Fandom 𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐇 - 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

[sollie]

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𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐇

𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐁𝐄 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑​

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© weldherwings.

 

[sollie]

chapter 1: the party

T

he whisper of a song dances through the air. Though it is evening, the sun sinking behind the horizon and illuminating the sky in beautiful pinks, oranges, and reds, moisture clings to the air, thick and unrelenting, almost suffocating the partygoers who are already packed into the garden. Though the air is almost debilitatingly humid, it is an afterthought among the party goers who are far too focused on food, wine, and entertainment for the evening to bother themselves with worrying about the condition of the sickly sweet summer air.


Guests have already arrived, but there are more to come, filling in the lavish presidential mansion. President Snow, the generous man he is, always hosts before a Quarter Quell to celebrate Victors of old and new. After 75 years of peace in the Districts, it is only right to honor the brave men and women who so deservingly fought and won for their districts.
The music has already begun, a soft, ambient melody that lulls the guests into a relaxed state of mind, preparing them for the wild revelry to come. As the night wears on, the music will become more lively and energetic, driving the guests to dance, drink, and chat. But the evening has just begun; the guests are only just now savoring the experience of being in the presence of so many popular and celebrated figures from the Games.

When the guests enter the garden, everywhere they turn, there’s a new delight to discover. The aroma of decadent cuisine fills the air, mingling with the fragrant scent of blooming flowers, and guests eagerly sample the wide variety of delicacies on offer. No expense has been spared for this evening of indulgence.
The wine flows freely, with glasses constantly being refilled by attentive servers who weave in and out of the crowds with effortless grace and silence. All avoxes, there will be no chatting with the guests from these lowly individuals. The fountains scattered throughout the garden lend an ethereal atmosphere to the festivities, their bright purple light illuminating the dark garden grounds.

This is the party of victors, to show off their victory and revel in their success. This night is for them and only them. A night they will never forget.

MOOD

whimsical, intoxication

TAGS

EVERYONE < 3

LOCATION

President's Mansion

TIME

Evening

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[sollie]

willow & atticus

T

hings sure changed, didn’t they? Of course they did. Especially when so much time had passed since the last time Atticus Martingale had been here. Thirty-one years ago, when both he and the President were much less long in the tooth. Atticus remembered that night with surprising clarity. He was some wide-eyed kid who’d just come back from the sky-high arena where he’d seized a cold-hearted and brutish victory over twenty three others. Back then, the parties for victors were just a little less lavish, before the Capitol had achieved the level of wealth it had now.

Atticus remembered the smell of the oaks that lined the President’s manicured lawn. The rest was overwhelming - he remembered wondering if he should stuff his pockets with caviar for his mother and siblings or just run from the waves of folks who’d come to celebrate how he’d just slaughtered everyone else up on those platforms. The lively verdant scent of the trees helped to ground him through the night all those years ago.

He couldn’t smell the oaks now. There was something else masking the scents of the courtyard he and his companion walked through to get to the President’s mansion. Now all that he could smell was some musky scent, like an overwhelming perfume, spritzed across the lawn. A perfect reflection of where they now trod - a place so fantastically extravagant, so luxe, that it dared to defy reality.

Sure, Atticus had made several trips to the Capitol since his own victory. He took it upon himself, as one of the only surviving victors of sound mind and heart in District 7, to act as mentor to new tributes, even though he disliked it. But what other alternative was there? He couldn’t leave them to fend for themselves. Even if almost always the reassuring words he muttered to a new year’s tribute was the last time he’d ever speak to them.

One of the rare exceptions was here with him now - a girl he’d mentored just a few years prior and, who against his cautious pessimism, had emerged a champion. He’d slowed his pace for her, the difference of height between them enough to leave her far behind had he not minded himself. Even so, a reassuring hand on her back, calloused from years of work in the forests, kept moving her towards the party. He knew well enough the hesitation. There was no celebration in being here, especially when they both would much rather be at home.

“Chin up,” Atticus looked down to Willow, offering her a tired smile. He knew, perhaps more than most even at home, her worries. It was a burden that came with knowing her mother, and her whole family, like a close family neighbor. “Ferric’s tough. He’ll pull through. When we get back he’ll be good as new.”

Willow’s stomach knotted itself over and over again as the two District 7 victors made quick strides towards the heat of the party– this was the last place she wanted to be and only those close enough to perceive the slightest shift in expression could tell. Out of everything, the young victor was calculating. Unlike Atticus, her time in the Capitol was much more frequent. Horrendously, there was something appealing about types like herself. Youthfully, meek, easy to control. But Willow was far too smart to be controlled by rich idiots in bright pink dresses. Rather, it was she doing the controlling.

She tugged at the uncomfortable dress, the stiff boning digging into her flesh like a collar with spikes, keeping her standing upright and proper. It was cruel any person had to experience such discomfort. Willow wondered if the Capitloites had uncomfortable boning in their attire or if this was just a cruel trick played on her by her stylist to keep her behaving. Not that Willow didn’t behave– Out of the whole lot of Victors, she was likely the one who behaved most. Perfectly polite. Shy. Smiling when she was smiled at. She was the picture of perfect– at least, in the eyes of the Capitol. In the eyes of Snow.

“You say that,” Willow began, keeping her eyes on the quickly approaching crowd. “But the doctors said he would recover in a week. Two months ago they said that.” The dejected woman clenched her fists at her side by the underarm of her dress stabbed her. If she wasn’t on edge before, the stupid dress was the nail in the coffin. “Perhaps I can speak to someone. Snow. Maybe he can send.. Help.. or something.” She looked to Atticus hopefully– while he was no longer her mentor, she looked up to him in many ways. Like a figure she’d known for years that guided her on the right path. In a sense, he was more a life mentor than anything now. Poor man. He could never escape the one tribute that beat the odds. “Probably not the best idea…” She whispered, knowing better than to ask for things without expecting payment. But if Ferric’s condition didn’t improve… Willow would pay any price to allow him to heal. Her family couldn’t face any more grief– not after Finley. Even all these years later, his death still bled like an open wound in the Adler family.

Bringing a hand up to fiddle with the earrings she’d opted to wear, her fingers glided over the spindly edges. A tree in winter, with no leaves but branches, desperately reaching up to be kissed by the sun. It was a strange gift, cryptic and disturbing– part of Willow was convinced she’d be shot down where she stood if the right person noticed the golden jewelry but so far, so good. The smell of sweets and sweat filled her nose, but her expression didn’t change, sticking close to Atticus’s side. “I hope we can go home soon…” She admitted quietly– but the knots in her stomach beckoned her to believe otherwise. They wouldn’t be going home soon, not really. Willow was tethered to the Capitol, cursed to return year after year, month after month until she died or killed herself. Whichever came first.

“First train out tomorrow,” Atticus reassured her, his hand finally leaving her back with a pat. “Besides,” he sighed, placing both hands in the pockets of his trousers, “Doctor Cartwright was in my class back in the Stone Ages. And he went to train in the Capitol. So I’d say your brother’s in good hands.” A lie. Partially. Atticus did know Partheus Cartwright from school days, but the good doctor never set foot outside of District 7 a day in his life. In fact, all he learned was from a medicine man fifty years his senior several years ago out in the forest. But Atticus was of the opinion that small lies did nothing to the detriment of someone’s spirit, especially if it was suffering.

“In the meantime…” Atticus stole a sly look at Willow as they approached the bustle of the party, “Try to stop fidgeting.”

His reassurances helped. Properly. There were very few people in the world that could soothe Willow’s anxious mind, but Atticus did a fine job at it. Perhaps it was because of their unique relationship as Mentor and Mentee, maybe it was the fact that he’d known her family for years and years– whatever it was, she felt grateful to have him reassuring her that Ferric would be alright. He would be alright… He was the toughest out of all of them.. He’d make it.

"Thanks..."Nodding her head and letting out a small sigh, she pressed on the earrings, eyebrows raising in surprise. She hadn’t even realized she was fidgeting with her earrings until he’d pointed it out. Smoothing her hand down the glittering fabric, she nodded her head putting on her game face– Atticus was the only person she’d allowed to see her without that face on. “Let’s get this done with…” She murmured, nodding to her companion and straightening herself out. This was going to be a long night.

MOOD

apprehensive, distant

TAGS

Ha_lfLife

LOCATION

President's Mansion

OUTFITS

Willow & Atticus

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[sollie]

isaura finch

D

espite living in the Capitol, this life… The life of a Victor? It was far away from her daily normal. Though she worked and lived in the Capitol, she kept herself far away from the lavish parties, the idle chatter, and the endless alcohol and food. She lived a comfortable life, yes, but one she’d earned with her hardwork and with her mind. Back in the uncomfortable dresses, surrounded by people that cared more about her makeup and hair then anything she had to say.

Unlike the other parties she bore through, especially as a mentor, something was off about the evening. Anxiety churned in her stomach like a dark summer storm on the horizon. The requests she’d been receiving for designs were rather… Ominous, to say the least. It wasn’t uncommon for gamemakers to request her oversight on certain mechanics in the Arena’s, but this was different. It was as if she’d been designing for the games. Which, of course, unsettled her. Would it be fair to mentor a tribute when she had inside knowledge? She would deal with that battle at the Reaping. Whoever it was, she would do her best to advise them. She hoped to any god out there that her creations wouldn’t be used against the People.

Isaura tried to look for the positives– She would be seeing friends, old and new. She would like to think she’d have a delicious meal. Those were all good things to look forward to. But as a woman with twisted green locks and a wiry smile talked her ear off about how “retro vintage” her dress was, she thought she was going to lose her mind. Isaura could only bear through a few moments of this, and anyone who knew her or her personality knew that she would shut it down in an instant. “This conversation is melting my brain.” Isaura spilled out quickly, flashing a quick smile and nod towards the green hair individual. “Have a good night.” Slipping away, Victor found herself searching the crowd for any sign of solace. Unfortunately, the sea of multicolored wigs brought her no such thing. Instead, bumping into one of the men requesting her designs seemed to be her fate.

