𝕊𝕋𝔸ℕ𝔻 / 𝙐𝙉𝙎𝙃𝘼𝙆𝙀𝙉

𝙍𝙄𝙂𝙂𝙎 𝙋𝙀𝘼𝘾𝙀𝙍𝙊𝙊𝙏 ( 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 /𝘩𝘦 ) of 𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗧 𝗘𝗟𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡

the lingering smell of smoke on clothes after a bonfire, half drank cups of coffee, cringing behind a forced smile, unsent letters filled with apologies, your favorite sweater that you just can’t get rid of despite the holes, taking one for the team.

Riggs mentioning the kitchens makes Slate’s stomach rumble. He hasn’t really had the apatite to eat before. Having to deal with such a new traumatic lifestyle that the Capitol thrusted him into. He’s been pushing away the food given to him before, feeling like he was being watched. But now? Maybe now he could eat.

“Yes, I can still taste.” Though Slate wouldn’t have minded if they took that from him instead. He’d rather be able to see than be able to taste. “But if you’re offering company in joining you, I will take you up.” He gives a tiny, polite smile in response. “I just…” Suddenly, he becomes embarrassed. “Can’t exactly get there myself.”

Silence falls over them once more making what they used to consider a rarity now more of a commonality. “Course, I am, and you don’t need to worry about all of that.” They take a pause again, not wanting to startle him before they begin to move closer. “I’m just gonna place your hand on my shoulder if that’s alright by you.” Riggs takes a moment then to lean over and press the button for the floor to see the doors open once more. Giving their friend a final look over, he carefully takes and place’s Slate’s hand on his own shoulder to help guide them both to the kitchens.

They’re both in the dark. Maybe if Aldera had more visceral feelings, she’d be angry about that. There’s clearly things happening, should someone from Eleven be in the know? But she’s not angry because she knows no one in Eleven is reliable, no one has any solid opinions or emotions to be considered reliable. She’s a recovering addict, for goodness sake, if there’s someone who’s not trustworthy, she’s well aware it’s her.

“I don’t know.” she shakes her head, her arms wrapping around her torso as her lip is taken between her teeth. “No one really tells me anything, even Blythe. Though I’m sure that’s with good reason so I don’t fight.”

But she hums along to what they’re saying. They have a point and she agrees with Riggs fully, but it still bring them to the root problem— how in the world are they supposed to talk to them? Write a message and stick it in a bottle and hope it finds it’s way to them? She’s a bit more hopeless in that department. “I think it’s quite clear they’re not exactly clambering for our loyalty.” She sighs, looking down to her feet. She can’t blame them either, even if it stings a little bit.

She can’t help the ache that comes when Riggs says she’s knows better than anyone. She’s never really thought of herself in that way, but with the respect she has for Riggs, it means a lot to her that he thinks of her in that way. “Thanks.” She cracks a smile. “But I’m not really sure how we grab their attention in regards to that.”

—

Her comments build, one on top of the other, expanding their own thoughts on the matter and only confirming the worst of their assumptions. She’s right. No one is talking to either of them about these matters. No one seems to be reaching out. No one has given them any hints for how to even begin that line of communication, except —

“What about the interviews?” Eyebrows furrow together as Riggs attempts to make any semblance of a plan, even a hint of an idea for her to build off of, but there’s a reason why they’re known as the comedic relief of the victors rather than the strategic genius. “Maybe not a whole, you know, persuasive speech explicitly given for the rebels, but... I’m not sure. Whole lot of people are forced to watch those things, and I reckon one or two rebels, at least, will be in the audience. Just uh... you know, there’s the whole well... what to say piece.” 

Riggs’ laugh sends a shudder down their spine. They try to school their features into something neutral, to listen and learn rather than jump to defensiveness of a lifestyle that was never really their choice at all. But there’s still so much they don’t know, a new and vicious surprise that lurks around every corner. It would be easy to let themselves be tempted back into ignorance. 

“That’s exactly what you should do.” They sit up a little straighter. Riggs might think it silly, think them naïve, but it’s their determination that stands out now. “What better what to get people to pay attention than to give them the opposite of what they expect from you? Nobody… None of us–” Virgo pulls an odd face, rejecting the association even as they make it, “–would be able to look away.” 

There’s more to it than that, they’re sure. A way their friends’ stories could be used to make a stand of a different sort. Not through fearmongering and threats the way those announcements seem to favour, but angling toward understanding. The truth, no matter how painful, is something they think needs to be heard. They’ve watched for years as their father crafted masterful propaganda–maybe it’s time someone else has a turn. 

