One Way Ticket to Hell and Back (DISTRICT EIGHT FOLKS!)

[Deleted]

This would be the ultimate test of strength.

Daisa wasn't that strong on the outside. Her arms were quite skinny with not much muscle. But she had trained in running and her legs were nice and toned. She just needed to do weight-lifting in training and she'd look scary. Maybe she could find her way into the strongest alliance of them all, battle her way through to the end, and then betray her allies. Daisa was prepared to do whatever it took to give them a good show. She'd be their best player, and she would live up to her potential. She looked around. "Is this all?" she snorted to herself. "What a wonderful way to greet the tributes, with this dump to stay in for a day," she said, rolling her eyes, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She plonked herself down on one of the stupid seats. They could have afforded comfier seats to make the tributes feel at home. Daisa wanted to chill before she went wild and killed everyone in sight. Yeah, she'd be the most exciting competitor. The one who'd give them a real show.

[Elissa Ester]

Talking
Thinking
Typing

Adam couldn't help but laugh. The place did look nice. He didn't have it even close to this at home and he was among the richest. She on the other hand was... Well, middle class so for her to complain seemed to be a bit odd. He grinned at the girl. "You probably didn't even have half of this luxury at home, so complaining doesn't really seem to fit you," he said and walked over to the small bar that they had. He was 18 after all, so if he took some scotch then there shouldn't be any problem. He poured it in one glass and went back to the his district tribute. She didn't really seem to be Miss. Sunshine, but Adam had no intentions of hurting her in the games, no matter how much of a pain in the ass she was.

He sat down on the seat infront of her and took a sip from the scotch. He didn't say anything, just looked at her and tried to understand what her issue was. "Honestly... This tough act of yours... He leaned forward so his face was only an inch or two away from hers and whispered to her."I can see right through it. Adam leaned back on his seat comfortably with a smile on his face as he drank some more of his scotch. He had no idea where Hospes and Zak but they would probably show up anytime soon.

[Raeoki]

He had been the bifurcating wall between the two tributes during the car ride, which had been a surprisingly quiet one: no scenes, no tears, and no dissidence. Often, there was some sort of commotion, or, at the very least, a silent battle of emotions raging on either side of Hospes, where tears fell like men cut down on the battlefield and the tiniest of sobs dared to slip out as the muffled barks of cannons as they spat out heavy projectiles. No such thing happened this year, however; both of the children managed to keep themselves together into one emotionless whole, rather than falling to pieces in a rain of delicate tears. Hospes found this very soothing, indeed, for it always bothered him, listening to those sudden, mournful gasps that sounded so much like paper being ripped apart, and simply sitting there, unable to think of anything to console them with. This year Hospes currently found to be a reprieve: no overwhelming emotions (unless one considered that rather curious mood Daisa O’Sullivan had found herself in during the reaping); no impolite tributes – Hell, the Moria boy had even shown gratitude when Hospes had expressed his congratulations to them! (Of course, Hospes had not noticed the very vague hint of satire in Adam’s voice at the time; and this was a very fortunate thing for Adam, for Hospes surely would have condemned and despised the boy if he had.) This was all a very rare occasion for Hospes, and he could not help but pleased: for his fresh start – the purging of the Twenty-seventh Hunger Games and all its tribulations, all its vexations – had all come off at a very easy, very relaxing head-start, and Hospes found himself rather looking forward to the time he would spend with his lovely tributes; though, truly, once his emotions were shook off and logic remained uncovered and unprotected, he knew that he would rue such hopeful thoughts, and that this year’s prep week would become a violent Hell as last year’s had been.

