AFLAME.

PLUTARCH & SILVER.

It’s not necessarily a surprise to be suddenly asked to follow someone they’ve never seen before, especially just after the moment shown with Zero and the others before the broadcast cut to the remaining tribute threat. Perhaps they should be more concerned than they are, the possibility that they’re being taken again, but this time with much less ceremony high, considering what Zero is trying to do, what they helped him prepare to do, but there’s very little at this point that they think would send them into a panic about their own safety, already having accepted the likelihood of their fate. It’s simply a pleasant surprise that instead they’re led to an enormous, unfamiliar room, with Plutarch and Griffin waiting.

And he launches into it immediately, their mind already starting to race with plans, how to divide things between the two of them to make certain they gather everyone who needs to get out, what they can to at this last second to put Zero in the best position to make it out once the Capitol starts throwing more at them all. There’s no time for a sense of relief, hearing at last that things are indeed set up right to do what Plutarch had said, no time, either, to linger on the odd feeling of knowing this is it, a real chance to escape, the complicated feelings of potential freedom, a massive amount of danger, and leaving any semblance of the familiar behind.

There are dozens of logistical questions running through their mind about how this is going to work, and what will happen if they make it as far as Thirteen, not to mention the consequences of it all, but for once they don’t think that’s the important thing to focus on when time is so short and they’re all going to have to be ready to fight in an entirely new way to make it out once the Capitol realizes they’re doing the same as the tributes in the Arena.

“How can we help them have the best chance before we’re out of range? And what do we need to do out here to prepare besides gather the proverbial troops? It won’t be possible to get so many people here with Peacekeeper interference, and I haven’t precisely been spending my time trying to create makeshift weapons with six fingers,” Silver says, no need to beat around the bush clearly. That does have another thought dawning on them, though, one that sends an unpleasant chill of worry through them. Choosing who goes and stays is a little too much like choosing who lives or dies.

“I can’t imagine you have infinite space on whatever transport you’ve planned, how many others are there room for?

• • •

NO TIME TO ask questions even as Plutarch mentions Fava, with Silver swimming right into view at that exact moment. Griffin, mouth still open but unable to speak, has no choice but to listen as Plutarch does a rundown of everything that’s meant to happen in the next few hours, one bullet point and reminder after another, and even once he’s finished, it’s Silver that’s the first to ask. Griffin shuts his mouth, then, knowing that despite their differences, he and they are of the same mind when it comes to Plutarch, to all these plans being made around them without their full, express knowledge.

And of course Ostro doesn’t disappoint, immediately thinking to ask about how they’re meant to be supporting the ones left in the Arena, people whose safety remain incredibly integral to the ones they’re meant to be getting out of this tower, from a distance, a point of blindness. He won’t lie, it makes him uncomfortable knowing they won’t be seeing the end of it, and it makes him worry over how difficult it might be to get people out when they would clearly want to know what happens to their loved ones first, but he understands that it’s necessary to move now. They mention Peacekeeper interference too, another major factor, as well as this escape mission’s transport capacity. Griffin couldn’t have said it better himself.

“Well. There. They said it,” he says, one arm sweeping out. “Would like to know all that too.”

He’s not as much of a thinker as Silver is, and where they often are able to choose their words well, Griffin prefers to talk through what’s going on in his head. “Additionally,” he goes on to say, letting his own stream of consciousness inform his mouth all the things it wants to. “I’m thinking about how the hell we’re meant to get a whole bunch of people here exactly. I would guess six hours is enough, we’re all in one Tower after all, we’ll just have to pass it along separate lines of communication, but it’s the Peacekeepers I’m worried about the most. Large groups of people are going to attract their attention, but a few people at a time would take too long too…”

All in all, he supposes it could be summed up in one very important question. “Who else can we trust?” he says, giving Plutarch a hard look. “I get that you were big on keeping direct involvement secret, but at this point, we need to know if there are others from the Capitol that are in on the cause too, people we can trust to help usher in others and pass the message along. Peacekeepers might be less alert or suspicious around their ilk; they could be convinced. If it’s all just Victors and friends on the move, we’re at risk of being stopped and captured, but if there were others around to blur the line…” It occurs to him that there could be no others, but how would that have worked? How could Plutarch have kept it going this whole time if there weren’t others in the Capitol like him? There have to be more. “So do we have other friends in high places?”

