barely there

“They scream somethin’.” He mutters, leaning forward to put his chin in his hand. It’s all a lot, he thinks. Certainly, it’s not new. The Captiol has always been right there, he’s just never payed much mind to it before, that’s all. Only once a year and even then, it was eye-rolling and trying to figure out how else he could spend his time. 

Casting a glance over to Aldera, he’s surprised that they’re sticking around with him. Not like he expected them to be one to get chummy. He always liked Aldera, given the circumstances. But with knowing uncle Riggs, and what he’d been through, and knowing how much more brutal things had been for Aldera, he understood they probably just wanted to be left alone.

“Itchy?” He repeats, then nods. “I think I can handle itchy for the sake of looking good. What do they always say in the Captiol? Beauty is anguish or whatever?

.

     He reminds her of Riggs a lot; there’s something about the way he pronounces words, they think, or maybe the movements of his hands, that makes it impossible to miss the connection between Birch and the old mentor. It’s comforting and terrifying at the same time -- she likes Riggs, but the same intonation to the jokes cuts a little too deep. They do their best to push through it. After all, he’s the one really going through it right now.

Aldera could sit up straighter all they wanted, but Dawn could still see it written all over their face how tired they were. She felt so powerless, today. Stuck inside this train, unmoving in so many ways. She saw friends and non-friends all looking like this, restless, and tired, and everything between anxious and devastated. The stress was eating away at all of them, chewing their brains inside out – she was starting to think she might go insane, if they didn’t find a way to move soon. The impeding doom feels closer with every passing second.

Better than some is not exactly a great answer, but Dawn will take it. She thinks she can relate to that, at least; she feels like she’s not worse off, but she’s not at a stellar place, either. A solid, miserable middle ground. “Do I?” She asks, surprised when Aldera tells her she looks tired. She didn’t think it was showing through. She runs her fingertips under her eyes carefully, hoping to collect any sort of rundown mascara there, and offers a smile. “Time to reapply my makeup, probably.”

It’s a joke, sort of. “I’m used to functioning on few hours of sleep, so don’t worry,” her shoulders raise in a shrug. “What about you? Got any sleep? It’s getting late, I think people are starting to power themselves down.”

.

     They’ve never truly understood make up. They know that the Capitol is somewhat obsessed with it, with how different they can make their faces look with certain dyes and pigments. Aldera doesn’t get it, but that’s expected when they rarely look at themselves in the mirror. There’s only one in her house, near the front door which they don’t use very often. If they were wiser, they might make the connection between the two. However, something tells them that Dawn doesn’t mean chancing her entire look, maybe it’s just one of those sayings they simply don’t understand.

     Aldera truthfully can’t relate to functioning on little rest -- they’ve always been quick to drift asleep and they have a hard time waking up more often than not. But they think they know what Dawn means. They have been making an effort to stay awake, stay alert during this day; they don’t want to seem unattached or uncaring. “Not yet,” they say, and their shoulders fall forward once more. They have been trying to work on their posture but it seems like the weight of the world is upon all of their shoulders and they just can’t stay upright through it. “I like seeing the sky turn colors,” she confided in the woman, finally dragging her eyes out the window once more and tapping on the glass with their knuckles as if to stress their point that it was getting dark. “Do you know where we are?” they hadn’t asked anyone before, but they’d been wondering for a while. They don’t recognize the outside as the Capitol or any of the closer districts, but Dawn might be more familiar with them.

On a normal year, it’s all a struggle enough. All mentors are different in how they handle it all, the stress of knowing that at the very least they’re leading one child to their death; some try harder for it, some keep a distance because of it. They’ve seen so many victors over the years, so many different ways of mentoring, but they can say with confidence that the only ones who handle it well are the Careers, and even then well is a subjective term, considering it’s an entirely different sort of messed up in their eyes. Aldera, they know, like them, has a better time with distance to make it possible to keep going at all. Likely one of the many reasons they fell into this strange bond they have, the way they both cope with it, the way their memories cope with it, albeit from very different causes. Much easier to hold everything at a distance to protect yourself from more pain. And haven’t they all suffered enough at the hands of the Capitol?

Apparently not. And this year, there’s no room for distance, the reapings made sure of that. They all have to try now, they can’t afford not to, because there’s no room for selfishness anymore, when it’s all suddenly so personal, if not for themselves, then for those they care about deeply, too. Everything is different. A wakeup call. They have a feeling that Aldera feels that as much as they do, perhaps even the same worry that it’s too late, the guilt of all the years without that push, the lives they’ve let down. It’s all too morbid to consider, precisely why they’ve kept such a distance for twenty-two years. All the more reason it’s important to do the opposite now.

