unfinished business

—

Surprisingly, there had not been too many horrid interactions at the Victor’s Party, granted it is still early in the evening, so she won’t exactly be holding her breath either. Roux has always been so much better at these sorts of affairs than she has anyways, so she allows them to take the lead on chatting while she keeps a watchful eyes right by their side. Her desire to stay close, to slip in between, on the chance that someone gets a bit too friendly, leaves her head on a constant swivel: always watching, always ready to act. When her eyes land, instead, on a rather friendly face, fingers press gently to the back of Roux’s arm as she lets them know that she’ll be back. 

Dawn’s presence is a gift, truly, which comes as a surprise given her affiliations with the capitol. There were so few that were able to break their way through in general, but Swann has seen through the years the intense care Dawn has for her tributes and victors alike, and if she’s learned anything from her role as a victor, it’s that you do not get to decide what you can do with your life. The capitol chooses for you.

She forces a small smile onto her lips at Dawn’s greeting. Pleasantries, no doubt, as there really is nothing lovely about this evening in the slightest. It’s a time to celebrate the loss and murder of 23 ( or in this year’s case 22 ) young lives, two of which who had entrusted with their lives. The offer for a stroll however… well she’d never object to an offer for escape from the crowd.  ❝ How could I say no to such a kind face? ❞  Swann takes a slight pause as she begins to move in the direction for the gardens before adding on,  ❝ Have you had a chance to meet the two newest victors yet? ❞ 

-

The Capitol is a small place, Dawn thinks, The Games, even smaller. Even those who didn’t know one another seemed to cross paths rather often. Such seemed to be the case with the victor before her. In person, Swann, certainly lived up to her reputation, every bit the glowing victor that Capitol had come to expect of her. Swann had been a career, yes, but it was hard to envision her as anything but the composed star before her. 

“Oh, wonderful,” Dawn smiles at the woman’s acceptance of her invitation. She doesn’t know Swann, not well, but she’s always felt there was something compelling about the victor. It was easy to be swept up in the grandeur of the Capitol, but there was something distinctly grounded about Swann’s presence, something Dawn could truly appreciate.

“Only very briefly,” Dawn admits, “It often feels like I’m being pulled in a million different directions at these sort of events, though I’m sure you, of all people know the feeling better than I,” Dawn offers truthfully. “I suppose it’s why I’ve needed to make a brief escape from the crowd tonight.”

“But how about you? I can only assume you’ve had a chance to meet the newest members of your ranks. It’s not every day you have not one, but two, new faces to add to the mix...”

@dawnhardin

Location: Snow’s mansion | middle of the gathering Time: Late evening

Conversation typically found Tiberius whether he liked it or not. However, tonight was one of massive interest. He was not short of talking of speculation and rumors. He hadn’t the chance to talk to the new addition to their victor pool, the very children they were celebrating. However, there were things attached to them that he found himself very curious in.

And it seems the rest of the party did too.

Sympathy for rebellion, a potential uprisings. Monumentally harmful things that were rooted in stupidity, naivety, and selfishness.

If there was one person he know would be well versed in the essence of sympathetic stupidity, it was the woman draped in green.

“Evening, Dawn,” He gave her a curt nod. One of the few times he approached a person on his own accord. But while there are those like Blythe, who are just gnawing to seek revenge, he knows that the bigger trouble is within those who quietly plot. “You haven’t had a chance to talk to the young lovebirds, have you?” The tone is not friendly, even though the words themselves suggest nothing of hostility. “I’m interested to hear what you think of their victory. I was never able to catch your reaction in the game room upon their win.”

“Hello, Tiberius. You’re looking well,” Dawn greets with a small, polite nod. Tiberius was a victor of a different generation, in fact everything about him seemed to scream of an older Panem. Something about his demeanor was always off-putting, as though every word was carefully selected, every sentence a well-crafted test. 

Dawn smiles broadly, for she knows her charm is the only weapon she possesses against his prying words. Attempting to disarm with kindness and pleasantry was a skill she had spent years perfecting and she could only hope it would be enough to keep her out of trouble tonight.