--

Coin had expressed concern over who Plutarch picked to help bring this all to fruition. But he stood up for them. He spoke on their behalf and he knew he’d made the right choice. As he stands there before the two of them, and they rattle off their questions, he’s all the more confident that this is right. They were the right choice. They will make this work. 

He doesn’t let them see the way his hands are shaking, fingers tucked into his arms as they’re crossed over his chest. He hums and nods along to their fair questions, and begins to answer after they have finished.

“Well, there will come a point when we can’t help them anymore. You’re going to have to juggle getting your friends here, and getting the last of your sponsors. I know it’s not ideal, and it’s not going to be easy, but there’s going to have to be an element of faith that those in there, had taken their training and planning very seriously.” And that some just wont make it, he thinks to add but refrains. They’re all fragile from the loves ones they’ve all lost. Including himself.

He looks down to the ground for the moment, wishing that he could be more help to Silver’s next question. “That’s just going to have to be what you take into account. Unfortunately, many of you have raised the interest of the Capitol, some might have to offer as distractions.” Which leaves the unsaid statement he lays out there. Some wont be able to come with. “Which I hope you both understand, cannot be you two. We need you here, not to play the martyr.” He gives them both a firm look before he pushes himself off the table and reaches into his inside breast pocket, pulling out a pen and a small pad of paper.

“We can fit about twenty in aircraft, and then take whomever is in the arena. Some have left this morning, helping with preparations once we arrive in Thirteen.” He’s keeping his eyes down on the pad, scribbling names. “I’m going to give this to you. These people are not rebels but they are rather sympathetic. You’ll likely get more sponsors from them. Find Crane, Aurelia and I spent a lot of time with her over the years and she’s my right hand. Emerald and Coco are also a help. Unfortunately we’ve lost a lot of our help. We’re operating on a much smaller force now.” His jaw tenses, and he tears out the sheet, handing it to Silver. 

He walks between the two of them, in the direction of the door. “There’s the way you got here, there’s also a hallway through the kitchen that leads to that door. If you all come this way, it’ll be a giveaway.” He gestures to a second door adjacent to the first. When she turns back around, he looks at the two of them, trying to give a smile. “I trust both of you. I hope you know that I have always believed you both were the best option for this, because I knew you would do everything for the people you love.” His hand wraps around the door, and he nods. “Good luck.” And then, he’s gone.

The clock begins to tick.

He eats his little pastry, one leg crossed over the other, sipping his tea as if he were a man unbothered by the world around him. He was rather good at putting on that mask by this point.

Just as he was finishing the rest of his pastry, a figured brushed past him. A blip of a moment but one where he were he was alone at first, and the next, a small notebook rested on his empty plate. A notebook which was soon taken in his hand. A notebook which he began to flip through.

His eyebrows knitted together under his sunglasses, taking in the sketches and notes that were jotted down. Utter brilliance, wasn’t it? He’s just mad that he hadn’t gotten his hands on it sooner. 

GRIFFIN’S JUST ABOUT ready to end this conversation. It’s frustrating, and he hates the way Plutarch keeps talking down at him. There’s no denying the “trust” and “high expectations” that are at play here, particularly when Plutarch never fails to remind him at every turn, but there’s an edge in his tone that rubs him the wrong way — like he’s aware he knows more, and is lording that over him. Griffin’s got no idea if this man’s pure Capitol, or if he’d been plucked from the districts as a child, but the attitude says a lot about how he’s assimilated into the former’s ranks. 