“I know,” they nod with a sigh. They can feel a headache brewing, one that’s been at the edge of their mind since the reaping, the threat of memories taken. They can’t afford that now. They have a strong feeling Aldera feels the same about that, too. A hard swallow, trying to bolster themself. “It’s all we can do right now, try to do better than we have. But just being here for each other, all of us, that must count for something. It’s…easier said than done, though, isn’t it? After years of this, the same thing.”

.

     They got that right. It’s easier said than done. If they thought the Quell announcement had been hard to cope with, the Reaping and everything that came with it was a kick to their stomach when they were already down gasping for air. Aldera hadn’t been the most attentive to details before -- admittedly, even if they’d wanted to, they couldn’t remember some of the most basic interactions they’d had the previous years. It was always a flash of images, a sinking feeling in the pit of their stomach, and they were back in Eleven. Waking up, tending to their plants, kicking some dirt on their way to nowhere, sleep, repeat. 

     They’ve never lived a Quell before -- they’ve heard the stories, of course, but this feels different. More personal that the two previous ones. This feels targeted. They haven’t come to that conclusion on their own, not by a long shot -- it was Blythe’s words, through Virgo, that made them think this was anything other than another way to keep them in line. That it is that, yes, but so much more, that it runs so much deeper this time. 

     They wonder if Silver thinks that way, too, but it seems invasive to ask them, so they keep their mouth shut, nod at their words and shoved their hands in their pockets. It was, they’d found, the best way to keep herself from picking at the skin around her nails. “I would like to meet Zero,” she tells them and hope it’s not completely out of line. She doesn’t know the other tributes on the train outside of her own district, and it might be counterproductive to meet another but Aldera doubts she’d ever form a strong enough connection to keep her from doing her job. Getting Birch out alive. She’s just curious. “I’m sorry I hugged you,” she adds, as an after thought. She can’t really tell whether it made Silver uncomfortable or not.

riggspeaceroot​:

As much as Virgo would likely play off any of Riggs’ attempts to vocalize it, they’ve come to greatly appreciate the young stylist’s company and ability to play off of Riggs’ own lighthearted comments. Now, however, with something very clearly off, Riggs wants more than anything for them to set the situation straight.  ❝ Virgo, I’m genuinely flattered that you believe my years of experience give me any level of expertise on this role. Surprised I can even tell a knife from a sword. Took me what, twenty years just to get that down? ❞  they begin before stopping themself from spiraling into yet another rambly tangent and get the conversation back on topic.  ❝ My hearts stopped a few times, but not this train. Capitol’s typically quite efficient when it comes to these types of things. ❞  They wave their hand, gesturing abstractly as their eyes flash over to the window once more.  ❝ Show must go on and all that. ❞

When the announcement breaks them from their nervous pacing, it’s just a moment, but Riggs nearly spirals back to the place they had been when news of the quell were released. But he can’t. Not now. Not with Birch only a few feet away, napping in his room.

Head realing, they stumble forward. Shaky, calloused hands find the smooth fixture of a nearby couch, and, slowly, Riggs eases themself down.  ❝ Everyb-Everybody sit. Right now, ❞  they try, though their voice couldn’t hold any sense of authority even on their best day. Fingers fumble with the glass of water that seemingly appeared in their hand but that they must’ve grabbed. Riggs takes a small sip, turning the message over and over in their head. Tributes and mentors. Tributes and mentors. Tributes and—

❝ Virgo, it’d be best if you stuck close to us. Maybe, um, maybe find something — ❞  Again Riggs begins gesturing vaguely in the air, too scrambled to make much sense.  ❝ Simple to um… wear. ❞ // @virgobydcsign​

.

They could pick and pick at the words blasted over the speakers but they don’t make any sense. They should be moving by now, closing in on the Capitol and preparing Birch and Parsley for the remake centre. The plan was better this year–they’d prepared a speech, just short of inspiring, and a handful of what they hoped would be helpful tips to ease communication with the wily prep team. But they’re not and they’ve stopped and their mind is a minefield. Pressure. So much pressure.

Virgo doesn’t sit. Distracted, they catch the embroidered collar of their shirt between their fingers. They sniff. “Is there something wrong with–?” The fabric was nice, they’d thought, a bright splash of colour against the dreariness of business. That it’s lifted from Diose makes them even more reluctant to part with it. 

