false confidence.

"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."

An eyebrow arched upwards at Gemma as Hayes glanced towards the door that was consistently closed. “His name is Trenton. He knows how to make explosives and that’s all I got from him before he became attached at the lips with Genera so.” A shrug on his shoulders, Hayes leaned back in his chair. The front legs lifted off the tiled foor, but he kept his balance with the toe of his boot. Losing his balance in front of Gemma would be embarrassing, even though he knew the escort could shove him if she really wanted to. And he was really giving her reason to want to. But once he got in the rhythm of scheming with Gemma, it was hard to stop. Fingers lacing together over distressed blonde hair, Hayes sighed. “How much of a wild card are we talking? Because I have a feeling they’re saying the same about us right now…and two wild cards might be too many...”

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."

Not a lot of skin. That’s a request that Monroe could handle. After considering, Monroe glanced at her sketch and then started making notes. “Here’s what I can do. A little scrap of fabric with buttons. You can roll your sleeves up and down as much as you want. Totally based on your comfort level.” An easy addition, and honestly, if it kept Shay in better spirits, then Monroe would do it.  She had been apprehensive to show anyone else her designs. Figuring that the explanation would make more sense when they’re actually on the tributes rather than on paper. But seeing Shay’s reaction gave her a bit of hope. “The sparks…” She said, mostly to herself as she pulled the pencil from behind her ear and making some notes. “That’s a genius idea, honestly, and a great way to honor everyone in the district in a non…gladiator way.” Looking up at the former victor with a soft smile lifting a corner of her mouth, Monroe closed the book. “Maybe you should be a stylist.”

There is no world in which Thea would ever find indulgence in a random man's flattery, even if that man is as well liked in their little community as Jeremiah is. He greets her with a compliment and almost immediately, Thea stiffens despite the fact that he certainly doesn't seem like a threat — if anything, he seems perfectly normal, maybe even charming to someone who isn't Thea Ellis. But she's never had much use for charm, and the only flowery compliments she wants to hear are from a man she will never have the privilege to see again. So her features remain stoic. "No." Her dismissal is firm, almost as if she's shooing away a persistent animal instead of a well-meaning colleague. She really means it, too, and she's ready to simply let their conversation die with her rejection, but the courtyard he speaks of catches her eye out the window as she moves to turn away. He isn't wrong — the garden is lovely, and more importantly, it's private. The paranoid part of Thea thinks he might be luring her out there for a reason — and the curious part wants to know why. "Unless you've got an excellent reason for pulling me away from the show." Technically, she isn't on duty this year — but Shay's been put through enough pain, and with the added stressor of Snow's calling added to her life, Thea has forced herself to step up and help when she can.

He wasn’t expecting it to work, but that wasn’t going to concern Jeremiah. He pulled up a seat beside the older woman and observed the events unfolding on the screen. There was no part of him that wanted to watch this, but he had to put on a facade of the career who made it his life mission to bring another victory to his District. So he pointed most of his focus toward the woman beside him. “Well my excellent reason was the beautiful day that we will be wasting here staring at a screen.” Rubbing his chin with his hand, brown eyes glanced toward the screen to watch a shot of his tributes going straight for the water. Good. Smart. “When we know all the action will be coming later.”

Ryder's stubbornness only serves to heighten Eden's, his inability to drop the subject aggravating. She follows his dramatic telling of the tale of the rich man who likes to spend his money, as if they all don't have one of those. "If you've got so much pull, why lump them together at all?" Eden lifts a brow, all but taunting him and his perceived stupidity. "Why do you have to make everything so goddamn complicated?" Any other year, she might tell him to do whatever the fuck he wants as long as he isn't pissing any sponsors off — but this is different. His moronic plan sounds like an upsell on the very tribute he's trying to get rid of, and Eden's not buying the scorned ex-friend act. For all she knows, he'll stab her in the back just to bring his tribute home — because that's exactly how the Capitol and the sponsors will see it, especially since it's obvious that Eden will be helping Silena.

He didn’t know how to explain it. Partially because it was - in reality - a convoluted plan, but because he also knew that Eden probably didn’t fucking care about the details. And Ryder wasn’t going to waste more of his energy trying to make her understand. If Eden wanted to watch her other sister die, then well, this time it wouldn’t be his fault. But the fact was he knew Marcus too well. Beyond that one moment of betrayal, the former District 1 victor could read his friend like a book. He could predict his strategy and he wouldn’t consider alliances if given the chance. There was also a part of his mind that whispered that if he just let his mentee die without even a second glance, the people in charge would start asking questions. But Eden wasn’t part of that plan, and Ryder was smart enough to know better than to say anything about that.

