Yossarian Caulfield's Story

Yossarian Caulfield

Screw dressing up. It was only a dinner with a bunch of people he was planning to kill, anyway.

And there'd be hundreds more like before the end, right? So who really cared if Yossarian Caulfield was wearing his old red and black plaid hoodie. It was indeed the same hoodie he'd been wearing when that bitch had called out his name at the District Eight reaping. It was old, patched up by his own hand from years of wear and tear. He liked to keep around all the things that had been through everything he had. Those Capitol fucksticks had tried to take it from him on the train, insisting that he be made to look respectable. Of course, there could be no arguing on occasions such as the chariot parade (oh, if only he could have argued that one) and the interview, but other than, Yossarian wore whatever Yossarian damn well felt like wearing. The Capitol be damned, he was going to at least going to wear his own clothes for these last nine months before he died.

But the thought of the clothes debacle, and particularly the chariot attire (if Ashe kept going on about the shaved legs, Yossarian had decided he'd cook up something special for her in the arena) made him feel rather down, and Yossarian hated feeling down. So he'd worked his way to the back of the train, saying an overly cheery hello to anyone he saw along the way, and likely causing something of a disturbance to those tributes who wished to prepare for their second family dinner in utter silence, but hey, that's how he was wired. Eventually he came to a stop at the very back end, and leaned up against the window, taking a moment to marvel at the astounding lights and the remarkable speed at which everything moved by.

If the train hadn't been going so damn fast, Yossarian would have considered an escape attempt, perhaps trying to kick out a window and jump for it. But then he figured there wouldn't really be anywhere to go. He was in the Capitol now, and though District Eight wasn't so far from here (it lay along the Capitol's northern border), he felt no particular urge to return there. Memories from not so long ago came back, of the other eighteen year olds practically shoving him onto the stage when his name was called, even though he was already going. Most people there more or less despised him, and he fully deserved. Yossarian hadn't done anything to help anyone in District Eight but himself since he was twelve. It wasn't exactly the best way to make long term friends.

Although, it was a decent way to make short term ones. And since he didn't plan on getting attached to any of the people here, he figured his usual strategy would work just fine.

---

Emberly Byrne

It seemed like there was never anything to do but wait.

Emberly Byrne couldn't help but feel that she had terrible luck, for a tribute. The previous years had just been able to get it out of the way, a few days, and then peace. But no, she was going to have to endure this for nine months. Living with the people who were going to try to kill you. There would be so much analyzing going on, so much preparation. Plans would be laid, and then ruined, and then rebuilt, altered, torn down, built back up again. Alliances would form and crumble before they even set foot in the arena. Em herself was hoping to be able to get into one of these alliances. Alone, she stood no chance, and she knew that. But with others... well, Em was crafty, likely more so than anyone gave her credit for. If she could get with the right group, a group of strong, trusting people, she could potentially ride with them to the top.

Of course, then she'd have to turn on them. This thought more than anything would haunt her when she tried to select her allies. Of course she wanted to be with good people, people who deserved to be protected, and people who were worth fighting alongside. But were she to ally with them, she doubted she have the stomach to kill them when the time came. Perhaps it was better she try and work her way in with those she liked less. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, they said. That was another plan.

But for now, Em would have to wait. There would be plenty of time for analyzing and strategy making later. The District Three girl sat in her private compartment of the train, gazing out the window at the landscape that flashed by so brilliantly quickly. She supposed she'd have to get ready for dinner soon, but truth be told, she wasn't feeling that hungry, nor did she intend to be the first one there. Somewhere in the middle would do. Too much attention was drawn to the earliest birds, and the latest arrivals. And Em wasn't looking to be the center of attention.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Some said it was easy to get caught up in the lore of the games but even in her youth Ashe had been horrified by the displays put on to honor the uprisings and to punish the districts. The Capitol residents were all safe gluttonous individuals. In her short time there, Ashe had seen more than enough of the prideful inhuman looking crowds. They worried about eating too much food, about the way their hair curled or laid flat. They worried about a scuff on a perfectly fine shoe or a blemish on their skin. Their thought process seemed perfectly tedious and only had her mood further darkened.