The announcement doesn’t sink in until they think of their sister. The other train is being held. They press their hands to the glass, eyes flitting wildly as they try to catch a glimpse of something useful. Where? Close? Nothing they see is recognisable; empty space, an unfamiliar landscape. Their breath catches in their throat. Their shoulders slump. 

“It’s not–” Aldera called them hostages. The voice identified their captors as rebels. They want to stop the Games. There’s a problem in there somewhere, something they’d said that doesn’t sit right but Virgo tries, they really do, to put on a brave face. The message Blythe had them deliver weighs heavy on their mind, when she’d pinned the Quell’s structure as something to get back at those who had planned to rise. They’d relayed as much to Aldera. 

They turn on their heels, wedge their hands against the sill for balance. “I think… are they here to rescue you?” 

@aldcra​

.

     This, right here, was what the start of another spiral felt like. They hadn’t been in stress-inducing situations like this one in over a decade, and that was mostly deliberate. Keeping to herself, mimicking her surroundings in her best attempt to not call too much attention to herself, it was all on purpose. Aldera had had enough attention during her Games, she planned to live a life as simple as she was allowed to. They hear Riggs’s commanding words but they stand still -- there isn’t such a sense of comradery between the two of them that would call her to indulge him in his order; besides, she can hardly control her own body as it is. Her feet are now working on their own, as they do, and they keep her standing, frozen in her place. 

     It’s her eyes that move around the room uncontrollably -- Virgo, Riggs, Birch, Parsley, Riggs, Parsley, Virgo, Riggs, Birch, Virgo... As if she needs to keep track of the other four people in the car, as if they could somehow magically disappear. Stranger things have happened. 

     “Yes,” they have never thought themselves to be blunt but Virgo starts their question and the answer is clear. Even if the stylist doesn’t finish, Aldera knows what they meant to say. It’s no help that they look at the shirt with such endearment. Between Riggs and her, they’ve been dressed and painted in every shade of green imaginable, every pattern remotely related to agriculture, but their chosen attire for today speak volumes of the contrast with Virgo. Not to mention Birch and Parsley. They haven’t yet gotten a chance to be pampered by the Capitol. 

     They don’t know the answer to their question. They hadn’t even thought of the rebel’s intentions yet. For some reason, the idea that someone might be there to rescue them is hilarious to Aldera, and a string of weak, poorly timed giggles push past their lips before they can even realize what they’re doing. They can’t apologize, they simply let there be a pause of silence while they pull at the hem of their shirt before speaking again. “Take some of our clothes,” it should be an offer, but it escapes them as more of a question. As if Virgo has any other choice. 

Five days. It doesn’t sound like a lot, though in the sense of how long the Capitol would allow them to be delayed like this they might luck out before they make it that far. Strange, it’s not so comforting a fact as perhaps it should be. Aldera brings another interesting point to her attention, another unwelcome reminder of just how narrow her field of vision has turned out to be. Those under strain were capable of all sorts of things, to take the leap and say that if they did start to run low there would be difficulties makes far too much sense. A third of the train, those belonging to the Capitol itself, will be used to luxury. It’s not their potential revolt that bothers Digit. 

There are so many questions that it doesn’t feel fair to be asking, especially not of Aldera. It’s hardly their fault that her perception of the entire situation is skewed by ignorance and selfishness. Their unease is hard to miss, insight proving invaluable. If Digit had been a better mentor, worked harder to build the people around her up instead of knocking them down, she might have said as much. The praise is there, words jumbled and eclipsed by insecurity. Simpler, then, to stick to the facts. 

“If something happens and things start to get…” She trails off, lifting a dark brow. “There are some on the train who are going to need protecting as much as this stuff. Strength in numbers is a tried and tested theory.” That might not be such a bad idea regardless of how long they were stuck like this. Although Digit doesn’t trust her judgement well enough to figure out who it would be safe to usher together. People surprise her too often. 

.

     They haven’t been entirely transparent with Digit -- the issue in question hits too close to home to elaborate without a proper prompt, no matter how badly they want to help. They want to prove they can be so much better than they’ve been, even if they’re not entirely sure who they’re trying to prove themselves to. There’s more to say about the human body and its ability to survive the most unfortunate situations. Aldera herself had lost count of how many days they’d gone without food, but they would give their word that it was longer more than five. But Digit doesn’t ask, so they fall silent and keep mindlessly rumaging through a box of what look to be oastries with an unecessarily intricate pattern. 

