#ah136

[alder-reid]

Alder had been sent back to the Capitol a few days early, shuttling papers and intel for the Vox back to the nexus of Vox command, now set up out of the old Presidential Mansion.

The last month had been confusing. Difficult. Emotionally fraught. He didn't know what to make of the Games coming back. On one hand, the betrayal from Caucus cut like a dull knife, straight to his core. Everything he'd fought for, for all these years, that many people had died for-- all to bring it back?

However, he knew firsthand how callous and cruel the Tarren were in their pursuit of what Panem had. He knew they wouldn't hesitate to kill and torture, that they were desperate enough to go to the extreme. Most of Panem did not understand this, not in the same way he did. So their numbers were dwindling, and they were staring down a very, very dark abyss if they lost the war. Every fucking day would be the Hunger Games, if they were lucky to live long enough to see Panem fall in the first place.

So maybe, more than he cared to admit, he understood Caucus' logic, if he felt ill thinking about the methods. He had half a mind to go talk to her himself, and as he stood at the front steps of the mansion, a frown tugging at his expression and elevated breath fogging in the January air, he started to seriously consider it. He had experience she didn't. Both with the Tarren and the Games. Maybe he could make her see the Games were a mistake, that it was violence for nothing, no matter what anyone thought. He'd been there, he'd felt how futile it was the last several years.

Maybe he might have, if someone familiar didn't give him a small wave, breaking his concentration.

"Enna. Hi," he greeted, tucking the envelope he was meant to deliver a little tighter under his arm. How long had he been zoned out? "Glad to see you alive and okay. I've heard it's been weird around here."

@ennalydonsbee

[cade-bentley]

"What's it like?" Cade asked as casually as he could muster, but truth was, he wanted to know everything Cain would tell him while he was still going through the same training Cade was considering. Asking Everett didn't count-- he went to a Peacekeeper Academy as a teen. While Cain was a Career, it hadn't been specifically for this, and it had been a while ago. A closer comparison. "Joining the Vox, I mean? How do they treat you?"

@cain-gunn

[cade-bentley]

"Then I trust you." He didn't trust the Vox, not at all, but he trusted Everett's judgment on the situation. If they had to run, well... Cade didn't do well when his blood sugar dropped, but he could figure out life in the Wilds for a little bit. Just until they could get to a friendlier District or something. "Can you stay here for the night? Will they know?"

He closed his eyes, an automatic reaction to the comforting touch, the hand in his hair. "I would tailspin, wouldn't I?" he said, glad to have Cade's trust, and hoping to hell that it wasn't misplaced. "I think this is the best thing. For both of us."

[alder-reid]

He'd pulled Cat into a crushing hug as soon as he'd seen her in Seven's District center, of course, where both of them had evidently been sent by the Vox to keep holding what they could of the District. But he didn't begin with the usual greetings, and Caucus' speech from the morning had replaced what warmth he might usually see from feeling his friend with any icy, sick feeling.

"You saw?" he breathed into her ear, trying to keep his voice from cracking. Games. Again. And while he understood where it was coming from, saw firsthand just how badly help was needed lest everyone in Panem die, it still made him feel sick to his stomach that this had been the proposed solution. He wanted to talk with someone who understood, who could either validate what he was feeling, or help him put his qualms about it to rest. Maybe it really was a necessary war measure? Maybe he didn't really understand war after all?

@catmillers

[alder-reid]

It had taken four days of walking to finally reach the Vox outpost Waverley had instructed him to get to. By the last day, he was out of food, exhausted, and no amount of rain water he collected during the cold overnights with a few hours of sleep fought for in a threadbare sleeping bag felt like enough.

He'd thought that maybe the Vox would deny him entry-- surely word had gotten around that he'd given away information while imprisoned. However, they brought him in in a rush, even with a shocking lack of regard. It seemed this attack had them scrambling and spread thin to hold a line, especially outside of District Centers.

In fact, they all but shoved him into a spare room with some food and water, which Alder didn't argue too much against. He showered, then slept in what felt like a miraculously soft bed for the first time in weeks. He only woke for brief intervals over the next 24 hours, too bone tired and sore to do anything except sleep. He should try to get in touch with Maverick or Linden, but the times he attempted to find someone to help, they brushed him off, and he didn't need much encouragement to go lay back down and try again later. What would he do? Phone lines were down, radios were kept open for essential messages only, and who knew what happened to mail. His best bet would be get back to the District Center once he was well enough again to continue travel.

