* ῾ ᴵᴺ ᵀᴴᴱ TOWER

Days had been long and work had been busy. There where days wher he forgot he had even slept or ate. There was much to be done and frankly they were understaffed. The idea of getting refugees to work in the department, fill int he gaps, made him more nervous than having to carry the load himself. Explaining to them how things worked in District 13 has already led to the most ridiciulous conversations he'd ever had in his life. Apart from that time he heard his mother had died, of course. Or when his younger brother died only days after. The ridicule of those conversations could never be beaten.

there’s nary a day in thirteen that the snow granddaughter doesn’t spend at plutarch heavensbee’s side. be it a few, fleeting hours before he’s called away on business elsewhere or entire afternoons that the pair of capitolites soon find bleeding into the evening. all the same, it’s time cora cherishes. the elder man having established himself as her greatest ally here and in turn, taken her under his revolutionary wing. such sudden camaraderie had manifest in a myriad of ways but most discernible ( and surprising ) of all was the paternal way in which he’d come to regard her now. the knowing chides and gentle stare deemed a far cry from coriolanus ii’s abject disinterest and truthfully… it only deepened her appreciation for the rebel commander more.

he’d done much the same today. tutting over her solitude as he sometimes did whilst she pored over her journal. each new entry addressed to constantinus. each new entry a letter he’d never read. the thing itself had been new for the quarter quell and despite finding she was writing more in the subterranean district than she had back in the capitol, still hadn’t any reason to beg necessities for a new one yet. but of course, in his bid to see his protégé socialise, plutarch had request she find her way down there anyway. though the excursion scarcely seemed for her benefit at all when he’d be the one to reap the reward : fresh paper for his chronology.

The best thing about today was the food.

Peeta had gotten more than he'd bargained for, when asking for water from Domitila. It almost made him like her more once she'd offered it but, lately, there hasn't been much for him to like about anything.

Now, he feels itchy from the make up they'd left on his face, though he's changed from the suit back into the Capitol-issued gown that everyone down here wears. He expects to be thrown into his cell, where he'll tear at his hair until these shiny images go away. He'd tried to fight them off during the interview and, for a time, he had. He'd been able to talk to Caesar Flickerman, though he's not sure how much of it made sense.

But now that the interview is over and the only eyes on him are the guards, it's harder to control. Flashes of nothing - something - everything - move in and out of his vision as he's roughly turned to the side, thrust towards a cell that isn't his. The door bangs shut behind him and he jumps, looking around for a moment, eyes darting until he looks down.

Locked in a cage, curled in a ball, is Enobaria. He doesn't really know her, though remembers her name written in his handwriting, facts about her fighting style underneath. While he's studied her, he doesn't know her. "This is where you've been?" he asks a bit too bluntly, eyes narrowing as he looks at the cage. "You - you - you..." What's he trying to say? Why can't he find the words?

He shakes his head, raises a fist to bang it against his temple. All it does is make his vision blur and he sits on the ground next to the cage to try and clear it. "Have they let you out?" And, as though on cue (probably is, he knows they're watching), the cage clicks open. It must be controlled somewhere else.

Peeta scrambles back.

Have they put him in here so she can kill him? Rip his throat out with her teeth?

with scuffed knees pulled tight to her chest, dark brown hues bore holes into the wall with aimless intensity. time drags… or does it fly? it passes all the same as enobaria imagines being able to claw her way out of this hellscape through that very wall. through the hole she’s made from her mean glare. it’s an expression that goes unchanged as the familiar commotion unfolds behind her, prompting embarrassment to rise in her chest and its bruised skin to crawl in subsequence. they’ve dumped somebody inside. a visitor… but despite the blonde hair she’ll glimpse in her peripheries, enobaria knows it’s not thea here with her again and if it’s not her mentor…? well, enobaria barely cares to know who it is at all — conveying as much with an exasperated huff until the door of her cage suddenly swings open once more.

it’s only then that the victor turns, albeit begrudgingly, on her side to see peeta mellark rushing to retreat. a frantic, fearful mess and his presence here draws enobaria’s brows together in bemusement. she doesn’t know him nor did she ever care to. still the capitol’s golden boy, he’s been taken away and spruced up just as thea had. was that it then? another twist of the metaphorical knife. confuse him and throw the treatment of the more susceptible in her face as she’s forced to linger in filthy containment? with the cage open, it feels like purposeful provocation and his stuttering questions only aggravate her further and thusly, go ignored.

