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ᴡʜᴏ: LIVINIA CRANE & OPEN
ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: TRIBUTE TOWER, LOBBY
ᴡʜᴇɴ: DAY OF THE (PROPER) LAUNCH
Livinia could not hide the fact that she was on edge. She wasn't sure whether she had sat down for more than thirty consecutive seconds since the failed games launch yesterday. She certainly hadn't slept. She'd spent nearly forty-eight straight in the control room, trying to fix the mess that she now found herself in. This was shaping up to be perhaps one of the longest and most continuously awful weeks of her life, but, she had assured herself that she would feel better once the launch actually happened and the tributes were in the arena.
And she had, for a minute. After staying up all night working on fixing everything that had gone wrong and ensuring that safeguards were firmly in place to make certain it wouldn't happen again, the tributes were in the arena. She could see them on her screen, turning against one another and starting the bloodbath in typical, brutal, violent fashion. For a minute, as the countdown hit zero and the games began without any further hitches, Livinia felt relief wash over her.
It was quickly replaced by exhaustion, irritation, and the overwhelming feeling of impending doom that so often accompanied sleep deprivation. Only a couple of hours into the games, she is sent away by her supervisor to "try and get some rest" ( he'd said it with false sincerity – playing pretend at caring about Livinia's wellbeing, rather than reacting to the fact that she had just spent five minutes screaming at an apprentice for reading out some incorrect data to her ).
It was bullshit, because she didn't need rest any more than anybody else in that room, but Livinia had swallowed her pride and agreed to take her break when her supervisor's expression makes it clear that this was not a request. She's paying very little attention to where she's going as she heads back to her apartment in the tower, rubbing at her bleary eyes – and so, maybe it's her fault when she collides headfirst into an oncoming person. Maybe, but she sure as hell isn't going to take accountability for it. "Fuck," She curses – perhaps a little more aggressively than she would have, had she slept at all in the past week. "Watch where you're fucking going."
they are definitely not supposed to be up here. if when they were found out, it was going to be bad news bears for kew marshall-- but that was future kew's problem. ( they feel a little bad for future kew-- peeta and haymitch were going to be so mad. ) but it's been hours and the kids are nowhere to be found. blue eyes had barely moved from the screen, scarcely daring to so much as blink, afraid they would miss something but the younger tributes have yet to make their grand appearance in the games. and that anxiety had started as a low murmur among those watching- those who were left on the outside while friends and loved ones were thrust back into the arena- but as time passed, it had gotten louder. too loud. a lot of people asking the same question over and over: where are the kids?
maybe it was that worried pinch to effie's brow or the dark expression that clouded haymitch's face-- maybe it was the way that she could practically feel the anxiety coming off of peeta in waves. ( surely it's their anxiety at not knowing where their son is and not echoes of kew's own fear. ) whatever it was, it drove kew from their seat and deeper into the tribute center. they were just going for a walk, that's all. but you know, one thing led to another and when you have a knack for being in places you're not supposed to be, sometimes you end up walking down hallways with doors spaced out between each other. sometimes the doors have faceplates with words like 'lab' with various letters after them-- and that's when the thought really forms in their head and they press forward.
everyone keeps asking 'where are the kids? where are the kids?' you know who knows where the kids are? ( fucking gamemakers. ) if kew can keep giving any other peacekeepers the slip, they're going to march right into that great mysterious room where the gamemakers sit in front of their stupid computers and make the tributes' lives hell and demand to know where the kids are. ( fucking cowards think they can pull all this shit- all this shit- and fucking... double kidnap these kids? ) no-- after all of this, they deserved some answers. those downstairs deserved some answers. ( peeta deserves some answers. ) and kew was going to get them.
they're so consumed in this idea- this plan- to get answers that frankly, they're not paying any attention to their surroundings. kew notices the other only when they collide, rocked by how hard the other slammed into them when they least expected it. taking a half stumble back, kew spits out their own curse, "shit--" there's this moment where they almost let an apology slip-- but the harsh tone from the woman almost snaps them to attention, responding back with her own aggression, "this your first time walking? why don't you watch where you're going? lemme give you some advice: eyes up, not on your feet-- helps from running into people and then acting like an asshole."
ᴡʜᴏ: DELILAH RIPLEY & KALEB RIPLEY ( @rebellicnrising )
ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: SOMEBODY'S LAUNCH PARTY
ᴡʜᴇɴ: MORNING OF THE (PROPER) LAUNCH
According to her parents, Delilah had thrown a tantrum when she was informed – at the ripe age of one, no less – that she would be getting a baby brother. Granted, she cannot remember this ever happening, and therefore is unable to verify the story's authenticity – but it certainly does sound like something she would have done. Having the spotlight ripped away from her and split in two would have certainly put a dampener on her little life – even if she now can no longer remember a life before her brother existed. It didn't matter in the end, anyway. She had barely needed to stretch herself in order to win back their parents' favour, to steal back her spotlight. And the rest, as they say, had been history.
She hears Kaleb before she sees him – a voice that, by virtue of their shared upbringing, she would recognise anywhere. She's not surprised to find him at such an event – it had been instilled in both of them, but Kaleb's love of the games had always far exceeded her own. He had built his entire life around it, after all. Her feet carry her towards the voice before she can think better of it – an insult already forming on the tip of her tongue. When was the last time she'd seen her brother, let alone spoken with him? It must have been before all of that unfortunate business with their mother ( yes, yes, she was terribly sad to hear the news ).
"H. Junior," She greets, shoving a few of her brother's contemporaries out of her way. She knew how greatly he loathed being referred to by their father's name, which is why she took great pleasure in calling him that. "Did you have any money on the games being postponed? Or on half the tributes being M.I.A?" She asks with a wicked grin. "Who's looking good to win this year? I like that awful one from District Ten... butcher, or whatever his name is." A pause, she drops her voice a little lower. "Has dad contacted you? You know... about funeral arrangements?"
he's in his element-- the games playing overhead on large screens, surrounded by people who have since forgotten their outrage from the interviews, speaking ( at times shouting to be heard over the din of voices ) their newest bets and predictions among each other and after a certain level of discussion amongst their peers, putting their money where their mouths were. his attention is on his phone as he speaks to those in front of him, stylus in hand as worked to close those beginning bets- arena design; first kill ( the killer and the killed ), which tributes were among those in this particular bloodbath to fall, fight or run; even going as far as which weapons were grabbed by which tributes. everyone wanted to prove they knew their particular chosen champion best, anticipating every move made-- and kaleb was more than amiable to setting those bets and watch as counter bets fell into place. perhaps these games wouldn't ruin him after all.
his sister's voice cuts through the rest of the noise that surrounds him and his brows crease, pinching the skin between his eyes for the briefest of moments, that irritation at the junior flashing across his expression as the man in front of him is abruptly shoved out of the way. a voice begins to raise in dissent but the look kaleb sends his way is razor sharp, sending the clear message: don't even try it ( trust me, i'm doing you a favor. ) that hard look is held for a moment longer before the man seems to catch the hint and kaleb's gaze shifts back to the woman in front of him, tone even and voice clipped, "delilah." the question irritates him further and he fights with an iron grip to keep his face fixed in that same unreadable expression. "i would have had to anticipate that the games would be delayed in order to put money on it, wouldn't i?" kaleb's eyes watch delilah's face, searching for any tell that would tell him more than whatever words would come from her mouth-- but delilah had grown up in the same house as he had and had learned to mask for her own reasons; she knew better than to let anything slip through the cracks.