“Miss. Finch,” Auden Higle brought Isaura into a quick hug, an over-familiarity shared by most Capitol citizens. “It is so lovely seeing you here. And of course you look darling, as always. Your stylist truly is a magician.”

Isaura blinked a few times, shifting from foot to foot. “Do you want something?” Isaura asked bluntly, receiving a boisterous laugh from Auden.

“Oh Isaura! Straightforward as always! There’s no beating around the bush with you.” The music swelled around them, and she gave him a look.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh! I suppose I didn’t. I just wanted to say hello, dear. You know we appreciate all that you do. You’re really helping us out this season. Your work won’t go unnoticed by important people, I promise.” Auden winked knowingly but Isaura hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. She was a top Engineer, what more could she ask for? Perhaps safety for her parents and sister. Even though they wanted nothing to do with her. “Okay. Goodbye.” Leaving Auden flabbergasted at her departure, Isaura huffed out a sigh. Where were the intelligent people? There weren’t many among partygoers but perhaps she could have a stimulating conversation before her brain actually melted.

Her solace quickly came in the form of an old friend. Poe Wellman. A smile quickly spread on the woman’s face as she weaved through the crowd, happy to see her friend amidst the Capitolites. “Poe!” Isaura exclaimed, nodding her head and apologizing to those she shoved past. “You’re here!”

MOOD

on edge

TAGS

Maverick.

LOCATION

President's Mansion

OUTFIT

isaura

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[magnus effect.]

crest shen.

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  pleasantly buzzed, mildly unnerved.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  courtesy of district four.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  location

  
  
  
  

  president's mansion, capitol.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  sollie Ha_lfLife
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Over the past sixteen years, Crest had made it a point of honor to never arrive at parties such as these entirely sober. Why not indulge, when it automatically made the whole ordeal much less of a chore? The right buzz could turn any leering faces into grins, and every stranger into a friend in the making.

Besides, it wasn’t like any of them got to choose whether they’d like to attend or not. If he simply had to spend a perfectly good evening packed like sardines in a box with his fellow victors on the grounds of Snow’s mansion, he might as well wring every drop of fun he could out of it.

Easier said than done, though. The sweltering summer air made it harder than usual not to be overly aware of his body, the space it occupied and every uncomfortable feeling it brought about in this particular crowd. He was no stranger to the whole song and dance ; nearly two decades had come and gone since the first time he’d set foot on the presidential estate, for the party that had concluded his own victory tour. Back then, the garish fashion of the Capitol’s citizens had dazzled him, just as their excesses had struck him with a kind of unease he had taken years to shake. A similar feeling settled upon him now, a sense of trepidation he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it had to do with that strange happening from the other day. He instinctively checked for the heavy ring on his left hand, rubbing at the polished gold as he would a good-luck charm.

“Penny for your thoughts?” A woman’s manicured hand settled on his arm. He stared at her opalescent nails for a second or two before his wandering mind placed her.

“I was just thinking about how lucky I was to arrive in such good company. Everyone must be deathly jealous of me, I’m sure.” The girl at his side giggled, her cheeks flushing pink under the heavy coat of makeup she wore. Esme Campbell, daughter of the head of one of the Capitol’s largest banks and - if he recalled correctly - a celebrated doctor, did her family proud tonight. She glittered in the mansion’s lights, her dress sewn with so many jewels she tinkled when she walked. He’d been seeing her for a few weeks, at her father’s heavy insistence. She was a nice enough girl, he supposed, but he’d all but forgotten he’d promised to keep her company tonight, and now that the thought had occurred to him again, Crest found there were few things he wanted to do less than escort Esme around the party and socialize with her bird-brained friends.

As if reading his mind, she pouted, turning pleading doe eyes in her direction. “Oh, Crest. You’re off in the clouds again, aren’t you?”

“Not at all, my dove.” He lifted a hand to her cheek and traced the curve of it, a trick which he’d learned never failed to take her mind off whatever she wanted to nag him with. “I'm only asking for a bit of your time. See, some old friends just arrived, and I hardly get to see them the rest of the year. Why don’t you go meet up with Calisto and the others, and I’ll join you later?”

She hesitated, visibly faltering. Before she could ask herself any more questions, Crest took her hand, planted a kiss on her fingertips and, with a cheerful see you later, then!, shepherded her towards the group of chirping Capitolites before letting go of her and melting into the crowd himself.

Well, that was one thing dealt with. Onto the rest of the evening.

It wasn’t until he was nearly at the bar that it occurred to him he ought to find himself someone to actually spend a bit of time with, in case Esme or her friends had the unfortunate idea to glance his way and found him otherwise occupied. He scanned the partygoers, picking out a few familiar faces from their midst, before his gaze landed on a particular pair and his mind was made up.

Snatching no fewer than three flutes of champagne off the nearest tray, he made a beeline through the crowd, only coming to a stop in front of the District Seven pair. Their stylists hadn’t slacked off ; they did make a dashing duo, and one that was actually close too, or so he’d gathered. Atticus Martingale was not as familiar a sight as he could have been after so many years of Games - and frankly, who could blame him? -, but Willow⎯well, he could certainly spin a conversation out of her, couldn’t he?

“Atticus, Willow dear!” Crest tilted the glasses in their direction in a silent offering, punctuated by an outrageous wink in Atticus’ direction. “You wouldn’t mind if I whisked your lady off for a minute, would you, handsome? It’s been so long, I’m simply dying to catch up.”

buzzcut season

lorde

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Maverick.]

poe wellman.

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  unsettled, apprehensive, lost
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  stylist selected; capitol party attire
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  president's mansion; the capitol
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  Isaura sollie
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Poe Wellman was running.

Clouds of dust exploded into the air in his wake, his boots kicking up the dry earth underfoot as they pounded across the barren field before him. Shriveled tufts of grass and sharp dead shrubs whipped against the fabric of his jeans while he tore past them, as though hungry for the flesh of his ankles. A layer of dirt, fine as soot, had burrowed beneath his fingernails and stuck to his forehead, caught by the slick sweat that poured over his eyes. His heart and lungs seemed to pound against each other, as though they were locked in a fight, struggling to beat one another to death.

A series of sharp whistles pierced the air, muted in his ears by the deafening torrent of blood that was roaring beneath his skin. They were gaining on him, and Poe could feel the thundering of hooves in his chest as they cracked against the earth behind him like bolts of lightning. They were a dry storm, and the deserted stretch of land before him and empty sky above could hide him from nothing, not even the sun.

In the end, they caught him by the throat.

The length of rope cut into his neck as the loop tightened, and the pull from the other end of the lasso stopped Poe’s momentum entirely, throwing him off his feet. He fell back into the dirt, choking on the grime kicked up from the circle of horses coming to a halt around him. His voice had been ripped away, so he gasped, his breaths coming in ragged gulps as he writhed on his back.

His captors dismounted their horses, rounding on him as they drew closer on foot. The sparkling high heels of one woman flashed in the reflection of the sun, crunching dry twigs underfoot as she approached. The tightly fixed lime green curls of one man came loose in the breeze, while the makeup of another figure’s face melted, a drop of sweat rolling down a brightly blushed cheek.

They clutched spools of rope, tossing them at Poe, and pulling back to catch his wrists and ankles even as he struggled to escape. They pulled his hands and feet together, wrapped their ropes tighter until his limbs were tied and he couldn’t move. The smell of heavy floral perfume washed over him as they pulled at him, mingling with the musty scent of the pasture. Their hands were on him now, tugging at his clothes, hoisting him off the ground. He twisted desperately, cursing at them in screams, as they carried him backward.

His spine hit something solid as they dropped him. He was on a table, one that he hadn’t seen before when he’d first been running, standing like a lone altar in the middle of the field. The group of stylists tied down his arms and legs to the edges, and the layer of tissue paper that covered the operating table crinkled beneath him as he squirmed. He threw his head back against it until the rope around his neck was fastened tightly into place, and another line circled over him, this time pushed into his mouth between his teeth, trapping his tongue to his bottom jaw.

The stylists chattered amongst themselves as they prepped him, ignoring Poe’s struggling, discussing how they were going to carry out their work. They pointed and pinched at him, shaking their heads as they deliberated.

Capitol tastes were specific. They’d find what they were looking for, even if they had to go down to the bone.

They pulled supplies from their saddles, donning blue smocks and paper masks to cover their noses and mouths. They replaced Poe’s clothes with a thin blanket, throwing his shirts to the dirt, the wind already burying them with blowing debris. His eyes rolled between the figures around him, the setting sun glinting red over the blades of their tweezers and scalpels, as though they’d been dipped in blood. One stylist approached him with a branding iron in hand, sizzling hot.

In his dream, he died under the knife.

~ ~ ~

Poe tugged at the collar of his shirt, peeling the fabric back from the damp skin of his neck. He’d awoken the morning before with a fever, stained with salt, his throat full of blood from where he’d bit his tongue in the night. It stung sharply even now, hiding in his cheek, as though it were afraid. He didn’t remember his dream, but even if he did, he still would’ve awakened with the same immediate thought: that in his sleep, someone had been trying to cut it out.

His belt, a length of rope, seemed to press at his stomach, making it churn. His prep team had cinched it while he’d fought not to recoil from their hands. His stylist had gone on explaining the concept of the outfit, rambling about the influence of gods in mythology and shepherds. Poe had avoided his gaze, a bead of sweat trailing down his spine, while he pictured a herd of golden calves, all burning in the sun.