To have so many people worry about the pallor of her skin or the clothes she wore had her irritated. While her stylist was a relatively calm and collected young man, his mind didn’t worry the way hers did. When she frowned, he threatened to pin her lips into a smile. When she brushed him away he nearly clocked her. Yolo had no patience for her bitterness or the frizz her hair became after a night's rest. Yet in the days he’d spent dressing her and trying to make her care for the interviews he’d come to realize it was far more than a tart mood. Ashe didn’t like the luxury of it all. It made her jumpy to be seated in a train car with velvet and satin seat cushions, to look beyond glass that wasn’t dusted with dyes or industrial exhaust. It wasn’t her. It was foreign and alien instead.

The interview had made Ashe feel so far from herself. Yolo had been beyond ecstatic with her scores in the training room and following her flirtatiousness with the crowd he’d been grinning over her shoulder as he teased her short blond hair that morning. “You’re marvelous, keep up the act sourpuss,” he had encouraged her with a beaming smile. She was unnerved by his excitement and more than anything she hadn't believed him.

Recalling the nickname made her wince, closing her eyes as she remembered Yolo's words. Ashe sat close to the window and as the side of her face leaned into the glass she could only sigh with relief to have escaped the Capitol for now. She had dressed earlier in the outfit she’d been given for the feast. It was all arranged given that they would enter the house in the same clothes and be seen for the first time on camera. It was all to make yet another statement, as if there was one left to give.

Ashe couldn’t help but be contrite the more she thought about the costume she’d worn for the parade, the things she’d said to Caesar and more than anything the last words she’d had with her family members before being whisked away. With the exuberance of the tributes from two and four, the lovestruck girl from twelve and her male counterpart, Ashe knew she was disappearing into a crowd. Having been collected and pleasant during her interview, even as flirtatious as she had been, did her no good. The same act had been put on by half a dozen of the other girls. She had been nice and likeable but not enough to be memorable. There was no fact that stood out. She'd confessed to liking a boy who liked another boy. Ashe felt more like a fool than accomplished.

There was the girl who’d been escorted back to her seat by peacekeepers, the boy from eleven who liked the crier even. Scandals! And then the rest seemed very obsessed with the boy from two. They were unique characters, people you empathized with and yet wanted to win. She found herself lost to the charade and hating it all the while, trying to mask her fear with a smile that she had never worn.

Sourpuss.

She could just remember Jasper saying it, her brother looking up at her from the treetops as he balanced himself on a beam, reaching out for a bundle of hidden fishing spears and tools they used to scour the land for something more edible than the bitter porridge and hard tack brought in from the factories. Memories of his swollen body filled her mind, enough to make her bite the inside of her cheek to bring her back from the reverie.

With her family so beyond reach and her brother dead, she felt completely and utterly alone. The silence of the train compartment was compounded by the sound of muffled voices from the hall. She could hear the slam of a door and the click of another as some of the other tributes began to leave for the feast. Ashe pushed her lips and looked at a small clock on the wall opposite her, feeling her cheek off the glass to stand and smooth the folds of her dress, another black lace ensemble with a leather corset cinched around her waist to show off her thin body. Sighing she moved to exit the cabin, finding that Yossarian had left already. He didn’t seem to approve of what she thought of him. When he’d mounted their chariot dressed as she had been and as hairless as she was, the blond couldn’t help but laugh. “Serves you right all things considered,” she’d thought. Now whenever she saw him, remembering the slightly mortified look on his face when she’d noticed his shaved arms and legs, she couldn’t help but smirk much to his disdain. “I always have at least one enemy.”

As Ashe entered the hallway she scanned it attentively, finding two of the female tributes down the length of the railcar talking curtly before one turned away with a blown kiss to walk away. As she squinted to take them in, Ashe recognized the male and female tributes from District 12. The lovers, she thought bitterly. They had been memorable too, especially since they had gone first and she’d nearly cried at the thought of her friend dying. The more she looked at them, the more she felt her odds slipping. The girl was loved and the boy she liked was handsome. He wouldn't want you, Ashe chided herself in thought before turning her glance away.

I’d have no problem killing Yossarian, Ashe thought bitterly, moving to walk slowly in her heels across to the feast car where the others were congregating. Her frown was gone, replaced by a weak smile and determined eyes.

Yossarian Caulfield, Niles Bayou, and Scipio Hardin
(Collaboration between AugustArria, Attie, and throne)

The fuck was that shouting?