kaleb doesn't answer the rest of the questions as they come pouring from her mouth but just keeps his eyes on her with that impassive expression. ( this isn't why you're here. ) delilah was not the sort of person he would casually discuss the games with on a normal year but after the events at the tribute ball- the accusations thrown at him by that hateful namesake- the sudden approach and the questions immediately have his guard flying up. "caius-- he's definitely a favorite. then again, so are many others." it comes as no surprise that delilah would gravitate towards the butcher from ten-- birds of a feather and all that.
has dad contacted you? it's almost imperceptible- how his spine straightens ever so slightly- and that scar curling up from his lip almost jumping with how his lip wants to curl in a sneer. there's a sharp snap rising up his throat ( what could he possibly have to discuss with me-- ) only for it to shrivel on his tongue. his mind flashes to that morning- shattering glass, raising his voice until it scraped his throat raw, the ice in his father's voice and eyes- and it's bitterness that rises in his throat, damn near choking him. a funeral-- of course the bastard would tell him that traitors aren't given proper burial rites only to lay her to rest without allowing him to say any sort of goddamn goodbye. "i am not discussing this here," his voice is equally as low, snapping with an almost harsh finality. it's unconscious- how his gaze leaves delilah to bounce around the room, seeking out max- only for his mind to realize there was no max to swoop in and save him from this interaction he did not want to have. ( goddamn caesar. ) blue eyes move back to delilah and his voice stays low, "if that's all, it's been lovely seeing you, lila. but i'm working."
WHO: voltaire owens & caius gallio ( @damagedflames )
WHERE: the arena
WHEN: day 1 of the 94th hunger games
the cold steals the air from his lungs and as his eyes adjust to the bright light reflecting off the blanket of white that covers the arena- it's here, it's real ( gods, help me, i'm back-- )- volt's mind races. the first realization that crashes over him is that sinking feeling of dread as the countdown begins is how deep the snow looks from that vantage point on the pedestal-- how he can already feel the cold creeping in through layers of flannel and the nerves at the end of his knee tingle, cradled in the prosthetic that he knew would be hell to run in the snow with. as his eyes lift from the snow, that countdown growing closer and his heart racing in his chest, it takes a quick glance around the circle for that second realization to sink in and it hits him like a brick: the kids aren't here.
a trembling has started to run down his arms and it's only in small part due to the cold; they weren't here. of course it would only be too easy to let them all launch together-- would make for pretty shitty television, most of them would've each grabbed their own and run off, not much of a blood bath to excite the capitol. they had to be deeper in the arena-- forcing both groups to fight for supplies and weapons that could carry them back to each other. his eyes settle on a pack on the far edge of the cornucopia-- it would have less supplies than those larger packs near the center and surrounded by weapons, but it would hopefully be enough. it had to be enough.
it's almost as if the sound around him cuts out as the countdown reaches one and they're all moving. as predicted, the snow slows him down-- considerably. he tries to run and nearly stumbles, cursing the damned leg under him and circles wide, keeping the center of the cornucopia in his peripheral and those that race towards those weapons and fatter packs near the center, rushing as fast as he can for the pack. fingers start to close around the strap of the pack, mind running through as much of a plan as his panicked mind could conceive of at that moment; he would get the pack, retreat for the trees and meet with-- his head whips around, looking the fray for nilani ( eyes dropping to those already fallen, begging to anyone that was listening please no-- ). it's got his attention diverted- that panic, that fear of seeing a familiar face among those that were bleeding and staining the snow around them red- that keeps him from seeing the advancing figure at first, but movement from the corner of his eye has his head snapping to the side and fear wraps an icy hand around his heart. his hand drops the pack and eyes go for what looks like an ax handle sticking up from the snow-- and he rushes for it; he couldn't be another one of those bodies bleeding out in the snow. ( ellie-- i have to get to ellie-- ) hand outstretched, he's almost there but fingers glance off the tip of the handle as he's rammed into with the force of a charging bull, knocking him off his feet and throwing him into the snow.
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The room was unseasonably warm but what could one expect with bodies sandwiched together held in an area with poor circulation and a shotty air conditioning system. That was it. It certainly was not the man who had kissed her hands, confessed feelings for her and offered on the potential last night of his life to ask her out on a date. No, it couldn't be that. Effie was unshakeable, unflappable and the sort to keep unruffled. Yet, yet here Effie was flushed and warm with her mind swirling with a volley of thoughts ricocheting around, circling back to just one and one person. Cheeks were a heavy rose, blush obvious through the layer of foundation the vain creature was never caught without and Effie quite frankly never blushed this intensely. Feeling her cheeks, they were hot as the escort breathed, reaching to take off earrings that were already removed and likely handed off to Haymitch at some point. "Quite - quite warm indeed. Tell me, Juniper, I couldn't ask this of anyone else my dear - I have not been on a date in quite some time. How - he asked me on a date, Juniper. The man is going to die and asks me on a date. I said yes but how does one date and I - do you have anything stronger than water to drink? " Effie breathed. Effie in her ruffles was ruffled.
her mouth curls in amusement, watching as effie reaches for earrings that aren't there. if june didn't know any better, she would say that effie trinket was flustered. her eyes bounce to find caspian as he moves through the crowd; ( now, what did you say to her to get her in such a tizzy? ) of course, the answer comes almost as soon as the thought crosses her mind and june's eyes widen, brows arching on her forehead and mouth dropping into a soft 'o' of surprise before that soft smile was back, practically glowing with happiness for the other woman. to know that even through all of this, there was still life to be lived- proposals of marriage and declarations of love, taking the leap and asking someone on a date and knowing that it's possibly the last moment you'll get to have with that person- was a hopeful thing. a laugh leaves her as effie's ramblings come to a sudden stop and she holds out an untouched drink ( brought to her by oz as cover, she had no real desire for it and honestly, was glad to not have to hold it in her hands any longer. ) "start here -- a date, effie, that's wonderful," there's a genuine ring of happiness in her voice that goes softer, warmer, "he might not die-- none of us know what's going to happen in the arena. but he's not dead yet and he wants to spend those moments with you. and why shouldn't he?" a hand reaches to gently tuck a near-flyaway piece of hair back into place in efffie's wig and there's a slight tease to her voice now, "it's been a long time since i've been on a date but i assume it hasn't changed much. you go, you have a good time in his company-- laugh at his jokes, listen to his stories and tell him your own. wish the night wouldn't end and end it with a kiss. pretty simple, if i remember right."