He had ditched the laurel wreath meant to adorn his head almost immediately upon his arrival, tossing the only accessory given to him by his stylist into a bush once he was out of the eyes of his escort. The courtyard of the mansion spread outward from the manor like the slope of an anthill, with streams of party-goers trailing after each other as they followed crumbs of drink and delicacy. The sharp sweet scent from the floral arrangements followed Poe as he traversed the crowd, the swollen petals of the garden drooping as though they’d been fed the same sour wine cradled in the fingers of the people floating around him.

“Thank you,”

Poe murmured as he plucked two glasses from a passing tray, not stopping in case he ran the risk of becoming involved in unwanted conversation. He was a rather obscure victor compared to some of the other high profile attendees, but a victor nonetheless, and to him, emerging from the party largely unnoticed meant emerging unscathed.

He walked laps around the mansion, tracing the gardens, draining both of the glasses in his hands in quick succession as he went. They soothed the tightness in his throat and smoothed the itchiness of his skin, and as he breathed deeper, the humid air began to melt comfortably on his tongue.

“Poe! You’re here!”

Poe whipped around, immediately recognizing Isaura Finch’s voice before he found her face. It was broken into a smile as she made her way toward him, warm in contrast to the sharp, icy shine of her dress. He let out a long breath of relief, his shoulders lowering.

“Isa, finally,”

he sighed, a laugh escaping him as a smile cracked his countenance.

“I swear, I’ve been doing laps around this place.”

Despite her being one of his oldest friends with nearly two decades of history between them, he’d learned not to take their meetings for granted. Isaura’s constant motion meant that her work kept her in high demand, and he’d gotten used to missing her presence more than actually being in it. Their lives had a habit of diverging between her always truly being busy and him continuously pretending to be.

Despite his dread of the party, he knew before going in that at least that Isaura would be there without a doubt, and she approached him now, a walking silver lining. He stopped in front of her, finally planting his feet to the floor. He wasn’t smart enough to truly read a person like Isaura, but he knew her well enough to recognize the quick whirling of her brain behind her eyes when she was thinking. He was caught by them even now, watching them crackle and glow like coals despite her tepidly warm smile.

“Hi,”

he started, nearly thrown off balance by his sudden stop and the anchoring Isaura’s influence brought. He rubbed a hand down his face, and his fingers came away oily.

“How… are you? How’ve you been? You’ve just been thinking hard about something, hurry and tell me what it is.”

August Underground

Ethel Cain

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Ha_lfLife]

Titania Vance

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  Sullen, Distracted.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  calm, gentle, reminiscent of water (typical).
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  President Snow’s mansion.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  sollie aeneas. Maverick. magnus effect. mi casa BELIAL.
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Titania had a talent. One that was far more useful than anything she used in the arena all those years ago. No, this was something she’d learned later on. A case of necessary adaptation, one could call it. The keen ability to drown out the noise around her, mimicking the sweet and relieving moments when she first ducked her head under the water of the gulf during chilly morning swims. All the chatter, the useless gabs of Kip’s upper-crust dinner guests or the excited exclamations of Capitol partygoers whose dinny calls to one another reminded her of crows screeching over carcasses of dead fish on the shore. Adaptation. Yes, that was the way to put it. For means of survival. Confident as she was in all those years in her youth, pining for a chance to compete in the arena, to prove herself to the point that she emerged victorious, to mingle eternally with those very same crowds she so quickly came to resent. The words were so hallow, the voices without a trailing shadow.

So easily quieted. Just fixate on something, anything, and let your mind slip away… right now it was the half-drained flute of glistening champagne, bubbling with pearls that any Capitol-conscious party goer knew were meant to be consumed and passed through bodies as if they were rocks - though even just a single one of the beads fluming and falling at the bottom of her glass was worth more than what most in the other districts would make in their entire lives. Titania’s eyes, sharp and glinting with a dark luminescence like obsidian, focused on the microscopic bubbles as they struggled to push the pearls from the bottom. Imagine the water, surrounding her, pressing on her ears oppressively, sinking deeper and deeper and deeper. Until she was sitting on the bottom of the ocean. The voices drowned away, with only echoes fading into the void.

“A hefty gem on her finger, I’ll say. Kip sure knows how to pick the good ones right, Titania?”

Although Midas’ hand into her’s had outwardly been seen as to present the flock of capitol socialites, the small gestures unbeknownst to all but her told otherwise. The thumb rubbed against the back of her hand—an unspoken reassurance. The coy call of her name—a call back to reality. All miniscule cues he knew how to play in their game of appeal to ensure Titania wouldn’t be left to drown in her thoughts. It was easy for capitol events to reduce into a rowdy play-pin badgering and greedy eyes but the two of them knew how to fend them off, how to throw blood in the water and wait for a bite. They matched the mood and gave the masses what they wanted until satiation. To the likes of Titania and Midas, it was practically routine.

“Is he here with you, the lucky Mr. Fairfield?” One of the nosy crows queried.

“No, sadly.” Titania offered a dazzling smile, teeth only slightly whiter than her hair. “He had to stay behind and keep the other Peacekeepers in line.” In actuality, Titania hadn’t presented her obligation in the Capitol as something that encouraged Plus Ones, though it surely wouldn’t have objected. Especially in this circumstance, where the newlywed Victor’s recent wedding to District 4’s Head Peacekeeper - many of the Capitol’s nameless faces were simply dying to meet the other half of the season’s “it couple.”

Eventually, the curious Capitolites dissipated.

An exasperated sigh came from her former trainee the moment their spotlight dropped, reminding Titania for the time being, it was just the two of them again. “It’s always so strange seeing so many ‘winners’ in the same place,” Midas commented. The air quotes he put on their title didn’t go unnoticed, nor was the smug smile on his face. “It smells like an ocean of self-pity.”

Midas never failed in bringing a smile to Titania’s face, genuine in nature. No small feat, either. Titania’s reputation as an intimidating individual was first solidified with the alligators in the Swamp, but it had only grown over the years. Steely, dark eyes and a serious expression were now more common to her face than more relaxed and amicable looks. Though she’d known nothing of the young man before his volunteer year, she’d quickly grown to adore him - both as a mentor and a shallow inhabitant of the Victor’s Village. They understood each other, it seemed. Victory was Sweet. But it always came at a price.

“Net term, don’t you think?” Titania smirked at her companion. “Some people got through on luck.” She allowed her eyes to flitter around the crowd, seeking a glance of someone whose every inch she knew like her own. She didn’t see him, thankfully. Maybe he had other preoccupations. He’d always seemed to have plenty of those. “Like the latest one, what’ve they started calling her - Capitol Princess? Please.” She scoffed. “If this place ever gives me a name like that, do me a favor and smother me in my sleep.” She muttered acidly to her friend, flashing a bright smile and a wave to some strangers who sought her attention from across to the room. She returned her gaze to Midas, predatory eyes softening considerably.

The specks of hesitation as Titania scoped the crowd told her watching siren exactly who she was searching for. Rather than teasing, Midas laughed into his champagne flute. There was a lot to say about the newest victor—there always was when a new sad sack joined the crew. Young. Too young. Doe-eyes not meant to endure the prying gazes from the capitol. Condolences left unspoken. “You know how the trend goes, let’s just hope she doesn’t get stuck with the same stylists as the evergreen forests over there.” He tipped his head towards the victors of seven. “I can already hear the earful of critiques we’re gonna get from Juno when we get back.” Without second thought he fixed up his posture, mimicking their honey-blonde escort’s usual prim and proper stance, and copying her melodramatic tone, “I can’t believe they made them wear that to a party hosted by our beloved President Snow.”

Titania’s eyes followed Midas’s to Seven’s attendees. She knew the District didn’t have many victors to boast, but the fact that there were only two of them was pitiable. Four, by comparison, had a much larger crowd in attendance. Titania already caught a passing glimpse of Shen, of whom she thankfully saw very little since moving out of the Capitol.

Atticus Martingale was the older one. She knew him from when she was a kid, studying the replays of every Games in eager anticipation for her turn. She’d never met him in person. And as for the girl … “I’ve never met her,” she nodded over at Willow, her eyes shooting a dark down her length and back up again. “I think I killed her brother.” She added nonchalantly, almost like an afterthought.

The only two she glimpsed nearby were Isaura Finch and Poe Wellman, two who she didn’t know well either, aside from a passing glance or greeting during her mentoring days near the Capitol. Those seemed like such a frayed memory now. God, was she rusty at socializing, she chastised herself. Loosen up. Twenty minutes in and this was already looking to be a long night.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[aeneas.]

midas larmanton

"A

nd what happens if I get cold? I’ll be shivering the entire night.”

Albeit an exaggeration on his part—this was far from his most risque attire to the capitol but still, a case he was willing to make in front of his prep team. Midas Larmanton was beloved by the capitol. His time in their dazzling limelight had always been occupied with starved looks and desperate offers. Tabloids never failed to have his name mentioned when discussing the fashion trends among the victors during their little “get-togethers”. Panem’s siren even out of the tides of the arena. A reputation better than most. It was one of the plethoras of reasons why his team planned his dress-ups weeks in advance.

Though at this point, Midas would rather be calling it stripping rather than dressing.

His main stylist—Ophelia entertained his whines with a pinch on the cheek like a parent would reprimand their bratty child. At this time, Midas was no different than one. “Oh stop it, if you’re so afraid of getting cold, just ask for someone’s shawl. No doubt they’ll provide you the finest.” It was true. “Not that the cold is a genuine concern, I know you’re stalling again.” Also true.

Much like the rest of the victors, his prep team has been with him since the moment he first stepped onto the polished marble of the capitol. One would argue that Ophelia and her crew knew him better than his own parents at this point. All his excuses to stay home, quirks, and habits since the age of eighteen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just being practical.”

The bold lie almost had Nerites ruining his eyeliner; Midas was far from practical and despite his hollow complaints of his own attire, the outfit reflected his character to a t. Expensive royal blue textiles paired with gilded gold accents of stitched-on medallions and a golden shell around his neck. As vast as the ocean blue and golden as his namesake. Everything the capitol wanted and expected from him.

