author's note: This fic posits a scenario stemming from an alternate outcome to events in the 15th chapter of Your Own Kind, where Jack gets his way on the two matters at stake pertaining to his and Mags' personal lives, and, as such, includes many (mostly implicit) spoilers for that fic (and might be most enjoyable with that as background? as several of the same major original characters and relationships figure large here).
"Jack Umber, Jack Johnson, Aura Powers, Amber Sinclair, and Lantana Gabrelli," the mayor announced One's five victors. The most victors anywhere- well, currently in a tie with District Two.
From near the front of the crowd of local eligibles, Sophie's oldest boy waved up at Jack. He lifted a hand in reply. He had no expectations of mentoring this year. It would be just like every year since J.J. and Aura's back-to-back victories. The younger victors would tradeoff somehow. Jack didn't even know what the process was for choosing. They didn't tell him; he didn't care.
For whatever reason, Salvio decided to call the boy first. Jack preferred it when he went in the other order. They had called him first. They'd called him first of all. He was forty-five now and he'd gotten a little paunchier than he'd planned and he got tired and he didn't think his smile shone as bright as it used to, but maybe that was because he was the only one taking care of it most of the time now, not some fancy stylists in the Capitol.
He still had nightmares sometimes about his name being called. It wasn't any better knowing that he wasn't going to die (sometimes he knew this in the dreams and sometimes he didn't). He'd look at Rosie and they both knew that he would kill her. That he'd break the nose of that boy from Four. The fear, the physical pain, the taste of his own blood, his teeth lying in the dead leaves.
There was so much material for his subconscious to work with, but still the focus remained, more often than not, on the calling.
"Jack Umber," the man sneers, and he's a butterfly pinned to a card.
"Tito Gaudet," Salvio read precisely, familiar with the proper pronunciation of the N'orleans-accented surname from years in the public ear via the mother of the boy in question.
This was the nightmare worse than the calling of his own name.
Last year, Tito had been called in Four and a pretty, practiced boy had fluttered his eyelashes and taken his place and been the first dead of the Final Four with one of Sam Swatch's spears in his stomach.
It had only been a warm-up for today's horror. There, onscreen, were Tito and Mags and Tyde live in District Four, waiting to see the outcome.
For a long moment, Jack found he couldn't breathe.
For Tito Gaudet of District One, there was no volunteer.
Mallorca Wren had not even met her district partner and she hated him anyway. For the first, and presumably last, time in Hunger Games history, a tribute had been called in a district he was not living in. Jack Umber, pacing the train car at this very moment, awaited his tribute, who would join the District One entourage upon his arrival in the Capitol- his thirteen-year-old son. When his name had been called, the cameras had cut to show early morning in District Four, where the boy in question had clung to his mother while Tyde Barrow, with a very young son of his own, tried to look stoic rather than knocked off balance.
Mallorca knew there had been a male volunteer all lined up in One, just like her. She also knew that Jack Umber bore little goodwill toward the program that had produced them. That was why a well-trained eighteen-year-old was asked to serve his district this year by not offering his life. Jack Umber would see the mistake he had made.
Tito was going in with a slight media advantage, Mallorca noted. As the child of two victors, he had been known from before his birth. A press campaign had urged district citizens to have many children to serve the Capitol, but, tellingly perhaps, the couple shown in so many of those posters had only had one.
Most of the time, Tito lived with his mother in Four. For all practical intents and purposes, his blood was the only thing One about him. He had visited One just a handful of times for publicity reasons (though he did go variously to the Capitol). He favored his mother in looks as well, both how the sun in Four tanned him and in his dark hair and eyes. Though there was still presumably another growth spurt left in him if he went on living, but at this time he was also like his mother in stature. He wasn't twelve like had been last year when his name was called in Four and a volunteer took his place- and, in part, because of his mother, no twelve-years-olds went in Four no matter who their parents were- but he was still more or less a baby.
He was undoubtedly known to the tributes from Four, two attractive volunteers, the boy a flashy-looking redhead and the girl with a mass of thick, black curls. This might upset her plans to take Tito out immediately during the bloodbath, but it wouldn't ultimately keep her from either killing him or winning. It depended on the Twos probably- how wedded they were to the three-way alliance. If that alliance were to divide in half, clearly she and the two of them would be the stronger side.