WHO: rory hawthorne & gale hawthorne @empyrcals
WHERE: deep in the tribute center, near the hovercraft bay
WHEN: post-failed launch
there are a lot of moving parts to today- to making the games grind to a screeching halt in defiance- and the evidence of that rebellion trickles down from the gamemaker control room down. as the dominos continue to fall, new orders come down the line, increasing walking patrol throughout the tribute center, all in hopes of finding the rebels responsible. rory knows some of the parts that are moving but there's still some that are hidden ( only a choice handful of people got to know everything ) and as he walks down the seemingly empty winding hallway that would eventually lead towards the hovercraft bay, he does so with a body winding tighter and tighter, coiled and ready to spring at whatever might interfere with those moving parts-- he's not the only one walking this particular level.
at the far end of the hallway comes the proof of that as another white clad uniform turns a corner, walking towards him. it only takes a few strides, his eyes taking in the way the other moved- how he carried himself, looking for a pattern of familiarity, thinking it'll be another working undercover- before there's that tickling suspicion in the back of his mind. ( i know that walk. ) the feature grow clearer the closer he gets and rory's determined stride falters for the briefest of moments, eyes widening ever so slightly as that recognition strikes like lightning. it's a rush of conflicting emotions- relief, panic, joy, fear-- crashing over him and he forces his feet to keep walking; there's this feeling like he has to run.
there's that pull as they continue towards each other to run to him, driven forward by the little boy who had always run for gale first, the ache for home almost overwhelming as he drew nearer to the one who had taught rory what home meant. ( because gale built their home- raised their family; it only means so much to rory because of gale. ) but there's that fear wrapping a hand around his mind and flooding it with panic-- they were so close. they couldn't afford distractions; there was still other pieces to be played before they were anywhere near the clear.
out of the corner of his eye, he catches a hall branching off from the collision course to gale-- and he turns sharply to the right, quickening his pace. he's hoping that gale would be too focused on getting away from where he definitely was not assigned to be ( rory checked ) to follow him. there's the sounds of steps behind him and that urge to run is back but he forces himself into a natural stride, ears straining and as the steps grow closer, that coiled feeling grows taut in his chest.
WHO: rory hawthorne & haymitch abernathy @wvrricrsWHERE: a hallway leading from the tribute center infirmary
WHEN: post failed launch
it had worked-- another piece put into motion, he knows it the moment that word passes through the ranks that the games have been delayed. ( another step closer to home. ) the tributes were being released back to their floors and the gamemakers were frantically trying to fix whatever bugs had so greatly affected their systems ( bugs that more brilliant minds than his had quietly and painstakingly placed deep into their computers that it would take up their attention for hours-- god, there's a feeling of something beautiful being created in the violence and chaos, different pieces coming together to create a symphony, growing louder to drown out tyranny ) and rory walks tall down the hall of the tribute center, making his way to relieve another peacekeeper from their post at the infirmary. it was all coming together-- a domino effect that was gaining speed.
he's not expecting to see haymitch walking from the infirmary-- there's no reason that haymitch should've been there from how the other man's strides register in rory's mind as it moves very quickly; he doesn't slow his stride and fixes his eyes ahead of him, hoping that the passing glance of his gaze isn't anything heavy enough ( carrying enough familiarity ) to catch the victor's attention. ( don't see me-- it's been seven years, would you even recognize-- don't see me, keep walking-- )
WHO: rory hawthorne & primrose everdeen @damagedflames
WHERE: the tribute center, a certain occupied office and a hallway
WHEN: during tribute interviews
the entire week, he had been holding his breath, sure that at any moment, he's going to be found out. he's done his best to stay to the edges-- of keeping his eyes peeled and slipping just out of sight whenever familiar faces are near. it's harder to do tonight when he's assigned to work backstage of the tribute interviews; he stays close to the stage, knowing that those faces that would know his have to wait their turn while every other district's tributes and mentors have their time in front of caesar but after finch delval barrels off the stage, going awol long enough that it caught notice, an order has rory and another peacekeeper walking close enough to the district twelve team that rory sweats-- but they pass by unnoticed, blessedly practically invisible with everything else going on. and he doesn't initially clock the face missing among that group.
it's not until a door opens and they've found finch that rory's brain snaps to who had been missing-- because they're currently tangled up with a certain victor from five. it's the feeling of missing the last step- the way his stomach swoops, practically bottoming out- when he sees prim and for a moment ( just a moment-- ) he freezes. it's only when his partner moves into the room that rory practically springs into action-- and goes for prim, positioning himself at her back as the two are forcibly pulled apart. there's a roaring in his ears and his heart is slamming against his ribs underneath that peacekeeper's uniform and it drowns out most of the noise around him- protests from the recently separated victor and healer, the other peacekeeper's exasperated 'really?' when rory's arms wrapped around prim's torso, pulling her towards the door. when that partner grumbles about him taking the easy one, rory makes a jab that he hopes will make things just the slightest more difficult for the other peacekeeper, "they're from five-- how much harder could it be?"
yeah, he's pretty sure that pissed finch off-- or at least he hopes it did. he wants to get prim away from the other's eyes, hoping that his gaze had been too focused on finch to register who they had been with. his arms are still locked around her- one circling her waist and the other across her chest- keeping her ahead of him-- keeping his face behind her. ( it takes everything to keep that hold detached, to keep any of the tenderness he felt for them at bay. ) he starts practically dragging her back towards the stage, trying to get far enough away from that room that prim's face wouldn't be seen by the other when they emerged with finch and when they turn a corner, he drops that hold, his hand going between their shoulder blades and giving a shove that lacks any power- practically a nudge- and he turns away as if to head back to help that fellow peacekeeper, keeping his back to her, "go back to your district team-- and stay with them." biting down on a tongue that wants to say more but won't dare, he forces feet that want nothing more than to turn around forward.
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ronen rubinstein . cis-male . he/him ➶ I RECOGNISE THAT FACE ! that’s RORY HAWTHORNE , the THIRTY-TWO year old UNDERCOVER PEACEKEEPER from DISTRICT TWELVE . they’ve been in the capitol around FOUR YEARS, long enough to gain a reputation for being so STRONG-WILLED & INCENDIARY . they’re so lucky getting to live in the tribute center for the duration of the games! ( character IS part of the uprising )
BASIC INFORMATION
full name: rory hawthorne . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . aurelius cragg
nicknames: rory, ror
age: thirty-two
birthday: august 16 . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . august 6
zodiac: leo
district: twelve . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . two
gender: cis male
pronouns: he / him
orientation: bisexual ; homoromantic
profession: miner, rebel . . . 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 . . . undercover peacekeeper
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE
face claim: ronen rubinstein
hair color: dark brown
eye color: blue with flecks of green
height: 5'11"
scars: a patchwork of lash scars across his back and shoulders- varying from some that are roped with thick, purple scar tissue and others that are just that permanent angry red; a thin scar on the bottom of his chin from busting it when he was a kid; a scar above his left eye from a peacekeeper's baton, a three inch scar from a bullet graze on his right shoulder
mbti: esfp-t ( the consul )
temperament: sanguine - choleric
moral alignment: chaotic good
primary vice: wrath
primary virtue: diligence
element: fire
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the day your father dies is etched in your memory with startling clarity-- how the shouting from the mines had carried throughout the district, how the peacekeeper uniforms turned a dingy grey with the coal dust as some jumped in alongside the miners trying to dig out the collapsed shaft ( the same ones whose faces you'll recognize frequenting the hob, the same ones who pay or trade for the game gale brings back after he learns to hunt and never ask how or where he got it ); the feeling of how tightly gale holds your hand as you stand with your mother just outside of the mine, waiting for that blurred face to be pulled out- broken and limp. you remember the noise your mother made- not a scream or a wail of grief but a low moan that reverberated so deep that it's permanently etched in the walls of your mind- as her legs go out from under her and gale's hand leaves yours to catch her; you don't know the name for the noise but over the years, you grow so used to hearing it from the corner of the home where she huddles around baby posy or vick- both who are too small to know what's going on- and one day the word comes to you: despair.
