The Peacekeeper Ball

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

When Nico closes his eyes, the axox flashes across his vision. The boy blinds him, swims across his mind until he's the only thing that he can see. He sees his hands, making threats, no need for a voice, no need for words, just a flash of his fist and his message was clear. He thinks about knives at his neck, and how he deserved what the Axox had done to him, how he almost wishes that the boy had stayed.

Tries not to feel shame about how he wants the boy to be his friend.

Above all, he will do everything he can not to think about Reggie, and how much the Axox's silent threat reminded him of his dead best friend's quiet strength.

He thought about not coming here tonight.

But then he thought about Snow, about the look on his face every time they see each other, thinks about every time his own name is in the papers about how it must be a special kind of torture to know that a lower district boy won the games, and he knows that he's going to attend. Later that night, after he had agreed to attend, he felt a strange kind of shame and relief when he realized that his first thought hadn't been about finding the man who had killed his father, that he hadn't agreed to attend this party knowing he would have blood on his hands once again by that night's end. Once the thought was in his head though, it was hard to shake, and here and now, standing in a room full of Peacekeepers off duty, Nico knows that he is one wrong word away from snapping a man's neck.

He had wished he could take Taylor with him more than anything, wished that she was allowed to come with him on these trips. He'd thought time and time again about lying and saying that she was his sister, that where he went, she had to come along, but the idea of Taylor here, among these people, he knew that it would make her skin crawl. To have her here would be him being selfish to the highest degree.

Not that that was anything new.

But he was working on it.

So instead, he searches for a boy that he knows isn't his friend, or maybe that he knows shouldn't be his friend but is all the same. Nico isn't sure exactly which one makes him a worse person, but when he spots Carter through the throngs of people, he makes no hesitation before pushing through the crowd of hungry strangers. The flash of cameras outside had been nearly blinding, but Nico is a creature driven by a singular purpose.

"Carter," he says, remembering only once he is front of him that he is not the only one who has lost too much. He realizes too late that he's stopped talking, that he has left between them too much silence. "I—" he starts, then swallows. Without thinking, without giving himself a chance to stop himself, he wraps his arms around the other boys shoulders, pulls him in until Carter's chin is on Nico's shoulder.

He lets the silence speak.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

His arm clung to my waist like barnacles; the heavy scent of his cologne choked me beyond breath.

But, I did not let my smile falter or fall out of place, making sure it was as immaculate and as smoothed-out as the ones I’d practiced in the mirror. This was a stage and I was the actor; it was crucial that I remembered my lines and my cues. So, when he said some half-assed attempt of a joke to his peacekeeper comrades, I joined in the chorus of their laughter. It sounded stilted to my own ears, but not to his. I was his prize, his marvel. I was the reason his friends swarmed about him for. Indeed, there was an upside to being resurrected from your grave and having your skin be peeled off and then put it backwards. Having your body rupture at its seams and then be sewn back together like a doll, my insides full of cotton.

Death would had been kinder.

But, I was born a rebel—I did not bow to Death. I refused to give in, even though the world seemed to be against me, even though I swam against unkind currents. And this, I glanced up at the Peacekeeper man, was a chance at glory, at a future that did not involve me haunting the halls of Mackenzie Pryce’s mansion for eternity. Second by second, I felt myself become less boy and more ghost, with no tether to keep me here.

I needed to be human, again.

So, I buried the tip of my nose in the crook of his neck and try to imagine the odor of his man cologne as a scent of rose, of springtime and citrus.

I tried not to search the sea of people for a boy with a scar emblazoned across his throat and hair as brown as the forests back home. I tried not to imagine the feel of his fingers, slotted in between my own calloused ones.

“The world’s spinning for me, can we leave soon?” I whispered, my tone honey-sweet.

I tried not to break into tears.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

Everything felt too warm to Julian, like sunlight on wheat.

It could be the flutes of champagne he’d emptied. It could be the way everything glistened and dazzled him, the room around him filled with wealth and powerful people.

And, he was in that dangerous mood to make powerful allies—and powerful enemies.

Prince of the Le Rouxes he was tonight, draped from head to toe in the finest of garments, a sunburst of beauty. The wine-dark frock coat he wore garnered its lace around his neck and sprouted into huge, twisting cuffs around his wrists. The pomade in his hair made it gleam, as if it was slicked back with honey. He was dressed to impress. This was a lion on the hunt, flaunting its mane for all to see.

