dirty city, ugly, pretty [d10 train]

[pogue]

B  O  W  I  E

Once they're on the train, it takes ten minutes for the shock to fully leave his system.

It's sadistic in the way it goes, slow and drawn out and with a smile carved onto its face just to show the fangs. It mixes with adrenaline at first, carves little cuts into his soul and spits poison into them just so they'll fester. Numbness comes in its wake, blanketing his system and blurring his vision until all he can sense is the way the metal around and underneath him rattles and shakes as the train starts. It's the far end of a short spectrum, the exact opposite of the adrenaline he always felt when the show closed and the dust and the dirt settled over the bruises that litter his skin. He bleeds shock for those ten minutes, slowly and ever so surely coming back to a reality he never should have been forced to face. He finds himself hating it in the moment.

He finds himself missing it when it's gone.

Breathe, fold hand into hand, watch the walls spin and watch the landscape of a District that never called him anything other than a show bleed softly into the distance, melting into a shattered web of blue and grey. An avox slips into the cabin with their gaze dropped and form half-dead already, places down a cup that sparkles like diamond and holds some form of ruby tea, lets herself glance at the two of them before slinking into the corner. The last bit of shock leaves his system slowly in that moment.

Fury takes its place fast.

It's why the cup ends up shattered against the window of the train, contents leaving a bloody mural of burning crimson and red against the glass. The avox's tray follows closely behind on the opposite wall, ripped from her hands and shout of anger laced into the air along with it.

And then the vase on the table next to him, and then the table itself.

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

{ sven }

The good thing about all of my family members being dead is there was no reason for me to stay at the justice center to talk to anyone. So, inspired by the impending alcohol I made the request to be taken to the train early. I didn't specifically say that the alcohol was why. Simply said my family is dead, nobody's visiting me. Why bother sitting and waiting for people that can't come?

As soon as I entered, I made my beeline towards the bar. The plan I had in mind was to get a solid few drinks and camp out in my personal carriage. There's no certainty how the mentors would react to me drinking, but you can only assume the worst, and when they're your lifeline outside of the arena, you don't want the worst. But they may even already expect the worst from me. Seeing that I didn't pick anyone to take my spot, they could think I'm stupid. They probably do. The alcohol is going to help convince myself that I'm not stupid for giving up the opportunity. So, two drinks in hand, I swept back into my personal carriage for a moment to drink and remind myself that I may be stupid, but at least I've got the courage to fight. To win, even.

Unlike September.

A part of me wondered if the horses and the chickens at that old abandoned ranch will be okay. If not, I guess the money from winning could get some new horses. They have enough grass to be okay anyway. Unlike Appa, they'd be okay if a source of their joy left. I give them food so that'd be the only joy they gain from me.

Regardless, the alcohol ran out fast. I guess I'm having a hard time with this, or the liquid simply has no burn or taste and at this point, it runs like water. Both, probably. The sounds of smashing pottery prove that I'm not the only one struggling. Just in time for me to get my refill at the bar. Entering the center cart, the chosen one was flipping tables as if the table had done something to him. Boo-hoo, I thought. Don't think breaking vases and teapots will save you.

What was his name anyway? Whipped Icing? Whips? Something involving a whip, which I hope had no context inside the bedroom.

In the midst of this flying rage, I stood by the bar, mostly to use it as a barrier from flying objects (and to protect the good drinks). Taking my glass, I began to pour another glass. "Don't know how breaking pottery helps you. Take the drink, bud. Maybe it'll knock you out hard enough to get you to forget about it." I raise the glass a bit, swirling it around to refer to the Capitol. "I'm sure they've got some sort of powder, or drug, or drink. Or food. They've gotta have something for it."

Get over yourself, Whipped Cream.

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

It doesn't hurt me.
Do you want to feel how it feels?
Do you want to know that it doesn't hurt me?
Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making?
You, it's you and me.

