Heyo! We've got the first mentor chapter for Ad Aeturnum, where we take a look at the mentors who benefited in one way or another from their victory. You can find faceclaims and info on them at the blog, and I'd like to give a big thank you to AmericanPi for letting me use Tria as the D1 mentor (and for Aeliana, who appears in Johanna's section).
01 - The Victorious
Tria Dougherty, 70, District 1
"Ms. Dougherty," Cadmus laughed. "You are truly a gift to humanity."
Tria sipped at her wine with a smile. "I wouldn't go that far, Mr. Dante."
The other guests all laughed along with their host, clinking glasses and continuing their feast. The main course had finished, dessert well by its way out by now. Tria set down her wine and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Beside her, her daughter Wisdom dabbed at her lips with her napkin.
"I've never known anyone to have such wit whilst still holding themselves so nobly," Cadmus went on. Tria just smiled sweetly at him. "And would young Mrs. Dougherty have such a sense of humour as well?"
Wiz just smiled innocently. Tria would admit that over the generations, the Dougherty girls had gotten more and more daring with their humour. Her granddaughter didn't seem to follow that tradition, though Wisdom made up for it plenty.
"Perhaps I should invite Mr. Dante to one of my dinner parties in One to see for himself," Wiz said coyly. She folded her napkin and set it aside. It was immediately collected by a waiter and replaced with a new one. "Ray sells the most beautiful jewellery after dessert. You might find something that will please Mrs. Dante, I'll bet."
The woman in question chortled and nudged her husband. "You heard the woman, dear," Lia teased. "Spoil me."
Cadmus just shook his head with a smile while his guests chuckled amongst themselves.
Dinners like this were common, though not many of them came so close to the Games. Tria tried to reason why Cadmus would hold it so late, but there really weren't many options to pick from—genuine or ulterior alike. With the anniversary of Corialanus's death so close, Tria could only hope the man had called both Doughertys to reminisce about the former President. They already had a lot on their plates preparing volunteers, after all. Preparing the next Dougherty victor.
Dessert came out, varying platters presented to each and every one of them. While Tria was presented with a very quaint, simple tiramisu, Wiz received a bright, tempting creme caramel. Neither could complain—by this point Cadmus remembered the desserts they enjoyed best.
Lia dug into her miniature trifle as she asked Wiz, "So, are any of yours competing this year?"
Tria feigned ignorance, taking a bite of her tiramisu and waiting for Wiz to answer. The woman in question just smiled around her spoon, swallowing her taste of the creme caramel before answering.
"You know we can't plan tributes ahead of time," she said in a cheerful tone. "That'd imply we're training them. And training children to fight is illegal."
Lia let out a hum of understanding. "Of course, of course," she agreed. "Then who would you say has the highest chances of being 'reaped', hm?"
A better question. Trai jumped back in. "Zelda is eighteen," she replied. "I would say she has the highest 'chance'."
Talks and euphemisms like this were just formalities. Ways to bat their eyelashes at the law and prove they never admitted to anything. Tria used to compare it to the euphemisms some victors used for morphling, though now she sees it in a much more useful light. It got the people's hopes up without outright saying anything, giving them time to live up to those expectations and wow everyone. She'd learned about it when she'd volunteered to mentor Wiz, when her former mentor had suggested not admitting to what everyone else already knew.
It was avoidant, for sure, but it kept up appearances. A victor needed to be the ideal person to strive to be, and illegal training was certainly not what people should do. (Or so she told the Capitol with each and every interview probing her for details.)
"And will one of you mentor?" Cadmus spoke with his mouth full, eliciting a scowl from Tria. The moment he saw it, he covered his mouth with his hand and mumbled, "Sorry, Ms. Dougherty."
"Remember your manners next time, Mr. Dante," was all Tria said in return.
"Mother and I are still deciding who should do it this year," Wiz told him. "Hands-on experience does wonders, but I still have much to learn in terms of passing on knowledge."
Everyone else was close to finishing their desserts. Tria and Wiz were the only ones not to shove the food down their throats like animals. Sometimes she wondered how such a high society like the Capitol developed such piggish habits. It was bad enough they purged themselves so they could eat even more.
"I'm sure you'd do wonderfully, Mrs. Dougherty," Lia said. There was genuine support in her voice, a support that wasn't like the greed of gamblers who wanted to win a pre-Games bet over mentors.
And Wiz heard it too. She nodded in thanks to Lia and finished off her dessert, Tria close behind as conversation moved on.