He dared the world to resist him.

Ever since Ridley won, Julian dreamed of glory.

But then, he remembered Ridley, tattered and streaked with old blood. Ridley, who was a brown mark upon the golden tapestry of their family. Ridley, who he did not hate, who he used to play with after dark and share secret jokes and spar. Ridley, who he firmly believed would tarnish and corrode the gold of the Le Roux name.

Ridley, who was adopted. 

Ever since Ridley won, Julian dreamed of glory—
glory he could steal from her win and use it to polish his family’s name to a pristine, everlasting gold.

[fireflyz]

Her initial reaction upon recieving the enevelope was curiosity - after all, anything that came straight from the Capitol was usually immaculately crafted. Gold lettering that nearly sparkled in the light, paper as smooth as silk, and of course, the delicate script that spelled out, "Vennera Le Roux is cordially invited to this year's annual Peacekeeper Ball." Then repulsion set in as she processed who the envelope came from, and she locked it in her drawer without reading it. No matter if they wanted to celebrate Ridley; Vennera wouldn't allow herself to indulge in anything the Capitol offered her. She told her siblings the same: "I don't care what you all do, just leave me out of it. They don't really care who we are."

Ever since Ridley returned from the arena with a ghost of a hand and victory in her wake, things had changed. Vennera wasn't so naive that she believed everyone was happy for her cousin's victory - aside from their own ambitions, there was the fact that Ridley had conquered a game that had destroyed one of their own family members for his rebellious ways. It was almost painfully ironic, and Vennera couldn't envision a future where Panem's elite actually accepted Ridley into their ranks. But for now, they seemed eager to put up their facade, and she wondered how long it would take for the scales to fall.

Vennera continued about her week without paying much mind to the invitation. It was merely a grand party where the attendees would engage in equal amounts of small talk and debauchery, and she had much better things to do than that. But as the date approached, she couldn't get her mind off of the ball. It's only one night, after all. Surely no one would judge her for going; after all, she was the blood of the Capitol's newest darling, and One was the district of glamour. It would be almost unseemly for her to not attend.

And so she found herself on the train to District Two, wrapped in a pale silver dress (not white, but just close enough to catch the ire of a few Capitolites) and adorned with what little jewelry she had for the ball. Tucked within her clutch was the invitation, as if they would catch her without it and turn her around at the door. As she gazed out the window, an idle smile found its way onto her face, and as soon as she realized she let it fall. You are not here for yourself, Vennera reminded herself, although she was not entirely convinced. You are here for the family.

The venue was extravagant, as she would have expected. She found herself admiring the high domed ceiling of the room, the details in the trimming, and the brief flashes of color besides the dazzling white that bathed the room. Vennera spent quite a while observing before she caught the silhouette of a waiter breezing by, and she absently scooped a martini off his tray and sipped. Ahead of her, Larissa demanded wine and Silk cast her usual disapproving looks. Typical Le Rouxes.

The orchestra began playing a daffodil waltz, and Vennera finished her drink, setting it on a nearby table. The texture had been light and smooth, but it lacked taste. Similarly, the ball was beautiful but so far, lacked substance, a sad fact that she came to terms to as she sank into a nearby chair and hoped for someone interesting to approach her.

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

Take a Game-maker’s son to a winter ball, and wake up to photographers at your doorstep, hungry for stories.

Fame exhausted Lazarus. He’d thought it would be endless grandeur, decadence, but it’d only been raging headaches and knots taut in his muscles whenever he left his home. It’d only been a whirlwind of journalists and overflowing mail boxes. He’d burnt half the letters he’d gotten but the rest laid strewn across his floor, a paper trail. He couldn’t muster up the energy to clean them.

So, he thought about Brysen instead, hair like corn-silk and ruffled. He thought about Nico Thorne, a smile as sharp as a blade. Then, he wrote poems about them, Brysen’s filled with too much metaphors about delicate bones and Nico’s cramped with teeth imagery. Perhaps, poetry was never his knack. Perhaps, he should rise from the cold floor and shower, before the trains came.

The carriage ride was simply fields, flitting across the window of the train. The accommodations weren’t so ideal but he quickly chastised himself for thinking that, for thinking with his privilege. Lazarus Holt had become too used to gold-clawed bathtubs and jewel-framed mirrors.

