tornado warning; 92nd train Katrina/Beck

[charade]

k a t r i n a .

They took my damn boots.

Spare me the extra advantage bullshit. When has anything about the games ever been fair? Aren’t we careers supposed to get an edge anyway? But no, no weapons on the train and that extends to my steel-toed boots.

As if I needed boots to kill someone if I wanted to. I’m getting strangled by the red tape here. Bet that peacekeeper is a fuckin’ foot fetishist.

Am I being childish? I don’t think so. My boots…man.

Nothing intimidating about a pair of black ankle socks. Putting my feet up on the table and leaning my chair back to the wall just doesn’t look right without sand encrusted shit kickers dirtying up the tablecloth.

I mean, I’m doing it anyway, but its lost some of its charm.

Can’t believe they waited until I was on the train take them. What about the Justice Building? Would have given me time to grab a regular pair. You know, I spent some time saying goodbye to Juliette and Irene and that went just about how you’d expect.

Julie was actually upset and also hungover, and Irene looked like death warmed over. I told them not to worry about me, I’ll be back as a victor in a few months. Then it’s easy street from that point forward.

But you know, while I’m angrily chewing a slice of seaweed bread that still isn’t as salty as I am about my boots, who should walk in to interrupt my brooding but Beck Hailsham himself.

“How’s it hanging Becky?” I say with a lopsided salute. I know I shouldn’t antagonize someone who could give me arena pointers, but man, some people just give off a vibe that tells me they are easy to fuck with. “Big fan of the way you took out that kid from 3. Gotta be one of the best fights a d4 victor has had.”

I mean it. That’s an actual compliment. Katrina Sykes is genuine and bona fide, 100% of the time.

I pick up one of the forks and turn it over in my hand, imagining stabbing it through the eyeball of that bottle blonde that volunteered while I grind it into the table. Gruesome I know, but I gotta start thinking like that now.

Gonna have to kill to go home, and watching the reaping replays, chances are its going to be pretty faces. Lot of hair I'd like to run my fingers through among my opponents, so its better to prepare myself for the eventuality of killing instead of kissing them sooner rather than later. 

Hey, I'm not a psychopath or anything, I'm just a realist. And I’m no stranger to blood. I’ve gutted plenty of fish, cracked open my share of clams.

Hm. I’m starting to work a nice groove into the table with this utensil.

And who the hell does Elle think she is anyway? There’s a hundred other girls just like her. Mad at mommy and daddy, walking around like a pretty little liar not knowing everyone can see right past the mascara. Careers like that think they’re smart, think they’ve perfected being a china doll everywhere but the sparring mats.

Careers like that get read like books and put away on the shelf. It’s only when I look down at my whitened knuckles that I realize I’m steaming so bad I bent the damn fork.

Volunteering for some nobody when I’m out here giving the Capitol the kind of heartstring pulling sibling story they won’t even need to manufacture.

Bad idea honey. Nobody tries to steal Katrina Sykes thunder and gets away with it.

Cause I’ll bring the lightning.

“ So you got any tips, Becky? Or better yet, got any shoes?”

elegant

[ᴥ]

B E C K .

y o u  s h o u l d n ' t  w a s t e  a  p r e t t y  f a c e

Eight years past his expiration date, Beck still hasn’t figured out how he’s supposed to keep living. It’s past the point of being pitiable, instead resting somewhere between pathetic and pointless. He lives in the public eye solely to spite it, so that they may see the titan they’ve built fall and break his fucking neck. It’s no wonder they've has turned their attention toward the more palatable victors of Four. Which is not surprising, it’s no secret they live among cowards.

The anger sparking between grit teeth would have been unbearable if he weren’t just relieved to finally feel something.

So the Reaping comes and goes. Sailor fusses over all the ways he’s come unwound, skipping meals and putting off nightmares for so long that his skin has taken on a permanent sickly pallor. (He recalls the image of him that grins next to Mackenzie and Nico on some long forgotten spread in a propaganda magazine. He dares them to try and call him beautiful now.) She breathes life back into him with more care than he deserves, considering how he shoves away any touch that bears a semblance of kindness.

”How’s it hanging Becky?” Katrina Sykes ambles onto the train, impressive in stature even without the clunky boots she’d marched on stage with. She’s got red in her veins and a corpse’s skin. He’s long past making the mistake of letting these kids become people to him, instead he allows their features blend into a dreadful collage of crimson gore. Beck only recognizes his tributes in the ways they will haunt him.

His leg shakes.

(Do you need a cigarette or something?)

He startles, in spite of himself, barking a laugh at the unexpected nickname. His chin falls heavy on his palm as he observes her, "Laurent? Pretty sure he let me win.” It’s cute when they use his ghosts to hurt him as though he isn’t already intimately familiar with their company. The bitter smile he shoots her is infinitely fond. "I’d suggest talking to Nixie or Talon if you want to fawn. They’ve taken to the spotlight much better than me.”

There's a pretty kind of violence in the way she holds that fork. Choked in a white knuckled grip as she gouges at the polished wood that stands between them. As his pulse thunders in his ears, he wonders if hers is steady or frantic. Whether, when this is all said and done, she will call herself a killer or a victim. It's not a question of if she's got what it takes - almost every tribute does in one way or another-

“So you got any tips, Becky? Or better yet, got any shoes?”

it's more about, "Don't be afraid to lie through your teeth. All you gotta do is convince them you're worth keeping around." He eyes the dents in the table and makes a mental note to tell Aloysia he's the one who put them there, "You've got a good start with the sister thing, build on that. They don't want you, they want someone worth rooting for."

He leans back and rests his feet on the table, the heel of one black boot resting on the toe of his other, "No shoes, though. Sorry about that."

[elegant]

[charade]

k a t r i n a .

No shoes. Figures.

I’m not sure what to make of Beck. He carries himself with an easy confidence but he talks like he doesn’t have any. Come on, I watched that fight. Beck had that kid from 3 dead to rights. Sure there was some technical difficulties and their conversation didn’t really come through but the fight was badass.

“Man, I don’t lie through my teeth, I bite with them.”

The fuck kind of advice is that? Be someone worth rooting for? I’ve already got that part covered. He’s got it all wrong though. If I don’t want to talk to the victors in the spotlight. What’re a rich kid and The Pixie gonna do for me? Beck’s the kind of victor who should have died in the arena. Even though I was young, I remember the commentaries. They said he didn’t have what it takes to kill. Crybaby Becky. The odds favored Noel.

Course the tune changed after he won. Funny how quickly public opinion changes.

He doesn’t look like a badass. He looks pretty pale. Spends too much time indoors, that’s his problem. We live in four! He should have a tan from being on the beach, not—whatever this is. But he’s here, and 23 others aren’t so he’s got some kind of skill. I work the fork back and forth a bit more until it stays put, jutting out of the table like a curvy tree trunk.

“Is that how you made it out? Lying? Being somebody you ain’t?” When I grab a jam filled shortbread cookie off the platter in the center of the table, it breaks it half. So I stab it with a swear and take grab a handful of meats and cheeses from the charcuterie board instead, popping a cheddar cube into my mouth. Be someone worth rooting for? Honesty is the best policy. Brutal, blunt candor.

Candor. What a word for honesty. Bet most people wouldn’t think I know a word that, being a musclebound jock with authority issues an’ all.

I’ve got whatchacallems. Hidden depths, just like the ocean that borders our district.

“If that’s true, then who are you really?”

elegant