All nights had to come to an end at some point, and eventually the Peacekeepers that escorted them to the mansion led them back to their train. Both Lia and Wiz sank into the chairs of the dining cart, releasing tired breaths.
Nights like these were exhausting, but this was a small price to pay for the luxuries of victory.
"Are you certain you still want to wait?" Tria asked as the train began to move. Wiz nodded, sipped at the water a Peacekeeper had fetched for her.
"You did an extraordinary job when I volunteered," she decided. "I'll just take notes on what you use for Zelda this time and take the next Dougherty."
At least she wasn't being lazy about it. Tria hummed in agreement, satisfied with the plan. With her at the helm, there was no doubt about another Dougherty victory.
Hippolyta Seville, 50, District 2
No, this dress wouldn't do either.
Hippolyta threw it to the side with a growl. This was the one thing she hated about being chosen to mentor: Finding something appropriate to wear. Every year appearances became more and more important, and the natural human ageing process didn't help keep said appearances up.
"Ares!" She dug through the closet desperately. "Ares, some help!"
Her son came bounding into the room, his towel wrapped hastily around his waist and half of his face covered in shaving cream. Down the hall, the shower loudly continued to run and billow out steam through the open door.
"What's wrong?" Ares wheezed. Hippolyta scrunched up her face and pulled another dress out from her closet.
"Mommy's conflicted," she whined.
The groan that escaped Ares was monumental, the speed that his hand flew up to his forehead legendary.
"You couldn't wait till I was done to help?" he complained.
"It's urgent."
Ares scoffed. As he left for the bathroom again, he grumbled, "So's my manscaping."
Hippolyta continued on with her search as though he'd never said anything. Even after thirty years of raising and teaching that man proper manners, he still gave his mother lip at times. She'd given up on yelling at him for it—boy inherited her argumentative nature, much to her chagrin.
Hippolyta pulled one of her more casual dresses and frowned. Pockets probably wouldn't fly well with the public, even if they were functional and useful. She was just about to chuck it over her shoulder when her phone, buried under the pile of clothes on her bed, chimed loudly.
Who on earth was calling her now?
She put it on speaker and set it atop her dresser, addressing the caller with a gruff, "What do you want?"
"Just checking in with you, Mrs. Seville!" the cheery voice came through. Hippolyta rolled her eyes. Great, the escort's assistant was calling her. "Still mentoring this year?"
"If I step down," Hippolyta growled, "you'll know."
"Just following protocol, ma'am. I trust you have everything prepared?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Approval ratings for the last mentor's attire were significantly lower than most," the assistant reported with that annoyingly cheerful tone. "Mr. LeBlanc and I just want to make certain they don't drop further this year."
Hippolyta scrunched up her face and softly mimicked the woman with a childish tone. To say she went unheard would be a lie, but thankfully the assistant didn't confront her about it. It was too early in the morning to be getting involved in arguments, even if Hippolyta was the cause of them all.
"I'll see you at the reaping," Hippolyta said pointedly. Before she could be asked once again if she had something organised, she hung up the phone and threw it back onto the bed.
This time when Ares came back into the room, he was at least semi-dressed and clean shaven. He sighed at his mother, a dry, "You really should be nicer to the escort teams," sent her way. Hippolyta scoffed and threw the pocket dress onto the bed. It smothered her phone as it began to ring again.
"So what's the problem?" Ares sighed. He leaned against the closet door with a frown. "You can't seriously just be upset over what to wear."
"I am," Hippolyta growled. Her patience over this whole issue was really wearing thin after that call. "They want me to make sure I don't get lower approval ratings than the last one."
Ares scrunched up his face. "Go in your pyjamas and spite them."
"Sweetie. No."
"Then does it have to be a dress?" Ares lightly pushed his mother aside, still leaving her with enough of a view to see what he began to pull out. "The blouse with the frills works pretty well, and your black suit is professional enough."
"What if it's too plain?" Hippolyta held the jacket of the suit next to the blouse, comparing the high, frilly collar to the almost polished fabric of the jacket. "All the last one wore was a suit—"
"Then own it," he groaned. "I don't know if you've noticed, Mom, but everyone actually loves your whole 'cold-hearted analyst' shtick. Put on a pair of sunglasses and don't smile at all, and they'll probably melt with joy or whatever."
She squinted at the clothes. He wasn't wrong about it all, but it wasn't a shtick. Hippolyta genuinely shut herself off from others once more than a dozen eyes were on her. She forced herself to have tunnel vision and focus on what was in front of her, operating on autopilot. It just wasn't a "shtick".