The car soon came to a halt; Hospes let Daisa and Adam quit the automobile before he did. Once both tributes were on the platform, Hospes scooted onto Adam’s seat, and then twisted his body about so he his front could face the opening; his legs stretched themselves forward, his feet touched the platform, and he lifted himself off the seat and removed himself from the car, and his body stretched itself stiffly erect, so, whilst he stood behind the opened door of the auto, he wore the same rigidity, utilitarian design, and length of a pole. Hospes’s red eyes flickered about, taking in the scene of the platform and the silver snake that waited patiently for its human cargo, his mind quickly and diligently ticking off various items and actions that he found agreeable, others that he found inefficient or careless, but was insignificant enough for him to complain about later. In the busyness and activity of his mind and eyes, he did not initially take notice of the victor that stood beside the train; indeed, it took a few moments for him to even notice his presence. However, once this occurred, it was painfully evident that Hospes had acknowledged the man’s existence; his gaze swung towards him, then past him, before suddenly flicking back, and becoming fixated on him, latching onto him. Though Hospes did not mean to – did not want to – his eyes did not leave Zachariah Daniels, nor did they dare to blink. Every muscle in his body, by some sudden, primal instinct, had become taut, and somehow, this made him look taller and straighter and stiffer than he already had upon his arrival.

Somehow, he knew his hands had begun to quiver; he could rather feel them, shivering as if he stood in a frigid winter wind, the muscles tingling beneath the flesh. Hospes willed them not to; he pressed them tightly against the sides of his thighs, in the vain desperation that the pressure would quell them into stillness. The attempt was futile, and this acknowledgement dealt such a lashing to Hospes’s emotions that he could not help but cringe and grit his teeth a little.

Zachariah looked his way then, one that was meant to be a glance of understanding; however, Hospes did not catch it: his mind had promptly become preoccupied with gaining control of his hands, for some outer-will was controlling them, taking hold of his fingers and curling them, making his hands a pair of trembling, useless fists that felt limp and numb to their true owner. And as Zachariah turned his face away, his will spread to other parts of his body, crying out to them pleas to stop all unnecessary movement and sensations: his heart, which palpitated and throbbed and trembled and felt as if cold hands were fingering it; his throat, which was drier than a desert could hope to be, and had chords throbbing through the thin, white flesh; his mouth, which hung open, panting as if he had been running and undergoing any and all forms of vigorous motion; his legs, which twitched and trembled to resume the supposed running and physical activities.

Whilst his will fixated itself on making himself presentable (though many of its attempts were all very much in vain), his mind focused upon new questions that flooded his mind as water gushes from a crumbling dam. It began with the beginning of these strong, unbearable emotions that made him tremble, that made him feel as if he was being spread out like butter on bread; it attempted to understand the reasoning behind it all, the logic and emotions that had borne it. What is this? What is this? What is this? he demanded of himself with great gruffness. Was this terror? Was this panic? Why did he only know these sensations when he realized that Zachariah Daniels was here? What is this? What is this? No; surely, that could not be possible! He refused it to be! Why should he? Had he not forgotten (not forgiven, mind you) the sins that that brute had committed against him on the train, so they would no longer burden? Hadn’t he shed the mental scars of the violence that had transpired and its reputation-destroying aftermath? Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he?

What is this? What is this? What is this?

It was Zachariah’s stare that shattered his train of thoughts, just as it had been his gaze that had caused them. In that instant, Hospes knew no thoughts, no logic; just a sudden urgency to escape that had suddenly snapped him up in its terrible claws. However, his body dissented with the instinct; it remained still, stiller than he had ever remained upon his own will, every muscle prepared for an event, a reason to take flight and never look back. He knew not why Zachariah had his face turned towards him, nor did he question it; questions were a waste of time: instinct would be the savior. Thus, it had to be the valet that had drove Hospes and his wards to the depot, who poked his head out of the opened window, and grunt at him, in unwanted explanation for Zachariah’s actions: “Hey – the kids are in the train, yah know; everybody’s ready, except you and yer victor – but I think he’s waitin’ for yah…”

The moment the fellow had begun speaking, Hospes’s body had jerked, and he had performed a small shuffle backwards; and his face had become pale, and his jaw clenched, and his eyebrows drawn very close together. However, as he proceeded to listen, the instinct to flee promptly died within him – though a ghost of it still remained, haunting his heart and warning him constantly of what might arise today – and the muscles in his face relaxed, and his braced shoulders sagged slightly, but did not fully relieve themselves of the tension in their muscles.