“Alright, Mr. Practical, you’re ready to go.” Despite the sudden weight in his chest, he didn’t stick around to be told twice.

The somber escort to the station had been a far cry from the pampering back at home. Peacekeepers didn’t make much conversationalists other than the sound of their boots hitting the pavement and the stray grunts from the grueling regiment. And district four wasn’t very renowned for nightlife either; authorized net fishers, a couple of merchants closing up for the day, and young kids trying to get home before their parents’ curfew. The heavy gaze of those he passed wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. But the cruelty of fate would grant him the most familiar of eyes among the pond of onlookers.

Old ghosts haunted all victors; those were one of the few unifying truths. Be they alive or dead, phantom faces clung onto the unglorified champions no matter where they went or how much they tried to avoid them. An unwanted golden medal no one wished to bare yet couldn’t unravel from their neck. Midas was no exception.

Surprise had always been the first reaction. Widened eyes and clenched fists—emotions not even Panem’s siren could hide beneath layers of deceit. Next came the flash of anger; the heat of it never lasted long as Midas could never find it in himself to really blame those eyes. The echoes of their final moment together shifted him to a melancholy of regret and the finality in his gaze brought Midas to a blank slate. Truth be told, he was never sure if who he saw was actually him. Caspian in these pockets of time never uttered a word that marked hysteria out of Midas’ endless list of possibilities. Like a bitter reminder of what could have been and a plague of what was ahead of him now all from a simple gesture of love.

The train doors closed before he even realized he had boarded. Sitting in his lone compartment, he decided he didn’t want to think about stray phantoms anymore.

༄ ♆ ༄​

Titania had always been ample company. After the rough patches of mentorship and the years of working together after, the two had become quite the pair. To probably her own sheepish dismay, Midas would even call out her maternal nature towards him. It was what made him reluctantly concede that marriage and retirement was the best decision she’s made in her life despite his initial arguments against it. She of all people deserved a peaceful life filled with meditation and painting. Maybe even a child or two if children weren’t the worst idea in the world they lived in. Not that he would tell her any of that though. Too many sour opinions about her sardine-smelling fiancé to truly admit he was happy for her.

Even as they stood—one retired, both out of the games, they continued to play as if every moment was a day in the arena. As if every second was an attempt to guarantee sponsors and raise their odds of survival. He’d take her hand to display her gorgeous ring to the hungry shoal and she’d snap out of her funk. They learned to watch out for each other in moments like such. And when the crowds dispersed, they talked as if nothing happened—under the polished heels of the capitol, talking was the least of their concern. Almost to self-soothe or provide the most minuscule of entertainment for themselves, they tugged the leashes of their fellow show cows.

District Eleven was riding off their high granted by their victor’s coronation as the Capitol’s princess, District Seven decided to match their champions to President Snow’s plants—perhaps to create the illusion that there were more of them, and without even trying to find him, Midas suspected to soon see an already buzzed Shen in blue. Reading the room had always been a highly praised talent Midas possessed. He picked up peoples’ desires and aspirations quickly, took mental notes of attributes favored, and used all he knew in his performance. All necessary practices to survive the demands of the job he had outside of mentorship.

But that’s too much of a drag to really think about.

“Well, I hope you do get to meet her with that killer conversation starter.”

Despite the hint of sarcasm, he was for the most part telling the truth.

“Who knows, maybe you’ll make a fr—”

Midas stopped dead in tracks. Considering how often they see each other, the growing smile on his face shouldn’t have been as prominent as those victors who hadn’t met in years. However, Midas couldn’t stop himself. Alliance was a common phrase uttered under victor’s lips. They knew the term very well from their times in the arena and knew how finite the connection was meant to last.

“Friend.”

Friendship was different and not guaranteed for victors. How Midas found friendship in Tarlo Collier of all people was a surprise to everyone—Midas included. But he was far from complaining.

“Do you think I can leave you here for the time being? I’ve got someone to catch up with.”

He put his barely empty flute onto the tray of a passing avox.

“I trust that you’ll give yourself the time to catch up too.”

With but a knowing smile, no further explanation, and a single wink at his former mentor, he made his way toward the familiar figure.

Despite the genuine rush of happiness, he still made a spectacle of their reunion to the curious onlookers.

“Tarlo!”

Midas wrapped his arms around her and swept her into a spinning hug.

“I was wondering when I’d see you.”

MOOD

better than most

OUTFIT

midas

LOCATION

president's mansion

TAGS

Ha_lfLife sollie

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[sollie]

willow adler

'G

etting this done’ was the last two the pair from seven would be doing. There were likely other victors from seven that were sulking about, drinking themselves silly, and enjoying in the rare and indulgent treats the Capitol offered, but the ever popular Willow and Atticus seemed to be surrounded by chatty Capitolites at all time, trying to pick their minds for treats about their strategies mentoring. Who would it be this time? Atticus, the old-timer or Willow, the sweet, stoic strategist? It was easy to bat the conversations off with polite smiles and we’ll see, but after a while it was exhausting. As usual. Though the night didn’t wear on her face as it would when she was behind closed doors, Willow was becoming increasingly agitated. She needed to find use in the night. Perhaps there were secrets to be heard or lies to be found. Idly talking to adoring fans wasn’t productive at all.

Unfortunately for her, no sort of solace would come. Instead, the towering form of one Crest Shen appeared in front of the district pairs greeting them with that melodic tone. Willow dear. He was good at playing his part, wasn’t he? Crest was a unique individual Willow, if only because he held secrets of hers she thought were best kept away. With her worry of her brother, the irritating nature of the night, and now the sudden appearance of her blindspot Crest Shen, she doubted the night could get any worse.

Atticus stepped forward, nearly in front of Willow, clearing his throat and offering Crest a kind look - as of saying it’s nothing against you. “I don’t think this is a good time, kid.” His tone was warm, relaying that he really didn’t hold anything against Crest - he really didn’t know the guy from Adam - but he felt an obligation to have Willow’s best interests at heart. And he knew her mind was heavy with worry; the last thing she’d need was to be swept into the Capitol’s boundless theatrics and spirits.

Willow shot her older counterpart a look after Crest’s proposition, anxiety tumbling around in her body as the silver clad victor waited for a response. In a way, Crest was like a ticking time bomb in Willow’s mind. The man had vital information against her that he could use at any moment to gain leverage, or power, or anything. Given the fragile state of her family, she didn’t want to risk it and before she and Atticus could hightail it away, she placed a hand on Atticus’ arm. “It’s okay, Atticus.” She said, taking a step forward, giving Crest a quick look, daring him to say anything before she was whisked away. “I’m sure it will only be a few drinks. Don’t miss me too much.” Willow offered a small, crooked smile, adjusting the long sleeves of her gown.

Atticus gave Willow a sincere look, checking that she’d meant what she said, before finally stepping away with a nod. “You’ll know where to find me.” Meaning, he would wander too far off.

She didn’t plan on drinking with Crest, but perhaps a short conversation would keep him appeased for the time being. Willow wouldn’t risk her social position– not with her clients, or with Snow. Her brother was desperate for care and if she wanted to get it for him, she needed to be on her best behavior. And if that behavior meant indulging a Career Victor, she’d swallow her medicine and deal with it. If Willow was being candid (not that she would ever utter this out loud) Crest was like a pesky fly she found constantly buzzing around her head. Whenever she was in the Capitol, it seemed Crest Shen managed to find her at party, dinners– you name it, and the District 4 victor was there, leeching her attention away from more important things… like surviving this party.

Taking a deep breath, the pair departed from Atticus. Willow shot a small glance his way, as if reassuring he wouldn’t disappear the minute she left him. Atticus was a grown man but Willow often worried for him. Unlike her, his visits to the Capitol didn’t seem as frequent. She would feel mighty guilty if he was wrapped up in an unsavory conversation because she left his side for a moment too long. “What do you want Crest?” Willow met his gaze as they walked through the crowd, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. He knew of her disdain towards him and to any onlookers, it just looked like Willow being her usual reserved self but surely he knew better from the daggers in her gaze.

MOOD

distant, irritable

TAGS

Ha_lfLife magnus effect.

LOCATION

President's Mansion

OUTFITS

Willow

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[sollie]

isaura finch

Q

uickly wading through the soft fabrics and towering Capitol citizens, she finally reunited with her old friend. Certainly the man was a sight for sore eyes. With so many victors and persons of high status milling about, finding him was like searching for a needle in a haystack– she thought it would be nearly impossible to reunite with the Victor but it seemed that it was her lucky day to have found him so quickly. Isaura had no doubt the head gamemaker was lurking about in the crowd and if she were to be caught in another conversation about Arena mechanics, she would find a room to barricade herself in. Out of all of the gamemakers requesting her services, Ruby Atala was certainly the most demanding and the most bothersome.

“Oh dear I remember designing your arena. Watching you all run through that oil rig was so wonderful! I thought it was so clever, really. You just took that Arena by the horns and showed it who was boss! I never thought someone would be clever enough to use the electricity… I suppose it’s all that knowledge of live wires. I knew you would win, my dear. A gamemaker knows all, after all. We are the hand of God.”

It seemed sick enough to remind someone of one of the darkest moments in their life, no less to celebrate those ingenious ways of killing the other children in said arena. But Ruby Atala had a unique way of crafting her words with sharp tips and sending them Isaura’s way, like flying daggers designed to cut her up in every possible way. It was difficult enough to bite her tongue, which she wasn’t great at, but Isaura was smart enough to know the risks associated with offending a gamemaker. Providing her tributes with more disadvantages wasn’t something she loved. Regardless, with Poe at her side to make her look busy and engaged in conversation, it would hopefully ward off any pesky gamemaker flies that wanted to pick her brain. That, and it was always such a delight to see her old friend. It was a shame it was under conditions such as these.