Whatever the case, Plutarch stands up. It’s time to end this. Griffin’s tempted to add more, to tell him that revolutions shouldn’t be built on mysteries, shouldn’t have to bank on secrets and theatrics when communication can always be a viable option if they make it, but whatever. He’s not in the mood to speak to someone who’s supposedly counting on him but still refusing to properly work in sync with him. Hard not to feel like he’s being tested here, which is shitty, because clearly none of what they’re going through right now makes the atmosphere conducive for it. Stuff like that doesn’t help.

Wind whips through them as another hovercraft lands the next building over, and Griffin turns the clue over in his head. Peacekeepers, then. High profile ones. He knows he’ll need to talk to Blythe about that. Swann too, if she’s ready. Then they’ll figure something out. “Sure,” is all he says, a little deadpan, a little coldly, but not overly sarcastic or rude. Just… blank. He takes another sandwich ( one for the road ) before he stands up and pushes his chair back. “I’ll see what I can do.”

--

Plutarch never really has time to think back and contemplate the social aspects of rebellion. There was a lot at stake, everyone has loved and lost and suffered and he’s going to do what he can to make sure that there is retribution, and above all, that there is change. The way that that’s going to happen is not through hand-holding and he doesn’t mind being the despised man in scenarios if it means the end result is good for the rest.

Location: Court Yard Time: After Diose & Slate’s return

Being on Two’s floor has been unbearable. Both of her mentors are essentially useless right now. And the tone in the training room has been extremely bleak. Then again, she’s not making as good of friends as everyone else is. 

Needless to say, Osa has been a bit of a recluse since the wedding. 

She’s keeping herself to the courtyard after  her training is over, keeping herself away from her floor. It’s when she sees a familiar victor, and she raises an eyebrow. Why not strike up a conversation, right? She met Hudson in passing once, when Fava and them came on their Victory Tour, but not enough to know them individually, but she knows her sister has strong feelings about the two of them.

OF COURSE GRIFFIN understands why something like that stunt only causes more hurt than anything else. The hijack on the train hadn’t been particularly reassuring either, having only caused panic, and it’s worse now too, knowing the Capitol had been behind it. This latest one, though… it’s only sown panic and discord, ultimately doing more harm than good, and further dragging the rebels’ name in the mud for everyone to see. It’s not looking all that great for them at all. What’s worse, Griffin can’t imagine exactly how it is he’s supposed to execute this order Plutarch’s giving him now without being even the least bit upfront about it.

“And how do you propose we even do that without talking about your plan or your involvement?” It’s a genuine question, but it’s meant to be said out of spite too. “How can we even go about calming these people down? They’re scared, and frightened and angry, and they’re tired of waiting, Plutarch. This isn’t going to work with some simple ‘hey, it’s gonna be okay, just have faith’ approach. Not a single one of these people want those Games to happen. People at a loss, and it’s only a matter of time before…” Before someone gets desperate enough that they’d do something that accidentally ends up pulling the plug on all this. He can’t even continue that out loud. Surely, Plutarch already knows anyway.

As if that isn’t enough, Plutarch tops it off with more bad news, telling him candidly now that he hasn’t even figured out where the Arena will be. Griffin’s head whips over to look at him, brows furrowed. “And what do you mean you don’t even…” A hand flies up to his temples. “Goddammit, Plutarch.” Hard not to feel like they’re all caught completely unprepared here. How long before the start of the Games do things like that need to be figured out anyway?

He sighs, drops his hand. “Okay. What the fuck are the options?”

--

This rebellion has been in the works for a long time, but that doesn’t mean that they could have everything planned to the finest detail. So much of things or new developments. There’s been plenty of things that have halted their plans or completely disrupted them. Plutarch can’t make Griffin see the reality of things, but he’s getting tired of holding this grown man’s hand.

“It’s a revolution, Griffin, not a tea party.” He stands up from his seat, signifying that lunch is now over. “I brought you on because I knew you were capable. Frankly, I don’t care what you do or how you do it. I know you understand the stakes of what we’re trying to do here. Your peers respect you. Do what you have to do. If you don’t, the rest of us will do it for you.”