"How do you think Two will be?" Mallorca asked her mentor.
"Calla's mentoring for Two," Amber replied, "And she's my personal friend. It would be highly unlikely for the Twos not to side with you. You might even get the Fours yet, as long as you don't push the issue of the little boy. It's not like either of them wants to die for him, so just don't rub their noses in it, Mallorca."
"You're friends with Tyde too, aren't you, Ms. Sinclair?" she pressed.
"Yes, we get along well."
Mallorca looked to see if this conversation provoked any sort of reaction in Jack, but he didn't seem to have heard so much as a word that they'd said. She was honestly sort of disappointed.
"Jack, phone call," Salvio poked his head in.
Understandably, the slightly non-standard results were causing additional stress amidst the District Four cohort. Tyde Barrow could hardly begin to count the many ways this upset the creel basket as opposed to an ordinary year.
First off, there was T and everything about him in general. He was thirteen, for one thing, and, for another, he was like a little brother to Tyde. T had been his good buddy since he'd come home jumpy and raw from the arena four years ago- he loved that kid. But not only were his age and size going to work against him, he lacked most of the traits that had endeared his parents to the Capitol audience- he was shy and bookish and not much of a talker. And, of course, his father was going to mentor him. He had been called in One and there was nothing to be done about it, but Tyde was not much enamored of Jack's mentoring record in general, even assuming having a tribute he was concerned over personally at stake would increase the level of care he took.
For all the agony it would've entailed, he would have rather taken the job himself (though Mags would be best, he thought, she was the best mentor Four had and one of the better ones in general in Tyde's estimation).
So, here was Tito Gaudet, chosen to punish his parents' transgression after all these years of growing attachment and anxiety.
Second, there were Four's two mentors. This was throwing them off their game. He was going to have to convince Flor that he would not throw her overboard for Tito, and, as a matter of fact, he was unlikely to even be put in a situation where it would be a viable option for him to do so. That would be a harder sell for Mags to make to Santiago- sure, T's odds were awful, but he was her child and she had lots of contacts who might ask her whether she would rather they sponsored her child than her tribute. But since she didn't have the option to mentor T, odds were, there was really no way she could give much preferential treatment to her son.
Thing was, Santiago would have proudly volunteered for T if he could've, and Mags would've loved him for it, same as Sanma Clue last year. Now he didn't even get to savor one last bit of heroism. Tyde did not think, going in, this was likely to be Four's year. Distractions, a potential lack of mentor-tribute trust (often a deal-breaker), a possible three-way split of District Four booster support, and the distinct possibility of no alliances.
Damn, though, all three of them were good kids, and they were trying. They were eating lunch and Flor was chatting amicably toward both boys and Ginevra, the escort, though only Ginevra was reciprocating as much as she should've.
Mags had gone off on her own to make a phone call. To Jack, Tyde thought, because he heard her raising her voice and she wouldn't argue like that with a sponsor. He picked at the plate of abalone and noodles before him. He kept picturing Rita and Javier back home. Had he done a very foolish thing by having a child? He had always wanted kids though. He loved kids.
Over and over, he saw himself on that phone, silent while Rita screamed at him: "You have to save our child!" …Though that wasn't what Mags was saying to Jack.
Javier had only one victor parent. Maybe that was protection enough.
Tyde forced himself to keep up a good front. "How's that fried pumpkin, T?"
Wisteria watched as Jack's boy was brought in by his mother and the moment she released him from her hug and turned to leave him, his little face fell like he would never see her again. She had been expecting a bigger boy. A braver boy.
When they asked him questions, Jack's boy didn't even say whole words, just vague little mutterings that meant yes and no. If he opened his mouth wider than that, was he afraid that all his fear and anxiety would come pouring out? That he would start crying and never stop? He didn't offer up any remarks of his own, just looked around, horrified, with wide brown eyes, and let them do what they wanted to do. Like Jack, he was pliant in their hands. He rather had Jack's teeth as well, Wisteria thought as she scrubbed at them with the whirring electric toothbrush.
Finally, Misty, trimming the tips of his longish hair, hit upon the question that made it all spill over. "Are you sad you don't get to be with your mom?"
