Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 1 - The Tributes [HOLIDAY]

AUTHOR GAMES: CANON - TASK ONE

This world is new and Moire isn't sure if he hates it yet.

In all honesty, he hasn't been able to get a long enough look at it; sure, he sits by the window now, knees pulled up and feet pressed to the sage cushions of the couch, and sure, maybe he glances up every now and then to catch sight of the white glare cast on all those skyscrapers (way taller than the ones Eight boasts it has). But the sun blinds him, the way it reflects off the glass and the water several meters under the bridge they're on now. It's too bright. He's used to overcast days and grimy windows. He's used to concrete, not glitter.

So instead, he keeps his head low, bent over a journal half full of thoughts just from the past day of travel. One hand carefully creates scripture - because what else is he to do other than fawn and eat? - and the other props his forehead up, simultaneously shielding his eyes from all that sunlight. "It's pretty here," he mutters quietly, mimicking his writing, and that's okay because he's alone, "but I might need to ask for sunglasses just to make it through the week." He pauses, taps the end of the pen against his lip. "I'll ask. Later."

In silence, he continues to write, stretching for things to think about and then writing them down, even if they're irrelevant and stupid. Who knows? This could be his last gift to the world. I don't know what a panini is but it's goddamn delicious, he reads. "U-huh." Some gift.

The door to the train car opens, and Moire claps his journal to a close, tucking it between his outer thigh and the back of the couch discreetly before laying his palms upon his knees. The look he tries to give Mellory's mentor is a questioning one, but the expression falls flat, and the woman clears her throat without noticing the question mark on his face. She doesn't even look at him, really. "We're there in two. Grab your things and c'mon. Mellory's waiting."

Moire doesn't move, not yet. "Where's Chintz? Why didn't he come get me?"

Tarva sucks her lip before releasing it; already, she's turning back around. "He's not feeling good. I'll do just fine." She gestures with a flick of her tan wrist, like the command of a stern mother. Her voice is softer. "Let's go."

Slowly, Moire swings his feet back to stable ground and makes his way to follow Tarva's lead. When he's already in the next car, he realizes he's left the journal back on the cushion. A pinprick in his chest tells him to go get it, but then he simply sighs through his nostrils and keeps on walking. He doesn't really need it. If he's lucky, it'll get shoved deep down in there, and next year's tribute'll pull it out and read the remnants of Moire Holiday.

And his praise for paninis. Grand.

He walks with his head down, eyes on Tarva's heels. She walks with a bit of a limp but she's fast enough, young enough - almost thirty. She definitely moves a lot faster than Chintz, but she's also less willing to wait and listen, less appreciative of humor unless the joke comes from her Victor counterpart. Moire thinks back to last night in the food cart, all of them clustered together over plates of boiled carrots and honey and some organ from some fish and cake. It smelled like warmth. Tarva'd been tipsy; Chintz'd been drunk. And for the life of him, he just couldn't string together a proper sentence, and at that, Tarva barked out a loud laugh, a sound incomprehensible to the likes of Moire and Mellory who hadn't seen her do much other than stare blankly at cameras whenever they showed up at her doorstep. The lights had been bright but not too bright and the night was black and it'd been fun, almost, in how he smiled at the little girl beside him and the little girl smiled at him and they watched and ate.

All of last night's splendor, however, is gone, and now Tarva walks as stiffly as she ever has. Moire can't help but match the tenseness in her shoulders with his own. Once they come to the door that will soon open them up to the likes of the Capitol and their "grubby feline paws", as Chintz had put it, that's it. They face forward without speaking. Moire wants to ask more about his own mentor, but out of respect for what's probably a headache in the making, he keeps his mouth shut. As he should and always has. And so he waits.