“That’s about the only way to avoid these menial conversations,” Isaura said quietly, eyes flickering to those around her. She was known for her sharp tongue and straightforward approach to conversations, but getting caught disparaging the Pre-Quarter Quell celebrations didn’t seem like a smart move. “Perhaps I should’ve taken your approach and saved myself some trouble…” She offered a half smile, glancing back at Auden who still seemed to be reeling from the harsh ending of their conversation before allowing her eyes to dance over the faces of those that passed by the two victors. The itch of anxiety crawled up her body every second, even in Poe’s presence. Not even their meeting could bring her away from the murky darkness that her paranoia brought. Something was wrong. Something was happening. If not now, soon. Even through the warm smile on her lips, that dread oozed from her.

His questions came quickly and to no surprise to Isaura. After nearly 20 years of friendships, it was no wonder the man could read her expressions so easily. The knitted eyebrows, wide eyes of concern, twitching corners of her mouth, attempting to keep that smile on there to ward off suspicion. Isaura, unfortunately, didn’t have much tact about concealing her emotions. But her disquietude could not be shared. Not here, at least. Not with so many eyes watching, and so many ears hearing. Even if Isaura couldn’t place her finger on what was wrong, she feared the gathering of so many victors had something to do with it. When did the Capitol require all living victors to attend such a gathering? It was unprecedented in her and Poe’s lifetime. Even now her mind worked to sort out the meaning behind it. Nothing good, certainly.

Meeting Poe’s gaze, she hoped it was enough to soothe his questions, at least for the time being. Isaura doubted they would share a moment of privacy with the Reaping coming up so soon. They would both return to their districts and be back in the Capitol within a week's time and during the Games eyes were always watching. Still, she wished to share with him her doubts and worries. Something is wrong. Something is off. That felt impossible to convey with a gaze, especially when her mouth betrayed her mind. “I think hard about all things, you of all people should know this.” She smiled as she jested with him, light and feathery words that didn’t convey the tumultuous concern on the inside.

“You want the truth? I was thinking about how I could escape this party. I don’t think alcohol could negate the dullness of these people. If I have one more person mention how quaint and cute this retro vintage dress is, I think I’ll lose my mind.” Giving Poe a once over, her eyebrows raised. “Perhaps I should get in contact with your stylists. Those pants look far more comfortable than this metal contraption.” The only part of the outfit Isaura actually had any say on was the delicate lavender pin that had been adapted by her wonderful stylists as a bracelet. The gold clashed with the silver color of the dress, but she didn’t mind. “And what about you? How are you? What plagues the mind of Poe Wellman on this lavish evening?”

MOOD

on edge

TAGS

Maverick.

LOCATION

President's Mansion

OUTFIT

isaura

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[sollie]

tarlo & wren

T

arlo wasn’t scared of death. But she was scared of what the Capitol would do to her if she opened her mouth again.

Her body didn’t feel like her own, covered in heavy fabric, decorated in sparkly sequins that covered the entire expanse of skin. It was irregular for her stylists to want to cover up her body, desperate to show off what they were selling, but it was irregular for Tarlo to be covered in burns and scabs a day before a big event. She could hear their tsking, echoing in her ear, distorted by the malfunctioning hearing aid her tormentors failed to remove before offering retribution for her misbehavior. The scrapping of plastic from flesh made her skin crawl, but it was a necessary procedure. The material of her hearing aid seemed to have fused with her skin, melting over the delicate flesh and taking hold, unwilling to let go without a fight. The crimson scabs and dried blood, hidden by an ornate piece of diamond jewelry, were a reminder of the evenings prior, paying for her crimes against the Capitol.

The hazy sound of music was unsettling to the woman, the noise barely registering in her mind, like two pillows were pressed to her head, making the sound muffled and murky. While her right hearing aid seemed to be functioning properly, she hadn’t had time to replace the left– it seemed difficult to make out the background noises, ambient chatter as she and Wren passed by conversations.

“I don’t like this.” Tarlo signed to her male counterpart, hard gaze sizing up the partygoers in their lavish costumes and outlandish makeup. Amidst the Capitol citizens, she recognized a few faces of their fellow victors, dressed in their district colors to make them seem more appealing as the “other” in the crowd. Victors didn’t sport the latest Capitol trends– no, they were forced into tight fitting costumes to represent their districts, vying for the attention and support of any person that would give them the time of day. It was disgusting.

Wren glanced at his companion as she signed her distaste of the festivities that surrounded them. He watched her hardened expression, reading every mannerism and miniscule movement as if he were studying her. The truth of the matter was, he worried. Tarlo had been acting off since they had arrived at the Capitol at the behest of President Snow and his line of invitations for events leading up to the Quarter Quell.

That was another concern that clouded his mind. The Quarter Quell. He may not be as familiar with the concept as some of the other victors currently in attendance, but something about all of them being brought in together did not bode well to him. And seeing Tarlo on edge did not help his nerves about the situation one bit. Normally he would confide with her about his concerns and worries, but tonight was not the night. ‘Not while she is like this…’ He had noticed she was not relying on her hearing aids as much as she normally does, especially in these types of situations. She was still wearing them. And while he had no problem only communicating in sign language, since that was how they often communicate, he still found it odd.

The sudden cold metal hit his bare skin, and he was awakened from his thoughts. His hand unconsciously reached for the gold pendant that he wore around his neck, hung by a delicate gold chain. The pendant was of a pickaxe, the very weapon he had grown to rely on in the Games. Both a memory and a reminder of what was to come. He had made certain to wear the jewelry since it had first arrived to him, and fortunately for him it matched the piece the stylists had decided to put him in. A black and gold sequined mesh shirt paired with a plain black blazer and black pants that were tailored to reach down his long legs. On top of the outfit was a cape with the same gold sequins as the shirt, lining the borders and sleeves.

The material was suffocating. The mesh scratched and clawed as his skin, leaving red marks all over his torso and arms. The evening was also particularly warm and the layers of fabric contained the heat, making him break out into a sweat. If he was not so worried about Tarlo, he would have found a way to excuse himself from the event altogether – not that President Snow would have allowed it. Another wince from his companion brought his attention back to her.

It was clear that she wasn’t all there that evening. Tarlo’s mind wandered elsewhere, away from Wren and the party, away from 12. It wandered to that room. That cold, barren, horrifying room.

“Don’t do this.” A voice that sounded like hers begged. It sounded weak. Desperate. Pathetic. Beads of water dripped off of her face, splashing back down into the pool of water below her that had become pink from blood. Damp strands of hair clung to her neck and her back, soaked in blood. Her lungs burned, crying out for air, for relief, comfort of some kind, none of which was afforded to the victor.

Instead, a handful of air was taken up once again, scalp burning from tension, and her head was forced under the water, nails digging into the metal container she was being submerged in. Her body thrashed against her tormentor, attempting anything to escape their clutches. She’d killed to save her life, so why now was she so defenseless to this torture? The electric currents which ignited her nerves and sent spasms through her limbs reminded her why. There was nothing she could do at the hands of the Capitol.

The metallic taste of the water hit her tongue as her mouth opened to scream, muffled by the water and only sending bubbles up to the surface. Her body thrashed until it didn’t. She screamed until she couldn’t, until her voice was hoarse and unable to muster even a whisper of a sound. She fought until she could no longer will herself to move, to which her body was dragged away, knees brushing the sterile floors of wherever the fuck she was. She couldn’t remember getting to the facility or leaving it. Only the blinding lights and cold floors.

The fabric of her dress reminded her of those icy floors, only perhaps the sequins were a bit more scratchy, irritating the scabs and cuts on her back and arms, likely rubbing them until they broke open again. It was a smart move putting her in black, as always. Black covered the weeping wounds and ugly scars of punishment well.

Tarlo felt guilty she couldn’t look out for Wren as usual. Without her hearing aid functioning fully, she felt paranoid, constantly looking around, body tense and ready to spring to action if it called for it. She’d won the hunger games four years prior, but her mind and body were often still stuck in the arena, fight or flight constantly activated, ready for anything or anyone to cause her or Wren harm.

The older woman tugged on the fabric of Wren’s jacket, grabbing his attention before signing to him: “It looks like most of the Victors are here. If not all of them. That’s strange. I wonder if they do this for all Quarter Quells.” She and Wren were young and it wasn’t like District 12’s luck at winning the Hunger Games afforded them any older victors. As the only two living victors, they’d never experienced a Quarter Quell in their lifetime. All of the merriment was peculiar to say the least. That and having Victors from the past 55 years.

Wren nodded in agreement. A small part of him felt relieved that his mentor was also picking up on the peculiarity of it all. She was the one who taught him how to read people and environments after all. “I was thinking the same thing. From what I’ve heard it’s rare to see this many if not all the victors under one roof.” He signed back. “Whatever they are planning, it's bound to be big.” And big did not sound good for any of them.

“Or maybe they’re just showing us off.” Tarlo signed, trying to shake off the distant memory and stinging wounds. Enjoying the night was impossible, but tolerating it perhaps could happen.

Once you were in the Games, you never left. Victor or not, everyone was doomed to suffer by the fates handed to them by the Capitol, the gamemakers, and worst of all, President Snow. It was foolish to think otherwise. It was a neverending nightmare, but as long as he had Tarlo by his side, he felt less afraid to face it. And he was determined to be the same for her. “We just need to stick together.” He signed before giving her a small smile and extending his arm for her to hold, a small attempt to try to ease her nerves and let her know that he was there for her. Whatever the Capitol had set for them, he was ready to walk into the fire with her.

The muffled sound of Tarlo’s name shocked her senses and alerted her to return fully back to the party. Glancing around with wide eyes, she cursed herself momentarily for not prioritizing having her hearing aid repaired. Whoever was calling out to her was coming in and coming in quick. With barely enough time to prepare herself, she was scooped off her feet and into the air. Fucking hell. The tense victor would’ve let all hell break loose at her assailant had she not been reprimanded for her inappropriate behavior in Capitol settings a day prior. Gentle hands irritated the scabs and cuts on her back unknowingly but she held in her hisses of pain– especially when she realized who it was that thought they could scoop her up without regard for getting the shit beat out of them.