But what do they know? 

They shrug, turning their face to hide a grin. “I think they’d rather demote me to prep team.” Funny that something they’d feared with every fibre of their being only a couple months ago now doesn’t bother them at all. They’re too focused on the delight of being told they’re trusted. “Then you’ll have to let Horus be your first while I’m stuck waxing eyebrows.” 

—

Us. It makes their back straighten, jaw tight with comfort over the reminder that Virgo still finds more familiarity with their oppressor than the team Riggs has come to call family. “And what if the Gamemakers —” their eyes avert slightly, knowing just what that title means to them, “—decide that saying just that is too controversial, worthy of being the target of their newest inventions?” 

Riggs doesn’t question videos, cameras, or audio recorders in this state. They know good and well that Birch, despite all of their hopes and wishes, is walking straight into his funeral. Questions of increasing his risk of death due to talking back might mean making it through half of day one instead of into the night.

“Don’t quite care what ole, cranky Horus thinks.” Riggs leaves the statement with a simple, short shrug. “I just like having you around. Better than the whole lot of them. If they’re really all that upset about the ordeal, I’ll talk strategy with you between screams and wax pulls.”

DETAILS: district eleven accomdations, during the disappearance of The Squad

She shouldn’t have been so rude to Griffin when she first met him. Being a mentor is no joke. The unwavering guilt, the life in your hands, is almost too much to bear. And that’s on top of everything she feels from her own time in the Arena, on top of the terrible life that she lived before she was reaped.

Her entire life has changed in a year. There is blood on her hands and a ring on her finger. And the sister she so desperately wanted to protect is in training to fight for her life.

She has spoken to Griffin extensively about their plans for Wren, but outside opinions are always good to have. Especially when someone like Riggs is in a similar boat emotionally. It’s a layer of hell, watching someone you love prepare for the slaughter.

Fava is uncharacteristically emotional when she meets them with a coffee in hand. It isn’t for her. The caffeine would keep her up even longer or amplify her anxiety to the point of hysteria. All she wants to do is cry these days. She figures it’s some sort of karmic retribution. Clearly she deserves this.

It takes her a moment to work up the courage to knock on the door, but she feels marginally better when Riggs appears on the other side. “I got you something. I don’t know how you take your coffee and I know you have stuff here anyway, but we had this dispenser with hazelnut cream and I thought that would — be nice.”

—

There’s a sort of fondness Riggs has yet to find a name for when it comes to Fava. Maybe it can be boiled down to their knowledge that they never had the grit nor the bravery that they’ve seen consistently displayed in her and at such a young age at that. Maybe it’s the pure goodness that they see reflecting off of her, despite so many people’s attempts to paint her as nothing but a stubborn youngster. It doesn’t matter. They’re happy to see her: with the coffee she comes bearing, with the emotions she seems to be holding in, in it all. Too young. Too kind. Undeserving of this cruel hand the world has dealt her.

“Hazelnut hm?” they reply, letting out a slow, impressed whistle for show. “Sure are pulling out all the stops. Is it my birthday? I hope I haven’t gotten too pulled into these ole festivities to forget even that.” There’s a low laugh that they release, warm and bright despite the rather emotional circumstances. “Thank you. It looks lovely,” they reply, taking a sip. “Good as it looks too.”

Riggs knows they could sit in the ease of coffee talk, waste the day away with silly conversations of coffee orders and Capitol takes on what fancy coffee should look like with all its special add ons. Riggs, however, isn’t clueless. Something is here. Something they likely need to give her the space to be open with. “As much as I’d love wasting away getting jittery over this extra mid-day boost, I can’t help but wanna check in with you. End of that wedding was quite something. How’re you hanging in there?”

It’s hard not to laugh at the Riggs suggesting they talk to the rebels about their ideas. Not that she’s laughing at Riggs, but the image of it is hard not to. Not only is Riggs the butt of many jokes in Panem, she’s not much different, either. They don’t have respect or prestige behind them when they’d go to express their concerns. They’d just be two of Panem’s biggest jokes, trying to keep their people safe.

But it’s better than nothing, right?

She continues to laugh for a moment, bringing a finger to press into her eyelid. “I would argue there are many people who are better than us for it, but we might be the only ones who can.” And that’s really all it comes down to in the end. She doesn’t actually think there’s anyone else for the job but them. Which is a bit of a terrifying idea.

