``in a fake empire // { ten games anniversary

[aya]

turn the lights out, say goodnight
no thinking for a little while
let's not try to figure out
everything at once

Arbor Halt—

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Arbor found it impossible to believe that he was celebrating the tenth anniversary of his 54th Hunger Games on that evening. Sure — the party was scheduled for before the 64th Games actually got underway, but that didn't make it any less surreal. Considering he was still trying to pull his life together and undue negativity was not particularly conducive to maintaining an optimistic outlook — and considering how busy he was trying to wrangle the event into coming together — Arbor did not allow himself to dwell on exactly how little he'd managed to accomplish in the last ten years. Instead, he found himself greeting guests as he walked in — he was startled at how many he'd actually recognized, seeing as he'd left himself out of the invitation process entirely, and taking into account the fact that, until recently, he rarely left his room except to go out drinking.

As the long banquet table filled, Arbor found himself being ushered to the center, where he was to sit — or was he actually going of his on volition? — to give a speech. While little was expected of him besides showing up, Arbor was making an effort to be better, and fully intended to do the best job that he could. He cleared his throat and tapped the champagne flute that sat next to his whisky tumbler. Though he was a bit nervous about breaking the delicate glass with the ornate silver knife that he'd picked up, he managed to draw the attention of his guests. When all eyes were on him, he began speaking:

"So, welcome to the party. I hope you're all having a better time than that poor sap who's tending bar — what a way to spend the evening, huh?" He cringed at his own joke, although such icebreakers were expected. At least, according to Gingerbread Krumms, who'd insisted on advising him on party matters because, quote, I happen to be a gala connoisseur, and I don't want you messing this up. End quote. He'd allowed her to give her advice wherever she wanted, however, because he knew that the escort that had been shepherding him and his tributes for almost as long as he'd been a victor would be more than willing to organize things like caterers and waitstaff and banquet halls that, in reality, Arbor didn't know the first thing about. So he let her blather on about toasts and napkin rings and centerpieces while she planned the majority of the event, and in return, he was able to convince her to let him pick out the selection of liquor for the open bar — although it was only with a snippy "well I suppose you're the expert" that she relented.

He cleared his throat and began his speech, able to divert his attention from the sweat that beaded up on his hands. As it was, it took much of his focus to keep from wiping them on the leg of his trousers, which Gingerbread would disapprove of quite heavily. "Thank you all very much for coming. It's nice to be surrounded by so many familiar faces on the tenth anniversary of my victory."

He went over the list in his mind: Greet everyone, check. Joke to break the ice, cringe and check. Thank guests for coming, check. He couldn't quite remember what was supposed to follow, so Arbor just winged it:

"I owe so much to so many of you. That much is undeniable. I can't even begin to talk about the debts I owe that I can never repay — don't you smirk at me, Topaz Ross, we called that bet a draw and I do not owe you a cent for that wager — because it's just too much. Despite all my seclusion, the lot of you are my rocks, and it means so much to me… More than you can imagine." Having lost his focus, he cleared his throat again.

"Well, for whatever it's worth, I feel as if I ought to share a bit of wisdom I've acquired over the years. Don't mistake me for a motivational speaker, of course — and don't look to me for advice unless you plan on doing the opposite of whatever I say. I'm old enough now that most of the tributes coming in probably won't even remember my Games. So, to the newer victors among us tonight — Cricket, Peridot, Klaus — you'd do best to remember that you can't save everyone. It is the harsh reality of being a mentor, but I'd have saved myself a lot of strife if I'd figured that out sooner. I thought I would pass that along. I don't have much to show for myself after a decade, but that much I have figured out.

"And another thing — I've found that sometimes it's the people who are in our lives for the shortest periods of time that leave the biggest holes," he continued, having hit his stride. "Or at least the biggest impressions. The crazy boy with the knife that killed her that day may not have paid much attention to the girl saying them — but to this day I still remember Anastasia's words verbatim, down to the defiance in her voice. We only ever met on the battlefield, and maybe that's why she was such a big impact. She was the enemy, and died beneath my blade. I owe her nothing, and yet I can't seem to shake her ghost.

"Of course, everyone's an enemy if you want to be victor. Even your allies. It is no secret that they have to die if you are to live. And yet, someone you can count on is almost a necessity, aren't they? Someone who can watch your back? And you can never trust them fully, because you have to be ready for the switch, ready for the moment they realize that you are just an obstacle to victory. Sometimes it's easier to wander off, to know that if you meet again, it will be on the battlefield and not around the campfire. Maybe it isn't as smart to abandon them without bloodshed, to give up an opportunity when they are at your mercy — but severance is more humane than betrayal, is it not?

"Depending on someone without trusting them is the very root of the Hunger Games. Maybe that's why it's so hard to come back from the Arena, why it's such a process to live again — for people like me, anyhow, you can't just flip a switch and go back to trusting the world around you. It's a fragile process, rebuilding, and it's so easy to break down instead. To the nine that have followed me out of the Arena so far, I hope to Ripred you've figured out that mine is not the best example to follow. That you're stronger than I am.

"There have been so many highs and lows over the past ten years, and it has been an honor to be able to welcome each victor who's succeeded me to the fold, regardless of where they're from. It seems to stop mattering after you've left the Arena, doesn't it? When we're done with the fighting and onto the next part of our lives? I have never been good at family. My brothers and sister are all almost a decade older than I am, and my nephews don't visit much. My dad was always working to feed us, my mum died before I was old enough to get to know her. I have always been bad at people and I have never been good at family. Forgive me for keeping my distance — I don't know how to be family, really. But that's what we are, the lot of us, aren't we? Family isn't always blood — it's people who get each other. So don't give up on me, and — and I promise I won't be such a stranger anymore.

"Anyhow —" he raised his glass " — here's to all of you: To the victors who lead the way before me, who passed the torch down this way. To the tributes who bled with me: brothers and sisters, enemies and friends. To each of you who's worn the crown after me: may it always be light on your brow. And to the victor's throne: may it always be well-earned and rightly-inhabited."

He put the champagne flute to his lips, even though he never particularly cared for the drink, which was far too sweet for his liking. Apparently, it was bad luck to toast with anything else, and he was not about to bring any unnecessary curses on his own head. He felt he'd been cursed enough for a lifetime, and, with some luck, was turning that around.

ooc - the thread is open to everyone in the Capitol that would reasonably be in attendance, and therefore will have no post order and no guarantee that Arbor will be able to interact with everyone who replies.
ooc2 - this takes place during the 64th Games, if that wasn't obvious. just want to give people plenty of time to reply.[/blockquote][/size]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

Mace was doing his damnedest to hold the champagne flute properly, but it felt like a shard of ice in his meaty paw. The glass had come to cold, so cold, that a shudder went up his spine. Both the champagne and his body began to sweat in unison, so by the time it was warm enough to be tolerable, it almost slipped through his grasp. It was a devilish drink, champagne, and not one he cared for. It was sweet and bubbly and left a strange film in his mouth. When he complained that it was always served at a seemingly sub zero temperature, he was chastised. Apparently the bubbles liked the cold. The traitors.

But here he was, clinging to a flute, trying to wrap his head around the evening's festivities. Were they really celebrating Arbor's failed attempt at suicide? But no no, he realized, hardly anyone knew about that. The Capitol was actually delighted that he had accomplished so much, demonstrated the prowess needed to survive a decade past the arena. What a fucking joke. He growled whenever any Capitolite approached him, and barely managed a more civil greeting around the other Victors. He kept his distance from Julian, knowing his dark mood would only cast a cloud over the Quell victor. Mace needed the Capitolite to like Julian, so they could maintain their special arrangement. If that meant sticking to the corners at formal events, so be it.

He found himself across the room from Arbor when the man of the hour rose to speak. His gaze narrowed at the bar tender joke, and both hands wrapped around the champagne flute. He held onto it like an icicle as Arbor rambled on, calling attention to Topaz and the newest three but leaving the rest of them out of the spotlight. He felt a knot in his chest loosen as the speech wound down. Pretty words from a once-blind man, and enough pandering that the evening was sure to be a success. At least Arbor was capable of doing some things correctly.