you're not the only ones who lost a father in the accident and out of that tragedy is some bright spot: the everdeens. your mothers both share that empty stare of losing the men they loved who stood between their children and starvation; your mothers both share oldest children who step in to be fathers. gale gets katniss and you get prim; while the two of them go hunt, crossing over that forbidden line of the boundary, the two of you share the fullness of childhood-- a childhood that your older siblings had cut short in order for you to experience. a childhood in the seam- raised by the seam because while gale is away and your mother is away there is still that guiding presence with other mothers balancing babies on their hips who scrub your dirty, tear stained face with the corners of thin aprons and wash your scrapes with cool water and old timers ( whose bodies are too hunched and frail to work in the mines, chests constantly rattling with coal dust thats glued to the inside of their lungs ) who bark at you from dirt porches when you get too rowdy with other kids and the play fighting turns to real fighting. as you get older, they find chores for you to do- the old timers tell you it's good for your character, the other mothers tell you you're doing them a great favor saving their men and sons from the extra work after coming home from the mines- rewarding you with whatever little they can spare. everyone knows the hawthornes have got more than their fair share of open mouths and empty bellies; everyone knows the weight of the family has fallen on gale. they tell you that you should help your brother however you can.
you learn about the tesserae when you're ten-- you hear gale and katniss talking about it and the number of times gale's name has been added to the reaping bowl makes your stomach turn- truly full for the first time since the last time he collected tesserae and it makes you sick with fear and worry. you understand the reapings by now and you cling to gale later, unable to tell him what's wrong when he asks-- afraid that if you open your mouth, you'll get sick and waste the food your brother had paid for with his life. because if he gets picked, you know that's what it means-- twelve hadn't had a victor in longer than either of you have been alive and while you think he could win, there's always that very real possibility that he wouldn't; and you can't imagine a world without your brother. you're still too young to take out the tessarae for yourself- for your siblings- and you bite down on your tongue when gale comes back with the proof that he had yet again; you want to help your brother but you don't know how.
the morning of your first reaping, it's gale who gets you up, who fills the tin tub with heated water and scrubs at your skin until you yelp, who combs your hair- trying desperately to get it to lay flat- and helps to button your shirt when your hands shake. it's gale's last year, he's an old pro by now-- but you counted. and you know how many slips of paper have his name on them and your singular one floats in that sea of white but it's not you that you're afraid for. when you see prim's face and how scared she is, you smother your own fear-- you can't be strong for gale but you can be strong for her-- and the only moment you let it slip out before your arm wraps around her shoulders ( because younger kids go to the front, you can't stand with those pillars of strength in the back ) is when you look back at gale, seeking reassurance in his eyes. it won't be us, you tell prim, whispering in her ear like it's a secret before you have to go to one side and her the other, after this, we'll play pirates. when they call her name your heart stops beating, eyes wild to find her face as she stumbles out like a lost lamb into the aisle before you look back to find gale-- but the moment katniss' voice raises your eyes go to her.
you don't play pirates after-- you sit with prim while she cries and later after the stars have come out and you walk prim home, you take charge of home- getting vick and posy dinner and getting them in bed, tucking a blanket around your mother's shoulders- trying to without words take some of the weight off gale's shoulders. you sit quietly with gale for as long as he'll let you. there's a question sitting behind your teeth and there's times when that silence between you two feels so heavy that it almost slips out but it never does; would you have volunteered for me? the part of your mind that knows your brother loves you in the same way that katniss loves prim has no doubt that if it had been the reverse of the coin, that gale would've taken that burden from you-- just like he had taken every burden for the last five years; the part of your mind that is growing up knows that gale couldn't leave posy and vick, both of them younger than both of you. you don't have to wonder if you'd volunteer for him-- you also couldn't leave vick or posy... and you're still afraid of dying. the air is heavy and you don't say anything because you know gale is hurting but, you're relieved-- relieved it's not going to be him. you hate that it's katniss because the people you love most in the world are in pain because of it-- but he's safe and after all those years of putting himself at risk of the games, he's not ever going to have to go there. and for that, you're grateful.
they both come back- katniss and peeta- and everything changes. there are new peacekeepers with grim faces that seem to flood the district; there's a distance to gale that you can't understand. you ask him to teach you to hunt- you want to help, that's all you want to do because the weight of the world seems to be weighing him down-- but there's never time. they burn the hob and strap gale to a whipping post-- you're out gathering wood, trying to lighten that load on gale's shoulders and don't find out until someone finds you- arms laden with the driest pieces you can find with the snow as thick as it is- and regales the news to you; you drop the wood and run to the opposite side of the district, racing for that aisle of houses where prim lives now. another sound etches itself into the halls of your mind, taking up residence next to your mother's moan of despair: the sound of your brother screaming in pain. you help to hold him down, jaw clenched tightly and tears silently rolling down your face as hands that have lost the softness of childhood grip at his arm, desperate to keep him still while prim and her mother work-- until he falls still and quiet.
you don't want to leave him. you have to get back to vick and posy and mom. you don't know how you're going to carry him home- you're taller and your shoulders have started to broaden but it's a good trek back to the seam and gale can't move. you can never repay their kindness. you don't want to leave him. you promise to come back after you've got vick and posy in bed; you're reminded there's a curfew-- if you look back and examine it, maybe this is where that rebellious spark ignited in your chest because you don't care. you only try it the once, almost caught by those patrolling peacekeepers but you come back to the house and you sit with him that first night, shoulder pressed against the corner of the kitchen where he's laid out, head resting against the wall, sitting vigil silently. while gale heals you pick up more and more odd jobs where you can; you take his bow and sneak past the boundary-- and almost lose his arrows, spending most of the time trying to find where they've fallen. when the time comes, you take out the tesserae for yourself, vick and posy. gale can't do it anymore but you can and you want so desperately to just help him; the two of you end up fighting, your crackling voice ( changing because you're growing, you're getting older, you can help more-- ) raised in anger and exasperation. you just wanted to help.
when he comes home in that crisp white uniform, baton at his hip, you almost think it's a joke-- and honestly, you treat it like a joke. you're an angry teenager because the reality of life in your district is starting to actualize in your mind, how these white clad thugs walked around as if they owned the damn district, harassing folk who had generations buried in this ground, how they had damn near killed gale-- and he's parading around in one of their uniforms. he tells you he has to work-- you don't understand why he can't keep working in the mines like everyone else in the damn district. it's a cause of friction between you two that only softens the slightest bit when gale becomes involved in the rebellion with you following half a step behind him whether he wanted you to or not. you tell gale he doesn't have to provide for you anymore when you start working in the mines at sixteen. you're sick of him carrying your weight and whether he likes it or not, he's sharing vick and posy's with you-- you can provide for this family too. gale might be too good for the mines but you're not. you can help too.
the coal dust that clings to the threads of gale's hand-me-downs that you're quickly growing out of clashes against that crisp white uniform; and you continue to clash against your brother. over time, that clashing slows and ceases, seeing the evidence of your brother using his position to help where he can, to aid rebellion efforts at home and away. there's a lot you learn about your brother as you get older and go through all the ages he has already experienced, viewing them through the lens of your own life in one eye and his through another; there's a lot you've never thanked him for and aren't sure you'll ever really know how to. he works in his position and you work in yours and at the end of the day, you both come home-- that's the part that matters: you both come home.
