Doom Dada // [Train :: Nocturne + Soap + May]

[L△LIA]

[presto]

There aren't a lot of things that make a death sentence feel better, but booze is certainly one of them.

Nocturne Vargas (or so he must be, because if that name wasn't his since the day he was born, it sure as hell is now) stumbles into the dining car of the train, making an entrance that is nothing short of grand. This has almost nothing to do with the whiskey he's been drinking and is far more closely related to the things he has managed to scrounge up from the dresser drawers of his sleeping quarters. Namely:

One floor length fur coat.

One shirt covered in a particularly obnoxious tropical floral print.

One half-empty package of cigarettes.

One rhinestone encrusted tiara.

You see, when a person knows he's going to die, he suddenly loses all the reasons he once thought he had not to do... well... anything. Young Mr. Vargas has been rather lacking in inhibitions for as far back as he can remember (precisely: two years) and so it didn't take much to talk himself out of the clothes he boarded the train in and into a whole new wardrobe. "Is it six o'clock yet?" His words slur wildly around the burning cigarette hanging precariously from his lips as he casually slouches into the seat across from his murder-happy mentor, bedazzled tiara glinting cheerfully in the train light. "My mother always insisted that six o'clock is tea time. I mean it. The whole fam-damnily would have to drop anything they were doing and sip tea for at least half an hour with her before she'd let us go back to whatever it is we were doing. Didn't matter if we were rescuing kittens from trees or taking a piss or praying — by god — six o'clock is tea time."

This is a lie.

Nocturne Vargas isn't even entirely sure if he ever had a mother to begin with. For all his amnesia-wracked mind knows, he was abandoned in a rather unfortunate alleyway by a stork who was beyond fed up with dealing with kids. Maybe he was born sixteen and broken. Or maybe he's even telling the truth and every lie he thinks he tells is just a long-lost memory coming back to him.

Relaxing back into his seat, he casually rummages around in the pockets of his brand new, superfly fur coat. "But surely you've got a mother," just like Nocturne has, obviously not, "so you know what that's like." Finally he finds the tarnished pocket watch he was looking for, fishing it out and checking the time. For the record: The watch is broken. According to this watch, it is six o'clock, now and forever. "Oh! Look at that! It really is tea time." Grabbing a delicate china cup from a nearby drink service cart, he pulls out a small flask of stolen whiskey from his other pocket and pours himself a little 'tea'.

"Cheers!"

To compulsive lying. To found fur coats. To imminent death.

[/presto]

[Deleted]

May wasn't exactly the most emotional person known to man. She had turned in silence and had pretty much been silent since they had all gotten to the train. She was being taken to the slaughter and if she didn't think of something she would die in the blood bath. She was not going to let that happen she just wasn't sure how that was going to work. She had no clue how Bryce had felt on this trip either. Her parents had tried to be stoic and not show too much emotion at their goodbyes but she knew full well that they were both crying inside. Maybe all of this would help her out some. She had the ability to win a fight if she needed too but this was twenty four other children all out for survival and glory. She could care less about the glory it would bring. She wanted to come home so that she could be with her sisters. So that she could make up for whatever it was she thought she needed to make up to them.

She had fallen asleep an hour ago because she had been so overwhelmed by everything. Now she woke up nearly screaming and falling off her bed. She took a deep breath and got up off the floor. She had to be stronger than this. Bryce had been in her nightmare and it had been of his own death in the games. It was like a warning to her or at least she was going to take it as a warning. If she didn't she was going to break here and now. She was going to have to not worry about killing people except that this brought her steps closer to be their father. The one person who had ruined everything. It was fitting apparently to the gods that hated them. The odds were never in your favor ever.

She slowly walked out of the room and headed for the main room of their train car. Once there she sat down and heard only the last little bit of what Nocturne was sayings. She looked over at him from her spot on her chair by the window. "What are you on?" She questioned him a little wearily. She wasn't all to sure about him but if they were going to be in this together she might as well try to be friendly, after all he was from her district. "I mean to say are you feeling alright?" She shouldn't have asked that she knew that. After all who was ever alright with the idea of dying or rather being brutally murdered but some other teen close to your age. She didn't even care why all this had started in the first place.