did they want her to hurt him? the thought crosses her mind. killing him. it’d be so easy too! like putting some poor, hurt creature out of its misery ( was she no longer the animal here? peeta certainly looks at her as though that’s not changed. ) sure, the boy has a metal leg and a year ago, one might have considered him the stronger of the two but in his current state? dazed and confused and cowering at the mere sight of her… it’s as though they’re goading her with the idea. put there by her very own mentor no less. for, is that not what brutus was telling her during the quell — about twelve being the real enemy in all this? had enobaria been suffering the same lapse in mental stability that others in the block were, she could well have still believed that too. welcoming the opportunity to kill their beloved baker’s boy with open arms and bared teeth. every bit the willing, wrathful pawn she’d always been. only now, as static from the collar around her neck so violently reminds her, things had changed.

“Romeo is banish’d; and all the world to nothing, That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the county.”

another random assortment for your enjoyment!

do they enjoy silence or find it too loud?

how many hours of sleep do they average per night?

would they ever skydive/paraglide/etc?

describe their dream home.  looks, location, decorations, etc.

can they roller skate/skateboard?  would they like to learn?

what’s their favorite dish to cook?  favorite dish to order out?

describe their dream vacation.  would they take anyone or go alone?

are they close to any of their family members?  

what is their idea of the afterlife?  does it scare them?

what’s their love language?  

would they describe themselves as beautiful/handsome/etc?  

did their childhood have a negative or positive impact on them?  

what they wanted to be when they grew up vs what they do now.

what type of neighborhood did they grow up in?  do they still live there?

does their family/friends have any traditions they take part of?

who is their best friend?  how long have they known them?

do they have anyone they consider their enemy?  what did they do to gain that title?

did they have a rebellious stage as a teenager?  what did it involve?

what’s currently in their pockets/purse/etc?

how much cash do they generally carry with them?

do they celebrate any holidays?  what are the celebrations like?  do they have a favorite?

have they ever traveled outside their country?

are they an affectionate person?  how do they feel about pda?

if they were choosing an adventure to go on what would it consist of?

have they ever been in a physical fight?  what happened?

are they more likely to take the leader role or let someone else call the shots?

has anyone ever betrayed their trust?  do they still speak to them?

do they believe in magic?  why do they have this belief?

do they wake up on the first alarm, hit snooze, or have multiple alarms set? 

what’s the first major event they remember in their life?

what would their three wishes be if they found a genie?  

have they ever ended a relationship to pursue their career/education further?  what happened?

what do they consider their worst habit? 

are they good at explaining things to others?

how do they handle being upset/angry?  do they yell, cry, go silent, etc?

do they have any habits they believe are odd?

if they could hit redo on a single past event in their life what would it be?  would they do it if it meant changing the present?

what does their future look like when they picture it?  who’s there with them?

have they ever been to court?  what was the outcome?

wakefulness always greets him with little class. he struggles to surrender to sleep on a good night, though here, in the comfort of soft capitol sheets and his senses flooded with her, it catches him unassuming. he watches the flutter of vesper's eyelids, traces the sweet curve of her neck with his fingertips, counts her breaths, and he's out like a light. dreams don't always follow -- they have pills for that. asleep is always a state zelus welcomes to be in, peacefully resting a body that's often otherwise pulled taut with stress, the only time the crease in the middle of his brows seems to soften. and waking up always feels like being struck with reality like a lightning.

what registers first is that the bed doesn't have its comforting dip or the warmth of vesper pressed to his skin; second, is the noise coming from somewhere else in the room. every danger alert in his brain fires off at once. he pulls himself from slumber with a startled gasp, sitting up in bed in a flash, eyes wild until they settle on the familiar figure. the air leaves his lungs in a  relieved sigh, dizziness catching up to him then, and he has to rub a hand across his eyelids to lift some of the weight from them.

