#𓂅 ⋆ ⧽ ㅤ 𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ㅤ ╰ ㅤ ❀ㅤ cora .

[snowfuls]

[Caesar] I feel like we're sitting with royalty! Shall I do a little bow or curtsy? [Laughs] Cora, for those living under a rock, you're the granddaughter of our great President Coriolanus Snow! What was it like growing up in his manor's halls? We've all seen it lit up for festivities and hosting the best and brightest! But it must be different everyday. Any secret passageways that lead to faraway lands? [Laughs]

like so much else in her life, cora's experience with caesar flickerman's show had been a unique one. edits made especially for her, that cut around all talk of scores, skills and the violence one hoped to inflict. it's a far cry from watching it now, eyes thoroughly opened. an even further cry from being on it herself. not that she thought she was particularly deserving of the airtime... then again, who in this city was? ❛ please, there's really no such need, caesar. ❜ it comes out sounding so much more like a plea than she intends, waving it off with a burst of her girlish laughter. the president's granddaughter. it's not a difficult image to play up to when it counts but the idea of actively enforcing it makes cora feel uneasy. truthfully, it scarcely ever mattered what she thought. all anybody saw was her surname, that she was a snow and their mind was set. flickerman's line of questioning only acts in reiterating that to cora. divorce herself from the lineage shackling her and who was she? she desperately hopes to find out. sooner, rather than later.

❛ well, it was... ❜ lonely? stifling? she'll muse... but cora couldn't say there were no good memories. that would be a boldfaced lie and not the type she was in the business of telling. only that the truth frightened her so much more. as if the host himself had just unearthed a well of conflicting feelings towards her grandfather that cora had yet to process. always unable to reason why it was that he'd always treated her with such warmth, such tenderness, more than with his own children, but no one else? children her age killed for sport yet she'd been spared? breaths are staggered, juxtaposed with a smile she won't allow to falter, even for a second. "what was it like to grow up in the mansion?" beginning to sound more and more like "what does it mean to be descendant of something monstrous?" to the granddaughter. falling back in rhythm with what was expected of her, it comes across as simply and as easy as, ❛ a privilege, as you might expect. of course, it comes across as just his manor to you all but to me... it's home. our home. ❜

i wish there were a way out, she wants to say. had there been, cora highly doubts she'd be sat here right now. sharp-eyed and longing. instead, she'd be off... gallivanting through whichever lands lie beyond panem — if the museum and their maps are to be believed, there's a whole world out there. one she'd long since dreamt of sharing with those affected by the games. by the abhorrent actions of their "great" president. if only things were that simple. oh, how she wishes they were that simple. ❛ if there were any secret passages, caesar... i think i'd have to be a little selfish and keep them to myself, i'm afraid. otherwise, there'd be festivities every night and however would anything get done then? ❜ she's quick to conclude.

[snowfuls]

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

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

finding her way around wasn’t what caused cora strife however, rather the energy she seemed to create was. hopes it would improve dashed time and time again as “snow spawn” had begun to catch on. as if they could all see right through her… and the man she thought to be from necessities was no different either. exasperated words and a furrowed brow prompting the girl to sigh and heavily at that, ❛ well, i’m not exactly meant to… wander around so, if i’ve come to the wrong person, i do apologise. ❜ and she did. earnestly too! the upheaval here since the refugees arrived had been great and the toll it was taking on its citizens even greater, so she suspected. eyeing the man deferentially, her request seeming more and more trivial the longer she stood there, ❛ only, mr. heavensbee would like some more paper. ❜ it’s urgent, she almost feels the need to add.

open starter

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

"That's not a serious question, right? That can't be a serious question." He tried to keep any exaggeration out of his voice. Unfortunately there was not much he could muster due to exhaustion, lost patience or any other explanation that would be acceptable.