He woke sometime mid-afternoon on the third day to a knock on his door. At first, he decided to not get it, rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. The knocks came again, more insistent this time, hurried.

With a sigh, he pushed off the covers and padded across the wood floor to answer. Maybe they needed him for a mission. This period of rest hadn't been bound to last long anyway. "Yeah, what?" he croaked out as he opened the door while pinching the bridge of his nose. The dull headache persisted.

He squinted up at the person, expecting a Vox and not-- "Mav," he breathed, all exhaustion, irritation, trepidation abandoned. He threw his arms around his shoulders, pressed his nose into his neck and melted against him in relief. "How the hell did you find me?"

@maverick-montana

[alder-reid]

Alder woke up the morning of the Reapings feeling awful. His throat hurt, his sinuses ached, and when he sat up the world seemed to spin around him. Of course. He supposed that eventually all the time spent with other Vox, now in the crowded Capitol, and with much more limited nutrition than usual, this was bound to happen. It felt like a cold, he was lucky it wasn't worse.

He didn't know when Mav was due to get here, trains were unreliable right now. He messaged him to come up to the seventh floor when he got here, but he wouldn't see it, probably. Alder hadn't been able to get any technology connection to work reliably out in the Districts since summertime. It hadn't even occurred to him to try to check if someone had tried to get in touch with him until he'd been in the Capitol a couple of days-- who would be reaching out who wasn't also out in the districts?

He turned on the TV at low volume, turning to press his face into his pillows and listen to the new Vox personalities give a sort of grim, funeral dirge sort of coverage to the Reapings. They really played up it was "the last one", that it was "an unfortunate and necessary measure." His head hurt even worse trying to parse out for himself how he was feeling about it all. He dozed off, lulled by the low noise and exhaustion now gripping him down to his bones.

A knock on the door woke him with a start, and with a sharp inhale he sat up. Immediate regret-- his head fucking hurt, and now his muscles were protesting too. "Yeah?" he called, voice scratchy and heels of his hands pressed into his forehead.

@maverick-montana

[alder-reid]

He shrugged one shoulder, unable to accept it. He was just lucky. Anyone else could have done it too-- especially considering the way he'd nearly died several times over during each stint in the Arena.

Alder flopped down into one of the seats across from Lee, drawing his knees up and in, training his eyes on the speeding landscape rushing past the train window. "All I really care about is that it's over now. For good. I can try to go back to a normal life. No-- a better life." Would he ever be able to have that, though?

It was a bizarre moment for Lee, as he looked up from his seat at the man who was changing the world. The one who was on the front lines, behind the scenes, at the forefront, and backing everyone. The man who was almost singlehandedly leading the entire rebellion. Alder Reid - how amazing was that? Alder Reid.

"Oh?" he replied, a slight chuckle in his voice. "So I'm allowed the grace to do what I need to in order to survive, but you're not?" He shook his head. "Not very equal of you."

He glanced away as Alder continued, and images of Alder's Games flashed through his mind. Dinosaurs and ice ages, poisons and axes - the one thing Lee had managed to pry from the hands of a Sponsor. He shook his head.

"No, Alder. That's nothing special. I did that for everyone. You're the one who fought his way out."

[alder-reid]

"Merielle?"

He should, of course, be prepared to see familiar faces in the Capitol a couple of days before the Games began again, but it was still strange, in general, to be in this version of the Capitol with the usual fare of people he generally associated with the worst times of year.

Well. He supposed now, for at least one more Games, he'd still have to.

Except Merielle was standing near the produce (or... where the produce should be, there was one sad looking apple and some canned pears that seemed to date to the Dark Days put out on the shelves today), with an unreadable look on her face. He didn't know Merielle very well, but the Victors who were cast into the Games the way they had been did look out for one another.

"Merielle, you good?"

@merrymerielle

[cade-bentley]

Cade had decided to take a walk after Caucus' announcement. At the very least, his monitor didn't prevent him from freely pacing the Capitol's streets, or dropping by the handful of shops that had managed to not shutter closed after... well, everything. So maybe the coffee he was getting today was in a chipped mug of questionable cleanliness, he paid out the ass, and it was fucking close to water (no doubt they were getting skimpy on the grounds), but it somewhat resembled normal. So he was sitting at a table, sipping, and beside him, looked like Link had had the same idea.