Yossarian turned his head to see. It was some ways further down the train, towards the dining hall. Figuring he'd stared out the back of the train long enough, and that he wouldn't mind some of that delicious Capitol food anyway, he headed in that direction, squinting to better see the source of the commotion. It was some dude... yelling something about a shirt... killer toothbrushes... and it was Niles! And he needed a shirt. This was brilliant. Such an opportunity. And here Yossarian was starting to think this train ride's only attraction would be the speeding lights and sounds and images of the world going by at ludicrous speed.

He vaguely remembered mentioning something about Niles Bayou in his interview, something along the lines of "could that man's chest look any better?" And as he approached the District Four tribute, he concluded that... no, it could not. Swaggering up to him and leaning on the opposite wall, Yossarian hooked his thumbs into his jean pockets, and stared rather blatantly at the boy's chest, even as he spoke.

"You know, you'll probably do better with the sponsors, and the girls, and the guys, and hell, even the Peacekeepers, or shit, even the Gamemakers, or fuck, even President Argent... if you just go without a shirt. But, uh... I might be willing to part with one of mine, if you'd be willing to do a favor for me."

To be honest, the boy from District Four was still a bit lost in his own world after the brief encounter with Diomache; however, she'd passed him a long while ago and left him shouting a bit more. It was well enough time to get over it, at least for now. It was a voice he'd not expected that woke him back up to reality -- despite the fact that he'd watched Yossarian on his way up the corridor. Niles tilted his head a bit at him, arched a brow as he clearly seemed to be talking to his chest, rather than Niles himself. Okay. That's.. normal, I guess. Just not from a dude. Whatever.

"I would hate to start off with my best show for the ladies and leave them with nothing else to the imagination. I mean, all the muscles you can clearly see - they're going to catch on sooner or later that the muscle continues down south... I'd better save them from losing an appetite for food. At least for the first night or so." He winked at the guy -- What the hell was his name again? -- and with the playful banter, he almost felt... normal. It was almost as if he were back home and his friends would giving him shit about his flawless appearance, and all the girls - no, they were women now. All the women he'd seduced and all their scorned stories.. It was true that Niles' never gone the full mile with any of them, but... The stories just sounded better when it came out that he had. "So, what's your flavor-- favor?"

Yossarian wondered if any cameras were on him at the moment. Well, of course there were, there were cameras on everyone, weren't there? Little flying bug-cameras or something. Even though he was doing this entirely for his own pleasure, perhaps the sponsors would get a kick out of it. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth as Niles talked about muscles and appetites and flavors... it was almost too much. Almost. If Niles went along with this... well, sponsors or no, this would be a fun way to kick off the nine months.

"Wrestle me for it. My shirt, I mean." He unzipped his hoodie and let it fall to the ground. His shirt underneath was clean, white, and probably big enough for Niles. Maybe a little small, but there was certainly no harm in that. Niles was a bit more built in the upper body than Yossarian was. "It'll be fun. Maybe it'll make that pretty girl of yours jealous. Maybe the sponsors'll love it. Maybe why the fuck not?"

Niles nodded with a sly grin on his face, listening to the suggestion with a playful spirit. Just like home.. He gave the guy a look from top to bottom, sizing up the fight before it would began. He looked sturdy enough, or maybe just confident, or maybe just crazy. It was coming back to him, now. His first impression of this guy was, Holy shit, he's nucking futs. Yossarian Something. Part of this didn't seem like a good idea, but at the same time, he needed a shirt. Do I need it that badly, though? What the hell.

"Right on, man. Alright, and what if you win?" He wanted to trust the other tributes. He really wanted to just befriend them and make nothing of it, but there was a nagging since ringing in his ears, What if he's got a weapon? What if it's a trick? What if you die before the games even start? - Or what if he blackmails you with this? Shaking it out as he slipped off his own wrinkly button up, Niles let it slide to the floor with as much care as he'd applied to it that got him in to this mess in the first place. Rolling his shoulders to loosen up, he remained standing upright for the conversation rather than hunching down defensively. The game wasn't on yet, after all.

"If I win? Uh... well, this is kinda it's own reward for me, you know?' He pushed away from the wall slightly, standing straight. Just the agreement Niles had made to go along was reward enough for Yossarian... the knowledge that in a few small seconds he have his hands all over the chest that he had spoken so fondly of. "Right then," he said, stretching a little. "We'll have to make this quick. Peacekeepers will be along to break it up in a bit."