He looks out between them, towards the launch pad with the hovercrafts. One is landing, causing a great deal of wind to blow past them. “The information is with the peacekeepers. You’ll have to find the high profile ones and get into their source of information. They are the only ones with that information though. Even I’m not allowed anywhere near it. How you go about acquiring it, that’s up to you.”

PLUTARCH RAISES AN eyebrow at him and assumes he’s asking about safety, and Griffin almost snaps fully. He manages to reel it in just enough, but the edge in his tone can’t possibly escape notice. “I meant what the hell are we supposed to do, Plutarch? What am I meant to do? What are any of us meant to do? Why even ask me to join your team if we’re just going to be sitting here waiting and twiddling our thumbs?” No more being kept in the dark, his mind repeats, over and over. Tell me the rest of the plan, and I will relay it. Plutarch can’t seriously still expect all these people to take any of this lying down.

“What is the next step?” he continues, immediately after, before he can stop himself. “Your people tell us to keep our voices down, to watch what we say and do, and yet we aren’t given an alternative. You give me this envelope, you give me this promise from some faceless President Coin about a sanctuary. You give me your theatrics and your mysteries.” He leans forward. “Now give me something concrete to work with, something to fucking do while our loved ones are sent blind into this crazy goddamn death trap you yourself are designing.”

You’re a team leader, aren’t you? Then fucking lead. …Is what he wants to say, but he’s already feeling his temper starting to get away from him, so he forces himself to stop, to sigh instead, big and deep and prolonged — and he pulls back. Slowly but surely, he pulls back. Griffin shakes his head, brings a hand up to massage his temples. When he speaks again, it’s calmer, lower, only a little less tense this time.

“What do we do, Heavensbee? What do you need us to do?”

--

Of course, this monumental task wasn’t going to be easy. He knew that he wasn’t going to come out of this adored or as a hero. There was no glory for him and that was fine by him. If it meant the end justified the means, he’d do all of this over again. So when Griffin snaps, it doesn’t cause a single flinch in his face. He remains the same. He keeps his gaze forward, looking Griffin in the eyes as his anger is thrown onto the table between them. Plutarch doesn’t even think he’s wrong in his annoyance.

But thankfully, he soothes himself, and he sits back in the chair, and Plutarch let’s that energy hang in the air for a few beats before he takes a deep breath, readjusts himself in his seat, and explains.

“I need you all to keep everything in order. Clearly the wedding ended in disaster and I can’t have anymore slip ups like that. Sadly, I don’t have time to investigate that, but hopefully you understand that a presentation like that causes more pain than success. I need everyone to have faith. Because of it, Snow is on edge. He’s a batty old man but he’s still smarter than most of us. Things are more sensitive than ever.”

He pauses, and then leans forward, both hands on the table. “The role of the tributes is to rally. To build bonds and trust, that way it’s not a complete shit show in there and we can keep as many people as we can, on our side. The role for you all, is to help keep everyone alive. I have to build a deathtrap whether I like it or not. You all have to try and keep everyone in one piece. I can’t tell you about the Quell because then we’ll both be labeled cheaters when things look too easy and we’ll both die.”

GRIFFIN IS SHAKING. They’re essentially bringing these Tributes in there, in whatever nightmare Heavensbee plans to whip up for them ( and his public appearances have promised it to be quite something ), blind and unprepared, left to fend for themselves and figure a way out on their own, before external help arrives. He thinks of the people this will affect: he thinks of Perri and of Sage, of Riggs and of Birch, of Fava and Hudson, of Wren and Gage. All of them. How will they know what to do once they’re in there, not knowing that assistance is on the way? And how will their Mentors deal with having to send them in without the knowledge of a possible rescue?

He’s staring down at the napkin that’s been passed to him, looking but not really seeing. There are notes there, he can tell, but Griffin’s mind is far too focused on the reality of Plutarch’s words, on the frustration that nothing is assured, that people can and will still die, no matter how hard they prepare for this. “Your teammates in the arena. Chrysanthe, Darby, Holly. What role do they play here? How much do they know about the plan?” Are they as involved as Griffin had initially hoped, or are they coming in blind too? “At the very least, it should be safe to stick with them, won’t it?”