“I only had a moment to briefly congratulate them and wish them well,” Dawn replies softly, “A shame we seemed to miss one another but I suppose my reaction was the same as all the others. I was quite pleasantly surprised. Their dual victory was so wonderfully romantic, after all,” Dawn adds as her her dark, lashes fluttering, as though she, herself, was swept up in the fantasy of it all. When it came to men like Tiberius, she had no qualms playing the fool.

“Come on, you don’t have to use those lines with me.“ Yes, she knows it’s because they’re in public and Dawns is much smarter and patient than her, but still, Blythe can’t stand pleasantries. 

With Dawn being one of the few people she actually cares about, Blythe actually lets herself relax for a while. It’s especially interesting given where Dawn is from, but that’s something Blythe chooses not to focus on. And when she does, she sees Dawn as a glimmer of hope, something that tells him that not everyone raised in that wicked place is morally corrupt. If Dawn came out of that place, then maybe others are like her. Sad thing is no one has made an effort to show it, or at least not to her. She is surrounded by cowards, conformists, and puppets. And she hates it, but Dawn’s calming presence it’s the one of the few things that kept Blythe from setting it all on fire. At least for now.

So, she took the older woman’s hand, gently intertwining her arm with her so they can have some alone time. Now that they are every truly alone and not being heard, but it was nice to pretend shit hadn’t fully gone to the dogs when Dawn was around. 

“They make me want to throw up.“

-

Heartbreak is commonplace for the District 7 stylist. What began as a constant throbbing pain has now numbed into a low ache between her ribs. Dawn isn’t sure the pain will ever fully disappear, but if there’s one face that always manages to soothe the pain, it’s surely the woman standing before her.

Blythe.

Blythe was special. Dawn knew that from the moment she had met the young woman, but it wasn’t until she returned from the games that Dawn’s suspicions had been confirmed. Sure, Blythe was a firecracker, an endlessly churning storm of anger and claws, but Dawn could see beyond that. Where the others saw unfiltered fury, Dawn saw a raw strength and for that alone, Dawn would forever cherish the woman. 

Once they make their way away from the crowd, Dawn can’t help but chuckle, “I’m not too fond of them, either,” Dawn admits with the shake of her head, “But clearly I’m doing something right, because I seemed to have earned myself some much-need, honest company.”

@embersrpg

–

It’s not as thought he knows nothing of Dawn prior to their endeavors behind closed doors. No, in fact, he was quite away of Dawn and her family. They’d been quite the supporters of him. He’d shared quite a few drinks with them at parties, sharing his own teachings with what he’d do with Two Careers. Though he knew they only cared in the sense of novelty, and not actually interest in the training of children for the Games. What he thought was training warriors, they merely thought as a cute hat-trick.

Dawn, however, never thought of anything and just a simple hat trick. Except for the year her parents did hire a man, who did do hat tricks. He was eighteen when he first heard her laugh and he never forgot. Especially considering he knew he’d never be the cause of one. 

Always around each other, but never fully crashing into one another, she was busy styling for another district, he was busy trying to keep himself together but holding onto victories and training Careers. Besides, her husband was quite dapper and people always talked of how much she wanted a family. That was never Slate’s idea. Unlike Father, who was a victor, and a man who took pride in bringing a child into the world to further his legacy, Slate was quite confident he’d never do the same. 

Mostly in part because raising a child means you do so with another person, and Slate found people mind-numbing. But it was their first fundamental contrast. The inherent nurturing factor of Dawn in contrast to his shivering coldness. 

Maybe that’s why Dawn only felt attainable when the very one thing that kept them apart, went away. Not her husband, of course. Certainly he was a man that respected those boundaries. But after some time, when Dawn’s one purpose had been yanked from her, he thought, even in the midst of their conversation, caught in her sparkling eyes, that maybe even if they were miles apart, as least they both wouldn’t be bringing children into this godforsaken world. Whether she wanted it or not, they were on the same playing field. 

