ticker tape // { jb | lex + sapphire }

[aya]

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and i'll be always up in arms
on that you can rely on

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One time — nostrils flared, mouth agape, acid in her throat — is just a thing that she did once. Two times — scowl set, vexed, stung and bitter — is a coincidence. The third time Lex Lionel steps over the threshold of the justice building to see off a stranger, she supposes it's a habit. This year, it's different. She's twenty. The first tribute is chosen and no one who might've made their show of sacrifice three years too late steps forward, idiotic idealism in their hearts and a stranger's name on their lips. No one else steps forward at all.

She's stood on the stage, deep stare trained on the back of the crowd, too full of anger and grit and impatience and herself to leave any room for fear. Abandoned to her fate, counting the splinters in her fingertips while the gasping boy on her right is subbed out for some suicidal boy wearing noble intentions to cloak his lack of conscience. Present circumstances more pressing than the prospect of processing those emotions. It had taken her a year to realize it bothered her at all, and another to put a name to that feeling. Resentment. For Angel. For the boy whose place he took. For Ike Tate and Diana Sayers and Hanaa Darton. For anyone who'd ever looked at one stranger and thought she doesn't deserve to die and then looked at Lex, head and heart both vacant.

She's been there before. Just like that.

When the reaping ends, she edges around the crowd, feet bringing her toward the justice building like a reflex. She almost pushes past Mackenzie, only noticing enough to stop when he calls out to her, inviting her to crash in his room while he's gone, encouraging her to use the spare key stashed in a nearby tree. Honestly, noticing anything else at all while she's lost in thought is a high complement, and this time she even snaps back into focus well enough to hear the personal favors underlying his quote-unquote offer. Please, babysit the heathens that live with me. Lex doesn't think there's anyone else in the world she'd willingly do it for, but her next framing job out of the district isn't for another month, so she's technically free to play stepdad for all of his strays while he's in the Capitol. Besides, who'll have to spend another weekend rebuilding the bannister if it gets bashed off the staircase again? Really, it's in her best interest to keep everyone in line.

Inside the justice building, she's no longer sure what she ought to be doing. Lex Lionel doesn't have a single good memory of this place, but she'd gotten so used to leaning into every hard impulse in these hallways. Year after year, someone has stepped forward more often than not. As far back as she can remember. She figured she'd be storming the holding room, imploring that the fresh volunteer sitting there at least try to stop being as stupid as she'd just proven herself mere minutes ago. Asking her to be upfront with Mackenzie about her obvious death wish, so that the victor didn't feel such deep guilt about failing her when her face inevitably shone in the sky. Taking notes about the size and the style of the casket she'll be starting... not today, but maybe next week.

Lex Lionel slips through the doorway quietly, the ghost of reapings past. She stares. She sighs. She's sat there before. It sucks.

Arms folded, not in defense, not in defiance, she offers the closest thing to condolences she can muster. "Bad luck." Understatement of the year. She traces a thumb over the thick scar that runs the width of her bicep, the crosscut keepsake a souvenir of her last day in the arena, something to remember Denali by even with all the months and miles separating them. Even stacked up against all of the good that came out of her stint in the Capitol, there's no denying that having to making the trip there at all is about the worst thing that could happen to a teenager. "It's up to you to turn it around. About 80% of Mom's advice — Mackenzie's — is good, so try not to tune him out too much." Definitely don't let all four of the times he mentioned he set you up with an ally go in one ear and out the other. Definitely don't try to pull said ally's heart out of the stab wound on her chest the second you've got her one-on-one.

"And just in case nobody takes the time to tell you: you don't deserve this." Hearing that for herself had made all the difference. Victims of chance, none of them really do. It's a dangerous thing to remember about the implicit enemies that will be taking their places around the cornucopia with her in a few short weeks. It's an important thing to keep in mind when weighing the weight of your weapon against the weight of the ghosts you plan to make.

ticker tape laura stevenson
table template lalia

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[esther kim d3 {lance}]

It's funny how things turn out sometimes. And by funny, you mean ironic in the most painful way possible, because there is not a damn thing about these circumstances to laugh about.

Not that you would if you could. The flicker of mirth, the emotionless smile at the ground that had come with the of fucking course it'd be me that flashed through your mind, had sent you through the five stages of grief within seconds after you'd been pulled off the stage and away from the cameras, into a dank little room that you're sure only gets used once a year.