But she knew Ares meant well when he called it that. He'd never grown up seeing his mother go into Games-mode. He knew her the way others didn't.
So with a heavy sigh and a soft smile, she took the clothes and planted a kiss on Ares's cheek. "You're a lifesaver, sweetie."
Ares smiled proudly at her. "I know."
Flake Banner, 59, District 4
Little Aggie was a lot bigger than he remembered. It hadn't been that long since he last visited the Capitol, had it? Flake felt like he'd missed a pivotal point in her life, even if it'd only been a year.
But still, he was happy to see the children again.
Brigid twirled on the spot, showing off the dress her mother had made for her birthday. Bright red like her hair, frilly and making her stand out more than usual. Flake smiled down at her.
"It's very pretty!" he complimented. Brigid posed proudly, grinning to the other girls almost smugly.
"Poppy Flake said my dress is pretty!" she bragged. The other girls pouted and complained. Soon Flake was being crowded by them all, demanding to know who had the prettiest dress and which one he liked better. Flake was overwhelmed, unable to convince them that they all had pretty dresses and that he couldn't possibly choose a favourite among his honorary grandchildren.
But it wasn't good enough for the horde of seven-year-olds. Everyone said that, according to them, and it only furthered their questions and demands. Soon Flake was being dragged left and right, no longer able to say this was a safe outing with no risk of being torn in half. Here he was, worried about the people his own age, when it was really the pre-teens and munchkins he had to fear.
"I mean it, girls!" he insisted. "You all look lovely!"
"But I'm the best, right?"
"Shut up, Brigid!"
"You made Aggie upset."
"Aren't you popular?"
Flake's head snapped up to the decidedly much more grown up voice beside him. It wasn't often that he'd run into other victors at events like this—they tended to like their space, which Flake related to—but it happened at times. Three years ago he'd met a very drunk, very depressed Haymitch Abernathy. A decade ago it had been Mags from Four, though she'd accompanied him after finding out someone they both knew had passed. Flake still counted it as a chance, since neither knew they had a mutual friend.
So he was both mildly surprised and unsurprised to see Finnick Odair next to him. Charming as ever and looking just a tad frazzled, he smiled down at the kids and gave them a short wave hello.
To say the girls went wild was an understatement.
Flake was freed from the dispute, their attentions now on Finnick as they clambered around the man and tried to grab at his coat. Flake had never met Finnick personally, spending more time in the Capitol than he did in Four at the time Finnick competed, but there was a sort of respect both shared for each other. Flake found it admirable that Finnick was such a young victor, that he'd started a trend with tridents in Four; the way Finnick bowed his head slightly and bent his back as though to kneel before Flake suggested respect, though with how anti-social some victors became Flake had to worry at times whether it was just Finnick's way of greeting or genuine respect.
He dusted off his pants and let out an exhausted breath. He loved the kids, truly, but there were just more and more to keep up with every year. Flake wondered if the Capitol would reproduce as much as it did now if they were subject to the Hunger Games every year. Probably, he thought grimly.
With the children distracted Flake had a chance to steal some finger food, replenish his energy and mingle with the other adults some more. He hadn't just come to this party to chat with the children—well, as much as he enjoyed it from a parental standpoint it still proved useful—and if he didn't cut to the chase fast he'd miss his chance.
The first stop was a group of socialites who so happened to be the parents of those children. They watched on with small smiles as their kids hovered around Finnick, and they looked rather pleased to be seeing Flake appearing. One of them raised their glass at him, welcoming him with a cheer.
"Finally caught a breath, Mr. Banner?" she laughed. Flake chuckled. He picked up a glass of wine from a passing tray and took a sip.
"I feel like I haven't seen them in decades," he wheezed. "Aggie looks just like her father, Helena."
Helena smiled, bittersweet, and reached out to Flake. She grabbed his shoulder and rubbed it, and for a moment Flake feared she would break down into tears. He knew after all these years that Helena still missed her husband, but he didn't think Lester's memory would cause this much of a reaction.
But Helena just nodded. "I'm just glad she still has a father figure to look up to," she sighed. The other parents around her agreed, some of them chiming in that their own children were doing well with Flake in their lives.
"I hate to turn this into a business matter, then," Flake said, guilt seeping into his tone. The socialites raised their brows at him, though none stopped him from continuing. "I was hoping you and the children could advocate for Four this year. We've a lot of potential volunteers who wish to honour the late President Snow's memory, but I'm worried One and Two will steal the show." As usual, was left unsaid.
