persphone girl.

Oh, Hayes thought. Interesting. Can dish it, but can’t take it. The fresh cold tone in her voice didn’t go unnoticed by the blonde, and he knew that he should probably chill. If he was a man of his word, he would have to be around Gemma through the games and the following Victory Tour. And then, unless Gemma got promoted, they’d start this whole song and dance over again. But she had gotten under his skin, and he didn’t like that. “Helping with shit like this isn’t the problem. You’re practically writing her off without even seeing what she can do. Are you the same with the other one?” He should really learn the other tributes name, but that meant he’d had to peel Genera off him and that seemed like a feat of nature he wasn’t interested in participating in. Leaning back in his chair he shrugged. “Was going to figure that out during the training tomorrow. Do you think there’s any hope of splitting the career alliance this year? I know they’ve been way more tight knit as of late. If we can, I think aligning with 2 makes sense…if we can’t get in the middle of the careers 6 and 8 were good allies in there for me. 7 could help with building a shelter if they’re anywhere with nature.” See? The look on his face said. I know what I’m doing too.

"I am not writing her off. I'm being realistic." And harsh, but what about this isn't? She raises a brow at him. "And do you think you're being fair? You don't even know the other tributes name." Sometimes she forgets how annoying everyone from the districts can be, but Hayes especially. She has worked with him for years and likes to think that she knows him pretty well — but the truth is that distance makes the heart grow fonder and typically in the off season of the games, Gemma remembers him through rose coloured glasses. Remembers him as a sweet little boy who listens to her and does as he is told. It's only when they're working together again that she remembers what a challenge he actually is. Still... she could do a lot worse. District Twelve in particular makes her want to stab her eyes out with a crystal studded fork. Eleven and ten aren't much better. Four would be ideal. But for now she can make this work or she will die trying. "There's tension between One and Two lately but all of their tributes come from the academy this year, I doubt they'll want to split. Four is a wild card but probably your most realistic option for now."

STARTER FOR: @brutcllysoft | owen & shay. LOCATION: training center apartments.

The last person Shay wants to see these days is Owen. Not because she's upset with him or because they're in an argument — but if anyone is going to be able to really see what a mess she is, it's her brother. Of course, she's aware she's doing a terrible job at hiding the walking embodiment of grief and anxiety she's become from anyone, but she knows Owen will be able to see through any mask she might be able to scrape together. She's never been able to hide anything from him, going back to when they were kids and she had broken his favourite toy. She'd spent a solid twenty minutes coming up with a cover story, only to blurt out the truth the moment she saw him.

It was embarrassing, quite frankly, how relieved Monroe was that Shay wasn’t icing her out. She knew that there was no chance they’d end up being friends after all this. But everyone in these apartments was about to spend a lot of time together watching something very unpleasant. Their interactions with each other should at least be pleasant to compensate, right? Once she got the sketchbook back in her hands, she started making notes. “Free hands, got it. I’ll raise the sleeves a little bit for you, gives you free movement. Laughing a little bit, Monroe shook her head. “Absolutely not. Though I can’t say that that idea wasn’t thrown around.” Some of these parade outfits were so surface level, it was shocking. Flipping back to one of her old sketches she passed it back over to Shay. “I went back to the whole Masonry aspect of the district. Material is pulled from blacksmith aprons and the color scheme is inspired by the forges.” 

A brief panic strikes her with Monroe's words. "Just a little bit. I don't want to me showing a lot of skin." She doesn't know why — she just hates the idea of being on display for the Capitol. Hates that she has to let them see her at all, but she wants to keep as much of herself concealed as possible. She rubs the swatch between her thumb and pointer finger, recognizing it now that Monroe has told her what it is. Blacksmith aprons. It reminds her of home — it reminds her of Ezra. Reminds her of the forge that they had worked in, of the quiet and peaceful life he had helped their makeshift family carve into existence. Her chest burns with an ache so deep she's afraid it might swallow her and she thinks again about how unfair all of this has been. "You should add some shimmer," she chokes out and then clears her throat because it's embarrassing. "The sparks in the forge... They reminded me of glitter when I was little. I thought it was pretty."