"hey. you're up early," he murmurs, voice carrying unmistakeable disappointment at the observation, too honest in the haziness of barely waking up. it's still dark out, though he won't check the clock to know what time it is, too busy keeping his eyes on her while he still can. they're no strangers to sneaking in and out, this is something he knows. "last night was that bad?" an out of character joke, overcompensating for the also familiar pang in his chest that anticipates watching her leave.

his body is tense and her mind suffers a similar affliction. drawing her in and out of sleep with little remorse as it races at the anarchy the day beginning to break just beyond the threshold will bring. coupled with the immense magnitude of it all, such mounting pressure doesn’t help signs of withdrawal starting to creep in either. symptoms gnawing away at her as usual, so achingly familiar but this, vesper doesn’t mind particularly. not when she’s with him. the singular instance in which she’s come to prefer the clarity it provides. how it allows her the ability to cherish these fleeting moments they share and commit each one to memory — shading them in with the colour lacking from an existence as illicit as theirs, gilding them. now more so than ever before. taking particular care in how she peels herself away from zelus’ still sleeping form. marvelling as she often does at how hands prized for the havoc they’ve wrought always seem to reach for her with such resounding tenderness.

the morphling’s communication device has been buzzing intermittently for a while now. she’s unsure if it’s that that wakes him or the slight commotion she causes trying to slip back into the dress lying discarded on the floor from the night before. the sort of silvery, skintight number they’ve not stopped dressing her in for seventeen years. the sort she doubts she’ll ever have to wear again after today. with it on ( at last ), she has half a tired mind to up and leave at once. having reasoned a hundred times over that perhaps knowing nothing might just be the safer alternative here… but vesper can’t bring herself to do so. his survival not something she’s willing to chance. humming a pouty, playfully offended ❛ hey… ❜ as the joke he utters takes her by surprise and the conviction she had to leave along with it. the uncharacteristic nature of the thing appearing almost like an omen of what’s to come. the day promising to be a most uncharacteristic one.

it has been ten days since the outbreak from the arena. time has not frozen, rather events move faster. beetee latier has made contact with the capitol since then. he knows that constantinus hasn't perished, at least as of yet. there is a relief there. perhaps beetee does regard him as a friend, rather than a colleague and mentee like he'd previously thought. it will be sad when coriolanus finds no purpose for his grandson anymore. the mentor has worked out the scenerios ; for once, the odds seem to not be in con's favor. beetee seeks out his relative out of an unsaid obligation.

it seems she had been put in a family unit, which surprises beetee. near cora was a young children running about. as far as latier knows, the young woman doesn't have a son or more family here. he does not dwell too much on it however. she seems to be doing well ; he will have to relay that information to constantinus somehow. what does not shock him however is that the capitolite is inquiring about her family. the snow granddaughter is timid in her question, almost like cora is rhetorical. the victor wonders if she truly wants an answer.

" are you meaning why constantinus hadn't made it to thirteen ? " he asks, letting a pause linger for perhaps a moment too long. " nothing in particular to my knowledge. i assume he swapped his place here for you. he must have felt that you were a more optimal choice for thirteen. statistically speaking, i don't believe there would have been much chance for both of snow's grandchildren to get to this districts without causing a panic. these are only my assumptions though. "

no matter how eagerly she’d anticipated change, it doesn’t mean she wasn’t frightfully unprepared for it. cora knows this now. in leaving, she hoped to finally be of use and to a select few, she is but the snow granddaughter can't help feeling she's been reduced to the very same prop she was back in the capitol. still trapped in a cage, only it’d lost its brilliant golden hue. looking out now, the view was new. it’s not the comfort she’d thought it would be. not yet, at least. the one choice she'd ever made for herself ( had coming here ever really been a choice, cora? ) spun into yet another lie she's no ounce of control over. it’s a cacophony of hard truths and conflicted feelings cora can’t begin to quiet. made worse by the overwhelming sense of guilt that follows her around thirteen so unflinchingly.

he won’t mean to, of course but beetee latier’s words do nothing for her but feed into it. the list of people who should be here over her only ever seeming to grow with each passing day they spend down here. connie, peeta mellark, every other victor who's said to have been lost in the ensuing chaos, the perished population of twelve. cora had got her foolish, little dream. she was "free" but at what cost? the looks she receives within the halls of district thirteen, so captious in quality, suggest it was far too great and the girl’s heart bleeds in response.