Helena chuckled behind her hand, amused. "They do that often, don't they? I'm all for it if Aggie and I can visit you sometime after. She keeps going on about seeing the fish lately."
Flake smiled brightly. There was nothing more he'd love to do in return than let Aggie see the fish in Four with her own eyes. Whatever the children wanted, he was more than happy to oblige.
(Unless they wanted him to pick a favourite, of course.)
Morrigan Foster, 42, District 5
There were no ifs or buts about it. Morrigan won this divorce.
She smirked, hands on her hips, as the Peacekeepers carried her things out of her ex-husband's house. Things he would use day to day, things he'd need to keep up his habits—all proven to be hers at the wave of a receipt. Morrigan watched Adam as he slowly began to seethe at her, his face turning a very lovely shade of purple thanks to his inability to remember to breathe.
Morrigan Jackson was no more. Morrigan Foster was back for good.
"Is this really necessary?" Thomas sighed. Compared to his younger siblings, he was the only one acting like an adult about it all. Though then again, he was fifteen compared to their twelve. "Dad's just going to get back at you somehow."
Morrigan let out a hmph. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and adjusted her sunglasses. "Trust me, sweetheart," she said with confidence, "I put on a good enough show to make sure he never gets the chance."
Thomas groaned. He walked over to the garden, where his younger sisters chased each other through the hedges, and collapsed onto the lawn chair that oversaw the whole repossession. Morrigan wasn't surprised with how exhausted he looked. Thomas was the one who voiced concerns over the divorce, asking for a calmer way to resolve the issue between his parents. They'd loved each other at some point, he'd reasoned, but love didn't last forever.
Morrigan knew her marriage to Adam wouldn't last. The man was abrasive and commanding, needier than she'd ever thought someone could be. And his jealousy—God, Morrigan couldn't talk to her own brother without Adam breathing down her neck. Adam wasn't abusive about it (she'd have gotten much, much more out of the divorce if he was) but he was certainly exhausting.
A large dresser was brought out of the house, and Adam began his descent into madness.
"That was a wedding gift!" he screeched. Morrigan nodded.
"From my mother." She reached into the handbag slung over her shoulder, where each and every item that legally belonged to her was listed. "Need the proof?"
"Shove it up your ass!"
How quaint.
"You're a master at arguing," she said dryly, "truly."
The Head Peacekeeper walked out of the house with the list of items in his hand. He looked once over at the mutt statues by Adam before turning his gaze back to Morrigan.
"These too, Ms. Foster?"
Adam flew into even more of a rage. He latched onto the closest statue and threatened the Peacekeepers around him with a garden shovel, screeching obscenities so loudly that the neighbours finally came out to witness the event for themselves. Morrigan just stared at him blankly, at the fact that he couldn't even remember how horrific she'd deemed the statues once she'd moved in with him. She'd given up her lavish mansion with an attic filled with unfinished paintings for those things, and this fool thought she wanted them.
She had every chance to say yes, seeing as she was given one of them by Adam for one of their anniversaries. She wondered how he would look as he watched her smash it on her property, finally letting the memory of Lulu Banks rest in peace.
But she wasn't entirely heartless. Once she was done with him, he'd need all those mutt statues just to stay sane.
"Leave them," she ordered. "They're hideous enough to stay."
Lain skipped over to Morrigan's side as clothing was brought out. Trinkets and furniture, all belonging to Morrigan now.
"Is Dad crying?" Lain asked, more amused than worried. She took after Adam more than she did Morrigan, but she certainly favoured her mother more than her father.
"This, sweetie," Morrigan said, loud enough for Adam to hear, "is why you don't marry other victors. Their egos are damaged beyond repair when they realise they married their equal."
Kim was just a tad more worried about her father, sighing as she watched him snarl at each Peacekeeper that tried to talk him off the large mutt statue. She stood beside her sister and shook her head.
"We still get to see him, right?"
"Weekends, public holidays, and any times I have to mentor," she agreed. "You'll be able to say goodbye to him with his dignity somewhat intact."
From across the yard, Thomas called out, "When do we pick who we stay with?"
"Eighteen," Morrigan called back. "The judge said the year of your final reaping is the year you can choose who you live with."
He grunted. Sank further into the lawn chair and frowned. Thomas had clearly been hoping for a better resolution to his parents' conflicting personalities. Lain and Kim, at least trying to help bring Adam into a more presentable state, did their best to comfort him and distract him. Lain listed off activity after activity she wanted to do with him while Morrigan mentored in the Capitol, and Kim promised she'd make the best cupcakes Adam ever tasted.