“I wouldn’t even know how to talk to them. You think they have an extension on the phone?” She jokes, which always feels weird to her when she makes jokes around Riggs. That’s their thing to do. 

But truthfully, how does one ‘bring up the concern’ to the rebels? Do they sit on thrones of their own? Do they write a letter of concern? They seem so untouchable, she wouldn’t know where to begin.

—

If anyone else had been laughing at a time like this, they might’ve shut down, made some ridiculous joke about their incompetence, and then left as if they had said nothing at all. Aldera, however, is trusted. She’s his team. He doesn’t just trust her, but he respects her opinions and ideas as well.

So he stays, and he doesn’t try to cover up with some silly joke, he just listens. The joke about the extension to reach the rebels isn’t missed, but despite her attempt to make it humorous, Aldera brings up a good point. It’s not as if the rebels are walking around with a name tag announcing themself to the world. “Do you think anyone’s actually made contact with them?” Riggs’ eyes rise from their hands back up to her. “Sure, we’ve had the um...” What were they to even call the various ‘announcements’ these supposed rebels have made? “...heads ups from them about something big coming, but... do you know anyone that’s sat down and talked with them, any of them? Blythe even?”

Riggs thinks then of what they would even say if given the opportunity to talk to them. Panem’s origins were rooted in protection, finding the calm amongst the chaos. That was what he had heard ever since he was thrown out into the fields as a young boy with a pat on the back and a reminder that his work was to help maintain that order and peace so they could continue on with maintaining their protection. “I think it’s fair of us to question their intentions for the future of Panem, including Eleven, before we swear away our loyalties and allegiances don’t you? I might not know of the power they all hold, but the Capitol isn’t a joke. They should be wanting all the help they can get whether it’s just more bodies or getting out the word to our people.” 

Ideas of negotiation over the lives of those who can’t even speak for themselves leaves Riggs with a sour taste in their mouth and a small ache in their chest. “You know the hearts of Eleven better than anyone. It’s not just that they should talk to you, but they need to.” Riggs’ voice trembles, struggling through their thoughts and putting them into words that seem concrete and confident. “Taking down the Capitol is one thing, but reestablishing trust in a new government will be a hard thing to do if they exclude an entire district of people. We make them see that? I’m sure they’ll listen.”

Riggs. He’s relieved to hear that voice. To know it’s a friend he’s sharing the space with and not someone he should be afraid of.

God, the thought alone makes him feel awful. Slate was a man of strength and power and now he’s left with nothing, and fearful of those around him because he doesn’t know what they’re do. 

But this is Riggs and he trusts them and he lets himself relax just a little. Until they speak about their stubble and he has to decide if he wants to keep with the games and pretend he can see the stubble in reference, or be honest. He doesn’t know that he’s a sight to behold. That his one eye left, and the previous faux one, have been replaced with foggy glass orbs, giving him a haunting look.

“I wouldn’t know.” He says softly, his hand gripping the railing to hold him stable. “Can’t really see anymore.” It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it crushes him.

They’d felt this three times before. The first, in his own games, Riggs had been left gaping for air to breath in the moments following the single cannon attribute to him. The second, the moments after Aldera’s win, taking deep breaths with no success, understanding the world that she was about to be thrown into. The third, the days following the Quell’s announcement, struggling to keep standing, treating each breath like it might be their last. 

Slate’s confession leaves them in a slipstream. Riggs tries focusing on just breathing, maintaining their own oxygen flow when all their assumptions about the disappearance of their friend confirm the worst of them. But Riggs does just that, and they body threatens to give out. 

Too many things are far past disturbing and morbid to be spun into a brighter light. Their days of distracting with humor seem to be in the rearview mirror, leaving Riggs with no clear path of how to navigate forward.

It is harsh and they hate themselves for it. Everything they say is measured, their recent affair with brutality implores them to soften. Virgo would rather a few seconds’ discomfort than risk Riggs getting so lost in their own head that they fail. They aren’t sure they understand the consequences anymore. 

“They’ll make the association anyway.” Virgo shakes their head. They know from experience that unless a viewer takes the time to know them personally, all they’ll see when they look at Riggs are those Games. They hate to admit that Birch is at a disadvantage by their connection alone, a family name that means more than the brief clips of his Reaping. “What’s important is you put your spin on it. Maybe… maybe this isn’t as bad as it seems. Maybe this is your big comeback.”

