History was kindest to those who wrote it. That is why he never picks the book up again after reading it the first time.
"They've gone and used our legal names." Sitting down with Commissioner Corvo is an experience he does not intend to waste, so he doesn't. He sits and reaches forward for one of the frajos Corvo keeps in a small metal case and lights up after a moment of nervous fumbling. Despite his agitation, it feels good to relax. From the very fringes of Seven, to the most southern end of Ten; the far reaches of Thirteen, Niner, now that the war has ended, is a very busy boy. Being a war hero will do that to a man.
Commissioner Corvo is also busy ―― busy being an instigator, she says brightly, but they both know what that means. It means busy being both a political and tactical pain in the arse; something to keep the newly formed government on their toes; competition. Some things never do change, do they?
"S'healthy," Corvo had noted with a flick of the hand, shaking some ash from the end of her frajo and frowning. Niner had agreed. It was.
But that was over a month ago, and now, he doesn't know. Maybe convenient was the right word for it.
He sighs as he inhales and looks across the sprawling skyline of the Capitol. Even after the war, it was still the pinnacle of the country. It pretty much had to be. To keep the peace, and all.
Niner didn't know what to think about that.
"Nn, It bugs me," Niner admits to start, sitting stiff and forlorn in his new uniform. He's still not used to the colours. Navy blue, even with his eyes, has never really agreed with his complexion. And it feels strange to have his face exposed. To feel the breeze against his cheekbones and forehead; his expression plain as day for everyone else to see. He's not the only one. Most of the Peacekeepers his age can't look each other in the face anymore.
Commissioner Corvo. The book references her as Commissioner Wyke, but to them, she's still very much Corvo. Commander Corvo. RRN-00J5499. Unhelmeted and unsurprised, she raises an eyebrow in Niner's direction. "Let do a guess," she says idly. "They've gone n' spelt it wrong."
Niner laughs, really laughs, and drags on the end of his frajo. He follows it up with a sigh.
"It don't bug you too?" He asks.
"Everything goes and bugs me, Little Buddy," Corvo replies with a shrug. "But then, I guess that's why I'm here and not out there."
Niner winces. He can't help it. "You're here because V. isn't."
"Eh. Good point." Corvo says gently. "Sorry."
A pause of silence for their fallen leader, and Niner blinks. Corvo opens her mouth to speak, slowly, languidly, jaw working over words she doesn't really want to have to say out loud ―― her boots are kicked up on the desk.
"It bugs me," she admits, words rolling slowly, as if she is tasting them for the first time. "Because it's obligatory."
"They've gone and glossed over a few things." Niner whispers.
"More than enough."
"It wasn't no Mockingjay," He starts puffing on the end of his frajo to the point of hyperventilating. "She wasn't. I was there. We were there."
It wasn't. Not for them. For the people, maybe.
But history was kindest to those who wrote it, and it was even kinder to those who are held in their favour.
Peacekeepers ―― and the term is enough, now, to make Niner flinch, like the Reb―... the folks up in the Presidental Cabinet, can overhear his internal thoughts ―― were never high on anyone's favorites list. It said enough that the new government allowed them to live, let alone develop a fairly independent policing force on the back of everything that had happened, even while heavily regulated, but Niner hadn't expected the book. He hadn't expected them to write them down in history, because he's too attuned to the Peacekeepers... simply not being important enough to warrent writing history about. They're Peacekeepers. Not the Mockingjay. Slag the Mockingjay, Niner thinks privately to himself sometimes, and hates himself for it but knows all the same that it's the truth. It was never about her, not to them. People were trying to defect long before that little firebrand came along, Peacekeepers included.
Niner knows. He put more than his fair share of them in the ground himself.
(that is what keeps him up at night)
This rebellion, to them; the Peacekeepers who defected, it wasn't about the Mockingjay. It was about them.
Selfish, maybe. But it was the truth. And the truth was not written down here, and that bugs Niner.
"Since this now an effective democracy―" Corvo spits against the ground in reflex before she can stop herself, and Niner inhales a little bit too sharply as he watches as the Commissioner wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Some things never change. He looks out the window. He swallows the build up of saliva and brings up the frajo between his middle and index finger up for another casual drag. It's burning low. He can feel the tips of his fingers singe. "―we can put in a petition to get it pulled off the shelves, eh? That would stir things up."