you're twenty-three and still in the mines: eyes burning and red from the dust that falls in them, face with dark lines etched in your skin making you look older than you are, chest already starting to rattle with the start of that miner's lung. the older man next to you starts grabbing at his chest and you call for a halt, trying to help him get seated, shoving a canteen in his hand as he rubs at the spot breathing shallow through the dark dust that tries to settle. peacekeepers have joined the foremen in the mines, making sure production doesn't halt, pushing you deeper and deeper-- and just as you've got the man seated, gasping in pain as he rubs his chest, they push again. you start to argue on behalf of the man- his chest is hurting, he should see see a healer at the very least he deserves a moment to rest and catch his breath! a baton whips across your face and you see red, starting to launch yourself before you're drug back. it's not worth it, they mutter, voices rough against your ears, it's not worth it. the older man stands and work resumes. he drops dead about three hours later. you and another carry the body out, the dead weight balanced between the two of you and your anger lashes out before you can stop yourself. the baton cracks at your face again, splitting the skin above your eye and your vision does go red, dropping you to your knees. with blood on your face you carry the body back to his widow because these are your people. this man worked alongside you like a brother, an uncle, a father and you honor him in the same way you would if he were blood related. the next day you help to bury him with others in your crew; you're back in the mines an hour later and a scrawny fourteen year old year old kid takes his place in the line.
time passes and you strike a new vein of coal but you've all been doing this long enough to know that the deeper you follow it, the more unstable the shaft becomes. you tell them it's not safe; they push you. you tell them the shaft will collapse; they push you. and you see your father's death flash before your eyes as the tunnel collapses and you're dragged backward, watching the earth bury outstretched hands that reach for you. it takes three days to dig them out. time is a wheel and history repeats itself and there are still those digging who remember the last collapse, the sons whose fathers were buried now work these same mines-- and they're angry. it's not the capitol or it's peacekeepers who bury the district's dead or who care for her widows and orphans. it's you and everyone else with red-rimmed eyes and lungs burning with coal dust-- coal that never heats your homes. they don't care if you live or die because there's always room for one more on the line and there's more empty bellies in the seam than there are full in the whole of the district. you're not even sure when you started talking or when people started listening but it's a spark that catches onto every coal-dusted soul in those mines and sets it ablaze.
a sea of headlamps march from the mines and you lead them out, shovels and pickaxes gripped in tight fists: a strike. no production until conditions change. it's not anything set out by the rebellion leaders in that mythical district thirteen; no, this was twelve- the district and her people, acting in their own with that flame ignited in their chests- as you march out and are met immediately with a wall of white. bullets fly and batons whip but they're met with resistance, the tools of your trade now turned makeshift weapons. some scatter, most stand until they fall by bullet or baton and you're grazed by one, burning fire across your shoulder before the baton slams against your temple and everything goes dark. they drag you and two other 'co-conspirators' to the whipping post and you understand the sound of gale's scream that's etched in your mind, echoing through it's halls and joining yours as the whip falls against your back and shoulders. you understand how he couldn't move after, every breath feeling like fire. the train cars you had been loading for the past few weeks as you dug through that unsafe shaft are going to the capitol-- and you're going with it. since that tongue thinks it's so smart, wagging and inciting treason, the only way to deal with it is to cut it out. they're going to make you an avox.
that night, you're carried from the cell but by friendly faces-- rebels who work to get you from the justice building to the train yard, dragging your weight, legs feeling almost useless under you. they hide you in plain sight: on the train that was supposed to lead you to your doom. they shove a bandana in your mouth and tell you to bite down, muffling the sounds of pain as they lay you in a bed of coal that digs into the sore spots, staining the bandages around your torso red. you try to focus past the pain that has tears running lines through the coal dust that's settling on your face as they bury you under a layer just thin enough to be hidden: the train will take you to three. there, rebels in three will hide you for a few weeks before a train on it's way to six passes through where you'll stowaway on to get yourself to six. once you hit six, you're on foot until you reach thirteen.
you ask through the bandana you have gripped in your teeth where gale is-- it would be the first place they're going to look when they realize you're gone, he had to have a solid alibi, right now he's too important. you agree. you don't regret the choices that have brought you here and you don't regret the ones you'll have to make going forward but damn if you don't regret the fact you didn't get to say goodbye. you've left your family with a mess to clean up-- you just hope they understand why. you ask the faces to tell gale you're sorry you didn't make it home tonight.
it goes exactly as planned-- you reach three and you wait for hands that dig, reaching out to let them pull you free. they clean your back and feed you, keep you hidden until the next train rolls in to three for a pick up of technological pieces for the trains and other vehicles that rolled out of six. it makes you stir crazy- to sit and wait, sit and wait- but there's this fear in your chest that has you wondering what it is that you're so eager to go for? getting to six will have risks and getting from six to thirteen will be beyond treacherous-- and after that? unknown. you think about home a lot- about your brothers and your sister, your mother ( which twists like a knife of guilt in your gut, wondering how much grief losing a son would bring her ), of prim and how you never got to explain or say goodbye-- wondering if you're ever going to see it again. you apologized for not making it home but now you're not sure you're going to make it home for a long time. maybe never.
the train to six is harder to hide on but you manage and you've had time to heal but those still-stitching wounds are tender-- you make it to the boundary and hidden among trees before anyone can see you. they gave you a map in three- taught you how to read a map, not exactly like you'd ever had need for one before now- and you follow it, pressing deeper into territory that's familiar and new all at once. you're not sure when you actually crossed the border into thirteen, having gone further beyond the boundary and losing the fence line some time back but you're found by scouts that you at first mistake for peacekeepers and try to outrun. you don't get far and at first it looks like you've missed the welcome wagon but they help you up and take you in.
you're not sure what you imagined when you thought about district thirteen before but it certainly wasn't what greeted you. you tell them who you are and how you managed to get there. they ask you how old you are- you ask what day it is; they tell you august 20-- you tell them you just turned twenty-five. you don't argue with the work assignments that are given to you-- hell, you're just grateful that you're given something to do and don't have to sit and wait or run anymore. that only lasts a few months because you've seen the military training that goes on, you've seen the rooms where it's happening- the rebellion, planned meticulously, different strings across the district all connected to thirteen- and you didn't come all this way to scrub toilets.
the next three years are different but focus and ground you. you train, learn how to be a fighter and not a brawler, how to be a soldier not a rioter. you fall in love-- it's three years, it's bound to happen. you still think about home but less and less in the looking back way and more looking ahead. fire is catching across the districts and you're ready to fight like hell to be able to go home. it feels a different life away- district twelve- so different than the one you're living now but once again, you're struck with that stir-crazy feeling. it feels too much like sitting and waiting now even with the parts that filled the space between like the lover who wrapped around your heart. when the assignment comes, you immediately jump on it, eager to be moving again.
the assignment: peacekeeper in the capitol. rory hawthorne of district twelve is dead so you get a new name: aurelius cragg, born august 6th in district two. you tell them you don't want a new name-- especially not aurelius cragg. they tell you that you don't get to pick-- you can get rory out of 'aurelius'. you're briefed on your family history, your academic history, your record at the peacekeeper academy, all bundled up in the official documents that would prove your identity. you're smuggled across the districts to two where those documents get you a one way ticket to the capitol on a transport filled with other district two peacekeepers, freshly graduated from the academy.
