thecapitol | [open] 'cause if this is the life

Entry tags:

[open] 'cause if this is the life

Who| Rose and OPEN
What| Rose returns from the arena and adapts to life in the Capitol.
Where| Training Center and the city; various prompts.
When| The weekend of week three on into week four.
Warnings/Notes| Brief mentions of avoxing and brainwashing, nothing else expected.

After her death in the arena via painful lightning strike, Rose eventually revives in time to be hauled off for a sit-down and explanation of how exactly she fucked up, and how she's not allowed to again or else. They show her videos and pictures of two people she's never met, men older than her, who lost a tongue or his own free will for pulling stunts like hers. She is lucky, they tell her, to be let off with only a warning, as if the images won't haunt her for time to come.

Afterwards she's returned to the tower, and sent to the District 5 suites she'll be living in. She only barely looks over her new room before retreating to the showers. Wrapped in towels, for she doesn't trust there not to be cameras, she sits under the cascade of hot water until her fingers turn pruney, and then a little longer after.

A. District 5

It's after clean, dry, and dressed in new clothes that she finally gives her new living quarters a proper look. Her room is comfortable enough, and no one thinks to mention that it used to belong to a recently avoxed traitor. The thought of personalizing it occurs to her, but she holds back yet, not ready to engage with the idea of making a home out of a glorified holding cell.

The rest of the suite isn't so bad, with its kitchenette and common area for sitting in. She sits there from time to time, either to watch the games with an expression tight and unreadable, or with the TV off to engage a hobby. (She likes reading, and it's only so long before she picks up knitting materials.)

B. Out in the Capitol

She doesn't stick in the tower for long. Back in the arena she only heard of what lay outside, and so she sets to seeing the Capitol for herself. She strides along streets, gawking plainly at the buildings and extravagantly fashioned people, and pokes her head into shops.

Some she lingers in longer, like bookstores with their many offerings, or a singular craft store. Merlyn did promise a shopping trip when she first met him, and while she's not so sure of their standing after her violent end, she'd rather not discard the opportunity if it still stands. Still, she admires the selection, and leaves with some nonthreatening wooden knitting needles and a couple skeins of yarn.

A music store eventually becomes host to a show as, requesting to test one of their wares, Rose settles into an impromptu violin solo. It's all improvised and it shows, starting from curious tests for tuning, slipping into short melodies, then progressing steadily into an aggressive torrent of sound. She skitters up and down scales, plays notes short and harsh, then drags out others like agony made to sing. There's no direction but the feelings of the moment, and as a result it ends rather abruptly as the tide of feeling breaks. She lowers the instrument, breathing hard, and soon after asks if the credit card she's been given will be sufficient to purchase the instrument. She's told yes, and one afternoon can be seen walking back to the tower with the black case at her side.

At other times she stops into sandwich shops of cafes for snacks, either in afternoons after the classes they send her to or on the free days of the weekends.

C. Training Center Roof

It's in the evening that she ventures up to the roof to take in the view of the city and the various plant life set about. It's nice up here, cooler than she expected in the June evening, but pleasing for that reason.

She's brought her violin, and it's up here that she sets to playing it properly in short, sweet pieces.

D. Training Floor

It's only so long before she goes down to see the floor for which the center has been named. Here there are the many weapons and stations set up for learning, and while she could try her hand at something new, she mostly sticks to the teaching areas. Edible plants, trap-making, fire-starting: these are important skills, ones she wishes she'd known more of during the arena, and she is studious and attentive to each.

Eventually she does try weapons. With knitting needles not on offer, she takes instead a pair of stilettos - the knives, not the shoes - and practices against a shapeless dummy with them instead. She feels rather silly facing a featureless, immobile target, but she refuses to face the humanoid ones. Still, she ends up mostly poking at the thing, unable to motivate herself to practice serious attacks.

