your dreams are all of war

Every single emotion hit Moxie in a rapid succession and she had made the decision that it was all absurd. It was a stunt, or – in the beginning that what she told herself. How was this any different than anything that happened in the Hunger Games? They were in an arena after all. A clipped laugh fell from her lips, humorless and she shook her head at Lara’s words, pity being the primary emotion. She cleared her throat, the laughter falling right off of her face and said, “I – have they said anything else? Has – do we know anything?”

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Even she did not know anything, let alone someone without access to the sum of advisors around the President. Lara did not like this perspective of blindness, and, particularly, she did not enjoy admitting to defeat, to not knowing what was happening and about to happen from now on. But in the spur of the moment, and allowing herself a moment of softness because it was Moxie, she shrugged, disarmed and puppy. “I have never in my life, Moxie, been so confused,” she sighed, completely lost. “How do you feel?”

Allard tried Lara’s personal phone first, to no avail. He was still at the hotel now, watching the start of the Games from a hauntingly empty lobby. He saw cars going by, all in the direction of the Tower. He didn’t think his absence from his team would be noted. He was still watching his tributes, after all. Just watching them potentially about to die from the fallout of this chaos. They deserved a better chance than this. He dialed Lara’s work phone number, and hoped it didn’t terrify her.

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She answered the phone half a ring into the call. Her words were agitated, though they didn’t lack the normal pitch, cattish and imitative of a spoiled child’s. “Are you safe? Can you come to me as soon as possible?” She was dying to discuss this with Allard, though the subject of his loyalty to his District were blurred lines. In all frankness, it made it all the more exciting.

“If she’d been there?” Well, it was a shame she had not been, but Ash could not say that out loud. Certainly not in front of Lara. She was curious, however, as to what Lara knew or thought of what had happened. After all, the stylist was in a unique position, with strong ties to both the president and District 13. Because District 13 had to have something to do with this. “What do you think happens now?”

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The Presidential team hasn’t yet come to a conclusion on what statement to release publicly -- and she was stuck in the Tower, away from the conversation, the thrill, the drama, which made it so difficult. On one side, she wanted to appear confident and in control of the situation, on another, it seemed valuable that they all were perceived as dumbfounded. Which she was; which they were. 

She glanced at Ash with uncharacteristic desperation before shifting into a pose with pursed lips and clearer eyes. This continued to be all about appearance. “Off the record?” she inquired, and once again, she found herself excited to speculate, to discuss politics like a man with a cigar in between his fingers. Oh, she couldn’t help it. “I can’t foresee the President’s reaction, but naturally, someone will have to pay. I sincerely hope this doesn’t trace back to District Thirteen. We don’t need a civil war.” But there was no one else. The message was clear as daylight.

Two years ago, he would have rather died than don an apron and be behind the counter in a service job like this. But he wasn’t the same person he was two years ago, and this morning, he felt an unexpected sense of pride– not shame– as he showed up for his first ever day of work. Real work, not a job where he paid off other people or begged the people he was still lucky to call friends to cover his ass. He was doing everything for himself now, no matter how much his feet ached and how many times he’d burned himself trying to learn to make lattes. And at the end of the day, he’d go home to an apartment with several roommates he paid his own rent for and bitch about it over a cheap beer. He was done with being a leech, and he wasn’t going to wait for Everett and Clem and everyone else to decide they were done with him first and leave him with nothing. “Welcome to Capitol Coffee, what can I get you?”

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Long story short, there was nothing to trace the line between the person in front of her, meekly greeting every customer, and the grand Cade Bentley from the magazines. And so, Lara did not recognize him. “A cappuccino, fast. The world is burning,” she dramatically exhaled, displaying exhaustion on all fronts, but a trained ear could dig some involuntary excitement in there somewhere. Something was finally happening, even if destructive. The rebellious spirit wasn’t yet defeated.

interview outfit – knox carbon (130th)

interview outfit – konner bohr (130th)

@laradanbur​

“Can you, uh, explain, what exactly I’m supposed to do at the parade?” The question was obviously meant for Lara Danbur the stylist, but his gaze darted all over the place, almost manic in its trajectory. There were just too many distractions, it felt impossible to focus on or learn any one thing here. Why were there so many mirrors? What were all those small colourful tubes on the table? What were the scissors and razors for? Were they going to cut his hair? “And we’re getting costumes? Is that right, Mrs Danbur? I heard we’re getting costumes.” His eyes finally settled on Lara’s. “To represent Thirteen, right? I’m guessing mine and Knox’s are gonna be… fluorescent?”

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“Yes,” Lara answered firmly, excited to be useful and to hear her own voice talking to someone interested in what she had to say. “I’m going to be making you costumes. No, I don’t plan on toying with the concept of radiation and nuclear power. Don’t worry, they are going to be tasteful. I did study your culture for a couple of months in order to create something that will translate your uniforms into something worthy of Capitol fashion, without looking too strident for you and your partner. I don’t do neons,” She spoke confidently, as if convinced she found the perfect balance and will pleasantly surprise everybody watching.

