Intro: this story will basically involve OCs, set in District 2 and others when they become relevant. I am planning to make this a three-part story, but it can be extended if people feel like it.
Delian walked into Critias' house at the appointed hour, with his best possible clothes. That consisted of a plain white shirt and a pair of black jeans, ironed to make them more similar to trousers, mended with cloth of the same colour so the patches do not appear as easily. He walked into the palatial building, amazed at its glitter and "bling factor", as people in the Capitol were rumoured to term this phenomenon. A grand chandelier suspended in the middle of the foyer, and the generous beams of sunshine scattered across its jewels across the room, in an orderly chaos. Delian was attracted to touch many things in the house, but his better senses prevented him from so doing.
He had almost ignored the existence of the butler, who was trying to guide him to the study, where his interviewer was bound to be. Delian had sneaked up to Critias' house before, and he sat at his study almost every day, continuously. He took his meals there and even occasionally slept there, Delian noted. All this will be mine, he thought, and it's going to be soon, not at a distant date in the future. Hunger Games fever was burning within District 2, and this man, this victor, held the key to unlocking its wonders.
The butler signaled Delian to stop at the threshold of the study, which was barricaded from the glamour of the main hall with a slender pair of doors. It was oak panelling, he though, with pink marble inlays. Very stylish. District 2 does not shout out at you in this house, but you can locate yourself in District 2 if you look at the details. It's almost as though the house had a consciousness, that it didn't want to look like a house in District 2. The servant knocked and heard some response from inside, and he slipped in, closing the door behind him.
The butler came out and looked at him with a neutral expression. He opened both doors, and stood flat against one of the doors.
"Delian Quince, principle," the butler announced.
"Have a seat please, Delian," the victor said, as he poured a small glass for Delian, which he promptly set in front of himself when Delian attempted to take it, "and tell Sherman what you would like to have. After all," he grinned, "not all of us can hold our drink."
Critias was still Critias. It was something of an unspoken insult in District 2 if you implied that someone couldn't drink. Delian was only 17, and the official drinking age was 20, though that hardly stopped anyone. Nobody tried to enforce, and nobody could enforce. People in District 2 didn't have birth certificates, so nobody could say for certain, other than close friends and parents, exactly how old one was. It carried certain benefits, but also faults and consequences were deadly.
Delian ordered what he thought was an appropriate drink: water.
"Mr. Quince," Critias began with a strange emphasis on formality and distance, "I have read a recommendation letter with your name and various terms of coerced flattery on it, and I think I am obliged to give you a formal interview. I admire your persistence, Mr. Quince, but please do not expect too much out of this interview."
Delian's hulky body slumped on the chair.
"I have exacting standards on what makes a good tribute," Critias attempted to explain, not in the least emotionally influenced by the slump, "but, which is more important, on who has the potential to become one. I have been hasty in refusing your direct application a few months ago."
Delian shifted forward again, in anticipation. Is he going to give me a chance to make things up to me, or does he begin to see potential?
"I still await to be proven wrong, Mr. Quince," he continued, "and to that end, I will ask you a series of questions or request you to do certain things. If you do not feel comfortable answering any given one, just tell me so, but I tend to prefer more information to less, so you may bear that in mind. Are you ready?"
"Yes, victor," Delian finally spoke with a bright but baritone voice, brimming with excitement and energy, "I am ready, for days."
"Do you smoke?" Critias inquired flatly.
"I…" Delian froze, not certain about what Critias wanted to hear, "from time to time, yes," he scrambled together a response, to face Critias' almost-parental smile.
Would that make me sound more mature and manly? That's what they like.
"I am pleased to hear it. All men need an occupation of some kind, and there are far too many idle men in the quarries."
Delian looks on as Critias scribbles down something in an illegible scrawl on his notepad, which he held at an angle to prevent easy discernment. As he furiously writes on, he gradually steepened the angle of the pad, as to conceal his face.
"Who is your mother's father, Mr. Quince?"
"My mother's father is a Terrence," Delian replied thoughtfully, "though I do not know him intimately."
"Does he have a family name?" Critias persisted.
"I think so, but not that I know of."
"Does he have any reliable connections with," Critias paused to sip a mouthful of the golden syrup, "persons of influence?"
"Well, Terrence has…" interrupted Delian, to think of a more refined way of saying someone had died, "has pissed away."
"I gather you mean 'passed' away, if I may suggest such an unfortunate thing?"
"That's the fellow."
Critias closed his eyes and bent his torso upwards, reclining on his chair a little more, though Delian thought it could scarcely be more comfortable, since the back of the chair is fixed.
"Mr. Quince," Critias continued his assault, "do you have any friends in notable positions, or otherwise of distinguished merit, or even public reputation?"
Delian instinctively thought of his best friend, Rhaion. This friend was one whom he could depend on in a question of life and death.
"My best friend is Rhaion," he commented, "he is my best friend ever."