the next four years, you live that double life; rory hawthorne is dead and aurelius 'rory' cragg is who looks back at you in the mirror. you wear the uniform you had sneered at when your brother wore it, working street beats and eventually your way up to private events of those self important capitol citizens. there are rebels all over the capitol and through out the years, you work alongside them in different missions. you hold up the facade of this identity that isn't yours and work as a dead man in the dark, each success drawing that dream of going home that much closer- to see your brothers, your sister, your mother, your best friend- and each failure pushes it further away.
you're assigned to the tribute center this year-- a place you've spent the last few years avoiding each time the games roll around and with good reason. rory hawthorne was supposed to be dead as much as your heart yearns for that glimpse of home, you've kept your distance, never getting any closer to those victors from twelve than a television screen. for the first time, you argue against the assignment-- but you can't give an answer that will satisfy when pressed for why; you can't exactly tell your superior officer that you're supposed to be dead.
every time you turn a corner, you're afraid you're going to be found out. you've seen them- katniss and peeta with their boy rye ( he was so much smaller the last time you saw him, has it really been that long? ), haymitch and alex, gale and prim-- but you've taken great care that they don't see you. the things you have been helping to put into place over the last four years are starting to fall into motion and no matter how desperately you want to seek them out, you cannot risk anything going wrong.
you want to be able to go home with them when this is all over-- you can wait a little longer for your reunion.
rory is gale's younger brother, second born, typical middle child.
after their dad died, gale took on everything and was 100% rory's idol for his entire childhood and into his teenaged years
grew up as childhood besties with prim he was her self appointed guard dog growing up
gale became a peacekeeper just as rory was entering puberty which of course meant he had to be a real shithead to gale about it for longer than he probably should've
he joins the rebellion and starts working in the mines at sixteen bc he's going to prove a point to gale. dont ask him what the point is
when he's 23, a fellow miner in his crew drops dead after being denied a moment to rest after complaining of chest pains and rory gets in an altercation with some peacekeepers.
later after warning the foremen of a shafts instability, there's a cave in that kills a handful of miners and rory organizes an impromptu strike that leads in a riot and violent altercation between d12's miners and peacekeepers.
rory and two other 'co-conspirators' are flogged publicly for inciting rebellion and are set to be sent to the capitol to become avoxes. rebels help to sneak him out and hide him in the coal being transported to the capitol that's stopping in three. rebels in three help him heal up and get him on a train to six and from six he walks to thirteen.
he spends three years training in 13 before he's sent on assignment to the capitol as an undercover peacekeeper where he's been for the last four years.
this is the first year he's been assigned to the tribute center and he's trying very hard to maintain that low profile-- we'll see how well that works out.
short math: rory was 25 when he reached district 13 so it's been 7 years since he disappeared from district 12.
has an alias 'aurelius cragg' but he thinks that name is stupid and has established that you can get 'rory' out of aurelius
CONNECTIONS
EX BOYFRIEND -- so rory spent three years in d13 training and preparing nd between that hyperfocus, he found time to fall in love. maybe the two of them were in the same training squadron or just lived in the same area. maybe they've both fled from their districts seeking shelter in thirteen or maybe rory's the outsider who's coming into their home. however it happened, it happened and for at least while he was in thirteen, it was this bright spot of happiness in his life. but after a while, he gets restless and takes an assignment that separates the two of them and they split- amicably? less so? horribly? who knows! i think it could be fun
REBEL CONNECTIONS -- rory's been in the capitol for the last four years undercover so would love!! to come up with some connections that have developed while both of these characters have been fighting this quiet ( and not so quiet ) war behind enemy lines !! but also the rebels that helped him escape to thirteen by sneaking him out of twelve and then hiding him in three and even some in six like this network of people who are all fighting for freedom from the capitol who helped get him safe pls i beg
fr yall know im up for anything and everything let's just do this
The arm that comes to embrace her, one that folds her into his chest is a reminder of the reality of their situation but that she is not in fact alone in this. The gentle brush of a thumb was powerful enough to collapse every man-made defense the world over. The capitol was afraid of such loving kindness so much so it wanted to tear it out from root to stem. Its goal was to separate humanity from humans because if one remembered how much stronger they were together and why who could stand against them. Nilani though is reduced to the child that entered that arena in mere moments and the battle-scarred woman that returned. Nodding the lip still quivered and a girl teared up. If there was a way they could run away, Nilani would gather the girls, gather friends that mattered and steal away the sun to run far beyond Panem's borders. Past seas and into the broken bits of the world they claimed not to exist and - it was too late to run. "He gets to keep on keeping on if they - it the sign never comes, he still has everyone he needs and I don't want to live in a place where the only person I consider a sibling beyond my own isn't there. We were supposed to be old together. If it never comes, I won't get to see your gray hair. I've always told you how handsome you'd be with gray coming it at the temples and that special someone - I know there is….. I promise" Nilani breathes "You better do the same. I need someone to be an uncle to little lightning babes if they are mine or not. I need you there. Otto would - be devastated if you were not there to help wind the clocks with him"
we were supposed to grow old together. and it punches him in the gut, steals his breath away when that very real possibility- that they won't make it out, that they both won't make it out- registers in his mind. somewhere in the back of his mind, volt knew there was a great possibility of him dying in the area-- the prosthetic he'd been given at the beginning of training making it easier to run that the one he'd been using for years now but he had been a far cry from a warrior at eighteen and time hadn't hardened him. sure, he'd resigned himself to that possibility of dying but he hadn't resigned himself to leaving them- the family they had made in the victor's village in three, the family that had raised them and that they had raised-- hadn't resigned himself to leaving nilani. certainly hadn't even let his mind venture into the possibility of losing nilani-- couldn't even begin to follow the thought path of losing ellie or hita despite the doubt that whispers in the corners of his mind ( what if? what if? what if? ), each scenario rejected as soon as it starts to form in his imagination. ( no-- no, i would have to be dead for that to happen. it can't happen. it won't happen. ) but it could-- the second the horn sounded and the games began, nothing was certain. ( NO! )
but even in the the uncertainty, there's that hope that he clings to with two tightly clenched fists; hope that bubbles in a watery laugh at the mention of that special someone and little lightning babies. "fighting dirty, lani," he murmurs, voice thick with emotion and amusement, "you know how much i love babies." volt laughs, lifting a hand to brush at the gathering moisture at his eyes and tightens that hold around her shoulders, drawing her close enough to press his forehead to hers briefly, "especially if they're yours- however they come to be yours. my heart feels like it'll burst just thinking about it." pulling back, he forces the corners of his mouth up into a smile, "as if i could ever refuse you, no matter what the promise or ask was. i promise, nilani-- we'll get out. we'll get our girls and our family safe. we'll let ourselves have the love we believe the other deserves even if we don't believe it ourselves." swallowing hard against the lump in his throat ( what if? no-- i still have hope. ), he clears his throat as if to shove it away and squeezes her shoulder gently, "and it will be better. we will make it better-- for our family, for hita and ellie-- for the little lightning babies you have now promised me, no going back on that, i am claiming my uncle rights right now." the smile that graces his face is softer, no longer fighting that swell of emotion ( of dread at that unknown ) and instead clinging to the promise and the hope of seeing it come to fruition, "besides-- even without all that, i would hate to disappoint otto." and he truly and honestly means it-- he loves that little bot more than most people.