"Uh-huh!" he announced, nodding vigorously, and beginning to shake as tears slid down his face. "I'm gonna die and I don't want to and I just wanna be with my mom!"
"Aww, baby," Misty patted his shoulder, "You'll get to see her again, and your dad's going to take real good care of you."
But the damage was done. Jack's boy kept on crying for a good five or six minutes more until he was in his shimmering white and gold toga. Because the stylist considered it bad luck to "crown" tributes prematurely, she went with just a few false gold leaves pinned to one side of his head rather than a proper laurel crown. They stood out brightly against his dark hair.
"…Do you like being a stylist?" the boy asked at last as Wisteria put the finishing touches on his costume. He was pushing himself in attempt to think about something less immediately upsetting.
"Yes, very much so."
"Do you know Mark Portius?"
"Yes, I do." They all knew Mark Portius. He had first been young and successful and then, after marrying Eve, had become sort of infamous. Before he had worked with District Twelve, he had found success with Four that had included kitting out their second victor.
"I know him too," Jack's boy said. This, at last, made him smile the tiniest bit.
"Do you know anything about horses?" Wisteria turned to a more practical matter for the moment at hand.
He shook his head "no."
"Well, the horses know how to do their job, so you just stand there and do your job by looking pretty with your costume on."
"Yes, Ma'am," the boy agreed.
Tibbion brought in the girl and the glare she gave Jack's boy could've cut a foot-thick block of ice in two. But the girl knew her place, Wisteria imagined. Whether the tributes got along was not her task to monitor.
This was junior host Caesar Flickerman's second year behind the microphone. Livia Glitz felt his prospects of hosting on his own sooner rather than later were quite good. She didn't want this gig forever, no matter how much everyone was always complimenting her on her performance or saying that no job could possibly be better.
Caesar had a gift for entertaining, as well as for setting the tributes at ease. He could be a friendly face, a mirror, a spotlight- he was adaptable. He could usually judge what sort of approach was needed. Livia found herself happy to take most of his suggestions even regarding her own bearing and approach toward the Games.
Caesar was several years younger than the Games- his most vivid early memories of them starred Pal Fields, the late Emmy Pollack, and Mags Gaudet. He had never met Emmy. He was not among those who had seen Pal's eyes light up with that sort of crazy killer pride he had shown in the arena, though others claimed to have seen it since. Mags, he knew, was still as chummy now as her old appearances had painted her.
And that was her child in the District One chariot. Tito Gaudet, the first tribute called in the Twenty-Eighth Hunger Games. His father, the first tribute called in the First Hunger Games, sat in the victors' box, looking rather severe, particularly in light of how frequently he usually smiled. He was forty-five years old now. Jack's wife sat apart from him in her proper place, holding hands with her well-muscled junior victor.
The first child of a victor was headed into the Games. There were six others. Caesar wondered how many would follow. Could it really prove more entertaining than bitter? People had watched Tito's mother squirm on live television at an ultrasound, offered unsolicited opinions upon seeing footage of her breastfeeding in the Games Center, and cooed for years over photographs of Tito of all kinds. They would have happily watched him be conceived; it seemed they would just as happily watch him die.
Caesar and Jack had talked several times. This was Jack's first time mentoring under Caesar's auspices. Jack, who had expressed to Caesar his gradually weakening belief that the Games could be stopped by the Capitol loving the victors. That was close, Caesar thought, close but not quite. For there to be a chance, they would have to love the tributes. Not one to be the victor. Twenty-four tributes and none they would be happy to lose. It wouldn't happen, but Caesar was curious- how many could he show them how to love? How close would it ever come?
Tito Gaudet would be an easy sell to people's hearts, but he would still die. There was no tribute present less likely to win these Hunger Games. President Snow would not suffer that boy who should never have been born to live past the halfway point, never mind that thirteen-year-olds didn't win the Games anyway.
"And we're off to a fine start," Livia chirped, "One's looking elegant as ever- isn't the girl a beauty?"
"Well, that's what they say, right, Livia? 'Blond is beautiful?' The boy's a standout too, even if he's tiny- that is Tito Gaudet, you know! Mags and Jack's child."