He hadn't meant to, but sometime during the course of the speech he had begun to edge forward. There had been a trigger, something that finally resonated with Mace. Family. When he encountered a human obstacle, he loomed, and once he even deigned to clear his throat. A pathway opened. By the time Arbor lifted his glass, Mace was only a few feet away. He pumped both of his hands up, sloshing champagne, and then threw the rest over his shoulder, the golden bubbles sailing to their death. He dropped the flute on the center table, and then held out his sweaty palm. "That was a fucked up speech, brother,

[/color]" he said, smile grim. He glanced at the rush of fans, of hangers-on, and added: "I can offer you safe passage to the bar."[/size][/blockquote]

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[Lulu]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
i need more dreams and less life
i need that dark in a little more light
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

If there was anything worthwhile about going to a fancy party, Topaz reflected, it was the champagne. Back when she was a reckless teenager she hadn't appreciated it as much, seeing as hard liquor, particularly vodka and tequila, was much more conducive to getting piss drunk and finding herself fooling around with some random in a utility closet. Champagne was good, but not good enough. Now, though, as a mature, married twenty-four year old—good Ripred, there was no way she could possibly be that ancient—she was apparently not supposed to get wild, so a little bubbly was the only way to have some fun at an event like this. With her champagne flute clenched tightly in hand she milled about and laughed with all the other Capitolites present at Arbor's ten year extravaganza, lingering particularly with the other victors because she felt most at home with them. Arbor, Ara, Lethe, Mace, Julian, these were some of her closest friends, and even the ones she hadn't spent as much time with still understood her better than everyone else. It was inevitable, when you knew what it was like to survive against all odds. It was sometimes too daunting or tiresome to face the other vapid Capitolites, but she always enjoyed herself with her fellow champions.

After narrowly avoiding a conflict with a paparazzi agent who had probably snuck his way in here, Tope had to sit down and massage her head as a small, splitting headache began. This wasn't startling; she'd been feeling rather strange lately, and she couldn't quite pinpoint why. Something seemed off with her body; it didn't move like it usually did, didn't feel like it usually did. It was subtle, but it was there. She was afraid she was getting sick—a rare occurrence, because all alcoholic tendencies aside, Topaz was usually healthy as a horse—so if it kept up for another couple of days, she grudgingly decided she'd see a doctor. It was nice to be at a party, though; with enough champagne in her, she could forget the odd feelings at all and just let herself have fun. The redhead tried to force down the twinge of regret that fun wasn't what it used to be, seeing as now she had a much more serious image to uphold. The only thing she could do was thank her lucky stars that Maverick hadn't been able to attend; though she would never say so to him, she often felt even more tied down when her husband was around.

As her closest friend stood up to address the massive crowd congregated to celebrate him, Tope couldn't help but be proud of the little fucker for making it this far without drowning in whiskey, or hanging himself from the shower rod, or slamming his head on the bar counter so much he went comatose, or anything of that nature. She'd spent countless nights with Arbor glued to those four legged stools, clutching tumblers full of liquor and lamenting over the miserable conditions of their lives, which coincidentally seemed much more magnified when they were wasted. It wasn't easy, being a victor, and the two of them knew it better than practically anyone. She'd never forget the time not too long ago when she'd come across him unconscious after a suicide attempt in the training center—he'd come a long way from that in three years. He'd come an even longer way in ten, from the scrawny, blind, panicked fifteen-year-old he'd been when the hovercraft lifted him out of his barren, flooded arena.

Topaz sniggered hard as he brought up the bet they'd made back when Mace won not even thirty seconds into his speech, disregarding the inquisitive looks the crowd gave her. After a while, though, she found herself lost in his words, his recollections of his Games, of the girl he killed. She was overcome with the truth of his description of being a victor, of the isolation and solidarity involved in accomplishing such a feat. And then when he called his fellow victors his family, well, Topaz had to check and make sure the alcohol wasn't blurring up her vision too much and it was indeed Arbor Halt who was speaking in front of her. But as he concluded, she took care to applaud louder than anyone else in attendance and take the largest swig of champagne, because she knew in two years, Arbor would do the same for her.

She made her way over to him when the crowd had dissipated some and everyone had returned to eating their dinner. Bending down to where he was sitting, she put her lips close to his ear. "I still want a rematch of that bet," she whispered with a smirk. Then, dropping her voice even more, she added, "How about Cricket? Trust me when I say flexibility makes for a really good time." The redhead leaned back a bit and laughed. Of course they couldn't bet anything of the sort this time around, not like they could five years and loads of recklessness before, but it was good to joke for old time's sake. "Though I suppose all that estrogen isn't really your thing, hmm?" With one hand, she clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. With the other, she stole his champagne flute from beside his plate and took a couple gulps. When she was with Arbor, she could almost pretend that her life hadn't gotten so complicated.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
i cried tears you'll never see
so fuck you you can go cry me and ocean
and leave me be
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[L△LIA]

[bg=D0C19A][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i42.tinypic.com/2vv5lqw.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-bottom:40px; border-left:1px solid #000000; border-right:1px solid #000000; border-bottom:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 25px; border-radius-bottomright: 25px; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 25px; border-radius-bottomleft: 25px;opacity: 1;] e v e r y s o n g ' s l i k e : gold teeth, grey goose, trippin' in the bathroom bloodstains, ball gowns, trashin' the hotel room w e d o n ' t c a r e we're driving cadillacs in our dreams Only minutes ago, I thought it would take something more than riding a five hundred pound tiger into a party to earn stares in the Capitol. However, that was before I made my grand entrance into Arbor Halt's anniversary soiree and already I'm beginning to realize that these people have a thing or two to learn from the infamous headliner of Cirque De La Mort. With my skin strategically covered in gold leaf, the dark twists of my tattoos weave their way through the gilded gleam of my second skin as though I have stripes of my own to mimic the predatory grace of my companion. Thin, coordinating chains slink across the crackling decoupage in organized chaos, meeting and parting in the sort of beautiful madness that my escort declares to be a scandalous excuse for clothing. Thankfully it took far less convincing to earn my stylist's approval for the idea of a chainmail dress to match my tiger's twenty-four karat leash, my nails and the very tips of my eyelashes painted to match, and Noah Ripley's crown atop my head, as always, in an infamous final touch. Winking at the doorman — a metallic flash glinting against the light — the smile that graces my lips is smug, confident, and far more understated than the rest of me. Immediately, someone swoops forward to hand me a crystal flute of champagne and kiss my cheek. Something like delight shimmers in the laughter of my reply as I reach out to grasp hands with any passing strangers courageous enough to approach. Here, I am a seductive threat: more daydream than murderess, but still unforgettably dangerous. I dared to give them memories and by Ripred, over twenty-three dead bodies of the District's conquered children, they won't forget it. By the time Arbor finishes his speech, I'm all a-rush with bubbles and vapid compliments, dizzied by the throw-away grandeur of a night worth whiling away. My cares have been left in my District, safeguarded behind the ribcages of souls yet more immortal than mine. Maybe it was the Games or just the carelessness of champagne, but I've left something of myself with my beloved freaks back home — brothers and sisters and lovers who also know how to be more than ordinary — and my worries must have stayed behind too. For now, I have everything. Even the words of the celebrated Victor of the night can't dig their way into me, Arbor's cautionary warning ricocheting off my golden armor and into the nothingness of the gathered crowd. Padding over barefoot and gleaming, my tiger trailing behind as he occasionally pauses to growl quiet demands at guests for table scraps, I find my way to the man of the evening and the pair of Victors accompanying him. I am hip-sway like a slow motion earthquake as I twist through the crowd and approach, my every step synced in flawless reaction. Despite the gentle numbness inhabiting my blood, light enough to make me feel airborne each time I rise onto my toes, my body is incapable of forgetting itself, my sense of balance stronger than any alcohol. It's only when I open my mouth to make an introduction that my gentle illusion is shaken. Lips parted and jaw falling in perfect time, a ferocious roar echoes out, startling even me. A moment of delay stretches as though in competition with my limbs before I whirl around. "Bad, Arbor! No!" My tiger freezes to look at me in guilt, both paws up on the banquet table and an entire roasted duck clutched between his jaws as I stare him down. "For shame, Arbor." The deep, rocky alto of my chastising voice lilts against a champagne haze, but the sound is still enough for him to drop back down to the floor with his prize in a silenced retreat. Walking over, I smack him lightly on the nose in punishment, but can't help giggling as he flinches like a kitten. It's only then that I realize people are staring again. Honestly, it's a little disappointing if this is truly all it takes to garner attention in the Capitol. Looking up at the trio of Victors, I shrug as the quiet grows a little louder around us. "I named him in your honor —" The devious hint of a smirk begins to curl up in the corners of my lips and tugs as my voice quakes with an undercurrent of shameless amusement. "— only for tonight, of course. A special occasion." Nonchalantly, I reach out to scratch Arbor behind the ear, our twin skins glinting equally golden and untamable against the useless irony of our chains. e v e r y b o d y ' s l i k e : cristal, maybach, diamonds on your time piece jet planes, islands, tigers on a gold leash w e d o n ' t c a r e we aren't caught up in your love affair

[Wonder]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i48.tinypic.com/15ot2xx.jpg); width: 500px; padding-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px;][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true] ♛ peridot myler; ♛ stars hide your fires these here are my desires and i won't give them up to you this time around snd so i'll be found with my stake stuck in the ground

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∞

Celebrations had never been quite as exciting as they should be, the excited chit chat, the colourful lights and vibrant personalities only brought out an air of negativity that was rather avoided. Through the near two decades that he'd lived, holidays had never been an exciting experience. With birthdays there was never a particular sense of joy that eroded from his seams - though the lack of people to celebrate with was, in it's own sense, a reason for this. Even in crowded rooms filled with blissful joy and sweet ignorance, he shuddered at the thought of just being around. The enclosed space was suffocating and dull despite the room being surrounded by party animals and the soft thud of music dancing along in the background. This was the new life that he had to learn to enjoy, get with the program or get out of here.

