victoriams

[victoriams]

Prue had never dealt particularly well with change. She was, above all else, a creature of habit. She went to sleep at the same time every night and woke up to the same alarm each morning. She read the same books, over and over again, because she liked to know that there would be a happy ending. For someone so painfully content with the familiar – you might be tempted to ask how she could have possibly volunteered to upend her life and embark on a mission to the Capitol, where nothing, not even the next day, was guaranteed. Truthfully, were she alone here, she would have snapped from the pressure a long time ago. But, truthfully, were she asked to go it alone, Prudence would not have agreed to it at all – her altruism only extends so far.

Were it not for Nazanin by her side, Prue isn't sure there would be much point in her existence at all. She certainly wouldn't be of any use to the rebellion. She wasn't brave, and she wasn't strong – Naz had always had enough courage for the both of them, leaping straight into the deep end when Prue was always too afraid to put her toes in the water. Nazanin is her constant, her safety, her home. Even as everything else in her life is being torn apart, Prue knows that, in the end, it will be okay as long as Naz's hand is safely in her own. She knows that the rest of the universe can shift and change around her – but it doesn't matter. As long as she has Naz's bright, constant warmth to guide her – to orbit like the moon, she would be okay. Nazanin could protect her from anything.

Maybe this is why, when Nazanin finally, faintly, responds to Prue, something sharp and cold wraps around her heart. Because Nazanin sounds afraid. Nazanin, who wasn't scared of anything – who chased away monsters when they were children and who had always worked to shield Prudence from anything that might bring her harm. Nazanin, whose voice was always strong where Prue's shook, whose stance was always firm where Prue's wavered, whose resolve was fierce and unyielding, who was the bravest person Prue had ever known. Prue, as we know, is not brave. She is not the kind of person to run headfirst into danger – at least, not intentionally.

No, Prudence Warren is the kind of person who will sit and analyse everything that could possibly go wrong – who will wait, and wait, and wait, until the opportunity to act has well and truly passed her by. Logic would tell her to do this now – to wait. Logic would tell her that moving from her precarious position within the rubble could worsen her injuries, or disturb the debris and send it toppling down to crush her. Ordinarily, logic would win, and Prue would sit and wait, and wait, and wait, probably until Naz acted on her behalf. But, for once, logic does not prevail – because Nazanin is hurt and she is afraid, and it is all Prue's fault, and she cannot just sit here and wait while the person she loves most in the world is in pain.

So, despite the way her limbs protest and the debris shifts around her, Prue drags herself across the treacherous ground on her hands and knees – following the sound of Nazanin's panicked voice like a homing beacon. Like it is the only thing that matters. After only a few harrowing moments, she finally reaches them, feels the warmth of another body against the chilling cold of the concrete. Hands reach out through the dark and settle on Naz's shoulders, eyes squint against the darkness and the dust to make out Naz's features, to see the way their eyes shine in the dim light. "I'm here," She says, echoing Naz's reassurance from before, her voice still ragged and hoarse and thick. "Are you hurt?"  

nazanin has always struggled with stretching herself thin. if she could multiply herself and be several places at once, she would -- especially when things begin to get more and more tense with each day that passes. she knows this is what they've been waiting for, that this is the sole reason they are in the capitol. but it's when she sees her loved ones suffering -- in any way, no matter how small -- it's as if something comes over her, a natural instinct to protect. and no matter how much she would like to, naz cannot be in multiple places at once. so she settles for what she's done since childhood -- follow prudence.

two things were guaranteed when they were together. one, naz felt safe -- there was no performing around prue. there had never been any expectations, nothing to bring except what was authentically her. and two, she did not have to worry what danger her best friend might be in, because no matter where she was, this was a given. all of her thoughts, rambling and coherent alike, would return back to prudence warren like a boomerang.

so it's almost a comfort to know that they were side by side when the city caught fire. it's a comfort until they lose her in the streets and rubble surrounds their every direction, casting them in darkness save for dusty streams of orange shining through cracks in the building surrounding them. they tried to stay close to prue, holding onto her hand for dear life and trying their best to remember the layout of the city but everything looks the same when it's engulfed in flames. everything looks the same when you're underneath the buildings.

the first thing they hear is her voice -- like some sort of beacon, guiding her out of a haze. their neck aches from where they'd been smushed up against one of the fallen pieces of architecture around them. if they're injured more than aching limbs, naz cannot tell from the pure adrenaline coursing through their veins once fully awake, and if they weren't before then hearing prudence beside her is like a bump of the capitol's finest. "i'm here." they manage weakly, though it's more of a croak than a real sentence, so naz tries again louder and coughs through it. they go to open their eyes and squint, trying to make out the curly hair and small frame and panic rises when they can't. "where -- where are you? i can't see you, prue."

#thread. prudence #with. nazanin #where. capitol #when. the attack #event 005

[victoriams]

ᴡʜᴏ: CYBELE KASTEL & OPEN ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: TRIBUTE TOWER, LOBBY ᴡʜᴇɴ: SIXTH DAY OF THE GAMES – POST-FIRES, PRE-BOMBING

Cybele didn't have much time for the so-called rebels. In fact, they considered them, for the most part, to be akin to temperamental toddlers – ungrateful little brats that stomped their feet and cried whenever they didn't get their way. There was a reason they'd never had children, after all – and they didn't want to be reminded of those reasons by a group of grown adults. The victors that played along had even less of Cybele's respect – they'd been given everything they had, all their riches and rewards, by the very institution they were now threatening to dismantle. Cybele, for one, had no intention of giving up the luxuries afforded to them by winning the games, just to appease a bunch of greedy children in the outer districts.

So, when they watch the live coverage of the rebels ( quite literally ) setting fire to the city centre, they cannot help but roll their eyes. One, it seemed like a temper tantrum that had gone a step too far. And, two, it was entirely uninspired. Burn down the Capitol by literally burning down the Capitol? Cybele could've done better than that. Bloodier than that. Less painfully on-the-nose than that. Of course, they had to remember that not everybody had the same penchant for destruction that they did – not everybody was as boundlessly creative. Some people were just... well, really boring. And pathetic. These rebels just happened to be both, which made it all the easier to despise them.

"Fucking idiots." They mutter to nobody in particular, blowing out a cloud of smoke from between their teeth. They watch the screen with a face void of any emotion – as helicopters whir overhead to put out fires, people scream and cry and look desperately for their loved ones. When they realise they've caught someone's attention, they elaborate. "They want to prove they're smarter than the Capitol, but they keep running in half-cocked. If you're going to stage an ill-advised coup, at least plan it."

