Post by 10m - silas merchoff - dars on Feb 11, 2020 23:38:46 GMT -5
He'd enjoyed the Capitol's attempts at making him look better. Sure, they'd scrubbed his nails and cut his hair and shaved him. But there were pieces of him that were irremovable: fundamental building blocks, proof of the places he'd been and the person he'd been. Scars and scratches and bruised knuckles and a crooked grin. They could put makeup on his dark circles, but his eyes and cheeks still looked hollow.
His fingers still trembled, just on the creepy side of long and slender, when they wrapped around the doorknob. Not because of fear, or excitement, or embarrassment. Because of something else. Something that set his teeth on edge, made his skin itch and his mouth dry. He kept his head down until he was on the elevator, pressing the home floor button. Either Mace and Saffron had hidden the alcohol from him, or the Capitol had forgotten to restock the bar, so he made his way to the lobby, taking a seat and pretending he didn't notice the peacekeepers stationed at every corner, or the avoxes waiting to be bossed around.
"Whiskey. And do you got a smoke?" he said, tapping his fingers onto the tile surface. Maybe it would be good enough. He knew it wouldn't be, but maybe it would be. Maybe, if he drank enough, it would at least numb the ticking in his head, the craving that addiction demanded of him.
He locked eyes with the person nearest to him, taking an unsteady breath in through his nose to calm himself.
"If it's gonna happen anyway, I choose to die shit-faced."
Post by 12f ◇ juliet monaghan ◇ zoë on Feb 12, 2020 0:09:48 GMT -5
This place is so disgustingly different from what she knows - even for a rich little girl from the Seam. Maybe that's why she finds herself searching for something, anything that reminds her of what used to be. She sees it in her dreams, melting with the horrors of what the arena might welcome her. It's a poisoned version of home, but at least it's something. Awake, she's forgetting what they feel like to touch and hold close. What they smell like. What their voices sound like.
Desperate hands had searched for a drink for days on end to no avail. Jules was getting restless now, the kind of edged girl that snapped at strangers at training and could barely concentrate on the differences between plants that could fill your stomach and plants that could heal wounds. Someone had mentioned a bar and at the first chance she got she dove into the elevator, tried all the buttons - none would let her pass but Twelve and Ground.
So to the ground she plummets, sneaking around doors and through empty corridors. Avox pass her without a word. Jules supposes she isn't the first to ever sneak out of her quarters at night. Probably won't be the last. She knows a bar when she sees one, many a lonely night spent tending to the only one left in Twelve. Smuggler's daughter, twenty seconds later her knees find tile and her hands sift through steel cupboards - desperate to find something. Anything.
"Whiskey. And do you got a smoke?"
Jules jumps at the sound of his voice, banging her head on the doors in the process. "Ow!" she hisses, palm already at the throbbing pulse at the top of her skull as she stands up to reveal herself. Another tribute - she doesn't know his name, let alone his District, but the matching uniforms speak for him.
"I'm not the help," Jules grumbles. "And good luck finding your smoke, let alone whiskey. Nothing but empty bottles and water under there."
She kicks the cupboard door with her trainer-clad toe for good measure, folding her arms and sighing. "It's like they can read our minds or something."
J U L I E T M O N A G H A N
“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”
Post by d4m Beck Hailsham [nyte] on Feb 12, 2020 19:55:51 GMT -5
His head hurt. An ache that radiated from the base of his skull to the backs of his eyes, swelling to a crescendo as he paced the prison cell appointed to him. It was dressed in indulgent decadence, an floral perfume meant to mask the stench of decay - which was bullshit because Beck could see it leaking from behind pinstripe wallpaper. The lights were too bright, the sheets too soft. Living on the island hadn't been anywhere near as bad as most of the shitholes other tributes had hauled themselves out of, still, he found it insulting just how nice everything seemed to be. There were weapons in their hands, cold steel lusting for blood they weren't yet allowed to draw. Instead they posed for pretty pictures.
The clock pulsed in time with his heart. It hurt. He tried to sleep, sinking into those soft sheets and sealing his eyes shut. Minutes passed, maybe hours. Beck couldn't tell, his heartbeat began to drown out the clock. He'd been running so long and so far that it seemed he'd forgotten how to stand. Tick. Tick. Tick. The stagnant air was unnerving.
He sat up straight in bed, pulling his fingers through his hair and grabbing fistfuls of manicured locks, tugging as hard as he could. The pain always became too much to bear. It always won. I shouldn't be here. I don't belong here. Beck wasn't reaped. Beck's name hadn't been called. Beck hadn't even recognized the name they'd called. He wasn't a career, he wasn't anything more than a puppet whose sinew strings would eventually line the pockets of the highest bidder.
Still, he'd volunteered. And if he sat around in this room any longer he'd begin to wonder why.