"Heya, Link," Cade greeted with a wide smile, one that he wasn't really sure he meant. He was too tired to mean it anymore. "What do you think?" He paused, then laughed dryly, raising his cup for another sip of shitty coffee-flavored water. "That rhymed. Just mean... you know. Whaddya think of what Caucus said today? Games again, huh? Might liven shit up."

@linkcache

[alder-reid]

Part 3 // Substance

There was a small window in this cell. 

Alder tracked the days in the glacial drift of the shuttered square of light across the floor. It was too high up to look out of to see what was happening beyond in his hometown, but if he angled himself right, he could see the sky between the iron bars. Of course, this time of year it was usually clouds and rain, but if he was lucky, sometimes they’d take enough shape to keep him entertained for an hour or two.

When the light finally died for the day, he let himself dig another notch into the wooden frame attached to the wall with a chain that supported a mattress so hard a slab of granite would have been kinder. He’d then curl up as far away from it as he could, the glass pane thin and letting in a draft that he swore put his second Arena to some shame. 

Of course, he’d, at first, sworn to every Tarren who tried him that he’d never give any information up. The Capitol had already done it all to him, he’d thought– torture in the physical, psychological, and emotional senses. What could they possibly do to him that the Snow regime hadn’t done?

It was the wrong question to ask. The Tarrens were brutal and efficient, and the man, who he’d figured out was called Saska, was especially so. It was only the third day when they gave up on more traditional methods of information gathering and dragged in the small girl they’d seen him helping after the attack. 

At first, he was confused. Then Saska unwrapped the bandage around her hand, and asked the same questions they had been trying Alder for for three days. When he refused to answer, he dug his thumb into the deep cut across her palm. Her cries of pain shot through him, and within moments he was begging them to stop, that he’d tell them whatever they wanted, just let her go.

For several weeks, it went on like this. Every time Alder denied information or they thought he was lying, they dragged in another member of his community, ready to torture them instead. 

He did his best to hold back, to deny them a full picture of the Vox or their new, fragile Panem. Sometimes he managed to pull it off. Sometimes, they were able to sense he was hiding something and went even harder than usual on him, on his former friends. Those were the days he hated himself most; the ones where he couldn’t do the right thing for everyone. No matter what he did, he was betraying someone. He wouldn’t be surprised if the community torched his house with him inside it after all of this.

Food and water came twice a day, morning and night. Barely enough to eat and stay functional, though Alder wasn’t sure if it was another act of Tarren deprivation or out of scarcity, considering there was very little to eat even before their arrival. He started making a mark on the floor with his fingernail at the edge of the box of light when food came and then when they came to interrogate, and he found it to be a fairly accurate idea of when the guards would visit. There was some drift in the marks as the days shortened, but it was routine. Saska ran a tight ship, it seemed. 

The thought occurred to Alder as he sipped at it from his plastic cup and stared out the window, thinking to himself that the bars reminded him of the iron fire poker he’d accidentally left outside in a storm after it was his imaginary sword for an evening had been abandoned for dinner. In a short couple of weeks, the iron had rusted and ruined it from what it once was, and it never really was the same after that.

He paused mid-drink, setting down the cup and getting to his feet. He couldn’t get a good view of the bars from the floor, but he quickly determined once he scrambled up to balance on the edge of his bed frame, he had a decent view of the whole sill. The bars were sunk into the concrete, but it looked like it had been there for a very, very long time. Maybe even Dark Days long time. Around the bars, there were divots in the concrete from years of condensation off the poorly-sealed window sliding down the metal and wearing away at the rock. 

Already, he could see the beginnings of rust there– all it would need was a little more encouragement. 

There was no way the cell had surveillance. This settlement had never been important enough, and again, the jail barely used except for odd jobs. This was confirmed after two days of Alder pouring his daily water into the window sill, particularly around the bars, and there was no mention of nor punishment for such odd behavior. 

Day after day, he did this, sparing as little water as he possibly could for himself to stay alive, and dumping the rest into the window. He was paranoid he’d be caught checking when another round of interrogations happened unannounced, so he only allowed himself to check on the progress by standing on the edge of his bed once every few days, despite the constant temptation. 