And now they’re just here. Strolling through the rose garden and he thinks to maybe tell her how ravishing she looks, but he knows that’s not how these things go. He can tell her that when he’s got her dress strap in his teeth. Those flinches of sentimentality. He feels the pokes in his ribcage from his mother. A softness that must be corrected. Unfortunately, his parents never set any rules with scratching the itch of intimacy.

He hums, sticking his nose up at the mention of dresses. “My eye is not nearly as good as yours. But I like to think we share one thing in common.” Not the thing he was thinking, but their interest in pleasure from one another. Or maybe that they’re both terrible people considering they’re both fraternizing with the enemy. “But you know me well, I’m too invested in myself to take pleasure in being wrong.” As they march forward, one of his hands plucks a leaf from a bush, twirling it in his finger. He wouldn’t dare to touch Snow’s roses. “But I take pleasure in a lot of things.” False. Many of those pleasures just involve her.

-

Motherhood.

It had been such a cornerstone of her ambition for so long, it had been difficult to find herself in a new world with no such possibility, especially all alone. Dawn had gone through all the loopholes in her head-- adoption being the primary one. But when considering what the Capitol had done to her for merely requesting to retire, she can’t imagine what might be in store for a child that would bear her name. Furthermore, it would likely leave the future tributes of Seven without a consistent, caring figure to help them through the cruelty of the Games. It would be downright selfish of her to go down that path, knowing everything she would risk to do so.

And Dawn simply couldn’t bring herself to be selfish person.

It’s perhaps how she continues to rationalize Slate’s somewhat continual role in her life. Regardless of his views and all the ways they disagreed, he would always be the one self-serving indulgence she allowed herself. 

Truthfully, it had taken Dawn a while to get to this point. For his kisses to stop tasting like something she would regret the next morning. But after all this time, Dawn could finally accept that fact that he could fulfill her need for intimacy, like no other, without ever requiring the intense level of emotional labor she poured into almost every other facet of her life. In that respect, their relationship was easy, despite how seemingly difficult it felt in every other aspect of her psyche.

For a woman so used to throwing her heart into every relationship she held, Slate coolness had been an adjustment. But what for what steely coldness she might have once begrudged, she could now only appreciate the simplicity of their exchanges. 

“I suppose we’ve both ditched the party in favor of a little greenery. That’s one thing in common...that is, unless you were thinking of something else,” Dawn muses languidly, as if to skirt around the sheer obviousness of their attraction to one another, that feels increasingly potent being so far removed from the rest of the party-goers. Thus, when talk turns to things Slate takes pleasure in, she’s hard-pressed to feign ignorance or innocence for much longer. “Well then, I suppose I’ll let you take a little pleasure in being right about my intentions surrounding this walk,” she relents, allowing her fingers to trace the cuff of his suit jacket.

“This is nice,” Dawn states, matter-of-factly, as she offers him a small glance over before turning her attention back to the details of his outfit, “I think you’ve developed a far better eye than you let on.”

He makes his way out to the gardens, eventually, and even that is a relief. The air inside feels stifling, crowded enough that he has a moment where he’s worried one breath might be his last. And there are others, of course, but he squares his shoulders and walks briskly enough that they don’t pay him much mind. That, too, takes some weight from his back. He feels a pang of what might be regret for leaving Fava and Hudson alone, Nelly, too, but he figures they can survive fifteen minutes. If he could, they can. He’s enjoying the way the cold air feels on the back of his neck, when he sees Dawn, and can’t help the tug of a grin at his mouth.

“Remiss,” he scoffs, even with his arms spread wide in greeting, “that’s a big word for a man like me.” Griffin can’t help the way he eyes her flute of champagne, either. Nasty habit. He wishes he’d grabbed one on his way outside. “Pick a direction to go, and I’ll be right next to you.”

There’s been a noticeable enough aura of doom and gloom all evening that he’s hesitant to engage with it too much, lest he ends up carrying it along with him. That’s the last thing he needs. There are ulterior motives, here, that’s never been in doubt, but for now all he really wants to do is try and enjoy things as much as he can. He might need another drink to dull the muted anger curling in the pit of his stomach, but… that can come after his walk with Dawn. 

