After Hours [Open]

[Artemis]

Corporal Brody O'Rourke---

He was in a good mood.

No surprise, considering that in the span of about a minute Brody had trounced his first opponent on the wrestling match; apparently, nobody had bothered to tell the girl that wrestling was a very physical event, since she seemed more intent on swatting at his hands than grappling, as if Brody was some kind of extreme exhibitionist pervert, or some such. The look on her face when she realized she was pinned, though... Priceless.

Even if she did have an incredibly underwhelming name (Seriously. Scout. What compelled any parent to name their child Scout?), Brody could admit she was beautiful; credit was given where credit was due. Of course, the face she made at him after he let her out from under him looked less like 'call me' and more like 'you'd better sleep with one eye open, motherfucker'.

She'd have to be fifty shades of crazy to imagine going after a Peacekeeper though.

If anyone had missed that fact when they announced his match, the other participants and guests would know it seeing him walking around in his white Peacekeeper physical training gear; the badge clipped to his waist was obscured by his shirt, but always on quick-draw for those occasions when duty couldn't wait. Whoever had authorized him to leave his post to compete had been insistent that Brody be made some kind of representative for the military; the Lieutenant had mentioned something about wanting to increase recruitment numbers, but who really cared.

It had been almost 2 years since Brody had last been deployed to District 4, and he was walking leisurely along the beach with his shoes in one of his hands. Given the option, he'd happily volunteer to be permanently stationed here.

[L△LIA]

( E L L A W R E N D A H L - M O R E N O )

Remmy would claw my throat out in a blind rage if he saw me swigging whiskey on the beach in broad daylight, but it tastes as much like victory as pinning the Tarbuck girl to the wrestling mat this morning. My name is Round One Champion, Ella Motherfucking Dahl and I do what I want, because toppling an amazon twice my size, laughing shamelessly in the face of her defeat, and walking away from that match with the remnants of her pride stuck between the teeth of my shit-eating shark grin is the first thing that's made me feel like myself in... too long. After all, since turning down the so-called opportunity to be a Tribute in the Games, I've been wasting away my time training wannabe Careers and playing twisted war games with the Moreno family and their undying hatred for the way I brought shame to their useless name.

Like I care.

Here, daydrinking with the sun curled around my pale freckles and the salted wind twisting my hair into delicate rats, I think I feel good. Really good. The kind of good that I could write my real name on — Ella Dahl — and own without any doubts or hesitation, unlike the questionable "happiness" I've been living in for the past couple of years, never sure if it was actually mine or simply a mirage. That's why I can't be bothered with fear over what my coach would do if he saw me drinking in celebration of my win, without regard for tomorrow's Elite Eight match. Instead I tip my bottle to the sky and revel in finally getting to see what the whole fuss about the ocean is for, amazed by the waves lapping up to kiss my bare toes. It really is spectacular.

Even the Peacekeeper walking my way can't make me flinch, whiskey burning my lips as I side-eye him and shamelessly raise my drink up in a small toast. "I think I saw your match earlier —" Cut off by the badly-stiffled sound of my own laughter, my crooked grin hitches itself up in his honor. His opponent was a girl who looked even less threatening than my own deceptive face and sarcasm drips from every syllable of sass that slips across my tongue. "Congratulations on your... impressive win." Maybe I should be more cautious and worry about what Remmy or this joke of a White Jacket might think of me, but this is so low on the Ella Dahl barometer of misbehavior that I don't bat an eye. If anyone does decide to take a snap at my throat, I'll take them down just like Bianca Tarbuck.

[Artemis]

Corporal Brody O'Rourke---

To be honest, he hadn't paid much attention to his future opponents; Brody had been the tiniest bit distracted by the various toned, athletic bodies worshipfully clad in skintight spandex... and one not-so-toned or -athletic body that he wished he could scrub out of his memory and was having an unfortunately hard time forgetting. (His name was 'Tuff', apparently. Brody was beginning to wonder if he was the odd man out in the ridiculous naming trend he seemed to keep running into.) However, listening to him talk shit the entire time, only to have his stunning blond opponent flatten him on the mat had been hilarious.

Brody idly wondered what a guy had to do to get a bedwarmer around here.

He had planned on ignoring one of the other competitors sitting on the beach with a bottle in her fist, at least until she raked her eyes over him and raised the bottle with a decidedly condescending grin on her face.

"I think I saw your match earlier —" She said, giggling drunkenly, "Congratulations on your... impressive win."

Normally, Brody had exactly zero tolerance for disrespect, but... maybe the win was putting him in a generous move, however small of a victory it was. He shrugged, not particularly any more impressed by this girl's stature than his earlier opponent's.

"Apparently nobody bothered to tell her wrestling is a contact sport." He replied. "But you still remembered my match. Can't say I remember yours."

[L△LIA]

( E L L A W R E N D A H L - M O R E N O )

I recognize the look in his eyes, the way he's reflecting my belittled opinion of him right back at me. It's fun, seeing through to his obvious mind and I've made this so easy for him, whiskey in hand and the words LOW CLASS practically tattooed across my forehead. There were days, years even, when I hated the parts of my life people can see just by glancing at me, but whoring myself out to a rich sadist and my stint with the Moreno family has stripped that idiot greed from me. Almost completely. I used to want money and some backwards concept of status more than my own family, friends, and self-respect. Once upon a time I might even have secretly swooned a little for that white uniform of his for exactly that reason.

Of course, then I killed a guy, became a fugitive, seduced myself a heartbreaking stalker, went all Bonnie-without-Clyde and ransacked a Capitol train, wound up a lab rat in the world's most fucked up medical study experiment, was thrown into a Community Home after serving time in the Detention Center, got adopted by the Morenos who wanted me to practice my murder skills on my cutthroat new siblings, was Reaped, let Kiera Dempsey volunteer to die in my place, which started a gang war of raging Morenos versus my streetrat army of childhood friends, and somewhere along the way I stopped romanticizing the people who think I'm worth less than the contents of their trashcans and remembered that I am Queen of the Slums and fuck you all, because I've got more swag in my tin can crown than money could ever buy.

And those are just a few of the highlights.

He attempts to insult me and fails. I'm not entirely certain if it's because we're both in too good of a mood for genuine malice or if he's just mostly harmless in general, but either way my smile doesn't falter for even a moment. "Good. Underestimate me, please. I get off on destroying expectations —" A lewd hand gesture accompanies my smart-mouthed retort, because what's the use of drinking whiskey where everyone can see me if I'm not going to take advantage of the way assumptions of drunkenness somehow make it acceptable for me to do just about anything I want. "— and some people get off on the idea of being under me, so it works out pretty well for everyone, don't you think? And that," Despite the implications of my words, enough of my earlier sarcasm lingers in my voice to keep the edges soft and joking, a dimple flickering within one of the creases that halo my smile, "that's why we're all winners here."

Holding the whiskey bottle out to him, a fleeting kind of curiosity wonders how many people in this world have looked me right in the eye like this and seen past the obvious. "Would you and your fancy suit like to take a victory shot?" That same curiosity also finds itself wondering how many of those people, just like him, I've looked back at and witnessed depth within.

Nearly no one, I think, but at least nearly isn't nothing.