Critias took another deep breath and turned to caugh behind himself.
"Pardon me."
Turning back to the present, he looked around the study and fixed his gaze on a richly decorated porcelain vase on a taek base.
"See that vase over there, Mr. Quince," he finally said, "and that thing it's sitting on. What is that thing called?"
"Wood?"
"What type of wood is it?" acerbically demanded Critias.
Delian suddenly shrinks into his chair, as though taking refuge in its plushness. Delian hadn't expected this to come up. He had expected Critias to ask him to lift big rocks or something that demonstrates his strength, which he has found to be an asset in the quarries and in comparison with the televised tributes. But here was Critias, the victor and principal of the Academy, examining him on the strangest of questions. Come on Delian, you can't just guess a random type of wood! But you have to! Calm down, Delian. It's a type of wood you've never seen before, so it's not maple, pine, or oak. It's in a victor's house, so it must be exotic.
"Taek?" Chimed in Delian, spitting out the most exotic type of wood known to him.
Critias' expression darkened, as he jotting down on his pad again, which he places on a writing stand so as not to betray its contents by laying it flat on the desk.
"Go pick up that vase," Critias commanded after finishing his notes.
Aha! It's going to be easy, as long as there is no water inside.
Delian ejects from his armchair, sprints to the target next to the bay windows, and easily grabs it by its neck and hoists it from the base.
It's as light as I thought. It might even by too light.
"With two hands please," Critias corrected, "it's heavy. I don't like cleaning porcelain shards off a carpet."
But it isn't heavy! Time to impress!
"I'm fine, victor. I can lift this vase with just one hand."
"As you will, then," Critias turned away again, caughing heavily, with his hands over mouth, "and balance it on your head."
What!?
"I'll do my best."
Delian obediently raises it by it foot and gently sets it down on the top of his head.
Please don't fall.
Standing perfectly still, Delian cautiously led his arms away from the artifact. It doesn't even wobble.
Good.
Critias nodded, probably in approval.
"Take off your clothes, Mr. Quince," Critias spoke with just a hint of a childish dare in his voice.
Delian hesitated, but his hands were soon sliding along his body, to minimize disturbance to the vase, to the top button on the shirt.
"You know, Mr. Quince," Critias explained away casually, "there are times in the arena where decorum must take second place. Most of us have no problem saying that in the shelter of our homes, but in the arena, I have seen this problem impeding the progress of a tribute. The accomplished tribute must be able to perform with only his skin on his body, in front of people he never knew before and intend to defeat by every possible means, as well as on national television."
That's perfectly rational.
Delian began the arduous task of unbuttoning his shirt. Normally, this wouldn't be so difficult, but the slightest shift in his body translates to a much bigger movement of the vase on his head. Delian has no problem with only his skin on him, since the quarries are so hot in the summer that he's accustomed to work without a shirt, with all manner of passers-by.
Moreover, several girls have expressed much positivity and affinity about his shape.
"You need not remove your trousers, Mr. Quince, I only need to see what I need to see."
As Delian frees the ninth accursed disk of plastic from the ninth slit in the hemmed shirt, he starts by loosening his arms from the confines of the sleeve.
I guess I'll be the attractive type of tribute. Looking good earns you points. Ugh, don't fall!
But his arms don't come loose from the sleeve. Delian cursed himself under his breath, as Critias, who emitted a concealed yawn, was waiting with mild attentiveness to his form.
Don't make him wait! Look, he's yawning! Why isn't my sleeve coming off?
Delian shakes his arms some more, as Critias rests his head on his hand, supported by the elbow on the desk.
"Your cuffs."
Heeding the instantaneous analysis, Delian was dazed by Critias' attention to detail. He clasped his hands behind himself to get to the cuff buttons, and the vase took another dangerous swivel.
So finally, the shirt relinquishes him, and he stood with a naked chest and abdomen before the victor. For a brief second, Delian is proud of himself. His slightly tan skin glistens in the afternoon sun, giving it an almost ruby like glow, full, rich, and unyielding, and his hair, which was a golden blonde, had excellent albedo. Delian is definitely a looker.
"You need to lose some weight, Mr. Quince," he opined with a puff, "slenderness is in vogue."
The cruel shock nearly caused the vase to fall from his head, and he had to re-balance it by taking a few cuts across the room.
"I… I see."
"Now, I said the accomplished tribute must be able to perform at the highest level without the benefit of clothing. So I'll test your aptitude in that front. Just standing still is not quite enough."
Humph. These surely are exacting standards. But I think I scored some points for my immaculate sense of balance.
"Do your best triumphant pose. This is what you'll do when you're declared victor. People need to be able to see you as a victor before you are one; that is how they pick whom they support."
So, Critias already has me in mind as a victor! That a dream-come-true thing!
Delian took a needed and granted moment to think about what his victory pose would be, and he settled on a simple fist in the air, with a firm base, standing squarely on his legs.