     It’s becoming more and more clear with every conversation they find themselves in that they might only be useful on this train to up the body count. They get it, even if they wish they didn’t -- they’re not strong like Blythe, or smart like Silver, or even comforting as Dawn, or capable of providing some humorous distraction like Riggs. Still, when Digit stressed that others might need protection, Aldera can’t help but feel wounded. They’ve never considered Digit their closest friend but they would have expected more comforting words from her. Perhaps that was their own fault, they see it now. Blythe had mentioned something earlier about fighting, there seemed to be an overall agreement that there was strength in numbers, but Digit’s words carry more weight to them. It feels like she’s asking them to perish for a cause they’ve only heard of mere hours before. Maybe, deep down, they hoped that if they were left in charge of rationing the food supply, then their life wouldn’t be on the line. They realize now it was stupid of them to think they’d ever be let off the hook that easily. No winners, only survivers, after all.

     They don’t respond. Their hands are still gently caressing the food inside the box in front of them; they had started to count but lost track of the numbers and couldn’t start again after a few tries. Instead, they wipe their runny nose with the back of their hand and think back to those things they’d kept from Digit moments before. Maybe it’d be wise to pass the torch of sorts, to have someone else carry this information. In case anything happened to them and the others on the train had to go on without them. “Five days before fainting,” they say, their voice monotonous at best. “With water, three months without food before dying. Without water, one month. Tops.” They don’t recognize their voice as they speak; even though they’ve bowed to be better, they simply can’t handle it right now. “Even if the food rots, it can keep someone from starving.”

Aldera’s idea is a good one. Digit’s plan hadn’t extended much past looking and now, stood in the stockroom, she glares down at the boxes as though they’re the enemy. The beauty of a high speed train is all in the short journey, minimal delays, no plan for longevity the way they might’ve before the geniuses in Six cracked the perfect formula. Although the Capitol’s love for excess means there has to be more than necessary for the train’s intended path, which ought to buy them some time. If people were careful. 

“Yeah that’s, shit, I didn’t think of that. Good call.” Digit hums, thoughtful. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think yours would be safer. Considering the close proximity to–” One, the steady intake of visitors inevitably come to pick Silver’s brain, her own distracted tendencies, “–the major heating panels. It’ll rot.” She wrinkles her nose in feigned disgust. “We could make a list? Keep things simple.” 

If they had the exact numbers, she’d remember them. Could run the calculations pretty easily with the right information. Figuring out how much a person needs, however, isn’t in her skillset; she’s lucky to have never come close to starving. But Aldera, who had grown up in the seat of Panem’s biggest food source–well, they’d all heard the stories.

“You’re going to have to help me out with some of the more organic stuff.” Digit crouches and begins to pick through one of the boxes. She laughs drily. Fuck empathy. Things are so much simpler when she doesn’t have to be emotionally invested and can say what’s on her mind without hesitation. “Feels pretty shitty to ask, but I guess you really are the expert here.” She looks up at Aldera. “How long d’you figure someone can go without before it starts getting to them?” 

.

     They don’t know what Digit means don’t take it the wrong way. Knowing they are less likely to have someone come after them is a privilege, really, specially in this situation. Aldera never cared much for District One, they’ve kept themselves at a respectful distance through the years. They remember a little too well how their last tribute perished in her games, and they’re not particularly proud of it. Staying away has always been their preferred defense mechanism when it comes to noticeably stronger, angrier people, with very few exceptions. They suspect this train ride ( or lack of thereof ) might change that. 

     Parsley is also good with food -- they’ve heard her name around, they’ve met her. She’s nice. It might be useful to give her something to do, help keep track and stock whatever food they may be able to rescue. The boxes and piles in front of them don’t exactly follow the rules of nature like the fruits of their work back in Eleven, but they can probably figure it out together. They like the sound of that. Together. There’s a sense of comradery deep down underneath this terrible fate. “Yes, yes,” they realize they haven’t said anything, their mind is racing with the rush of hearing someone they made a good call. It’s intoxicating in a very different way than they’re used to.