"Yes." The affirmation comes quietly, almost absently as Thea's hands idle over the mug Monroe passes her way, the teabag she'd chosen dropping gently into her mug. Everything coming up is an understatement for what they're all about to endure, but of course to Monroe it's likely just another day at work — and really, nothing can quite compare to the uphill battle they all were about to face at this time last year. The thought threatens to pull Thea back into her mind, her grief all-encompassing even in her brief moments of clarity, but she's determined to have just ten minutes of normalcy before retreating back into her room and away from the world again. Unfortunately for Monroe, she's now been pulled into Thea's inability to stay totally present. It's only moments later that she realizes she's been asked a question. "Hm? Oh, I—" Thea pauses, unwilling to tell this young girl the true reasons she sees demons at night (not only would it traumatize the poor girl, but Thea's terrified of saying anything to a Capitolite that may be considered treasonous.) So she keeps it light. "The beds here are wonderful, but I often miss my own." And the warm, comforting body that used to settle next to me, she thinks, but of course that remains unsaid.

It was hard to not watch Thea closely. Monroe hadn’t spent a lot of one on one time with her, but she’s heard passing conversations as she worked on the interview outfits about Thea’s frame of mind. And she’s seen the older woman staring into the distance in the moments that she wasn’t in her room. So, in the half lit kitchen, where they were the only two people awake, Monroe felt almost responsible for keeping Thea safe. And the task made her back straighten as she set cookies onto a little plate for them to pick at as well. She wanted Thea to feel safe with Monroe around, if anything because for the remainder of the Games they would be surrounded by each other for long enough that it would be silly for them not to at least kind of get along. But it took the blonde woman to focus in on her question, so Monroe sipped her tea and waited. Humming slightly, the designer looked around the room. 

Nadia had been old enough when her brother died to know it wasn't Jeremiah's fault -- But part of her found it a little easier to blame him, in the beginning at least. It was better to have a tangible thing in front of her to put her grief into than sit and stew over the system itself. Only now when she looks at the older man and the slight angle of his nose after her father confronted him, she's filled with shame. What she said had been the truth -- He's forced to watch kids die every year, her brother had just been one of another twenty-three in the grave. If he didn't want to train her because of her parents, she wouldn't blame him. This is the hand she was dealt, no matter how hard Nadia wished she could have escaped it.

Jeremiah doesn’t like the games. It’s a newer development in his life, born from the reactions of those he met on his own victory tour, on top of festered feelings that grew as he learned more about the resistance. But, as a victor from a career district, there was an image to maintain and he was good at covering up how angry watching these kids die year after year made him. He was charming, and that worked for him, and working on strategies distracted from thinking about the death’s that he was going to witness. Other resistance members would be there as well, he knew that much, and maybe if things went according to plan, this year would be different. But there was no way to know that until he got there, so for now he had to focus on creating a plan for Nadia to survive. 

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.

Twisting the gold ring on his thumb — the one that he spent hours working on — Ryder shrugged. It wasn’t an unexpected question, it was actually one that was posed to his family a lot. In any other instance, the mayor’s kids in a career district would be leading the pack at the Academy. But then again, most of the people of District 1 didn’t actually know his parents. “It’s my mom,” Ryder elaborated. “She always considered herself a part of the Capitol, she just needed the right person to notice her and take her there. She was hoping that my dad would get promoted and they’d move us to the Capitol. She thought either one of her kids being in the games was accepting that she was meant for a District instead.” draining the rest of his glass, Ryder shrugged. “So she pushed for my brother to go into politics, and told me to just stay out of their way.” Draining the rest of his glass, Ryder flipped it over and leaned back in his seat. “My dad did.” He said simply. Messing with the reaping would probably get him in a lot of trouble. But then again, he did try to have him killed. “Figured it would be an easy way to get me out of the way.” Glancing at the blonde, Ryder arched a dark eyebrow. “Anymore probing questions?”

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.

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.” 