[snowfuls]

( post - plot drop ) caesar flickerman's afterparty with @incaensio .

a vision in pink, the brilliant gold of katniss' gown intermittently catches the light, drawing cora's eye to her. admittedly, she's been watching katniss all evening. partly out of obligation, she has a rouse to keep up after all... but like so many of the capitolites gathered at caesar's party, there's genuine fascination to be found in her gazing too. admiration really. unable to help but feel drawn to the girl they wish to make the mockingjay, even if the snow experiences a certain sense of guilt at having to keep those loftiest of intentions from her. it's a neccessary headache, so she's told. one cora must learn to live with if the rebellion is to come to fruition. but now, in the ensuing fallout from the supposed "quell preview", she's lost the latest victor to the moving masses. supposing she's sought the comfort of her husband's arms, any confidence cora might've mustered over the course of the event in hopes of speaking with katniss dies following the conversation with her friend from home and as crowds swarm and shuffle about the loud foyer like she imagines waves of water do, the reactions ranging from apathetic to addled, cora makes a beeline for the stairs in search of a swift end to evening.

looking to find either parent or perhaps one of those peacekeepers who tend to skulk around after her at the top of the marble steps, it's in some sort of melancholic daze that cora ends up colliding with the very girl she'd been thinking about mere moments beforehand. a girl she near idolises, a girl she knows can't possibly like her. especially not after the words she's just exchanged with gale hawthorne. ❛ katniss... ❜ the granddaughter breathes in unsteady greeting, shaken by the realisation that it is, indeed, the girl on fire who is staring back her, ❛ i'm so sorry. ❜ words fall from rosy lips faster than she can quite begin to comprehend. sorry for what? the clips they'd played come to mind first of all. for if cora, of all people, had been upset by them, she can only imagine how those depicted in them felt... seeing their darkest or most desperate moments come back to haunt them, helpless to stop it. particularly those who were none the wiser about the meaning behind the montage and its choice closing statement. ❛ for bumping into you and for that... interruption. you shouldn't have had to see that again, none of us were expecting to see that. ❜ it's a lie, underpinned by honest remorse — thinking back on seeing rue's little face once more, wreathed with white flowers. cora hadn't been watching when it happened last year. another day of the games unseen, courtesy of one of her usual excuses but hearing about it at dinner that evening was enough. it had taken everything in cora to keep her food down as the short-lived sympathy her family extended rue's tragic passing inevitably turned to grumbling about the "tempestuous" reaction to the day's events taking place in her home district. on reflection, it only provokes cora. digging her heel into the ground, glassy brown eyes coming to meet those of the famed victor, grappling internally, as ever, with all she wished to tell to katniss everdeen but the very little she's actually permitted to say.

[snowfuls]

( pre - plot drop ) caesar flickerman's afterparty with @primvlas .

new faces are always a welcome sight. a salve against the same narrow people and mindless chatter. and this new face is especially hard to miss, even amongst the crowd of colourful partygoers, each in their own visually loud ensemble. not for the reason a capitolite might think when looking upon somebody from an outlier district either. she's no weed amongst the roses after all... she's the newest of capitol darlings. hers is the very face that had (unknowingly) set this all in motion and cora feels herself drawn to the younger everdeen for that reason in particular. an earnest smile tugging at the corners of painted lips upon approach, ❛ primrose everdeen... hi. ❜

the elder girl suspects primrose of being a far cry from the sort of girls she attends the academy with. not nearly as preoccupied with vanity as students belonging to sweeping cosmetics empires are but every girl deserved to feel beautiful and be told as such. at least cora liked to think so. an admiring wave of her free hand accompanying warm words, ❛ i thought it'd be remiss of me if i didn't come and tell you how lovely you look this evening. is that a cinna creation you're wearing? ❜ her grandfather's souring opinion on the designer in the months following the seventy fourth games was something of an open secret amongst mansion staff. one that hadn't gone unnoticed by cora. she'd certainly never be allowed to wear something as... cutting-edge as what cinna's often seen adorning his district twelve team in but surely, there was no harm in admiring their work? ❛ you know, i wouldn't be at all surprised if you made magdalena's best dressed list tomorrow morning. your sister too, no doubt. ❜

[snowfuls]

unlike a "regular" games, the quarter quell has become increasingly hard for the sheltered granddaughter to ignore. the watch parties not only double in number but triple in size and wasteful extravagance. worse still, is that they all want a snow in attendance — her elder brothers are all too happy to oblige, of course. indulging in such a request, happy to provide credibility to the hosts but for cora, who spends most hunger games shut up in the presidential palace avoiding screens and thinking up excuses, it's something of a nightmare to be seen. not that she's ever really been seen once in her entire life. merely looked upon like one of the other... thousand or so rare and precious objects that decorate her family's halls. were she being honest with herself, she'd know its what feeds her resentment. part of it anyway. manifesting in small, harmless acts of rebellion ( nothing like what the rebels have up their sleeves ) such as the one in process now. taking small victory in the fact that she's managed to give the hapless suits of armour who follow her around the slip. an act of defiance she'll surely receive an earful for tomorrow morning but continues with all the same. making her escape through the parting, drunken masses, getting lost amongst them and making a steady beeline for somewhere she hopes she'll be less likely to be found in.