"I do. It's part of my job." A job you are failing at already, says the voice in her head that never seems to get the hint to leave her alone. But it's true — she's failing Shay, failing Ezra, failing their entire team because of her inability to be present. Moping around all day won't bring either of them home and Thea knows that, but all the rationale in the world won't make this year any easier. If it'd been only one of them here then maybe she'd have the strength to to her job correctly, and they'd continue on with life after these Games as if nothing happened. Having both Shay and Ezra here is what's killing her — it's an impossible choice to make but again, Thea reminds herself that this isn't Shay's fault. She hadn't asked for her name to be picked from the reaping bowl, and she certainly hadn't asked Ezra to volunteer once it was. He'd done that on his own accord, and despite her anger and frustration, Thea knows he'd do it a thousand times over.

Shay can't imagine how anyone could do this year after year. Being here once is more than enough for her — she has zero desire for any repeats. The constant anxiety and dread hanging over her is enough to crush her even now and she can't blame Thea for letting it change her to be the way that she is. Shay has never been ignorant to Thea's quirks — the district had whispered about them for as long as she can remember and it's never bothered her. She'd always sympathized with the woman and thought she knew what she had been through. The truth was, Shay had no idea — she still has no idea. Her toes have only been dipped into all of this with the hardest parts still looming over the horizon for her. She can't imagine herself holding it together as well as Thea has — which is saying something.

If his head wasn't throbbing and the room wasn't spinning, Cyrus would have insisted he kicked their ass -- That this was nothing compared to the beat down he'd given, claiming not one but two men were lying bloody in an alleyway. It wasn't uncommon for him to embellish, depending on what his ego warranted. (Even though Dinah easily saw through his bullshit stories) "Fuck you, I'm not old." He insists instead, grumbling as he spoke. There's not much heat behind it, given the state he's in, but it offends him regardless. She's not wrong, but he doesn't want to hear it. As far as Cyrus can tell, he's going to be on his own until the day he dies; He can't slow down. Even if he's pushing 40 and his knees weren't what they used to be. It's not like he'd exactly been kind to his body over the course of his life.

After a decade of doing so, Di is an expert at arguing with Cyrus. The two can bicker until they're blue in the face — and they have, thousands of times, but she knows it's typically pointless. He's the most stubborn person she knows and worse than that, he actually seems to believe his own bullshit, so there's really no getting through to him. "Sure you're not," she responds, honeyed eyes rolling. "You're practically ancient by district standards." The way she says it, it could be a joke but they both know it isn't really. District Twelve is the poorest of the poor, and half the population starves to death before they reach adulthood.

While there may be a difference between Seven and One, Ashton never really had the same mentality as the rest of those in Seven. He's a pariah back there, rather than a hero like he should be. He provided for them. Given, that he'd killed his own district partner not too long into the Games, he did it to survive. Breaking out of his exterior shell and becoming the Victor that now has to be there every Games just to be disappointed was a bit fucked. One would be a better place for him, for sure. "It's good you know that," he comments. It's not exactly a compliment but it could be taken that way.

Seven has always been an interesting District to Silena. While they weren't a career district by any means, they had produced a handful of victors in the past and had their fair share of threats in the arena. They certainly weren't a district that could be counted out — not like Five or Twelve. Not this year, though. This year they'd been given a couple of flops that Silena wasn't really going to bother with, figuring that someone would take them out early enough in the games and if not, surely they would be victim to the elements. Of course, if given the chance she would have no problem slitting either of their throats but she wasn't going to be gunning for them either. She hums, eyes drifting back to the tribute in question. "And the girl? I haven't seen much of her either." Silena knows in the back of her mind all of this could be part of a strategy, but she has a feeling that isn't really Ashton's style. He seems much more the brute force kill them before they kill you type than the wait them out through survival skills type. She watches as he throws the axe, resists the urge to roll her eyes at the showboating. She clicks her tongue, shrugging. "I can't give you all my secrets," she muses. "I do prefer up close and personal though. A lot less room for errors." Messier too, which she hates but she figures she'll have to make some sacrifices. Besides, there's probably some Capitol freaks out there who will get off on her covered in blood and send her some ridiculous sponsor gift like a solid gold knife she'll need a crane to lift.