Getting out of here was never really an option, that possibility died a long time ago, near two years, with the other twenty-three human beings who chose it. Death was now simply an icy companion, never moving, just silently skulking about placing his dreary fingertips along his shoulders promising that one day, he would come and rip Peri's soul from his fabrication, but until then - until then he had to suffer through parties such as the one he surrounded himself in. Ten years alive was an impressive feat no doubt. Peri had been just eight years old at the time of Arbor's games, in fact, it was probably one of the first games that he had come to see and understand - people were dying. But that was just an everyday thing now, having ushered two more dead children through the games, he had had the taste of death and it's inevitability that no longer seemed to affect Topaz any more. Or any of the victor's surrounding him - at what point did death null itself on their fingertips.

The thought sickened him to the core, nearly causing him to drop his champagne glass that stuck helplessly to his own hands. Peri wasn't fond of alcohol, and never had been - though he had tried some drugs, and those weren't wholly that bad of an experience. If anything, Peri could understand the pain numbing that such products condoned, something that in the future, in the present, and he imagined that in the past, wouldn't be all that bad. Oh Little Boy, it's not time to let go just yet, embrace it. Embrace what? Embrace it. Embrace the feeling of floating in mid-air, embrace the anxiety taking over his body, embrace the eternal sadness that struck him to sleep next to Kiera's grace, embrace.. Embrace life, Little Boy.

But he wasn't so little any more. Life had changed ever so quickly, and time so fervently, he had quickly become an adult. With the added factor that he could never be reaped again came a certain responsibility to look out towards a long and bright future, despite how negative he felt towards it. He couldn't be like the rest of them. He couldn't bring himself out of the dark, like Arbor had. There was no relationship that he could strive towards like Tope, Mace, and Julian. He wasn't strong enough to be as confident as Cricket. These people had deserved to come out of the arena, they were strong, powerful, full of a will that he had never experienced.

You're a rock, you're a diamond, you're a star. He had been called so many things throughout his short life that meant such powerful things, and yet looking upon the small grouping of the latest victors of the past decades, he felt as though he was not even relevant amongst their mix. For Ripred's sake, the tiger looked more at home than he did flailing his tail and growling about, Peri himself would bet on the tiger in the arena, and he was sure it would win too.

However, there was a certain attraction, an appeal to the thought of being a victor that Peri had always wanted. The original reason, after all, he had become a career was to act like a career, to be a part of the group - and had he not done that? At what point does a career prove his legitimacy as a career? When he wins? Well he did it! And there he was, toddling aimlessly towards the amassed group of his peers as if a toddler asking for his parents permission to do something they would never agree to. Little Boy, this is your place. His place was in the stars, he figured that one out two years ago, with Aria, and Wes, and Kiera - Little Boy, you belong.

Avoiding the tiger as much as he could, he walked over the the side opposing the fiendish beast and cut his way through. "Great speech, Arbor!" Too enthusiastic, you're trying too hard. "Tope always talks highly of you." Too friendly. "Hey everyone!" Just stop it Myler, you're embarrassing yourself. "Who the fuck brought the tiger?" Perfect.

marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul
but you, you've gone too far this time
you have neither reason nor rhyme
with which to take this soul that is so rightfully mine

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∞

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credit to zoe, and lalia^

[/blockquote]

[aya]

raise our heavenly glasses to the heavens
squalor victoria
squalor victoria

Arbor Halt—

[/color]
[/i]

His speech was met with an earnest round of applause, and Arbor wasn't about to bother himself over whether or not it had been well-earned. He'd done his best and, quite frankly, was proud of his performance. Not three or four years ago, he would've flat-out refused to get in front of the crowd, much less give a lengthy, heart-felt speech to the strangers or the friends that comprised his audience. He thanked everyone once more, before disappearing into the throng. It took all of two seconds for Arbor to run into someone he'd have felt comfortable enough to talk to, with or without the buoy of his reacquired confidence. Mace Emberstatt, looking as out of place as the District Twelve victor usually felt at soirees such as this, approached him before anyone else could swarm him, one meaty paw outstretched. Champagne flute in his left hand and the ghost of his best effort at a genuine grin still left over from the end of his speech, Arbor grabbed the other victor's hand and gave it a firm shake.

"That was a fucked up speech, brother." Arbor blinked hard, feeling as if he'd been hit in the face with a bucket of cold water. All of his effort went into keeping himself from sinking to the floor, the way that his stomach had. For a few moments, the boy just stared in shock, trying to wrap his head around what Mace had told him. He'd worked hard, really searched himself to come up with the right words to say — an honest, frank interpretation of the events that had unfolded in the Arena he hadn't called home in a decade, one that sidestepped the obvious (that the Games were an incredibly shitty way to spend a week or two) and wouldn't get him in any more goddamn trouble. He'd tried, genuinely tried for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, and he'd done his legitimate best. Was it really so fucked up?

He tried to not let the remark bother him, but it kept nagging at the front of his mind. "I'm trying, Mace," he wanted to say — wanted to shout. "I'm trying, and I'm doing better, and I can't dwell with the fucked up system that threw us all together any more because I will go back to that place and I can't go back there. I just can't." His throat would not allow him to vocalize the words, however, so he settled for a noncommittal "Yeah, well" paired with a floundering shrug. He stood there, silent, trying to keep himself out of the brooding place he'd resided for the past decade, when Mace finally offered the District Twelve safe passage to the bar. Arbor gave him a small, polite smile in return — much weaker than the one he'd worn off the stage — and allowed himself to be distracted. "No thanks," he told the burlier victor. "Well — actually, if you're going, I could use something a bit stronger than this nonsense." He waved the slim glass of bubbly around for emphasis, before setting it down at the table setting in front of him.

Trance-like, his eyes fixed themselves on an untied shoe on the other side of the room. He did not care about the foot that occupied it, nor the person it was attached to; he just needed something to stare at while his thoughts swirled too quickly for his mind to keep up with. He was ripped from daydreaming by a familiar voice directly in his ear. The sudden noise — not to mention its proximity to his sensitive eardrum — caused the victor to jump, but he quickly righted himself and turned to stare down his drinking buddy, his favorite Career, and his honest-to-Ripred best friend.

Arbor couldn't stifle the bark of laughter that emerged from his throat when Topaz Ross insisted that they reopen the wager he'd alluded to — the bet he'd agreed to half a decade ago ("Getting ideas, are you, Halt? Well, don't get too hopeful, I bet I could get him before you could," the redheaded victor had said) — but this time substituting the newest member of their ranks for Mace. It took a few wheezy moments for the District Twelve to compose himself, only to lose it again when she acknowledged her advantage — married or not — in the newest incarnation of their five-year-old wager: that all that estrogen isn't really Arbor's thing. "And by the looks of it, Ross," he retaliated, face alight with a smirk, "District Two girls certainly are yours." Perhaps it was a line he wasn't meant to cross, friends or no, but he'd forced just enough alcohol into his system to dissipate his inhibitions.

When she stole his champagne flute, he stood to join her, abandoning the picked-clean dinner setting in front of him. He glanced around the room, eyeing the other victors, the fresh meat that the old Arbor Halt had been too secluded to get to know, too indifferent to make an effort. Functional eyes settling on one golden-head newbie, he dropped his voice and hissed back to his friend. And how about Peridot," he suggested, one cheeky eyebrow raised despite the fact that the old victor was entirely serious. "You've even got the upper hand with him; I don't think I've even said a word to him." As he suggest it, it had dawned on him that some of the newer victors might have just as hard a time fitting in as he initially had. Arbor had even been lucky; the first victor to follow him out of the arena had been his tribute. There was a certain degree of isolation that came with setting yourself apart from the masses in such a televised way, and for many of the victors, this was not an easy thing to deal with.

