people that way. "Perhaps if you had, you would not be one of the only living victors from Three." It was a Gamemaker's responsibility to create what would destroy. It was a Mentor's role to bring a victor home. They each had their place in the great fabric of things. She refused to be shamed.

"You wish to speak frankly," Cress' eyes fell sharply onto Link. "Very well. Look at me and say that your sense of justice is greater than your loyalty. No--" A laugh, harsh, her head turning, drawn instinctually to look at Slate, at what he signified. "No, I know that." She had taken him, taken the one thing Cress had ever been permitted. "Let me rephrase." A clearing of her throat, spine lengthening as she drew up straight. "Tell me that there is a limit to what you'd do for your family. Tell me you would not protect them, if you could. That you would permit their deaths, or their suffering. You know loss. Are you eager to replicate it?"

@linkcache

[slate-skylar]

It was entirely his now; she'd moved her hand away and he held his position, his body shaking with pleasure, biting back a moan -- until something happened, until she touched it again, pushed it in, and suddenly everything was alive.

It fucking vibrates?

His brain went haywire, any ounce of composure he might have still clung to destroyed, expelled in that moment of the toy beginning to purr. "Cress--" he gasped. "It-- fucking-- it's--" He wanted to speak his surprise, his awe at the sensation, at her, but instead he reached his arm backward, supporting himself with the other, and grasped at her shoulder, pulling her towards him, needing her mouth on his, needing her warmth, needing to be touched in every part of himself.

Sex between them had always been more than the gratification of contact. It had been a common language when their backgrounds had felt wholly inverted, immeasurably opposite. It had been a refuge in moments of uncertainty: how do I reconcile what you've shown me? What's happening in Eleven? Will you come back to me? A reprieve from the harshness of reality: the early hours before entering the arena, the long stretch of a victory tour, the fear of losing control (had they ever truly had that?). It was escape and discovery. What purpose did this serve now? To lull? To force a moment of clarity?

Cress made a noise as he beckoned, her hand coming away as his body had taken claim. The toy remained, as did her gaze. How could she not savor this -- her lover, experiencing new pleasure, surrendered entirely? But Slate had called out to her, and she understood his need. "I'm here," she assured, kissing his lower back, raking her fingernails along both his inner and outer thighs. "You took it perfectly." It was a vulnerable thing to be entered, to take within your body. Slate had helped Cress regain a sense of security, of psychological safety around intimacy. Now, he was entrusting her with that.

"I love you. You can't possibly imagine how much--" A laugh, breathless, rife with disbelief. "I did not know I was capable of this," Cress praised, the words poised like a confession, atonement for greed. She applied pressure to the plug, moving it minutely, slowly, deepening the stretch. "You belong to me, entirely." Cress pressed a button on the base, and the toy thrummed to life, vibrating steadily.

[slate-skylar]

"You have to be fucking kidding," Slate snapped, "it was you who helped take the T0MMY offline all those times, wasn't it? Working against Nano's tech? Your beloved brother? Ruining the shit he believed and worked for? And you say you would never use your brain against people?" He scoffed.

"And isn't this better? Death would have been a relief, right?" Slate crossed his arms over his chest. Truthfully, he was tired of people dying. He was tired of killing, though he knew he was far from done. "She's saying the Games are necessary, now, because the Districts are being greedy. The Tarren will come and ruin us all unless we work together and fight. But everyone's focused on themselves. No one wants to join. So fear -- fear has to be used again." He hated how it sounded coming from his lips, and yet, he hated even more that it was fucking true.

@cress-meadowforge

Admittedly, Cress hadn't thought Link had it in her. Not for an ounce of it: the plain language, the righteousness, the audacity to call Cress' kettle black when Link was indeed the proverbial pot. "We have more than earned prosperity -- an ounce of payment for what we have endured," Cress countered sharply. At Link's question, her horrid wording -- let it all burn -- Cress felt her heckles rise, her claws begin to unfurl. Her life had been razed endlessly. Her body, her home, her lover, all fed to the flames of the old world. Scorched. She went to open her mouth, to see if there was still some fire left on her tongue to burn, but another voice emerged. Not of her lungs, but close.

"Slate," she warned, toothless, knowing there would be no silencing him when he felt he'd found a pedestal upon which to preach. Cress crossed her arms, observing amusedly, enamored by his harshness, his bark. "Link, my dear, you fundamentally misunderstand the nature of things," Cress cooed, returned to center, easing, "now that we are no longer under Nerissa's monarchy. The Vox are the people. We are the people. And we must learn to govern ourselves, to cooperate willingly. These Games are not about oppression, nor degradation. It is about making the price of greed greater than the benefit." Her head lilted, appraising Link curiously. "Why resist that?"

@linkcache