it's a naive expectation, in retrospect. for the bartender in the hotel she's wandered into appears to recognise her almost immediately, eyes alight with the unmistakable excitement that a member of their beloved president's family has just walked into their establishment and towards their very own bar no less! it's enough to make cora want to cut and run but she won't embarrass this citizen, not tonight and so, perseveres. sitting herself beside a man she won't recognise until he speaks up, figuring she'll look far less out of place next to someone, than she would sat alone.

as the bartender fusses over what it is she'll be having this evening, her new found companion attempts to dissuade her from sitting there at all and then, it clicks. sterling whitvale, cecelia's husband... his family has become a favourite amongst capitolites over the past decade or so. he's a recognisable figure in his own right, truth be told. something cora can imagine he loathes as much as she does. even more so, given the way his children have been so carelessly roped into the media circus too. cora knows she was the very same age the year cecelia won as their young son is now. though the games were still being shielded from her at the time. it's a luxury children from the districts have never been afforded. much less those of a victor. her tone instinctively apologetic because of this, ❛ please forgive my intrusion then, mr. whitvale. ❜ an earnest sense of empathy evident in each word. it eats away at her that sterling can't exactly deny her. the surname she bears a silent threat that subdues most who wish to spit venom back at the family of snakes. most. and she suspects him of having more than a few choice words for the kin of whom put him there. an older, hopefully much wiser gale hawthorne perhaps. she presses ahead, choosing cordiality. good-mannered girl she is. ❛ i was simply seeking distraction... as are you, i presume? ❜

where: hotel bar who: anyone in the capitol

Amber whiskey swirled absentmindedly in a glass as Sterling's mind seemed to be anywhere but focused on what was in front of him. He pondered why he hadn't heard from his contacts in the underground. Eyes lingered on the the piano abandoned by the lounge singer and her accompaniment some 30 minutes ago, remembering years past when his own fingers would stroll across the keys. They moved over the screen, showing mostly sleeping tributes. And they lingered on the rich men of the capitol, leaving him to wonder if they knew his wife.

But mostly, his mind was occupied by the stewing pit of anger in his gut, and he was trying to figure out the las time he wasn't angry. Even time spent with his children and his wife, it was there, festering under his skin. All he had to do is think about the injustices they had or would face, and there it was again, brought to the surface for him to pick and worry at, never letting the wound heal.

He knew he was placed on the precarious edge of drinking to relax and drinking to forget. He knew he should finish his drink, and retreat back to his hotel room where he'd find his wife spending quality time with their young ones. But he couldn't bring himself to do that yet, both for himself, and for them. But he knew he should be doing something other than stewing.

Despite this, it didn't stop himself from speaking up as someone slid into the barstool next to him., despite others being open. "Trust me, you don't want me as company tonight."

[snowfuls]

almost as soon as it'd been uttered, cora is seen waving con's comment off, rejecting his implication altogether. quite unable to imagine a time nor a world in which she'd ever feel comfortable conversing with those whose spilt blood she could feel dripping from her fingertips. it's a silent sort of anguish, one undoubtedly born of the "bubble wrap" she'd been smothered in since birth. bred to feel superior, it's a deeply unnatural occurrence for a snow to want to be anyone else and yet... the two grandchildren strolling away from the party, arm in arm, appear to be a testament to the opposite being true.

