history has its eyes on you...

Denver nodded into Enna's shoulder. She wasn't there. Enna wasn't there. The tributes were there, though, covered in blood and falling snow. A tribute - Denver couldn't make out who - slipped in the slushy mud where the snow wasn't quite sticking. Was that the point? That Snow had fallen, that the Snow regime wouldn't stick, or hadn't stuck? The Vox were in control now, and they needed everyone to know it. Not just know it - cooperate with it.

Cain watched stoic and silent. The overview of the amphitheater that he'd studied as a child at the Academy. He'd been so young then, that to him, those first Games were boring. He'd barely paid attention, and instead, had delved into the flashier Games with elaborate mutts, and twists, and themes. Little had he known that this very Arena— the very foundation of the Games— would someday be so relevant again, that history would repeat.

Cain. It was Cain. He was here and he was with her, here, in the viewing room, one hand on her arm and the other squeezing her hand. You're okay. Another cannon sounded. It was too fast. It was too real. It was too much.

Decima was still alive. So that was something. It was a necessary part of the Games, to be sure, that some Districts would make it out of the Bloodbath unscathed, and others would not. He had hoped, of course. But. It was how the Games were. He knew that as well as anyone.

Denver wanted to hug him, to embrace this man that had been with her through the worst time of her life (well, one of the worst, now - she couldn't discount what she'd seen at the front) and had shown her only kindness and respect. But there was something in his eyes, some lazy coldness, and Denver knew that something had changed.

"It is," Denver agreed, clasping her hands together in her lap to keep from rubbing her temples, as if such a thing would stave off a metaphorical headache. Slate had smiled back. He fucking smiled. Denver wanted to say "I think this arena is fucked up," but what good would that do? Denver had no idea how much Slate was in on this, a part of this. And what if he told his...girlfriend didn't seem apt - he and Cress were in too deep together to call it something so simple. Partner, perhaps?

Sed and Iggy had both made it through the Bloodbath, which had been as it sounded -- lots of unlucky souls this time around with no opportunity to go any further. He was feeling relieved, and yet he also worried, because this Arena did not play to their strengths very well. Unless the team managed to get them their weapons of choice, things were pretty dire. There was no trapping of animals, no foraging. Nothing that someone from Twelve would know how to do. Slate was glad he'd spent as long as he had with them working on fighting skills, given the terrain.

Denver had calmed down a bit in the hours after the Bloodbath. She wasn't sure what she was feeling, but it wasn't the panic that had risen through her when she first saw the arena, or the waves of sadness that pummeled her with each cannon blast. Now she needed food. She needed to write her reports, an obit and a recap. She needed to be loyal to the Vox, or they would surely kill her, or lock her up again. She needed to-

@denverneumann

Denver looked up when Enna walked into the room. The bloodbath was in full swing now. She almost stood, almost ran to her friend, but then Enna was next to her. Denver wrapped her arms around her as another cannon sounded.

"Easy--" Mahlon's hands came up, careful and considerate, bolstering Denver by the shoulders, then lingering as he tried to make sense of her through the darkness, searching for distinguishing features in her face and form. "Ain't an arena mutt or anythin'," he assured her, referring to both himself and the dog, which he'd followed into this room in the first place, though he hadn't been sure where it had come from. "I was jus'..." He released, turning to look for the poodle, though it had disappeared down another corridor. "Well, shit, I--" Mahlon hadn't been sleeping well, but that had been real, hadn't it? Present? Not a mirage or a memory peaking through? "What're you still doin' up?"

When she heard Mahlon, Denver laughed, but there was no humor to it. "Thanks," she said. "For catching me. And for not being a mutt, I suppose." She watched as Mahlon looked around. Trying to find the dog, she assumed, although for what purpose she had no idea. But what purpose was there to any of this right now? "You mean, aside from scaring pink poodles and making handsome men catch me?" she asked. "I just...couldn't sleep, I guess. You?"