"Stay frozen, while I load some film into my camera. I need to capture this, and I think you would look great on any poster. Any publicity is good, and this will stop people in their tracks."
The camera clicked, and the maganese flash flooded the room. It almost set the vase tumbling again, but Delian knew this was too close to the finishing line to allow any imperfection. By his sheer will, he forced it back atop his head.
"Excellent choice, Mr. Quince," Critias adjudicated, "I've seen many a pose involving jumping into the air or rolling on the ground, or any number of combinations of such inordinate extrovertion. You appear strong and confident but grounded on firm earth this way, which is what the audience would like to see. Even though slenderness is in vogue and also an asset in the arena, I think I see potential in a powerful build too."
Delian is overjoyed.
"I know a considerable population of females prefer," he stopped.
Delian suddenly felt vulnerable, as though his laurel was being revoked, rescinded, or somehow diminished.
"Prefer you to their significant others. You see, most victors are tame, pets of the Capitol, and they yearn wildness. Do you have that flare, that uncontainable spirit of a wild animal, Mr. Quince? Are you in possession of the untamable character, of strengh, power, sweat, and raw, natural appeal that so rarely is found in the Capitol?"
"Yes," Delian exclaimed, "I can do all that! I'm your boy, victor, I'll never disappoint!"
I'm gonna be a star, and I'm apparently a natural at it!
"You'll satiate their lust for that wildness, Mr. Quince, you'll do things that I never could. I had their admiration, but you… you'll have their love. Yes," Critias tastefully inserted, holding high his head, and gradually lowering his line of sight, looking his prized tribute from head to toe, "I could see it all now. Delian the magnificent."
Immersed in euphoria, Delian could hardly conceal his overwhelming emotion, which inhibited even his faculty of speech. He eagerly awaits the next instruction.
"Are you a precision dancer or a clumsy dancer?"
"I'm the clumsy type," he blurted out, before he realized something.
How can I be clumsy at anything? That isn't what he wants!
But before Delian has the chance to correct his massive gaffe, Critias affirmed his response.
"Excellent. Dancers who are too precise seem artificial, and your whole appeal is that you're not artificial. You need to know some steps and tunes, but not too many, and certainly not the obscure ones. Leave some room for the ladies to imagine and correct you, because a student is always more charming than a lecturer."
Even my missteps are right. Wow. Looks like I'm born to be victor.
Critias hurried to the side wall of the study and pulled down a projection screen. A projector emerges lowering from the ceiling, and a film soon comes on. It's the last Victors' Ball in the Capitol, showing numerous victors dancing to the latest tunes.
"Go on, pick one of them, and copy their steps."
Delian obediently chose his idol, Selenia of District 1, and started imitating her fluent rhythm and lucious body. Meanwhile, Critias returned behind his desk and started writing.
"Come on," he egged on, with a colourful voice, "be one with the music. You must create the rhythm; you must dominate the dance floor like you would in the arena, even if you're a clumsy dancer. Forcefully impose yourself upon the ladies, envelop them in your masculinity, and there we have a success to behold. Don't merely be suggestive, but be aggressive."
As a shirtless Delian spent almost a half hour dancing circularly, terribly out of tune, and making all sorts of sexual innuendoes, sensual firtations, and lustful grasps at the air, all done with a vase on his head and a completely satisfied expression on his face, Critias coldly assesses the amorous teenager.
You almost made me feel bad. Just almost, but so very close.
At the end of the day, Critias sends Delian home, even though he didn't disclose the results of the interview, leaving only "you understand my mind". Delian walked home proud and loud, just as Critias observed him with the keeness of a hawk from his balcony. Delian walked down the winding path, across the Square, then out of sight.
Critias turned back into his palatial house, descended the staircase, and walked into his study, and he opened his penholder, which sat silently on the desk. He pulled out the reel containing Delian's footage, and his dark eyes locked onto the film.
"I will make you cry," he mouthed.
Later that night, Critias met with his fellow victors Agason and Clemmy, and the two, known to Critias since childhood, inferred something was going on. Agason didn't like contradicting Critias, however, so he took another approach.
"Critias," Agason mused, "I have a problem."
"If it's your problem, keep it to yourself," he said, pushing a baked broccoli crusted with cheese into his mouth.
"There is considerable disquiet," the visitor elaborated, ignoring Critias, "over the lack of harmony between the various demograhpic groups in this District. These concerns originate from the highest levels."
"If it has nothing to do with the Games, leave me out of it. My only concern is the Games."
"Ah, but it does."
"If it does concern the Games, I've got no reason to listen to you. You severed yourself from its running years ago. You're like the Capitol's ambassador here in District 2; you're their agent. We need someone who thinks and fends for District 2."
Agason sighed, and his worst fears were confirmed. Critias was going to clamp down on the recent uprisings, and there was no way to dissuade him from it. Nobody has managed to dissuade Critias from anything. Even President Narita was more flexible than this.