At first, what happened was disappointing. Things were maybe a little slimier than usual, and all he had a consistent, pounding headache to show for his efforts. But as the days passed, an unmistakable coating of orange rust crawled up the bottom of the bars. A couple of times, there was a little salt on the top of his meal, which he tried to scrape off and add to the water pools to speed things up.

Now, he was able to walk up to the bars and stick his finger up against the bottom of a bar. He could withdraw his hand and see how far the residue went up his finger. It was difficult to not let out a celebratory whoop of excitement the day it reached his first knuckle. It was working.

It wouldn’t be enough to bust himself out, it was still iron. But it was a start, and he didn’t know how long he’d be here. Months? Years?

He did not have to wait that long. His settlement was used to tight rule, and they were used to shirking it, too. He should have expected it, really. They had nothing to lose, and they had plenty of practice organizing themselves the past few years. 

He thought at first that the sounds were the Tarren again. Yelling, explosions, gunfire. He stood up on the edge of the bed to crane his neck and peer out the window. He couldn’t see much, but the pops of light below the sill confirmed something was going on.

Alder fell off the bed when the window glass shattered, startled and catching himself in an awkward position against the concrete. His mouth fell open when a head peeked up above the ledge, through the bars.

Waverley grinned widely at him.

“He’s in here!” she called over her shoulder, then turned back to Alder. “We’re gonna get you out. Any idea who has the keys?”

“I have a better idea. Does anyone have a truck?”

***

Alder knew they would, some transport trucks had been stolen and hidden by the Vox, and he imagined some would have been tucked away now, too, just in case. Sure enough, they’d rolled them in for their own coup against the Tarren. It didn’t even take much– a chain wrapped around the iron bars and a whole lot of gas. Where the bars had rusted out at the bottom, they popped free, bending wide enough for Alder to shimmy out. 

He could have cried with relief when his feet hit the frozen ground. It was cut short by a pop of gunfire nearby. Both he and Waverley jumped and crouched down on instinct. 

“What’s going on?” he asked, leaning back against the concrete side of the building. “How can I help?”

“You’re not going in,” Waverley dismissed immediately, frowning at him. “You’re running.”

“Running? No I am not fucking runn–”

“You’re running,” she insisted again, shifting a bag off her shoulders and pushing it into Alder’s arms. “Don’t question me, you don’t have time. Even if we win here, you might not be okay. Not everyone’s happy you came home, some think you invited the attack. Others are unhappy you gave up information.”

An icy chill ran down his back. It felt stupid to have thought word wouldn’t have gotten out about that, but of course it had. Dozens of people watched him do it.“But I–”

“I know!” she cut him off impatiently. “I know. We don’t all feel that way, but you’re still not safe here.” 

Another explosion. Yelling. It sounded close. They both flinched and pressed tighter to the wall.

Waverley took his hand and squeezed it, meeting his eyes in the dark. “I’m sorry, Alder. You have to go.” She paused, then added, quietly. “Your mom and dad would be so proud of the man you grew into.”

His throat felt tight. Someone his family had known since before he was born, someone who had watched him grow up, after everything she knew, everything she’d watched him do, she still felt they’d be proud. “Thanks,” he managed to choke out. It didn’t feel deserved.

With a nod, she let go of his hand and reached for something in her pocket. There was the telltale jingle of keys as she removed it, already moving toward the truck. “I’ll distract for a few minutes so you can get to the treeline. Go south, follow the main road but stay out of sight from it. Don’t stop until the leaves are still changing, that’s about as far as the Tarren have managed to get, then Settlement 56C shouldn’t be far. That’s the nearest Vox outpost. Good luck.” Alder had a thousand questions. He hadn’t stopped to consider that they’d already taken other settlements. Already, though, Waverly was opening the truck door and putting the keys in the ignition.

He turned and ran, leaving the sound of Waverley’s truck tires screeching and crunching into the gravel road behind him.