#mj.start #thread. cybele #where. tribute tower #when. the attack #event 005 #tw fire #tw smoking #tw violence

[victoriams]

ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙʟᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴛᴀʟʟɪᴄ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ.

bae doona . non binary . they/them ➶ DID YOU SEE THEM ?! they’re finally back as a MENTOR , and you know they’re one of my favourites ! it’s CYBELE KASTEL , the FORTY year old WINNER of the SIXTY-NINTH hunger games! i’m just so excited to see them returning to the capitol all the way from DISTRICT SIX! they won their games using A SLEDGEHAMMER so their tributes will no doubt be desperate for their wisdom. the capitol just loved them for being so CAPABLE , even if they have been known to be DERANGED at times . ( character ISN’T part of the uprising )

STATISTICS

FULL NAME cybele kastel

NICKNAMES cyb, psycho killer

DATE OF BIRTH january 19th, 54th year

AGE forty

DISTRICT six

ROLE mentor

VICTORY YEAR sixty-ninth

GENDER non-binary

ORIENTATION pansexual panromantic

PERSONALITY

POSITIVE TRAITS capable, intrepid, self-assured, sharp

NEGATIVE TRAITS deranged, brutal, volatile, callous  

MBTI entj-t – the commander   

ENNEAGRAM type 8 – the challenger

MORAL ALIGNMENT chaotic evil

DEADLY SIN wrath

HEAVENLY VIRTUE temperance

ZODIAC gemini

RELATIONSHIPS

Cordelia Carter – mother, deceased

Bertram Kastel – father, alive

Caerus Kastel – older brother, deceased

Cyprian Kastel – older brother, alive

Circe Kastel – niece, alive

BIOGRAPHY

tw: violence, addiction & parental death

For most children, growing up in District Six is a curse. In a district so rife with poverty, starvation, squalor – it is often considered a miracle to even make it past childhood. Of course, no such issues faced the Kastel children. Not because they were particularly talented, or exceptionally bright – but because their mother had gotten lucky exactly once in her life and won the Hunger Games.

Cordelia Carter was, by all accounts, a rather unremarkable victor. She had won the games at eighteen by playing the coward’s game and hiding until she was certain only one other tribute remained. For the most part, she was regarded with a resounding sense of apathy from the Capitol. She was bland, and boring, and not terribly desirable – and so she was allowed to sequester herself to a quiet little life back in her home district, save for her annual visits to the Capitol. After winning the games, she had tried to continue down the same path that she’d had laid in front of her since the day she was born – shortly after moving into the victor’s village, she married her childhood sweetheart, had a few children, and attempted to enjoy the simple life she’d always wanted. If anybody ever noticed that she seemed somewhat absent following her stint in the arena, or if anybody clocked on to the way her hands shook after she woke up screaming each night, or the way she would lock herself in her room for weeks at a time – nobody ever thought to say anything about it. Besides, the girl was rich now – what more could she possibly want?

You are the third, and final, of Cordelia’s three children. Your childhood is… unremarkable, at best. You do not struggle for food the way that your peers do. You are not wafer thin from lack of sustenance, and you do not need to start working to survive before you hit high school. Some of them seem to resent you for this – for your new clothes and fancy house and the souvenirs your mother brings back from her annual trips to the Capitol, of all places – but you wear their jealousy like a badge of honor. It’s not your fault, after all, that your mother won the Hunger Games, and their parents did not. Why shouldn’t you revel in the spoils of her victory? Besides, it is not as though they come without a cost. Your mother tries, you think. She tries to be there for you and your siblings – and, truthfully, you think your existence is the only thing that keeps her from diving headfirst off the deep end. But she’s not warm. She’s not loving. She keeps a calculated distance, and, when you’re only a child, you don’t understand why. It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that it’s because of you – that, somehow, you need to earn her love. You just don’t know how.

This is the part where we will talk about your father. Bertram Kastel was, according to all who knew him, an extremely uninteresting and pervasive man. He had started dating your mother when they were still in school, and, when she had been reaped for the games, he had assumed that this would be the end of their romantic entanglement. A true gentleman, of course, he did not abandon her when she returned from the games, though he considered it after learning how weepy and skittish she had become following her stint in the arena. In fact, he proposed only a few short hours after finding out that the victor’s salary would be enough to ensure that neither of them would ever have to work again. You never think very much of your father – you see very little of him when you are younger. You’re not sure he’d ever particularly wanted children, or if he had just wanted to appease your mother and keep his paychecks coming. He prefers spending his days drinking or gambling or both – leaving you and your siblings almost entirely to your own devices, not that you mind, of course.

There is one thing that your father teaches you: and that is respect for the Capitol. Yes, it is instilled in you at school, but he is the one to really drive home the message. He tends to ignore the awful things that they have done – the way they let your people starve, the way they have left your mother a hollow shell of a person – but focuses on what they have provided. For him, it is a life of luxury without ever having to lift a finger. It is a steady paycheck without ever needing to work for it. It is a status above the rest of the district, a big house and nice food and the ability to waste away his days however he should so please. If you want to get ahead, Cybele, he had told you once, you have to play to their rules. Everybody knew the way that victors were treated when they fell out of line. There is no use bending to the morals of the people here – they aren’t the ones who will provide for you. You think, if it were not for your mother’s insistence that she remain in District Six, he might have tried to move to the Capitol. He seemed to like them better than his own district.

You are eight years old the first time your mother falls ill. None of the doctors in District Six can determine exactly what is wrong with her. She is taken to the Capitol for several weeks to receive treatment, and returns looking sickly and gaunt and with a seemingly limitless supply of morphling. You think, maybe, it would have been better for everyone, had she just died then and there. Your mother had always been erratic – but, when she takes the morphling, she turns into someone you barely recognise. She becomes lifeless and inert – barely leaving her bed for days at a time. Whenever her supply is running low, she becomes violent and vicious and cruel – lashing out until your father is able to secure her another dose. It continues like this for the next two years, your mother cycling through stages of listlessness and savagery, depending on how much morphling is in her system at any given time. You soon cease to remember the woman you had known – instead she is replaced by a volatile, unpredictable timebomb. You learn to walk on eggshells in your own home.