And why wouldn't it? No one wants anything to do with the ghosts of Reapings past.

Denial wore off by the time the Capitolite woman has raised your hand in unison with the pale-haired boy who had flung himself into the very mess you had wished all your life you would avoid. Anger erupted like a volcano and cooled off just as fast, jerking your arms out of the iron grips of the Keepers, insisting with venom on your tongue that you could walk just fine unassisted. Bargaining had emerged in the excruciatingly long minutes of solidarity before Mama and Mark had entered, the twins hot in pursuit. Depression was perhaps too strong a word for an event that had taken place not half an hour ago, but there was something unnerving, something that tore you apart within, to see the two parental figures in your life, always been so strong and unyielding, and the two youthful little rascals who had been an equal source of amusement and annoyance, all wear identical masks of agony and sorrow.

Acceptance had just started to sink in, once you'd resigned yourself that this was not a nightmare, this was reality, and you were likely weeks away from meeting a horrible, painful death when the door creaked open a second time. You glance up, a fire already building in your eyes as you plan to take in the squad of men and women in white who would no doubt be the first escort to your doom - and then the flames freeze and shatter in seconds as it is not the Keepers that stand in the doorway, but a young woman whom, under other circumstances, would have been largely unassuming.

But Lexandriy Lionel had lost all claims to anonymity when she'd been thrust into the exact same situation as I had three years prior. She crosses the room and turns to face you, and for a moment, or perhaps an eternity, there's nothing to be said. No sound except the gears of your brain working furiously, trying to figure out why this girl you've never met before in your life is standing across from you, when the silence is broken with a sigh.

"Bad luck." And if you still weren't caught in a state of half-confusion, half-irritation, you likely would have snorted, for to call being the one chosen out of thousands to be sent to your death at the last possible chance bad luck was the understatement of the century.

Not that you're any stranger to the concept, given what's been hovering over your head like a goddamned curse ever since you'd taken your first breath.

Lionel is both reserved yet intimidating at the same time, a quiet confident energy surrounding her like an old soul caught in a young body. Or perhaps it's simply her reputation preceding her - after all, it was only three years ago that you'd watched as she'd murdered a boy and a girl on subsequent days, remembered with crystal clear clarity her exploits in the arena.

And then you decide that to let yourself be intimidated is a load of bullshit, because in a few weeks' time you'll either be exactly in her shoes or dead as a doornail.

Luckily, a response from you wasn't deemed necessary. "It's up to you to turn it around," Immediately, it clicks - she's here to offer advice, perhaps a metaphorical shoulder to lean on - as perhaps the only kindred spirit you have in this world. "About 80% of Mom's advice — Mackenzie's — is good, so try not to tune him out too much."

The advice wars with the fact that this tough, badass girl apparently calls your home's junior victor Mom enough times for it to slip, but the rational part of you - the part that recognizes that this is no laughing matter, that this girl didn't deserve to go out of her way to gift you advice that was probably never given to her - wins out, and you dip your head in understanding.

For a second, you think that might be the end of that, that perhaps you should come up with a way to say thanks in a manner lacking your usual sarcastic tone, but then one more sentence leaves the other girl's lips, one that catches you off guard.

"And just in case nobody takes the time to tell you: you don't deserve this."

And you pause, you think. For that had almost been a given, something you'd repeated over and over as you'd been treated unfairly due to your father's heritage. You don't deserve this.

Perhaps it had taken a stranger to realize that that applied in cases where you were treated indiscriminately as well.

You look Lionel in the eye for the first time in a new light. But instead of gratitude, something else drops from your lips.

"Does anyone?"

There's a rasp in your voice that you attribute to the tears shed just moments before. And without a moment's hesitation you feel your cheeks burn, feel your gaze relocate from the other girl's own to somewhere around her shoelaces. Because of course you'd pick right now, when a stranger was gifting you advice, showing you pity in her own way, to turn it into a debate about philosophy.

"Sorry. Didn't - don't - mean to appear ungrateful," you say after perhaps four seconds' pause. "Just-"

The rest of the sentence doesn't reach Lionel's ears, but if anyone understands the sentiment, you suppose it would be her.

So instead you shift the subject. She gave you productivity, and you might as well respond with the same courtesy.

How'd you handle it? is almost spoken, before you answer the question yourself. There's a reason she's here, gifting words of wisdom to a total stranger. The answer? Not great.