"Oh, my! I remembered him with chubby baby cheeks! Actually, he's started to look rather handsome! Maybe there's a bit more of Jack in him than we used to notice after all!"
Columbine was the only person not watching surveillance footage to see Mags come down from the fourth floor to crawl into bed with her husband and child. Tito held tight to his mother. They wouldn't have much longer to be together.
Columbine remembered during the Fifteenth Games how Mags had brought her new baby along. …She had gotten to hold him once.
She liked the mother; she liked the son.
Though there was always a clamoring among certain young types to come work at the Games Center, not just anyone was allowed the job- there were a whole swath of security measures that every potential trainer had to pass. And, seeing as slowly down a bit with age was hardly reason enough to have to step down from running the fishing station, Coll Matin had kept on running it now for over fifteen years.
District Four's kids gravitated to the familiarity of the station, even the rare one he'd encountered who'd never once gone fishing back home. Coll had a few drops of Four blood himself from way back. That was why he was so well suited to this particular station, his husband liked to tease him.
When the tributes were freed to train at leisure, it came as no surprise to him that the little half-Four one was first to approach. "I…can do it…" he spoke up, cutting into Coll's standard introductory spiel.
"Well, then, have at it," Coll allowed. …But, like with many of Four's tributes, it wasn't false bravado. In the case of an under-trained boy Tito's age, this was very possibly his best skill.
A clear line of descent plotted itself out in Coll's mind, of clever hands, of District Four tributes with some shred of note to their name, at least in his memory- enough to make most of them a footnote in Games history. From the first one he'd met, an Irene something-or-other to Mags Gaudet, who'd won; sweet Salvador; calm Rodrigo; pretty Safia; chatterbox Zeno who'd come real close; steady, patient Tyde Barrow who'd won in turn; confident Marina; Lucca Cree, who'd seemed like Zeno all over again as a black-skinned girl; Sanma Clue, who'd volunteered for this very boy last year. Tito Gaudet was there as tribute from District One, but the heritage of the place he was raised in ran stronger.
He had nimble fingers. He could twist and plait and tie off the tiniest bits of material to make something useful. He was his mother's son.
"Do you think you can win by fishing?" Coll asked him.
"Mmm, nah, probably not. But this reminds me of home and Mom."
"Work yourself up to the harder stuff, huh?" Coll tried to be encouraging. No one liked the tributes who gave up from the get-go. That was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
"I suppose," he shrugged.
The tributes from Four came over to join him. "Wow, Tito," Flor said, "You're almost as good as your mom. You gonna stick with us in the arena and maybe keep us fed?"
"If I can," was his demure answer.
Four's tributes would ally with Tito. Two's tributes would ally with Mallorca. It didn't seem there was any way to link the trios as usual. Between Four and Two, it was pretty much a 'no hard feelings' kind of thing, Amber sensed. Between One and Four, it was more complicated. Tito was afraid of her tribute. And because Jack didn't trust Mallorca (and maybe he didn't trust her either), he wasn't about to go convincing his son otherwise.
At least Tito didn't seem to mind, and would talk to, her.
When he came back from his private scoring session- pretty fast, having gotten to go first- he sat on the common area couch and ate some orange-zest cookies his mother had sent over for him and flipped through the pages of an elaborate catalogue Lantana had forgotten while dropping by briefly between outside appointments.
"What did you do for them, Tito?" Amber inquired. Jack was in his room on the phone with a potential sponsor.
"Made some fishing gear," he answered, "Fished. Stuff my mom taught me. …Would you like a cookie? They're really good."
"All right, thanks." Amber took a tiny bite, prepared, perhaps, not to like it. But it had a nice flavor. She stayed with Tito until Mallorca was finished with her session then went off to talk with her tribute privately. It was a shame about Jack's kid. Jack could be a first class idiot and jerk, but that didn't mean his kid should've been denied the privileges of any other kid in One. And Aaron Gleeson had trained for years to take his chances here- he had climbed to the top of the ladder. What would he do now, denied his chance?
The Games were a bad deal for all these kids. Maybe it was just that Amber's mentoring experience didn't normally include any contact with young kids or untrained ones. She felt sorry for Tito. She felt sorry for his stupid, sun-touched mother who either didn't believe in birth control coming from one of those particularly superstitious districts or who just didn't see what'd been coming to her when she spread her legs for some clever older man.