Hospes showed his reluctant – and, admittedly, rather nonexistent – gratitude to the fellow by nodding curtly, and then obediently turning himself around, and moving for the train door. His actions, however, were stiff, the upper body moving in a mechanical manner, the lower moving as lightly and cautiously as prey as it consciously heads into a predator’s domain. He did not look at Zachariah as he moved; for he knew that if he dared, the cold stiffness and numbness would be within him, forcing him to stop and thus making himself vulnerable to any manner of attacks by the victor – though, surely, now that everyone all ought to be sober, and this was a national holiday, and two very special children could find themselves paying witness to any abrupt acts of violence, the satanic fellow would not dare to touch Hospes. Is that not so? Is that not so? Ah hah! Ah hah hah hah! Of course it is! Of course it is! I – I – he is a ghost – a ghost – not a thing happened, not a thing! Relax – relax – relax – relax, damn you, relax!

He headed up the steps of the train; he heard Zachariah’s heavy footsteps thudding slowly after him. And each footfall was like a sudden ton falling onto Hospes’s shoulders, making his body suddenly ache, and twitch into a stooped position, in which he became a walking, slanted angle; and Hospes could not correct this, for his mind had been transported into the nightmare of a memory, where he sat in glass with his arms wrapped tightly about his face, the only thing he knew then being solely panic and terror, and the only warning of the object that was approaching being a shoe landing heavily upon the floor, the series of terrifying thumps being surely a countdown to Hospes’s demise.

And it was then, as Hospes walked with a sudden celerity, as if something was propelling him forward, that he knew he had escaped nothing by trying to shed the memories as one sheds clothes. It would be there with him forever, a blemish that hurt and stung and made him moan; and Hospes could do nothing about it. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing! Nothing!

There was an urgency within him to scream, to plea for any form of mercy from something that lay far, far away, up in the sky, perhaps, to rub some sort of balm upon the blemish – any soothing thing at all, really, would have been much appreciated. He did not want this yoke of terror to be set upon his neck; he knew that the way it was affecting him emotionally was just another attempt at subjugation by Daniels, to twist him and make him sweat and cry and cringe whenever that hellish victor pleased. Hospes refused to permit that to be done to him; but how could he fight it? Attempting to forget it – to shake off the memories as a dog shakes off water – had proven futile; what else was there to be done? There was no way in Hell that a therapist could be called upon; therapists were snoops, and terrible ones at that. Only one thing occurred to Hospes’s frantic mind that he found logical at that point: Kill the bastard. Get him before he gets you!

Perfectly reasonable, yes; Hospes could do it. He was desperate enough. He could do it. Yes. Yes. Perfect plan, that. Yes. He’d do it tonight, whilst everyone slept – he couldn’t let that bastard manipulate his emotions all throughout prep week, or even beyond that. To undergo further emotional trauma – the backlashes of the past – would kill him; the burden was too painful to be carried for long. It had to be relieved of as soon as he dared.

It was then that Hospes felt a sudden emergence from his thoughts, where his consciousness buoyed upward from his plots of murder and self-liberation, and he could truly process what his eyes had been seeing all along: he stood in one of the cars of the train, regally and majestically furnished, his back very close to the door from which he had entered, with Zachariah Daniels nowhere near (from what he could tell), and being only in the company of the two youngsters, Daisa and Adam, and neither of the two had currently paid him any notice. They had been talking; about what, Hospes knew not, nor did that truly concern him. However, at present, Adam was leaning forward, and Hospes could tell that his face was particularly close to Daisa, and his ears could make out the muffled hisses of a particularly confidential whisper; however, what words those muffled hisses actually were, Hospes knew not, but he found himself guessing. There was something almost coquettish about the way he whispered to her, as if he was trying to tease her into some sort of pleased embarrassment; Hospes’s mouth could not help but twitch into some vague realm of amusement, and, slightly, the rigid muscles beneath his skin became soothed; the balm that he had so desperately wanted to ask from the heavens had – in that moment – been discovered, in the almost cute interaction of his little wards. As he continued to gaze upon them, his mouth – which had then been set in a small, panic, frightened frown – twitched a little, becoming almost affectionate in its softness, as if he was watching members of his progeny at play. And, as he bore witness to their fun, the lifting of his thoughts from the dark bowls of his mind that had been preying upon them continued, till his body felt lighter, giddier, and the shaking in his hands (which had followed him all the way into his entrance into the train), became weaker – not completely gone, but not as evident, either. For the shadowy claws that begged him to commit homicide so that they may finally die, that threatened to drag him back down into that panic, that pain, that had so enthralled him and racked him earlier, were still there, lurking and thrashing in the corners of his mind, their claws twitching to pierce into him again and shred him and scatter his guts.