     When Digit looks up at them, they feel their proud expression falter completely. It’s no secret that Eleven isn’t precisely well fed, but it’s different for them. They lived through it more times than they can recall. With her brother, after her brother, during the Games, they’ve had to deal with lacking food all their lives. It’s not something they want to remember, they’ve done such a good job keeping it in the back of their mind. “Uhm,” they kneel next to a different box. They’re not particularly proud of thier knowledge in this area and they’re too aware of themselves to speak freely and look at Digit at the same time. “I’ve...” No. They stop themselves. They can’t talk about their own experience. “Maybe, uhm, five days,” they make a pause. Maybe more. “If there’s water... More.” They now speak facts, they’ve honestly seen it all. They are the living proof that even one rotten apple can help. “It won’t be easy stopping the others from... Taking more than they should,” they desperately want to change the subject. Yes, they’ve pledged to be better but this is too much to do while sober. 

With every passing moment since the Quell announcement, they’ve realized more and more that nothing is normal, anymore, there’s no precedent for anything any of them are doing, no way to anticipate what comes next, yet alone how they’re going to respond to any of it. This moment is part of that, simple as it is. The strange camaraderie they’ve found with Aldera over the years, the quiet comfort of their presence still didn’t set precedent for this. And yet it’s easy, and it helps for a moment, a reminder that there are those who understand. They wish they were in any state to offer the same back to her.

They nod as they step back, trying to keep their breath steady, will away the emotion that threatens to well up. Aldera is right, after all, that’s the only thing that they can do now, but it’s easier said than done when they’re having trouble even looking him in the eye, knowing that they’re the whole reason he’s been put into this situation, a situation where the odds of him surviving are terribly slim, no matter what either of them do. And it feels selfish, to focus so wholly on Zero, and the guilt they feel there, when all of them are in situations like this, their own and Aldera’s. The thing they all have in common here is helplessness. Just as they know the Capitol wanted.

“I’ve never been particularly good at being there for others, especially not when it feels hopeless, but I’ll try. I should have started trying sooner…” they mutter with a sigh. They keep promising everyone around them that they’ll continue trying, but that feels harder by the minute, against their instincts to protect themself. And Aldera may not have had a loved one chosen, but they know well how helpless she must feel. “Are you…how are you holding up?”

.

     They would have liked to disagree with them, to tell Silver they’d been there for her and been so good at it, too, but the truth was Aldera didn’t really remember that much of their impromptu get-togethers. From what she gathered, Silver had always been the one who needed more comforting than herself. She could have told them she was sure they’d been there for Zero before, or Digit, or any other name she could recall that was somewhat close to the older victor, but she didn’t know that to be true -- she wasn’t sure of anything, really. That was the entire point, wasn’t it?

     So Aldera simply shrugs and hopes it’s enough to dismiss whatever doubts Silver might have over their own capabilities, and if it’s not... Well, she can relate to that, too. It’s no wonder why no other tributes came back to District Eleven alive after themselves, Riggs and them were never particularly successful at motivating anyone, at giving them hope that they might make it out alive. Looking back, Aldera, too, should have started sooner. Getting rid of the only thing that made the nightmares ( and everything else ) go away only this year would certainly prove to not be enough to get redemption for all the lives they’d contributed to lose over the years, but they’d still try.

     They straighten their spine ( they’ve been trying to work on their posture, to look less defeated than usual ) and offer a weak excuse of a smile -- a nearly straight line of lips tightly pressed together is all they can muster up. They have it better than Silver, they know that, they don’t have to see someone they love walk into their imminent demise. But they have to watch people they care about, other victors, suffer and they have nothing to wash the pain away with. They can’t say they’re fine. “I’m trying to... Do better,” they say and it’s not a lie, it’s just a very sugar coated version of the truth. It’s a lot easier to improve themselves when their found family’s existence isn’t constantly threatened. They’re momentarily glad they flushed their pills before the Reaping, because they would be running back to their car to swallow a handful of them right about now otherwise. “There’s not really a lot I can do to help,” they murmur and they figure Silver can relate, with what they’ve told her.

Aldera doesn’t seem to doubt for a second and it’s impossible not to love them for it. They’re eager, which is strange in itself, and smiling. Digit lifts a dark brow in question. “You don’t like being cooped up in here either, huh?” She shrugs. Whatever the reason, she’s grateful; pleased to feel as if they’re going to be doing something useful, bolstered by Aldera’s willing to join her. 

A smirk twitches at the corners of her mouth. “Honestly, I don’t have a clue how to answer that. They didn’t exactly hand us a schedule.” Intuition says it’s better to prepare for the worst rather than risk scrambling should it come to that. Mistakes are made more often in panic than anything else. Considering how volatile some of their company is want to be, Digit knows she’s not far off the mark. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says, knocking open the door behind her. “We’ll be out before you know it.” The assurance falls short of genuine, soothing anyone’s worries something Digit doesn’t have all that much experience with. That she tries is telling. Irritating. She’s proud regardless. 