"A petition! What a military idea." Niner rolls his eyes, and Corvo barks out a laugh.
"Welcome to the future, Comrade. We've all gots ourselves a Civil responsibility or two now."
Niner leans forward to the point of it being uncomfortable. His voice is low when he next speaks. Too low to overhear. He disguises the movement by stubbing out the end of his frajo in the nearby ashtray.
"Is it bad," he asks, worried. Horrified. "That I miss the way things were?"
Corvo exhales, and for a very brief moment, he saw Peacekeeper-Commander RRN-00J5499 of December-12 Command filter through the facade of a glorified symbol of defiance. Niner felt his guts clench up hard, and he swallows with force.
"Yes," Corvo answers, shifting back into her new self with a small smile, because she is brutally honest ―― in fact, she is brutal in everything she did, and that is what got her to Commander.
A pause.
"Now, I don't hold it against you." She looks at him for a long, hard moment. Her mouth is smiling but her eyes say something else. "I admire your comradeship, and I appreciate your presence in my Command."
It's so rehearsed that Niner very nearly laughs, but he gets the meaning behind it. He does. Because Peacekeepers ―― and they are Peacekeepers; it's etched into the very fibre of their being; it's the blood permanently stained into the palms of their hands ―― aren't like the rest of Panem. Just as in the Districts, Peacekeepers have their culture and their sub-culture, they have their own speed and sound, and it's different for every single one of them. Fourteen Commands, Fourteen Identities. Fourteen variants of the same language that comes to mean one thing and one thing only, and that thing is Peacekeeper, and even if the higher ups demand them strip it away, become something else, it will never go. It's them. All of them.
Niner is a Peacekeeper. He's been a Peacekeeper for six years ―― and he can barely remember anything else before that time. He's done things that will forever set him apart from any other human being not wearing a white ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene and ceramic-steel composite uniform, and that's that. Niner has stepped the line. He's crossed the threshold that no decent human ever should, and there is no going back.
Commander WKN-00N9557 idles beneath the surface of the newly formed identity of Chief Superintendent Niner Quintillus, and there is nothing else.
Niner glances down at his wristwatch. The arm ticks forward onto five. Time is up. Duty calls.
He stands up and Corvo follows him to the door.
A hand settles between his shoulder blades. Lingering. If only for a moment.
"Remember November," Corvo grumbles so quietly and ruggedly that even at this distance, Niner can barely hear what it is she is saying. He does know, however, for the simple reason that he expects it. They all do.
As he leaves, Niner responds by smiling down at his boots, and carefully, very tactfully beating his left heel into the side of his right.
And that is that.
Duty calls.
[XI]
The Complete Guide to Peacekeeper Colloquialisms:
Phrase, No. 81: "got a bullet with [ins, receptor's] designation on it."
― Peacekeeper Quote, present participle, origin unknown (est. 70th HG,)
1. to intimidate; frighten; threaten; another Peacekeeper with a personalised bullet ―― I've got a bullet with your designation on it, JKI-00N9300!
2. to find oneself on the receiving end of a commanding Peacekeeper's ire ―― Commander Covo has got a bullet with my designation on it, for sure!
3. to be at an immediate risk of death or dismissal ―― His performance was so poor, he might as well have a bullet with his own destination on it!
[XI]
For the Peacekeepers, the Rebellion started with Captain Caeso.
A District 2 fellow; old, a veteran, with a gruff bark and a hard bite, who had been serving and in the middle of the Districts for about as long as any of them could actually remember. A tough, experienced Peacekeeper and a sharp squad leader. Captain Caeso had been decorated by President Snow three times for his exceptional service and was frequently used as an example by RacSTER and the Capitol of exactly what kind of Peacekeeper they wanted: skilled, loyal, cooperative, and absolutely unquestioning.
Apparently, he was really no such thing.
Of course, Captain Caeso was skilled. He was as skilled as any potential District 2 tribute. Spent a life in training only to utilize those learned skills in a different field.
Of course, Captain Caeso was loyal. He stood by each and every one of the Peacekeepers he found under his command, and by each and every one of them who wasn't.