She dies when you are ten. The morphling, apparently, had been only to dull her pain – but it had never been a cure for whatever was wrong with her. You watched helplessly as she became sicker and sicker, until a doctor from the Capitol arrived to check her vitals and declared her dead. Surprisingly, you feel very little about your mother’s demise. The mother you’d known had ceased to exist almost two years prior – the one who died in your home was a pale, cruel imitation. Instead of sorrow, or grief, you feel a hollow sort of numbness – a chasm in your chest that widens just a bit when you think of your mother. You are not allowed to sit with any grief that you might have had for long, anyway. It is only three short days after your mother’s passing that your father receives a letter from the Capitol, informing him that, as Cordelia Carter is no longer living, he and his children are no longer eligible to receive the victor’s stipend she had been receiving. Nor are they eligible to live in the victor’s village. The letter comes with one final, merciful, cheque, and an eviction notice. Your father is informed that he has two weeks to find alternate accommodation. 

You go to live with your aunt, after that. Your father’s sister had never married, nor had she had any children of her own. You’d had very little to do with her, growing up. You think your father might have been ashamed of her – she is a humble seamstress, who had always been content with a humble life. Diedre Kastel’s home is plain, void of any luxuries or colour. There are two bedrooms; one belongs to Diedre, and one had previously been her sewing room. This room you will share with your siblings for the foreseeable future, whilst your father sleeps in the cramped living area. It is so unlike your old home, that, for a week or two, it is a novelty. This, however, quickly wears off as you are forced to live in close confines with siblings and a father you had been capable of avoiding in the larger space. Your aunt Diedre expects that you will only stay here for a short time – that her brother will find work, and be able to afford his own place, and that would be that.

Unfortunately for your aunt Diedre, your father had entirely different plans. See, dear reader, he had become accustomed to a certain standard of living – and can we blame him? The life of a victor’s spouse was enticingly luxurious – and he had not had to work a day in his life for the last twenty years. He had no intention of doing it now. Bertram figured that he had lived off a victor’s salary before, and he was going to do it again. Lucky for him, he had three soldiers with the blood of a winner coursing through their veins. You older siblings have their reservations about this plan – neither of them had ever really intended to volunteer for the child death match – you, on the other hand, are immediately captivated by the idea. You take to your father’s teachings like a moth to a flame, training from dawn until dusk, watching tapes of the games until your eyes become sore, hands constantly bloody and raw from the weapons you learn to use. Something in you seems to unlock at the opportunity to showcase your own brutality – a penchant for violence that quickly makes you an asset.

Looking back on it, you’re not quite sure whether you were born as a monster, or made into one.

Caerus volunteers first. He is the oldest, after all – and, after you, the most capable. He turns eighteen only a few days prior to the sixty-seventh reaping ceremony, throws his hand into the air with such enthusiasm that it startles those around him. You seethe with jealousy as you watch him board the train to the Capitol – as he gloats in his interviews, returns a training score of nine. Boasts that he will be the one to continue your mother’s mediocre legacy. Your jealousy, and his arrogance, thankfully, are both short-lived. Caerus may have trained with you, but he did not train like you. He is pierced through the heart on the second day of the games, all but forgotten by the time the final cannon sounds. Your father calls his performance embarrassing, and you happen to agree. For anybody else, losing a sibling in the games might have served as a wakeup call – but Caerus’ death only serves to spur you on. You cannot let his failure be your legacy. You know you can do better – and so you spend the next two years training harder than you had before. Sharpening yourself into the perfect killing machine.

The sixty-ninth games were supposed to be Cyprian’s. You can tell he doesn’t want to volunteer – but the threat of disownment, of being tossed to the streets, looms over his head, as it does yours. Of the three of you, you’d always considered Cyprian to be the least capable of taking the crown. He was always a little too soft – cringing away at the gory details of the games, too weak to lift weapons, too scared to swing them. You know he won’t win – and you refuse to let another loser tarnish your record. So, when the names are drawn for the sixty-ninth games, you beat your brother to it – screeching that you will volunteer before he has the chance. You’re only fifteen – but, you know that you have a better chance of winning the games now than Cyprian ever will. There is an opportunity for him to volunteer to join you – and, for a moment, you hope that he does. It will be even more vindicating to have to kill him in the arena to secure your victory. To prove once and for all that you were the best of your mother’s children. He doesn’t. Pathetic.

The sixty-ninth games are unique, in that they are almost entirely in the dark. The arena is modelled after the mines in District Twelve – abandoned shafts and convoluted caverns. The only sources of light come from the illuminated Cornucopia, and from torches which a few tributes were lucky enough to secure during the bloodbath. Members of the public watch the majority of the games through infrared lenses, leaving the tributes to wander in the dark undisturbed. Obstacles include cave-ins, floods, poisonous glowworms, and mutated flesh-eating bats. Fresh water is in abundance, but food is incredibly scarce – a few tributes make the error of eating the mushrooms that grow on the walls of various caverns. The best bet, for those smart enough to think of it, is hunting for fish in the various lakes that have formed deep within the cave system or foraging through backpacks at the Cornucopia. Fortunately, few tributes succumb to starvation – this is one of the shortest games in history, lasting a mere four days.

You do not bother grabbing a flashlight from the Cornucopia – you see such a thing as a hindrance, rather than a help. Instead, you grab two things from the Cornucopia: a backpack, and a sledgehammer. The other tributes do not immediately see you as a threat, you are small in stature, skinny, and quiet. Even when you return a training score of eleven, they still assume it must have been some kind of error. They are quick to change their tune, however, once you dispatch four tributes during the bloodbath alone, including your own district partner ( he was really annoying – and kept asking you about an alliance, like an idiot ). Your kills are not particularly elegant, either. The first, you strangle with your bare hands. The next three, you beat with your sledgehammer until they are unrecognisable, bloody pulps. You are covered in blood when you finally decide to retreat from the Cornucopia – after the rest of the tributes have already fled from your rampage, that is. You spend the next four days stalking through the arena without any light to guide you – following the sounds and lights of the other tributes, picking them off, one by one, like some sort of monster from the shadows.

You think the gamemakers try to kill you on several occasions – floods in your quadrant, bats and glow worms and other mutts – but you always manage to stay ahead of whatever they send for you. You are entirely focused on your task – to win, no matter what it takes. The final cannon sounds on the fourth day of the arena ( though nobody can tell how long it has been, submerged in the pitch blackness ) when you kill a boy from District Four. By the end of it, you have a kill count of fourteen ( you would’ve liked to round it up to fifteen, but they ran out of targets for you to kill ). Apparently, it’s some sort of record – and you cannot help but be incredibly proud of yourself for this. 