“Midas–” Tarlo finally croaked out– it was the first word Tarlo had spoken all night and Wren’s first look at just how hoarse her voice was. Gravely and strained, she swallowed to soothe her throat. Alcohol wouldn’t do it and she avoided it anyway. “You certainly know how to make a show,” Her eyebrow twitched, shooting nasty looks towards eager onlookers. What did they have to look at anyways? She wasn’t there to be stared at like an animal in a cage.

Readjusting the golden choker she’d been gifted days prior, poking at her hearing aid as if that would make it work better, she gave Midas a skeptical look as she took in his appearance. Their stylists clearly had different opinions about what their attire for the night should reflect. District 12 seemed to be covered to their neck, while all the Victors from 4 had skin showing for days. “You look cold.” Tarlo offered, shaking her head with a soft sigh before a smile broke out. Her mind was plagued, but seeing her friend could ease the pain of memory at least a little bit. “It’s good to see you Midas. Even if you nearly tackled me to the floor…”

MOOD

paranoid

TAGS

armeen aeneas.

LOCATION

President's Mansion

OUTFIT

tarlo and wren

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[magnus effect.]

crest shen.

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  mood

  
  
  
  

  amused.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  courtesy of district four.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  location

  
  
  
  

  president's mansion, capitol.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  sollie Ha_lfLife
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Had there ever been a soul in this mansion more displeased to see him? Oh, she hid it well enough, but the element of surprise bought Crest a split-second glimpse of annoyance in those soft brown eyes before it vanished again, like a rabbit spirited back into the magician’s hat. Truly, he could have sworn up and down he hadn’t set out with the intention to upset her, but ruffling her feathers did happen to make for an entertaining side effect. It wasn’t everyday that Willow was back in the Capitol, after all, and while he doubted she enjoyed even a minute of her time when she was, her presence did break up the monotony of his days. ( In the unfortunately short list of his virtues, selflessness was never meant to make the cut. )

If only she’d believe him if he told her the truth about his intentions, they could spare themselves a great deal of trouble. Alas, he’d never gotten her trust in the first place ; “restoring” it would take much more than a halfway pleasant night.

At least, her district partner was looking out for her. Wasn’t that just the sweetest? Though he didn’t do Atticus Martingale the courtesy of stepping back, Crest did give him a friendly nod, relaxing his stance into a non-threatening slouch and wordlessly offering him one of the cups he had in hand. His eyes darted between them, witnessing to their silent conversation, but unable to decipher it. His response was right on the tip of his tongue - don’t worry, I’ll bring her home at the stroke of midnight, on the dot - when Willow spoke, grim determination in her voice.

Ah. Well, he hadn’t intended to make a scene for the privilege of a conversation, but if she was disposed to come with him of her own free will…

“That’s all sorted, then. No need to raise a fuss.” He clicked his heels together in a parody of a salute, winking at Atticus as he did so. “If it makes you feel better, I promise to be on my very best behavior.” And what worth is a promise, when it comes from you? He didn’t intend to linger long enough for any of them to start asking themselves that kind of question.

As they walked off, he turned his undivided attention back to Willow. Upon a closer look, the hue of her dress could have been a deeper green to match her complexion, but her stylists seemed to have decided showing actual skin was the way togo. The low cut of her cleavage left distressingly little to the imagination, and the sheer fabric starting halfway down her thighs did not help matters in the slightest. In a rare fit of gallantry, Crest averted his eyes, sticking exclusively to everything above her collarbones. It wasn’t exactly hard to, either. Her gaze, if turned to knives, would have shredded him to pieces.

“So prickly! And it hasn't even been an hour yet. Save your vitriol, you’ll certainly need it later in this lovely crowd.” His genial smile did not crack ; if anything, it widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that was almost believable. “Perhaps I just want to spend a bit of my evening in good company. Is that a crime?”

Neither of them trusted a word out of his mouth, but then again, he didn’t expect her to. As he chatted on, Crest glanced through the partygoers for a glimpse of Esme. He thought he saw the light bounce off her kaleidoscopic dress somewhere off near the dancefloor ; she was mercifully not looking his way, too absorbed in gulping down the contents of a series of glass shots. Perhaps he could buy himself a few minutes of time off after all.

“Say I did want to catch up. What would you tell me, then?”

buzzcut season

lorde

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[a z u l a]

danika stoneman

A

cting classes were something that Danika had not trained in at the District 2 career academy. It wasn't advertised, how much one would need to learn to lie and steel their facial expressions after surviving the arena. The art of laughing at the lame jokes made by the most out of touch people she'd ever met was only half the battle, one that Dani would never master as well as a sword. Knowing which vital organs to slash was her forte, faking enjoyment with the kind of people who paid to watch children kill one another for sport was not.

That was what Warden was for. Her poor former mentor had the unfortunate obligation to babysit her at all important events, the only thing standing between her and a private Capitol beheading was that exasperated old man. It wasn't her fault that her mouth moved faster than her brain, there was only so much ass kissing she could do before the intrusive thoughts won over.

"Who dressed you, Levi?"

She quipped up at Ward, eyebrow quirking as she took in the ensemble that was unlike anything she'd ever seen him wear before. She might've laughed if not for the knot of anger sitting tightly in her chest, a heavy weight that settled over her heart this time every year. Not only the trauma of past memories, but the swift rage that came with watching two of her academy students volunteer each July.

The Capitol was slowly building their own demise, knowingly or not. How stupid of them, to train their oppressed population to kill, and then to invite them within their inner fold. It was like injecting a hyena with rabies and then putting a shiny collar on it to parade around a crowded city. They'd given Danika the skill set to kill with her bare hands, given her a plentiful taste of blood, and expected her to be a prim and proper plaything to entertain them.

They were sorefully wrong in thinking Dani wouldn't bite the hand that fed her.

They said you were free after you won, that all your pain and suffering ended the moment you left that arena as a victor. As if the blood didn't stain your hands a sickly crimson forever, as if your own mind didn't attack you as it reeled from the trauma. Danika had not known freedom since her game, a slave to the Capitol's whims and wishes, a prisoner of her own traitorous mind. Every day she wished it had been her instead of Markus, that her years of combat training hadn't kicked in under the pressure and she'd been the one to die in place of her brother. Each night she awoke with ragged breathing and thrashing limbs, fighting off a nightmare that never ended, even in the waking world. Freedom was a lie.

"If I play nice, can we leave early?"

She pleaded, exaggerating a pouty face at her district companion as they reached the front steps. Smoothing a strand of chestnut hued hair behind the heavy ruby earrings she'd been mysteriously gifted, she set her shoulders into a rigid line and ascended the stairs to hell.

The entrance of two careers (infamous ones at that) sent an excited chattering through the crowd, a hoard of greedy eyes watching them like vultures to a feast. Their gazes pricked her skin, and she pretended to be wholly consumed by picking an imaginary piece of lint off of the silver armor inspired fabric that adorned her muscular curves. It kept her from raising her hackles and lashing out as the first entitled Capitalite to offend her with their presence.

"If it isn't my favorite victor!" Paslee Dayshire bellowed, momentarily breaking through Danika's well-crafted stone facade for the briefest of moments, forcefully unclenching her fists and turning her sneer into a ravishing grin. "Did you know, I gifted Danika the sword she used to kill that District 4 boy?" The sponsor boasted, earning an assortment of coos from the small crowd gathered around him.

"Yes, Paslee is a very generous man. You’d almost think he enjoyed the bloodshed."

Venom disguised as honey dripped from her words as she wondered how easy it would be to snap his neck and make a dash for the door. In the arena, she had appreciated her biggest sponsor and the incredibly useful gift he'd sent her. What she hadn't appreciated was the almost ten years after, where he'd touted his generous donation above her head to make her bend to his every beck and call.

She hoped that when she eventually reached her final breaking point and snapped, he was close enough for her to sink her teeth into.

MOOD

will bite

OUTFIT

second one

LOCATION

president's mansion

TAGS

warden BELIAL.

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[BELIAL.]

Warden Pruitt

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  mood

  
  
  
  

  Holding it together.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  the fine china equivalent of formal wear
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  location

  
  
  
  

  President Snow’s mansion.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  danika a z u l a
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Warden liked parties as much as he liked fists to the head, wrapped in bloody gauze and soaked with sweat, in that they provided just the right amount of self-satisfying torture to keep a smile on his face. Fighting, boxing and any other manner of physical activity Ward took rather seriously. It was the closest he got to expressing himself without feeling the oppressive eye of a life he’d grown up believing in doubting what he was doing, or what he was saying. There was always something to be done, somewhere to be, someone to be. It was normal at this point, after the near two decades since his Reaping and subsequent win in the Hunger Games. He didn’t wander too far from that oppressive eye. It was near comforting, perhaps, in the way that suffocating underneath a pillow was softer than the ones he’d grown up sleeping on.

District Two was better off than the others, there was no doubt about it, but there were luxuries that could not be afforded in entertaining complacency; no matter how ‘in the Capitol’s pocket’ you and your kin were. You grew up believing what was told to you, and you did not go against it. Being pit against twenty-three others, kids just like you, both reaffirmed and challenged that belief. It was witnessing the blood on his hands, the viscera beneath his knees, that made you all too aware of what life really was.

And then, perhaps, to avoid ever losing those luxuries you were finally afforded, you did not wish to move too far from the spotlight. Ward knew what he was. A victor. And damn well he deserved everything that came with it.