Of course, Captain Caeso was cooperative. You can't go through thirty years in the Peacekeeper Corps without being at least helpful. Caeso was good enough for the Capitol to keep beyond his prime. That said something.
But unquestioning? The ideals of a true Peacekeeper, Caeso did not question. But the ideals of the Capitol? Caeso did. He questioned those.
He questioned them enough that he decided to try leave. To run. Defect.
His only mistake was trying to take his puppies with him.
When they revealed his body to the rest of them, it sent out a message. The Capitol grabbed each and every one of his squadmates, past and present, and sent them off for reconditioning. Four of the current seven never actually came back. Noncompliance with Capitol regulations is unacceptable.
But to those who followed Caeso on the sidelines, it was something. Caeso was the model Peacekeeper. He was what the Capitol pointed to when the Peacekeepers needed motivation. He was what they each inspired to be. Exactly what they were modeled to be. And yet, Captain Caeso wanted to run. Which asked the question: If Caeso was such a model Peacekeeper, if he protected the beating heart of Panem with his own body, protected the soul of Panem with his spirit, then why did he try to run? Why did he try to defect? And to where? Why?
The Capitol was quick to explain: with a non-answer, in typical Capitol style. No explanation, not really. Just an excuse.
Caeso wasn't one of them.
That is what the Capitol told them, it's Peacekeepers. Caeso wasn't one of them.
He wasn't a Peacekeeper, not really. A rebel sympathizer. Tainted during early upbringing and poisoned beyond repair. Hid it well, but he cracked eventually. He wasn't one of them. He wasn't a Peacekeeper.
But... Captain Caeso was a Peacekeeper, some of them whispered. Caeso was trained and raised in Camp Sebastian, brought to Peacekeeper Command and examined thoroughly; no differently from any one of them. He came from District 2 like the other 43% of them. He trained on exactly the same course as the past three generations of Peacekeepers after him, just like the rest of them. He was educated on exactly same history as they were. He ran through the same procedures and took the same tests. Caeso was quick to obey and quicker to learn. He was the top of his training group in most if not all areas; he was the cadet that was going places, as far as Peacekeepers can go. He was one of them.
Sure, Caeso had some issues, but he was marked off as officer potential. He was awarded regardless. And most Peacekeepers had at least a couple of issues that needed to be ironed out during the extreme indoctrination and operant conditioning, and reconditioning. That is what those programs are for.
Captain Caeso was the same as all of them, just better, without any prior signs of disobedience. Just another Peacekeeper patrolling one of the Districts, just another Peacekeeper in the air on hovercraft, just another Peacekeeper on the training field; that was Captain Caeso.
Just another Peacekeeper.
And he died, because he tried to commit decent.
And he died, because he tried to take those he loved like family with him.
And he died, because a man as honorable as he believed in something greater than the Capitol.
Captain Caeso was the greatest Peacekeeper in November-11 Command's history, and when he died, he left those behind wondering. He left them whispering to each other, but why?
Why him?
What makes him any different?
Why him and not... just for example... me?
They can't exactly say it out loud, for to say the name 'Captain Caeso' is a punishment best left unserved, even as, in the eyes of RacSTER and the Capitol, he fades to distant memory, but some of the Peacekeepers left behind knew. Some of the Peacekeepers who found it easier to shift through the fog brought on by repent indoctrination and... weren't there drugs involved during early training?
― nobody can ever remember that part
why can they never remember that part? ―
Those few Peacekeepers know. So they take it into their own hands. Quietly, subtly. Just enough to let others know.
"Remember November," one of them murmurs to her cadets one summer's afternoon, and for some, it goes over their heads; but to those who truly know ―― who learned how to fake swallow and hide under tounges and spit into palms faster then the rest of them ―― they harden their jaws and narrow their eyes. They nod their heads, and they make a pledge on top of the oath they swore.
Some Peacekeepers never forget ―― it's just a matter of making sure the rest of them remember, too.
[XI]
Phrase, No. 12: Program Failure.
― Noun, present participle, origin unknown.
1. to break through the standardized Peacekeeper indoctrination, chemical treatment, operant and classical conditioning, resocialization and role modeling.
2. a crime in Peacekeeper circles; to break away from all morals; give into the enemy.
3. a death sentence; risk of immediate dismissal; risk of Reconditioning.