He can’t stop shaking. He needs to find Swann or Blythe now, and tell them all of this. First order of business: review their alliances. Figure out which ones are sticking together, no matter the cost. Keep the children safe. Try to get as little casualties in as possible. They’ll have to work through this with their eyes covered and their hands tied too. They’re running out of so much time; the Tributes have to be warned but not in a way that’s obvious. Not in a way that’s telling. How the fuck do they do that?

Griffin lets loose a shaky breath, visibly perturbed still. “And what about us? The ones here.”

--

Plutarch’s jaw tightens at the mention of the other three. They are always inserting themselves into these things. Plutarch has no idea if Griffin knows Chrysanthe, if they made a fuss to him and now it’s coming back to the lunch table before them.

“They know what they need to know. Their primary job is to make sure bonds are formed. If they all like each other, they’re less likely to kill each other and be more focused on the task at hand of getting out.” And it seems, from what he’s observed at the wedding, the plans are perfectly going in place and all is well in that department. So long as everyone keeps their heads down and stops asking for questions.

GRIFFIN SIGHS AND nods, sitting back in his chair again. He’d seen it coming, especially with how glacial the pace had been from these rebels, and he understands that this might just be their best shot at pulling this off, but the closer the Games get, the more he can’t stomach the thought of actually letting the Tributes loose in there. There’s so much to consider: What if they can’t get everyone out? What if some of them end up splitting up too far? What if there are snakes hiding in the bushes, and a terrible bloodbath happens anyway? What then? Are there going to be any expendables here? Will they have to choose which ones to bring along, and which ones to abandon? Is that a price they’re all going to have to pay?

“So have you, then?” he says, cutting right to it. “Figured out a way to get them out?” Griffin isn’t stopping until he knows just what they’ve got planned. He’s not in the mood for some fragmentary plot; they need to be absolutely clear on all fronts. “Is there anything at all that we can do to bring up our chances of success? Coordinate amongst ourselves, with our Tributes, pass it off as extra training, or just good old Mentor knowledge, I don’t know.” Hard not to wish he’d gotten contacted for this much sooner. Maybe then he wouldn’t be scrambling like this.

“If you can give me something here, Blythe and Swann will be the first ones to know. Naturally, I’ll need more intel about how you correspond with each other. If there are blind spots in the tower, dead ends, signals that you use, anything. I’d like to move now, Plutarch, while we’ve still got time. Because I’ll be honest with you, the rebellion’s rep in the Victor pool isn’t looking so good, and we don’t want people on the same side distrusting each other.”

--

Plutarch almost tells Griffin to reel it in. To have patience. He’s working with people he’s known for decades and they don’t have the same kind of entitlement that’s right in front of him. But that’s not going to get him anywhere good so he just twists his torso, looking at the building next door, with the giant hovercrafts lifting off. “That’s the plan.” He nods, then looks back to Griffin. “Might sound easy but it’s not. I plan on doing a bit of digging myself to help make it easier but I ask you to leave that to me. I’m building the arena now, trying to figure out how to send a message to the tributes on how they can break themselves free. Unfortunately, if anyone gets the sense mentors or tributes know more than they should, and there is cheating taking place.... well, I shouldn’t have to explain that.” That’s the stress, truly. Leaving all of them on their own and hoping they figure it out.

He leans forward again, his eyes growing intense. “People will die, Griffin. Trust will be broken. Whatever idea of rebellion you have of unity and hope and love, it’s not real. You will not be the same man, regardless of how this turns out, once this is all done. No one will be the same.”

And it’s this expectation he needs everyone to understand. Because he’s not in charge here, but he knows who is and there wont be any coddling or songs of love and hope once this is all said and done. He wants expectations curved.

NOT THE CAPITOL either, huh. Well, damn. Is there another group capitalizing on the panic and pandemonium? Or is this the work of one crazed, fucked up thrill seeker? What would their intentions have been? To sow further discord? To get people to question their stances? Griffin can’t imagine why someone would genuinely think pulling a stunt like that could be a good idea, but he can’t wait to get to the bottom of it and hear their ridiculous excuse. 