Some victors, of course, were suited to it — the newest member of their ranks was a gilded example. Cricket Antoinette certainly knew how to make a scene quite effortlessly (all it seemed to take was an terrifying, elegant overgrown house cat on a chain) and the District Twelve would not deny that he took some small amount of pleasure knowing the sort of conniption that his district escort was likely to be having over the — "Bad, Arbor! No! For shame, Arbor!" The victor turned, features quizzical to the point of dumbfounded to see Cricket chastising the very beast, who seemed to have liberated a rather large roasted waterfowl from the table. A confused snort of laughter fell out of his gawking mouth, to which the newest victor offered a shrug and a brief explanation. "I named him in your honor —" he snorted again, at a loss, and unable to muster the witty retorts that had been so often forced to pass as pleasant conversation "— only for tonight, of course. A special occasion."

Arbor grinned as the other victor scratched her pet behind the ears. "Well you make sure Arbor has as much roast duck as he pleases," suggested Arbor. "The rest of us —" he gestured at the chain mail she was trying to pass off as clothing "— didn't come dressed for a bloodbath." Any whole number of years ago, and the seasoned victor would've found his own remarks to be quite tasteless, but he was entirely through with worrying about upsetting someone — or upsetting himself — with the Hunger Games; he'd spent so long trying his hardest to be numb to them, and ten years later it seemed as if he'd found success.

He was once again yanked quite unceremoniously from his thoughts as the very victor he'd mentioned earlier came sauntering up to them, taking care to avoid tiger-Arbor, and appearing quite obviously out of place. "Great speech, Arbor!" Despite the awkwardly large level of enthusiasm, Arbor offered him a warm smile of gratitude, grateful for the contrast to the only other feedback — "That was a fucked up speech, brother" — that he'd gotten. "You're just saying that 'cause you got a mention, I'm sure," he chided, tapping Peridot on the arm lightly. Arbor was grateful for the opportunity to actually meet the handful of victors that he'd only gotten to know through the television screens at the bars that were so used to the victor's patronage that they were on the verge of charging him rent.

It was Peridot's next comment, "Tope always talks highly of you," that caused the buzzed Arbor to burst out in laughter. He turned to his red-haired friend, a triumphant smirk screwing up his stone-set features. When he regained his composure, he leaned in to whisper "Well aren't you a good wingman, Ross! It's almost as if you want me to win!"

[/i] Still grinning, he swirled the tumbler of whiskey around in his hand, as he often did when he was just standing. Admittedly, he was not entirely sure how the drink had gotten there, but it was rarer for him not to be carrying a half-filled lowball glass. He offered it to the District One boy — insisting that "Peridot, you're not as drunk as you ought to be, considering where you are." — and returned his attention to the cluster of victors that was slowly starting to build around him. It was a nice thing, he decided, having friends.


[/justify]
[/color]ooc - this thread's still open for people who haven't posted yet if they would like to, and turn order is pretty much unnecessary because that's how big threads die so yeah posts[/blockquote][/size]

[Rosetta]

Lethe Turner wasn't getting any younger nor did she appear to have aged at all. Her little white hands dipped themselves gently the gooey tub of red paint before her and she watched as the substance lapped up over the smooth skin, coating the spidery veins that stood straight out across her hands. Lethe never had much color and the small amount present could be attributed to the veins under transparent skin. One night, after she'd closed her eyes, Eden had come to her bed to run her small sticky fingers across the blue veins that run across Lethe's eyelids. She only stopped in fright when her fingers passed over the sunken right eyelid that was closed over an empty socket; Lethe's glass eye was in a small device from the Capitol for cleaning on her nightstand. Sometimes, Lethe wondered if it was perhaps her pale pallor that was to blame for appearance as the eighteen year girl who just stumbled out of the Arena as opposed to the twenty four year old mother she was now.

In the front room, she finished painting her palms red and straightened up, pressing her right hand to the canvas. The red handprint she left next to Eden's little blue one wasn’t much larger. With a sigh, a child-like Lethe turned and wiped her hand on her apron before turning towards the floor-to-ceiling windows and surveying the candied skyline. Once more, they were in the Capitol and this year, Lethe had insisted upon bringing Eden. At four, Eden was well-aware of her mother’s status and obligated to act accordingly with company, smiling shyly and remaining politely quiet. It was only when she was alone with her mother did she become a chatterbox. Lethe knew that she spoiled Eden privately and Eden knew she was spoiled privately and so the voice only came out privately. “I want was her favorite phrase and Lethe, Camalia in tow, bought into it. Perhaps because in Lethe’s household, one of many, there was never room for spoiling…and when Lethe finally found herself spoiled beyond belief it was because she’d outlived twenty three other children…having already attributed to the death of two of those children.

Perhaps she spoiled Eden to make up for it. She was spoiling her with twenty three lives…but even toys withered away into dust. Lethe sighed and turned as she heard a crying arise from the next room and hastily glancing down at her soiled apron, she again heaved a great sigh. It was nearly time to go to the party and she wasn’t even close to being ready. And the baby was crying…and it wasn’t Eden.

Lethe thought Klaus had lost it when he called her several weeks ago to make the request. She had heard that Arbor had tried to kill himself and often drank himself to oblivion. Heron was often nowhere to be found and Mace and Ara channeled their emotions into sex like Lethe had. Had Klaus snapped? No, he hadn’t. What he had to say was legitimate and all Lethe had to do was play stork. Easy enough, but not really. The house was prim and proper and the girl was pretty and she was Lethe all over again and staring her in the face almost made Lethe want to run without accepting the child-pregnant, how can I be pregnant, doctor?-but she did, taking the gurgling baby in her arms-please, Mother, don’t ask who he was…I don’t want to tell you-

[/i]and her name was Daisy-I’m going to name her Eden…for Aesop and Sundra…-[/i]she was beautiful like Lethe’s Eden and Lethe fell in love on the spot. It was the mother in her. It stabbed at her and stung her at the knees and elbows because Daisy was Edana, left behind by a mother who couldn’t keep her and the first Eden had died with Sundra and Aesop and now here Lethe was, trying to make up for what was lost.

Pulling her apron, Lethe made for the door but the crying had stopped and Lethe rocked slightly in place for a second, listening, before taking a deep, steadying breath and deciding, with a swallow, to attend to herself first. When she was finished showering and dressing (Lethe had become quite accustomed to doing all this without mirror. It was a slight inconvenience, but a favorable alternative to panic), she turned to the children, napping still in the other room. Tiptoeing into the darkness, Lethe gently pulled Camalia off her shoulder and into her hands to gaze down at their youthful faces. Eden was a younger Lethe and Daisy, as she was called, just as beautiful. Staring down at them, Lethe was overcome with a sudden urge to kiss both of their little noses. One peck on one and then the other. Eden had crept into Daisy's crib and they both sucked their thumbs in rhythm with Eden's chubby legs thrown over Daisy's and Daisy's face nestled close to Eden's armpit. They were precious and Lethe, just for a moment, felt a pang in her lower tummy, just over her womb. Her eyes filled hotly. Wouldn't it be nice to have another little girl? One just as small and blonde as Daisy, nestled up close to her not-so-little baby. Maybe even a chubby little boy who could come crying to her with scraped knees, content to be rocked in her lap back to sleep. She would be able to feel them stirring in her belly, feel the kick, feel them shift and shudder within her. Another baby...

As if sensing her thoughts, the little girls awoke in unison, fussing as children do and Lethe set to work, imagining that Daisy was her little girl, her second little girl...

By the time she heard the knock on the door, Lethe had channeled her mother considerably in that both girls had their curls primped and faces freshened, both standing straight up in their little dresses, green for Eden and a lovely rose for Daisy. With a satisfied sigh, Lethe took both of their hands, Camalia on shoulder, and opened the door.

"Klaus," she felt a sudden grin tugging at her lips because this was it. A new father and a new baby (not her own...). Lethe had become a mother on a cold night in a stable, re-christened into motherhood. The rough hay coupled with scratchy horse blanket, she could still feel it. The heat between her legs and the sticky perspiration down her face, pat dry by unknown hands for her vision was swimming, showering her with colorful wonders, painted windows were they? then they are shattered by a shriek that lasts hours and somewhere, Anya, oh that angel, is kissing her cheek and forehead, whispering, push, push, love, you're safe with me.Edana cried all alone in her crib and when the first wail hit the air, Lethe vowed truly to keep her. It was a she after all, placed all soft and new in her arms once she was cut and clean. Lethe was a mother, truly, standing before the father, anointed by her kiss on his cheek when she leaned forward to whisper, "she...she's been asleep nearly the entire time. Fussed a little for her mother, but let's get down to the party and then you can get acquainted?"