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As District Five's Escort, Porrim takes it upon herself to greet her Tributes with an open hand, especially those who arrive in Panem mid-Arena. She'll never truly know how harrowing and scary it all is, but she can certainly sympathize. So when she pads out of her suite one morning and sees that her newest addition is lounging on a sofa, watching television, she sees her opportunity.

"Good morning," she calls, in a voice that's lower in range than most of the put-on, melodic voices of her fellow Capitolites. She refuses to talk in sing-song.

Porrim crosses to the sofa, standing in front of Rose but in a way that doesn't block her view. "You must be Rose. Welcome to Five. I'm Porrim, and I'll be your Escort."

Rose doesn't particularly like watching the arena, but it feels like a thing she needs to do, in checking after Dave and the few other people she met and has begun to care about. She doesn't think she can do anything for them from here. She's seen commentary on her own actions too, speculation from TV show hosts about why she did them, and wonders if any know the warnings that have been levied against her.

It absorbs her attention, for better or worse, and her shoulders twitch as Porrim's voice breaks her focus. She looks and watches until the woman is in front of her, and wordlessly clicks off the TV with the remote.

She doesn't recognize her. She never met the other Porrim, and she's never seen Kanaya in person.

"Rose Lalonde, yes," she confirms. She feels strangely off balance, and firmly thinks to herself calm down before speaking again. "You'll have to tell me what an Escort is. Explanations weren't thick on the ground when I first arrived, and in the arena I left the Capitol-related things as a surprise for later, meaning now."

It seems like Rose is content to have a talk, considering that she turns the TV on, and that signals Porrim that it's alright for her to have a seat, which she does on one of the large, fluffy ottomans scattered around the seating area. She's dressed all in black, including an ankle-length skirt from which black leather boots with a chunky heel peek out when she sits.

"My apologies. I know it's a lot of information to throw at you at once. But basically, my job is to take care of you. Watch over your well-being, take care of your schedule, arrange for interviews and publicity opportunities. Get you where you need to be."

She offers a sympathetic smile. "It's all a bit frightening, really, even to someone on my end of things. But think of it like...a talent manager of sorts."

Fashionable, pretty: these are points Rose notes down, but doesn't count one way or the other. She waits instead for her to tell more.

The phrasing makes her think fleetingly of a mother, sending a frown flicking to her mouth until she pushes it away. It's not the same, and later points plus talent manager make it clearer. She pushes a hand through her hair, missing the hairband she usually wears in it but hasn't yet acquired a replacement for.

"You're misjudging me if you think I'm going to be afraid of a talent manager," she says, more to try to shove off the concern than really assuming she thought that's where her fear is. "It will take some getting used to, but mostly this is unfamiliar territory. I've never been someone sought for interviews or needful of publicity before."

Rose's reply doesn't put Porrim off; she doesn't bat an eye. She's used to these conversations. "I'm glad you aren't," she replies honestly. "Because there are far worse things to be afraid of than little old me." She levels her gaze at Rose. "You're young, but I intend to treat you like an adult, because to do otherwise would be unfair. You're going to be in a lot of rather adult situation, and coddling won't do you any good."

She pauses, shifting to cross one leg over the other. "You'll be in the spotlight quite a bit, and I expect that you'll get used to it, but it'll take time." Porrim leans forward, giving Rose a smile. "And although I don't blame you if you're wary or untrusting of me, I will urge you to see me as someone you can confide in while you're here."

No coddling? She felt fussy before; now she feels like she's trying to hard. As if Rose doesn't know there aren't worse things, as if she hasn't faced them down personally. It comes off as condescending, regardless of however Porrim might have meant it, to the point of something stifling and claustrophobic. There are expectations ladled in with everything she says.

Rose crosses her own leg in mirror, but does not return the smile. "Is that an earnest encouragement, or a requirement disguised as such?"