Plutarch naturally mentions his boss when he clarifies his response, and Griffin’s eyebrows rise as he sits back. Just the segue he’d been looking for, it seems. “Well, all right then, what does your boss propose we do about next week?” The clock’s ticking, and it’s high time they cut to the chase; he’d come here for answers, and he will get them. “You’ll have to forgive me for the pressure, but we’re running out of time, and we’re frankly tired of feeling like sitting ducks out here waiting for something to drop. I’ve got people itching to fight, to stop the Games from happening. I want to involve them. Blythe Beesley, Swann Meture, even your literal symbols from Twelve. So many other names, same amount of conviction. You need to know that these people are desperate to do something.”

He leans forward, despite knowing that the sound of the hovercrafts will mask their voices. “What does the rebellion intend to do to make sure the Games don’t happen? And how can we help?”

--

Plutarch finishes his small sandwich. He finds it terribly hard to scheme with an empty stomach. He’s thankful that Griffin’s not wasting time, they both have things to do and it’s better to move on as quickly as possible. But his stomach has to keep up.

“You have to understand,” He places the plate back down on the table and leans forward. “We can’t stop the Games. It’s clear enough reason with your friends going missing why we can’t.” Considering everyone is so tense, he knows this is a hard thing to hear. That he’s a symbol for false hope. “Sending them into the Games is the safest option. The Capitol has less power to do anything. The primary focus right now is trying to figure out how to get them out.”

HONESTLY, POLITE AS it usually is to start with pleasantries, Griffin isn’t here for a nice chat, so he’s not sure how much he appreciates the amused look on Plutarch’s face as he looks him over, like he’s examining him, almost. Griffin tries to ignore it as he takes a seat across the Gamemaker, eyes immediately making a beeline for the sandwiches on the large serving tray. When Plutarch takes one, Griffin takes that as his cue to pick one out for himself as well — he won’t lie; the journey here did get him a little hungry. He doesn’t say anything more about Nelly, though. Not really the sort of person he’d want to be discussing her with, this guy.

“Right. Business,” he says, trying not to look so relieved when Plutarch finally drops it. “There’s just… a bunch of stuff I want to clarify with you about last night, and then I’ll get into the nitty gritty.” After the pleasant haze he’d had over his head while on the way back to the tower with Nelly, coming back to Twelve’s suite had been chaotic, to say the least. Cinna hasn’t been seen since last night. The reception had come to an abrupt end. Something about another rebel message. “The… broadcast at the end of the party. I wasn’t there to witness it, but — that wasn’t your team’s doing, was it?” He hopes not. It seems to have sown nothing but panic and fear.

--

Plutarch takes a bite of the sandwich and nods his head along to the question that he asks. He’s not looking to mess around, either. They have less than a week before they’re all sent into the arena, and the clock is ticking.

IT’S FUCKING LOUD here, is what it is.

Griffin squints amidst the wind and struggles to hear over the sound of the hovercrafts the next building over. Unsurprisingly, using the Gamemaker’s name to get out of the tower — a summons of some sort, he’d claimed it to be — had worked like a charm, and though the peacekeepers had ushered him some part of the way, he’d been let go fairly easily after. Plutarch’s power, he supposes. Even from nearby, the man has to yell out a greeting, but Griffin’s in no particular mood to do the same, so he gives a simple wave instead, mouth pursed in a taut smile. He follows him to the table, mind reeling with all the questions he’d meant to ask him from last night, but Plutarch surprises him one more time by offering pleasantries.

There’s a tilt of the head and a few confused blinks. “Uhh…” he starts to say, but the noise around them is so loud, he can’t even hear his own voice. Perfect, he thinks, for what they’ll be discussing, but he’s going to have to do better than a regular mumble. “Uhh. We did.” It feels awkward to yell that out when it’s something he thinks is personal, but Plutarch wouldn’t have heard otherwise. “We had some tea in her flat and danced to slow music. That’s all.” 