THEA + SHAY / @brutcllysoft WHERE & WHEN: the capitol, before the 101st hunger games

Shay had practically begged not to have to go back to the Capitol this year, but she had known that would be in vain. Of course, she knew how these things worked — once someone won the games, they were required to mentor for at least a little while, though preferably until another victor of the same gender was crowned. Eventually, when enough time had passed and more victors had taken their place, sometimes mentors were allowed their solitude again. To retire quietly in their home districts and try to find a semblance of peace. Shay knew that was a long ways away for her, but the idea of going back to the Capitol at all had been so distressing to her that she'd had to at least try. Of course, it hadn't worked and she's spent the past few weeks teetering back and forth, feeling as though she was constantly on the verge of a panic attack. One that she would lose herself to from time to time, only to force herself to pack it away and do her job. Except that never really worked. Even when she was able to appear as if she had herself together, for the cameras or to keep herself from looking too weak in front of her peers, she was never really all there. A part of her had died in the arena with Ezra. Shay knew it was never coming back. She just had to learn how to live with the phantom ache.

This is another reason she wasn't excited to return to Eleven. Clem hadn't exactly liked her before the death of her son but now there was even more distance between getting to civility. Rubbing two glossed lips together, her leg bouncing slightly under her, she shrugs. "Okay, yes, that's fair. You don't have to trust me," Alba forfeits. She's not going to win that battle. Not with Clem. Hell, not with any of these Victors. The only thing she's lost in all this is a few friends she has known for a few weeks and a bit of her paycheck when she gets demoted. It still stings though. "Well in Eight, they've been using time in the apartment more wisely-- training and prepping. I feel like we can easily add that to the schedule. And apparently, there are some good meal options we can change our tributes to to get them healthier, and faster. The Gamemaker just hasn't been telling us about them. I mean there's not exactly a menu they hand us," she shrugs.

Clementine is glad that Alba apparently has enough braincells rattling around in that seemingly empty head to realize that the two of them are not and never will be friends. Honestly, she can't imagine why any of the escorts or stylists think that that's a possibility with the victors. Do they truly have that little self awareness or are they just stupid? In what world could any of them be anything other than unwilling allies for two months of the year? How are those from the District supposed to trust the people who celebrate their deaths year after year? The people who benefit from it? Clementine wants to lock them all in the tribute center and light it on fire. In fact, she thinks that should be part of the official rebellion. She rolls her eyes again. "They aren't robots, Alba. They're children. We can't push them 24/7. They need time to process and let their minds rest." And they should be allowed to indulge in the little things, like food and rest, while they have them. "We'll start strategizing while we eat. The meals can be your domaine. You can reach out to the kitchen and start customizing the menu. Nothing too rich for the first week, their bodies won't be used to it and we don't want them to get sick. We'll have to ease into it." The food here is already lightyears ahead of anything that they have in Eleven, but Clem has no idea what Alba has in mind.

For all of her fear and anxiety, it’s absolutely sick that Eden’s most prominent emotion is suddenly an intense pang of jealousy. It doesn’t happen often — she’s beautiful and she knows it, that particular trait of hers has been drilled into her since she was a little girl and has only heightened since she became a victor. But the thought of her sister who is, objectively, equally as beautiful as she is coming to take her spot would probably have her face twitching if it weren’t so frozen in place. Eden is used to being fawned over, she is used to being the golden, shining star of their family — it’s what she’s been raised for, and it’s what she’s killed for. When Silena eventually supersedes her in that, Eden’s not sure how she’ll handle it. So her default setting is, of course, deflection of her own insecurities. “Oh, you’re young,” she starts, but what could simply be a compliment on Silena’s youthful beauty obviously has a caveat. “You’ve got time to lose your baby fat before they tighten everything up. Makes everything smoother if you wait I've heard.”

There's a sudden ringing in her ears that might be concerning if she didn't have bigger issues going on right now. One would think by that Silena would mean the Hunger Games ordeal going on right now, but really all she can focus on at the moment is what her sister had said. Baby fat — baby fat? She spends half of her days following the rigorous academy training schedule, she does not have baby fat... does she? This is what Silena hates the most about herself. Most of the time, she's calm and confident — conceited or cocky even. Silena is beautiful and she knows it. She'd been brought up to be beautiful — sometimes she thinks it's the most notable thing about her but is ridiculous considering she'd also been the top of her class and she is about to be a victor. But all of that always has and always will come second to the fact that she's beautiful. That's just how the Capitol, and by extension District One, operates. So to have someone so casually point out one of the flaws she hadn't even realized she had? She'll be thinking about that for days, annoyingly. Even now, her pinky finger skates across her jawline, searching for imperfections.