You expect to be celebrated when you return home. You’d done what was asked of you, what the Capitol had expected of you – you’d become a winner, and you expected to be celebrated as one. And yet, your family does not immediately shower you in praise and affection. In fact, they seem to be afraid of you. Your brother calls you a psycho, your father states that you might have gone too far – that your behaviour wouldn’t win him favour in the Capitol. You cannot believe what they’re saying – as far as you’re concerned, there’s no difference between killing one tribute, or two, or fifteen ( so close ). There’s no difference between killing with poison or with a hammer. You’re angry – angry that your father had been the one who had sharpened you into a weapon, and now seemed horrified at what he had created. You grab the nearest object and throw it at his head – an old vase that shatters into hundreds of pieces, cutting him across the face. You shove him against a wall and tell him that everything you did, you did because of him. You tell him to kiss his meal ticket goodbye.

Then, you storm out. And you do not speak to him or your brother again.

The next six months are spent in relative isolation. You move into the victor’s village alone – the same house you’d grown up in. The few times you venture out into your district, you are met with horrified looks, whispers, animosity. They see you as some sort of beast – and you don’t understand why. All you’d ever done was what you were told. All you’d done was bring glory to the district. Things start to shift during your victory tour. You may be feared in District Six, but in the Capitol, you are celebrated. They cannot get enough of you – of your brutality. They cheer for you, ask for your autograph, shower you in affection and glory. It is so different from the reception you’d received back home, that you almost cannot believe it – were it not for the fact that you know this is the reception you deserve, after everything you’d done.

You begin looking forward to your yearly trips to the Capitol – though you offer very little in the way of guidance towards your tributes. You don’t want to be overshadowed by any other victors from your district, after all – why would you help them take your title? You find that you are more comfortable in the Capitol – they are the ones who respect you, after all. The ones who pay you. When you begin to hear whispers of rebellion, you’re disgusted. You don’t understand how other victors can be so ungrateful. You do not hesitate to offer your allegiance to the Capitol, to offer your services to stop the rebellion before it starts. It is Bellona Snow who takes you up on your offer. She sees the fire in you, the monster that needs to be satiated.

You don’t think mercenary is quite the right word for what you become – but whenever something, or someone, needs taking care of without anybody else knowing, they send you. It satisfies your need to destroy – and satisfies your hip pocket. Maybe the other victors would consider you a traitor, for what you’re doing for the Capitol. For hunting down rebels and turning them over to be killed. But, truthfully, you’ve never cared much for their opinions. They’re not the ones signing your cheques, after all – and, if the Capitol falls, so, too, does your way of life.

#cybele – 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓇𝑜𝒹𝓊𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 #violence tw #addiction tw #death tw #parental death tw

[victoriams]

BAE DOO NA by Mok Jung Wook Marie Claire Korea│May 2023

#cybele – 𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒶𝑔𝑒 #MMMMMMM

[victoriams]

Antonia has to resist the urge to roll her eyes at Fulvia's reaction to Norman. She never understood why people were scared of mice – or of snakes and bugs and birds. All of them, creatures hundreds of times smaller than the average human, rightfully far more scared of people than people needed to be of them. Such fears seemed childish, not when there were real nightmarish things to be afraid of them. Many of them had been grown and raised in Antonia's own laboratory, after all. Norman was by far the least terrifying creature that dwelled down there.

"Yes, it is." They say, placing their hand on the countertop and allowing Norman to crawl up their arm to appease the frantic young woman. "Norman's a lab mouse, bred in a sterile cage. Probably cleaner than your hands, if you've touched a doorknob today." They say with a grin. "He's also pretty offended by all your shrieking, by they way." They add, holding Norman out on the palm of their hand towards Fulvia, "Now's the time to apologise."

it is a game of waiting , fulvia has discovered . they're burdened with a knowledge they do not want , stuck in this tower with eyes glued to a screen they cannot bear to look at for fear there is eyes on them . paranoia is buzzing beneath their skin , each task performed for plutarch is sloppy , is rushed , is formed by shaking fingers and a thumping heart . they know , she thinks , they all know .

but the truth is that no one is watching fulvia as closely as they fear , no one is bothered with paying attention to the frazzled young assistant when the games of a lifetime is playing out on screen . how much longer can they hold onto themself ?

the day is long and she makes her way to the bar , eager for a quiet moment to watch the recaps from today , to pray that this will all end sooner rather than later . how much longer do they need ? she's daydreaming , phased out when she notices the mouse scurrying past her fingertips tapping the marble of the bar . " oh my god ! " they squeak , turning to meet the gaze of antonia vickers with wide eyes . " that isn't sanitary ! "

#with. fulvia #thread. antonia #antonia & fulvia 001 #when. games #where. tribute tower

[victoriams]

As we have mentioned, Livinia Crane does not generally have a great sense of humour. She could not very well afford to have one – not if she wanted to be taken seriously. And yet, even she could find the humour in the current situation. Truthfully, she's not sure why it's so enjoyable to toy with Aloysius. Maybe she likes that he is scared of her – it's a nice change of pace, when most people refuse to take Livinia seriously. Or, maybe she's more like her father than she thought. Maybe she just likes holding power over someone – even if it is all an illusion.

"If you say so," Livinia hums, "Though, I've started to hear rumours that this might have been an inside job." She says, lowering her voice to an exaggerated whisper. "They might have to start going through people's computers to look for evidence. I hope they don't find anything incriminating on yours. Who knows, maybe the hackers got in using someone's laptop – your passwords are up to date, I assume?"

alo sighs - he isn't sure why he converses with people that rile him up so much, though he has every right to be nervous about this. surely priam would have said something about this to him if it was dire enough. priam plinth was many things, but alo doesn't believe he'd let alo go that easily. alo doesn't think he's had a terrible judge of character yet - he knows the vultures that reside in this city. like the one he speaks to now. he presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and stands from his seat. it should be comical how he towers over her, and yet she holds all the power in this situation.

"or unless you have connections to the person that owns the company," alo doubles down, weakly, fumbling with his drink. now that he's standing, he has to find something to do with his hands. "that's how i got here, you know. so - so, we'll find out who got into the system, and it'll be fine. no one has to lose their jobs." he says, really trying to convince himself more than anything.