--

Plutarch crosses one leg over the other and leans back to examine Griffin with amusement. Whatever he’s got going on his life outside of this circumstance, he can’t help but think about how complicated Griffin is making this for himself. But he can’t really speak much, considering he’s sending his companion to his death. But all for the rebel cause. What’s Griffin’s excuse?

When: First or second day after the wedding Where: Rooftop lunch

Plutarch had been enjoying himself and his lunch in the afternoon, his hair blowing around all around him as the hovercrafts took off just a building over. It was numbingly loud, and the perfect place for company.

“I’m merely doing whatever I can to help.“ And fix what her and her family have done. Use the money and power they’ve acquired by using the death of children as entertainment to do some good. Give it all back. Her father will be furious, she knows that very well, but Diose will has battled many men before. He can’t be that different.

Part of her wants to reassure Helena, tell her that there is so much going behind the scenes behind her throwing money at everyone. But that kind of promises are scary to make since she doesn’t know if she will deliver, and because someone is probably listening to them. “But, it does mean a lot to me that you allowed me to talk to you. Thank you.”

--

Helena almost says something about the implications of saying no to a person like Diose. No matter how she felt, with the knowledge she had at the beginning of this conversation, she wouldn’t have turned her down under most circumstances. But they’re having a nice time and she doesn’t want to ruin that.

OF ALL THE responses Robyn had been expecting, being steered so suddenly away from the wall and back to a table certainly isn’t one of them. It’s not unpleasant, of course — they doubt anything Abe does with purpose could ever really be unpleasant or could even be meant to seem unpleasant — but it does surprise them. They have to blink a few times as they’re nudged into a seat and nod, quietly, utterly speechless. And when Abe scooches over with his own chair, expression distinctly determined as he asks them that question, Robyn loses their words completely.

On one hand, they’ve never seen anyone this eager to help. Abe had been purposeful and direct in bringing them back here, and he’s being purposeful and direct in wanting to cheer them up now. That makes Robyn soften almost completely. On the other hand, they’re confronted with the fact that they don’t really know what’s fun for them anymore. Thinking back on it now, everything they had used to find fun before — shopping, dressing up, gossiping, fucking, among other things — just don’t feel genuinely enjoyable anymore. Little to nothing does. What’s there to find enjoyment in now when everything feels so bleak and meaningless?

“I…” they start. They cycle through what little genuine friends they have left, try to find some kind of activity they do that always seems to lift their spirits. “Just… just talking, I suppose. Listening to someone tell me about themselves.” They shrug. “Or, I guess… them asking me about myself too, I don’t know.” They huff, vaguely amused; incredulous. “I’m not going to lie, I’m having a very hard time coming up with an answer to that question, Abe.”

--

No one should stew in their happiness. Especially when everyone else around them has been so happy. Abe refuses to let Robyn stay like that, not when he can do something to help out.

But they share, and Abe’s lips twist downward when they share that they’re having a hard time. But what they give him is better than nothing, Abe things. He folds his arms over his chest in thought, and then nods his head.

It is different. It is different. It has to be different. 

If it’s not, what does that say about him? What does that say about all the years he watched children die, and couldn’t bring himself to feel how he does now? It makes his stomach churn. He knows he’s not a good person, he’s always known it, but with her - it feels like a knife is being twisted in his gut. A knife he put there himself. 

“You can’t just ask me to-” He tries to collect his words, but can’t. “I don’t know how you expect me to just let you die, Marina.” 

--

She rolls her eyes. This was not how she wanted to spend her evening. It would have been far more enjoyable had she just stuck with the people she knew. “No one is going to let me die but myself.” She walks up to him. “I’m not going to play this game with you. But it makes me sad that this is your outlook. I only want you to be happy.”