Of course, at least Mags was rather plain and had passed that on to her child. No one was likely sending in inquiries as to whether she might be purchased like they kept doing for Amber, even though the standards struck at the Twenty-Fifth weren't supposed to be retroactive. (Aura was concerned that if someone made a big enough offer, Victor Affairs might see fit to alter those rules- they had an unfortunate tendency to bend anytime and anywhere to the will of the almighty Panem dollar). If it happened, it'd be one of them. At a stretch maybe, Miracle or Ombry. …But she didn't think the other districts had the same deals in place that One did.)
Tito wasn't pretty enough to be bought out of the arena (not that no one would be interested if he made it, but it would take extraordinary levels of interest to make a significant dent in anyone's odds- even knowing that One would deliver the goods, no one could replicate the purchased success Pal Fields had once conjured from the air- the Games were never played the same way twice).
By the time the training scores were set to air, Jack was out with his son, stroking his hair. Mallorca scowled. Amber found she liked the girl much better when they were alone together. "Sit down," she insisted.
Tito scored a three and Jack put his arms around him. Mallorca scored a nine. The girl from Two snagged a ten, the highest score of the year, but her partner and the Fours were all respectable. Any score could be attached to the eventual victor, but as far as the three-way trained tribute alliance was concerned, Tito and his three would be dead weight.
What was it like, Amber wondered, to be one of those weak tributes? To stare your nearly inevitable death in the face? She had been closer to Mallorca's side of things with her eight years of preparation, her polished good looks, her score of a ten. …And, even then, it was still an unfortunate thing.
"Pal- Paaaal, where you going?" Woof huffed as his fellow District Eight mentor (and best friend) drifted away from their tributes to talk to someone else or at least look at something. If it weren't a friendly fellow victor like Mags or Sunny that had his attention, it would be a costume put on some other tribute. He was a sucker for craftsmanship, though that didn't explain why he cried sometimes if there were a pretty young girl in a dress that caught his eye. He had cried a lot the year of the Twenty-Sixth over Eve. Mark Portius, her stylist, had let Woof and Pal visit his studio between the end of the Games and her crowning and Pal had wandered about, touching practically all the women's clothes present. Pal could get kind of weird about girls.
This time, it wasn't a girl though. "Oh," Woof's own tribute realized and understood, "That's Mags' kid. No wonder. They already know each other, right?"
"Oh, oh yes," Woof reminded himself, "That's right."
"Victors to their seats," someone from the production team announced. People began to drift off from around them: Luna and Ombry, Kayta and Reinhold.
Woof gave some final encouragement to their tributes then had to retrieve Pal himself. "You'll get chewed out again if you're too slow."
"I wanted to talk to him myself…"
"I know, I know," Woof patted his shoulder (diminutive, slumped, and all but lost beneath folds of fabric).
"Tyde, you're too tall," Ombry complained to the man placed in front of him, "I can't see."
"I assure you, the view is terrible from every one of these seats," Calla turned around to confirm for the gap-toothed young man.
"Peter, Zeno, Elmo, Brendan, Nicholas," Mags recited to herself, fingers tightly interlaced. A bit of light caught and flashed off her wedding ring.
Jack gazed mournfully across Two's and Three's mentors at her.
Livia and Caesar began the show. Woof was glad his girl was following his advice not to play with her hair, as enticing as this was, with the way the stylist had arranged it full of ribbons and braids.
The girl from One was exactly what they selected them for these days- plenty attractive and plenty sharp. As she spoke, from behind Woof, Lantana let out of a long sigh. Pal squeezed Woof's hand.
Tito started out quiet. When he talked about his parents he was finally able to draw forth a reaction in the form of a few laughs- his impressions of them were rather convincing (and humor in general was reminiscent of both of them). Livia and Caesar were as kind to him as to any other tribute.
Tito was more self-effacing than Woof generally recommended his tributes be- if you want to win, it's better not to just blend into the wallpaper. Of course, it was also best not to be cocky (though there were few cocky tributes from Eight). This just seemed to be Tito's natural personality though. He was also understandably nervous.