-

In the Capitol, there’s few people she knows to be kinder than their gruff exteriors. Then again, she supposes the man before her is anything but a Capitolite. It’s probably the reason why she’s always been so fond of him. After all these years, she could always rely on Griffin to be honest with her, a trait that was surprisingly hard to come by. For Dawn’s part, she tried to return that favor by doing her best to look out for him, whenever he was around.

A smooth laugh falls from Dawn’s lips at Griffin’s comment, as she shakes her head, “You know, champagne is much longer word,” she replies, noticing the way he eyes her glass. Whatever she’s about to say next, she leaves unsaid as she motions for him to follow her to the right, “I think this way should be good...less traffic.”

They begin to walk at an easy pace, as Dawn’s in no rush to return to the swarm of decadence and vigor behind them. The garden just feels simpler...and safer. “So tell me, Griffin, dear, how have you been? You’ve been taking good care of yourself, I do hope,” she says a soft smile playing at her lip, “I suppose congratulations are in order, though, you’ve achieved something truly remarkable with Fava and Hudson.”

–

Tonight’s lavish celebration marks the last stop in Fava and Hudson’s Victory Tour. For weeks before this, he was held up in front of the Districts whose Tributes they outlasted. The Capitol may have meant it to be salt in the wound of the masses gathered in their Districts’ town squares, but to Hudson it had felt like—penance. A chance to apologize, however empty it was.

But their penance isn’t over now that they’re in the Capitol. Throughout the room tonight are Mentors, Escorts, Stylists, those who had to send their charges into the Arena only to never see them come out, to see Fava and Hudson emerge instead.

Soon, that’ll be Hudson. If they make it through this fraught aftermath of the Games, if they pass Snow’s tests, they’ll take their mandated position as a Mentor. They’ll give Griffin a reprieve, maybe, be the one sending kids from their home to their deaths instead. Maybe they’ll understand him better, then. Or maybe they never will.

Dawn says Congratulations and Hudson still hasn’t learned what to say in response. “Thank you,” is what they settle on, have been settling on, as they take her hand in greeting. It feels empty, just as empty as what they add next: “And I’m sorry—for the Tributes from Seven.” There’s not much else they can say. They didn’t get to know her Tributes very well in the Training Center; when the cannons sounded for them in the Games, Hudson was far away. Uninvolved.

“It’s very beautiful,” they say, turning their gaze to their surroundings. Changing the subject. Sincerity isn’t uncomfortable, not for them, but they don’t know if it’s allowed to have a place here. “Not that it isn’t inside, of course. It’s just—well, if you’re from the Capitol and you find yourself in need of a quiet moment, then you can imagine what it must be like for me.”

-

Dawn remembers the first party she had attended in the wake of her worst trauma with painful clarity. She remembers being on the verge of tears for most of the night, a heartbeat away from a total, utter breakdown. Still, she somehow managed to carry on, hollowly smiling through the night as she avoided the cagey whispers and the pitying glances of her peers. 

She was never made to be a pariah, her story was never a scandal, nor was it a secret. Instead they weaponized Dawn’s story against her, turning her into a cautionary tale for all young recruits that stumbled their way into the games. 

The moral was simple: there are no choices in or out of the Hunger Games. 

Hudson, for their part, appears far more composed, handling the party far more successfully than Dawn ever could at their age. 

“Thank you,” Dawn echoes, when they speak of her own tributes. She can’t bring herself to say more, for it still feels all too soon. 

“I can’t imagine how hard is it to deal with all the pressure. These parties can be so...intense,” Dawn muses, selecting her words carefully, “It’s why you always have to know your social escape routes. For example, garden strolls are ideal for when you crave fresh air. Nearly every party you attend with have grounds twice the size of the mansion itself, so gardens are typically a safe bet,” Dawn explains. Shelling out these pearls of advice was second nature to her, her desire to look out for others, instinctual. She knows she’s a mere stranger to the young victor, and yet, she can’t help but want to care for them, however best she can.

“You know, Griffin’s the reason I know I half these escape spots. We sort of learned the tools of this trade together. If he and I could get this far, then I have no doubt, you will too.”