There were, of course, those who continued to entertain those vestiges of freedom afforded; the clarity of killing and what it provided to the soul. They pushed where they could, pressed at their box’s confines and snarled at any outstretched fingers. One of those such people, as much as Ward didn’t like to associate with any others like them, was Danika. He’d mentored her, perhaps being the very reason that she’d gone so hostile in the years since. He hadn’t cared at the time, lost between the sadistic pleasure of fighting, and the masochistic pain of losing the only person he’d let behind his walls. He’d entertained her brother more, a far more likely candidate, only to watch in real time as all of that crumbled.

He didn’t pity Danika, nor did he loathe her. He tolerated her. It was the duty he was given, despite how bullshit he felt it was, to provide some sort of levity to her recklessness with his reliability.

She asked who dressed him in that quippy way that just smelled of wanting to rile him up, or to at least air her own nervousness. His suit was speckled, stone-like in the fabric’s pattern, with rusty reds splattered along the sleeves and the trouser legs. A vibrant red sash cut through the middle of his suit, over one shoulder and descending down the opposite leg.

He wore his glasses, too, tinted darkly, as it was usually night-time and her bright lights that made him need the extra protection. After he’d originally nearly gone blind in his first games, they’d fixed his sight as best they could. Turns out that when you continue to get knocked around, and don’t do anything to protect yourself, that sight could very well begin to go again. Over the years they’d slowly gone, his vision akin to dark shapes that covered the corner of his left eye’s vision all but obscuring it. The brighter the contrast between the outside and lights, the harder it hurt on his vision. At least with the glasses everything smoothed over, colours muting and their vibrancy reduced to a dull whimper.

“Last time I checked, Levi’s not a stylist. Just an idiot with a bottle of whatever he can get his hands on,” Ward said to Dani with a tight jaw, guiding her along with a bright smile on his face. He waved with one hand to those he passed by, recognizing a few faces of Capitol citizens that he’d met at parties before. He’d worked hard to maintain his persona, and to provide life where others would seek to burden with their own grievances.

By the time they’d reached the steps, Danika wasn’t done with her tirade it seemed. Ward withheld a sigh, rolling his shoulders just slightly to ease himself out of snapping at her. He’d give anything to let her go running wild, but apparently, that was as much of a liability as her giving it at whatever got in her way .

“No.” It was all he’d said, all that he’d give. Entertaining her more would just be stupid, and then she’d go on insulting him and well-- he did often seek to avoid that.

Their arrival elicited a small uproar of excitement, giving Ward a little more air to puff his chest. He felt at ease under the adoring eyes of the crowd, but of course all it took was someone coming up and talking to Dani for him to feel as if all that had been punctured with a steel tip.

Her words were venomous to the sponsor, but it wasn’t as if it didn’t make sense. They did enjoy the bloodshed; that was what the Games were to everyone who wasn’t in it. It was a show, with real people, and the drama and intrigue of life and death. What did she expect of the citizens? To suddenly develop awareness for a life outside their own?

“Generous sponsors like you are the difference between life and death for some of us,” Ward offered in an uplifting tone, avoiding the glare he so wished to give to Danika. He regarded Paslee with a nod and a charming grin. “We may not always look grateful, but since we’re here now to enjoy all of you, and all of what the night has to offer… Surely it’s enough to keep everyone smiling. Right?”

He gave Danika a gentle elbowing, holding himself back from outright smacking her.

“Now I think some of us are extremely parched, myself included. It was great to see you Paslee, and all of you! We’ll be back around later, on my word!” Ward announced to the group, giving another brave wave and all but shoving Dani off to the refreshments.

“I’d ask if you think that for one night you can not so openly display your hate for everyone, but I think that’s a tall offer,” Ward sneered under his breath to Dani. “Go get a drink or food so you can keep your mouth shut and not ruin the night for anyone.”

He gave a look around, as much as he could anyway, seeing if he could see anyone else he knew in the crowds to at least lighten his load a bit.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[sollie]

willow adler

W

hen was Crest Shen ever on his best behavior? Willow thought with a look of skepticism as Atticus faded into the crowd, left to his own devices for the duration of their interaction. A promise of the best behavior. Perhaps Willow should’ve taken a page from his book, considering her unique predicament with her brother which clouded her mind with every second that passed. Time could not pass quickly enough. The train, which she, Atticus and the few District 7 victors were shuffled onto that morning, called her name. Hopefully with medicine or a doctor that could help her brother recover fully. Pulled from her line of thought by Crest’s grating voice, she finally gave him her attention, at least a little. Though his dull words barely reached her ears, they were enough to distract her momentarily from the general air of malaise she was experiencing.

“Ah yes, good idea Crest. I shall sour the opinions of some of potential sponsors and get my tributes killed sooner in the arena. Are you always full of such great ideas or is this a one time thing for you?” Venom dripped off her lips, every word pointed, sharpened to stab at him with each syllable. It was unfortunate, but the man caught Willow in a particularly volatile state. While the usual displeasure Crest caused her was still there, the stress of the evening and her brother's illness only amplified her unpleasantness. Still, Willow was no fool. This party, unlike the others she and Crest often crossed paths at, was filled with listening ears and watchful eyes. It seemed at every corner a gamemaker, high ranking official, or peacekeeper lingered, vigilant eyes boring into the bedazzled victors.

They may have one their games and been beloved by Capitol citizens, but they would always be beneath the Capitol and its inhabitants. Walking liabilities. All they would ever be was pets on a leash, with puffed chests, well groomed hair, and trained perfectly to behave correctly. But a leash had a limit. And before long, they’d reach the end and find themselves choking– some victors had already found themselves in such a predicament. Her eyes flickered to a girl from District 12, notorious for her reputation and her temper. Others were dancing dangerously close to that line. Jumping from the District 12 girl, to the Capitol Princess, Willow’s lips pressed into a thin line, tugging downward in a frown. It was a pity, really, but the power she held would threaten everything Snow built. She didn’t realize it, but the more she behaved with her own agency, the more of a target she put on her back.

“You want to spend your whole evening with me?” A forced smile twisted on her lips, soft and subtle and perfectly practiced. “You really shouldn’t… I’m sure your Capitol girl would be quite offended if she found your attention elsewhere, wouldn’t you think?” Forcing her eyes away from Lorelei, the pair were stopped by an avox with a tray of drinks, glittering with fizz and mysterious contents. Willow snatched up a flute of alcohol, fingers gripping tightly around the stem and resisting the urge to down the entire thing, despite needing about four more to get through the remainder of this night. No, meek, sweet Willow wouldn’t be seen doing something like that. Her restraint would need to persist for the evening. As impossible as that seemed.

Finally stationary for one moment in the chaotic environment, Willow let out a small breath, bringing the glass she’d taken to her lips. Had this been any regular night, she wouldn’t have entertained his question, scoffing it away with a few hushed curses and a knowing exchange that neither of them needed to be friendly to the other. But this wasn’t a regular night and she was desperate to soothe her overactive mind.

“What would I tell you?” She pondered aloud, looking past Crest’s towering form. What would she tell him amidst this crowd. How well she was doing and how eager she was to be there with all the other victors? The thought almost made her laugh. She could tell him the truth– she didn’t care about his opinion, she had no stake in his view of her… “I would tell you–” Cold, spindly fingers quickly shut Willow up, swiftly turning with wide eyes to greet the familiar face of Myron Bettencourt, a man who knew her all too well. Unlike Crest, his eyes wandered the expanse of chest exposed by her stylists shamelessly, drinking Willow up without reservation.

“Willow!” Cooed the man, vice grip on her arm keeping her in place while the other pulled her into a tight embrace. “It is so wonderful seeing you this evening! We’ve all missed you so. Me especially. But you know what they say. Distance makes the heart grow fonder!” He erupted in laughter at his own words, making Willow’s lips twitch into another false smile. “I suppose that’s so.” She bared through the laughter, fingers digging into the sheer fabric of her arm. It would be rude to shrug it off, but if Myron held her any tighter she’d wake up with bruises the next morning. Thankfully, they were on special orders that night from the President. No escorting. Not that night. Another reason to make Willow nervous.

Delicately placing her hand over his before gripping it and removing it, she offered his hand back to him, taking a step towards Crest. “It was so lovely seeing you Mr. Bettencourt,” Willow tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as if bashful to say so. “I really wish I could stay and chat longer but Crest and I have important business elsewhere. Goodbye!” Placing a hand on Crest’s back, she nudged him forward, shooting him a quick look. She couldn’t stand him, but in this moment she desperately needed him to play along before she insulted or rejected a high standing member of President Snow’s court.

Nudging the man forward, she offered a cute wave Myron’s way and a smile, quick to discard her flute of alcohol elsewhere. It was clear by that interaction she would need to stay vigilant that evening, the air was thick with humidity and something else. Danger, perhaps? Had the Capitol always felt this electric and tense? Maybe so. Regardless, she took a deep breath and continued her motion. “Don’t.” She warned Crest, knowing his curiosity would perhaps dig into the reason she’d left in such a rush. He was fortunately being rented out to some Capitol girl. Not many had that luxury.

MOOD

distant, irritable

TAGS

magnus effect.

LOCATION

President's Mansion

OUTFITS

Willow

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[BakedBeansIsGood]

Fleur Astaret

F

leur had woken up that morning as the apex of the sun was barely past the horizon, the sky still clouded in dusky purple and a faint scattering of stars amidst the darkness. It was the call of birds that had woken her up instead of the horrors her mind produced whenever her imagination strayed, dreams that would leave her covered in a sheen of sweat and trembling hands. Ones that left a sour, bitter taste in her mouth, her head still entrapped inside the arena 13 years ago. Beginning to study the faint silhouettes of the minimalistic items inside her room as an attempt to keep her mind preoccupied, her mood began to plummet quickly. Even more when her prep team got a hold of her, dressing and priming her to the ludicrous fashion trends of the Capitol. It was eerily similar to when she was a tribute, bathing in the white fluorescent lighting for the parades and interviews.