Well, he's going to die as his honest self, Woof supposed.
"I don't like it when I feel this sorry for other districts' tributes," Kayta complained under his breath. As he took in this year's show, his own fatherhood likely laid heavy on his shoulders.
Tito showed the hosts his token, a three-leafed clover in a bit of clear resin hanging from a leather cord around his neck. "My mom gave it to me. She says a three-leaf clover is lucky."
"Oy," said Pal.
"Whoever said that about a three-leafed clover?" Ombry puzzled, turning to Luna, who simply rolled her eyes at inner-District idiosyncrasies.
"Nicht fur dich gedacht," Pal went on as Tito returned to his seat.
"You'd think he was your child, Pal," Woof grumbled, trying to keep some emotional distance from the whole thing as much as he could (he could help Pal better that way after all). They had their own, almost as likely doomed, three and five scoring tributes to worry about after all. Good luck, Liesl. Good luck, Donner.
Mom and Dad had the same last words for Tito, though they were delivered separately. Mom's were preceded by a shared prayer, frantic-edged on her part, and her touching his hands and face and hair, and lots of kisses. Dad's were preceded by the strongest hug Tito thought he had ever been enfolded in (Dad could go back, some part of him thought, Dad could do that…).
"I love you."
Tito touched his necklace-token. How badly he wanted those not to be their last words to him. How badly he wanted this to be a dream- a real nightmare rather than a figurative one. He wanted to wake up and be safe in bed in District Four and feel the sun come in on his face in the morning and smell Papa's eggs and fish breakfast frying up in the pan.
He had cried a lot already and he would probably still cry more, but, for now, instead of crying, he tried to pray.
Wisteria, the stylist, didn't entirely get it, but as they flew over the unknown country on the way to the arena, she patted his shoulder sympathetically.
Flor had just this slight concern that Santiago had gone behind her back to deal with the other trained tributes or that, even without some pre-existing pact with them, he would back out on Tito at the last minute.
She was too nervous to stretch as she stood on her platform out of some faint fear of a malfunction, but she shifted her weight a little from one foot to the other and then back.
There was a lot of, well, she'd consider it general building rubble, in this arena. Lots of things to potentially trip over. She'd have to be sure and keep her feet up.
To her left was boy from Nine with the lazy eye. To her right was Tito. That, at least, was convenient. He was about as sorry-looking as the Nine boy, his hand raised to touch his token, but at least he wasn't crying here in the place where it mattered most (he had cried a few times during training- Flor could only think how it must've pained Mags and his father to watch him).
…..and there was the gong.
One weapon, one bag- that's what she and Santiago had decided together. Don't waste time being picky. Don't start anything. Only attack whoever's immediately in your way. Watch for Tito. Meet up. Attempt to get out of the way in any direction the other alliance tributes haven't chosen. (Flor planned on playing to come home, but she didn't see any reason she couldn't have that and not have to explain why she had abandoned Mags' kid at the gong either)
Out of the corner of her eye, Flor could see Tito wisely hang back as she darted in. Some kind of big metal hook? Well, it was a weapon. Camo-colored bag? Well, it was a bag. And, at the last possible second, Flor realized the girl from Seven was also reaching for the bag, elbowed her in the side, and succeeded in snatching away her prize.
"Flor!" Santiago roared, slicing straight through the upraised arm of the District Ten boy, leaping toward her, blade in hand.
She was relieved at more than just his timing. She was relieved that he had come at all. They were together. The three of them.
"Hasta!" Santiago waved a hand toward some ruins roughly to the west of them, "Let's scram!"
Tito's eyes were stretched wide as he stared at the hurricane of action still surrounding the Cornucopia, but he wasn't frozen. He started to move after his allies, one slow step giving way to another, then a faster one, and a faster one yet, picking up speed until he was running at a handy rate just a few paces behind Santiago.
Flor planned on winning. So she wondered how long it would be until, eventually, they lost Tito. She hoped that it wouldn't have to be through any purposeful act or negligence of their own. That he was just that much younger, smaller, slower. That from one or the other of those things, for the Gamemakers or the other tributes or the general bad luck of the draw it would be enough.