He went through his routine of dressing up without much fervor. He wanted to go back home, to sleep, to sketch, to write until his fingertips were the color of charcoal from pencil stains.

Then, he saw Brysen.

A young thing the other was, with his doe eyes gleaming all the time and a smile sewed to his face. A young thing of utter privilege. What Lazarus mused earlier was correct—he had become too used to the Capitol's most captivating and most grandiose. “Enchanté,” he greeted Brysen, raising the other’s hand to his mouth so that he could kiss his smooth knuckles. “Are you certain that your mother will not have me devour by lions for doing this?” He gestured in between them, a faux lilt to his tone.

With Brysen,, he was the genius stylist, the artist.

He would have to play the part. 

[kap]

[googlefont="Ma Shan Zheng:400"]Olympia Li-Mei

The Peacekeeper Ball was something that I was obviously going to be invited to. Events like this had an interesting mix of Capitol and District fashion, so I definitely needed to be there to report on it for 'ALL-CAPS'. For such a special occasion, I had to have something fashionable to wear myself, too. That's exactly why I constructed my own dress. It was something no one else would have, because it was one of a kind. Surely it would make me stand out and draw some attention to me, too. What more could one want?

My dress was a gorgeous shade of teal and made of a fine silk. Feathers that resembled those of a peacock were strewn throughout the sleeveless gown. Over top of the dress, I wore a matching blazer. I was also sure to wear a corset underneath it all, so as to pinch in my waist. I even carried a small, beaded clutch with a similar pattern to the feathers on it. My shoes were high heels that brought me up another four inches in height. I wore a jet black wig, styled with strategically placed curls and a teal hairpiece that matched my dress to top it off. Lastly, I had matching makeup and a teal, beaded necklace.

I looked gorgeous.

At the ball itself, which was held in District Two at the Peacekeeper Academy, I immediately let my attention be drawn to what people were wearing. I had a notebook and pen with me so that I would be able to take some notes for later, and began to jot down some things that I noticed. Few people aside from the Peacekeepers wore white, as if it were something they were told to avoid. Were we supposed to avoid wearing white? I wondered. Perhaps I missed that memo, but it didn't matter, as I had something much more gorgeous to wear that wasn't white, anyway.

There was a girl donning gold, and another in silver, both quite pretty, but not quite up to the Capitol's fashion expectations. I could tell that they must have been from the Districts.

Another girl had a dress that likely had been white to begin with, as I recognized the current color of it as having come from a homemade dye. Most people would think it just came that way, but with my eye for fashion, I could tell when something had been altered.

I continued to wander about the ball, greeting people as I went, as well as introducing myself. Sure, I was well-known by many of the Capitol's citizens, but when it came to the Districts, they likely haven't a clue as to who I was.

word count: 444

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

MEDIA MILES

She hadn't begged to come to this Ball.

She hadn't known, for sure, who would attend.

And besides, she was far too old for begging.

Her father had commended her on her patience during the long train ride to Two. He'd also apologized; it was strictly a work trip for him. He was tasked with media coverage of the rare event and he would be preoccupied all hours of the day.

She tried very hard not to look as excited as she felt at that news.

She'd brought one of March's dresses, a more conservative ivory number with a high collar and flaring sheer sleeves. Her flame red hair stood out against the fabric and it framed her gently thinning face well. She was careful with her makeup, applying far less than in years past. She was a woman now, and she would let her features show.

When a waiter offered her a glass of champagne, she took it, giddy with the possibility. She drank it as slowly as she could manage, lacking any other form of entertainment, and chatted with a few Capitolites she recognized. All the while, a little hum kept up in the back of her mind. A hope.

She found him when she was on the way to relieve herself. He was clutching the hands of a boy who looked, strangely, more like his grandfather. Media canted her head, long red hair falling in curls, and offered the very tightest smile she could manage. "You do exist," she said to Emerson by way of greeting. And then, from under dark lashes, she let herself look at Kieran Emberstatt. "It's good to see you again, Master Emberstatt."

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

CAPTAIN HOOK

He didn't so much attend the Ball, as patrol it. Even outside of his uniform, in an ill-fitting black suit he'd found in the Seized Clothing closet in Seven, he could not relax. His shoulders remained in knots, his one good hand at the ready. In theory, he was surrounded by colleagues. In reality, he knew there were many in attendance who would readily slit his throat.