With the skill only of a mother, Lethe re-positioned the group, handing Daisy's hand to Klaus and Lethe took Eden's the group went off down to the party.

They were late and Arbor had already spoken; it was clear from the drink in his hand and the company he currently kept: a bunch of Victors. The first thing Lethe immediately registered was that Camalia wasn't the only animal present. There was a tiger. A live tiger, mounted by the elastic girl who could only be the beautiful newest Victor, Cricket. Eden shrieked in delight when she saw the tiger and Lethe, swallowing hard, pulled her back to keep her from reaching forward and burying her sticky hands in its fur. An animal of that size had killed Anya Crider with one lunge. Lethe wasn't taking any chances.

Carefully, she skirted around the tiger and joined the knot of Victors just in time to hear Peri voice just what was on her mind. "Who the fuck brought the tiger?"

"There's a child present," Lethe hastily reminded him and taking a deep breath, she forced a smile in the direction of Arbor. She'd never really had a conversation with him before and all she knew of him was that he had a rather bad penchant for the drink, a habit Lethe never understood. Alcohol was sour on her tongue and smelled strongly of shampoo and human sweat and, to her, made her feel as though another wet body was lying atop hers. Suffocating. But then, they all took care of their nightmares differently. Lethe still had little scars on her face, faintly visible from under make up and a healing lotion prescribed to her by a Capitol doctor, the product of dark sleepless, screaming nights.
Perhaps it was the suffocating drink that caused Arbor to throw such a party celebrating such an awful occasion to which all Lethe could say off-handedly to was "Congratulations."

She reached up to itch her neck, but found it wasn't an itch irking her, but rather a skittish Camalia, desperately trying to lick through her neck to escape the tiger. With a sigh, Lethe removed the lizard from her neck and held her tightly in her hands before looking towards Cricket with a nod. Goodness, she was gorgeous. "We haven't met yet, Cricket. I'm Lethe. Now that you're a Victor, why don't you join us all tomorrow night." With a smile that didn't fully reach her eyes, Lethe turned towards her fellow Victors. "I'm having a little dinner party up in my room tomorrow night. You're all invited. I'd love to have you. We could all use some company, yeah?"

Especially her. Especially Lethe. Anything to keep her from getting out of bed in the night and running barefoot to him, crying, you’ve broken me, come back to me, come back to me or else I lose all control.

In the company of multitudes of broken people, she was safe. [/color][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[florentine, d4b ❁]

[presto]

klaus goravich
twenty one
district three

[/presto]

---

OH, FOR EVERY KING THAT DIED

---

There is a time in every lifetime when a person can look right at their reflection without flinching. It takes a long time - the battles inside by far outweigh external struggles. (For some, this moment is never found, be it due to a sword in their head or a monster in their heart.) This morning, as I ran my hands through my hair and lifted my chin, I did not let my gaze wander from the pearly blue eyes of Klaus Goravich. I breathed in deeply, resting my hands at my sides. For the first time since the day I escaped the arena, I really looked at myself. (No longer am I a boy, but part of me still wonders if I am truly aman.) My cheeks are slender and defined, my jawbone strong. Perhaps, to someone who didn't know me, I might appear defiant and brave. I am anything but - however I am able to look into the mirror and right out the other side. I stop noticing the light brown hair and stylist-plucked eyebrows and instead take a moment to regard myself. Quiet lips are not used to speaking, but their curl represents a kindness I will never lose. It takes a long minute to understand what has changed so much. I am taller, more mature, but that is not what catches my attention. Since coming out of the arena - raw, scared, broken and filled with a guilt I could not hide - I looked lost. Now, my entire expression has shifted to a distant sadness (the other Victors are enough to suggest this will never leave me). They are battle-hardened, scarred, and understanding. It is almost as though I can see the pain reflected their, a mirror of happenings years ago. Something is missing - perhaps the almost unbreakable innocence my old face possessed. I bite my lip and consider this. I am no longer the child who entered the arena, and no longer am I the boy who left it. Still, I am Klaus Goravich. And today, for the first time in my life, I can truly look at myself and understand that whatever changes in my life, I will always be Klaus. (We change, we gain, we lose and we do things we never thought we'd do, and yet we are still the baby that came into this world void of anything but our own fighting spirit.) Today, I will be meeting someone. The thought stirs something in my stomach and I watch as my expression softens. (It's strange, the way a concept can stretch itself out over the entirety of your soul and change everything.) My heartbeat quickens with excitement, and I close my eyes to take a long and shaky breath. I think the key to knowing you have truly seen yourself is letting yourself look away. I trust that I will still be Klaus Goravich when I return to my room in the Training Center. (The faces of Fitz and Penelope and Destiny taunt me, promising me that they will never change, either.) I spend the day restless and fidgety, in absolutely no doubt about the evening to come. Everything is set in place, and finally there will be no flaws in the plans. (It's sorted, set, happening.) Despite the countless unread books I asked for my shelves to be stocked with, I cannot concentrate on one for more than a minute or so. Surrounding me are piles upon piles of novels - a chapter belonging to each floats around in my mind, colliding with my thoughts. When it is finally time to leave, I am suddenly struck by doubt. The curious confidence that invaded my body this morning is all but gone, replaced with a hollow suggestion of incompetence. (What was I thinking, what do I know, why am I doing this?) It's then that I remember the orphaned child, so alone in the world and completely unaware of that. Who am I to have a blissful life and a house with more bedrooms than I can fill while she cries each night? I grew up surrounded by people who loved me, and the thought that a childhood devoid of company could befall an innocent baby breaks my heart. I remember the party, and feel less inclined to leave the comfort of my room. The other Victors are all the kind of people I fear the most - people who understand loss and love and morals and the complexities of living and dying. When I stand with them, I shuffle from foot to foot, feeling out of place and mismatched. Only Lethe's smile can remind me that I fit the criteria that brought them there. That I, as well as anyone, should know that nobody is invincible. (Be brave, Klaus. Be brave for the little girl that needs you tonight.) So, I am brave. I arrive on Lethe's doorstep on the brink of tears, my emotions so conflicting that I have given up trying to decide which I am feeling. It hardly matters. "Klaus," says Lethe (my best and only friend) as she opens the door and grins. I cannot help but to beam back at her, thankful for her unconditional care and kindness. She kisses my cheek and whispers words I do not expect into my ear. "She...she's been asleep nearly the entire time. Fussed a little for her mother, but let's get down to the party and then you can get acquainted?" It's so easy for her, so normal. I panic, beads of uncertain sweat forming on my forehead. I remember Klaus who cried at his interview and fled the stage, Klaus who walked along the beach and confessed his deepest secret to the world, believing he would die. I think of the Klaus that crawled along the ground, unwounded but ever so afraid, in the arena. I recall me, the boy who stood over Destiny, who asked for death in the grips of insanity. The finale, with Fitz slain before me lurks in the back of my mind. The crowning. The Victory Tour, so bitter. And now. Lethe pulls the tiny person onto her feet and tucks her hand into mine. Daisy. I think that perhaps I have never seen a human being so beautiful, so flawless. A crown of golden curls sits atop her head - huge, sparkling eyes meet mine with interest. A perfect set of rosebud lips form a gorgeous pout. The hand in mine is tiny, so irresistibly tiny and pure. I bend down to her level, look right at the baby before me, and realise that she is more than I deserve. "Daisy," I say, and she beams up at me with four milky white teeth. "You're beautiful." With that, I hold her close and promise us both that I will not bust into tears. A grin I swear will never fade lingering on my lips, I follow Lethe down to the party. We are late, of course, having missed the speech Arbor presented early on in the night. As we enter, I catch the Victor that followed me swearing, and Lethe scolds him firmly. I glance at Daisy, aware that the noise might upset her - (perhaps she isn't used to this many people, either). She seems simply bemused, and relief floods me. Fondly, I watch as Lethe introduces herself to our newest addition, Cricket. Despite her recent Victorship, I am perhaps most afraid of this girl. She is the embodiment of power and poise, dancing and turning and tumbling endlessly around, fire on her fingertips. I watched a lot of her adventures in the arena, and her battles - each of which she fought alone - reminded me of exactly what a winner looks like. My friend invites her to a party, and I smile from my place a couple of steps behind. I yearn to reach out and lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but both of my arms are preoccupied with holding the new most important person in my life. I shiver, and then immediately worry that Daisy is cold. A glance - and second glance, and a third - confirms that she is still smiling contently, her gaze fixed upon the tiger that roams the party. (Perhaps I should be shocked at the wild animal attending a party, but I have grown accustomed to all mannor of things by now.) Resisting the urge to back away from the conversing people, I glance toward the refreshments table. Baby on one hip, I fill a cup with a liquid I do not recognise and drink it thirstily. "Arbor," I nod, "Peridot, Topaz, Mace." There are many things I wish to say to each of these people, but the most I can manage is a fleeting greeting and a nod. "Cricket," I bite my lip, and then force myself to look welcoming. (Perhaps she is feeling a little afraid, too?) A glance at her suggests this isn't the case, but I do my best to maintain a friendly expression anyway. Still, I have to swallow to keep nervous laughter away. Since winning, the amount of time I spend alone has perhaps even increased and I am not used to do much company. I search my mind for any conversation that might be hiding there, but stumble across nothing. "This is Daisy," I say, realising that I have not explained the baby at my side to my fellow Victors. I'm unsure if any of them care, but I decide it polite to mention it. For the first time, a sense of belonging blooms in my chest, as though perhaps, despite my inability to be social, I do belong here after all. (Maybe they even understand.) As I glance at the other guests, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror hanging on a far wall. I look happy. Not smiling because I have to, or I should, or because I want other people to be comfortable. Actually cheeks-glowing, lip-curling, bright-eyed contentment. (I am not pretending that there is nothing wrong in my life, or that I do not still sometimes cry myself to sleep every night. But tonight, I can look at my friends, and look at Daisy, and know that if that is who I am, then that's okay.)

