Wasting My Young Years // [Day 7 Reactions]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

CAPRICIOUS KING

In Dom Copperview's office, which had become their de facto Gamemaker Headquarters, the team of Seventy First Gamemakers sat around an orderly table, discussing the end of the Games. Capricious held a tablet filled with data from past Games. The current program analyzed the averages of muttations released, deaths per day, total Games days, etc. The screen was mostly red, a concrete indicator of how far off the beaten path they had wandered.

She loved it and wouldn't have had it any other way.

Of course Dom didn't need a red-washed tablet. The woman could recall every Games statistic known to man at the drop of a hat. She didn't need a tablet, but Capricious longed to push something into the other woman's hands. It wasn't that she was distracted. In fact, it was the opposite: Dom Copperview was withdrawn. Later, Capricious would reflect on this very meeting and wonder if Dom guessed, or if she somehow had known.

Splicing a heated debate about how to herd the remaining tributes closer together, the lights in the room flickered and the volume on the television increased. Capricious dug her shellac-tipped nails into the back of the tablet as the camera panned from one bloody, drawn fight, to the next.

One crown fell in silence, and the other in pain and suffering.

Capricious dropped the tablet as she shoved away from the table. "Make him stop!" She screamed, even though it was entirely too late. It had been too late for Dustyn Chase for days, but she had refused to admit it.

She turned, wrapped her claws around the face of a muttation designer seated to her left. She pressed the tips of her nails into his flesh, pinpricks of blood marking each point of contact. She hissed more than spoke. "You did this. If he hadn't fought so bravely, so tirelessly yesterday... He was worthy. This is your fault."

At the head of the table, Dom's voice was cool as glass. "Take a walk, King. Don't come back until you've found your composure."

Capricious slowly lifted each finger. She felt a morbid sense of victory that a little blood had trickled down her fingertips to her palm. The designer scrambled to the far edge of the room, where she could still see the whites of his eyes. Capricious slowly wiped her hand on her ivory scarf and then draped it over her chair. She collected her tablet and coat. On her way out, she walked directly past Dom. She didn't say anything, didn't so much as bat those doey brown eyes at her. She was right, but that didn't mean Capricious had to be happy about it.

She stomped out of the building, holding up a golden handkerchief to her waterproof eyeliner. The flicker of cameras encouraged her. She could have slipped silently into the open door of her limo, could have driven away to mourn quietly. But what good were tears if no one saw them? The world deserved to see her mourn Dustyn Chase, the victor she should have crowned.

At the door she stopped on one stiletto heel, and turned to address the crowd of reporters. "We lost many worthy tributes today. Can you believe just how bloodthirsty they've been? I'm shocked. Truly shocked. No matter what we've all been told to expect, it's just so unreal. I mean, I could never. But there are still many tributes left, more twists and turns to come. I hope you'll all stay tuned. There's only one way to honor the fallen. And that's by finishing what we've begun."

table coding (c) ghosty

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Glamour Kinkade

your compliments look good on me

Even if the Peacekeepers had not insisted upon his house arrest, Glamour would have voluntarily exiled himself from Capitol society. After that first disastrous evening, his phone had stopped ringing, his cards had gone unanswered. The whole of Panem had shunned him. Perhaps rightfully so. The more days that passed, the more he recognized that he would have done the same to anyone else. One just couldn't survive in society if one associated with the fallen. It was a feeling oddly like empathy.

But even if he didn't begrudge the lack of buoy while he drowned, he found the exile boring by the third day, never mind the seventh. He had paced every room of his Penthouse apartment (which was already being prepared for sale), had memorized to title of every book in his stocked library, had contemplated the exact shade of his curtains, which were always drawn. Even if he had been prepared to pose for photos from camera drones, he was not at all prepared to face the ruin of Leon's oasis.

It was that thought - not of Leon, but the destruction that had been wrought - that eventually drove him to take the risk of leaving the apartment. Day Seven had dawned in the Games with twelve tributes alive, including both of the District Fours. Through no work of his own, they had fought their way into the upper half and showed no sign of stopping. It was not a wholly pleasant realization. If he had left Daria and Someith to their own devices, or perhaps if he had tried harder to help, things might have been very different that they.

The Seventy-First might have already concluded, with Glamour crowning one of his lover's mentees.

Very few attempts had been made to contact him but a few calling cards had come after the fall. He plucked one from the pile, a subtle black and white card with the name embossed. Glamour kept the conversation brief, conscious that the line was probably being monitored. Not all of his staff had given up on him. A Peacekeeper he had kept above the poverty line squirreled him down the servants' elevator to the basement garage, where he ducked into a beat up sedan and donned a hooded cloak.

The driver chuckled in his famous tenor. "You're lucky that's in style."

