child-like chances | district one train

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

"You know you'll regret it later if you don't do it."

Errol is right. His face is always the most punchable when he's right, I think. Like even now, I haven't even given him an answer and yet he's already sliding the keycard for the back of the train around my neck. His nose, totally exposed, right within range. I don't do it, though, I just sigh, tip the bag of bbq crisp crumbs into my mouth.

"Fine."

In my defense, I tried this last year. Caring about them. The boy was a spoiled brat who must've desperately wanted to swallow his own teeth, the way he was talking in my presence, and Sully is a sore subject. She was too close for me not to have gotten a little excited about the idea of the little weirdo making it back. It would've been awesome to have someone, you know, always around, someone from my side of the world. I dunno. Seems like a weird setup for failure. But I crumble the bag into a ball and toss it into the trashcan, smile humorlessly in Errol's direction, and swipe my new keycard against the scanner.

It is decidedly hotter back here, which makes sense since the vents start at the front, and also it's, like, actually depressing. The food shelves are all empty, the space where the fridge should be is completely vacant, and the only things on display are bottled water and hard liquor. Bleak.

The tributes themselves don't look any more impressive now than they did at the reaping. The girl is especially tragic-looking. I bet she's even younger than Ace. And the other one is tall and lanky and smells too nice to be from anywhere near where I grew up, so I instantly decide I don't much like him. Lovely. They've made my job super easy this year.

"Two questions each. I got shit to do, no offense."

I point between them as I take a seat across from them and cross my bare legs when they emerge from the vibrant purple of my dart jaguar coat.

"Who is first?"

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

You tap a rhythm on the surface of the wooden table.

Tap, tap, tap.

There is nothing else to do.

Tap, tap, tap.

Your fingers are the heaviest when they are not used, like being at rest is no longer their default state, and feeling slowly returns to them as you begin to speed up the tempo.

Tap, tap, tap–

The door slides open with a metallic screech.

You sit back in an instant, curling each finger into two fists as if you were on the edge of getting caught red-handed. Maestro’s words make themselves known again. Do not let them suspect anything. Keep the mask on, play the part. Fortunately you have never been anything but precise when it comes to orders. You obey the sway of the conductor’s hand, and even now, you feel its movement as you regard Cordelia Blake and her words.

She looks real.

Barring a few quick glimpses from a distance while the Swan Orchestra played in elite parties, all the times you had seen her have always been in the broadcasts with pinned up hair and a painted face. Here, in her loud coat and lackadaisical splendor, she looks real. You are not sure if you are a fan of it. You have always loved your symbols to be afar because the distance is what makes them appear holy. And here, in the warm air and with what looks to be crumbs on her, Cordelia Blake is not the icon Maestro said she was.

You have always hated to see what lies under a person’s exterior. You have always resented true reflections of another. In some odds ways, it makes you afraid of your own true self. It feeds to the itch beneath your skin. 

You look at your district partner.

After sensing that she is not about to speak first, you take the lead as always.

“Did they play the anthem?” Your fingers twitch as you ask. “During your Games. Did the Capitol play their anthem?”