[alder-reid]

Alder gave her a look equally quizzical and suspicious. Maybe this was some sort of emotional ploy to get more information out of him, make him feel like she was on his side, or something. Denver herself was okay, he supposed, but she'd never, ever understand what it was like to be from Seven, no matter what story she decided to tell him. At the end of the day, she'd been perfectly happy-- maybe even excited-- before all this to give tours of a long-dead Arena; show off items roped off and put behind glass from him, his dead friends, tributes just like him from the past century; sell trinkets that both cheapened and commodified the deaths of real kids. No, Denver could say she was born from a tree wrapped in flannel in the middle of a lumber site, and he still wouldn't let her think for a split second she could relate.

So, with trepidation, he eyed her, still trying to not be a total asshole, but he didn't like the direction this was going. "Why were you in Seven as a kid?" he asked, figuring that answer alone would drive home the differences between their situations.

Denver winced. He was right. She had a choice. She could choose not to do her job. She could choose compassion, for once in her life. She could care about anybody except herself.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm new at this. That's not an excuse or anything, but it's..." What? What could she possibly say to make right the deaths of friends and neighbors of Alder's? Nothing would make that right. So maybe she shouldn't say anything, at least, not right now, not about the attack.

"I visited here once, when I was younger," Denver said. "Not quite this far north, but still Seven, and still just as pretty." They weren't even as far north as Seven went - they'd been pushed back miles and miles from the border. She wondered, not for the first time, what it must have been like to grow up here, so cut off from everything. Was there freedom in the distance, or was it isolating, despite its beauty?

[alder-reid]

Part 2 // Figment

Alder’s settlement did not stand a chance against them. Though many of them were strong from their work out in the yards and mills, his people were not warriors. They could be cunning, swift when organized against Peacekeepers in acts of rebellion, but that required organization, aid from the outside, even. They were hardly prepared to be their own militia in a surprise attack, especially in times like these when supplies ran thin.

It was all over within forty-five minutes, at most. Alder was rounded up with his remaining neighbors, childhood friends, people who had known his parents, the ones whose faces he hadn’t already recognized laying still out in the street.

There was only one cell in the tiny building that served as the Peacekeeper headquarters for the settlement, and even in the times when the Capitol was in charge it was hardly ever used. If there was punishment to dole out, it usually came swiftly and without trial. Instead they were all pushed into a couple of the largest buildings, exits flanked by broad Wilder guards dressed in heavy looking furs and tightly woven wool. Each held a gun the length of Alder’s arm, and judging by the evening’s events, they were not afraid to use them. Anxiously, he kept one eye on them, and found one of the doctors (the one he’d seen as a kid, the one he was pretty sure delivered him if he remembered correctly) and offered his help. He was no medical expert, but he’d been in the field enough by now to know how to do basic first aid, and there were plenty of wounds and burns to tend to. It kept him busy, even if being busied by tending to people who were gravely injured was little better than wondering aimlessly who these people were and why they wanted them.

While cutting the final tie on a bandage around the small palm of a girl that reminded him a lot of Elowyn, the doors burst open. A whoosh of cold air and early dawn light poured in from the outside. Alder had to blink and shield his eyes as they adjusted to properly make out the silhouette of a man scowling at them from the entryway.

There was a rapid-fire exchange between one of the guards and the man in a foreign tongue. Alder rose to his feet, squinting at him, trying to memorize as much detail as he could. Surely the Vox would need a full report on this when he got back. He was dressed like the other men, in thick, dark fabrics and pelts that Alder could place to animals he knew in the area. Many around here used them too for winter clothes, when and if they could afford it. They must not be from too far away.

The man huffed and looked back at the crowd of prisoners with a tight frown. He started to turn back, and Alder’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Wait!” he blurted, stumbling forward. “You can’t– you can’t just leave us in here, people are hurt, they need help. They need–” he mimicked wrapping a bandage around his arm. “Medical care. Help. We need help.”

Bargaining with the captor was something he knew better than to do somewhere like the Capitol or Eleven when he’d fought as a lone Vox. During past imprisonments, he’d spat and snarled and hissed threats from behind his bars, sworn he’d die before giving them an inch. However, this time, there were civilians trapped behind the iron with him. He wasn’t about to go letting his first grade teacher bleed out, and he didn’t know what these people wanted. Maybe they could fix this, work together.

The Wilder man stared back at him. Sized him up, then eyed him in a way that looked… doubtful? 

“Please,” Alder pressed, because surely, language differences aside, he understood what he must mean. He gestured again to one of the injured, an elderly woman, just to drive his point home a little further.