It wouldn't be the first time, and not the first here either. She's not particularly interested in a disjointed conglomeration between fussy mother, no-nonsense talent manager, and pushy therapist, and she finds to no surprise that her steady roil of anger at being here hasn't gone anywhere, only eased off from a boil.

Porrim's trying so hard to do the right thing here; to be what's best for her Tributes, what they need her to be. It doesn't even cross her mind that she might be trying too hard.

"An earnest one," she replies decidedly. "That's not exactly my Escorting style."

"Mm." Her legs keep folded, and her gaze slips off to the side, expression impassive. Better an encouragement than a requirement, but it doesn't mean she's any keener on opening up.

"Have you lived here your whole life?" she asks after a moment. She looks back. "If you're willing to answer questions, that is. I'd like to get a better read on your perspective."

Already she's assuming Porrim is nowhere near the right position to understand all she's been through, but she would be curious even without that issue. She's someone who's going to be handling her time and promoting her and generally sharing some part of existence with her now that she's here. She might as well figure out what makes her tick.

Porrim can't exactly begrudge Rose her impassiveness. She'd be the same, if the shoe were on the other foot. Feigning indifference. But the question takes her a little by surprise; she's not used to being asked about her life, not by Tributes.

"Mm, all twenty-nine years of it," she replies. "I don't mind." The Escort gives a little shrug. "I grew up here. My father is a scientist. He actually helped invent the tech that brought you here." Something she used to be proud of. Now...not so much. "I have a mother, and a sister--Kanaya. Just a normal family, a normal life, really. Nothing special. I went to school, I graduated, I found a job."

Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up. Rose takes the rest with interest enough and a raised eyebrow at the bit about her father, but that name snags her, bringing eyes wide. Then again, no--it's surely a coincidence.

She smooths her face and says, "I had a friend named Kanaya. Not from here, obviously; she wasn't even human."

It's an easy comment, no strong thought to it. She can't wish she was here, because who deserves this? But she wishes she could speak to her still, if only to learn more about her future, for all she wouldn't be able to jump into the relationship Dave mentioned.

She brings her thoughts back to the present.

"What's it like, growing up with the father responsible for this?"

Porrim cocks an eyebrow at that. Is it possible that this girl is from the same world as the trolls? Only one way to find out. "She was a troll, right? Kanaya Maryam?"

It's probably a bit of a truth bomb, but Porrim's own curiosity about her other self, and her kind, make it hard to consider that.

And anyway, Rose is dealing out the harsh questions, and Porrim forces herself not to cringe. "He's a loving father," she says evenly, "and a good man. I don't know that he anticipated what use they would put his technology to." It's a sensible answer, but she has to be sensible. Anyone could be listening.

This conversation is rapidly progressing in two ways both fascinating and alarming. Her eyebrows scrunch down, and if Porrim thinks she's buying the second then Rose has a bridge to sell her in return.

"Yes," she says. "On both counts. But unless your surname is Maryam too, I don't see why it should be relevant."

Her legs uncross and she sits more forward. "What did you think his technology would be used for? It's hardly a normal thing to snatch people out of their worlds and lives."

Sburb might have done that as a part of entering the game, but she counts it differently. That was temporal predestination, unavoidable and unalterable, whereas this circumvented the system entirely. Dave made that clear in the arena when he told her snippets of her own lost future.

Porrim almost laughs. "Unless it is. Which it is." She pulls her staff ID out of her clutch, and hands it to Rose. There's a photo of her, from almost a year before, and the name PORRIM JUMANA MARYAM, DISTRICT FIVE stamped in embossed gold underneath.

"Sorry to break it to you like this, darling, but apparently I'm some sort of alternate version of someone from your world. And so is my sister."

The second question has her shrugging. "I wasn't involved with the development, alright? I don't think my father fully understood the ramifications of how it would be used. But I'm not here to make excuses for him, or for myself."