#with. aloysius #thread. livinia #livinia & aloysius 001 #when. interviews #event 003 #where. tribute tower

[victoriams]

Soleil had once been told that, when they were feeling overwhelmed, they should consider the facts of a situation. Fact: Finch and Ampere were still in the arena. Fact: Lark and Joule had been missing for several days. Fact: Lark and Joule had finally shown up, in the aforementioned arena. Fact: Somehow, the four of them were still alive. Fact: They might not stay that way for long, especially considering Lark's injury and Finch's proclivity for self-sacrifice.

It only takes a few minutes of that bullshit for Soleil to realise that it's not going to help calm her down. So, the next natural option is, of course, alcohol. Unfortunately, her stash had run out a few days ago – and the victor from six who had provided her with it was now dead ( rest in peace ), so there was very little chance of them getting anymore. So, the bar. They'd been perfectly content drinking in silence, until someone startled them from their solitude with a terribly inane comment. "Yep," Soleil agrees, "Pretty shitty. Almost like we shouldn't be killing kids for sport. But who am I to talk, right?"

libra clearmark & open ( 1 / 3 )

her fingers fly over the keyboard , glowing blue buttons hover in the air before her as libra takes part in this collective condemning of twenty four children . she watches them , the wolves which circle them , those waiting in the tree line , searching for a way to their loved ones . she is despicable , and libra is certain that she needs a break , she needs a drink .

she frees herself of the gamemakers room , walking as fast as her feet will take her to the downstairs bar when she orders a drink , breathless . " pretty big , isn't it ? another twist in the games . . . those poor kids . "

#with. libra #thread. soleil #soleil & libra 001 #when. games #where. tribute tower

[victoriams]

Honestly, Celestia wasn't quite as excited this morning as she had been the preceding one. Yesterday, she'd put her full attention and enthusiasm towards getting her tributes ready for the arena – wearing one of her nicest outfits, doing her makeup flawlessly, and even making sure to deliver some words of encouragement ( you can do it besties! ). And then, the games hadn't even happened. She'd been left waiting on the second floor for an elevator that wouldn't come, feeling like, well, like a bit of an idiot. And she had no intention of repeating such a kerfuffle again today.

So, she'd been sure to check the lifts and check in with the escort on the first floor to make sure that the games were definitely happening this time, before she even thought about going to fetch her tributes. Only when all was confirmed did she knock on Artemis' door. She grins eagerly at the sight of the victor, clapping her hands together with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm.

Celestia laughs, "They're not all children this year, silly!" She says, batting Artemis' arm playfully. "Words of wisdom?" She repeats, humming. People usually didn't come to Celestia when they were looking for wisdom. "Just be yourself." She settles on with a knowing nod. "You won it before, right? Just do the same thing again. Easy peasy."

where: the d2 floor the morning of the games

who: artemis and celestia | @victoriams

the closer the games became the more and more realisation was sinking in, they were going back into the arena again to kill or be killed, possibly even both. the only thing stopping them from dying in there was a mixture of their own skills, and sponsors which they were sure they were getting none of. Basically they were alone. the morning of the games goes the same as the morning of the 85th games went. sleep barely happens, a maximum of an hour is all that interrupts an otherwise a restless night. there’s a knock on the door, show time. they wait for a while just to make the escort panic slightly. if they are about to die let artemis have one last bit of fun first. as they open the door they’re met with the sight of celestia standing there waiting to escort them to their possible death. “okay I’m ready. any last words of wisdom before I go into the child murder games again?”

#with. artemis #thread. celestia #celestia & artemis 001 #when. games #where. tribute tower

[victoriams]

That’s a classic case of contact stupiditis because it’s a stupid thing to do. 

AUBREY PLAZA in Happiest Season (2020)

#antonia – 𝓋𝒾𝓈𝒶𝑔𝑒 #q #mhm

[victoriams]

ᴡʜᴏ: PRUDENCE WARREN & NAZANIN NABAVI ( @reblrths ) ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: THE CAPITOL – CITY CENTRE ᴡʜᴇɴ: SIXTH DAY OF THE GAMES, IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FIRES

DISTRICT THIRTEEN was many things, but forthcoming was not one of them. The task Prue had been assigned was simple enough – safe enough. Or, at least, this is what Prue had assumed. She'd been instructed to head to the city centre, to keep an eye out for peacekeepers, for Capitol reinforcements. Just simple intelligence gathering – apparently, there was going to be some sort of resistance activity happening later in the day. What, exactly, Prue didn't know – she didn't have the clearance for that kind of information. There had been the consideration to simply go by herself – but when Nazanin had offered to tag along, Prue had been quick to agree. Then again, she was quick to agree to most things that Naz suggested. Especially if it meant spending time alone together.

All had been going well – they'd been scouting the streets for peacekeepers, bantering, and Naz's shoulder had even brushed against Prue's own in a way that made her heart flutter. She'd noticed the hours quickly ticking away – the time that she'd been instructed to return and report back long since having passed. Ordinarily, Prue was a stickler for a deadline, but she had become quickly engrossed in some story that Nazanin was telling, which led to another, and another – and by the time she'd found the presence of mind to tear her eyes away from Naz's lips and to her watch, dawn had slipped into early morning. She'd muttered something about needing to get back – but, before they had the chance, the Capitol started to burn.

She won't ever remember much of what had happened next – she will remember grabbing Naz's hand and starting to run as the building beside them was suddenly engulfed in flames. She will remember the screams of frightened Capitolites as building after building caught fire, as the foundations began to collapse and smoke clouded the streets. She will remember choking on the smoke and dodging debris as more and more of the city centre became an uninhabitable inferno and flames licked at her exposed skin. She will remember seeing blue sky in the distance – and almost, almost making it to safety, before the building in front of their path to escape came crumbling down.

And then, she won't remember much of anything at all.

Consciousness returns slowly. The first thing that Prue becomes aware of is a painful pounding in her head. The second is a raw feeling in her throat, cotton in her lungs. The third is that she is in the dark – surrounded by debris on all sides and trapped by large slabs of concrete. The fourth is a dull throbbing over her arms and legs. She squints against the darkness to see that her skin is red and raw, and her left arm has started to blister painfully from where it was exposed to the flames. The fifth ( and, by far the most important ) is that she is not immediately sure where Nazanin is. They'd been together, hadn't they? Naz had only been here because Prue had dragged them along – and now she couldn't see them.