❛ please don't be like that... they're as close as. ❜ of course, she kept up with gossip. it was exceedingly hard not to in the capitol. she understood the reality of the situation, or rather, what was simmering just below the surface of district twelve's entourage this year as well as anyone else with vested interest did. only cora didn't think of it as any different to the way she looked at him as far more of an elder brother than a cousin. a better fit for the role than either of her two brothers had ever been. she imagines that family means more than blood in twelve. in any of the districts really. a concept seemingly lost upon the capitol and their family entirely. it made the apparent meddling in the quell and selection of its participants that much sadder in cora's eyes. it was a punishment and a not so subtle one at that. she wonders if there'd been any discussion as to whether it should be the everdeen matriarch's name being plucked from the bowls at the reaping. no... they'd surely fall back in laughter at the idea, dismissing it for being too obvious a move. only to go ahead and pick the "aunt" instead. grimacing, lips pulled into a pout, the granddaughter wishes for an opportunity to turn her mind off from it entirely but as con's words remind her, praise is expected. ❛ not having all the gory details hasn't stopped me before... i'm awfully good at stroking egos, you know. i'll just tell plutarch... his design for the arena is nothing short of magnificent. ❜ she teases cooly.

awe is arising in her warm, brown eyes as cora plays witness to the little exchange between the two men, quietly marvelling at her cousin's nerve and not for the first time either. the peacekeeper likely laugh in her face if she were the one to try that. ever the good, abiding girl in the eyes of the capitol's vast and loyal public. then again... maybe not. citing untoward repercussions that tend to follow those who crossed her ( irregardless of her input ) though it's far from a fact cora takes any sort of pride in. let alone one she'd actively thought to take advantage of. in reaching the balcony, the conversation taints an emerging smile with melancholy, ❛ the roses certainly aren't as effective as they used to be. ❜ ... had they ever been? or was she simply too foolish a girl to comprehend the way death clung to the halls of their grandfather's mansion until it was too late? until the truth had to be spelled out to her? a hand shoots out in subsequence, beckoning to be given the packet of cigarettes. an action they'd surely come to regret if she were to happen upon either parent again tonight but cora's desire for distraction exceeds any reluctance. ❛ did he say anything? on the way here? ❜

smile grows easily into a grin at the push and pull, until he gets the push and he is wrinkling his nose, rubbing at the place of injury. it lasts very little though, just acting, as familiar between them; he brings a palm to the back of her head and gives something that is half a nudge, half a caress. "doesn't stop anyone else, cor." not that she is like everyone else. constantinus wonders if his uncle had planned, or even thought of what would be the repercussions to raise his only daughter alienated from everything; he musn't have thought it through, because the girl barely appears capitolite, much less a snow. he's pretty sure callum — one of their cousins — has already started to take on bets on who will last the longest, whose death will be the most embarrassing, who will get the first iconic moment of this year's games (connie can't talk about that, seeing as he has first eyes and hands on all of that on the control room, but he listens, wishing he was unable to).

"not really her aunt." he corrects, mostly out of habit. the gamemakers were granted privileges beyond the story the media had to spin from the takes collected around the arena and the tributes' families, and constantinus, being a snow, knew even more. they had to fabricate that thing when the grumpy boy from twelve appeared (he still thinks he's her real boyfriend, but he omits that from cordelia; he isn't sure if her fondness towards katniss stretches towards the victor's perfect match, so best not to ruin that, too). "yeah that…" he grimaces as he recalls of hazelle hawthorne's evaluation. last out of twenty four, she had the room excited and her under-delivering had left most of his colleagues grumbling, pitying the lost opportunity of a good show. "i'd say don't watch this year's if you're concerned about the everdeens, but plutarch probably will expect some praise with all that he's building." that they're building, but connie isn't entirely breached on how much his cousin knows. it's funny, because they must see each other at least once a week (he's gotten her in, for fuck's sake), but one wrong word slips out and they're all fucked. so it's best to be in the dark.

"want to smoke?" he doesn't wait for an answer, careless if she does or not (he had given her eldest brother his first cigarette, some years ago, and their parents talked his ear off; their mother still grumbles, under her breath, that constantinus is such a bad influence. if only she knew), as he nods towards a room that says authorized personnel only. the peacekeeper at post stiffens as they approach, but connie knows this game, and fishes out some big bills, along with his id. say what you want about the snows, but a glimpse to the surname is enough for the guy to blink and let them pass (not without taking the money, of course), and connie snickers. "i think this balcony is better than grandpa's. not as good a view, but reeks less of old man and death."