The thing about this place is that one thing after another keeps being weird as hell. Some was easier to take, but then, she did expect this place might be a pre-death hallucination when she first arrived. This, though--it's a bit too late for that, and she already had her sort-of breakdown in the arena. (If one counts getting pissed off enough to blow up a castle a breakdown.)

She takes the ID with hesitance, like it might disintegrate under her touch, then holds it close to scrutinize. MARYAM it reads, print solid and clear. Alternate version, she says. Her hand trembles, but she hands (half thrusts) it back to her.

She hears not here to make excuses and takes a clunky brush-off that she shouldn't be asking about something so important to why she's sitting here.

"I suppose this is my hint from the universe that I should give up on trying to understand anything," she quips in a tight tone, less at the father subject than the prior one. "Kanaya never mentioned a Porrim, but that must be yet another thing relegated to the future I didn't get."

It feels like a shitty consolation prize, the kind that looks cheaply made and falls apart in your hands two days later. Sorry you can't live your own life. Sorry you can't get to know her in person. Here, why don't you settle for the sister of her shitty Capitol knock-off?

She'd like to set something on fire again, but she knows that's the last thing she's allowed.

This is probably all far too much for Porrim to have dumped on Rose all at once, and she realizes that now. She sits back on the Ottoman, taking back her ID and slipping it back into her pocket. "Sorry," she replies ruefully. "I ought to have eased you into it a bit better, I suppose." Escort School never quite prepares one for the possibility of alternative universe copies of oneself and one's family.

Porrim sits forward, bracing her hands on her knees as if to begin standing up. "If you'd like, I can let you alone."

Her mouth twists subtly. She supposes. Yeah. It's kind of a joke, isn't it? They bring her here and then don't know how to deal with her. They expect her to be okay, to take it all at once and easy, like she shouldn't be mad as a whole nest of hornets at almost everything around her.

"Do what you want," she says simply. "I think I'm going to head out for some fresh air." To get away from this.

She stands and brushes her skirt straight, waiting only for some sign of acknowledgement or, more cynically, permission.

It's all Porrim can do not to heave a sigh, watching Rose stand up before she can even get a chance to. Of course. So she just watches with a neutral expression.

"All right," she agrees pleasantly. "You've got your credit card, I assume? That ought to take care of anything you might need while you're out."

"Yes. Someone explained it earlier." She has it in her pocket in lieu of a sylladex, and it feels strangely quaint and antiquated in such an advanced city.

"I'll see you another time."

She doesn't imagine she has much choice.

Turning on her heel, she heads for the door. She has no more goal in mind than a walk for now.

Porrim doesn't get up, or make any move to stop her. She's merely left watching after Rose with the profound feeling that she just fucked that whole thing up really, really badly.

It is nice up here, which is one reason that Linden keeps coming back. He relishes the cleaner, cooler air that catches the wind so much better at this altitude, he likes staring down at the street below, and he likes the solitude that belongs to him more often than not.

Silence, on the other hand, isn't always a given, especially considering that someone's brought an instrument this evening. Closer inspection reveals her to be a newer Tribute recently returned from the Arena, and Linden takes a seat nearby. He has a hard time staying standing for very long these days; the climb to the roof has him completely exhausted, and he's glad to take a load off and enjoy the free concert. District 6, despite having a substandard educational system, produces some fantastic artists and musicians, and Linden's appreciation for both actually makes him a little nostalgic.

There aren't many people up here now, and any who might not have wanted the concert have shuffled off. Hearing someone approach above the notes of her playing does draw Rose to turn and glance, and when she sees the man sit near, she passes him a smile. Her playing does not pause, and she keeps steadily on through the piece until it's finished.

She lowers instrument and bow alike when finished, and turns to give him a bow.

It's clear just from looking at him that he's not in good health. The reasons are beyond her to know. Her mother may have been an alcoholic, but she never pushed it to liver failure; her eventual death was wholly unrelated. Still, she shows him no disfavor, and keeps her tone as light as her question when she says, "I hope my playing was soothing."