The games were stupid in her eyes. It just killed off a few members of a group that could be used as labor. She moved closer to Nocturne and that's when she smelled the alcohol. "W...what are you doing?" She was so confused by all of it that she just sat down next to him. Where was their mentor anyways. Wasn't he supposed to be saying something meaningful to them right now. Then again didn't he just win his games. She shook her head and looked at the doors and around them. Most of the stuff just confused her and she was hoping that they'd just get to the capitol already. She was going to make it home to her sisters but would they want her after what she did in these games.

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

______________________

I used to see the night so anxious, but now I know
The only thing it ever taught me was a grand illusion

This whole year has kinda passed by in a blur.

Not even a pleasant blur either, 'cause it's not like I've been smiling and losing myself in happy moments. It's more like I've been trudging along with my head down, just trying to make it, just trying to survive each day so I can go to sleep and stop existing for awhile.

I spend a lot of my time sleeping.

I like to think that I've perfected the art of it, 'cause I don't tend to dream too much - at least, I don't remember my dreams after they happen. Plus, my family doesn't bug me about all the napping; every morning I wake up and roll over and look to see if the sun's up or not, and if the sky's dim and it doesn't look like it's nearing late afternoon, I'll sorta just press my face back into the pillow and try to drift away again.

On the day of the Reaping, I have no such luck.

I'm shaken awake by my mother – not gently, I might add – as her voice breaks through the haze of my dreamless sleep, sharp as the crack of a whip: ”Get up, get moving. Everyone else is almost ready.” Behind the force and the harsh tone of her voice, I can sense the worry brewing there. All things considered, I'm glad she let me sleep in on a day like this, but I'd rather go back in time and sleep another ten hours, just to avoid thinking about today - or worse, having to live through it.

(What if my siblings are reaped? What if I'm about to lose someone I care about? What will I do then?)

Rolling out of bed, I sorta just sit on the floor for a minute, gathering my bearings. It takes me a while to realize that I should probably be getting dressed, so I do, and then I shuffle into the hallway and down the stairs and into the kitchen and out the door, all while staring at my family, knowing that I won't see them for a few weeks.

I try to care, I really do. When the Capitol people sit me up on the stage so everyone can have a look at me, I stare right on back, searching the crowd for my brothers and sisters and wondering who I'll be in charge of mentoring, but I don't care, I don't care, because I'm tired and don't wanna be here and don't wanna be myself.

By the time all the speeches have been made and the Capitol's stupid video clip has been broadcast to the crowd, I'm staring down at my hands, chin down, studying the lines of my palms like I'm intently reading a map to get the hell out of this place.

I flinch when the escort reads out the first name: ”May Rhodes!”

(Thank you, God. Sorry, May Rhodes.)

”Nocturn Vargas!"

I sigh in relief – is that bad? - but it doesn't matter, because the tributes are shuffling up to the stage, and if I'm lucky nobody's paying me any attention.

From then on, I move around as if I'm in a dream, being carted off from one place to the next without even realizing that something has shifted. When I get to the train before the tributes, my stomach does a little rumble, so I make my way to the dining car and throw myself down in a reclining chair to nibble away at a bowl of dried fruit.

I stare at the wall for awhile, and I'm sitting there like a statue until someone plops down in front of me.

"Is it six o'clock yet?"

(I don't have a watch, so I look at my empty wrist like a fool before I realize.)

Right now, I kinda wish I weren't so godawful at remembering names, because I should be the type of mentor who's completely there. How will these tributes feel if their own mentor hasn't yet bothered to learn who they are? I had a front-row seat for the reaping; I should know these things. If nothing else, I get a good look at the guy and try to figure him out, but all I can really gather is that he's gone kinda off the deep end, dressed in a tiara and a fur coat, slurring his words behind the cigarette tucked between his lips.

"My mother always insisted that six o'clock is tea time. I mean it. The whole fam-damnily would have to drop anything they were doing and sip tea for at least half an hour with her before she'd let us go back to whatever it is we were doing. Didn't matter if we were rescuing kittens from trees or taking a piss or praying — by god — six o'clock is tea time."

It doesn't even look like six o'clock outside, but I roll with it. I'm too tired to contradict him.

"But surely you've got a mother, so you know what that's like."

(We could never afford tea until I won, but I figure there's no need to say so.)

"Oh! Look at that! It really is tea time."