Santiago planned on winning, if could. Just like most of the other tributes, he supposed. Only about two of them, he'd estimate, had resigned themselves from the start to just go in and let themselves die. One, the girl from Three, he had already seen lying dead.
Watching the projected parade of the dead that night showed him that the other, the boy from Twelve, had also achieved his goal. Five tributes had died the first day, and none of them among the ones that really concerned him- the girl from One, the pair from Two, and Tito (he wasn't worried about Flor- the two of them were good, and if someone had to beat him out, he'd rather it be her out of the lot of them).
Tito was really an awful wrinkle in his strategy. Tito's mother was his mentor. And Santiago knew that she was a good mother. He had seen for himself. And no good mother would be able to completely distance herself from her child in the arena and focus completely on her tribute. So he had to stay with Tito. Even if he had wanted the same kind of alliance that had boosted Tyde and so many of their also-ran other tributes. Even if Tito was a liability. As long as he was with Tito (and being with Flor was an additional bonus because Tyde would be watching too), Mags would never take her eyes off of him.
Would choosing things that would also aid her son cause her to be looser with sponsor gifts? …Or more cautious, thoughtful that they might be used to the greatest effect?
If Tito died through no fault of Santiago's, would she redouble her efforts to bring him home or would she crumble and make a minimal effort, shifting the burden onto an already busy Tyde?
The things Mags chose to do for her tributes usually struck Santiago as fairly good mentoring. Was there anything he could do but hope that this wasn't the one year that she would be significantly off her game?
Santiago didn't have much faith that the father would come up with anything wonderful to make Tito more useful to them in the short run, let alone bring him through to the end. He hoped that his parents and Flor's family and Tito's grandfather and everyone else back home understood that this was a particularly difficult situation. That the same level of understanding and forgiveness that was accorded to the other victors would be given to him, if he lived, or to Flor.
It wouldn't be so hot with Mags no matter how things went down.
Mags Gaudet had a hard time tearing herself away from her mentoring station for even the smallest of breaks and when she tried to sleep, it was only exhaustion that could finally give her some rest.
Her only child, who she was not mentoring, had lived so far. He was living still on the morning of the fourth day.
Tyde was giving it all to support the little alliance of Four-born tributes. Mags had no doubt that what he did was both useful and his absolute best.
What Jack was doing was harder to ascertain.
As for herself, there was nothing short of his survival and return to her safely that would be good enough. Her standards were sky-high. Reality was bound to fall short.
When the ground gave way below her son, the three tributes had been moving about innocuously enough.
Tito was the lightest of the three of them, which made it particularly surprising that the seemingly tough and manmade surface they'd been walking on would give way under him. The tributes from Four gaped for a moment before reacting.
"Well, we…can't exactly leave him," Flor scuffed her toe in the broken concrete. "I mean, no cannon- he's still alive."
"Yeah, but," Santiago gestured vaguely, waving his hands around, "You want to go down there-" here they both looked pointedly into the dark, ominous hole- "And try to find him?"
Flor leaned over and squinted into the blackness. "Tito," she called, wanting him to hear, but at the same time, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention from other threatening tributes, "Hey, Tito, can you hear me?"
There was no response that Mags could pick up within what her headset allowed her to hear, and none then that Flor or Santiago could hear either.
Mags and Tyde looked at each other. Not dead, but…in what condition? Simultaneously, their eyes swept across the room to Jack- the best they could see him around Ios and Calla and Sam- to part of his back, his shoulder, the side of his head. What did Tito's vital signs tell Jack? On his screen, what did he see?
"If we see Tito again, we take up with him again," Santiago suggested to his partner. "If not, well, that's too bad, but it's not on us. We did the best we could. We stuck with him even when it might've been better to go with the Twos, we took care of him, we didn't hurt him. It was…bound to happen sooner or later, Flor. We should just be glad we didn't see something worse happen to him."
Flor frowned and took one last look into the hole. "I still feel kind of guilty. …And creeped out. Who knows what the hell is down there." She shook her head and her curly hair bounced around her head like a large, rain-heavy cloud. "…If Mags withholds sponsor gifts after this, I'm going to consider it your fault."
As the two tributes from Four left their companion behind, the main screen overhead shifted its all-seeing eye from them to the sewer system below- the secondary sphere of this crumbling arena. But it didn't go to the wide-eyed girl from Nine, still wading through the muck, unable to find a way out again, or the boy from Three camped out just inside one of the drains.