It's much politer than asking after why a stranger looks so beat down.

Linden's steps are soft, but not wholly inaudible, and he certainly would present an odd jagged figure in Rose's peripheral vision. He leans his head back as he listens, bruised eyelids half-closing; he's on the edge, between wanting to sleep and stay awake. Both possibilities present challenges and advantages.

He doesn't applaud when she bows, though he feels like he should. He sits up, though, blinking and rubbing at his eyes, falling on the side of the line that favors wakefulness now that there's a human being and not just music to reckon with.

"Yes, it was. Thank you for the serenade," he says, slouching forward and stretching his curved back. "It's been a long day, and I probably needed something like it. You're one of the new Tributes, aren't you? Welcome back to the Capitol, even if it means you lost the Hunger Games; that being said, you're alive again and able to continue to make music, which is a form of victory, I suppose."

Rose takes no offense in his lack of applause, more interested in his apparent difficulty staying awake. He really doesn't look good. Even so, he's clearly awake enough to chat.

She blinks and says, "That's a bit more than I expected to hear. I'm not sure how much it means, though, when I walked straight into my death." There's not much point denying it, she finds, when the whole thing was televised.

Turning to her instrument case, she sets to putting her violin safely away.

"I am new, yes. Rose Lalonde. Are you another Tribute? You don't look much like you're from the Capitol." She glances back, expression mild. She means no offense by it.

It was televised, which means that she can't say much about her death that Linden doesn't already know in intimate detail.

"Don't worry about how much it means," he suggests. "Just try taking it at face-value, when someone tries to look on the bright side for your benefit."

He leans his head back, closing his yellowed eyes.

"No, not another Tribute," he sighs. "Mentor, District 6. My name is Linden Lockhearst."

She blinks impassively. Taking kind sentiment at face value isn't really her deal.

"I've heard of those," she says. She closes up her instrument case, and leaving it there for the moment rises back up. "Though I haven't met any for my District. My Escort hasn't ushered me to try to meet any, either, and I figure she might have if they were around. Do you mind if I sit?"

She declines naming her own, since if he responded that plainly to her earlier comment, he probably knows her district just as surely as her death.

Nor is it Linden's, so he ultimately can't take it too hard when she deigns not to.

"You haven't met your Mentors?" he asks, brows raising toward his dark hairline as she straightens from where she'd been kneeling by her instrument case. "Yes, go ahead and sit. You're in 5, which..." he pauses, giving it some thought before he has a moment of epiphany. "...means that you don't have a Mentor right now. That's bad luck."

Rose pulls a chair for herself and sits, settling in time for him to answer.

"That would explain why I haven't met them." She smiles, small and wry. "But I can guess that if I had any, the first point of advice would be not to rush headlong into my death." Especially one that was prophesied for her beforehand.

It feels strange and stupid and dreamlike, no matter how clearly she's seen the footage by now. A bolt of lightning struck her straight and true after all the other chaos she dodged. She should have known better than to wave around pointy metal rods in a rainstorm.

Then again, knowing better wasn't much the point.

She motions to him. "Are there any useful tidbits you can spare to a tribute from another District? I'll settle for just a chat--I haven't particularly had the chance with someone actually from these places we represent."

"The first point, and the most obvious one," he answers with a quiet, wry laugh. "But there are other points. Other tidbits, and I'd be glad to share them. After all, it's not like Six's Tributes are actually from my District these days. Besides... we have a friend in common, and I am not entirely uninformed when it comes to you."

He pulls a carton of cigarettes from his pocket.

"What do you know about Sponsors? Much at all, yet?"

There's something to be said for having nothing better to do with your time than to find ways to take out your hatred for your husband out on him. Right now, Temple's nursing the brilliant idea of getting her five year-old a musical instrument and shipping it back to Gowan's house for when he has custody. She isn't committed to particular noisemaker, yet, and that's why without Bailey in tow she's perusing the store for the most obnoxious instrument she can think of.