"Naz –" Prue starts, cutting off as she coughs violently. Her voice is hoarse, but she swallows thickly a few times before trying again. "Naz?" She calls out, louder this time, as tears sting against her eyes. Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay. "Can you hear me?" It's impossible to miss the way that her voice cracks on the last syllable.

#with. nazanin #thread. prudence #prudence & nazanin 001 #event 005 #when. the attack #where. capitol #tw fire #tw injury #tw burns

[victoriams]

There is a sense of relief that comes with Peeta accepting her offer of refuge, and she extends a hand to the victor as she leads him out of the crowded room. She is glad, selfishly, not to feel useless, even for a brief moment. It was beginning to seem that everything she had done in the last few days – hell, in the last few years, since she had first signed her life away to the rebellion – was amounting to nothing at all. The games had gone ahead as planned, and Prue was still left in the dark, without a word from District Thirteen about what was supposed to happen next. And if Prudence was frustrated, she could only imaging how the victors who had placed their trust in. the rebellion must feel.

"I am," She says, nodding as she answers Peeta's question. "Probably not for much longer if Caius has anything to say about it, though." She chuckles softly, though it sounds forced even to her own ears. They're away from prying eyes, now – she glances left and right to make sure that the room she has led Peeta to is deserted, the only signs of life coming from the television mantled in the corner, the games proving inescapable. Prue shakes her head emphatically as Peeta continues, "You've got nothing to apologise for," She says, "If anything, they should be apologising to you."

Maybe it's not fair, what she does next – but Prue has been eaten alive by guilt since the countdown had begun. Guilt that she couldn't stop the games. That her efforts weren't enough. That, now, Peeta's family was paying the price for the rebellion's shortcomings. "I'm sorry, too." She whispers – allowing the facade to slip, but only slightly, always careful of ears in the Capitol. "That this is happening, I mean – we tried, and I –" A pause, and she shakes her head again, "It wasn't supposed to go like this."

She chews her lip for a few moments, before resolving to snap out of her self-pitying stupor. "Do you... um, do you need anything? I can get water, or something, or I can just –" Another pause, "I don't suppose you want to talk about it with a relative stranger."

peeta knows better than to be making such a public scene. it was irresponsible - peeta has seen the repercussions of such firsthand. katniss and his' victory tour, four one -- loud bangs still make him jump from time to time. so many innocent lives lost because of them, and now perhaps one more - their son.

so when someone comes to calm him down - to save him really, peeta should be thankful. he's already caused more than one stir in the capitol, he's paid more than enough consequences for it, the last thing he needs is to continue that streak. he needs to be strong, to be there for his family - as much as he possibly can be. which, admittedly, was not much.

they look up to the girl - small in stature, looks like a timid thing, really. but peeta knows how deceiving looks can be, and this girl certainly is no capitolite. over the years, they've become too acquainted with them. that fact should sadden them, that they've had no choice but to become aware of who they speak to, but that's how you grow up in panem when you're on the outskirts of the country. "i have to keep watching," peeta says, gesturing to the tv. then again, there are TVs in every room of this building, making sure no one wasn't watching the games. so they nod, agreeing to follow her out of the room and somewhere quieter. "you're the stylist, right?" peeta asks quietly, once they're away from such prying eyes. "i shouldn't have done that. i've already made quite a mess." he laughs but there's no humor in it, self-deprecating as a sigh falls from his lips.

#with. peeta #thread. prudence #prudence & peeta 001 #when. games #where. tribute tower

[victoriams]

"He's not creepy." Antonia protests, shaking her head. Okay, maybe he was a little creepy – what with his beady red eyes and whip tail – but Toni had always been fascinated by things that most others would disregard as strange or macabre. "And he's got a name," She adds, carefully placing a few more pumpkin seeds on the bar, deliberately leading the mouse closer towards where Electra has chosen to sit down. "Norman, meet Electra. Electra, this is Norman."

Once upon a time, perhaps Antonia would have taken greater care not to be seen playing with rodents in public. Once upon a time, she would have been out at lavish parties celebrating the games, rather than drinking alone in the quiet tower bar. Of course, she had been cast out of that life like a traitor from heaven – offered eternity, only to have it snatched away. When her engagement had 'fallen through' ( the phrasing she had been instructed to use ), the backs of the Capitol's elite had been promptly turned on her, the gates locked behind her as they shoved her out through them.

All except Electra, of course. Perhaps the only other member of that wretched society who could understand Antonia's plight. Certainly the only other person who was sympathetic towards it. And the only one who had managed to make the time of day for them after their status as future queen of the Crane empire was rudely revoked. "I heard your tributes aren't dead yet." They say, picking up Norman as he ventures a little too close to Electra, instead depositing him on their shoulder. "I won't congratulate you yet, of course. As you know, I believe in the power of a jinx above any bullshit god."

Electra didn't have a chill bone in her body. She's been on edge since she was a child, and her intensity only grew as the games commenced. This year was proving to be especially hard, with two missing tributes and two victors who were already fucked up two days into the games. The only bright side was that none of them were dead yet--- an accomplishment she never thought she'd have to celebrate.

To help calm her emotions, Electra often turned to vices. She had relied on Soleil's stash to help her get through the bloodbath and the first day of the games, but she decided she needed something stronger to survive the rest of the event. The bar practically became her second home in the tribute center, and it was only inevitable that she'd find herself gravitating toward the counter.

She didn't notice the creature when she settled next to Antonia. If she had, perhaps she would've opted for another seat. In any case, a bout of confusion flicked through her features when Antonia spoke about a he. It was only when she saw the flick of a tail that she realized the individual she was referring to was a mouse. The escort practically jumped out of her seat at the sight, hand pressing against her chest as she tried to calm the heart rate. ❝Christ, Toni. That thing's creepy as fuck.❞ Electra was never a big fan of animals, especially ones in the rodent category. ❝There's a reason I never visit you down in the labs, you know.❞

#with. electra #thread. antonia #antonia & electra 001 #where. tribute tower #when. games #tw mice

[victoriams]

Antonia, the diligent ex-fiancée that she was, had always made an effort with the Cranes. Looking back, she can safely say it was quite an arduous task, and, had she not been so completely smitten with Aurelius, she's not sure she would have made the effort. Auggie was difficult, Livinia was a bitch, and Maxim was, well, annoying. And yet, out of Aurelius' three siblings, he was the one that Toni had always liked the most. Certainly the only one she could still stomach. And probably the only one she would feel guilty about fucking over to enact her revenge against Aurelius.