[XI]
They call it the black box system. And it starts as it always does: as soon as RacSTER can get their hands on you.
[XI]
"So, what's your name?"
"NRT-004F7174."
"No, your name. Not your PDN."
"Nobody ever said no name for me,"
"You mean you so stupid you can't remember your own name?"
"Nobody ever said no name, not before and not in training."
"You gotta have a name."
"Nobody ever said no name; not any I can remember, sir."
"Ain't worth a bloody bullet, you."
"Am so, begging your pardon sir. I am so."
"Then we call you Bullet."
"Sir?"
"Your name is Bullet now to us. Not officers; they call you PDN. We call you Bullet. You call you Bullet, unless they go tell you otherwise."
"Yessir."
"You're under Captain Threeofem, Bullet."
"Three of them?"
"Threeofem. Captain NNR 000N3332. 333. Three of 'em? Geddit?"
"Eh. Yessir."
"Welcome then, Peacekeeper. Welcome home to September-9 Command."
[XI]
PEACEKEEPER-CADET WKN-009N557
They take him when he is sixteen-years-old.
See, Barnabas is a smart boy ―― smart enough to be in the program right up until Volunteering; one of the 3% of the smartest, fastest, strongest and healthiest people in District 2, according to the Program ―― and he knew that it was going to happen, but that doesn't stop him from being any less conflicted about it.
It's an honor, his father told him as he set off on the train. It's the only choice. They need to repay the Capitol; it makes him proud to see his son, his only son, doing his duty.
He struggled to fend off the cold as he waited with the forty or so other teenagers, stood in single file in a line that led down the long concrete corridor. They had been told to take off their shoes and coats when they arrived, and they were taken away by soldiers after they did. It left them trying to keep warm in nothing but their regular Centre uniforms, slate grey pants, t-shirts and white socks, their boots gone with their cold-weather jumpers. It was summer, but it was overcast, and the rain hadn't yet let up since daybreak, leaving Barnabas' arms filled with goose pimples.
But he didn't know if he was shivering from cold or from fear.
These people weren't from the Centre, but instead from DacSTER. The Defense Administration of Combined Selection, Training and Recruitment. The sub-Department of the Peacekeeper Corps that dealt with the training and selection of cadets. Barnabas recognized the insignia; it was the same one he saw on the test paper he took about a week ago. Two men in pure, white uniforms stood on either end of a door at the very end of the corridor. On each side, there was another two doorways, one going to the left, the other right. When some teenagers went in, they were sent to a room at the left. Others were curtly dismissed into the room at the right.
On the right-hand-side of the corridor, the words: STATE PEACEKEEPER CANDIDATE SELECTION OFFICE was spraypainted in a dark, bold blue. It must have been done recently, or with very strong paint, because Barnabas could still smell it now.
Between the offensive smell and the cold, it was hard to stand still. Barnabas and the other teenagers had all been instructed to be silent and not look around ―― keep your eyes up front, back straight. He willed his eyes to stay firmly forward, and the training he had done at the Centre made it easier, giving him a strong force of will that just about prevented him from turning around and running back the way he had came, but he really needed to go pee. That was something. Barnabas knew there was no point in asking them, either. Someone else had asked but had been cuffed sharply around the ear for talking out of turn.
Barnabas knew this was going to happen, of course. He just wasn't expecting it to be this... quick.
They were the 3%, after all. That is why they could learn in special centres instead of regular schools, why they had a better, more bountiful Striped; why they had real healthcare and be pampered and looked after until they were taken away for training, or the Reaping, because they don't belong to their parents, they belong to the Capitol. They were the future.
But this is different from what he imagined. Barnabas always thought that it would be a lot like a big party, like his seventh birthday, were people wished him good luck and told him to be proud and to put all his effort in. This was nothing like that.
Did his parents even know where he was?
Now, Barnabas was three people away from the door, and he could hear snippets of conversation from the room beyond. "No, no; why was this one even here?" Then, louder. "To the right, quick."
He edged forward. He could see that the room to the right lead directly to another corridor and an open door that led outside. There was a truck waiting on the road.