.

     They’re not as sharp as others, they don’t notice people’s change in tones as well as maybe they should. Big switches they catch but the more subtle differences go over their head, even when they’re not intoxicated. Digit’s sarcasm doesn’t register, so Aldera simply nods and moves on. It’s true, they didn’t have a schedule, but after talking to Blythe, they’d realized they were completely in the dark about so many things. Everyone around them seemed to know so many details that Aldera had never even thought about, they figured asking Digit would be a good place to start. But it looks like her friend doesn’t know more than they do, which is somewhat reassuring that they’re starting to catch up to the rest of the train.

     Again, being asked to help is enough to get them to start moving so they’re out the door that Digit came through. Aldera has been on enough trains to roughly know where each car is located -- granted, most of those rides she doesn’t remember, but her body is better than her mind at keeping details locked in and her feet move a lot more confidently than ever before as they take her towards the food storage.

     They haven’t been in there since that very particular scene with Silver. So much has happened since that they forgot that had been that very same day. The car is roughly the same as they left it, understandably it doesn’t seem like anyone’s eaten anything since the train stopped. “You think...” they start. Coming up with ideas is also new for them, they haven’t had to think of ways to survive in over ten years. “We should take this... To one of our cars?” they wonder, their eyes already scanning the pastries. They have never been good with numbers but maybe they can both come up with an estimate of how long they can make it with this much food. “To keep it, uh... Safe?”

Blythe can’t help but think how much better Dawn would be at all of this. She wishes she could channel her and find a way for Aldera to feel more at ease in her presence, but how? Blythe remembers how talented Dawn is at knowing the exactly thing she needs to do or say depending on who she is with, and Blythe just doesn’t have that kind of talent. Maybe she could try to hold Aldera’s hand, but when she looks down and notices the blotches of blood on her skin, she figures that would actually be a terrible idea. Blythe’s gaze moves to Aldera’s hands and she notices the way their anxiety manifests. She knows that feeling. When she can’t sleep, she picks on her skin, just pinching and whatever scabs she can find. It’s not ideal, but it gives her hands something to focus on.

“Sort of.“ She can’t lie to Aldera. “It’s… On its early stages. I am coming up with it as I go since I still don’t know much of the situation. All I know that it is the best chance we got. From what I’ve seen, we don’t have anyone among us that knows jackshit about trains so we need to come up with other ways to make this thing move. Or at least to get the rebels to see they got a bunch of allies inside this train.“ Blythe herself would join them in a heartbeat. “I uh, need to talk to Riggs, figure out what everyone is willing to do so we can get organized, but it would be a really big help if you could join us.“ She sounds as hopeful as she can, because she can tell Aldera is having a hard time with all of this. “And we are going to need people if uh… If we have to deal with the Peacekeepers and District One.“

.

     It’s still early, they’ve only just heard through their speakers that they’re trapped there and held hostages -- the rebels must know what they’re doing or they wouldn’t have taken over the two trains that all of Panem is watching. But Blythe speaks as if she’s had so much time to think about this, and something inside Aldera is still alert that they’re the last person to know about any of this. It counts for something that Blythe didn’t walk right past them to talk to Riggs -- or that she even came to their car at all, really. Eleven has never been anyone’s favorite and it shows, but this conversation is at least a few steps towards making them feel safer. At least Blythe doesn’t think they’d side with the Capitol, that’s something.

     And then they ask her again if she will help. Nobody’s ever asked for their help before, they’ve never really had anything to offer in the past. They’re not sure they have anything to offer now -- that is until Blythe mentions the Peacekeepers and District One. So they need someone to fight and possibly be left behind. That makes more sense. But it’s not like they have much else to lose, they’ve given up before. “Okay,” it’s possibly the word they’ve used the most since the Reaping but with every second it gains more weight. They make a pause. Blythe took the time to talk to them, they owe it to her to be as honest as possible. “I haven’t trained... In ages,” they stress -- meaning I wouldn’t be able to hold them back for too long. 

The Quarter Quell announcement itself threw them off balance in a way they rarely feel, even the illusion that they held an ounce of control suddenly shattered in all of the confusion and ambiguity. That alone had been enough to send them, like everyone else, into a state that they never usually felt. The reaping, though, had made it a dozen times worse. They feel lost, full of guilt, the sort of hopelessness sitting on their shoulders that they’re not sure it’s possible to even act like they can brush off. And in it all, knowing that like Digit said, they’re the only chance Zero stands at getting out of the arena alive, after being the reason he’ll be forced into it in the first place. But they can’t figure out how they’re supposed to manage when they can’t even keep themself together.