A mix of teal and golden delicate strands of fabric made up part of her dress, the embellishments digging uncomfortably into her collarbone, a perpetual itch. No matter how Fleur attempted to configure the dress, the embellishments rubbed into her skin, no doubt it would be sore the next day. Aureate earrings hung from her ears, with what she could only assume was an opal embedded in the middle of them.

When she first arrived at the party, the atmosphere seemed overpowering, stifling, almost suffocating. Wrapping her arms around the garish dress she had been forced to wear, Fleur stepped into the gates of the mansion. Her clothes clung to her skin, the loose fabric sticking to the moisture that had already gathered. Soft music could barely be heard over the chatter yet that didn’t ease the tension in her body. Her presence at the celebration was simply out of obligation and a striking fear of the punishments if she didn’t, no more, no less. She supposed even now, she wasn’t free, not free from the Capitol and certainly not free from her own mind.

Guests were already there, some dressed in such ludicrous styles with faces caked in make-up, vulgar and showy. Gaze scouring the extravagant decorations, tinges of disgust seeped into her mind. That money was probably lavishly used without even denting their savings whilst others starved and were whipped to death for stealing a few slices of bread. Sipping a glass of champagne she had nabbed from a passing tray, she fixed her gaze on the ground, not wanting to be caught up in some conversation about her games. By no means was she a popular victor; Fleur lacked the bloodlust and savagery the Capitol sought, but there was a looming feeling of trepidation.

This feeling proved to be right, a finger tapping her shoulder as she was manoeuvring through the crowd. Instinctively turning her head, she bit into the inside of her mouth to refrain from grimacing. “Hey! You know, I bet on you in your games. Won me a large sum you did.” was what the Capitol man said, no doubt to garner some sort of support from the crowd. It was an accent Fleur couldn't quite place, the classic Capitol way of speaking that she had both ridiculed and feared when she was younger.

Fleur nodded, an almost imperceptible head movement but the intent was there.

“I-uh, okay. That’s nice to know.”

she uttered, stumbling over her words. She had always been charismatic, but she didn’t try much these days, not since the day she was branded as a victor. Her voice seemed to catch as images circled her head, a twisted carousel of pain and gore - the hunger games had become somewhat of a taboo topic for her. Turning and fleeing, she bypassed through an animated conversation between a pair gushing over a certain victor. No doubt the man that had talked to her would be disgruntled at the mediocrity of her response but it seemed that whenever she faced the choice of fight or flight, she always reverted to the latter. What was she supposed to say anyway? Thank him for betting on her life like some mull in a horse race? Tipping the last dredges of the sparkling wine down her throat, she stood by a hedge wall, knowing that she looked as out of place as she felt.

MOOD

troubled

OUTFIT

fleur

LOCATION

president's mansion

TAGS

n/a

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[a z u l a]

levi bell

L

ife had been one big party for Levi since winning the 55th Hunger Games. Sure, there was the deep set trauma over killing a bunch of children his age, but what was he to do about it? The Capital offered plenty of coping mechanisms, from booze to sex to morphling, why spend his victory in misery when Panem's finest riches were now his for the taking?

To put it plainly, everyone else was a bunch of cowards. They were too ashamed of what they had done with their own hands, the blood that spilled because of their need to survive, so they dumped all of their self-loathing onto the Capital instead of doing some self-reflection. They were bloodthirsty monsters, just like the Capital they claimed to hate so much.

The haters could keep hating, but Levi had learned to love the monster inside of him. That darkness had always been there, the ability to kill did not linger inside of everyone, proven by the handful of tributes each year who died because they couldn't take another's life. Victors were not the strongest or the smartest of the tributes, they were just the cruellest.

Winning meant the death of 23 others, and anyone who could succeed at that was no worse than the Capital themself. Levi was of the belief that if everyone just accepted this fact about themselves, they could relax with all the self-pity and angst to take up the high life he was living. There was no undoing what had been done, only acceptance and moving forward. Levi chose to move forward with copious amounts of alcohol.

Capital parties like tonight's were what the District 8 victor lived for. The moment he entered that arena he'd sold his soul, winning had required him to submit to the Capital's will, he might as well enjoy the reaping of what he'd sown. He only wished the others saw it the same way.

At least Eve didn't complain as much as some of the others. Sure, she was pretty dull in the personality department and didn't take up his offers of shots, but she was better company than any of those District 12 weirdos. Some people were content in their misery, no matter how much Levi pushed them to see the bright side.

"You look ravishing, as always."

A sly grin spread across Levi's mouth as he kissed Eve's hand, all show even though no one was directly watching them. There were always eyes on the victors, reaffirmed by the mysterious letter he'd received days prior.

It was barely a second-thought to throw away the note, the Capital didn't send letters, they sent annoying escorts to deliver messages for them. Whoever sent that letter surely meant no good, and Levi wasn't stupid enough to throw away the nice, comfy life he'd won for himself. Without a doubt he would rather be a puppet on Snow's strings than be made an example of.

"They're going to love this outfit on you. Did you design it yourself?"

A genuine compliment was not as uncommon from Levi as some assumed. He wasn't a Capital favorite for nothing, he'd learned a long time ago how to sweet talk his way into the Capitalite's hearts. Flattery got you everywhere in the Capital, a pretty smile had opened more doors for him than fists ever could. It was something that feral District 2 girl could learn from.

"Just make sure not to steal all the spotlight from me."

He winked at his district partner as they entered the mansion. While there weren't many District 8 victors, they were always the best dressed, living up to the honored craft of their district. Appraising eyes turned on them as they swept through the massive crowd, delight thrumming through Levi's veins at the attention on them. The praise of the Capital citizens was quite literally his entire life, the only profession he would have until the day he died.

Dancing his way through conversations, Levi cordially greeted those that stopped the pair until he finally made it to the well stocked bar. No party had truly started until he had a drink in his hand, and now the night could officially begin.

"A toast, to the Quarter Quell!"

Levi's voice carried over those nearby, raising his glass to meet a sea of crystal champagne flutes following his. He smirked behind his glass, letting the liquor warm him against the cool night air. It was easy maintaining the Capital's devotion, he and Eve made the perfect perfect pair, he could entertain the more hedonistic sponsors and she could charm just about anyone else. They would be solidifying District 7's favor with the Capital tonight, earning sponsors for whichever unfortunate snot-nosed brat was picked in the upcoming reaping.

If all Levi had to do to secure his future comfort was party with Capital citizens and smooth talk sponsors, he could do this dance forever.

MOOD

serving c*nt

OUTFIT

left silk shirt

LOCATION

president's mansion

TAGS

eve keeruh

coded by xayah.ღ

 

[magnus effect.]

crest shen.

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  pleasantly buzzed, mildly unnerved.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  outfit

  
  
  
  

  courtesy of district four.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  president's mansion, capitol.
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  sollie Ha_lfLife
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

“Why, I keep an itemized list with me at all times. All you have to do is ask.” He was, on a reasonable level, aware that being contrary would only rile Willow up further. Fire with fire, and biting sarcasm to match her own⎯though at this point, she ought to be used to this mirroring. “Your tributes will be fine. Well, as fine as they can be,” Crest amended. District Seven hadn’t exactly managed to produce a victor again since her games, after all. There was only so much the peripheral districts could do, he supposed. “Besides, I’m not dragging you into scandal. We both have our… obligations, so to say, but talking hasn’t been outlawed yet, as far as I’m aware.”

Of course, they were being watched. More than a decade in the Capitol had gotten him used to the weight of others’ stares at the back of his neck - and it wasn’t even as bad as it used to be! -, but unbothered did not mean unaware. Some of these glances were idle enough, a blip in the Capitolites’ attention before their focus was swept away by some now distraction, but others lingered too long to be completely natural.

He spared another fleeting thought for the letter, and the ring at his finger. Had *that* come from any of the eyes watching them tonight?

Willow’s pointed comment reminded him he could not, in fact, let his mind wander off to ponder hypotheticals too long. Crest’s smile faded just a little at the edges, the price of his inattention. “Leave her out of this, will you? It’s as I said. I just want to catch up. She’s a good girl, she won’t hold a little chat with a friend against me.” He hated to admit Willow was right, though. Esme was far from the most demanding patron one could have, and it certainly would be in his best interest to hold on to her while he could.

As if to drive the point in, the universe seemed to decide he could use a bit of a reminder.

He wouldn’t know what exactly Willow meant to tell him, whether it would have been another rebuttal or something halfway sincere. From his own viewpoint, he saw the approaching threat before she could, but he didn’t get so much as a word out before the two of them were interrupted.

One didn’t need to be a keen crowd watcher to figure out the nature of the relationship between Willow and the newcomer. Crest was all too familiar with the glint in that man’s eyes, a look better fitted for a prized pet than a human person. Then again, perhaps demanding the average Capitol citizen make that distinction was too much to ask for. He did not need to be told he had no part to play in this conversation ; as often, his best bet was to smile and nod, even when the expression felt plastered to his face. ( When had he stopped feeling angry? When had he started to sit still wait for these things to pass? )

He was not so out of practice as an actor, though, that he couldn’t catch his cue in the nick of time. As Willow moved, so did he, as smoothly as if he’d meant to take that step in the first place. “A pleasure to see you tonight, sir,” Crest chimed in, with a brief bow of his head that left no room for further comments. In this, at least, they did share the will to get away as quickly and seamlessly as they could.

The silence between them lingered for a few moments. Whereas Willow discarded her cup, Crest picked another off a waiter’s tray, draining half the glass in a few gulps. If she begrudged him the palate cleanser, he decided, he’d simply have to live with it. “I didn’t say anything. Don’t you think I know how it is?” One could almost have found a bit of sympathy in the undertone of his voice. “Come on. Let’s keep walking. It’s stifling in here anyway⎯we might as well step outside.”

buzzcut season

lorde

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