Seeking out a drink was as natural to him as breathing, hands well practiced as they scraped the backs of cupboards. The ground floor seemed the best place to strike gold. At least it did until he found each bottle colder and emptier than the last.
It sounded from somewhere behind him.
He'd no time to process what was happening as he pivoted on his heel, feet guiding him in the direction of the shout. Morbid curiosity outweighed any caution that might have spurred him in the opposite direction. No one was stupid enough to start a fight here, right? Still the sound promised something waited for him.
In the lobby he was met with a rather unimpressive sight. He was certainly hoping that something was more impressive than a couple of tributes milling around a bar.
Well, beggars can't be choosers. He had to get rid of this headache after all. "Starting the party without me?" He slid into the seat next to the boy, placing his elbows on the counter and conjuring up the most winning smile he could manage. They were both from lower districts, if he recalled correctly, but they didn't look all that different. Made of heads and hearts and eyes that burned like crushed coals."I was beginning to think this place had run dry."
Post by 1f — sophie fray — tris on Feb 13, 2020 0:29:21 GMT -5
It wasn't that Sophie was bored by the Capitol — her childhood dreams were alive and well — but the girl's expression was as joyless as it had ever been. She kept to herself on most days, showing up to the required events at the required times. Perhaps a little late, but always fashionable. For a legacy, she wasn't too worried about making herself appear like a media darling. It was best to leave the hard work to the editors.
She was a strange girl — never kind, but never cruel. Sophie did not welcome friendship, but she did not refuse it, either. Things were easier when they simply were. If someone wanted to sit in the silence with her, then that would be okay. She wouldn't break it. And if they bothered her, she knew how to stand up and remove herself from the situation. There was no need to be harsh. She was like candy. Sweet, hard, sour.
It was anyone's guess what flavor she was.
That evening, she was thirsty. And to make matters worse, she couldn't find an Avox anywhere. At least not one that wasn't already in their designated spot. She assumed they all had certain roles to play, and none of them were holding a tray of drinks, so she pulled on a robe begrudgingly and decided to help herself. She moved slowly through the halls, stopping at every map as if it would tell her something new.
The bar seemed like the obvious place to soothe her parched throat, even if she wasn't in the mood for alcohol. Something else could be arranged. She snapped her fingers as she entered the room, not noticing the cluster of tributes. "Lemon water, please." It wasn't until she had lowered herself into a chair that she glanced their way, sleepily and a little disinterested. "Is this something I didn't get the memo for?"
A glass was offered to her, and she downed the contents slowly. She enjoyed the chill as it moved down her throat. Her voice was low, and tired. "Whatever it is, I participated. Vouch for me." It was a goodbye, an invitation to excuse herself, but then she found herself staying in place. Maybe it wasn't so bad. The bar was quiet, and warm, and it wouldn't hurt to stick around. Or maybe it would, and maybe it didn't matter.
"If you want to play drinking games, I'll keep score."
S O P H I E F R A Y
❝ will i never rest in sunlight again — slow, languid, & golden with peace? ❞
Post by 10m - silas merchoff - dars on Feb 13, 2020 13:02:29 GMT -5
The last thing he wanted was an audience but, even still, there they were. They dropped around him like flies, a clumsy girl who was not a bartender after all, a boy who looked almost as bad, (if not, worse,) than Silas, and a princess who suggested they play a few rounds of a drinking game.
There was no alcohol, so there was no reason for him to stay. He winced, visibly uncomfortable as the roar of thoughts overtook him. You need something. Anything. Now. You need to forget. You need to numb. You need to stop feeling. You need- a shaky exhale escaped him.
You can't do this.
He had to.
He turned to an avox, annoyed with himself for not having thought of it sooner.
"Can you go fetch us some whiskey?" He locked eyes with the princess, all blonde hair and plastic smiles, "And some lemon water, I guess." He had half a mind to follow the avox as she left the room, the sooner the better replaying over and over again in his head. He could do this. At the very least, two of those in his company seemed like they would understand a predicament like his own; the boy next to him had a gaze just foggy enough, a disposition just flighty enough to have perhaps even been in the same boat as Silas. And the girl, for lack of any other reason, seemed to hold little regard for the rules, hopping over the bar to search for drinks which Silas hadn't even thought of himself. That made Princess the minority, which he bet was a feeling she wasn't used to.
He would've shook hands with them, ever the charmer, if he knew his hands weren't too shaky to pull out of his pockets. So instead, he nodded, one dead man to all the others.
"Name's Silas, by the way. District Ten."
It was so strange, adding his district to the end, his home now interchangeable with who he would become to them, to the Capitol, to everyone. Not Silas Merchoff, addict. Not Silas Merchoff, brother. Not Silas Merchoff, boy with a death wish. Not even Silas Merchoff. Just Silas, from District Ten, and that was if he was lucky enough to live for however long it took for them to remember him.