They’re grateful that Aldera’s safe, and that none of her loved ones were drawn in the reaping, but that doesn’t take away how difficult of a position they know she’s in, because they’ve been seeing it with Digit. She’s always offered understanding, though, a place of honesty that’s not easy for them to feel comfortable with, and they need to admit their fears, just now, their guilt. It’s simple it in a way it isn’t with very many others not to flinch away when they step forward, to respond in kind when Aldera wraps their arms around their shoulders. It’s a little awkward, a little hesitant, but it’s something they hadn’t realized they needed so badly until she was stepping forward to hug them.  

“I’m sorry…” they mutter, letting themself linger for a moment, the comfort that comes with something as rare as physical touch. They’re not sure what they’re apologizing for. Perhaps it’s because they haven’t managed to figure out how to apologize to Zero yet for leading him here. “I don’t know what to do.”

.

     They couldn’t remember the last time they hugged someone who wasn’t Swann, it must have been years ago. There wasn’t anyone else they felt any desire to touch in any way, so keeping to themselves was easy. Even now, in this situation, they very likely wouldn’t have hugged anyone else other than Silver -- she didn’t think about it for too long before doing it. The idea popped in her head and she did it, nothing had ever been that simple. But they were glad that Silver didn’t pull back; she would have understood, physicality wasn’t their forte either, but something inside her told her she did a good job at comforting them, that she read the situation right. There weren’t many instances when she could tell herself that.

     Silver’s apology didn’t register immediately, but Aldera pulled back slowly to study their expression when it did. Though she wasn’t the most well-versed in reading people’s looks, they were proud to know one glance had been enough to realize Silver wasn’t thinking about her when they uttered those words. The following statement was admittedly a lot scarier. If they didn’t know what to do, she didn’t have much hope, either -- might as well stop trying.

     “That’s okay,” they replied simply, retrieving their arms and letting them fall down against their sides. They wanted to add something, anything, but they couldn’t say they understood. Her loved ones hadn’t been picked, she wasn’t in their shoes, and there were only so many things she could help them with. “Just be with him,” was the best she could do. Only the strongest, most trained people ever boarded those trains thinking they’d ever make it back.

Blythe has an extraordinary talent for ignoring people, and it comes quite handy when she notices the way all the people she has encountered so far have reacted to her appearance. To her, it means nothing. It’s not the first time she has been covered in someone else’s blood, and she is certain it won’t be the last. And yes, she is aware of how much a shower could help, especially when she is in the process of rallying people around her, but… Maybe she’ll save that for later.

Right now, her focus is Aldera. Blythe doesn’t know them very well, and that makes things difficult. She is quick to notice they are… Fidgety? At least she thinks that’s it. Or… Maybe it’s just that Blythe is fucking terrifying to look at. But that doesn’t matter! Why can’t people stop looking at the dry blood on her scalp and her leg and start getting into her plans. 

“Okay, that’s good. Uh… Before all of this bullshit I talked to other people. And yeah, six. Sixn and nine were like, completely losing their shit so this isn’t really that surprising. But I swear I had nothing to do with this.“ Everyone is thinking she is involved, so she feels the need to clarify, make things easy for Aldera. She doesn’t really have the patience, she is not like Riggs or Silver. Thinking before speaking is not something Blythe is capable of doing. But for Aldera, she tries. 

Blythe follows them, swiftly plopping down on the nearest seat so she can rest her leg. She needs to save her energy. “I don’t know everything. I mean, I wish I fucking did. Then maybe I could just go join whoever is keeping us here like sitting ducks, strike a deal or something so we can get the fuck out of here and help. But, we kind of can’t, so I thought of something else. And… I kind of need your help. I need everyone’s help if we want this to work. Shit’s not gonna be easy, so uh, I first wanted to ask if you’d be okay with it.”

.

     There were so many things that were completely lost on Aldera. At some point in the past, they must have stopped trying to catch up -- they realized there situations and feelings that would forever be out of their grasp and they rolled with it. Something about this conversation with Blythe made them feel completely out of their comfort zone, and it wasn’t the obvious, it wasn’t only the fact that this whole situation was entirely new to them. Something about the way Blythe spoke to them made them feel like they should know more things than they did, like they’d missed out on an important letter, a telecom call, a meeting, that now everyone around them knew the rebellion was real, that it was happening all around them and they’d never even suspected it.