Dressed in a trendy bird-patterned dress and a hat with feathers and flowers spilling from the back, she wanders the store, picking her way through bells and drum kits and harmonicas, occasionally trying one out but mostly looking, ignoring the sales person.

"Excuse me," she stops by where a blonde-haired girl is playing something on the piano, something Temple finds grating but at least skilled. She folds her hands in front of her lap, letting the Avox next to her carry the recorder she was considering buying. "How long did it take you to learn to play that?"

Rose isn't surprised when her not-even-a-real-piece performance draws comment. Maybe the type of comment draws her attention more than a general one would, but it's not an unusual thing to ask.

She turns and looks. There's an Avox beside the woman, easy to spot and just as easy to disregard, which she takes to be the design, and it tells her quite enough.

"Some years before I was much worth listening to," she says, the instrument still in her hands but lowered. She shrugs. "It's not really a thing a solid time frame can be put to. It depends on the student's aptitude, willingness to learn, the time and effort put in, and the quality of the instruction."

Rose just as well gets the quick lookover, although Temple's glances are conspicuous and almost calculated to make someone feel as if they have to try harder to impress, all batting eyelashes and raised eyebrows. She maintains her perfect, doll-like posture, rolling her fingers in an irregular drumbeat across the front of her lap.

"And if your child only sparsely attends practice and doesn't have any natural talent?" Temple's eyes flash a bit with a sort of mischief, a secretive smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Oh, she knows that kind of look. Is that the kind of game she wants to play? She sees too the mischief, and the hinting is impossible to miss.

She shrugs again, light and airy. "The performance reflects the player. I don't think it should take asking a violinist to know the caterwauling that would come from undisciplined strings. I can scarce imagine such a child would know to tune their own instrument."

But that's only the answer, and still leaves the question. She'd cross her arms if her hands weren't still full with bow and violin.

"So," she says, conversationally, "what spurred the interest?" There's certainly some kind of underlying issue if she wants to unleash the hell that is screechy, five-year-old string music.

"No, I don't imagine he would. He's not even six, after all." And Temple doesn't intend to 'know' that a violin needs to be tuned. It's the sort of instrument that's never been seen in a place like District Eight, where the only things that swollen and arthritic hands can handle for music are sorts of pan-flutes, where the most common accompaniment is the voices of workers rushing towards not-entirely-accurate notes like fish teeming around a hook. No hand that works a thread or loom all day wants anything to do with catgut and guitar strings.

Temple shrugs one shoulder and casts her glance towards the ceiling, as if calling upon some deity to testify to her innocence. "Divorces are more expensive than a violin."

Her eyebrows lift, plainly so with no intent to hide it. It's practically invited with an admission like that.

"Ah, trouble in paradise?"

It's interesting, too, finding someone who would use a five-year-old's murder of a string instrument to get back at their husband. There's passive-aggressive, and then there's cruel and unusual.

"I think I might buy this one for myself, if I can, but I could probably help you find something inexpensive and of suitable quality for your son's age." That is to say, cheap and crappy. She doubts a Capitol store would stock something too poorly made, and she's not an expert on violin manufacture, but she can tell enough. Besides, she's curious.

"It's trouble in somewhere, that's for sure." Temple doesn't like to flaunt her wounds, isn't about to divulge dead infants to a complete stranger. A troubled marriage isn't a wound; it's practically a rite of passage in Capitolite society, and commitments that last longer than five years are generally seen as a quaint oddity or pleasant surprise, if it's not just assumed that everyone sleeps in separate bedrooms.

There's an art Temple engages in, flaunting her indiscretions and keeping it from being enough for a divorce, hoarding up information about blind spots, private bathrooms, leaving a trail of circumstantial but not direct evidence. It's the domestic battle she's committed herself to.