they want to -- by god, they want to march back out there and scream every atrocity the capitol has been complicit to over the years right into the cameras as though they were speaking to snow himself. they've been letting anger lead them for years, since they stepped out of that arena, since wren died, since lark was reaped. hatred for the capitol was easy when you've lost everything to it. but, like usual, volt is right -- they won't care. does that make it better or worse? better in that no matter what they do, it can't get any worse? or that for the exact same reason, nothing will ever change? constantly battling a double-edged sword. they shake their head, a bitter laugh falling from their lips. they're stuck, that's what it is.
but they can't go back out there. they'd probably get dragged off and executed before even stepping foot in the arena, or get lark punished even worse than wren had for their behavior. that's always the thing -- snow knows these victors don't care much for themselves anymore. there's always someone to dangle in front of them, have them reaching out hopelessly only to grasp at air. there's something else rearing its head as volt speaks, making a home in their ribcage right next to all that rage -- the victors all have shared experiences, one way or another. volt, finch knows, mirrors them in ways they didn't think anyone could. if anyone understands their rage, it's him. the relationship finch had with wren was different than what volt had with violet, and the longer they think about it the worse it gets. the way he speaks about her... did wren see finch the way volt saw violet? did finch push him away to the point where they'd never have been able to see it? they knew wren loved them, but they pushed him more often than not. despite how often they butt heads, how wren was always the favorite, how finch had been so sure he would have made it out of that arena with no problem where they struggled, wren was their best friend. they had just let their own pride get in the way of ever telling him that.
they don't realize the wetness welling up in their eyes until their vision blurs after they blink, a statue as he speaks and then after when they break -- pinching the bridge of their nose, cursing under their breath, hastily wiping away any tear that might fall like they had a personal vendetta against each one. "no, it would have made it worse," finch relents, voice low as they shift their gaze to the ground. and still, despite volt's subtlety, finch finds comfort in his anger. in knowing that he feels the same as them -- that they aren't completely alone. finch's gaze snaps back up to him, completely ignoring the tightness in their throat or the glossiness in their eyes now. "wait for what, volt?" they snap, arms thrown out. "we've been waiting. what have they done? nothing. they've done fucking nothing. we go in tomorrow, and all they've done is kill some capitolites and let three of their own be shot in the back of the head. that doesn't save lark. that doesn't save ellie. if they're gonna let us be led like lambs to the slaughter, what's the point?"
volt hadn't meant to push finch to tears-- tears that he doesn't acknowledge for their sake, politely waiting silently as that curse falls from their lips, swiping under eyes to keep them from falling. "it would've made it worse," he echoes, watching as finch's gaze drops to the floor. for a moment, volt wonders if it's enough to temper that anger- to help refocus finch, remind them just how narrow of a tightrope they all walked-- how much more precarious it was with the rebellion actively working against the capitol during these game; but that head snaps up and there's that flash of anger again, the question cutting through the air between them and hitting the part of volt's mind that has been whispering the same thing. ( wait for what? what is the sign? what's the signal to let us know there's rescue coming to keep us from this nightmare? )
"not everyone gets all the pieces, finch-- if you're expecting me to have an answer, i'm sorry to disappoint you. i don't have one. because i don't have all the pieces-- just because i can't see the full picture doesn't mean that there aren't others holding those pieces until the moment when it makes the most sense to put them into place. i'd wager there's quite a bit going on that isn't being broadcasted-- just because we don't know the details doesn't mean it's not happening." his voice grows a little harder, that tightly restrained anger seeping out through the cracks of his fingers, "they were three of our own, finch. they didn't let three of theirs get shot in the head-- snow murdered three of ours. that was meant as a message to us-- those who knew, knew but those who didn't still received that message loud and clear. you want to attribute that as a fumble on their part, you are welcome to believe that-- but it could've been any one of us. that message was always meant for us-- victors. these games were designed with that same message, executing heath, triffle and terra was just underlining it: at any point, they can take everything away. our children, our families, our lives-- that is the point.
"the capitol wants us to see that point underlined and resign ourselves to it. they want this, finch-- they want us to believe that there is no way out. it's why they're throwing us back into the arena, hoping we'll fall back into that fear that there is no other escape except what we already know; snow only had to kill three victors, he'll let the rest of us finish each other off." volt pauses for a moment, "i don't have all the pieces. i can't tell you what we're waiting for but i'm clinging onto the hope that there is another way out. rebellions are built on hope; the second that hope fails, the capitol wins. what saves lark and ellie is you and me, regardless of what is or isn't coming over the horizon-- and the hope that there's going to be another way out even if we can't see it just yet."
lysander's tongue clicks, head shaking slightly. "i could carry you. throw a bag over that handsome face and no one would even know it was you. see? i planned for everything." it was nice when they could joke and tease and pretend—but lysander wanted more than anything to stop pretending. wanted volt and ellie to be safe, somewhere far away from the capitol and the games and the arena...somewhere distant and elsewhere.
at the end of the day, that's just a dream. but it is one they cling to, one they hope to see. the rebellion just had to act quickly enough. it was possible, it could happen. he exhales slowly, easily lacing his fingers through volt's, thumb brushing against the back of his hand. "...i know." volt had people—a family that he cared about and who cared for him right back. he had a kid—and there was no doubting that ellie was volt's kid—he couldn't just up and leave. and lysander would never seriously ask that of him. "...we're going to get you out—both of you. you just have to—" lysander huffs, moves to tug volt closer to their chest, not wanting to let go and dreading the moment they would have to, his free hand moving to trace along that bracelet around volt's wrist. "—you made me a promise. don't you go forgetting it, okay?"
volt's brow's lift and he can't help the way his mouth picks up at the corners in an unbidden smile, amusement in his voice when he asks as if lysander really is onto something, "a bag? huh-- i hadn't considered a bag. and you'll carry me?" he nods, playing into the joke. ( a joke he's sure few would find as funny as he did -- lysander got his sense of humor, knew what made him laugh... god, that alone would've had volt falling if he weren't already head over heels in a way he never thought he'd be. ) he fights to keep the amused smile from stretching into a grin, laughter coloring the words as he says, "lysander crane running through the streets of the capitol holding someone with a bag over their head-- absolutely nothing suspicious about that." he cracks on the last word, the laugh escaping him, creasing the corners of his eyes and his head leans forward to gently bump his forehead against lysander's, "i don't know why you didn't say anything sooner."
he wants to stay there-- in that moment, in that laughter and warmth, in that fantastical escape plan where in another world, he's sure works and they make it out-- but the seconds continue to tick and the laughter fades as reality settles over them like an uncomfortably heavy quilt. ( he doesn't want to think about it. ) focuses on the feeling of lysander's thumb as it brushes against his skin and it's comforting- that lysander does know, that they understand why volt has never been able to run- but it's another weight on top of the reality and it comforts but it weighs so heavy on his chest. ( i don't want to lose this. ) "all of us," he corrects softly, his eyes on their entwined fingers, "nilani and hita-- i..." and his voice trails off, mind falling into the fresh memory of earlier in that long night ( 'we were supposed to grow old together.' )
the arm around him pulls him closer and volt buries his face against their chest, tucking his head under lysander's chin. it's that quiet panic again in the back of his mind, that hand that grips his heart and squeezes ( what if this is the last time? what if i never get to see you wrinkled and grey? ) and he doesn't want to think about it because it makes that hand grip his heart tighter ( i'm going back. i'm going back. what if i don't make it out this time-- ) and it fights in that grip, beating harder and faster in his chest. ( what if i can't protect her? ) the touch shifts and he feels the light pressure on the cuff at his wrist-- and he breathes. he promised; he promised and volt huffs a breath, trying to disguise it as a humorless laugh, "i've been making a lot of promises tonight."