     They weren’t that good at masking their emotions, specially when stressed, so their fidgeting hands and bouncing leg were only the beginning of what would become a rather large list of tics. This isn’t really that surprising. Oh, but it is, for them all of this is surprising. Of course they’d known people who weren’t happy about the Capitol, Aldera herself wasn’t particularly excited about the Games, thank you very much, but a revolution was a whole different ordeal.

     Blythe wanted to know if they were okay with it. Truthfully, they weren’t okay with any of it, but they were only just processing it all. They wondered who else knew this was real and why nobody had confided in them -- but they didn’t dwell on it for too long because they knew exactly why. Aldera didn’t particularly scream worthy ally when they could barely keep themselves together. “You mean... There’s a plan?” they just wanted to make sure they were getting all of this right. Then maybe they could understand. “To... What?” still, they’re confused. “I... Want them to be safe,” she didn’t let her voice break -- no, this was no time for that. What them meant was rather broad, but mostly she meant everyone on the trains. “I can help... Keeping them safe?” it was a question, they really weren’t aware of their own abilities. But they’d survived all this time, surely there was something they could do.

@aldcra

Place: Train One Time: Sometime after the hijacking

Okay, so many Birch felt a little overwhelmed since the rebels announced that they had taken control of the train. Sure, it was a nice thing to think about— getting save from all of this. But considering just over twenty-four hours ago, he was finding himself plucked from his little life in Eleven, had to grasp with the fact that he was likely to die, and now there’s rebels? Living and breathing and able to do something as massive as this?

He’s shocked, to say the least.

So he’s trying to stay out of everyone’s way. It seems like everyone’s running around and trying to do something about everything. Birch hasn’t felt like he could do anything about… well, anything. So he stays at the dining table and tries not to think about anything. But it’s nice when Aldera comes over, and he shoots her a smile. “Did you watch Caesar on the television? We should get Virgo to put me in one of those wigs.”

     They could tell both Birch and Parsley were way past confused -- they couldn’t imagine what would have gone through their own head if this had happened during their first train ride up to the Capitol. They weren’t even entirely sure what was going through their mind right now, truthfully, but they’d promised themselves that they would try and help however they could. They didn’t have that many skills to offer -- they weren’t funny or creative or strong, but they were silent and most of the time they didn’t really judge anyone even on their worse days. That had to count for something.

“Uh. Wow, okay. That took a lot less persuading than I thought it would.” The roster of arguments she’d prepared with barely a thought died in an instant and she felt strangely empty. Relieved. Digit raked a hand through her hair, uttered a shaky laugh. “I had an idea. Figured that while everyone else is tearing their hair out, it might not be such a bad call to check out the food situation. Store cupboards or something. Just in case things have been messed with.”

It hadn’t occurred to her at first. Their lack of communication was the most pressing issue, not to mention the whole captivity deal, but there wasn’t much she could do about either of those things in the immediate future. The paranoia in the air got to her pretty quick. More so once she’d considered who else was on the train with them and where they were headed toward. The stretch to question poison didn’t take all that much. 

“Need you on the team, expert.”

     Digit’s surprise made them wonder if maybe they should have played up their eagerness to help, but truthfully that never would have occured to Aldera. They had never been the person people looked for, never the person others specifically asked for anything, and it was proving to be a lot more rewarding than they’d given it credit for to be useful. This train ride had already tested their abilities to adapt more than they would have ever expected it to, but they liked it. They liked being thought of as someone who could help. Digit was a friend on a good day and a positive acquaintance on a bad one, and she had thought of them specifically for this task. However unadventurous Aldera usually was mattered very little when a friend asked for their help.

     And it was a good idea. They’d marveled in the tasty snacks that very morning and hadn’t thought about food since -- possibly because they’d ingested more sweets than their slender body could handle, not to mention how their stomach had shrunk to half its size after the speakers blasted the rebel’s message. They were already determined to help but Digit calling them expert did the trick, too. 

     A small smile crept up on their lips and they straightened their spine slightly, as if trying to prove they were up to the challenge. “You got it,” they meant to add a funny nickname but, as usual, their timing was off and too many seconds passed before they could come up with anything witty so they simply let it go. “You think... How much food will we need?” It only then occured to them that Digit might be hinting that they might be stuck there for many days to come.