[snowfuls]

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

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

❛ i'm certain connie… constantinus was always the optimal choice, mr. latier. but thank you. ❜ cora replies, politely as ever despite the sadness tainting her words. thankful to see no such judgment in the victor’s eyes, with him going as far as to entertain her obvious line of questioning in addition to the numerous times she’d poked her head into the control room over the past few days for that very same purpose. she understands the sacrifice her cousin has made for her, better than anyone else here ever will and whilst she doubts she’ll be given the opportunity to repay him for it, having as much laid out for her makes it too sickeningly real. threatening that world of fantasy she used to take refuge in, imagining a life far away from the capitol — the one that now accommodates a dream in which con lives to see the fruits of his labour. the questions that fall from her lips next, with such urgent curiosity, a shred of truth to how desperate she is to make that fantasy of hers a reality. ❛ and have you heard anything from the capitol? from… him? is that why you came? ❜

@snowfuls sent: “ can i ask… what happened? ” for beetee + cora!

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

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

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

[snowfuls]

cora knows what it is to have a brother. at least, she assumed she did. the two she left behind, caius and cyrillus, scarcely occupy her thoughts now. just as she had scarcely occupied theirs for the past twenty something years. had they even noticed she was gone? not if they hadn't gone to grandpa yet, entreating him for attention, which would be hard to do without her there. love was so transactional in their home that it's wholly eye-opening, rooming with delly and dirk. the cartwrights, whom she's come to know were known as "townies" back in twelve — watching them together warms cora's heart just as much as it breaks it. perpetually anguished in the knowledge that her family is the reason why theirs is dead. why their district has been reduced to little more than rubble and ash, why they're both orphans now… with delly forced to play mother to a little brother who will grow up without a home. cora had spent so much of her life kept separate from those whose blood she felt drenched her hands, othered in a variety of ways, that being surrounded by them now, as she is in district thirteen, is an overwhelming experience. one that's prompted cora to recede into herself. fitting and no doubt helpful given the new pretence she's been asked to keep up is that of a hostage.

it means she spends more time than she'd like cooped up in their quarters. ever thankful that delly is as sweet and kind and understanding as she is, for it puts cora at ease there. others in the subterranean district turn and glare, of course. like, at any given moment, she might sprout a serpentine tail and her grandfather's viperous tongue along with it. as if the granddaughter has ever possessed the same penchant for poison as her forebearer. cora can lie, cora can act ( she's been doing so her whole life ) but never to harm those she sought to protect. no matter how much harm they wished upon her. she's busy scribbling away in her journal, one of her only possessions from home, about this unrest when delly walks in. the smile she bears bringing one of a similar nature to cora's lips. ❛ delly… hi. no, i'm afraid he hasn't but the hawthorne boys did run through here a little while ago. they were fast but i could've sworn i saw dirk with them. ❜ she offers, hoping it'll bring delly peace of mind. cora had picked up on just how close those two families had grown as of late… not only the younger boys either, brash and boisterous as they are but the pair her own age too. twelve did look out for twelve, of that cora was certain. ❛ my day was quiet. surprising, i know. i did visit plutarch in the library this morning but i've just been in here all afternoon. what about you though? i'm sure you've been busy. ❜

Setting: Delly, Dirk, and Cora's sleeping quarters @snowfuls

Between all of the jobs that she had volunteered herself for, trying to settle herself into this new role of parent to her brother, and trying to deal with her own grief and hiding it from Dirk, Delly didn't spend a lot of time in her quarters. It had been a shock for her when she had been told that Cordelia Snow, Snow's granddaughter was her roommate. She had been intimidated, nervous, and full of questions, but Cora had seemed perfectly lovely. She trusted that if the people in charge thought that she was a safe person then she must. She had heard that they were keeping some of the questionable people in the cells.

Walking into her quarters before dinner, she paused in the doorway. Dirk hadn't returned yet, but he had taken to following Gale around when he wasn't doing his school stuff. It made her smile, the way that Gale had seemingly taken Dirk under his wings since the bombing. It was cute. But the room wasn't empty. Cora was there.

"Hey Cora," she greeted, smiling. "Dirk hasn't stopped in here while you've been here, has he?" She asked, walking over to her side of the room and sitting down on the bed. "How has your day been?"