One girl went in, with dark hair and blue eyes; a lot like him but much taller. All of the people here, he noticed, either had dark hair or blonde hair that was darkening at the roots. A lot of the people who had taken the test looked like that. According to his father, it was because a lot of Captolites looked like that as well. "They like the dark haired ones," he had said, glaring at the carrots on the end of his fork at the time. "Look like a Capitolite and you're somehow the perfect ideal by proxy; President Snow used to look the same, I think. That might be why. All the senior Peacekeepers look like that. Big, dark haired and blue eyed."
And Barnabas had actually agreed; the models on magazines and on TV and in the movies and in the Arena and pretty much everyone else, anyone with a Peacekeeper Uniform had dark hair and blue eyes, and they had to be tall, sometimes. Barnabas had been told at his last examination that he was one of the smallest that they allowed. It made him embarrassed. He wanted to be taller. Then, he imagined, he might be perfect.
"It's a load of hogwash," his father had snapped when Barnabas had told him. He was pretty adamant to shut down that idea before it really took hold. "The folks up in the Capitol ― not real soldiers like you and me, boy, no ― they've got it into their heads that the people who look like that are... somehow superior." He had laughed. "Well, give anyone who looks like that a rifle and we'll see how well they do against someone who's blonde or a redhead with thirty odd years of training." He shook his head. "No, Barney ― you're fine. They'll let anyone in who performs well enough. We've had redheads go in. They just make a fuss about it if you're part of their little fetish."
Barnabas knew that now, of course, but he found it odd ―― and darn, he got some serious attention regardless. It was nice to have good attention. Barnabas was human; he liked being made a fuss of.
There was a wait, around ten to fifteen minutes, and the girl walked out. She was clutching her arm, which for some reason was bandaged. Her face was blank, completely relaxed; she was directed to the left with a pat on the shoulder from one of the people in white.
The boy in front of Barnabas went in, leaving Barnabas at the front. One of them men in white smiled at him.
This time, the wait was borderline on unbearable. Barnabas tried to keep still, with his eyes fixed forward, but he felt the overwhelming urge to look away. When he heard the shout that erupted from inside, he jumped, and he could hear a gasp of shock from someone behind him. One of the people in white straightened their posture, cleared their throat in warning, and once everyone resumed their standing and silence, rolled his eyes. Whatever that was appeared to be normal. Barnabas swallowed.
Another minute and the boy came out. His eyes were slightly red, and he was holding onto his bandaged arm tightly. But he was expressionless. The white-clothed man on the left pulled him in.
The one of the right indicated for Barnabas to go inside.
It's a nice, white room. It's mostly empty, but it looks clean, and the walls are white and there is a nice big window overlooking the yard outside, which looks cleaner and more dignified than the street. Beyond, there was another man, older, with dark hair and eyes, and he was wearing the same uniform as the others. He smiled at Barnabas and beckoned him to sit.
He asked of his name.
"Barnabas Quintillus,"
"Mn, Quintillus... Quintillus... Ah, right." He checked something in a box, and must seem to like what he sees. "Good, good. This will not take long, so don't worry. You've had exams before, of course, but this is just a cursory examination. The computer will do most of it for me. I just want to ask you some questions as well, and then you can go." He looked up again. "I'm sure you're nervous."
"Talk about what?" Barnabas asks without thinking. He snaps his mouth shut but the man doesn't scold him for asking questions out of turn, just gives him a small smile.
"You, mostly." And he's right, because he asks Barnabas about the Program, about his classmates and his friends, about what he and Owen play when they go out together. He asks about his teachers and if he ever breaks the rules and what he thinks about authority. Barnabas answers, the man writes things down, and in turn Barnabas' shoulders stop hunching quite so hard ―― at least until the man asks him about what he thinks about his parents.
"Pardon me," Barnabas says, carefully. "I do not understand the question, can you explain?"
The man gives him an odd sort of look. "What do you think about your parents? Or just ― tell me about them."
"My parents are Peacekeepers," He says, eventually, after a thought. "My father was, after he did his twenty years. Mata was a nurse, she never did the... never went to the Program, she was too kind for it."
"Oh really? Go on."
"Yes, that is what they told me." He nods. "They wanted me to do this."
The man looks at him long and hard after that, and sets his hands down on the table. "And what do you think about that?"
Barnabas blinks. What does he think? Sometimes he thinks that it makes him mad, sometimes. Only sometimes.