They like that, don’t they? Putting on a show. Virgo has watched closely enough to understand that while the jokes they make don’t always land, and maybe they don’t even come from the right place, there’s something of a natural performer in Riggs. If they can tap into that, they might stand a chance.

“The Capitol loves an underdog story.” Done right, they think to add. Virgo doesn’t–the last thing they want is for Riggs to feel blamed. But they’re the expert here, they have to use that knowledge to their advantage. “We’re a whole team of underdogs, Riggs. If they ask, you have to be honest. Own your mistakes. Don’t deflect and certainly don’t rely on puns to get you through this.” 

—

Of course they will. Riggs might be silly, foolish even, but they’re not unintelligent, and they’re certainly not naive. The Capitol takes. It rips through the most delicate pieces of the victors’ and tributes’ lives and transforms them into shock pieces for their citizen’s entertainment. 

And they hate it. They don’t hate much, even with all of the pain and suffering that has surrounded them since they were just a newborn, they can’t find it in their heart to paint the world in hatred and cynicism. But this? This ability to pull other’s pain and suffering apart and find humor in it? Well, that they can say, with no hesitation, they loathe.

“So I be honest then? Tell them how the only reason Birch stands a chance is because I won my Games by luck and was able to provide him with food growing up unlike many of the other Eleven kids?” There’s a snort, followed by a brief, cold laugh. There’s making light of the situation — finding something bright and humorous amongst the dark — and there’s the accepting of the darkness. Riggs isn’t quite sure there’s another way to spin it. They never have been.

Their body shakes slightly with the exhale they release. Eyes flash over towards baby-proofed tables, orchard themed statement pieces, and nothing in particular. “Well when you put it like that...” Riggs reaches out to gently pat the top of their hand, “...can’t go wrong with you as a coach, huh? One of the few people I trust with this kind of thing. They might as well anoint you as the first stylist-escort at this point... as long as ole Horus doesn’t try to burn the place down.”

Aldera listens closely. Her hands are folded in her lap and she’s staring at her fingernails but she’s thinking about all the information Riggs is relaying back to her. It’s more than she’s ever known, though that was likely by choice then. But what she really wants, is for things to be less complicated and for her to be able to make a damn choice about it all.

Of course Blythe has a group going together, and if the implications weren’t so great, Aldera would be with that group too.

She knows Riggs will understand. She folds her hands together and looks up to him with a grim expression. “But you know it means… if they actually do something, right? All those poor kids who already suffer enough.” She looks back down to her hands, saying the very thing that’s been scaring her, that she hasn’t been able to speak allowed. “I’m afraid that if change happens, no one from Eleven will be able to see the brighter future that’s made.”

It’s not as though they’d go softer on Eleven than how they’ve always been. Things had already been bad when they left this time. She can’t imagine it even worse.

“What’s the point if we can save or protect those we care about?”

—

The sigh they release falls heavily from their chest and lips. It’s something they’ve been considering for quite some time. It came up when Fava and Hudson won, when Birch shared his own sentiments about that win, when the most recent reaping occurred and all that followed after that. Riggs can’t say they’ve ever been as tightly knit into the community, and really, they don’t blame anyone but themself for that — loose lips and careless antics kill community leaders after-all — but that doesn’t mean the love they have for their people doesn’t persist. 

But something has to change. It just has to.

“Maybe that’s our role in all this then right? It shouldn’t have to ride solely on our backs to advocate for the protection of our people but who better to do so than us?” They fall silent then, considering just how one might even begin that level of proposition to someone as infamous as the rebels. Riggs hasn’t gone a day in their life as someone other’s take seriously. Would these freedom fighters think any differently about the two of them wanting to be brought into the fold with their proposition to include the people of Eleven?

There’s an eerie thought that lingers, and while Riggs might normally mask it for Aldera with their odd and uncomfortable jokes, they know now is not the time. “The fight for freedom never comes quietly. There will always be those that fall victim to it. I just —” their fingers reach up to gently scratch the stubble of their beard, “—I just suppose we’ll know the true hearts of these rebels based on whether or not they’re ready to use an entire region of people as expendable or not when we voice our concerns. There’s no harm in trying to see what they think though, is there? These rebels are likely going to try and push forward with their plans with or without us.”

When: The night of Slate’s return Where: The Elevator… I guess

It was a feat trying to get here in the first place. Slate’s body is sore and weak to begin with, but being unable to find his way has lead to hip-checking almost every corner. His fingers have been his guides but he feels like an idiot, feeling around for where the elevator is. He finally finds it, after what feels like ages. 