Tito had been dazed after bumping his head on the way down, but there had been plenty of sludge to break his fall. "Eww," he wrinkled his nose, responding to the unpleasant smell, "So this is where that came from…"
"Ohh," Mags sighed, watching Tito to the exclusion of her own tribute (but Tyde would keep an eye on them and she would hear through the headset if something really happened), and clutched at the fabric of her shirt.
There was a sizable lump already starting to rise on the side of Tito's head and he rubbed it gingerly. "M-Mom…" he sniffled a bit. Mags wondered, around the edges of her own pain, how Jack felt that every time it was always "Mom," he cried for, when his father was there behind the screen calling on every old connection he possessed to try and save him.
Tito looked up at the bit of sunlight peeking down through the hole.
"…Dad?" he asked- he implored.
"Oh, God," Mags clasped her hands. If she were the one in the position to send something- assuming whatever she wanted was available, what would she send? What would do the most to help Tito? Was there something she could send to make her tribute turn back to intercede on his behalf? She had mentored twenty-six tributes between her Games and these. She had brought one home. She had plenty of experience, but sometimes experience wasn't enough.
Something moved in that disgusting brown mix of mud and sewage and water.
Mags prayed. Seeing what she was doing, Tyde, still trying to keep his attention on their tributes, also mouthed the words.
Whatever the thing was, it looked like an eel, long and thin as it darted out of whatever niche it had hidden in. It bit Tito's leg (and, oh, he would need something to sterilize that, he would need antibiotics, who knew what was dwelling in that awful soup) and he jerked away, yelling.
He grabbed a piece of- well, driftwood for all intents and purposes- and struck back against the eel-thing. He grew fierce with fear, fighting as Mags had never seen him fight, until the creature chose to retreat. Snot and tears shone on most of the clear spots of Tito's mud-smeared face. "Oh…oh…Mom, Dad," he sighed. To fight on was hard, but to give in would be worse.
A swirl of blood floated like oil on top of the water where it had leaked from his leg.
And, finally, a parachute fell to him. The package was full. It looked heavy. Whatever the note with it said, the main feed showed only how it was signed: "Love, Dad." There was a sterilizing gel for his injury and a sticky-edged bandage for easy application, which Tito got to using immediately, a flashlight, a bottle of water, and a small, wrapped piece of green bread from home.
But it might not be enough. "Thank you, Dad," Tito forced a small smile onto his face. "Thank you, Mom," he added a moment later.
He tried to find somewhere he could, if not get out, at least sit down a ways out of the muck, but, unable to find one, settled for leaning back against a hard-packed wall. The main broadcast grew less interested in him, but as no one else was involved in anything particularly thrilling either, they didn't leave Tito, but rather split the screen.
Mags was glad she was still able to watch.
He poured a little water on his face and tried to wipe some of the dirt away, but it was more or less a lost cause under the conditions. He ate the bread. From the look on his face, it seemed like he enjoyed it. Even though he had never gone without, Tito was like both of them that way- he loved eating. In a way, it was good to see he was still himself.
The feed of Tito Gaudet filled the screen again as, without warning, the eel-mutt returned to attack again- with reinforcements.
He did all he could to fight, but his opponents weren't confined to the water- they leapt like flying fish. One bit into his neck. "No-" Mags gasped.
Tito fell. His blood gushed out to stain the water a rusty, crimson. So much blood, so much blood. Her son was being eaten by fish. He was drowning in mucky water and his own blood.
"No, no, Tito," she felt sick.
The cannon fired.
"T-Tyde, can you-" she sputtered, feeling woozy as she stood.
"Of course," Tyde hurried to assure her- there was no need for her to finish her request. "I'll call you if I need you- just go."
She nodded to her partner and headed toward the door without a glance toward any of her other fellow victors, sympathetic to their varying degrees.
"Mags!" Jack leapt up after his wife. He reached out and touched her arm.
"Don't touch me!" she snapped and jerked away.
She left without looking back. Jack Umber bit his lip and, so, so tired, leaned back against the wall of the hallway and let the tears begin to slip down his face.