–

At this point, there’s no use in trying to rationalize, explain, or fight, whatever it is the relationship he’d formed with Dawn. At this point, he was merely fond of the company they had together. That company being with out any clothes on, toes curled, bold hands and even bolder lips. Besides that, Dawn was an intelligent woman, who could kept up with Slate. Hard to come by, something like that was.

Certainly, she was wrong in being so maternal towards her tributes, wanting to protect them rather than treating them like the fighters they were. And yes, her fingertips in their tenderness always set him off. His strands of hair were not her’s to brush, and his shoulders were not her’s to graze. Tender touch is useless. The only aim for pleasure.

But she looks quite ravishing in the green dress, and at this point, there’s no use in trying to pretend he doesn’t find her godly in anything she wears. Even the year her district had a new stylist, and she was adorning a dress made all of dried leaves. Critics had said she’d looked like a pile waiting to be raked. When they were alone in his room, he told her he liked the way her dress crinkled and pieces of dried leaves fell off as the night went on. while he’d joked that it made his job easier, he knew he liked the way it made her look like an evening in the fall. Not that Slate had known fall trees well. Only in the few times he’d traveled to Seven. But he liked the smell. For the first time he saw something fall that wasn’t chaos or pain. Being reminded of that was nice. 

It also proved that she could look good in anything, even a crinkling, crumbling, brown dress.

“Aren’t you?” He asks, clasping hands behind his back as he smirks. “I believe maybe in all our time together, I’m beginning to rub off on you.” But he looks ahead to Snow’s garden, and holds out a hand in gesture. “Shall we, Dawn? I’d love to be proven wrong.” And yet, he wouldn’t mind being proven right, either.

-

She liked the way he kissed her when they were alone. Direct, purposeful, and just hard enough to remind her she had a still-beating heart. There was nothing sweet or too emotional about his touch. He was the exact the kind of fulfillment she needed- nothing more, nothing less. 

After the Capitol had taken her husband from her, Dawn had no intentions of becoming involved with another, for if she had learned anything from the traumatic experience, it was how painful attachments could be. Her heart had been shattered so many times before, it certainly couldn’t handle another thrashing of that magnitude, lest it be broken forever. 

And then, there’s Slate.

She remembers watching his Games as a child, wondering how someone her very own age could possibly do the horrible, awful things he had done. Needless to say, her parents had been utterly thrilled with his victory, as he easily cemented himself as a favorite victor of the Hardin family. Dawn merely does what she does best and swallows her true feelings, publicly pretending that she, like all her other peers, has, too, developed a burgeoning teenage crush on the District 2 champion. (The irony of it all never manages to evade her.)

And so, as the Games become entrenched deeper and deeper into her life, she comes to know him in passing. Somewhere along the line they strike up a conversation that lasts longer and goes deeper than their typical polite, small talk and despite the fact that Dawn is certain of her original instincts, they continue to talk on occasion.

And then one night, they’re at a party and then, they’re in his bed. She doesn’t really remember how exactly it happens (beyond the way his suit fit him especially nicely that night), just that’ll never happen again, until like clockwork, they find each another in same orbit, once more.

“I’m afraid, Slate, that even after all this time, we're still nothing alike. That is, unless you’ve suddenly developed a desire to design dresses that I’m entirely unaware of,” Dawn responds coyly, “But you know what I really think? I daresay you would be quite disappointed to be proven wrong.”

location: the outskirts of the ballroom

Sixteen Capitol attendents are dressed in Oversee originals – more if you count the ones that were dressed in “vintage” designs pulled from the vaults of her mother’s work. She doesn’t do any styling anymore; not since the incident that left a permanent tremor in her fingers. (Shame, they said, she was something special.) At least they had her daughter to take her place.

Truth be told, Holls didn’t want to be there. Another grandiose soiree meant that another Reap was coming, another chance to dress the children that would more than likely meet their demise at the hand of the Careers. It made her own hands tremble at the thought. She flexed them instinctively at her side.