"It's dreadful," Glamour sniffed, drawing the bell sleeves over his manicured fingers. "Thank you for springing me, Mav -"

"No names," the driver said as they pulled out into the sunshine.

Glamour pressed himself into the passenger seat, ducking beneath the shadow of the hood. "Alright. I never knew you to be so... cautious."

"Having children makes you an expert at hide-and-go-seek."

"How are your littles? And your wife?"

The driver turned onto the main thoroughfare of the Capitol. Luxury cars crowded them on either side. Glamour hadn't seen so many people in a week. For the first time in his life, he felt the press of the crowd around him and hated it. He angled his torso away from the windows, gazing steadily at his unlikely ally.

He was smiling in the soft and dopey way only a man in love could. "She's fickle. Keeps me on my toes. The girls take after her more than me, which is a relief. Dare I even ask about your affairs?"

Well. At least someone in Panem was happy. Glamour smirked. "You can ask but that would fall under the same category as our names. I haven't agreed to an interview, have I?" The driver shook his head. "Then what exactly are we seeking today? Surely you didn't risk our lives for a tour of the Capitol?"

The driver turned down another identical avenue, peppered with both free standing stone houses and skyscrapers. Glamour lost track of their progress as the Games day began in earnest. Reflected on the windshield coverage of the Games played continuously. The tributes had found each other and begun to engage. It took him a moment to believe what he was seeing.

"That was supposed to be the finale!" He cried as Jack Eckhart and Daria Staite exchanged blows. The driver reached across, slamming his palm into Glamour's chest and forcing him back into the seat.

"Watch yourself," he hissed.

Glamour hadn't even realized he'd leaned forward. His hands shook as he reached up opposite ends of the bell arms, gripping his own wrists. As they passed from the main avenue, circling around to an alley, the fight became more violent. It was the driver's sigh and then strangled scream that filled the sedan, not the cries of tributes. The network was rushing to translate the hand signals exchanged, but no one in the entire country needed a translation of the red smile Daria Staite painted on Jack Eckhart's throat.

A miserable mix of relief and disappointment washed over Glamour. In the shadows of the alley, he tugged his hood back an inch. "You'll be needed at the station." The driver nodded as Glamour sighed. "What a waste of a grand finale! And to think of all the money lost on Jack. A shame, really."

"Jack?"

"I called her that, in her Private Training Session. I suppose there are some scars not even she can excise." He knew the other man was looking at him askance, but in that moment, Glamour didn't care. Jack is worth more than that. Glamour reached into the hood, spreading his fingers along his collar bones, matching the line Daria Staite had drawn, which would be the last marring of the District Six girl's body.

"Get out."

"Wha-" And then he was pulled from the seat and dragged through a commercial kitchen and tossed into an elevator. He only saw the Peacekeeper's boots. Maverick Miles had disappeared - of course - and rather than fight his captor, Glamour held fast to the rim of the hood, drawing it over his face. Better to risk the Peacekeeper's wrath than be stoned to death by a mob.

They rode up an elevator, Glamour panting with the knowledge that the cold, round object pressed to the back of his neck was the barrel of a revolver. At the top of the skyscraper, the Peacekeeper pushed him out to the double doors of the Penthouse. Glamour turned just in time to see the elevator doors snap shut, leaving him in the ornate hallway, not so unlike his own.

He could stay in the hallway and wait for the Peacekeeper to return. Or he could prevail upon the mercy of the Penthouse's owner. It was probably someone he knew, some other socialite. He reached beyond the bell sleeves, stroking the knocker before letting it fall twice.

Footsteps on the other side of the door. He reached to adjust his hood, intending to draw it over his face until he knew where he stood with the Penthouse's owner. But the door opened too quickly. The moment the figure registered, Glamour released the hood, letting it fall away from his face.

He'd always been powerless to hide from her.

[cameron]