Mace would never admit this to a tribute but it's true nevertheless: the moment he steps onto the train, every single games, his stomach growls and he gets a little dizzy with hunger. Decades of the same routine have induced a pavlovian response. And even though some Games are more challenging than others, his stomach growls irreverently.

He's already scoped out the offerings - an array of tapas to start - when he realizes that they haven't yet been served anything to drink. He looks up, fading grey eyes catching the avox's, and shifts his weight into one foot to stand to accept the offering.

What Bowie does he does with surprising speed and committment. The glass shatters into a rainbow, the tea or wine or whatever it is paints the car in blood red. For that tiny sliver of a moment, even Mace is still.

And then Bowie grabs the tray. It's this second act that propels Mace to his full height, that pushes his head back so that the full breadth of his head and chest are prominent. He glances at Saffron, already moving forward. Certainly she is the most qualified person he knows to talk someone down.

But he doesn't think Bowie is in a space to listen.

The vase, the table -- a whirlwind of violence.

"I'm sure they've got some sort of powder, or drug, or drink. Or food. They've gotta have something for it."

He hates that about the Capitol. Despite all the glorious food freely available, the Capitolites are quick to indulge in other cravings. Mace scowls. "Don't think Bowie needs more ammo right now, Sven." But the 'Sven' comes out more like 'son' and even though Mace has been looming, taking up as much space in the train car as he possibly could, he hasn't moved much closer to Bowie.

He does then swiftly, clipping his thigh against the upturned table leg. Mace reaches for Bowie's right arm, grabs the wrist, hauls it behind his back. He's careful to draw Bowie against his chest, to hold him tightly, so that he will not break his shoulder. "You want to talk to Saff," he says, and it's not a suggestion.

And if I only could,
I'd make a deal with God,
And I'd get him to swap our places,
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
Be running up that building.
If I only could, oh


running up that hill
-placebo-

[dars]

[✨ zozo.]

Shattered glass, and it's like looking in a mirror.

They both know what they're seeing. An echo of a younger, angrier Saffron. A different child every year but they all carry something of who she used to be. Little kids, angry kids, quiet kids, brave kids. Kids with little sisters and kids with red hair. Kids with trauma, kids with rage, kids with too much spirit. Reminders.

Omens.

And here is Saffron afterwards, the 66th and a glass shatters at the bloodbath on the television. The 74th, Myara - a broken heart, a fist carving up plaster walls. The 76th, Emberly falls and her fist finds Teddy Ursa's cheek.

Here is a kid who knows he's doomed no matter if he comes out of the arena dead or alive. Here is Saffron reincarnate - younger, angrier, with far less patience. A Quell kid, damned in more ways that usual. Mace looks at her and she knows, he does too. She's not afraid of confronting her younger self anymore, in any of its forms.

"Hey!" she snaps at Bowie -- she was this, she is this, but she's also a Mom and a friend and a mentor. She's calmed fiercer storms than this. She knows what someone should have, could have said to her all those years ago and didn't - instead they stuck a needle in her neck and the world went black.

"Hey," a little softer, yet still firm. "I get it. I get it, trust me -- hey, look at me."

"Bowie, right?"

His name is laced now, a bullet never meant to be fired. It tastes like gunmetal in her mouth, and she heaves in a breath through her nose.

Exhale, "Save it for the arena, okay? That Avox did nothin' to you," her ginger head tilting to one side. "Take it out on the people that actually want to hurt you. But for now, we're gonna try help you get out of this shitty situation as best we can - the rest is up to you."

She bends down, trying to ignore the clicking of age that verberates in-between her bones, and picks up a lone glass that had rolled toward her feet on the plush velvet floor of the carriage.

"And if you're gonna throw anything," she finishes, arching her own arm back to aim, "make sure you can hit a target first."

Her own glass flies, bullseye dead-center of the television screen at the other end of the carriage. It shatters against the seal of Panem, shards twinkling in the afternoon light.

She smiles at Mace, breaking the silence.


"You can let him go now, hon'."

saffron.