Pulling a face, Hayes leaned back in his seat. Shoulders rolled back so he was at least leaning with his back straight. The idea of surgery was not something he even wanted to consider as a joke. After winning the games they insisted on surgically removing most of the scars he accumulated, all except for the one over his eye that cut through his eyebrow - that one “could be a new trend in grooming”, the stylist had said about the new half centimeter wide split in the dark blonde hairs. They even fixed his hitchhiker's thumb, which he’s had before the games. Anyways. He wouldn’t voluntarily go through that again. “Yeah yeah…at least I’ll have lived long enough to be a permanent anything.” The blonde said, biting into bacon as he watched the wheels turn behind Gemma’s eyes as she processed his plan. Shifting so his elbows were on the table, Hayes nodded. “I grew up with her. Went to school with her. I know how she is. You ever think that she glowers at you ‘cuz she’s scared? ‘Cuz you take your job a little too seriously? She can make alliances. She can talk her way into people’s hearts — she learns how to do the survival shit that these careers don’t want to bother with? Jocelyn will become integral in getting them far. She can win. We all have to just start supporting that notion.” Hayes finished, looking pointedly at Gemma. 

Oops, nerve struck.

The question made the man snort out a laugh. “Silena,” He said, his voice full of incredulity as he studied the blonde beside him. “You’re about to be in an arena where the only other living things with you want to kill you. No matter how much you trained for it, you’re going to come out a little paranoid.” Ryder still double checks every lock in his home three times before going to bed. And he crosses the street if he feels someone has been walking behind him for too long. But something told him that no matter what he said, Silena wouldn’t hear it. “I didn’t volunteer,” He reminded her -- though he wasn’t sure he had to. It had been a talking point during his games that he was the first non volunteer tribute from District 1 in years, but then again, it had been awhile, and weirder things have happened since his games. Swishing the liquid in the glass before him, brown eyes cast a sidelong glance at Silena as she took up the empty space beside him. If he was smarter, he wouldn’t elaborate. But maybe giving her just enough of the story could get him what he wanted. “The story?” Ryder mused, taking a long sip of his drink. “Simple really. My name got pulled, and it was the year Marcus was supposed to volunteer,” The victor had no idea how the decisions around who would volunteer when happened at the Career Academy, but Marcus had been talking nonstop about how it was his turn to bring pride to the District right before the reaping. “And turns out that you’re going into the arena with someone who can be bought pretty easily.”

Okay, yeah, mark Ryder down as paranoid and theatrical, Silena thinks. Maybe that's why he won the games — the Capitol wanted to entertained by the games above all else, even if they were still claiming it was a punishment. She raises an eyebrow at him and resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I was talking about my sister," she reminds him. "She volunteered. She knew the risks and so did the rest of my family. I know you didn't." It had been a huge scandal at the time, one that Silena remembers well. "Kind of surprising, honestly. Son of a prominent member of the district... Everyone figured it would be a given you and your brother would be front runners for the games." Except they weren't and Silena was admittedly a little curious about that. Most families are clamouring over each other for the honour of competing and it didn't make sense to her that the mayor's son hadn't been a part of that. She glances away from Ryder long enough to take the drink from the Avox and smells it. While District One is well off by comparison to the outlier districts, they certainly aren't indulging in Capitol luxuries on a regular basis. The drink is sweet, almost sickly so but the blonde sips it slowly anyways. She might as well enjoy the Capitol perks just incase she does end up dying in a few weeks. "Are you gonna tell me who paid him off or are you going to make me guess?" She asks, setting the crystal glass down on the bar top.