At least he wasn't making a fool of himself anymore, though Morrigan wondered how long it'd last. All the attention was on him, and not for his lavish garden—Adam was bound to snap again within the week.
But, she reminded herself with a smile, it wouldn't matter. Morrigan still won this divorce, and rubbing salt in the wound would just be pitiful.
Johanna Mason, 31, District 7
No matter how much she tried to ignore it, the pounding on her front door wouldn't stop. As much as Johanna wanted to sleep in and relax before the whole reaping started tomorrow, fate or karma or whatever the fuck it was keeping her awake didn't seem to agree with that life choice. One would assume someone would get the hint after an hour that no one was answering the door, but clearly she was going to have to deal with a special kind of stupid this morning.
She stomped down the stairs with her duvet wrapped around her shoulders, dragging behind her. Johanna glared at the front door as another set of knocks sounded out. She yanked the door open, immediately blinding herself with the sunlight in front of her, and let out a pained hiss.
"Good morning, Johanna!" sang the old voice in front of her. Johanna stumbled back into the house, tripping over her duvet cape and crashing to the floor. "Oh, my!"
With a groan, Johanna pressed her face against the floor. "Why are you here a day early, Aeliana?"
The old woman in question hobbled into the house, big smile on her face and an assistant hovering behind her. Johanna was amazed the old pushover was still alive—not even most assholes from the career Districts lived to see ninety-three.
"I wanted to spend some time with you before tomorrow," Aeliana said sweetly. It made guilt rise in Johanna's chest, reminding her of the absolute treasure that had escorted her for her Games. Compared to most other escorts she'd heard of, Aeliana was basically everyone's sweet, frail grandma. And being rude to grandma felt gross. "May we come in?"
Johanna pushed herself to her feet again with a grunt. While still somewhat dazed with sleep, she was much more awake now than she was before. "Just leave your stuff by the door," Johanna yawned. "I'll carry it to the spare room after breakfast."
Aeliana shuffled closer to her and wrapped her frail arms around Johanna's shoulders. It took everything in Johanna not to break into a string of curses so close to the woman's ear.
"Thank you, Johanna."
Johanna didn't entertain people often. It was just something she didn't do. Ever. So to say she was underprepared for Aeliana's visit was an understatement. The best she could offer were a few mismatched mugs to pour them instant coffee, and very hastily scrub her frying pan to prepare some eggs. If Aeliana weren't so old and frail and sweet, she'd be kicking them to the curb and going back to bed with breakfast by now.
Three eggs sizzled in the pan as she watched the whites blankly. Sunny side up eggs was about the extent of her fancy breakfast repertoire, but she counted herself lucky they hadn't demanded anything complex. Aeliana was quite overjoyed when she saw the eggs and toast on her plate, asking Johanna to lean down and planting a kiss on the woman's cheek.
Johanna set to work making her own breakfast then, idly listening to Aeliana's assistant prattle off things they'll need to do before tomorrow's reaping. Aeliana nodded cheerily along with each instruction, munching on her eggs with a hum. It felt weird to have this mini meeting happen in her own home. Johanna was used to everyone staying away and keeping to themselves. Probably too used to it at this point.
She couldn't complain, though. A life of luxury, being left alone and being allowed to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted was everything she could ask for. Most people complained and bitched about how terrible and traumatic the aftermath of the Games was for them, but Johanna couldn't see it. The Capitol loved her, called her innovative and original, and they paid her—paid her—for killing her allies in the arena. What was not to love?
So when she sat down with her eggs and coffee, she was all smiles to Aeliana. She nodded and politely replied to each question, explaining her plans for mentoring tomorrow. It's the same method her own had granted her—minimal attention, meaningful advice. The Games was never handed to anyone on a silver platter, so straightforward advice was just useless. Solid scenarios never were adaptable enough for the arenas and the tributes, anyway.
At least all the difficult smooth-talking advice would be left to Aeliana, she thought as she finished off her breakfast. She hated all the cameras and crowds, the way you had to seem likable and powerful to the Capitol. After the way she'd botched her own in order to keep up the weak appearance, too, Johanna doubted the tributes would take her advice if Aeliana had nothing to give.
Even as she stretched and realised she probably wouldn't be able to sleep again until the sun set, Johanna had a good feeling about this week.
Dexter Galloway, 33, District 10
"Easy, now. You'll all get some, calm down."