Of course, other than their notable recent Victor, there were very few District Sevens in attendance to recognize him by his gait. His best disguise was his face, unencumbered by his mask.

He'd done several circuits of the perimeter, but it was well guarded by other senior Peacekeepers. With a sigh, he plunged into the crowd, staring but also somehow avoiding the gazes of those he crossed.

Until someone appeared to address him directly. "You," Larissa Le Roux declared, "I'll have a glass of wine. White."

"I'm not the waitstaff," he snarled. Then, thinking the better of his behavior, he smoothed one hand down his suit lapel. "Though I suppose appearances can be deceiving. Bubbles?" He growled, his attempt at chivalry half-assed as he grabbed for two glasses passing by on waiter's tray. And damn it all, Captain was dressed identically to him.

"What shall we toast to?"

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Red and bubbles, spinning, popping, whirling. She'd chosen gold for the occasion, a high-low dress with a scandalously short front and a bit of poof in the back. It was fashionable, if not very suited to her body. Stella, on the other hand, looked like a stoked fire, all rage and possibility.

She would have kissed her, if not for ruining both of their lipsticks when there were many photos ops yet to be had that evening.

"I know you won't agree, but they do throw a decent party in Two."

Ex rolled her eyes. "Yes, but if the people from the Capitol weren't here, would it really even be a party at all?"

She blew her lover a kiss to ease the teasing, then accepted the champagne. She nipped at it, never taking in more than a few bubbles. She had to be sharp, ready to witness any life changing events - or to create them herself.

"Dance with me, Ex."

She blinked. The bubble that was Stella enveloped her. "There will be plenty of time to get your scoop, later."

Quietly, below the din of the room, Ex whispered, "for you? Anything."

She spun out, offering a little flare - oh yes, for the cameras one last time - and then ducked in. She rolled her hand around Stella's, taking the lead, settling her other arm around the victor's waist. "Okay fine," she said with a forced sigh. "This is actually pretty great. But would you want all this?" Ex let her eyes take in the enormity of the room, the people, the event. "Or just more quiet nights at home?"

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

There's no such thing as bad press, and in a situation like mine, that is a good thing. With my career still on the mend, I thought—my agency advised me that showing my face at these kinds of events would keep my face fresh in everyone's minds for the right reasons. Touched up with the best makeup and whatever new designer gowns, beautiful gowns manage to find their way into my wardrobe, my attendance would be an event of its own.

Though, it does mean mixing with those I deem 'lessors'; I don't even mean the tributes and people from the Districts—they probably have better small talk than half of the Z list Capitolites who have had their fifteen minute fade, their identity nothing more than a shit stain in the media's recent history. I guess it's nice that they got an invite too, because at the end of the day, I am a charitable person and letting them through these doors is truly one of the greatest acts of charity I've ever seen.

Light from diamond-dripped chandeliers reflects in my champagne glass, the bubbles turning to crystals in the gold aura the room seems to emit. There is a strange glow that comes with celebrity events like this—it's not even from the new highlighter palette that Mirabilia Belhaven just put her face to because I've tried that and there are certainly some flaws in the formula. The glow is actually a fool's gold on second thought, because it will only be a matter of time before someone tries to steal the spotlight by rubbing their two brain cells together, to create a current, to cause a scene.

Between the nobodies who try to resurrect their career, there are a few stars that sharpen their points and polish their shine. Part of me feels a little melancholic when I look at surviving tributes and victors, I guess there will just always be a pit in my stomach that forces me to think about Katelyn at moments like this. Because knowing her was like having the key that unlocks another world, and it meant I was able to look around. Only for a second or two, thinking and feeling in her shoes for nothing more than a minute, but still—I like to think that the key carved my heart into something softer.

That same key was later swallowed, but the lessons it had taught were too real to ever be lost.

My champagne glass finds itself empty after reminiscing the past. A vacant look must have taken over my face for five minutes, maybe more—hopefully journalists don't put it down to drugs.

And speaking of journalism, the writer within me scopes the room for potential stories that could make it big. Stella Blakesley is dancing with that blabbermouth blonde bit, but that's old news. There must be a million from the newest victor's family, yet I can't put any names to their faces because they all seem to blend into one. Kieran Emberstatt is here but, of course, that isn't a surprise to anyone—I don't think anything can come between that man and showing his face to remind the world of how cute he used to be.