Without any further ado, and without any warning whatsoever, the boy from District Eight launched himelf into Niles, putting all of his weight into a tackle, burying his shoulder in Niles' gut, and wrapping his arms firmly around his midsection. The pair of them rammed backwards into Niles' half-closed door, causing it to blow open and slam against the wall with a loud crack. They tumbled to the ground in his room, grappling for position. Yossarian pressed his advantage, sliding his legs deftly around Niles' waist and locking his feet together behind him. This was not Yossarian's first time wrestling, and it wouldn't be his last. He reached one arm up in an attempt to get Niles in a headlock, the other arm... well, it was wandering a bit. First to the pectoral muscle. Over and around his back, down... until the boy's resistance reminded him he was wrestling, not... something else.

His weight was thrown off balance when Niles pushed back, hard. He was stronger than Yossarian, and had no doubt been in quite a few friendly scuffles himself. Yossarian toppled over to the side, still maintaining the headlock, but his other hand was now focused on defending and preventing Niles from escaping his grasp. He was vaguely aware of a hand on his head, but paid it no mind, instead using Niles' momentum against him and continuing their roll, to the point where they crashed into a stand of bathroom supplies, sending killer toothbrushes and their bottles of paste crashing down. It occurred to Yossarian that he was actually laughing, even as Niles broke from the headlock and gained the upper hand.

---

Wandering had proven an extremely unproductive use of Scipio's time. The Career Tribute hadn't found much of anything towards the back of the train, but a sort of perverse desire to know thy enemy had led him to explore a bit more than he otherwise might have. He'd been in a room that seemed entirely devoted toward soaking feet in mineral baths when he'd heard footsteps padding by in the corridor, back toward the front. Shaking his head in bemused disgust, he put thoughts of drowning a certain President in three inches of foot water aside and gave chase. Quiet chase, when he stepped into the hall and noticed who it exactly it was. Caulfield, Yossarian, Male Tribute from District Eight, Strengths Unknown flashed through his mind, along with a far less clinical assessment: the mad one.

The faint hum of the train in motion and the soft carpeting of the hallway made stealth a little easier than it would have otherwise been. He kept a good distance back, only losing sight of his prey when the other boy passed between train cars, and then, only for a count of seven. He heard the same dim shouting- dim in the sense that it was quieter, carrying further down the hall, and in the sense that the shouter was proving that he was not entirely bright. Technologically advanced as it may have been, it was still only a toothbrush. Perhaps this year, the male tribute from Four would be left out of the alliance. Bayou, Niles. Apparently an attractive moron. He paused just before the doorway that led into the car the pair now occupied, and watched. One blond eyebrow hiked up as they agreed to... wrestle for a shirt? He had a dozen shirts in his room, and unless the stylists for Four were inept as one of their tributes seemingly was, Niles no doubt had replacements as well. Maybe he can't read, he mused as the show began.

Scipio glanced to his right, as if someone might conveniently appear for him to wager with. Wager what? If you win, I won't kill you until at least the third day. If you win, I'll save you for last. If you win, I'll sing a little song while you gasp your last breaths. They had no currency save for time, and when the arena came, it would be precious indeed. His brow creased faintly at the first impact after the toussle, and then they were inside the room, out of sight. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he strolled along down to stand outside the doorway and watch, making note of Yossarian's... technique. His eyes flicked back down the corridor, watching for the inevitable white-garbed interlopers.

---

There was a lot of fun to be had in this. Of course, Niles was oblivious to the feels of Yossarian, and oblivious that another boy joined them in same area, just as he had been oblivious that while Yossarian had been feeling on him, he'd managed to really lock his head. It was beyond impressive - even if it was a bit disgusting in Niles' perspective of how he'd accomplished it. However, now his head was back in the game - and a little lighter after a lack of circulation. Whatever he'd attempted to do with a handfull of Yossarian's hair, it was lost to him as they began rolling like a boulder that was too big for the doorway, catching their elbows, knees, and toes. The sense of pain was all lost to the adrenaline rush, though, and when they smacked in to the stand and it's contents flew like missiles from a until then neutral country, Niles overheard laughter escape from Yossarian. It took breath to do so, and with that crack in the wall, Niles rolled the opposite direction from which they came, his head free, and Yossarian's weight lifted from him and against the neighboring wall just a foot away. The space between them didn't last. Niles let out one of his own laughs - something he'd have shared with a buddy or two back home when skirmishes broke out on the docks and led to drenched shirts in the river - before hurdling himself in the same manner Yossarian had initiated the whole ordeal, attempting to carry the force of his weight through his shoulder's impact to Yossarian's stomach.