A flash of hope and relief sparked in his chest when the man then turned and said something to the guard on his right. The man and guard began to move together, and he thought they might start taking the hurt, but instead they came to a stop directly in front of Alder. The guard had a good six inches on him– and Alder was not short himself. It took a lot of resolve to keep his knees from buckling, and he balled his fists to hide his trembling.

The man, the one that looked important, grunted one word, one Alder didn’t know. The guard seized his wrist– the one that had just finished healing– and started to drag him toward the doors. Alder yelped in pain and surprise, twisted and tried to wrench himself away. The unmistakable muzzle of the gun was lodged between his ribs, and with a sharp inhale, he struggled into an upright position and followed. This was not how he was going to die, not after everything he’d been through.

***

As it turned out, they made good use of the single prison cell at the Peacekeeper headquarters after all. Alder landed in it, tossed in with hissed instructions from the guard, this time one he understood: “Stay.”

He bit back a dry, inappropriate laugh. Stay. As though he could go anywhere.

Naturally, they let him sit for what felt like hours. Alder should be used to this by now, but as usual, the feeling of being trapped became quickly overwhelming. He paced the small cell, trying to remember to breathe the way Cat taught him, the way that kept the edge off the panic before it consumed him entirely.

Finally, a lifetime later, the man returned, and Alder maintained the sense to back away from the bars a few feet. Being near him had been terrifying the first time, and if he was going to survive this, he needed to retain what little common sense and calm he could cling to.

“Victor,” the man began, clasping his hands behind his back. “I thought one of you would be harder to find.”

Alder’s mouth went dry. So he knew what he was. At least, enough to know he was worth holding on to. Shit, if he’d kept his mouth shut, would they have even noticed him? Been looking for him? He’d only told Linden and Maverick about coming home at all, if they knew about Seven’s Victors he’d have probably been thinking they’d have to get to the Center to get any of them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alder tried, hoping his expression passed for blank.

“Don’t try.” A glare flashed at him, one reflecting a temper behind it that Alder did not want to test.

“Who are you?” Alder asked instead, sidestepping the topic. “Where are you from?” “Tarrenfree. We are Tarren. You should get used to that name.”

Tarrenfree. The Wilders did not call themselves Wilders, nor did they call it the Wilds. Which felt odd to Alder, even though of course they didn’t call themselves that. Children called their playground cryptid manifestation the Wilder. 

“Why are you doing this? We don’t have much, but we could’ve just helped or traded if you had–”

The man laughed. “Helped? Traded? With what, boy?”

“Then what?” Alder demanded back, impatient and stepping closer. “These people didn’t do anything to you, they don’t deserve this. What the fuck do you want?”

Grabbing the bars, the man leaned in with a wide grin. Alder could feel his breath from there, and it took everything left in him to not shrink back. He was suddenly reminded of the legend that Wilder breath could freeze you through. “We want so much more than this. We want everything. And you’re going to help us get it.”

[alder-reid]

"Growing up around here, that's the best you can hope for," he agreed, quietly thinking to himself that, indeed, Kya probably would grow up somewhat fucked up. Everything around them felt pretty fucked up right now-- headed in the right direction, of course, he believed that. But chaotic, and with two Victor parents, she didn't stand much of a chance at normal. He quietly reaffirmed his vow to not have kids, even if it was one that had recently wavered with the promise of more peaceful times. He was still a survivor of the Games, at the end of the day.

"I'll, um. I'll be in touch. Either way I decide. Promise." He didn't feel he owed Slate very much at all, but he found himself wanting to extend some faith and decency his way.

"Well, I haven't handled it great," Slate said, an admission of wrongdoing on his part from the past, a slight question -- do you forgive me? For fucking up? -- but also, because it was true, because he hadn't been a model human being, let alone a model parent. "But we're doing our best. I'm learning as I go, really. But I'm great at diapers from living with Hestia for all those years, and I think I picked up stuff from her. Hopefully Kya will be, you know, not totally fucked up."

[cade-bentley]

Cade felt himself lean away, a bizarre instinct even he couldn't exactly explain. "I wasn't being stupid," he spat back defensively, not liking the insinuation that he was marching around declaring he was Nerissa Snow's bitch forever and for always or something like that. He knew he could, be stupid, but this wasn't one of those scenarios"I'm just connected to all the wrong people. That's it. Only got to do with my family. And it's-- it's not for your entertainment," he tacked on, a little frazzled by the declaration. "Show's over.