Like any father that watches his children play and romp, there was a sudden, light instinct within Hospes to spring before his new wards and join them, and help them in their imaginary adventures and various pleasantries. It was sudden, and was filled with such a frivolous fun that it became very irresistible for Hospes to ignore it, especially after the onslaught of memories that had mauled and battered him about when he had discovered Zachariah. Hospes fidgeted for a moment, a sudden uncertainty befalling him, but he soon shed that. He did not spring before them; rather, he strode up to them, by habit moving very carefully and silently and fluidly, like a spider, and stood over Adam (who had his back turned to him), who was seated very comfortably, drinking what Hospes immediately identified as alcohol. Hospes felt a small twinge of disappointment and displeasure as he noted this, for he feared that the boy would take this habit of partaking in scotch and the like to the training center, where being as far away from the stuff was a dire necessity, but for now, Hospes found no reason to complain; they would not be at the training center for another day, after all, and after such an eventful, strenuous day as today, Hospes saw no reason why Adam couldn’t dabble in a few vices. Besides, Hospes was not in the mood to become a stern purveyor of sarcastic logic; at that moment, he yearned desperately for an escape from any negative attitudes, and if that meant permitting his tributes to become drunker than a pack of skunks, then so be it.

And so, with that self-concerned note taken, Hospes’s body performed a sudden convulsion, in which he stood with his body bent and his face beside Adam’s as the boy lowered the glass from his lips. The smile – though it had been born from affection – looked as it always looked when Hospes smiled, for there wasn’t any magical stage to aid Hospes in conveying a certain, wanted mood; thus, the current smile was as cold and as meaningless and as still as it usually was. He did not turn his face towards Adam; rather, he peered at him unblinkingly from the corner of his reddened eyeballs. He then said – his first signal of existence – in a very quick, hissing, maniacally playful whisper that was just loud enough for Daisa to hear also: “Secrets don’t make friends…”

It was true, in some ways; swapping around secrets did not give much aid to the escort and mentor, who could relay the context and raw material of said secret to the sponsors, which would most likely open up some intrigue which would circulate by word of mouth, and thus surely providing the secretive tributes something particularly valuable.

(ooc: Meh...another post that feels rushed...ah well. :3 I was kinda getting tired while I was writing it, so...*shruggles*)

[Hero]

The noise was all around him. Zachariah knew where he was. He knew what was going on around him. He saw it. Yet his gaze was more, blank. It was like he wasn't exactly connected to the world. Families slowly trudging home were the lucky ones. The two families from which the tributes were taken from had their mothers in tears. Their fathers looked like they were on the verge of tears themselves. He looked up at Dasia's (he guessed) parents. For a moment, he saw the face of his own parents. They had been terrified that Zak wouldn't return to the safety of the District. But once he did, his family had disowned him.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard the clank of metal from the steps on the train. He looked around for the stupid escort to find him already boarded as well. And with some psychotic thought to kill me, he thought. He pushed past a sea of people, including raging families and annoying media. He stepped onto the train and the doors closed behind him. He wated to think that maybe this year, everyone in the Capitol would forget about him and leave him alone. But people pushed the large man to his limits way too often. Notorious fights broke out where he was involved.

He eventually found the two tributes engaged in conversation. The Adam boy was enjoying a scotch. That'll really help him out, he thought with a laugh. Oh, the wonders of sarcasm. Either way, he pulled up a seat across from them. They asked him everything anyone would. Any advice for us in the Games? How did you survive? Did you make an alliance? Zak's answers were always the same. He would say, "Try not to die, I just survived, and no." Whem Hospy decided to join them, Zak scooted his chair closer to the boy. He didn't want to be anywhere near the escort.