All of a sudden he's plucking a tea cup from a cart and pulling a flask out of his pocket, pouring out some sort of alcohol. I can't help it - I wrinkle my nose in disgust and look away before I can stop myself.

(The last time I had alchohol, I was dancing around the tables of the dining hall, right in the heart of the training center with Savannah, smiling and laughing and singing like a goddamn idiot.)

“Cheers!”

...

"What are you on?"

I almost jump out of my seat when I hear someone else talking, because I honestly didn't notice anyone walk in. As it is, I drop the piece of dried fruit I was about to eat. Thankfully, the female tribute is addressing her District partner and not me, so I'm free to sink back into my chair and pretend like I don't exist.

I'm so attentive.

"I mean to say.. are you feeling alright?"

To be fair, I'd probably ask him the same thing. The dude's dressed up like a clown, and he's just been shipped off to die in a tiny sliver of hell.

When she sees him drinking, she asks him what he's doing, and – frankly - I'm kind of wondering the same thing.

Sitting up in my chair, I lean forward and clasp my hands together, resting my elbows on my knees as I lean forward, glaring at the cup in his hand. ”He's being an idiot,” I say, forceful for the first time in .. days, weeks, months? ”Drinking away his last days.”

I pause, and look down into his face. “What do you honestly think you're gonna achieve, acting like you're already dying?”

[L△LIA]

Maybe it's because of the amnesia, but people always feel so new to Nocturne. Jokes of literalness aside, all he can see when looking at a crowd of strangers are the little details that set each person apart and keep an infinite loop of mystery-souls from blurring into a faceless army of The Unknown. He zeros in on freckles that tell stories of lazy days spent in sunshine or kneecaps with scattered scars of clumsiness. Maybe it's his quiet obsession with his own lack of history, but he's convinced he can take one look at someone and see maps of their lives hidden in something as small as the crook of a smile.

"What are you on?" For someone who's able to feel connected to any given person ignorantly walking down the other side of the street, a couple of off-hand sentences from his District partner's mouth is enough for Nocturne to get it in his head that the girl could practically be his sister. This bizarre sentimentality isn't the thought he gives a voice to, however. Instead it's a sputtering laugh that echoes out in response. "I mean to say... are you feeling alright?" She asks and he simply cannot help himself, because who says something like that to a guy being shuttled off to compete in the Death Games?

"You're really funny —" A drunken chuckle haunts his voice, but he's actually being as sincere as a compulsive liar knows how to be. "— I mean it." He's so amused by the response that he can't be bothered by the way both May ("W...what are you doing?") and Colgate ("He's being an idiot, drinking away his last days.") seem to lack an appreciation for his own contributions to the moment, be it the whiskey or the imaginary anecdote about a mother he may or may not have ever had.

The boy's Mentor in particular is rattled with disapproval. "What do you honestly think you're gonna achieve, acting like you're already dying?" Another Tribute might flinch in response, but all Nocturne can do is grin like an idiot. He can't even see the bigger picture of the way the two of them seem to think he's already self-destructing; he only knows how to focus on smaller details, like how a question of that sort hints at concern. Instead of being intimidated into more responsible behavior, he's falling in love with the idea of a famed murderer feeling concern for a kid he just met.

Just like that, Colgate and May suddenly feel like the two most important people in his life. In that idea there are lies and truths all at once and Nocturne Vargas cannot tell which is which.

"Oh, I dunno about that," there's a pause as he takes a casual sip from his cup, "I'm smiling and you're frowning, so don't you look more likely to be the dying one?" Turning to May, he stifles another snicker, still overly-amused by this complicated clash of perspective and irony. "What do you think? Which one of us looks more depressed right now?"

Grabbing two more tea cups, he places them on the table for his company. Between them he sets both a pot of actual tea and his half-empty flask, oh-so-politely offering them whichever version of Vargas Tea Time they might have an interest in partaking in before glancing up at Colgate. "Besides, what'd you do when you thought you might be living your last days? Sit quietly, practicing your knife sharpening?" Despite the slur of smartass sarcasm, he wants to know the answers to these questions. After all, these strangers are closer to him than a family his memory doesn't have; their pasts might just become his over the next few days; and a little whiskey isn't going to stop him from remembering every detail even if he has to make a few of them up.