"I... It's not my place to say," that seems like the right thing to answer with. The man's face doesn't change.
"Do they make you mad?"
He blinks. "Sometimes."
"Why is that?"
"They... they like other kids better. Or, my mother does. I think. I feel like... Like one of my her patients, y'know?"
"Like one of her patients?"
"She looks after me and she wants to see me do good, and be healthy and smart, but that's only to make me pass..." He doesn't know what 'pass' means; he heard them say it one time. He thought it might be going to the Program or wherever three-percents go when they are special. Now, he thinks, it might be the Peacekeeper Corps. He doesn't quite know.
"She makes you feel like a job, you mean?" The man asks.
Barnabas blinks. "I... yes, I think."
"Mn, and your father?"
"My father wants me to do good. He loves me."
"Mn, and you, Barnabas, do you love your parents?"
Barnabas has to think about this for awhile. In the end, he comes up with an answer he thinks might be real.
"I love them," he says. "And they love me, but they won't miss me, and I don't think I'll ever miss them."
The man makes a face, and says 'ah' and then nods. "Okay then. Stand up for me, please."
Barnabas did, quickly and sharply.
The man nodded and ticked off another box.
"And if you could take off your clothes? Don't worry, you can put them back on again when we are finished."
He felt embarrassed, but he did as he was told. Taking off his clothing, he stood and waited as the man told him to stand up straight and look at a dot on the wall in front of him, then turn, and look at the one on the right wall, then the left wall. He was told to dress again, after that, and Barnabas did so feeling shaky and flustered. On the paper again, the man started taking recorded details of his measurements, his height and weight and the width of his skull and it's length, ears and nose. He checks his ears. He seemed very happy with the measurement from Barnabas' forehead to the back of his head.
"You, young man, are going to grow up to be a very good looking fellow." He said with a smile as he brought along a thin, long machine, but had a different shape, and the surface was a funny texture. "Let's have your hands." He scanned his palms and fingerprints.
After all that, he returned to the desk. "Your results are very good, so now I need to ask you a very important question."
He looked at Barnabas for a long, long time.
"I am going to authorize you for admittance into the Peacekeeper Corps," he told him. "Do you want to go?"
Barnabas barely thought about it. "Yes."
"Do you?"
"It's an honor. It's the only choice. I need to repay the Capitol; I want to do my duty to Panem."
The man nodded. "Very well," he nodded and turned towards a briefcase. "Can you please give me your left arm?"
Barnabas does, and then he remembers that the others had bandaged arms. He swallows as the man takes his arm.
"This will hurt, but not for long. Try not to move."
A stabbing feeling. It's quick, and Barnabas creases his forehead in pain; but it's not that that hurts, not really; it's the feeling of something cold and hard under his skin.
"This is your tracker," the man explains. "While you are in training, we give you these to make sure we never lose you during an exercise."
Then, he turns to some form of machine. It looks like the kind of thing that checks bone density and administers rapid injections back in the Program. "Now, I need you to put the same arm in here for me. This'll hurt too, but only a little more."
Barnabas wonders just what the heck he's gotten himself into as the man starts clamping things down and typing things into a keypad.
And it does hurt; it really hurts. After it sprays his forearm with a cold, wet substance, something begins to burn into the skin. Barnabas gasps out in pain, but he doesn't shout ―― countless bruises, thousands of scratches, thirteen bloody noses and six broken fingers in the past five years stops him before he can even start ―― but just in case, he clamps his jaw shut as to not make any noise, his face scrunched up. It takes no longer than three seconds, and when it is finished, the man snaps on a pair of gloves and grabs his arm before Barnabas can look to see what it had done.
"Here, look." He says as he starts applying something onto the burn. It makes it feel much, much better, and he calms down. But why cause him pain in the first place? If they are just going to make it better?
He finds his answer soon enough.
"Look, this is your designation number. You need to remember this." He looks at Barnabas hard, fingers digging into the flesh of his wrist. Barnabas looks at the digits laser-stamped into his skin. "This is your new name. No more Barnabas, now, you hear? What is your designation, cadet?"
Barnabas shivers, and he suddenly feels like he's made a mistake.
"My designation is WKN-009N557."
A nod. "Very good."
The man produces a small white tablet.