If my glory days were far behind me, I'd do the same.

But alas, I have no children and do not have to worry about parenting and the subsequent wrinkles that come with it. The sheer thought of having my own forces me to wave a waiter over so that I can down a second champagne to try and drown the disgust.

Between the dresses and suits and ties, past the glitz and glamour of events where there is no budget, the one thing that sticks out to me most is how happy everyone is. Because apparently the best accessory is a smile—I stopped believing that a long time ago when I realised a handbag can carry escape routes, the means to seduce and stolen crystal champagne flutes. But the smiles last for miles here, because pearly white teeth are reflected in every mirror, in every piece of silverware that has been polished to within an inch of its life, in every camera and in every diamond.

People being happy only reminds me that I'm not.

What I lack in happiness I make up for in style, so I apply a fresh coat of red lipstick and prepare myself for mingling. Happiness doesn't have to just be a feeling, it can be an attitude too, and attitude is something I have mastered.

I can't stand the girls here, but I'll kiss them anyway.

[goat]

aurora le roux

The Keepers had gone through all of their items before they were allowed to board the train. They dug through bags looking for things like illicit drugs, anti-Capitol propaganda, and the like. Aurora, not knowing they were going to be patted down but smart enough to prepare for something like this, had hidden her pen in a very private crevice of her body. An hour into the train ride, she excused herself into the bathroom, turned on the shower to its highest temperature, and got herself high as fuck. It was the only way she was going to get through this event without having an absolute meltdown.

She hadn’t wanted to go. It was cool to be invited or whatever, but big events like this weren’t her thing. She’d hated school dances, always feeling like everyone’s eyes were boring holes into her skin, judging silently. This was an event that blew any school dance out of the water. The silent judgment was bound to be worse. She wondered what all these fancy-pants people would think of her, a lowly cousin of the newest Victor. It was Ridley they were going to be all over. She was nothing to them.

Her dress was old, but beautiful, a secondhand number thrifted for cheap. She liked the novelty of thrifted items. It was a golden dress with sparkles woven throughout and a ball gown skirt ending at her knees. It made her feel like a child and a grown-up all in one. She realized on the journey there that she’d forgotten fancy shoes, so the attendees were going to have to deal with the worn brown boots she’d boarded the train with.

“I look silly,” she said to herself in the mirror, staring at her dressed form and caked face. She was going to get made fun of for sure. Oh, there goes Aurora Le Roux. She’s too thin. She looks like an old doll. Why is she here anyway? She’s nothing special. She should just go home.

Their eyes felt like knives stabbing into her skin. She watched every new person that entered the room with distrust. A nice man in a suit had offered her a glass of wine, but she declined. She didn’t like the way alcohol made her feel. It always made her dizzy and sick and she didn’t want to spent half this event vomiting in a bush outside. She hovered instead by the dessert table, occasionally shoving a creme puff or macaron into her mouth. The desserts were fine. Nothing special. What was the point of having these desserts if they weren’t special?

Her siblings were dispersed throughout the ball. Nobody was paying attention to her, so she figured it was fine to slip away for a moment. She shoved one last cookie into her mouth before scurrying out of the room. The bathrooms were clearly marked, most likely so nobody wandered throughout the building trying to find them. She turned into the ladies room and made her way to the farthest stall. Nobody else was in there. She had expected some poor rich girl to be puking her guts out, or something else exciting at least. This was so boring.

She locked the stall door and perched on the edge of the toilet. Her pen was tucked safely in the bra of her dress. She pulled it out and took the longest fucking inhale of her life.

It didn’t help.

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Four years ago, I would’ve refused the invitation.

It wasn’t the same now.

There were fewer lines on my face then, and my hair hadn’t gone salt and pepper. My heart would’ve told me anything that involved the peacekeepers spelled trouble. The capitol didn’t invite a districter to enjoy himself; he had to serve a purpose.

I would’ve rather spent the evening by the fire with Yani, putting little wooden blocks on top one another to build her a spaceship to send her to the moon. When the radio played a bolero I’d rouse Emma from her book on the couch and offer a dance in the living room. We’d laugh, our shadows catching the wall behind us. Better than a room full of capitolites, of victors that were more side shows than people.

But time had a way of bringing the world into focus. I’d learned not to make the perfect an enemy of the good.