"I'd appreciate it. It doesn't need to be that cheap. I can charge it on his card." Whether that means Gowan's or Bailey's card is up to interpretation; god knows children get a lot of leeway here. "You're from District Five, aren't you?"

Ever since Porrim took him out for tea after his crowning Signless has made it a habit of frequenting Capitol cafes far more than he used to. Not only has he discovered he has a taste for tea (and more recently coffee, thanks to Bayard), but he's found that it's a good way to be publicly visible without having to actually do much of anything. Aside from the occasional fan, he's left mostly to himself, which is how he likes his public appearances.

Seeing a fellow offworlder out in the Capitol is not uncommon by any means, but this particular girl is one he's interested in getting to know. When he sees her sitting in the shop he decides now is probably as good a time as any to introduce himself, and weaves his way over to her table.

"Hello, Rose. My name is Signless -- I'm a mentor for District Twelve. Do you mind if I sit with you?"

Rose is sat at a small table near to the window but not beside it, enjoying tea and a cookie. This place has had a lot to get used to and a lot still to learn, so moments of relaxation are nice, especially in a calm, comfortable environment like this.

She's not particularly expecting anyone to come join her, let alone another offworlder. And he's definitely that: a troll, short in stature but nonetheless adult, and not one she's seen before. Mentor for another district he says, and that explains why, but raises another question in its stead.

"Not at all, though I have to wonder your reason for joining me. Have a seat." She straightens up, better to meet his gaze. She's only been people-watching, so there's nothing to interrupt her from. "I'd introduce myself, but you already know who I am. Can I ask about your name, though? 'Signless' isn't a usual one in my experience."

Edited 2015-06-23 03:53 (UTC)

"Ah," he says, taking a seat across from her. "It's more of a title than a name, honestly, but I find it's easier for most people here if I don't go through the whole explanation every time I introduce myself."

It's kind of refreshing, actually, to have someone ask. Most of the humans here have just accepted that it's some weird alien convention and left it at that. This one is sharp enough to wonder what the weird alien convention is.

"Sometimes when a troll reaches adulthood they take on a title, often but not always indicative of their chosen profession or an area of interest to them. Mine is more literal. All trolls have a sign assigned to them; as a mutant I was never given one. Hence, Signless."

It doesn't quite touch on the political and rebellious aspects of choosing that title, on the way it was a conscious effort to mark himself apart from a system he hated, but that isn't the kind of talk for a Capitol cafe.

It's not really an answer to why he's joining her, but it's fascinating enough that she forgives the omission. She can always ask later. For now he's snagged her interest, and she leans in, elbows on the tabletop and chin hovering next to folded hands.

"A mutant, you say?" It's curious and light, undemanding but clearly wanting to know if he'll tell it. "I only had the chance to speak to a few of you before I came here, and met only two whom I never talked to before during the arena." Feferi, light and bubbly, and the blind seer Psiioniic before her, who foresaw her death.

"A mutant, yes," he affirms. He isn't sure if he wants to drag out the whole long explanation of troll culture and troll blood politics. An in-depth discussion of social injustice and the rebellion it spawned might not be the best choice.

"I don't know if the trolls you spoke to explained our hemospectrum. Our species has twelve naturally-occurring colors of blood; mine is the unnaturally bright red you see in my eyes. Because signs are assigned by blood color, and because none existed for my mutant hue, I was never given one."

There. A nice, neat explanation that cuts out anything the Capitol wouldn't find palatable.

"Of course I didn't ask to sit with you so I could give you a crash course in alien customs. I saw your attempts to destroy the castle. They didn't treat you too harshly for it, did they?"

He knows by now the kind of responses acts like those get. Tributes who try to break the arena rather than their fellow competitors are usually not looked on favorably.

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[open] 'cause if this is the life

D5!

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C

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Music Store!

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sob i meant the violin earlier, idk why I typed 'piano'

I wondered about that! it's okay

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B - a cafe because how could i not

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