one foot on the platform [bowie / lottie]
Feb 17, 2022 23:33:29 GMT -5
Post by pogue on Feb 17, 2022 23:33:29 GMT -5
B O W I E
Mace Emberstatt pulls him aside in the District quarters the night after the first full training day, threatening to spill the plate of appetizers he'd snuck out of the cafeteria before it'd closed. He feels his stare before his gaze even switches from the couch to the older Victor, feels the way his grip tightens against his arm before releasing all at once, grey eyes intent on making a point as the boy makes his way towards the couch.
"What're'ya doin', son? You think a barbecue is gonna impress the sponsors? Maybe if you'd shared some of it... But as is, you need a better plan."
Bowie sits in the silence of something he’d already known before Mace said it, hand clutching a plate of delicacies he’d never have the luxury of tasting again. He wonders if Mace is eyeing it out of fear that it might end up shattered against the wall like his last Capitol provided luxury, or if the grandpa simply just wants to add the food to that gut of his.
“Not like they were gonna be watchin’ much of me anyways.” He ignores the way his hand shakes when he thinks of what’s to come. “It’s all Le Roo and whoever that Two family is.” He wears a scowl like a permanent mask, pressed and solidified against his flesh. “What’s the point, Mister Emberstatt?”
There's a silence that settles in between them, only lasting a few heartbeats but loud enough for Bowie's nerves to pull butterflies into his stomach and for his eyes to snap between the victor and the floor.
"Point is to survive, I expect. Or win. Some tributes decide to win and end up livin'. I know you got more livin' to do."
He doesn't know if he can say the same.
"We saw you perform, couple years back. You've got what it takes to make the rich Capitolites listen. Feels unclean to kowtow to 'em, I know, but it's all a part of the Games..."
It’s Bowie’s turn to lift his gaze now, look around at the empty room and the empty chairs and the empty space that exists between a man standing with the rest of his life to live and a boy sitting with whats left of his life to give. “Guess our tributes aren’t usually the ones to decide to come home then, huh?”
Malice slips into the words, but it’s swallowed by the way his stomach drops and the way his voice wavers by the end of the sentence. He swipes at his eyes, looking away as if that’ll obstruct Mace Emberstatt’s vision enough not to see. “You really think some rag-tag rodeo bum from Ten is worth any attention in this shit, Emberstatt?”
He fiddles with the food on his plate as Mace contemplates his words, rolling some weird fried pastry in between his fingers like a child. He forgets, in these moments, that he still is.
"I surely do. But you don't gotta try to impress me, Bowie. I ain't worth that much and besides: I'm already impressed."
Appetite escapes him as his gaze wanders from the windows and back towards the victor in front of him, through the years of experience laced into the man's form and back towards the empty hallways and walls that seem to stretch on for eternity, countless coffins both full and empty calling out his name.
Focus in, watch the way Mace's stare refuses to wave, years of knowing and watching and waiting in the shadows he casts.
He hates that he can see how genuine Mace is being. It would be so much easier to hate him, to hate Saffron, to hate all of them, if he wasn't.
"Sorry..." and his brain races to fill in the blank spaces to follow the word, "about the food table. I can tell you liked it." He slides the plate from in front of him to the end of the table, the sound echoing amongst the dead air that drowns them both. "Have you ever had calla-maurie?" The word stumbles off his tongue, rough and tumble. "You can have what's left of mine, if you want."
He thinks it's the first time he understands anything about the Victor, about the Games, about himself, for the first time in his life.
---
Now he stands with sweat slicked from his brow, calloused fingers curled around the hilt of his whip and throwing knife tucked into his back pocket. The simulation roars at him with a digital growl, figures materializing in the distance and quickly sprinting their way towards him. He grinds his teeth, narrows hiss gaze and twirls the weapon between his fingers, squares his legs between his shoulders and breathes one final gasp of air.
Just think of them as objects, he tells himself.
By the time it's over the whip is carving fire into his palm and the throwing knife once tucked into his pocket is thrown at a moving target towards the back of the area, an overall score of 92% blinking on the large screen above him. "That's enough for now, take five and cool off."
A trainer tells him and he can do nothing but agree, sauntering over towards the benches and practically collapsing into the steel seating and swiping the sweat that clings to his forehead and drips from his cheeks, doing anything but letting his gaze drift towards the sponsors that watch from above.