No matter that some would see it as a betrayal (I could already hear Aresti and Druso grumbling, and Bakar telling me it was why he hadn’t voted for me in the first place). How many times had I questioned a warrant brought by a peacekeeper, written as though they were trapping and exterminating an animal?

I spent a whole evening at the old oak desk in the mayor’s office turning over the invitation, scattering glitter everywhere.

I remember closing my eyes, and pressing my shaking hands flat across the cool wood. I tried to push back the images of the riot. I could still feel the heat of the explosion. I saw the faces of the tributes that’d come and gone since the 80th. Raquel’s face, staring at me, arms folded. Of Yani screaming –

‘Maybe you focus on who’s there, rather than who’s not,’ Emma counseled.

As always, when I’d had a question I couldn’t answer, I turned to the one who usually could – my wife.

It wouldn’t help to turn down the invite, except provide the district with a show of defiance, if I decided to run for election again. There were bound to be other mayors, tributes, and folks that wanted to be there less than I did. People that would know we had a common bond. Something that could unite all of us. A start of a conversation toward unity, and away from despair.

A revolution wasn’t made sitting behind a desk, praying the rest would come together and see the light, after all.

So, in coming to the edge of the red carpet leading to the entrance, arm in arm with Emma, I’d taken a breath, straightened my spine, and kept my chin up. I felt ridiculous, dressed like I'd never worked a hard day in my life (clothes borrowed - a jacket from Bakar, shirt from Aresti, pants from Jurgi). I searched for Katelyn, or any friendly face, and plastered on a grin.

I suppose the glamor of it should’ve taken my breath away. The opulence of the decorations, the champagne, the little ‘shrimp puffs’ they kept trying to get me to take from a tray. But all of it tasted like curdled milk to me; we shouldn’t have been enjoying any of it. Not for the eighty-three years that stood between us and them; not the two thousand children that had given their lives for it.

There’s a sea of faces that I’ve seen over the years on television. Victors, capitolites, and – a few other mayors, I think. It’s strange knowing in a few years, how distant all of it could be, without a little title next to my name. I sipped at a glass of champagne and imagined being back in the fields again, unbothered. But then – I hear Xuxa’s voice in my head remarking (pity, all that promise and he spends it on himself) and straighten my back once again.

I pressed close to Emma, moving in time to the music, eyes looking past her at the faces for the mayors of other districts.

'Where are the ffffffff- the napkins?' A voice comes out over the din as we turn closer.

I spied Saffron Lowe from ten – the same one that had struck at Iago – looking rattled by whatever little spill’s happened.

I gave a nod to Emma and excused myself, grabbing a glass of fizzy water and cloth, and make my way to the young woman crying out.

“Señora Lowe,” I wondered if it mattered to any of them who I was and more if that was half of our problem. It was rare that I got to see one of the few who tried to kill a nephew up close. I held out the napkin to her. “Hope that I can be of help.”

[Tom]

White.

It's everywhere in this ballroom where soft music plays to the beat of his own heart. His ma and pa had told him to go, despite all of his disparities of why he shouldn't go. His siblings just shoved him out the door with friendly, but plotting smiles. Whatever they had planned, he didn't want to be around for, but even that would have been better than standing around this ball, pretending like he isn't deathly afraid of the other Peacekeepers who stare at him as if they could read him immediately. Dead partner in Nine. Lost love of his life. Blood on his hands. Sleepless nights waking up in cold sweats, reaching for his gun that wasn't there.

Officer Blackwood spreads his fingers gently in his pocket as he shifts over the delicacies plated nearby. A boy who looked too young to be here as a Peacekeeper approaching with those calculating, but lost eyes. Clearly, Mr. Ursa's brother. He kept up with the capitol news when he could. Screens of the games and the victors who made it out. A silence fills him as he watches the young boy scanning the room. Nothing more comes as he ignores the boy and focuses back to staring at the bottom of his champagne flute. Another year of Peacekeeping done, another one to come.

If only he could clean the blood from his hands.

Ripred.

It was going to be another long and lonely night again.

[✨ zozo.]

A distraction from the lingering presence of Aranica was welcomed, even if she blushed in the process of looking a fool. The man who presented her with a cloth was another well-dressed stranger, and as she dabbed at her hands and the fabric on her lap she wondered if he were a District resident or a Capitolite in disguise. What she might deem a 'normal-looking' Capitol resident were few and far between, but this man had kind eyes. Eyes that had seen one too many atrocities to have spent a life living in luxury.