THEY WOULD CROWN ANOTHER

[pthalorarity]

king of the red sanded wasteland

[/i][/color][/size]

Julian traced his silvery polished finger around the rim of his champagne glass as Arbor’s speech continued on. He had never known the District 12 Victor to be so verbose. Then again, he hardly knew him at all in truth. Well… he knew him in certain ways that he was sure both of them would like to forget, and he knew Mace would like to forget. Aside from that, there had not been many points of discussion between these two very different people. Even as Arbor regaled the crowd with his eloquent descriptions of what it is like to be a victor of the Games, Julian could hardly relate. Allies? What are those… Julain scoffed in his thought. The fact that Julian conquered his Arena alone as per the Sixtieth Games quell twist remained a constant pull between a source of pride and distress. Trust had always been a point of contention in the Bryze family line and though time has led him to open up to the man who shared his bed, Julian’s pace was still quite glacial when it came to the rest of his fellow victors.

Still, he attended most of the functions with this crew since meeting most of the victors around his age on his Victory Tour. He was slightly warmer to them than the ones that followed in his footsteps at least. Hell, with enough liquor in him though, he would laugh and joke with the others as he did when he was alone with Mace, and if he was honest with himself, he would admit he enjoyed their company. Currently, however, this was not the case so Julian retained his cold, calculating demeanor.

After what seemed like an hour-long speech, Julian finally raised his glass with a pursed smile while others around him applauded or gave a cheer of approval before taking a sip. Cheering was not something Julian Bryze did… sober at least. His light eyes drifted to Mace as he approached the man of the hour. That was one of the pitfalls of these parties. Though the Capitolites adored Julian and Mace as an entity, there was no skirting around Mace’s surly nature when they presented themselves in public. That left the task of charming the crowd up to Julian. Though he may be icy in his own way, his years of training also involved the delicate art of working his audience. So that he did as several social climbers sat around him now, fawning over his physique and apparel. They offered nothing but shallow compliments, but Julian could hardly deny the slight enjoyment he received from the perpetual stroke of his ego.

He continued to allow the groupies talk at him while his focus continued to shift around the room. His eyes fell upon his many fellow victors, particularly the ones with children. It was all he could do in the moment to not roll his eyes. Was that really what people wanted once they fought their way through an arena? To save your own life only to give it up in devotion to a child? He eyed Klaus particularly as he was the closest in age to himself. As he looked back to Mace, he said a little prayer of thanks to Ripred that bearing children was not something he needed to concern himself with.

Julian couldn’t help but reveal his pearly whites in a smile as his gaze lingered on his boyfriend. The meaty cowboy was in better shape than usual and Julian particularly enjoyed the view of him in the fitted suit he adorned.

Once finished with the champagne flute in his fingers, he passed it off to the nearest person and excused himself before making his way over to the bar with his actual peers. He slipped his soft hand into Mace’s as he approached from behind before stepping into place beside him.

“Longwinded—I mean, lovely speech, Arbor,” Julian said half-jokingly with a flicker of his lashes and a grin. He ordered some brightly colored cocktail from the bartender and took a sip before addressing the others. “Topaz,” Julian smiled. It was relatively genuine, at least until he turned to Peridot. His lips pursed at the victor he had taken nearly the least amount of time to associate himself with. Julian had his fair share of breakdowns and emotional turmoil, but he found Peri to be a downright sniveling wussy. He released a small hmph of disapproval before returning to his drink.

[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I have a slow disease that sucked me dry... I always aim to please
but I nearly died

The trip to the bar and back went smoothly. After clearing the path once, people naturally angled their bodies away from Mace. The only slight obstacle Mace encountered was a tall, lithe avox, miming assistance. It was awkward to carry a variety of drinks, and since he couldn't shrug, Mace settled for a growl. He felt only disappointment as the avox bowed her head and stepped back. Clearly no one found him intimidating any more. What was the point of trying? As he traversed the room, he looked up to find the younger victors congregating. His gut pinched at the sight of Klaus and Peridot, baby faced and trim. Klaus was still a big question mark in Mace's life, after that kiss with Elon. He couldn't quite hate him, even though he was here and his brother was not.

But Peridot was even more of a mystery. Mace hadn't often found himself attracted to men, never at the level that he was drawn to Julian. But he had seen enough videos fawning over Peridot to know that he was handsome. How handsome though? Handsome enough to be a temptation? He didn't seem like Julian's type and thank goodness to ripred none of the other beefy tributes had yet made it through the arena. But then, Julian hadn't said yes.

A little bit of amber liquid sloshed onto the carpet as Mace missed a step. A shiver ran down his spine, and for a moment, he was frozen. Gone from the lavish room, away from the warmth of bodies all around him. Back to the frozen landscape, a longsword in his grasp and the only person he'd ever loved dead below the ice. He shuddered, came back, the ice in Arbor's drink clinking around. It was a far cry from the tundra, and almost laughable. Just a few pieces of ice, cooling his fingertips. Mace glared down at it as he finally closed the gap between himself and his comrades, his family. He managed to shove the tumbler of whiskey into Arbor's hand without a word. He smirked, and then carefully threaded his way around the other victors.

It was like a fucking obstacle course in the training center. Avoid the tiger's claws and come within striking distance of an infant. "Down kitty," he murmured, studiously avoiding Cricket. It was just easier not to think about her and her bendy limbs. He clutched his two remaining drinks close, and brushed past Peridot much closer than was strictly necessary. He smelled clean. Truly clean, in a way Mace could never seem to be. He snorted.

And there, at the edge of the group, he finally found solace. And confusion. And excitement. He was no longer afraid of shivering. In fact, the room felt a little too warm, especially around the collar of his suit. He lifted the martini glass, the liquid shimmering pink at the bottom and purple near the lip. "The bartender said it's his speciality," Mace murmured, and allowed himself the smallest indulgence: a kiss on Julian's cheek. There was, of course, always the desire to do more, but Mace was taking the longview of things tonight. The martini had just the right amount of neon color to be dangerous. It was a cheap strategy, but Mace needed all the help he could get.

He looked at the last glass of champagne he had carried over and cringed. The bubbles always tickled his nose. He looked up to Lethe's question, and thrust the glass in her direction. "As long as I don't have to wear another suit."

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[Lulu]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
you are what you love not who loves you
in a world full of the word yes
i’m here to scream
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The party was getting a bit crowded—all the victors had come over to congratulate Arbor and make smalltalk—but Topaz had always preferred being surrounded by people to being alone, anyway. The more people present, the less frequently her traitorous mind embarked on dangerous introspection, and the less likely she’d have to curl up in a ball and wonder what the hell had gone wrong with her life (yes, this happened all too frequently). Plus, there was a tiger present; that was pretty hot. ”Where’d you get this thing? No, wait, I’m not even going to ask,” Tope snickered, and then, feeling the all-too-familiar buzz in her veins, proceeded to drop to her knees and growl at the massive cat. ”I don’t think it likes me,” she announced with a frown, straightening back up. ”I don’t see why not—my hair matches its coat. We could almost be kin.” As if to emphasize her point, the tipsy victor gave her sleek, straightened red locks a shake in the direction of the tiger, well aware that it could result in getting her head bitten off but too drunk to care. Honestly, it would solve a lot of problems.