Zak picked up the bottle of scotch and poured himself a small drink. He didn't need to be drink before the Opening Ceremonies. Then again, that was the time when people really got on his nerves. Either way, he had to mentor these tributes. "So, have other you thought out any strategies yet?"

[Elissa Ester]

Talking
Thinking
Typing

Adam froze when their escort spoke into his ear. He hadn't noticed when the man had walked up to him and just turned around with a smile on his face. "Oh, we don't have any secrets here", he said and drank some more. He was well aware that one glass wouldn't get him drunk, it wouldn't even make him tipsy but somehow both Hospes and Zak seemed to frown at the sight of it in his hand so he just put it at the table for the moment before turning to their mentor.

"Stay alive I guess... Seems to be the most important strategy at the moment, Adam told Zak and turned to Daisa that was still quiet. There was something odd about herand he just couldn't figure out what. That wasn't the only thing that was weird, he noticed some tension between Hospes and Zak but decided it was better to leave it alone and not ask.

[Deleted]

The escort whispered something and Daisa stared absent-mindedly out the window. The boy had said he saw right through the tough act. What tough act? Daisa had fallen quiet so that her district partner could talk to the others. She had no intention of joining in. She'd be her own person, make her own strategies. She wouldn't kill Adam, but that didn't mean she would ally with him. "Oh, we don't have any secrets here," Adam said, and drank some of the drink. Daisa rolled her eyes. She didn't like anybody on this goddamn train. She'd rather just be in the arena already where she could roll up her sleeves and get the job done, because she sure as hell wouldn't enjoy the week of preparation.

"Stay alive I guess...Seems to be the most important strategy at the moment," Daisa heard Adam saying. She looked at him and he was looking right at her. "What? Oh, yeah. Stay alive and stuff." She had tuned out from it until she heard Adam's voice, pretty loud as he was sitting close to her. The district faded away from sight through the window. The train was really fast yet she didn't even feel a single wobble of it.

[Raeoki]

As Adam turned his head and smiled at him, and assured him that they were all beyond secrecy and covalence, he felt a very strange, rare warmth spread throughout Hospes, one that was born by Adam’s smile, one that made him feel like a small child again: he felt accepted without being accepted, spry without actually being spry, and within him lay a new, very strange optimism in the future – a place where Hospes had often discredited as a place of loneliness, a bitter hole with no end, where darkness was so thick that illumination provided by a flashlight would be comparable to illumination given off by a candle’s flame in a partially dimmed room. However, this was only a very brief chunk of the future that Hospes looked forward to, which Adam Moria alone carried upon his young shoulders into the weeks ahead: through prep week, which Hospes would hopefully enjoy – if not for brief instances – because of him; through the Games, should Adam survive the Bloodbath, unlike his predecessors; and, if Hospes dared to even consider it – beyond that, should the boy survive at all.

But it was all foolishness, Hospes knew that well; he was syphoning out favorites – not an unheard of, unacceptable act, for it was actually quite customary for escorts to prefer one tribute over the other, and it was also rather habitual for those escorts to advertise to sponsors at a more rigorous level the “Chosen One” than the other. However, this was not a tradition that Hospes necessarily approved of, nor especially liked to find himself partaking in: for he feared the unfiar bias that so many other escorts wrongly fell into, for simply went against his standards (which were – though some might not guess it – reasonably high, though, admittedly, his belief in the preservation of human life was VERY much in need of doctoring); and there was the simple wariness of relationships during prep week. Some relationships were actually quite suited under such conditions, like the turbulent relationship that had transpired betwixt Babydoll Rosek and Hospes – one hated the other, and no tears were shed during their parting, and all eyes were quite dry when the former finally died. Though particularly irksome to the people that had to deal with each other during that one awful, hellish week, it really was rather good that no friendship had ascended, for the emotional torture that would claw at the survivor would be more irksome than the vexation that said survivor had to put up with when the former was actually alive. Friendships, however, were dangerous, for that required a wanting for each other’s existence, and when the other’s existence was finally vaporized – the aftermath was only trouble and wasted time. And Hospes was not particularly fond of wasted time.