It is beautiful, though, the mansion. Signature white roses are everywhere. Hollis wonders why anyone hasn’t made a dress out of them yet. In due time. Perhaps that will be her next project.

The stylist slips a flute of champagne from a passing tray before settling against the wall that she had claimed as her own. There is security in feeling something strong against her back, as if nothing can hurt here there. That doesn’t stop other people from approaching, of course. Thankfully, this one doesn’t seem like the type to ask her a million questions about her process like the last person she ended up in a conversation with.

Playing nice now, “hello. You look absolutely lovely.”

-

Dawn has never liked the President’s mansion. It reminds her all too much of the cold, soulless home she grew up in. It was beautiful to look at from a distance, but in a strikingly artificial way. Everything felt placed and planted, as though each item was far too pristine to touch.

A home should be free and fluid, Dawn thinks, an unpredictable and warm backdrop to a fully realized life. 

As child her parents would scold her for walking on the latest rug they had imported from District 8 or for utilizing the fancy silverware to eat. The luxury was always for show and never for truly enjoying. After all, there was nothing a Hardin valued more than appearances. It’s the sole reason for Dawn’s career.

Dawn’s sense of design had always more naturalistic-- rich, earth tones and simple but strong silhouettes. It why, when she spots Hollis standing in dress of her own vision, Dawn cannot help but be stunned by sight before her.

“Oh, please. My darling, that’s all you,” Dawn smiles at the younger stylist, who looks nothing short of heavenly in Dawn’s latest creation. Dawn’s looks were never the most popular in the Capitol-- her minimalist tendencies were often outshone by the more inspired, dramatic pieces, but those with more classic sensibilities tended to appreciate her work. And as demonstrated by Hollis, with the right muse Dawn could even occasionally make a small splash. “I believe this dress would be absolutely nothing without the stunning model to bring it all together. Truly, you are simply flawless tonight.”

–

Parties were opportunities, more than anything else. Opportunities to make connections, get to know those you would be fighting again. Or maybe, in the case of this, get a further understanding of what in the hell this year has been for the country. Slate doesn’t like to be one for conspiracies, but considering this is the first year that two victors have won, it certainly opens itself up for questions.

He’s been trying to get a feel for things. What people are saying, what the actual victors are like themselves. He wants to see if this is anything he should be putting more energy into.

Of course, the energy that would go into that, goes into a shimmering green dress. Hard not to capture his eyes and get him taken away from whatever government conspiracy he was contemplating.

The potential crumbling of this very society could wait. 

He’s got his hands in his pockets as he strides towards Dawn, who doesn’t wait to address him. He checks around still, as if she might be talking to someone else. For some reason, after all this time, he’s still not sure why she’d bother talking to him, considering they’re on two ends of the spectrum.

“A stroll around the garden.” He repeats, before nodding. “And I thought I was the forward one.”

-

The man standing before her is a person Dawn will never truly understand. 

Then again, she often struggles to understand herself, so perhaps understanding, in itself wasn’t necessarily a virtue. Still, there’s an intense feeling of conflict that arises whenever she’s around Slate and she’s not sure if she’ll ever be able to reconcile it. 

Or that she wants to.

There’s a certain comfort that comes with their disagreements. Yes, their differences were always discussed from deep-rooted respect for one another, but there’s always the reassurance that they bear no attachment to one another beyond the nights they share.

After all, old habits die hard and what was Slate, if not the one habit Dawn allowed herself to indulge? At first, she had fought the attraction rather intensely, but when it became clear that their chemistry could no longer be denied, she succumbed. (And continues to succumb, more often than she cares to admit). After all, is wasn’t that she disliked Slate so much as she disliked his ideas. 

She could live with that.

“Are you implying my offer for a stroll is less than innocent?” Dawn asks, a teasing smile playing at her lips, “You of all people should know, I’m not one for ulterior motives.”