Like an incessant little puppy, he had always seemed to derive great joy from trying to push Antonia's buttons, and, in return, Antonia had always derived great joy from making him squirm. This, fortunately, was not difficult. In fact, she hadn't even needed to do anything yet – and Max was already chattering nervously. "He's clean." They say, tapping their nails on the countertop to call Norman back over to them. She's not going to bother explaining the details of breeding mice for research – she's pretty sure it would go over Max's head, anyway.

Toni drags their eyes up and down Max's aforementioned shirt, scrunching their nose as they do so. "I wouldn't worry," They say, turning their attention back to the mouse, holding him in their hand and studying him intently. "Norman has a refined palette. Maybe if that were real cashmere, you'd be in trouble." She adds, offering Max a rigid smile. "But, if you're really that scared, I can put Norman back in my purse and you won't have to look at him."

really, all he wanted was a little bit of relaxation. when the hunger games commence each year, parties upon parties upon parties are thrown to celebrate, and though he's usually at almost every one when he has the time, even maxim crane has his limit. he's gotten used to the toll it takes, learned the hard way what fucks with his body and mind and what to stay away from so that he can actually make it into work the next day - that on top of a stellar makeup team, you'd never guess max had spent most of the night out anyway.

he's enjoying a drink at the bar - really, he has no choice but to become a borderline alcoholic every year to make it through the stress that comes with the games - when a flurry of movement catches in his peripheral. he's lounged back, a perfect picture of ease as the man usually is until an entire rat approaches him on the bar. he swiftly picks up his drink and stands with as much grace as he can manage - which, admittedly, is not much, not when there's a rat scurrying around so close to him.

the voice that comes from his side tells max all he needs to know, and he makes his way over to her. he hadn't seen toni sitting near him, if he had he surely would have bothered her sooner - but now, he simply feels the need to tell her exactly how much of a hazard it is to let a rodent run around freely. he's got a scowl on his face, scrunched up in disgust. "are you seriously letting this fucking thing run around, toni?" he scoffs. "on a bar where people eat and drink? letting this rodent infect the countertops. i knew you were weird, but this is outstanding even for you. what if it chewed through the fabric of my top? you'd be getting a bill, that's for damn sure."

#with. maxim #thread. antonia #antonia & maxim 001 #when. games #where. tribute tower #tw mice

[victoriams]

Soleil has never enjoyed watching the games. When they were a child – far younger and sweeter and more innocent – they'd opted to hide their face behind trembling hands rather than witness the bloodshed as it played out on her family's tiny television screen. Nowadays, they didn't have this option. And, even though they'd long since become accustomed to violence, they would still prefer not to bare witness to it. They were smart enough not to grow attached to their tributes most years, but this year, of course, they'd had no choice. They'd been attached before the names had been drawn from the bowl – set up for failure long before the countdown began.

Ordinarily, they find Primrose's incessant kindness to be overwhelming. Maybe they're bitter, or maybe they'd just spent too much time around Finch, but they cannot understand how someone can be so nice without some sort of ulterior motive. Now, though, her kindness comes as a welcome relief. A harsh juxtaposition from the reality of their situation – an excuse to try and ignore the anxiety which radiated throughout Soleil's entire body. "Pastries, huh?" She repeats, stepping around Prim and making a beeline towards the aforementioned snacks, picking one up and eyeing it before taking a bite.

Eyes drift from the counter to the television to the couch where she assumed Primrose had been sitting. On it, rests a familiar, balled up t-shirt. "That Finch's?" She asks through a mouthful of pastry. They couldn't claim to know whatever was going on between their former mentor and Prim – nor did they particularly care ( what Finch did on their own time was none of Soleil's business, after all ), but, maybe, there's a pang of something bitter in her at the sight of Finch's belongings on Prim's couch. They didn't know each other that well, did they?

"This is good." They say, turning their attention back to the pastry. They walk slowly around the room, throwing themself onto the opposite end of the couch as Finch's tee. "Did you, uh... did you make them?" God, she was fucking terrible at smalltalk. This was a terrible idea – she should have just let herself rot downstairs with her own thoughts.

Primrose never thought this day would actually come. She thought her family escaped the games after Katniss and Peeta's victory, but seeing her sister on the screen only served as a reminder that no one can truly escape the capitol's grasp. It frightened her--- the thought of losing her sister. She had endured that possibility in her youth, scrawny legs shaking as she watched the games alongside Rory and Gale, but somehow age hadn't dulled her nerves.

Perhaps her nerves were spiked because it wasn't just her family fighting for their lives in the arena. Her eyes had watched Finch the moment they appeared on the screen, and they couldn't help but follow their movements as they made their way through the arena. She knew it was dumb--- they had rejected her only a couple of days before--- but her hands still chose to hold onto Finch's t-shirt and watch the victor as if that moment had never happened.

Her hands only loosened their grip when she heard a knock at the door. Curiosity caused her to pull away from the couch and wander over to the entrance, cautiously opening the door in case it was an unwanted guest. The caution went out the window the moment she caught sight of familiar red curls--- a soft smile forming on her lips at the sight of SOLEIL FLEMING. She hadn't seen Soleil in a few days, and the girl's presence was nothing but a nice surprise. ❝Of course you can, silly. I would never turn you away.❞ Primrose stepped aside to let the victor into the apartment, gently shutting the door behind them. ❝There are a couple of pastries on the counter if you want some. There would be more, but I kind of stress eat.❞

#with. primrose #thread. soleil #soleil & primrose 002 #when. games #where. tribute tower

[victoriams]

Livinia does not like to dwell on the past. She has never felt that it could serve any purpose – remembering ancient history and imagining how things could have been different. It's difficult not to, with Aurora. It's difficult not to feel their soft palm against her cheek, to see the quiet determination, the raw concern, in their eyes – and not imagine what life might have been like, had Livinia never been married. Had she defied what she was supposed to do, and done what she wanted instead. Would they still be together? Would they still hold one another, like this? Would Livinia still feel the need to hide the rawest parts of herself from anybody who dared to look?

You're safe now. Aurora says, and Livinia knows that they can't make that kind of promise. Even with the power they wield, safety is not something Aurora can ever guarantee. And yet, the words serve their intended purpose – they calm Livinia. For a moment, she even believes them. For a moment, she believes that, as long as she remains in Aurora's arms, no harm will come to her. That maybe things could be like this, forever.