And yet! And yet-! Hospes could not help but find particular favor in his male tribute this year. Though we’ll probably be sticking knives into each other’s throats when this damn week’s over, Hospes acknowledged with an indifferent acceptance, whilst the face of Jet Savage – the boy tribute in last year’s Games, whom Hospes had felt a mild approval for upon their meeting, which had quickly descended into an absolute disgust for the little idiot – flashed in his mind.

Hospes’s mouth opened a little so he could reply, but a clear, crisp gurgling noise silenced him, as if an invisible palm had smacked itself across his mouth and was presently being pressed against his lips. A sudden immobilization fell over his body, numbing it, making it very stiff, and whatever fatherly playfulness and childish optimism was currently within him died and withered and screamed in desperation and agony within him. Slowly, as if he was being drawn up by strings, he lifted himself erect, and in that moment, he knew nothing but the almost metallic clicking that he promptly recognized as liquid falling into glassware. The icy smile that had been meant as a grin of affection was gone, leaving only a twisted grimace of agony, as if a thousand knives were nipping at Hospes’s skin. His eyes drifted downward, as if he was watching a leaf of paper that swooped from one side to the other as it descended to the ground, where it promptly stretched itself out. Before he could brace himself – before he could order himself not to care, not to look, but only ignore, dammit, ignore, ignore, ignore – his gaze had landed on Zachariah Daniels, who was calmly pouring himself a glass of scotch, as if nothing during last year’s prep week didn’t happen, as if Hospes didn’t exist, as if no one in the world last year had known pain, nor despair, nor embarrassment.

In one prompt, swooping, clean fashion, every muscle in Hospes’s body became rigid. His body was tightened, braced, his legs ready to spring, to flee, his skin readied for pain and for bruising. There was a scream that was slowly rising up his throat, clawing at its sides, slithering onto his tongue – but it did not come out; Hospes kept his lips firmly together, for in no way was there going to be any hysterics in front of the children. Instead, however, in a jerking convulsion that was unwilled by Hospes, but still irrepressible, his hands shot out, and grabbed the top of Adam’s chair; his long, slender fingers curled about it, and he dug his sharp little fingernails into the fabric, proceeding to work them through the thin cloth skin. And he found that there was an aching, cruel pain within him, one that he knew was caused by the sight of that demonic bottle of alcohol in Zachariah’s hands, and one that he knew could only be cured by screaming and yelling – not towards, Zachariah, perhaps, but towards the children: to flee; don’t look in any direction, don’t question, don’t think, don’t breathe, don’t speak – just run, run, run, run!

But he would not – he could not. No hysterics in front them, please. No hysterics, please. No hysterics, please. Maybe he won’t – tonight. But he will – later. If you don’t – get him. And you will – promise that you will. No hysterics, please. I will – I promise. No hysterics, please. I know that I must – I know, I do, I do know. Oh…no hysterics…please…

Zachariah spoke up, but his voice was no human voice – in Hospes’s ears it resonated with an overt tinkling and metallic cracking, like glass’s sharp whine as long, thin, veins form and stretch on its face that was clearer than water, and then it shatters, becoming shards, becoming splinters, becoming dust that got on your skin and in your eyes. Hospes shuddered as he listened, as if a cold wind was running its wintery, needle-like claws up his back, and he forced himself not to blink whilst Zachariah questioned his wards on topics such as strategies, in case that when his eyelids flickered apart after closing, they would be opened to that nightmare – the one that crawled and slithered through his mind, a shadow creature that flickered and twitched and convulsed and perpetually threatened to leap from its burrow and attack and kill.