"I don’t go down that easy," she stated, her voice low and edged with a smirk as she slid into the chair beside his cell. The movement was deliberate, graceful, as though every step she took was calculated for effect. She crossed one leg over the other, settling into the seat with the kind of confidence that came from knowing she held all the cards.

"Had a rough start in there," she continued, casually flicking her hair back, her eyes never leaving him. "But I always make a comeback. As you can see, I’m not just back—I’m better." She let the words linger, savoring the power in them, her smile widening ever so slightly.

Leaning forward, she rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, chin perched on her hand, studying him like a cat sizing up a trapped mouse. "I was curious, you know. I came all the way down here to see who could be foolish enough to get caught and thrown in a place like this." Her voice lowered, a soft, mocking purr. "Just... out of pure curiosity."

She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "I do love a good mystery, and you? Well, you’re an intriguing one. Can’t decide whether you’re unlucky, stupid, or just begging for someone like me to come along and watch you squirm. Either way, I’m entertained." She leaned back again, crossing her arms with a slow, satisfied smile. "So, go on. Let’s see if you’re worth my time."

[cade-bentley]

"So I've heard," he replied grimly, expression twisting at the shift in tone. He really wished Everett was wrong about this, but it was quickly becoming Everett and just about everyone else in his life at a consensus: war.

"You know, wasn't the whole self-professed point of all of this to stop bad shit from happening around here? Because if you ask me, it's been one shit show after another." He was smart enough to drop his voice low, but he couldn't help himself. In what fucking world was a Panem at war better than what they'd had six months ago? Were the Vox trying to make sure humans wiped themselves off the planet?

"Certainly the worst punishment I've seen doled out in a Capitol prison," Cress nodded with saccharine sincerity. "Absolutely barbaric." Prison was uncomfortable, yes. Unsanitary, to be sure. But Cress had been relatively unharmed after the incident in the stairwell, and that seemed a vast juxtaposition from the state she'd found Slate in under Snow's reign. Then again, wasn't Monty currently faring much the same?

What an odd thing it was, to hold privilege.

"Ah--" she chuckled, pointing her foot, accentuating her bare ankle. "We did, actually. I've merely gotten out early on good behavior. I'm--" Cress held up a folder, the contents of which she'd meticulously combed through on the way over here. Knowledge was power, or one facet of it. "Pushing papers." An errand girl today was better than nothing, but it was one rung on the ladder, one creeping step back toward mattering. "Seems there's war brewing."

[alder-reid]

“Lee,” Alder greeted with a wide grin, happy to see his old mentor and neighbor. He’d been bouncing around Seven so much lately he’d hardly seen him— not that he’d seen him all that much before, admittedly. But this was a new Panem, a new Alder, and maybe they could be a new kind of friend, too. One unmarred by the Games.

“Things been okay back here? I heard there was a bit of, uh, a little power supply issue, but that it should be back now.” More than a little. They’d been lucky it had happened in September and not mid-January, when temperatures plunged well under freezing.

September. Before the Tarrenfree invasion.

It was hard to get in touch with Alder. But given that Alder had a fancy new government job and spent most of his time in his home village in the northern reaches of the District, it made sense that Lee's access to him would be limited.

It wasn't only the distance that kept them apart. Lee knew in his chest that he was a reminder of a time Alder would rather forget. He was a Mentor of the Hunger Games twice over. Without that, Lee was just another random guy in his life. A constituent, even. Nothing special. Lee knew this in his mind, and so had acted to give Alder his space.

But despite all of that, Lee couldn't help himself when he heard Alder would be in the capital of Seven for business. He shot off the invitation almost without thinking; just a touch base. A check in. A hello. He had regretted it immediately, not wanting to be an imposition on Alder's life. After all, Alder was a functioning member of society now. But he had said yes, so there was that.

Lee sat in the train station, his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. The air was crisping up as fall truly turned, and a slight shiver ran down his spine. But it was replaced quickly with relief as Lee heard the train dock at the platform. He looked up to see Alder exit, and he waved him over.

"Easy enough travel?" he asked, a small smile on his lips. "Been a second since I've seen you."

@alder-reid