"I told him to leave. I think he went home." Livinia says. She'd been with Priam, when she had been escorted away. She'd been foolish enough to think that it would be a peaceful encounter – that she would return home soon enough. "I still..." She pauses, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't know why they wanted me. I – all my life, I've never stepped a toe out of line, and this is what I get for it?"

blonde against their cheek , it is heaven that they hold in their arms . they sway slightly , eyes fluttering shut soft as feathers whilst their fingers toy with those perfect curls . livinia quivers upon her shoulder but aurora is floating despite the melancholy in the room , alone and holding her . their youth is gifted back to them with their nose buried in her hair , their reminder of what once belonged to the both of them . livnia who walked towards marriage and aurora towards violence .

" i'm sorry liv , " her voice is little more than a whisper , though it carries loud and clear through every room , this tenderness is reserved for the woman in her arms , the familiarity of this moment , this quiet devastation which still lives between them — has she really gotten over it ? has she ever let livinia go ? or has she followed her through the labyrinth of her wicked life , a ghost on her heels . " you're safe now . they won't touch you . " is it a promise they have the power to make ? they have felt unwavering in their strength , their position , until now . " where was your husband during all of this ? "

#with. aurora #thread. livinia #livinia & aurora 002 #where. tribute tower #when. pre games

[victoriams]

Celestia pouts at the answer. Boo. Honestly, she didn't see why they had to delay the launch by a whole day – surely starting the games in the afternoon wouldn't be the end of the world? In fact, it would probably increase the viewership – she knew a lot of people who struggled to get up early enough to watch the launch most years, she herself would be included, were it not for the fact that she already had to get up early to send the tributes off. "Honestly, I'm trying not to like, complain, or anything, but why does it take so long to fix some doors?" She says, "It's like, really inconsiderate to the people who have put a lot of effort into making today perfect, you know?"

"Right? Thank you!" Finally, somebody who understood Celestia's plight. "Like, the district people are nice and all, but sometimes I feel like they don't really get fashion, you know? Like, I've been talking about how I can't repeat my outfit, which seems, like, common sense – and they just, like, don't care?" She throws her hands up in the air on the last syllable to emphasise the ridiculousness of what she has had to face. "And they're totally not helping with the bad vibes, either."

"Aww," Celestia coos, gently batting at Aurelius' arm as she does so. "Thank you, Aurelius. You're so nice. Nobody else has even complimented it yet – which is insane, because I look freaking gorgeous." She huffs – finding it difficult to believe that anyone might have more important things on their mind than her outfit of the day. "You look rather dapper yourself, sir. Like a movie star."

Aurelius is the pinnacle of composure, the total antithesis to the disorder in his immediate surroundings. One of his several responsibilities as Chief Operating Officer was overseeing operations. Considering the disarray, there didn’t seem to be much good that could come from his supervision. Sure, the delayed launch certainly put a damper on things, but Aurelius knew better than to rush perfection.

He’s met with similar chaos in the lobby. Several parties appear to register Aurelius’s presence, but only one immediately captures his attention. It’s difficult not to, with her presently attached to his arm. CELESTIA DOOLITTLE is a welcomed reprieve from the bewildered masses. She’d been no stranger to scandal— the only difference is the Doolittle’s actually came with substantial consequences. Where most capitolites would disguise (and frequently poorly at that) their anxieties surrounding the delay, Celestia is forthright with her uncertainty. 

“Celestia.” A smirk now adorns his attractive features. It’s the sort of beauty that can only be obtained by someone who sleeps at least eight hours every night. “Wish I had a better answer for you, but I’ve been told everyone should just sit tight for now.” And that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world— for the present moment, at least. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to carry any bad vibes into relaunch, yeah?” He smiles. “It’s a shame such a nice outfit went to waste, though.” It’s difficult to tell whether he’s talking about Celestia or himself.   

#with. aurelius #thread. celestia #celestia & aurelius 001 #when. pre games #where. tribute tower

[victoriams]

There are very few people in her life that Delilah would say she genuinely cares about. People, to her, genuinely fell into two categories: useful, and useless. Those who could be used as pawns in whatever machiavellian scheme she currently had cooking, and those who had little inherent value to her. Kaleb, interestingly, fell into neither category. Yes, her younger brother was generally not useful to her – not built with fangs and ambition like Delilah was, and not connected to anybody terribly important to her political ascent. And yet, she'd never quite been able to bin him entirely, to sentence him to the camp of the useless, and thus, not worth her time. Maybe she really was a good big sister. Maybe she held out hope that he would turn out like her.

"I thought that was your whole schtick, Junior." She says, wiggling her fingers in a mocking wave as the man who had tried to interrupt her retreats. "Predicting things before they happen, making money off other people's inability to do so, yada yada." She waves her hand as she speaks. Sure, she would be naive not to suspect that her brother might know something about the pesky rebel activity that has been plaguing her for the last several weeks – what, with the company he keeps – but she also knows that he's at least smart enough to keep his mouth shut about it. He might be an inferior model, but he is still a Ripley, after all. "None of your so-called sources tipped you off to it? That's a shame."

"All the others have family with them, people they care about." She says, "Say what you will about Caius, but he's made it clear that he's not going to let something as trivial as blood stop him from winning. That's where I'd put my money, if I were you." She says, before raising her hands. "But I'm not the expert." The irony of her words are not lost on her – discussing family as a liability with her own blood. But, maybe her own inability to cast Kaleb aside entirely is proof of statement. Even someone so heartless as Delilah is not entirely immune from simple human weaknesses.

Delilah pouts, hand reaching out to grab Kaleb by the wrist before he has a chance to protest, tugging on his arm for him to follow her. "Fine, then." She says with an out of place grin, "Let's not discuss it here. Balcony?" She doesn't wait for an answer, pulling her younger brother along behind her and not stopping until she has stepped out into the cool outdoor air, shutting the door to the terrace behind her. "What's got you so surly, huh?" She asks ( no, the thought that it might just be grief does not cross her mind ). "He hasn't contacted me about it either, if you're jealous." She explains, folding her arms across her chest, "I just wanted to see if he'd said anything to you. If we're doing something, I'll set aside some time in my calendar."

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."

#with. kaleb #thread. delilah #delilah & kaleb 001 #event 004 #when. games #where. capitol