And so, their decade-old dance begins again.

pista sweeps a thumb over the back of his hand, exhales slowly. 

he can never get them completely clean. 

he scrubs his skin raw every time, tries to erase every trace of six, every trace of himself, but there is always something there–a grey brushstroke tattoo to remind him that he will always be a stranger to these people, a rusted automaton in a room full of grecian marbles and oil portraits, no matter how many times he repeats the motion. back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

the dirt does not go away. it just seeps deeper inside of him, into the marrow of his bones, into the cavity of his chest. one day, he’s certain, the room will fall silent as he begins to choke on it, to cough it up onto the pristine floors until he can be buried underneath of it all. 

at least then, he will get to sleep. at least then, the poor bastard kids that will get pulled up from six with bright eyes and black lungs will know the truth of it. you can run, but never far enough. never away from yourself. 

he’s startled by the sudden intrusion of another person into his space, shoves the offending limb into his pocket where he curls his fingers into his palm, hard enough to leave crescent marks in the skin. it’s a short lived panic, and the corners of his mouth immediately pull up unbidden when dawn meets his eyes, as warm and as welcome as her namesake. he’ll never understand why she has such a talent for that–for appearing when pista’s very skin feels like an ill-fitting costume. 

“just got a hell of a lot lovelier, if you ask me.” he laughs, offering his arm to her. “maybe i won’t look like such a stiff, with you there to take all of the stares.”

-

Dawn should belong here.

She’s a Capitolite after all, even if it’s never been in her blood.

Dawn should be able melt into the crowd of her peers, succumbing to the luxury and glamour that drips from every window and hall. Instead, her dress is modest and understated in a sea of extravagance, a soft whisper among the countless yells. A stranger might have forgotten her occupation all together.

Dawn only wishes she could do the same.

But she’s here now, and there’s no leaving. At least not this early in the evening. The best she can do is find an appropriate distraction for herself. As it happens, this rather pleasant distraction happens to take the form of Pista Clearmark, arguably one of her favorite people to see around these parties, for at least it meant the poor boy wasn’t working himself to the bone for a couple hours.  Truthfully, he was no more a boy, than she, a girl, but to Dawn, Pista would forever be the overworked youth she did her best to look out for.

“Oh, you’re always far too kind to me, my dear,” Dawn smiles fondly, unable to contain the way her heart swelled around the victor from six. His sheer earnestness was enough to bring a genuine grin to her lips. Taking his arm, they head towards the garden as Dawn can’t help but jump straight into inquiring about his well-being, “Have you had a chance to rest yet? Please tell me you’ve at least had something to eat?” 

If he hasn’t eaten, as Dawn suspects after knowing him all these years, she’s is all-too-prepared to remedy that issue with the fistful of snacks she’s kept stashed in her handbag. 

There’s a whole ecosystem here: Victors, Escorts, Stylists who have all known each other for years, the Who’s Who of the Capitol—and then there’s Hudson. New to all of this, but walking in with all eyes on him. Because this party is, at least nominally, for him, even if in reality it’s all Snow’s. They may call it a celebration, but it feels more like a trap.

Though they wish they did, they don’t get the luxury of hiding in corners. Everyone wants to see him, wants to talk to him; wants to try to gain a little of his time, a little of his trust. And they’re swept up in it so quickly, so easily overwhelmed. They don’t know who’s a friendly face, outside of the ones they already know. Who, in this new world, they can trust. An imagined voice in their head, one that sounds a lot like Griffin’s, answers them: No one.

But this invitation feels like one they don’t want to pass up. A reprieve from the main teeming crowd of the party, but one that feels permissible, because they won’t be on their own. And there’s nothing tethering them here: their hands are already empty, they’d taken one glass to start the night, found too quickly that it went to their head, and abandoned it; and a quick glance around the room doesn’t yield Fava nearby, waiting for him to step in as a dutiful, lovestruck partner. So they think they can allow themself this.

“Would you show me?” He says, and then, because they’ve been playing up their naiveté all night long, they add the obvious: “I haven’t seen it before, I wouldn’t know the way.”

Dawn cannot remember a time she’s ever truly enjoyed a party. As a child, she had always been her parents’ pretty little doll, nothing more than a charity case to charm the Hardin social circle at their vast family parties. It’s why when she sees Fava and Hudson being paraded around like fresh meat, she can only imagine the stress they feel, being so young at the center of this sprawling celebration. They may not have been her tributes, but they were Griffin’s and the least she could do was to attempt to offer them some reprieve.