[snowfuls]

the warning, courtesy of her cousin, is ringing in her ears when the initial commotion begins. cora's still milling about in places she shouldn't, imagining that time passes quicker without her — heart begging not to watch what it knows is unfolding whilst her head argues that absence would only act to implicate her. curiosity's taken root in there too, given how vague connie's words had been and it eats away at her faster than she cares to admit. so, it's in a... begrudging hurry that cora descends the stairs, navigating the museum halls she knows so well until she's finally reached the packed foyer again. everyone inside is transfixed as holograms give life to unfathomable violence and the girl can only stand appalled at the sight, left feeling as if she'd been transported back some nine years prior. stuck seeing a tribute whose vice-like grip she can still feel on her arms, even now, get blown to pieces before her very eyes. it unnerves her and the consolation of "end the violence, stand with panem" is far from enough to console her. something resembling fight or flight kicks in and as her feet start to carry her away from the troubling scene, it's then that her body abruptly collides with another. the roughness of the collision knocking her awake, bringing her back down to reality once more... enough to catch the sheer disdain in the other's tone.

❛ mr. hawthorne. ❜ the recognition is mutual. the capitol had come to know of gale hawthorne as katniss everdeen's "cousin" but thanks to the various fawning girls in her academy class, cora had come to know of him as the latest in a long line of district heartthrobs. a supposed bad boy from the slums of district twelve, painted by various media outlets to be the very anthesis of the endearing baker's boy and well... he's definitely not helping dissuade her from believing the bad part to be true. people from the districts had no reason to like her, this much cora knows well but most at least tried to feign cordiality, especially those aware of the consequences that followed indignation. to be met with such open contempt is a shock to cora's system, brows creasing in distress as she does something of a double take. already emotionally fraught as a direct result of the quell's "preview", a quiet moment passes as the president's granddaughter processes his question before ultimately choosing to extend a veiled olive branch. ❛ and why would i be doing that when there are cameras everywhere? ❜ she's hoping to bring attention to the fact that even if people weren't picking up on his obvious disdain in real time, there's no doubt in her mind that somebody in the control room is. cora couldn't know for certain but she'd experience very little surprise to find out that there were individuals in her grandfather's employ whose sole job it was to play at omniscience. they certainly weren't subtle when it came to their surveillance of her. stepping even closer to him still, feeling particularly small in the shadow of his broad shoulders and standoffish words, she keeps her voice low and gentle when she utters, ❛ your mother is at their mercy come noon tomorrow... think of that now and you won't make this any harder for her than it already is. ❜

WHEN: caesar's afterpary, signal intrusion plot drop CLOSED for @snowfuls .

you could cut the tension in the room with a knife. in fact, perhaps gale would have started cutting things at this point, if the table of food had anything other than pathetic butter knives -- he's checked. the realization has washed over him in tidal waves and he's starting to come down from his initial buzz after seeing the video, now. he's mourned the loss of his mother, for what seems like the tenth time just today, the realities of the games suddenly feeling realer now. he's talked to katniss, who predictably left him to find her husband. gale has been left to search the room for anyone who might know something. that, and to shake off the tremor from his fingertips.

he rounds up the table with a tower of precariously balanced glasses of alcohol, keeping his ears peeled and attentive. two pink-haired weirdos on the other side are chatting up about what shoes they're going to be wearing for some game premiere party, and gale holds back a dramatic gag. at least listening in on people is something to do. a distraction from the darker corners in his head. it's easy to pretend he's hunting, back in the woods, and focus on noises away from him. that's less easy when the area he's scouting is a crowded room, and he soon finds his shoulder colliding with someone on his way past the table.

"'m sorry," he mumbles under his breath, his manners a knee-jerk reaction and a testament that his mother taught him well. only then he looks up (and back down) to find a vaguely familiar face. vaguely, in the way he's never seen her in person before. familiar, in the way they all know her name. she's been in the television and those dumb magazines, and it'd be impossible to grow up without knowing of her. he can't quite pinpoint the dozens of feelings that burn up to the forefront of his brain first, but he knows disdain is the easier one to focus on. "snow." he scoffs, spitting the name out like it's poison. he looks over her shoulder, almost as if expecting the more evil-incarnate part of her family to jump out at him, too. he doesn't know why he didn't expect the rest of the old man's family to show up. he knows they're all being watched, but he thinks sending in the bloodline is a bit too obvious. his voice is a snarl. "you watching me or som'?" 

