deepend } bros before hoes

MACHAON AMADOR

It was cliché, but he wanted to stand atop the roof of the training center and watch the sunset. The peach gradients reminded him of home, except the view was partially shielded by skyscrapers and there were glass panels blocking the wind. He understood the precaution; many tributes would rather take a dive than risk a painful death in the Games. Patients attempted a similar route back in Eight. Part of his job to had been to ensure that they remained unsuccessful. It was a depressing thought, but the sunset mellowed him out. Given where he was and what he would have to do, it was difficult not to remain on edge about every little detail. He constantly craved a distraction as a result, which led him to the top floor after dinner.

There were no stars, so he left as soon as the sky faded to black. He considered returning to his room for an early night’s rest, but then he remembered he had space in his stomach for dessert. His goal was to pack as many calories as he could. Eat now, burn more later, last longer. That was the strategy – if someone didn’t shove a knife through his eye, of course. Some things were just unavoidable.

Tributes had already filed out of the training center, and continued to trickle out until he could count the remaining strays on one hand. Maybe sneaking in a few minutes of extra practice would earn him a slight advantage. It wasn’t until he made up his mind that he heard the obnoxious voice. ”Yo, fuckboys!”

Nope, that didn’t include him. He turned away from the ruckus and glanced at an empty first aid station. Then, ”You too, Machaon.”

Fuck.

He wasn’t the greatest at remembering names, but anyone would have trouble forgetting Stevie. He was loud and proud and very much like a teenage boy with too much freedom. Machaon was not about to judge him for living his life before the Games, but goddammit leave me outta this. The game was something he had never heard of. Was it a party game? Why the hell was it called paranoia? He scratched his head and glanced between the other boys, one Justice Fray career boy and the other hot guy from...nine, was it? A district close to his own. He had always been under the impression that tributes spent most of their time training, but it seemed everybody either wanted to drink, smoke, or play party games. He wasn’t complaining, but he also wanted to at least attempt to learn survival skills.

”Right,” he muttered, squinting his eyes in concentration. He was supposed to come up with a question and then – what was it again? Flipping the coin? Shit. He didn’t pay attention. ”I’ll just be unoriginal and steal your question.” He shrugged. ”You, Justice. How did he word it? ‘Which lad here would you wanna fuck’? Let’s go with that.”

MACHAON AMADOR

Memory was not his strong suit. Names drifted above his head and repression was one of his favorite coping tools, so he couldn’t remember who this Tate person was. However, he was pretty sure there was only one tribute with a majestic-enough beard. It was admittedly a disappointing answer but he also didn’t care about delving into their personal lives. Most of them would die anyway, perhaps all of them. He idly flipped the coin in his hand and sighed, realizing that they had already broken the rules. What was the point then? Had it morphed into a game of twenty questions? That sounded like the worst idea.

He pocketed the coin and sat on the floor. He knew they would be here for a while, so he might as well relax. It was handsome Atlas’ turn to spill his secrets about the “best lay ever” and he was grateful the question hadn’t been directed at himself. There were aspects of his past he never wanted to revisit, especially not now of all times. Somehow, this didn’t feel like the lowest point in his life – which had passed long ago – but it was a close second.

He didn’t know what the hell was up with Atlas, but there was something uniquely fucked up about him. He sounded like a junkie, or one of those dirt bags that plagued the streets with no real purpose in life. It was tempting to tune out of the conversation about getting high as fuck and starting bar fights, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure if he regretted it or not. The story itself was depressing, and it took a turn for the worst when his partner died. Well, this game went to shit. So much for light-hearted fun. He frowned, knowing he could relate somewhat to that scenario, but he said nothing.

”My middle name is Sodomy; I'm guessing we're fucking the coin idea, right?”

Weird secret. He shrugged, having already forgotten that the coin was a factor. There was no point in grabbing it now. It was twenty questions and Stevie was hitting him with one he had heard many times before. Strangers thought it was quirky and cute to comment on his brooding face or his deep, grim frowns. He sported this expression for a reason. ”No, I’m just a nurse who watches people die a lot.” And it wasn’t fun. And no, he would never lighten up. There was nothing worth smiling about anymore.