promises to all of those he loved-- promises that echo in his mind and make him feel more grounded to reality instead of suffocated by it; a promise he was constantly reminded of, that he'd swear his heart beat in the tempo of- elsewhere, elsewhere, elsewhere. the promise that circled his wrist as a placeholder for the ring that was promised once they reached that elusive promised land. if they ever reached it. his head lifts and that hand moves to cup lysander's face, drawing them close to let his lips mould to theirs, pouring all the love and conviction in that dream ( we'll make it. we will. we'll make it-- ) into the kiss. breaking the kiss, volt murmurs, "i won't forget-- i promise, lysander. we'll make it there."
the clock keeps ticking; he buries his face against their shoulder. ( i'll have to leave soon-- not yet. not yet. ) "we never discussed names." because he's so desperate to make every second count, thinks maybe if he keeps filling the space it'll slow time down, "am i taking yours? are you taking mine-- hyphenating is always an option but then there's the matter of order--" ( speak-- speak with me, beloved and fill the space and slow the clock-- i'm not ready to leave yet-- )
WHO: amaranth & primrose everdeen @damagedflames
WHERE: the tribute center
WHEN: post failed-launch
there'd been chaos from what she'd heard. gamemakers and programmers scrambling to figure out what had caused everything to fall apart so quickly, tributes locked and unable to launch; even she had stood there in the crisp white uniform of a capitol medic- a small case in her hands with the trackers that would be inserted into each of their arms as soon as they were in the air on the way to the arena- waiting for further instructions, further movement that never came. there's this small fire of triumph in her chest when the announcement of the delay makes it way through the tribute center and she plays at the same bewildered confusion when others in her unit start to question, echoing back their thoughts and fears as if they were her own.
when dark eyes settle on primrose there's that small electric jolt that shoots up her spine. ( it's a secret- who she is, not this persona she's put on as a disguise- that feels like it'll spill from her mouth any time she's close to the other healer-- your sister loved my sister and that show of kindness echoes through all of us who loved rue and we'll never be able to repay it-- and she has to choke it back-- not now, not here. ) moving to sit beside her, amaranth doesn't speak at first, letting her ears attune to the voices around them before bumping prim's shoulder lightly with her own, "you must be glad for the delay-- another day with your sister and your nephew." her brow furrows slightly, "peeta's interview-- i'm sorry that rye is sick."
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exhaustion swept over every ounce of jett's being like a wave. consuming everything he was. after a long day of collecting weapons, moving them around the capitol, sneaking around to avoid detection only to be caught away and have a gun pointed to their head... it was all a bit much. it didn't help that his entire body hurt and his head was pounding continuously. flashes of memory played in his vision on a loop; the gun to his head, the sound of the shot, being hit in the head, being electrocuted. he felt every sensation as through it were happening all over again. a voice pulled him out of his thoughts with a flinch. "huh? sorry, what was that i must have been daydreaming again."
"you tryin' to stare a hole in the wall again? i told you, jett, you definitely don't have superpowers, no matter how good you are at styling this group-- you cannot melt walls with your stare." it was a joke of course; a tease meant to pull the stylist from his mind ( that he'd been slowly retreating into day after day it seemed )-- kew hadn't expected him to flinch. the sudden movement from jett triggers their own startle response, a slight jump that follows in the wake of his and her brows furrow slightly, saying quickly as if to brush off the silliness from before, "nothing important-- just... talking." they're all on edge, kew guesses-- the games delayed for another day due to technical difficulties and while the news has the bundle of anxiety releasing from her chest, it only brings that tension that had settled on everyone in the tribute center front and center. "whatcha daydreamin'?"
ᴡʜᴏ: HERMES NEWTON & VOLTAIRE OWENS ( @rebellicnrising )
ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: THE TRIBUTE TOWER, THIRD FLOOR
ᴡʜᴇɴ: POST-TRIBUTE INTERVIEWS
After what feels like an absolute eternity, the inhabitants of the tower lobby are informed that they can return to their floors and go about their business. Hermes had never liked standing in one place for very long, and had quickly become antsy in the lobby of the tower – insisting that, if they let him, he could have the elevators fixed in less than five minutes. The peacekeepers, of course, had been less than receptive towards this suggestion. By the time they finally find themself back on the third floor, the clock is rapidly encroaching on midnight.
Io had ushered Solara to her bedroom, leaving Hermes to his own devices in the living room. He's about to consider going to bed himself ( though he still feels a little too wired to go to sleep – this always happened the night before the games, and was only heightened by the stakes this year ), when he hears the elevator ding again – looking up from where he is sprawled across the couch to see VOLTAIRE step onto the third floor.
"There you are," He says, pushing himself up off the couch and crossing the threshold to reach his tribute-turned victor-turned tribute again. They'd been meaning to speak with Volt since his interview, but had lost him in the chaos that had been going on downstairs. "You did good, kid." Hermes says, clapping Volt on the back as he does so. "You doing okay?"
he'd told ellie to stay with io and solara, nilani and hita-- of course, it was when the elevators suddenly lit up with light and people had started to crowd in front of those doors- too eager to up and away from prying eyes and tongues that wanted to wag with questions about the ever impending games- she had been nowhere to be found. there had been that spike of anxiety when looking out into the crowd of faces and not being able to pick hers out that wrapped around his heart like a fist-- a fist that didn't unclench until he finally found her: giggling behind a hand, shoulder bumping against lark delval's as the lobby started to clear.
he hadn't said anything when they finally boarded the elevator- not about how she'd turned to throw her arms around the boy's neck in a quick hug before chirping a 'goodnight', practically skipping to the elevator- but his eyes lingered on the tribute from five for a moment longer before the doors closed and shut him from sight. ( sorry, kid-- i know it's not fair. ) ellie's hand had found his as the elevator moved and volt wondered if maybe he was holding it too tight, reluctant to let go as the doors opened to their floor. ( i wish we had more time, my girl-- i wish you had more time before-- )
there you are-- and volt starts slightly at the voice, feeling almost like a child himself caught out after his curfew. untangling his hand from ellie's, he smooths her hair before pressing a kiss to the top of her head, murmuring to her to, "get some sleep," before turning back to hermes, feeling that clap to his shoulder. the praise for a job well done has his head ducking, the corner of his mouth picking up in a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "thanks, hermes." the question has his head lifting, eyes following the path towards the hallway that led to the bedrooms where ellie has disappeared to, where he's sure nilani and hita are- sharing last minutes silent words between sisters; where io's bound to be comforting solara in the same manner. brow furrows and his mouth turns down at the corners, thinking over the words before answering, "i'm... no. no, i'm not okay." he turns to look at hermes, forcing his mouth to pick up at the corners, feeling how the smile twitches with how it wants to turn back into that frown, "they're launching tomorrow-- we're launching tomorrow. it feels... surreal. and it can't feel like that because it's very, very real-- but it doesn't feel real." shaking his head as if to rattle those thoughts away, he clears his throat, asking softly, "how's everyone else?"