"Of course you do," he smirks, rolling his eyes slightly. Shay is much easier to deal with in general and then you add that she's extremely likeable into the mix and all of a sudden Birdie is chiding him about how he could've been a good Victor like Shay. The problem was that every time Nico thinks of Shay as anyone more than Shay and sees her as a Victor he's brought back to the place where he had to choose to lose a father-figure so that he could keep his girl safe. Not that that wasn't Ezra's choice in the first place but then he had to leave Ezra to do whatever he wanted while Nico reviewed everything with Shay. She had to be ready. She had to win. That's all he could think of.

Shay likes Birdie as much as she can like anyone from the Capitol and it's a loaded gun she's going to have to learn to handle. She's not entirely sure how Nico feels about the whole thing, knowing that he has never been her biggest fan. And really, she can't blame him at all. She knows Thea hates the woman, rightfully so. For now, Shay can't dwell on any of it. Can't let herself get wrapped up in the complex relationship that she has with their team and whether or not they're the devil her mind sometimes makes them out to be, or if they're just woefully ignorant people who are just doing their jobs. Their jobs are killing people, a voice reminds her, but she can't let herself get distracted with that right now. She has to keep her head on straight, has to focus on getting through the reaping and maybe she can have an existential crisis on the train.

A long time ago, Monroe learned to compartmentalize. The Games were polarizing emotionally and half the time people were terrified in the lead up. Terror made people lash out. She’s been in verbal scuffles with multiple tributes and one even stabbed her with a pair of her own shears in an attempt to escape — and her mother had been very upset that she didn’t want to get the scar surgically removed — and she’s learned not to take anything personally that was said in these apartments. But sometimes it took a little bit more time to bounce back. And she felt shitty about it. For all intents and purposes, she was the enemy. From the Capitol. Someone not to be trusted, and why should she expect anyone to be cool about her being there. She counted to ten in her head and put a soft smile on her face as she passed the sketchbook over. “Right. Well. There are designs for your tribute in there for the interview — you know her better than I do so if there are any suggestions…There’s a design in there for you too. For…when you have to talk to sponsors.” She didn’t say watch the games. The entire point of this was to not think about that part. "Fabric swatch in there too. It's breathable, loose and everything's off the neck." Exhaling a little bit she shrugs. "...figured it might help if your clothes didn't feel like they were choking you." Her voice trailed off. God she felt so stupid. This olive branch was going to bite her in the ass.

Great, Monroe has that kicked puppy look that has Shay feeling guilty despite the voice in her head reminding her that she has nothing to feel guilty about. She doesn't owe anything to anyone from the Capitol, least of all the people who had dressed her up and sent her off to be slaughtered. It's a strange back and forth feeling, one that Shay isn't sure she's ever going to learn how to navigate. One minute, she'll hate her entire prep team — Monroe, Birdie and everyone else — and the next she'll share a moment with them and think maybe they're not all bad. But those moments feel like the worst kind of betrayal to Ezra because she needs to put his death on someone else sometimes, can't shoulder it all alone because she knows it will crush her. Isn't she doing him a disservice if she's playing nice with the people who cheered on his death? It makes her feel sick to think about how it would make him feel. But then there's Monroe — all doe eyes and olive branches and Shay doesn't have it in her to fight anymore tonight. "Nothing around my neck." She sighs, begrudgingly agreeing with the stylist. "And I want my hands free." Her fingers skate across the fabric swatch, pleased with it. It's a little rich for her, but isn't everything here? "What are you putting the tributes in for the parade? Don't say gladiator costumes. It's been done hundreds of times." Almost every games, really. It's like District Seven are usually trees and Twelve miners. It's insulting when the stylists can't even attempt something original when it could make the difference between life saving sponsors taking note of them or not.

Waving at the Avox standing behind the bar, motioning to Silena to silently say to get her whatever she wanted, Ryder drained the liquid out of the glass in front of him, flipping the glass so it was upside down on the cool marble of the bar. “I think,” He hummed, brown eyes tracking the movement of the blonde woman. The comment about revenge may have been a joke, but they were alone now, and he was pretty sure that the Career Academy taught you how to kill and make it look like an accident. “That your family is too smart to do anything obviously. Maybe you’ve been waiting.” Arching an eyebrow upwards he watched as his upside down glass was replaced with a fresh drink. Dragging his thumb against the rim, the victor stared at her. “We’re not friends,” He snapped, eyes dark with anger at the simple idea. But was that fair? Because they were friends once. “Yeah I’m sure it’s been eating you up inside.” He rolled his eyes a little bit before taking a sip from the glass in front of him. “That’s not the problem, though. So I’m not going to be the one getting in your way.”