Lara declared her water request as though she were accepting an award, and Ama wasn’t sure whether to treat that as normal or play along - with Lara it was always hard to tell what she wanted. There was always something underneath every word she said, something Ama could never quite make out. But she’d never been cruel, and for that, Ama would fetch as much water as Lara wanted. She nodded, and went to fiddle behind the bar for a moment, coming back with water - flat, a normal amount of ice, and decorated with slices of both cucumber and lemon. Capitolites seemed to like that. She placed it on a little napkin in front of Lara, then took a step back. She hoped it was alright.

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There was relief in seeing cucumber and lemon. Lara was always one concerned with bland tastes, with bad, underwhelming choices out of fancy menus, with missing out on what the others had. With water as a sentence, it was difficult not to feel that way, but she did, in more than a way, appreciate the decorations. She made sure Amaranthe knew, serving her a large smile. “Not the most complicated you’ve had to brew today, is it?” she inquired, still proud of her low maintenance selection, even if it didn’t have the taste of a rich cocktail.

“So,” Moxie greeted, eyes bright, an almost absent-minded arm wrapped around the baby attached to her. “Are you excited to work with Thirteen? Are they treating you okay?” She pressed, worried, if only slightly, for Lara – Thirteen was still such uncharted territory – the only people she had ever met from thirteen were that grumpy Gamemaker woman and Micra. Needless to say it was a mixed bag of personalities.

@laradanbur​

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“Of course. It’s Allard’s district, and we finally get to work together, which is beyond exciting,” Lara grinned with her teeth in display. “It’s a legendary moment for the Games, and I get to be their first ever stylist. It’s an honor, you know?” She knew her position was more strategic than anything else, but she could spoil herself with the naive thought that this was for glory, for recognition. “How is the baby treating you?” the stylist asked in return.

Summer’s eyes widened momentarily. She hadn’t given herself a second to think of this as just another prison. A prison disguised as something better. “I… didn’t think of it like that.” Her cheeks dusted pink, slightly embarrassed now that she’d come off foolish in front of this woman. 

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“Well, even the avox system is better taken care of than any District facility. Ask the avoxes,” Lara spoke with luminous confidence, proud of their system here in the Capitol. “You’re lucky to be here. You have a chance at greatness.”

Jeannie let out a breath, glancing away for a moment. “Yeah, I’m afraid he’s super lucky,” she muttered. “But, apparently, it’s also my luck that someone decided that it wasn’t my time again.” 

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“Well, that’s optimal. For the politics. Even you being called on stage isn’t a complete disaster. I’m sure everybody was so worried about you,” Lara pointed out. In no way was this a losing case scenario for the young Twill girl. 

Surya blinked as she looked at the woman, surprised to be faced with anything but a ready acceptance. “I like to celebrate,” she explained with a smile. “Life is worth celebrating, surviving even more so, I think.”

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Lara nodded along, unconvinced but playing along to it, because this was a conventionally unarguable statement coming from a victor. “And so you watch your own Games often to... to celebrate?” she did not let her grip loosen.

Ama placed a refilled tray of food down, and then picked up a drinks menu. It was just the welcome reception, far from the elaborate menu of a ball, but the people of the Capitol still needed the weighted paper with gilded and torn edges in order to feel special, Ama supposed. She held the menu out to the person nearest her, and then pulled out her notebook, waiting to take down orders.

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“Just water please,” she pushed back the menu meekly, trying to make the most graceful order, especially seeing as she could sense everybody watching her as the first District Thirteen stylist ever. She felt important, and so, it felt as if her every move is watched and envied. 

Perhaps she finally understood it, now. 

It hadn’t quite registered in her mind up until now, why some victor’s went straight for a bar once they had touched down in the Capitol. Now though, she was itching for a drink, if only that would ease her up a little. Her hands were still trembling, and after dropping a glass on the train, she’d stopped trying to pick up breakable things. She needed the tremble to go away, at least momentarily. 

Her own name, in Allard’s voice, continued to spook around her mind. All the while the hushed gasps of the crowd in Thirteen sounded from every corner in the Tower. Jeannie was going insane now, she must’ve been. 

“Anyone up for a drink?” She schooled her shaking voice, speaking to anyone at all familiar in the crowd around her. 

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The Games were not rigged. The Games were not rigged. The belief Lara’s been holding onto all her life was that the Games were not rigged. Yet, when Allard read from that note, she couldn’t help but shudder at the predictability of the move. She just wished she could taunt President Battenberg about it the way she deserved it. She wished she could point out how hollow of a move it was, how it was losing them pawns for nothing. How Jeanine Twill did not and will never matter. But Lara had this discourse stuck in her throat, because nobody cared to hear it. There, at the Presidential mansion, she handled a virtual image. Here, at the Tower, she handled fabrics. Either way, insignificant, nitpicking at nothings.

“My husband is usually naturally lucky. I’m sorry,” was the best she could voice out, wanting to start with the right foot with this one. District Seven’s mentor had been the problem, not her.