Dawn had always been remarkably fond of the tributes from Twelve, as they were not entirely unlike the ones she so often received from Seven. This was merely the first time in ages she had the pleasure of getting to know one, after the events of the arena.

Thus, she offers Hudson a warm smile, as they accept her offer. She only hopes they’ll one day know of how much her heart aches for them, even in the throes of their victory. She’s been through this enough times to know that winning was only the beginning of a long, difficult road for any tribute that managed to survive the games, however miraculous Hudson and Fava’s victories were.

“It would be my pleasure,” Dawn replies softly, tilting her head in the direction of the garden as she begins to walk. “I’m afraid that against my best wishes, I’m starting to know this place like the back of my hand. Believe it or not, I’m not particularly fond of parties, which is why I’ve grown familiar with the all best escape spots.”

As they finally arrive at the lush spot of greenery, Dawn sighs, “I believe I owe you a congratulations. I know many victors who aren’t particularly fond of that word, but I find it’s only appropriate I attempt to extend the courtesy,” she explains holding out her hand, “Dawn Hardin. I’m the stylist from Seven.”

There’s a sick feeling in her stomach, the kind that rolls around every year she attends a Presidential event, but strangely, it feels different from parties past. Dawn has never been immune to a love story and there was something so terribly compelling about Fava and Hudson’s devotion to one another. Truly, she wants nothing more than to fall into the throes of romanticism alongside them, but Dawn knows better. If the rumors are any indication, Fava and Hudson are anything but mere star-crossed lovers, not that she really minds. After all, despite all these years, there’s an undeniable part of Dawn that would burn it all down to ground if she could. 

But that was neither here nor there. 

Tonight was about playing her part and working within the system that she despised so much. With a Quell on the horizon, she knows there are soon to be tributes who need her, just as much as she needs them. She needed to be prepared for whatever was to come. And so, Dawn smiles, shielding her constant, inner fury with a pleasantness so unshakeable that golden sun rays might turn green with envy. 

“It’s such a lovely evening, isn’t it?” Dawn muses, sipping from an elegant flute of champagne, as she spots a familiar face, “I would be remiss not to stroll around the garden, if you would care to join me.”

TWO: What were you taught of The Dark Days?

"I supposed I learned what all the other Capitolites learned in school,” Dawn says, “The First Rebellion was a failure and as a result, District 13 was destroyed. Is there much else beyond that?”

ONE: What is your fondest memory?

She has quite a few fond memories, collecting them like little jewels that that can never be stolen from her. For a life so full of tragedy she’s desperate to cling on to those few, beautiful moments she holds dear.

“I remember the day Blythe came home,” Dawn smiles fondly, “It was such a lovely day. When I finally had the chance to see them again, it felt as though the sun had finally broken through after days of clouds. It can sometimes feel like there’s a lot of cloudy days around these parts, so I'll always be fond of those days when the sun finally comes out to play.”

SIX: What token would you take with you into The Games?

For a Capitolite, it’s a question that’s crossed her mind surprisingly often. Dawn’s always been cognizant of her District Seven roots, keenly aware of how easily she could have been reaped as a child. And yet, she’s never been one for material things, as few of her belongings possess any real meaning.

SEVEN: What's something you have always wanted but been just out of reach?

There’s the obvious answer-- a family and then there’s the less obvious one-- bodily autonomy, neither of which Dawn feels fully comfortable sharing. She’s grown used to keeping her true feelings close to her chest, letting few people close enough to see through the cracks of that loving, caring exterior. 

TEN: What fragrance immediately takes you somewhere? What is that place?

Pine. It’s faint at first, then overpowering, as it fills her lungs. It’s the last thing she has of District Seven, the place of her birth. She shouldn’t be able to remember it, not when she had left the district as newborn, but every time her tributes would arrived, rich or poor, young or old, they all shared the same powerful, familiar scent of the trees. Dawn was sure she could recognize anywhere.