"Now I need you to take this. It'll help with the pain later on." Barnabas does, and the man leans behind him to check another thing in the box. "During transit, they'll probably give you another one, too. It's for the tracker; it can feel a little uncomfortable. Make sure you take it."
"Okay."
"Seriously, cadet." The man glares at him. "You follow every order from now on. If they tell you to take something, you take it. It is for your own benefit."
Barnabas feels the need to frown, but he doesn't. "Yessir."
"Good." The man nods, waits a second, and says: "Who are you, Cadet?"
"My designation is WKN-009N557."
"Good boy," another nod. "Welcome to the Peacekeeper Corps, Cadet."
[XI]
Author's Note:
Well hellooooooooooooooooo~
So, this is a little thing I've been working on in the past... three or so weeks? A pet project if you will, which stems off my overall idea to write segments on a 'realistic' HG's universe; not much in a way that changes to the whole concept itself (still the same games, still the same districts), but rather a different presentation that actually complies with realistic sociological and political militarism. The Peacekeepers; the idea of them, the structure, the concept of them, is a big part of that overall goal.
Why Peacekeepers? Well, first things first: there is not enough fiction about them, like, at all, and that makes me sad. Secondly: it's all in the nature of cinematography. In the films, the viewer automatically demonises so-called antagonists like Peacekeepers (just like Stormtroopers, for example) because they are 'hidden' from view. They're wearing helmets. You can't see their face, and therefore they aren't as human because you are immediately detached. There is no expression showing fear, no expression showing pain; nothing to humanise them by, so they might as well be robots. I don't blame anyone of course ―― because, in the film verse at least, that is exactly the point, but it gets me thinking.
The largest percentage of Peacekeepers come from D2; they go through, what I imagine, is some pretty intense military operant conditioning ―― surely there is a story behind that.
And, of course; I don't see the Peacekeepers as an entirely evil force. I don't. What I see with the Peacekeepers is a power that believes they can maintain strength through current institutions, like the Capitol; so naturally, they will fight to maintain said institutions. Through the Capitol, the Peacekeepers remain in their position of dominance and keep their special role in the hierarchal structure. It's survival. Just like in the HG's, when Tributes play up to the camera to get sponsors. The Peacekeepers, as an institution; as a functioning military with human personnel, want to survive, so they play up to the Capitol in order to do so.
So, in theory of a rebellion, they will continue to fight for the Capitol until they realise it's a losing case, and that, in order to maintain the sanctity of the military institution, they will turn to support the rebelling districts instead.
(and; no way would D13 and its allies be able kill off an entire army of well-trained, well-funded, and well-equipped soldiers that may or may have not been trained from childhood to kill in an arena for sport. Nor, if these soldiers did actually turn around and offer the hand of alliance, turn around and kill them. Talk about resource management. Unless they all posed a direct threat, it's simply not feasible.)
As much as I love the HG series, I don't believe that Collins fully understands the strategy of rebellion. There are too many players in place, too many institutions, for D13 (D13 in particular, which would have damaged relations with the remaining 11 districts due to prolonged absence) and it's allies to move through the districts and overthrow the government as fast as they did in the books. The system is too entrenched to capitulate that easily, even if it was a hollow shell of the power they were trying to project. Therefore, I think that Collins didn't give the Peacekeepers enough time to teeter over the power balance before landing firmly on the side of the rebels like they should have (see: Egypt during the Arab Spring).
That is why I am interested in the Peacekeepers. Unless you have an army of robots, they cannot be completely controlled. So who knows. This is my take on them, for the most part.
After all, there are individuals under those helmets.
They just need a story, I guess.
Which, actually, may include submission; this isn't a SYOP per se (SYOC? SYOT? Submit-Your-Own-Peacekeeper? SYOP. SYOP.) but I'll set out a small little character sheet that people can use and, if they'd like a segment on a particular Peacekeeper (like, say, a Peacekeeper on a hovercraft, or a Peacekeeper getting shot for treason or whatever) they can give me a lil' PM and, 'wey, I have some external content to work with, too. Such fun.
Said charcter thing can be found on my bio. Please PM me, though. No sumbiting in reviews, pls. pretty pls.
Well this got too long to quickly. Ima wrap this up.
Hope you enjoy the ride, and I'll see you all next time,
- Civ.