Birdie couldn't help but cringe as Monroe jumped, not having intended on scaring the other woman -- She's assumed the tap of her heels would be enough to warn the younger woman of her presence. "My apologies," she holds up her hands in surrender, brow arching at Monroe's tone. Birdie can't blame her, each year around this time, she can't help but worry about her team -- And specifically, Monroe. It's not that she doesn't trust the younger woman's ability or skill. It's quite the opposite, Birdie holds the youngest member of her team in high regard. Anyone can see Monroe is talented, and this is the first stop on a very long career. But, she knows her well enough to see that Monroe doesn't view the Games like a typical person from the Capitol would. She clearly sees it a far more human light. It had taken Birdie years to truly hit that point, empathizing with the younger woman. And with what was coming this year... Even if Monroe didn't know, she had a feeling the younger woman could pick up on the shift in the air.

“Honestly?” Monroe said, eyes going back to finish the line of stitching she had been working on. “Little bit. I’m not the one about to fight for my life.” It wasn’t fair, she knew it wasn’t. Birdie had been nothing but kind to her, and she had really taken her under her wing. Monroe always considered her a motherly figure - but this happens with mothers right? You fight with them? Get mad at them? Wonder what’s going on in their mind and if she’s about to cut her losses and lets the rebellion leave you behind? That’s all normal -- right? The show. The comment was subtle enough for anyone else on the team that might be listening, but Monroe could read between the lines. This was about the rebellion. 

Oops, nerve struck.

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.

If there is such a thing as too much solitude, Thea certainly wouldn't know it. The woman cherishes her alone time, especially now more than ever before, and since the moment they stepped on the train to the Capitol she's been keeping herself hidden away. She's sure it won't last long — soon enough she'll be dragged to some extravagant party and expected to show both herself and Shay off, but for now she takes comfort in the silence that's encompassed Two's floor. She only comes out of her room once she's sure everyone must be asleep — so to run into their little stylist on her way to make herself a mug of tea is aggravating, to say the least. It's not that she hates the girl (really, Thea hardly knows her, and she doesn't seem nearly as annoying as the bird woman is), but the victor has never been an easy nut to crack. Her trust is not freely given, especially not to someone raised in the Capitol, but Monroe seems harmless so Thea won't completely write her off just yet. "You've read my mind," she almost smiles when she says it, forcing herself to move from where she'd been standing still in the doorway. This is why people think you are creepy, Thea. "You know, they all say chamomile is best for relaxing, but—" her fingers reach into the cabinet beside Monroe, filled with bags of every kind of tea imaginable. "Lavender calms a mind that won't stop running."

Okay…she was talking to Monroe. So that was a good sign, right? Thea didn’t hate her…yet. Exhaling slightly, the younger woman smiled at the former victor. “I’ve heard that,” She hadn’t. But she wasn’t about to ruin this moment. Turning the burner on to heat the water in the kettle, Monroe raised an eyebrow. “It will be really helpful for everything coming up right? Calm minds help get through the hard stuff.” Grabbing two mugs, Monroe poured the hot water for the two of them. “Y’know I think there are cookies in here…” She said with a faint smile, pulling the box she had been eyeing for awhile out of the pantry offering one to the older woman. “Any reason in particular you couldn’t sleep?”

Jocelyn listens while Hayes drones on about his optimism about her chances. It's not like she doesn't know that the Careers are going to come for her. It's not like she doesn't know she should be better at the whole fake thing. But she's not. Jocelyn rubs her lips together, biting down -- hard-- on her bottom one. She waits and waits to say her piece and when it's finally time she runs out of steam. Admittedly, she's not combative by nature. Prickly? For sure. But she's not someone who's going to yell and scream. It's a waste of energy anyway. "Glad we could have this chat," she tells him with a frown. "But if you're not a good enough Mentor to get me votes the way I am-- not faking this whole thing and being someone I'm not-- maybe it's your thinking that's the problem."

Head tilting back to stare at the cieling, Hayes counted to ten in his head. He promised himself when he got his first tribute that he wasn’t going to get frustrated. His mentor wrote him off immediately and barely wanted to be a part of all this, and he had at least wanted to give everyone a fighting chance. But Jocelyn was making it hard for him. “Look.” He said, after getting to ten in his head. “I’m not writing you off I would really appreciate it if you stopped just assuming I’m a shit mentor.” Maybe he should’ve counted to twenty. “I’m not asking you to pretend to be someone you’re not, Joce. I’m saying maybe keep those thoughts inside.”