Saffron found something familiar in them and nodded, standing up to gather herself. "Thank you," she hummed, cracking a sheepish smile as she cleaned up the last of her mess. Señora - a foreign word, but to her untrained ears it sounded important. She guessed Eleven, for the formality and the sound of the word wrapped around his greeting. God forbid he was from Ten and she were outed too ignorant to know his face, let alone his name.

"It's my first glass, I swear," the victor confessed, like she had to prove she wasn't completely wasted. That her clumsiness was justified, that she ought to be excused from being a mess. "The nerves make my hands shake, y'know?"

Glancing at the half-empty glass on the chair, Saffron abandoned it at once. The night was young and she was already tripping over her words, her faint Ten accent, her insecurities. Confessions were tumbling out of her heart in front of strangers like he, and she didn't need any reason to admit she was avoiding the Bryze's prowling around in their territory or constantly thinking about her daughter's morbid behaviour or that she might vomit on his shoes at any given moment.

"I'm- well, you know my name," another smile. He had a kind face, one that made her feel at-ease.

"May I know yours?"

- saffron lowe -

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Okay, so, I have to say that at first I thought it was a joke.

Ether comes in the bar with a bunch of the mail and big dopey grin on his face like he’s got something to tell me, something that’s going to make me grind my teeth. He seemed to get more than a little enjoyment out of making me squirm, considering I don’t fucking squirm for nothing. So he rips open the letter and slaps down the invitation with a ‘ta-dah.’ And I’m sitting there, wiping a glass clean, getting ready to open, and he’s cheesing, letting out a little laugh.

“The fuck is this?” I look from him to the letter, and then back to him again. He clears his throat and starts reading through the invitation, a peacekeeper ball, inviting me to attend. That little saccharine sweet ending acting as though I had any fucking choice as to whether or not I was going to attend. Of course, I could’ve given them a big fuck you and sent some random red head in my place (somehow, I don’t think that stupid fucking caps would know the difference).

But I think they forgot how little a shit I give about whether or not I’m making some sort of anti-capitol statement by not attending, or – how if I attended that would somehow give me anxiety about living my life.

There were three things that I figured. First, I could go and hob knob with all of those rich idiots and push some product out on them. The brewery was really starting to take off after the eighty-third, with the IPAs almost selling faster than we could make ‘em. Ether and I joked about franchising Second Chances in other districts, but that felt a little too soon.

Second, I fucking love to drink good alcohol. Like – yes, of course they’re celebrating the same people that allegedly killed my best friend, and oppress us every fucking day – but how many times in my life am I going to get drunk on the shit they have? Honestly Wilfred would want me to get so shitfaced that I threw up on a capitolite’s dress after having already urinated in a potted plan somewhere on the balcony.

And finally, I might’ve been able to make a pit stop to see Shy while I was there. That little noodle head hadn’t written me back in a while, and that shit was not going to stand.

So I told my brother that he’d be watching the bar, and I’d be heading to see what was shaking in district two. Drink a little, flirt a little, maybe get some ass, have a good time. Live the dream, honestly.

When I rolled up to the ball, there were a few paps at the front, snapping photos. I’d dressed for the occasion but either they didn’t remember me or still living 80th tribs weren’t so en vogue anymore, because there were only a few of them that took a shot. Of course, I decided to do some product placement and started tossing cans of our latest microbrew into the crowd. A few of them ran screaming, but I got a good laugh from it.

I think I should’ve been impressed at the way they’d tarted up the hall, but I made a bee-line for the booze. I grabbed and downed a champagne flute on the way before ordering a rusty nail (neat) at the bar. I leaned back to scan the room. Victors, peacekeepers, random assortment of people that I will probably never see again in my life, and –

“Oh, hello,” I grinned and made my way toward a pouting woman seated off by herself at a table. Maybe not what I came here for, but if the opportunity presented itself?

I slid into one of the free chairs next to her, and casually lowered my sunglasses.

“You know, for all they spent on this thing, they could’ve done better on the music. Really kills a vibe when the music is shit,” I say. I turned to face freckles – her name pending – and shook my head. “Quest Hertz. How’s your night?”