[snowfuls]

out on the balcony, cora pays her cousin no mind. suspecting he's ducked out in search of a lighter for the cigar she knows he has stashed away in some pocket, his movements fade to white noise as she gazes out at the sparkling cityscape. it's a bittersweet sight, as ever. beautiful but irrevocably tainted. as is the case with so much their family has touched. hands drenched in seven decades worth of needless bloodshed and the granddaughter believes she can see it dripping from every surface, staining even the purest of whites, in every dark, unseen corner of the capitol. it's a formidable kingdom their grandfather's made of this metropolis, all for them too — as he so often tells them but as the glistening of the forcefield reminds her... it's little more than a gilded cage. one she was born into and made to endure. bright and shiny, austere and loveless. it's the same one she'll leave for the very first time tonight. though cora remains blissfully unaware of this fact as con re-enters through her bedroom window. the action finally drawing her attention to him. however there's no lighter in sight.

her gaze meets his, searching wordlessly for an explanation as the air between them grows heavy with something she can't begin to make head nor tail of. not yet, at least. it's alarming, cora's brows knit with growing curiosity as his arbitrary question earns a tepid shrug from her. quite the startling juxtaposition from how she feels her heart drop at what leaves her cousin's lips next. her grip on the marble balustrade falls in an instant as she stumbles back several paces. ❛ what? ❜ is all she stomach in reply. voice somewhere between accusatory and uncertain. it’s not that she doesn’t trust constantinus. he’s the only person in this house she does trust, they're two sides of the same coin... so she's thought for these past ten or so years. only this is far from the conversation she thought they'd be having tonight. so used to going through the motions, their lives an endless performance, doe-eyes grow wide with disbelief at the sudden deviation. the greatest of deviations. this is treason. they both know it. and in their grandfather’s house no less? whilst he lingers downstairs — ever present. no matter how desperately cora had longed for it over the years, change is a concept entirely foreign to her and standing on the cusp of it as they appear to do so now… it frightens her. cora wishes to will it away, to appear strong in her convictions but she can’t. a hereditary anomaly, she’s never possessed her family’s proclivity for power nor their ability to will something into existence. but amongst the shock, there is sense too. cutting through confusion, the revelation that someone had to have told plutarch to recruit her in the first place. whispered her misgivings in his ear. for despite the elder man’s seemingly endless wealth of knowledge, he wasn’t all knowing. that, coupled with the various warnings, his working under the head gamemaker himself, the way he’d campaigned for plutarch to receive that very position... just as she had. every bit of it was planned and the realisation glows on cora's features. ❛ you’re a part of it too. aren’t you? ❜ it's a relief, a betrayal and a lifeline rolled into one. she's not alone.

setting : cora's room in the snow mansion, around six in the evening in the seventh day of the games. with : cora snow @snowfuls

the family dinners for the snow family are like a well rehearsed play, one constantinus is unfortunately well familiar with. well, tonight, it is fortunately because by the time there's a natural stop, after desert, when the patriarch goes to his office to check on something, and grandmother usually goes to have her smokes (she's not here tonight, better things to attend, she would certainly say when she gets home by the time for bed), and the grandkids can do what their hearts desire until the nightcap. they go to cora's room. it's one of the best in the house — at some point, it had belonged to coriolanus' favorite daughter, so it was natural that his favorite grandchild would inherit it — with the third-best balcony of the mansion — third only to the president's, of course, and grandma's own — though it is nothing as grand as one would expect for a snow. it's good for fresh air, however, and the waft that comes from the greenhouses hit him right in the face, before he can as much as light his own cigar. it is enough to remind him of why they're here.

and so the eldest retracts into the room, re-starting his steps from the door; pulling out a small scan, a metal box similar to one of the mobile phones only the capitolites are allowed to use, he scavenges the surfaces, waiting for a beep. none comes. of course, he stifles a scoff. his own room in this house beeps, now and then, but cordelia is the angel grandchild, isn't she? who could ever suspect her? he finishes the round when he arrives by the balcony again, and the scan is pushed back, almost imperceptibly, into his pocket. constantinus takes a seat on the marble railing, letting a leg hang out — there's a forcefield there, installed by the time he came home from the loony bin. just in case another snow lost their minds — and sighing. "tired?" the worst part of the night is barely over. there's still so much to say. connie lets his eyes wander through his cousin's face. they've been here, doing this, so many times now. that this is the last time it's dawning on him, but he can not falter now. "i know you know, by the way. about plutarch's little mockingjay project."