Topaz stood back for a minute to examine Cricket Antoinette, the latest unfortunate soul added to their ranks. Her confidence and self-assuredness emanated from her very being, and the part of Tope that wasn’t incredibly envious admired that. But she was young, still so young, so untouched by all the perils her victory and never-ending fame would bring her. The spotlight had not yet sucked her dry. She had no idea that the life ahead of her was worse than what she had faced in the arena, so much worse. Topaz remembered winning at the same age she had, and immediately succumbing. She hoped for Cricket’s own sake that she would be able to last longer, and had a strong feeling that she might. ”I take back what I said about this one,” Tope muttered in Arbor’s ear. ”What is she, like, seventeen? Look at us old geezers; we’d be robbing the cradle.” Though she’d been one only five years previous, at twenty-four Topaz already felt like her teenage years were a distant memory. At sixteen years old she’d killed her love; at nineteen she’d watched her sister die. The champion wanted to be as far away from that as possible.

The redhead was jerked out of her brooding by Arbor’s retort to her estrogen comment: ”And by the looks of it, Ross, District Two girls certainly are yours.” At first, Tope’s eyes widened, and she paused for a moment expecting to feel the usual pang of sorrow. Had Arbor crossed the line? But it didn’t come; luckily she’d drank enough already to numb it. Relieved, she found herself able to laugh. ”Asshole,” she replied, giving him a good-natured but relatively hard slap. Thankfully, though, her companion changed the topic quickly. ”And how about Peridot? You’ve even got the upper hand with him; I don’t think I’ve even said a word to him.” For a moment Tope found her eyes following his gaze to the young, strong 62nd victor, a gleam of hunger in her eyes, but then she shook her head and wrinkled her nose in disgust. ”Absolutely not!” she spat indignantly. ”I mentored him; doesn’t that make him, like, my kid or something?” She crossed her arms and pursed her lips in Arbor’s direction. ”Even I wouldn’t go there, and I’m about as bad as it gets.”

As if on cue, Peridot approached Arbor to praise him for his speech. Tope approved of his immediate reference to his mentor—good boy, she’d trained him well—but of course Arbor turned it around in her face, as per usual. ”Oh, hush. You can thank me later.” She gave him a sharp elbow in the side and looked at her former tribute charge turned champion, the one success story she had to her name. He really had come a long way in the past few years. Topaz was almost ashamed to admit that she’d been rooting for his district partner—she and Kiera had been friends before the Games, and she’d seen a lot of herself in that I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude—but he certainly was a worthy victor. Plus beggars can’t be choosers, right? She’d wanted a winner for some validation that she wasn’t a total fuck-up. She’d gotten one. It had taken six years and eleven dead bodies, but she’d gotten one.

She greeted the other victors warmly, genuinely pleased to see them because this was perhaps the only group of people she felt she belonged with. Mace, whom she’d always gotten along fairly well with, barring the fact that she and Arbor had made a bet on who could bed him first. Julian, someone she could truly call a friend, whom she had a lot of respect for. She envied his happiness with Mace, wishing terribly that Nash had been in a different Games and won so that they could spend their lives together, united against the trials and tribulations of victorship. But then she wouldn’t’ve been your Nash, would she? You wouldn’t’ve shared the Games. Would you really trade that to have her alive, but completely different? Topaz shoved the thought away angrily; it wasn’t a question she wanted to answer. She turned to wave at Lethe, whom she’d never really gotten close to simply because she was so hard to understand, different in a number of ways from the other victors. Maybe it was because she was a mother, although that category technically included Aranica as well. Where was Ara? Lost in the chaos of this party, no doubt, if she had even arrived yet.

Speaking of babies and motherhood, Klaus, another victor she hadn’t gotten particularly acquainted with, was actually holding one in his arms, a tiny little blonde creature who was actually exceedingly adorable. Topaz was uncomfortably reminded of when she used to call Klaus a fetus himself; he’d certainly grown up since then, though. Where had he gotten a baby from? Why had he brought it to a party full of drunken Capitolites and emotionally shattered Hunger Games victors? Still sober enough to play nice, Tope drew closer to him and smiled. ”Hey, Klaus,” she greeted. ”And hello, Daisy.” She stared at the baby, trying to draw up the maternal feelings that were supposed to be innate but that she’d never really been able to grasp. Children had never been Topaz’s thing; she was able to put on a façade for the little Capitol children who begged for her autograph at public appearances, smile at their parents and exclaim how wonderful they all were, but when it came down to sincerity she was sorely lacking. Though they’d been married for some time now, and most married couples at least brushed upon it by this point, she and Maverick had never gone near the topic of children save for one interview with Victor’s View magazine shortly after their wedding. But it had been a play for the reporters, at least on Topaz’s part. It was too alien for her, and while she knew Maverick would absolutely be more than willing to father her children, he loved her enough to let her come to terms with the idea on her own. Which Topaz most certainly hadn’t yet. ”Is she yours?” Topaz asked, her voice rather quiet in case Klaus wasn’t willing to talk about it. Hell, if it was, there was no way Topaz could judge; with the amount of sleeping around she had done it was miraculous that she hadn’t had a bun or two in the oven before marrying Maverick.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
no, no wherever I go
trouble seems to follow I only plugged in to
save rock and roll
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[L△LIA]

[bg=030303][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,400,true][atrb=style,width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i40.tinypic.com/102kqht.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left:40px; padding-right:40px; padding-top:40px; border-left:1px solid #000000; border-right:1px solid #000000; border-top:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius-topright: 25px; border-radius-topright: 25px; -moz-border-radius-topleft: 25px; border-radius-topleft: 25px;opacity: 1;] Drugged on champagne, compliments, and an excess of admiration, mine is a smile that cannot remember the definition of falter. Any edginess amongst my newfound companions is lost on me before they even find it in the flickering eyes of the tiger beside me. Instead, I see only the echoing laughter of the celebrating crowd and the false promises of sincerity that were planned out so carefully in every detail of the silverware and background music surrounding us. I never meant to be easy, but here I am — a golden god with lies shimmering in her blood and none the wiser. Shamelessly, I straighten the crown atop my head, an icon of Noah Ripley's death transformed into an object of my own triumphant pride. The Capitolites love it almost as much as I do, our shallowness mirroring one another until it becomes all too easy for me to forget the mutterings of tacky, heartless, freak that followed my shadow in quiet fear throughout my Victory tour. Maybe they think I'm deaf to their words, but in truth I'm simply beyond caring. Even more than training for the Games, I spent a lifetime learning how to deflect their judgmental sneers and scalding name calling. Go ahead, name me Queen Freak, call me a double-jointed demon of all things unnatural, think of me as the poster girl for every sin that makes you quake in the dark. More than having memorized the sound of a final breath, I will remember how to smile. "Who the fuck brought the tiger?" I will remember how to laugh. The sound echoes out of me as wild as Arbor's roar, fierce and rocky across my scarred vocal chords. Buoyed by the bubbles of my drink, it seems to float up to kiss the ceiling and I might follow if I could reach that high, but instead I settle for the cheek of the one who brought me into question. Lips pressed to Peridot's jawline in an innocent greeting that worries nothing about the boundaries of his personal space, another lightheaded giggle slips out of me as I teasingly reply: "I did! Isn't Arbor just the most stunning thing you've ever laid eyes on?" I settle into a smirk as my gaze darts mischievously between the man of the hour and the namesake copycat I've brought along. "Well you make sure Arbor has as much roast duck as he pleases," my grin stretches as the Victor's voice chimes back with a reply, "The rest of us didn't come dressed for a bloodbath." I can't stop myself from whispering a thoughtless and all too implying response of "Didn't you though?" to Arbor as I slip away from Peridot and toward the rest of the Victors who have gathered around us, playfully tapping the tip of his nose as if I were commenting on an inside joke. Despite being new to their ranks, it's a poorly concealed secret that most of them seem to find these kinds of events as trying as the fights of their respective Games, less than comfortable in the social battleground of fame. "Besides —" my voice rises, unafraid of reveling in the spotlight as I pause to straighten his tie "— everyone knows I wore far less than this for my Bloodbath. I don't know how you all manage to breathe wearing all that clothing." It's a throw-away kind of seriousness that overtakes me, but it still feels more honest than the conversation floating throughout the rest of the room as I look him in the eye and give a small, deflecting shake of my head. "Of all the things, I don't think I could handle that." With that, I'm gone, fluttering away in a patter of sweetly vacant footsteps to meet with the pretty, blonde Victor from Five. "We haven't met yet, Cricket. I'm Lethe. Now that you're a Victor, why don't you join us all tomorrow night." Her words strike me funny and I swallow down my laughter for once. Now that you're a Victor loops through my mind and I have to fight off the urge to retort how I've never been anything else. I was born for this, dreamed of this, devoted all the years of my childhood to the beautiful destiny of the very fear they still can't seem to overcome. There's not an easy way to tell her that I love the very thing that fills each of them with an undercurrent of uncertainty or that I'd volunteer to do it all again if I had the chance, so I don't. "I'm having a little dinner party up in my room tomorrow night. You're all invited. I'd love to have you. We could all use some company, yeah?" Reaching forward to run a curious finger down the back of the lizard that accompanies her, I give an enthusiastic nod of — yes, of course I'll come — and swoop forward to kiss her cheek. After all the champagne and my similar greeting to Peridot a few minutes earlier, it seems the thing to do. With a flutter of golden eyelashes and a breathless reply of "that sounds lovely" I turn toward the sound of my name as it slips uncertainly from the mouth of the 61st Victor beside us. Immediately I lean forward to press my lips to the edge of his jaw as well, deciding to make a habit of the gesture tonight. "Hello, Daisy!" With a bright wave at the tiny girl in his arms, my fingers dancing against the air as though making a game of the movement, I try to be reassuring. "Don't worry, Arbor doesn't bite. He's just a ball of fluff, I promise." "Where’d you get this thing? No, wait, I’m not even going to ask." A rumbling growl twists up from below as the tiger in question finds himself face to face with Topaz Ross, who appears to be as fiercely fearless as he is. I punctuate my promise to Klaus and Lethe with a smile that can't help its own devious twist as the girl before us drops to her knees to growl back at the massive cat. "I don’t think it likes me," she announces as she stands back up with a toss of her own flame-colored mane, "I don’t see why not — my hair matches its coat. We could almost be kin." "Oh," my expression turns coy as I glance at the creature at our feet, my voice a half-sigh as if to imply oh, this old thing? "The big lug was a present," with a nonchalant wave of my hand through the air, I drop down and nuzzle my nose against his. "People thought our circus was missing a few things and decided to remedy that. A tiger, a mahogany and platinum bed of nails, an ostrich-leather collar for Wolfboy... you know, the essentials." Glancing up with a fiendish grin, I catch the questioning looks of I can't tell if she's serious or not before they've even manifested, losing myself in the amusement of what they don't yet know. My tiger, my gilded excuse for a dress, these thoughtless words — none of it touches on shocking in comparison to the wicked talents of my fellow-freaks back home. How little they know of the underworld I call my playground. "Don't worry though, I'm sure Arbor's just jealous of how pretty you are. Must think he has some competition —" A small snicker betrays my thinly veiled amusement at my own name-game and I attempt to bury my shameless laughter as I press my face into his fur once more, blissfully detached from the angst that haunts so many of those standing around me. "— so jealous, yes you are."

