this nine to five ain't workin' // tsi&mav

It hadn’t exactly been very difficult to find a way to smuggle a six pack into the training center. Some kids who had wanted some hunger games memorabilia. They had been more than willing to trade an arrow that one of the career’s had held in their very hands. Honestly, I don’t even think any of them had held that specific arrow in their hands. Not that it would matter as long as the girls believed they did. Their eager faces lighting up with inexplicable joy as I handed it to them wrapped in a capitol sanctioned towel. It left me with a sour taste in my mouth.

We really were just a form of entertainment. There never would be any humanity in this. For a second the morbidity of the situation lingered on my lips. Then I caught myself wondering; what would any of Marcellus’s stuff been worth. The once in a lifetime chance to own something from a dead tribute. A black market almost more despicable than the games.

Oh well. Beggers can’t be choosers.

No one in eleven could be mad that the idea of selling the cup my dead boyfriend-

(could I even call him that?)

(For marketing purposes.)

- had once drank from, with a sprinkle of false sentiment, could make me a few bucks. We all needed the money; Marcellus knew that more than anyone. I doubt he would have liked to see me begging in the soup kitchens for a meal. Stupid justifications for a wicked thought.

When the lights to the training center dimmed, the hallways almost felt haunted. Abandoned by the goody-two-shoes of the lot. The rule sticklers and the ones with a better sense of morality. It had become habit for me to roam those empty halls, exploring the hidden corners the training center had to offer. After the last few days on a mission to find my spot, I had claimed a corner of the library as my own. There was a wooden table that had seen better days, but it carried history in the scratches it burdened. The familiarity I so desperately sought out my first day here, and I had found it.

The library was much like a bar. People convened at tables, discussing numerous topics that no one really was an expert on. At least not here, not with the kind of stories lurking between the pages. Down in the room with weapons, it felt like I was prey. Careers with their chin’s in the air; ready to pounce as soon as they got a whiff of insecurity.

With the lights dimmed and the room empty, I put my feet up on the table. The first bottle of beer in my hand, I had opened with another bottle already sitting on the table.

“Cheers” I whispered to the shadows and whoever might be lurking behind them. Not even that far off as I heard footsteps between the aisles. “You want a drink?” I called out to why just might as well be a ghost. I had enough to share. C'mon I got a few more, we can share stories in the dark." Anonymity in our favor, the night was best for turning strangers into friends.