Yossarian yelped in a pleased sort of surprise when Niles charged at him with full force, not daunted in the slightest by how their confrontation had began. They flew backwards together again, this time Yossarian on the receiving end. His back rammed into the side of a dresser, tipping it over, cracking a window slightly. Yossarian shifted his weight, tipping the pair of them over onto the next nearest object... the bed. They thrashed around for a few seconds, the sheets getting tossed about and tangled as they struggled. Eventually Yossarian found himself on top. It perhaps made sense that his wrestling skill was multiplied seemingly threefold when he was in a bed. It was a comfortable environment after all. In any case, Yossarian had straddled Niles once more.

And there they were; heavy, rapid footfalls indicated that the bout would soon be over. Perhaps it was his internal resentment toward the Peacekeepers as a whole, or simply some natural flair for showmanship, but either way, Scipio wasn't letting them be the ones to spoil the boyish fun. Three long strides had him clearing the doorway, and he came up on Yossarian from behind, hooking his arms underneath the other tribute's armpits and then hauling him bodily off of Niles and the bed. "Now now, boys. You should save this sort of thing for the arena." The smirk he was wearing could be heard, if not seen, as he sought to restrain the feisty tribute from Eight.

Yossarian had just been about to go for another headlock when he was taken from behind by a pair of powerful arms, hooking under his armpits and yanking him forcefully away from Niles. He resisted for a moment, before recognizing that whoever it was had a serious strength advantage, and that there was no escape from this one. Damn fucking Peacekeepers, he thought as his feet were set on the ground. He turned to glare at the white clad man, only to find that--

"The fuck?!" he shouted, upon seeing the boy from District Two, Scipio, to be the one that had broken up the fight, and his fun. "You some kind of fucking Peacekeeper now, Two?" Scipio released him; well, it was more a half-shove. "I'm as much a Peacekeeper as you are a wrestler, apparently," he replied dryly, and not without amusement. At this point, the two actual Peacekeepers entered the room, looking annoyed. "Ah, fuck it," Yossarian said, before he swiftly removed his shirt and tossed it to Niles, still on the bed. "Thanks for the ride, you can have it. There's no problem here. Just trying to enjoy ourselves is all. Guess that's too much for a Capitol fuck like you to let go," he said, directing the last bit at Scipio. He then made his way from the room and slipped back into his hoodie, zipping it up about halfway. One of the Peacekeepers trailed him as he headed off towards the dining car without another word.

Scipio didn't bother pointing out that his intervention had probably saved Yossarian from being roughly dragged to the dining car. Then again, maybe a messed-up individual like him would have enjoyed that sort of thing. While Niles dressed, he let his gaze travel lazily to the remaining Peacekeeper. "Duty discharged. You really don't have anything better to do at the moment?" How's that, Panem? Scipio Hardin, breaking up fights and talking down to Peacekeepers. He glanced to Niles. "We might as well head down now, mm?"

Finishing the last button, Niles smoothed his hands over the tighter shirt, numbing over the parts of him he was sure would be sore in the morrow. Running a quick hand through his hair, he offered a laughing smile at Scipio, having ignored the outburst from Yossarian. If it wasn't directed to him, he didn't have to worry about the crazy coming after him. "Yeah. Sounds about right." There was really no reason to point out what was really going on. Yossarian had already done that, and everyone who didn't catch on was more of an air-head than Niles at this point. He let out a sigh, keeping his smile hanging from his lips as he offered a hand-waving gesture to the door to see them out and shut it behind them. Sure, the Peacekeeper could have done it, but damn it, if Niles had already given up his life, his family, and his realy home.. He was going to kindly see him the fuck out of his last bit of space. Until they got to the Capitol House, that is. They couldn't get there fast enough, in his opinion.

Scipio moved to saunter along at his side, shaking his head. What would the actual dinner have in store?