anarcha bentley You never know what you have until it’s gone. Those exact words had been said to me too many times to count, and the cliché no longer rang true. I had more now, after losing everything, than ever before. And not a goddamned soul could convince me otherwise. I finished another glass of barbaresco, a tiny pool of red lingering at the base, and Chianti was there to refill the glass within moments. She paused midway, glancing up at me. Flicking my wrist with the least effort I could muster, she scurried off, her tightly laid golden hair shining in my peripherals. I raised the glass to my lips, parted them, and stopped. “You may leave, Chianti.” “But Miss Bentley –“ “But nothing, Chianti. Do not argue with me.” Finely detailed nails clicked against the glass. My gaze remained firmly on the screen in front of me, Jequirity Eckhart commanding my full attention. Chianti lingered. To her credit, I never sent her home early; but tonight would be different, and I needed privacy for that occasion. “Do not make me reconsider, Chianti. Go now.” Her timid footsteps trailed away, and my focus was back on the Capitol’s favorite fighter. Pressing the glass against my lips again, I swallowed its contents in three big gulps and lowered the glass to a table. Seven days of build-up had led to this fight. Seven days of emotional elevation and sworn vengeances. Two days prior I had let out a laugh as the girl ended the life of the Four’s lover. Their disgusting little funeral was the last thing I wanted to watch, but the joy that killing him gave Jequirity motivated me to push through. Now I could only watch and hope she could send the Four to meet him in the afterlife. Of course, if I was still in charge of these things, this fight would have been saved for the grand finale. A little Gamemaker manipulation would’ve prevented them from meeting alone and guaranteeing one left the world sooner than they should. It’s not that the Four was important to me, but the total opposite. I wanted her, and that menacing boy from Four as well, to suffer the most painful of deaths. And if it could happen in the final fight, being crushed in defeat by the girl who had caused her so much grief already, all the better. I dreamed of the day I could watch the light fade from Daria Staite’s eyes. Today would not be that day. A perfect finale fight ending with the fan favorite finishing twelfth was not what I wanted out of the day. Jequirity, the girl who could survive anything, gushed blood from her neck, splashed the Four’s face, and I swiped my hand towards the screen before me. In a flash it turned off and I was left in total darkness. I breathed, slowly exhaling before reaching for my wine glass. With my free hand I snapped, the lights flickering on around the room. I stood from my sofa, turned and walked into the kitchen to refill my glass on my own. Watching the Fourth District Tributes performing so well sickened me and there was no medicine for that but more barbaresco, and maybe some scotch. Today was especially bad with the impending deaths of Ruthless and Dustyn that would leave District Four as the only one with both Tributes remaining alive. And I hated them both. I didn’t need any more glasses. No, today I needed the goddamn bottle. I threw the glass at the wall, shards flying around the room as the faintest of fuck yous left my body. Uncorking the bottle, I hastily brought the neck to meet my mouth, and I let the juice flow. When the bottle was emptied, I tapped the ground and slid the bottle into the chute that opened up beneath me. Somewhere in the basement there was a whole room full of wine bottles, most likely all broken just like the glass splintering the ground before me. I waved it off, leaving it for Chianti in the morning, and opened another bottle. Bringing it with me into the den, I leaned against the sofa, one of the encrusted diamonds pressing into my arm. I still was unsure why I insisted on furnishing my penthouse with diamond encrusted everything, but at the very least it intimidated my guests, and what other reason did I have guests except to intimidate? I pressed my arm back into the diamond, feeling the sharp pressure as it lightly cut into my skin, and then I stood quickly, releasing the pressure and letting the blood trickle down. I glanced over to the fireplace, Peridot sleeping soundlessly beside it, not even being woken by the shattering glass from earlier. But the dogs I kept were not guard dogs, so sleeping through danger was perfectly acceptable behavior. I waved in its direction and the flames burst to life, startling Peridot out of his slumber for a few seconds before he fell back into his sleep. My other dog would be arriving soon. Not the ones at the groomer’s kennels, those weren’t due for pickup until tomorrow. The old dog. The one who couldn’t learn new tricks. The one who currently couldn’t be mentioned around the town without a snide comment or a sneering face. If anything, he’d always found a way to keep himself in everyone’s mouths — except, that is, for mine. I had managed to keep him out of that for a very long while. Until Maverick requested me, knowing all too well I was very unlikely to be disinclined to acquiesce to his request. Knowing my soon-to-be guest, he would be just fine without a glass, too. I waited for Mav to drop him off and shove him to my doorstep, downing the bottle of wine while I waited. I had spent years imagining what I would say to him the first time we came across each other after all this separation, but I knew nothing rehearsed would ever escape my lips. Hell, I had pictured a slap across the face being an adequate greeting, but that didn’t feel right either. I traipsed back to the kitchen, tapped my foot, and sent the bottle down. I grabbed two more, one for both parties, when the knock finally came. I uncorked the wine, threw my hair to the side, and walked straight to the door. The knob turned, I pulled open, and there he was: Glamour Kinkade, the infamous and notorious, in the flesh. I refused to hesitate past a single beat and shot the surprised man (if I could still call him that) a huge, flirting smirk. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” I shoved a bottle into his hand and turned, headed towards the sofa. A glance over my shoulder — “aren’t you going to join me?” — and I realized something very important. I had been wrong all this time. Seeing Glamour Kinkade assured me that the cliché I had refused to believe, refused to buy into for all this time wasn’t falsified. It applied to me, too, as much as I did not want that to be the case. You really never know what you have until it’s gone. And he had been gone too long. (table (c) ghosty)