The crackling was succeeded by the voices of children; not shrill and developing, like a child’s voice, but still plainly youthful – youthful enough to grow invisible arms and take Hospes by the shoulders and shake him free, free – for a moment - from the effect that demon had him, free from the shrill cracking of glass, free from any worry of enslavement by that evil nightmare, which he thought he could he faintly hear hissing and snarling within him; free to look down, upon Adam, upon Daisa, and remember the task at hand – which was not to battle nightmares, nor hysterics, nor drunken victors; but to better their chances at a prolonged existence. And it was the uniformity of the children’s replies that had brought Hospes down to earth; for though they said it with different inflections (Daisa’s indifferent, grunting tone rather put Hospes ill at ease), and at separate intervals, it was the same thing, essentially: they had both just then voiced hollow strategies with no substance, no thought, and no way for Hospes to utilize when he was in front of the sponsors, advertising for them. Yes, they had just assumed their roles as tributes, but one would think that if they could not think of specifics, then surely questions would be far better than strategies that weren’t actually strategies (for strategies require meticulous thought and consideration, not just spouting out what any silliness came to mind). And, thus, for a brief instant, Hospes forgot how to be an escort – he who gave the tributes the small nudge, whilst barking in the mentor’s ears to give them a good, rough shove to propel them forward – till the tributes brought him back from fleeing nightmares – nightmares that, surely, he would be rid of once night had fallen.

Slowly, the corners of his mouth pulled upward into a wide smile that felt particularly heavy on his face, and his eyelids drooped, which made the smile feel faker than it already was, and colder, and adding a spite and cynical contempt to it that made it look twisted and wretched to look at. “Survival based upon improvisation, eh?” he said with a slow, hollow chuckle, in which each cold, empty chortle seemed to fall heavily from his mouth one by one. “Might work for some, but not for all, you know.” He leaned forward slightly, and his eyelids drooped lower on his eyes, and his mean grin twisted further across his face. “Perhaps, before you go around spouting ‘I’ll just survive’, you ought to learn what surviving actually is, first.” Of course, Hospes – being a pampered Capitolite – knew truly nothing about survival himself, but he knew it was complex, that there were decisions and wits and knowledge that could have, when acquired, seemed silly and useless, until that one moment where everything rested upon that one petty little fact’s shoulders. After all, there was a reason why there was an entire station based solely on the art of remaining alive on the training floor back in the Capitol – it was not a subject one could achieve in a day, unless they were lucky. There had to be preludes, such as that one silly little fact that wasn’t so silly anymore, or a tribute’s simple question that was reciprocated by a mentor’s simple answer.

It then occurred to Hospes that this was all rather foolish – this sudden opening of strategies for children who knew nothing about this process of evolving from a simple resident of the district to a body built solely for war and survival. He knitted his thin, orange eyebrows together, and his twisting grin drooped into an unsatisfied, confused, bemused little frown, and he wrinkled the bridge of his nose. How would they know what to say? How could they know what to say? As Hospes had reckoned beforehand, they had just become tributes; in the whirl of all that excitement and stress, there was no way a child could conjure up an adequate strategy. So – what’s the purpose behind it all, if they know nothing yet?

Hospes pressed his lips together, and without thinking, he looked up from his wards, and found himself staring into the eyes of Satan. Immediately, all of that bemusement and puzzlement left him, and there was a sudden fear within him that was somehow painful, as if a whip had been brought across his face soundly. He flinched slightly, a movement that could have been confused an involuntary jerk backwards, and his face twisted into a dreadfully agonized grimace. His heart twitched and palpitated and fluttered; he could hear the Nightmare slinking from its burrow, and its serpent-like hiss, and the ticking of its claws against the floor as it came closer, and closer, and closer, and closer, perpetually – but, oddly enough, it was not a flight reaction that spurred Hospes to movement. Rather, it was a fight – he knew terror, but he did not submit to it; he refused to: for, instead, of a single command to run and not look back, he commanded himself to stay, and added reassuringly that soon, everything would be gone, dead – he would be emancipated, very soon. And, thus, Hospes peered into Zachariah’s eyes steadily, his red eyes wide but unflinching, and his grimacing mouth forming even words that were colder than ice: “Perhaps, instead of assuming that they are all-knowledgeable, we should let the children only give questions, not answers, until we come at a later, more knowledgeable juncture?”

He knew immediately that his quip about the tributes being omniscient would be commented on in a sour sort, one that may or may not lead to violence, and he knew that it was reckless and foolish – but he forced himself not to care; to forget it the moment it was realized. Perhaps it was good, to show that what happened last year was not a violent montage of subjugation, to show rebellion before emancipation was finally achieved; it seemed to Hospes that that would make the liberation all the sweeter, if he did so.