"No metaphor can go on too long," Slate said with a half-smile, joking along with her -- because of course, one could belabor a metaphor quite easily, and he was sure he did it all the time. "But they do have the right claws. I'm sure of it. I just... they're also becoming a bit attached to each other, which I worry about. The other tributes will probably see it as a weakness."

Denver returned Slate's half-smile, but a knot formed in her gut. Tributes who got attached to each other didn't tend to win. The only exception she could think of was Holland Westbrook - and her Games still had several different "attachment" pairs (two other couples, siblings, and a murder pact) that didn't win.

"The-- what?" Mahlon squinted, confused why a girl in the Capitol would be writing for something called that. "That's a-- That's Twelve, ain't it? They're from the mines. What's that got t'do with the Games?"

Denver nodded. "It's a newspaper, but it started in Twelve," she explained. She wasn't entirely sure what the tommyknockers were, just that they were from Twelve, so she didn't elaborate. "Then it was a rebel news source with radio broadcasts too, and when the Vox won, it became a national publication. But they don't do the radio anymore." She had her suspicions as to why - a certain missing tech wiz from District Three - but she hadn't brought herself to ask Slate or Cat about Nano. She had tried not to think about him, to be honest. She missed him. Abel too. Her friends who didn't come out of the snow.

"You got it blondie. Always happy to cheer up my favorite tour guide." He eyed his own empty glass thoughtfully, twisting the last drops of alcohol around the bottom. "So... what are you doing here now? I don't think merch is big with the Vox. Their loss, if you ask me, I've got a sick bobblehead of Everett that I'm looking torture him with when the moment is right."

Denver grinned. She remembered the bobbleheads. They were a bitch to unpack but they were bestsellers. It felt like a whole lifetime since then, and since she was a tour guide. "I'm actually a reporter these days," she said. "Vox don't like merch, but they sure do have a Games that needs selling." She felt slightly clever for that quip. She'd been getting quippier since she started writing. Or perhaps it was since the world turned upside down, and she had to become a new person. Denver "Pigeon" Neumann was quippy - it kept out the darkness.

Though the smile remained on her face her jaw tensed for a moment at the mention of the 'last' Games - Merielle was still struggling to believe that there would actually be an end to them, but she kept that to herself. She tilted her head slightly as she considered the question, "If there’s something they’re really struggling with, I’d probably call in a trainer to help. At least they’d know what to do," she began, her tone measured. "My job is to make sure they’re as prepared as they can be with the resources available." Though she couldn’t help but think of how much of that had always relied on saying the right things to the right sponsors at the right time. She shrugged lightly and turned fully to Denver. "I always feel kind of useless during training. How can I prepare them for something that’s impossible to predict?"

"Is that why you chose mentorship instead of being a trainer?" Denver asked. There were a few mentors who overlapped, but plenty who kept the duties separate, and there was never enough insight as to why in any of the literature. All her research had said was that the Gamemakers called on different victors for different roles, but in practice, Denver had seen that wasn't always the case. But she was wearing the wrong hat with this train of thought - Denver was here as a reporter, not a scholar.

Sheen was pressed up against a wall, he refused to bring his chair into the Training Room, but he also knew he need a break to take some of the weight off his good leg and the crutch so he was leaning against the wall, trying his best. He was watching the boy from Three with a knife and a dummy, Sheen tutted a little. His form could be a lot better, if he were fighting an actual person they would have been able to disarm him easily. When he was asked what his plans,

Denver practically sighed with relief, but she tried not to let it show. A sauna. She hadn't even thought about that kind of luxury in months. Was it wrong for her to be excited at the prospect of relaxation, knowing the tributes didn't get that, and neither did the soldiers on the front lines? For Sheen it was necessary for healing. For Denver, it would just be superfluous pampering. Still, she was overwhelmed by how much she wanted to get away from the training room and relax.