Swann can’t help but smile when he mentions enjoying Cabil’s love stories, even less so when he goes on to say that he and Digit have similar goals. As someone whose first twenty-four years of her life had been devoted to the self-appointed guardian of her younger cousin and the tributes that came into her care, it’s an oddly cathartic feeling to simply accept someone else doing that for her without the need to push back or say it’s unneeded. Her old ways aren’t vanquished entirely, but it’s a starting point. Every change needs one.  

❝ Well I’m very lucky to have the both of you, and I hope you know I do appreciate it. Maybe I can even introduce you both? ❞  Her tone is light, truly grateful for the trust he still seems to have in her despite her sudden disappearance. It’s an offer more than a strategic demand from mentor to tribute. You can never have too many in your corner, but Swann also understands mixing and mingling with strangers at a large party may not be his forte. 

Her own slip up brings her smile flickering slightly. For a moment, she thinks she’ll have to double back, but Abe offers up his own wisdom on the subject leaving her smiling yet again.  ❝ No, you’re right, and I’m sorry for not being clearer earlier. I just wanted to make sure you knew I see you as my friend. ❞  Swann hesitates a moment then, but she’s been telling herself she needs to be more open with others, so she pushes forward through her discomfort.  ❝ I haven’t been all too good about it in the past, but I think we should let others know they’re special to us whenever we can, and I’d rather you be a spoken buddy than an unspoken one. ❞

When his hand falls into her own, eyebrows furrow together. There’s a crack in her facade with his statement, one that sends her body rigid before she can even estimate his wrist size with her fingers.  ❝ You could never be a waste. ❞  Her voice comes out defiant, steely even in its conviction as she looks him straight on. It’s the most confident she’s been since her return. 

Wasting no further time, she wraps her own fingers around his wrist, making mental note of where fingers overlap in a crude estimate of the size. Swann then turns her attention back up to him, her facial features softening slightly.  ❝ Don’t talk about yourself like that again, okay? You’re just as important as anyone else here. ❞  There’s a brief moment where her fingers twitch as if to reach out and pat his cheek or shoulder as she would with Roux, but she retracts before she can and instead grabs her glass of water. 

--

Abe had some buddies back home. Mainly they were people that knew Marsh, and in turn, knew Abe. There were some he knew from his work that he would do but not many of them stayed to develop meaningful relationships. But he looked out for Marsh’s friends, just like he looked out for Marsh. And just like he was going to look out for Swann.

He nods to Swann’s statement about wanting to make their friendship clear. He appreciates that. Sometimes when you don’t state that you’re buddies, things can get lost, and you might not know the other person even cares about you. This causes him to stretch a wide smile across his face. “Spoken buddies are always better. Proven fact. Glad Swann wants to be spoken buddy.” He gives her another thumbs up. 

However, the mood shifts and he sense something cold or stern coming from her. He’s uncertain if it’s directed at him or the things he said. But it doesn’t make him feel very good.

He doesn’t like to think of himself in actualization very much. Abe has not been very important in his life. Well, he’s been important to Marsh, and fundamental to his younger brother living a marginally successful life, but apart from that, he’s just Abe.

It’s motivating, to hear Zero express his faith in them. Grand ideals are all well and good, but they’ve realized over the last several months that the personal is often what makes it easier to face the difficulties, keep up determination even in the face of despair. They haven’t done a good job of that, the past week, but talking to Zero tonight, they feel invigorated to do better, work harder for that change.

And his offer to help is one they trust. The gears are ready to start turning, if it comes down to it, the thought of having him working in the Games to help make that change possible feeling rather enormous. They just need a plan. “I’m certain there is, we simply need to figure out what the right steps are. Which I know we will,” Silver say, with a certain nod, before giving Zero a little smile, raising their glass in cheers to him. Grateful for him. “Tonight, though, enjoy yourself, Zero. We’ll all need a moment to breathe first if we plan to make this year different.”

--

There’s no doubt Silver can figure it out. If there’s anyone that could lead a revolution, Zero is confident it could be Silver. Granted, not exactly be the face of one, but the planning and the smarts of it all, he has all the faith, and there’s a new level of pride, working for them, that Zero gets in that moment.