[snowfuls]

it was likely just as callous of cora not to pay attention to the tributes' final days as it was to revel in their impending peril as the partygoers surrounding her do... but cora can't stomach the idea of adults entering the arena any better than she could when it was children. choosing to, instead, flit around this archive of a venue, playing at sociability before finding herself entrapped in a... one sided "discussion" with a former escort who can't resist regaling the president's granddaughter with tales of their favourite victor and how utterly convinced they are that a tribute reaped for the imminent quell is the very image of said victor. their second coming! they claim. it's a stretch of the imagination too far for even cora to pretend to want to entertain. brown eyes begin to glaze over in boredom until the sudden sensation of an arm snaking around her neck and over her shoulder jolts her back to reality.

restlessness evaporates, a glimmer of relief flashing across her dolled up features as her cousin's authoritative voice cuts through the drivel. constantinus' swift dismantling of the escort earning a smile from cora that she then rushes to suppress, pressing a hand to her lips in an attempt to hide the gentle amusement. it's as convincing a rouse as any other he's tried among the years. cora might almost believe it too, if not for the fact that her mother scarcely ever cared about what her daughter was up to at any given time. she'll contemplate a world in which she did care : supposing that she hadn't expressed an adequate amount of jubilation at the idea of a mother of four meeting her grizzly end in the arena... how embarrassing of her.

❛ be sure to add it to my tab. ❜ she retorts. there's no ounce of resistance to being led away by con, falling back into the familiarity of his presence with immense gladness. he's one of just a handful of people she shares such closeness with. likely the only person here she'd want to willingly spend time with... though she is quick to feign pain upon feeling his faint grip upon her hair, rolling her head back in an exaggerated fashion as a particularly girlish ❛ ow. ❜ escapes her. what follows is a light jab to his rib, in the name of retaliation, courtesy of her elbow. cora quite unable to help the way her nose wrinkles bashfully at the utterance of "lover girl", ❛ you know i would go and talk to her, con... if i wasn't certain that i'm one of the very last people she'd want to engage in conversation with here. ❜ victors typically treat her well enough but cora, little mistress of the art that she was, could spot a forced smile from across the room and tributes who won the games often appeared as reliant on them as she was. she certainly didn't blame them for wanting to retreat from engaging with those who bore the surname, snow. proximity to their grandfather was all it took. if only they knew of how sorely she wished to do the same. ❛ she must have a great deal on her mind already, her aunt being a tribute and all. ❜

setting : caesar flickerman's afterparty. with : cora snow @snowfuls

caesar's parties are always a reboot of every other capitol party, but he's outdone himself in tackiness tonight — a fucking museum? what are them? kids on an academy field trip? constantinus gets tired of looking around items behind a glass, and from entertaining the common talk around the games, so he keeps on the move, ready to skip should anyone extremely boring (the majority of people here) try to loop him into some never ending conversation about something he doesn't really care about.

after a few rounds, he almost misses the opening feast at his grandfather's; at least then, he had been able to hole himself up in his old bedroom when things got too much, and he could drink and eat and smoke as much as he wanted without silently judgmental eyes upon him, all of which are a miss tonight. he's ready to bribe some of the staff to let him go up to the balcony when he notices a very familiar face, and, more importantly, the signs of subtle strain that turns at her features. oh, his dearest cousin. so beloved, and so polite. thankfully, connie does not consider himself to be either, so he sneaks his way through the people until he's standing just next to cora; his arm falls around her neck, a motion he's accustomed to. it is enough to get the one talking to his cousin to quieten, raising an eyebrow. he returns the gesture. "i was waiting for when you were going to finally shut up. thank you." he gives a mocking nod.

"your mother's looking for you, cor." he announces, a quick lie, just pressing enough for the other person to get the hint and let cora go. con guides her through the neck to the supposed direction of her mother, only to drop his arm and give her braid a gentle tug. "you owe me." he never collected favors, though, not from her. the most sincere smile he's mustered tonight tugs at the corners of his lips, and he tilts his chin lightly. "you should look for more interesting people to mingle with, cora. i saw your lover girl just a while ago." katniss everdeen was being swamped by admirers, as always; he could not openly declare himself one of those, as despite how much she had inspired admiration in him with her actions of open rebellion in live tv, he was still skeptical she could rise up to the role of the mockingjay plutarch and coin envision for her.