Another con to being unable to see. He has no way of telling time. Everything feels like an eternity to him.

When he clicks the button of the elevator, he sighs, relief washing over him as he finally found it. And when it dings, and he hears the doors slide open, he carefully steps inside, and it takes seconds to find he’s not alone, though he’s unable to tell exactly who it is.

“Evening.” He nods, and he’s trying to play it cool. They can’t know he’s struggling. Or that he’s blind. He doesn’t know if people figured out he went missing or not. He has no idea if he looks like shit, either. He’s just trying to play confident and hope they don’t do anything about it. That’s what he did his whole life, he can do it a little more.

It’s a dream. It just has to be. There’s no other way to describe what they’re seeing now with their good friend, having been disappeared for days, giving them nothing but a nod and ‘evening’.

Riggs takes a step back, their eyes taking in the entire scene before them: Slate, the elevator, anything that might indicate why he’s treating them with such nonchalance. Nothing comes. None of it makes sense, which only makes their concern for him grow. 

“Slate?” He doesn’t touch the other mentor, but Riggs draws closer, slowly, as if this might give him a better indication that it’s actually him, or that the closer proximity might draw him out of his own fever dream he has found himself in. “It’s uh... Riggs... Peaceroot. Didn’t realize the stubble would age me this much, but um.. maybe this is just what I need to convince all of them I’m old enough for retirement huh?” 

She just needs a sounding board. Someone to throw her ideas at. Someone who knows what she’s talking about. Riggs is part of her community as well, and even if they’re not active in it in the way she is, they still know, and have seen, and understand that if this fight keeps happening, most of their community will be dead.

So she needed their company and their comfort and their ears. There’s been silence for a long time as she sits back in her chair, hunched, staring at her hands while she tries to think. Thankfully, Riggs breaks the silence for her and she takes a deep breath in.

“I don’t really know what’s true anymore, so maybe you should start.” She sighs, and maybe she’s being melodramatic, but after the last 48 hours, she thinks she might be justified.

—

They give her a grim nod. “Birch and Parsley are still going into those Games.” Sage, Wren, that funny Chrysanthe, all of those tributes. It’s the easiest truth to begin with as it’s one thing that’s sat most prominently in their mind. Talks anti-capitol sentiments have always been there for them. With such a high peacekeeper presence in their District, his own experiences with peacekeepers and capitol folks alike, and having Blythe Beesley as one of the people he cares about the most, it has permeated every aspect of Riggs’ life. But those Games, they’re not changing, not yet at least, and they’re sticking to known truths for the time being.

“Perri got an anonymous note basically questioning if the rebels were behind the trains. I don’t know much more about that.” Really, the two of them hadn’t been able to talk more about any of it. “But there was that other message from someone claiming to be them at the wedding. Slate, Cinna, and Silver went missing sometime after that, or during, or before.” They let out a sigh, allowing their body to lean slightly against the wall beside them for support. “Blythe’s got a group together here, doing who knows what.” 

Lips fall into a downward curve then as they allow their final statement to linger on their tongue. It’s the one they know is exclusive to only a select few. “And I haven’t spoken to anyone from back home since before the reaping. Don’t know what’s going on there.” What they mean to say is they don’t know if the peacekeepers have come in larger numbers, if their people are starting to organize as they’ve heard others in more-resourced districts have, if they’re even still there.

Since the announcement of the interviews, they’ve been studying. Not for themselves (Virgo likes to think they’re good at talking) but for the team. Finding the old footage, taking pages of notes that filled with far more wrongs than rights. They’d even had tea with Three’s decrepit old stylist to see what he remembers first-hand. Not much, as it happens, but they did learn a thing or two about finger knitting. 

Riggs is their main concern. They know things didn’t exactly go well the first time around and they’re determined to help where they can. It’s a shame they can’t sit in on the interview themselves, nudge the questions toward points they know would make Riggs shine. Cut off the silly jokes (or at least provide an authentic laugh or two) and redirect toward charm. Trouble is, they can’t. Nor can they expect an audience who haven’t the time (or the inclination) to bother to get to know these people at all. 

“Maybe… some of them.” Virgo pauses, holding up an elaborate silk shirt to the light. They’re too prone to overthinking to know exactly the direction they’re headed. Safe and simple or something bold–that’s a decision they can’t make alone. Part of them thinks this is the time to take a risk. “If you watch for the lip twitch, you’ll know if they’re working or not. But, if you want my advice be genuine. Don’t try to cover by making people laugh. It looks… desperate.” 