This time Silena really does roll her eyes, letting out a quiet sound of disapproval. "Are you always this paranoid?" She asks, raising a brow at him. Is this what she's in for for the next few weeks? Constant paranoia and suspicion about something Silena couldn't be less interested in while he drowns himself in free booze? "Everyone here has stabbed someone's sister," she points out, referring to the victors. "That's the risk that comes with volunteering. Obviously we would have preferred it to be the other way around — no offence. But don't flatter yourself to think that my family has been sitting around the dinner table plotting your downfall." Silena misses Opal so much sometimes that she can hardly bare it, but the truth is this was how they were raised. It just is what it is. There's nothing anyone can do about it, and to hold resentment and anger over it is only going to give her premature wrinkles. At least it was someone from One and not some scrawny nobody from Twelve who took her sister out — or even worse, death from the elements. Boring. What isn't boring is his obvious reaction to her prodding about Marcus and it sparks her interest. "Wow, you're batting a thousand with tributes this year, huh?" She plants herself on a bar stool, one leg swinging up to cross over the other and her chin falling to rest in her upturned palm, leaning on the bartop. "What's the story there?"

@brutcllysoft

Gemma has never really understood how the gamemaker's minds work and she supposes that's why she'd never considered that path. Her own creative streak is better put to use writing speeches and matching outfits rather than coming up with the latest twists and turns of the Hunger Games. She remembers her mother telling her once it takes a special kind of person to do that job and she hadn't entirely been sure if it was a compliment or not, but she chooses to believe it was. Even if Elias does make her skin crawl just a little. She can't put her finger on why and frankly, she doesn't have time to worry about it. She's got enough on her plate right now, she doesn't need to add Elias Whitlock's offputting vibes on her plate. So she ships her champagne, smiling politely and hums. "I'm sure the games will be wonderful, as always." She really does mean that. Even if they come with a painful bout when her tributes inevitably die, Gemma knows the games are a necessary evil in their world. "Their first impressions left a lot to be desired, but I'm not ready to count them out yet. They've both got some spark in them. You never know what could happen." Now that, she doesn't mean. Of course they're both going to get slaughtered but she can't go advertising that, can she?

“Right. And I’ll stand up straight when I interact with them.” A shit eating grin graced his features as he watched the escort silently debate if she actually wanted to take him up on the offer to sit down. His grin fell at the mention of his past tributes. In reality, Hayes knows that there’s only so much he can do for the tributes once they’re in the arena. He can get them sponsors, he can give them advice. But once they’re actually in the games, it was up to them. But when they died, it always hit him a little hard. And the stark reminder that he was probably letting them down made Hayes’ blue eyes go stormy. “I do my best.” He said. Slouching back in his chair which was the opposite of what she wanted, but that was his quiet rebellion against the way she made him feel. Sighing as she asked about his plan, Hayes nodded. “Yep,” his lips popped on the last syllable, drumming his fingers against the table in front of him. “For Joce we’re focusing on the social game. Honing in on the basic survival skills. Alliances, all that.” Sitting up a little bit, Hayes looked pointedly at the empty seats before them. “I’ve got everything under control. It’s the other one you should be worried about.”

While Gemma is a lot of things, stupid isn't one of them. Clueless, tactless, tone deaf, sure, an argument could be made for all of those. But she isn't stupid and she knows that Hayes gets a certain enjoyment out of making her life difficult and tormenting her — as if she wasn't having a bad enough time here. The tributes certainly weren't making anything easier on her, the least Hayes could do was try to form a united front with her and take her expert advice. "You're going to become a permanent hunchback at this rate," she sighs dramatically. "Of course, we could fix that with an afternoon of surgery but then I would have to come up with an excuse as to where you went and the tributes would miss out on a lot of training and almost certainly die." Not that she has a whole lot of faith in either of them anyways. She breaths out a loud 'hah' when Hayes explains their strategy so far. "The social game? For Jocelyn? How is the girl to make alliances when all she does is glower?" Though maybe that's just reserved for Gemma.