[WT]

In the daily bustle of District Twelve life, you sometimes forget that Kieran is growing up. New words burrow into conversations about dinner, new centimeters hide under the covers. You buy new clothes and shoes so often that it startles you about as much as replacing the kitchen sponge. Against the backdrop of the Capitol the changes assault you constantly: Last time we rode in this elevator, his head was level with the handle. Shi—uh, shoot, sorry, Bellezze, I didn't realize he'd be able to reach that—Kieran, apologize for waking Miss Bellezze up, you know better than to play with strange buttons. Oh, pebble, distracting you wasn't so damn hard last year. Every realization is a heady mix of pride and terror and confusion, and you welcome them all even as you ache to show him to people long gone.

Less so, however, when the reminders are from slightly drunk Capitolites peering at Kieran's hair. You extend the benefit of the doubt to most of the people who stop you while you're out. Capitolites are self-absorbed, insensitive, and frighteningly clueless, but you have trouble scolding them for trying to make you welcome—especially the young ones, whose barefaced admiration you can only begrudge so far, even if half their questions make you want to scream. Over the years a few have become casual but sincere friends. With Kieran along, though, it's another story, and when the latest stranger tries to pat at his hair despite his squeaky "Stop!" you waste no time bringing your umbrella between her hand and his head.

She makes a whining noise that sounds more petulant than wounded, then seems to forget her hand entirely as she squints at the umbrella. "Why do you have that?"

Kieran giggles, his half-panic at her encroaching hand already forgotten. You smile despite yourself—half at him, half at the woman's slurred Capitol accent. "I like it." (A half-truth. You do like it; Bellezze outdid herself with the tiny twelves sprinkled over the blue-and-red canopy, and even though it's a little snotty, its commentary on other people's outfits makes you laugh. Ultimately, though, your opinion of it is irrelevant. Here, at the seat of the clouds' power, you would carry the ugliest, brattiest umbrella in Panem before going without a shield.) "Sorry—I think I see our friends, pardon us."

Until now you've kept your tone even; the abrupt shift to dismissal leaves her a blinking caricature of confusion. Before she has time to collect herself, you scoop up Kieran and flee. As exits go, it's awkward—and, for once, not nearly as harsh as you would have liked—but it lets you vanish into the crowd. Almost immediately someone else tries to flag you down. You pretend that chatting with Kieran commands all your attention. It would even be true—he's delighted by the costumes and curious about the people as long as they aren't bearing down on him—if you weren't keeping eyes peeled for Lethe's bright hair.

Anyone you know would be a boon, in fact, and you're hoping to see several people before the night is through. Lethe's promise to bring Eden is part of the reason you brought Kieran, though. Not many young children live near the Victor's Village. You like to get the kids together while it's possible.

Kieran temporarily derails that plan by tugging at your sleeve and exclaiming, "I see Daddy!"

"That's great! Where, pebble?" Kieran points. Now that you know which way to look, finding Mace's head above the crowd is simple. The relief in your smile slides easily into affection as you weave through a last clump of strangers to find not only Mace but almost all of the victors—everyone but Heron, you gather after a quick inventory—standing in a loose group.

That absence stings a little. Heron's increasing absence both worries you and makes you miss her. That said, you don't live down the street from everyone here. You resolve to talk to her at home and push the concern away in favor of the other victors. Mace seems to be talking to Lethe. It would be a good time to catch them both, but Kieran asks to see the "big kitty" and every thought but how the fuck did I miss the tiger? promptly evaporates. When you can form sentences, you put him down and promise to take him when Cricket doesn't look busy. He sighs heavily but keeps hold of your hand without complaining.

Someone's laugh breaks through the low buzz of voices. You give a burst of your own when you recognize the voice and turn to see Arbor muttering something to Topaz. For the second time that night your eyes are swimming with tears, but these clear quickly and painlessly. Affection so fierce it almost hurts carries you across the group as quickly as Kieran can manage, and you fling your free arm around Arbor without thinking. "Giving up on you was never an option, dammit."

You pull away quickly and ruffle Kieran's hair. He's still fixated on the tiger, but breaks away long enough to give Arbor a silent wave. Discomfort sharpens the edges of your smile. You can't forget the feel of Kieran's hair against your cheek as you hid your tears in his scalp during Arbor's speech, and that in turn reminds you why all of you are here. If anyone had to end up here, though, you're selfishly glad it's this unlikely bundle of people who are so good at carving out spaces where it's okay to laugh or break or both.

Last week you woke up to Kieran crooning garbled lullabies. You knew you had been screaming before your laughter came out hoarse, but you kept laughing as you carried him back to bed and tucked him in. Long after his breathing steadied you remained perched on the side of the bed, painstakingly unwiring and reattaching your left arm. You thought about Ms. Charice's rock-like faith, Arbor's voice calling you back from the water, Illario's unquestioning acceptance every time you showed up at his door looking shaky. You thought about every story Anani told you and imagined a time when you felt like one piece; you imagined Dru ordering you to take pride in your one battle scar and thought about a future where multiple pieces could be okay. Mostly, you watched Kieran and hoped that you were strong enough to keep him safe.

Here, it's no simpler, but it's easier. All of you are jagged somewhere, so you can bump the pieces together until you find the best arrangement. Occasionally, you can notice places where the edges have smoothed out. The process is slow and uneven and sometimes bits feel like they're breaking off again, and none of you have it easy, but you all manage.

Laughter rises again—Cricket, this time. You have no idea what to make of Panem's vibrant new victor, but it's so nice to see someone flourish in the spotlight for once that you have to smile.