So instead you settle on simple practicality. "What's something to always keep in mind?" you ask, gaze returning to match Lionel's own. "I mean, once I'm, you know..."

Fighting for my very life?

[aya]

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unfurl your fingers my engine's slowing down
unhitched from fixes last year the past year's undone

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"Does anyone?"

Lex snorts. To varying degrees. As victims of chance, she and the girl in the room with her deserved it less than the boys who'd willingly taken the stage with them. Which wasn't to say that all volunteers were equally deserving of their fates — maybe someone like Shy or Yusei, facing mountains of social pressure to volunteer for the sake of misplaced glory, deserved it more than Carmen or Denali, who'd had sisters to protect. But where did that leave people like Bette and Eon and Wander, who could've easily let careers step in and kill and die in their stead?

It's all too easy to lose sight of the bigger picture, splitting hairs like that. The whole event is a huge waste — of time, of resources, of life. No one deserves to be put in those positions in the first place. She shrugs. It's too hard to explain to someone who hasn't had to weigh the worth of their life against that of a stranger in real-time, swords and knives and axes in hand. And trying admits to keeping that sort of selfish hierarchy in the back of her mind, even three years later. They're her friends now, mostly, and Lex doesn't think that any of them deserved to live any less than she did, but it's still not like she'd tell any of them point-blank that they might've deserved to die more than her. Except maybe Annie; she'd happily say that to the victor's face.

It's not a question she knows how to answer — not in any way that means anything — and so she doesn't.

"Sorry. Didn't - don't - mean to appear ungrateful. Just-"

Maybe this year's tribute doesn't have as much in common with her as Lex had thought, if she's sitting here and still trying to be polite about anything. "Don't apologize," she insists, shaking her head for emphasis. A grin, wry and lopsided, twists up the right side of her face and away from the wicked scar on the other cheek. "You don't owe me gratitude. You don't owe anyone shit."

The conversation turns tactical. "What's something to always keep in mind?" Sapphire DeCaria stares her down, curious or . "I mean, once I'm, you know..."

With a frown, Lex suddenly wonders if she shouldn't have come here at all. A few snarky quips, a casual reaffirmation that the whole situation that's ensnared Sapphire DeCaria is completely fucked — sure, that's Lex territory. But actual advice? Hell if she knows. Just because she's done it before doesn't make her any kind of expert. She fixed a hole in the sole of her boot once, but she doesn't go around calling herself a cobbler. Lex spent seven days in the arena without much of anything in mind at all. Played everything fast and loose and by ear. No plans, no strategies — just reckless impulse and the delusion that she was invincible. She didn't know what she was doing then, and she doesn't know how to give advice about it now. Seems like a good way to get an undeserving stranger killed.

"Dunno," she says, voice measured and slow at first, as she chooses her words carefully. "I tried to keep my mind off all of it, mostly." When she was headed there; when she was in there; after. It was easier not to think about dying or killing or how any of it felt or what any of it meant. It's too complicated to sort out in a week or a month; it's been years and Lex still isn't sure she knows. "If you can turn it on when it matters and turn it off the rest of the time..." It's a hard concept to articulate, the stark separation between survival mode and the long hours that exist outside of those adrenaline-fueled minutes. "I dunno. It was nice to forget where I was. Dangerous and stupid, definitely —" she waves a hand in acknowledgement, knowing that somewhere between here and the train station, Mackenzie is facepalming as his new charge is instructed to forget the persistent lethal threats. "But when you're facing certain death, it's nice to feel like some part of your life still matters."

Sprawled out in the landship, feet kicked up, birds and skulls and barrels pared from redwood beneath her fingertips — that mattered. Stories swapped to fill each stunned silence, recounting the lives they'd lived before, mundanities and and formative moments given equal weight — those all mattered, too. Impromptu photoshoots, morning mantras grumbled through, mooing with gusto in the light of a shared campfire; bad jokes, dumb jokes, dad jokes; real laughs. (Being here would've sucked without you.) Then and now, it all mattered. The gaps in the violence, the times when she wasn't holding her sword or her axes — they mattered more than the scenes of carnage that filled the reruns and recaps. In the mortal game they'd all been forced to play, the moments of life far outweighed the moments of death.

"You only die once, right?"

ticker tape laura stevenson
table template lalia

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