—

They should’ve expected as much. Riggs can hardly recall the last time someone from the capitol not directly affiliated with the teams had laughed at one of their jokes, rather than laughing at them. “Desperate seems a bit harsh don’t you think?” Genuine or not, no matter how much they appreciate their advice and how true they know it is, the sting hurts all the same. 

Eyes flicker over to the silk shirt Virgo’s working on rather than looking them head on. “How best do you think I redirect them then? You know how they are, always going for the easy stuff. I’m the un-funny, joke mentor right?” There’s no self pity in their tone. It’s all matter of fact by now, and while it once made them angry, it’s something they’ve had to accept. All they’ve known now is beating them to the punch. “They’re going to start with that angle, so where do I push them from there to get them to focus on Birch and Parsley’s —”

Qualities that make them a potential threat is what they were going to say, but Riggs stops in their tracks. Even thinking it is enough to incite a small flare up in their abdomen. Riggs’ hand goes their stomach, as if the mere pressure will draw out whatever toxins and wounds still remain there from their own games. “Last thing I want is for them to associate any of my games to the two of them.”

Diose expects for people like Perri and Robyn to show up, not Riggs. They’re friends, sure, but they’ve never been close. It’s why her own fear poisons her thoughts, makes her believe that they’ve been somehow sent to hurt her, that if she drinks even one sip of the beverage she is able to distinguish through her peep hole she will drop dead.

She stands with her cheek against her door, listening. They seem to be alone. A horde of peacekeepers won’t take her if she opens the door. At least that’s something. Still somewhat fearful, she opens the door and lets the victor in. 

“I’m not…. I’m sorry, I’m not hungry.“ She won’t drink it. Even if Riggs isn’t part of the plan, someone could’ve added something to it while they weren’t looking. “I can… Give you the number of an interior designer.“ She needs them to get out. Leave her alone to rot. “Is that all?“

—

Their attempt at a smile easily shifts into a frown when she practically tells them to walk on out. It’s certainly not the vote of confidence in her mental state that they were hoping for. “Well, if it helps at all, you’d be drinking it not eating.” They force out a cold chuckle, hand inching up to the back of their neck to gently scratch. “Sorry, bad joke. Do you have an upset stomach or something? You know I’m the expert behind that.” Another chuckle, awkward and forced once more as they instinctually bring up the hot chocolate up to their own lips in an attempt for them to stop that. All of that. 

“I can cook you up some soup if you’d like. I always used to cook for Perri and little Sage when they were feeling under the weather, but um...” Riggs shuffles uncomfortably. Better to just get out with it now rather than dig themself further into any holes of pitiful puns and jokes. “Just worried about you is all. Worried about Slate, the whole lot of them. Don’t think I’ve ever questioned drinking as much as I am now, and I say that fully knowing the consequences.” 

His normal medicinals are replaced with another cocktail for the evening that will hopefully help lower Riggs’ overall stress without losing any of his concentration. Clouds of smoke flood the space around Riggs, coating him in a mixture of subtle hints of citrus and green tea from the mugwort and damiana leaf combination. There’s no way to really begin this conversation, too many things are involved, so he just stares straight ahead at the cityscape for a moment longer. 

The extra puff and moments to ponder prove useless. Tapping it out, Riggs turns to face Aldera once more. None of their normal liveliness in their tone can be found when he finally opens his mouth. “So, uh, I think we both know why we’re up here...” Start with the obvious. It’s easier that way when this entire conversation will likely be colored nothing but grey. “Maybe we should just start with what we know to be true? Go from there?”

There had been no need to directly and explictly state to Virgo that the interviews were a major source of anxiety for them. The proof was in the tapes of their year’s interviews being played for a good little comedic effect anytime ‘The Games Worst Moments’ were brought up. Their escort, Horus, as usual had been no help. Always on the grumpier side with little to no patience, they had mumbled a small, ‘Virgo will make you look fine’, and that had been the end of that. 

The advice, however, had stuck a bit too well because now instead of just going over outfit plans, Riggs finds themself sitting in the District 11 apartment waiting for whatever prep work Virgo had prepared for them. “Hey, uh, Virgo?” they begin, trying their best to look the stylist over as if there might be some clues for their plans. “Just be honest with me right off of the bat, am I going to have to can all jokes this time around?”