The kid yelled up at him. Dexter snorted out a small laugh. They all crowded around him, desperate for his attention as they shoved each other aside. Only five baby goats to focus on, but with the way they acted it may as well have been sixty.
Dexter held the first bottle out, coaxing a brown one forward. He carefully led it away from the others as it suckled the nipple of the bottle, then shut the gate behind it and lifted it into his arms.
The teenagers behind him shuffled on their feet as they watched him. "Normally it takes about an hour to get them all fed," Dexter explained, "but since you're all here we might just have time to focus on the other animals."
One by one the teens took bottles and entered the pen. It wasn't an uncommon sight, having rather bored kids tend to his animals during the week. Ten had no shortage of troublemakers with parents who wanted them set on the straight and narrow. Dexter had no shortage of rooms and work to be done.
"Hold her gently, Cain," Dexter scolded one of the boys. The eldest of the group, Cain looked the least impressed about their situation. "You'll need those fingers to collect the eggs later."
Cain snorted. He was at least a little more careful as he handled the brown and white kid.
They all had their own reasons for being at Dexter's farm today. Cain vandalised his father's cows after an argument. Lucky was failing her classes at school due to a lack of motivation. Brock lazed about all day, sleeping enough to skip school and his chores. Roxy, like Dexter in his youth, struggled with anger and finding safe outlets for it. To all of them, even if they didn't know it, it was their parents' last resort before taking much more drastic actions to correct their behaviours.
"Shame they'll all wind up on the dinner table," Lucky sighed. She cradled the kid as she sat on the ground, stroking its back as it suckled the milk. "They'd make pretty cute pets."
"Oh, no." Dexter shook his head. "These ones are all female. We'll be keeping them around for a long time."
"Why?"
Roxy frowned down at her kid. It bleated up at her, meeting her gaze. "Some people can't handle cow milk," she growled. "Goats work better for them."
"True." The bottle was basically empty now. Dexter opened the gate and ushered the kid back inside, where it jumped around and bleated happily. "We usually use them for soap, though. Easier on the hands."
Their whole week was going to compose of this, even if Dexter had to leave tomorrow—Nanna and Renee would make sure of it. Though the teens seemed to at least want to try their best. None of them had complained yet (aside from Brock's grumbling about how wrong it was to walk around before the sun rose) and they all seemed to respect Dexter well enough. Definitely a calmer group compared to the last ones he had to help. He had a feeling they'd continue their chores even when Dexter was gone.
He patted down his shirt and turned to the teens, grinning at them. "Since it's almost time for breakfast," he said, "I'll take some requests and start prepping the food."
"Eggs over easy," Brock immediately shouted. His kid startled and squirmed, kicking him in the elbow at his outburst.
Lucky shrugged as she continued to pet her kid. "Oatmeal, please."
"Rox? Cain?" Dexter nodded to them expectantly.
Cain just grunted, "Toast."
To Dexter's surprise, Roxy said, "I want the leftover apple pie from last night."
"That is a dessert," Dexter deadpanned. She didn't even look fazed by the implied refusal.
"You said you were taking requests."
Well, she wasn't wrong. Dexter grabbed the hay bucket next to the pen and tipped the contents into the trough. It should've been enough to keep the kids fed until lunch.
"If I'm giving you apple pie," Dexter said slowly, "then you have to shovel the cow manure before you eat it."
Roxy stared up at him in horror. "My appetite will be obliterated!"
He shrugged. As he left the barn to get a start on the meals, he called back to her, "Gotta work through the bitter to get to the sweet. I'll know if you got it done, so don't think of trying to trick me about it."
The groan she let out was all too amusing for Dexter to hear.
Renee had already wheeled Nanna out onto the porch of the farmhouse, ready to enjoy the sunrise as they sipped at their tea. Both women threw soft greetings to Dexter, asking for simple breakfasts once they learned that he was getting it ready. Renee even promised to keep an eye on the barn for Roxy as soon as Dexter let her in on their reluctant deal.
It was days like this that he was thankful for the eight burner stove that Capitol gave him. Cooking for more than just himself, his sister and his grandmother often required long waits for a free burner, but with victory came easier times cooking. And anything that made the Galloway family's life easier was a godsend.
He cracked a couple of eggs into a frying pan and laid out some bacon on a separate one. A pot of oats boiled behind it while a few pieces of bread sat beside the toaster. Dexter, despite everything in him telling him to wait, had pulled a slice of the apple pie from the freezer anyway. These kids were troublemakers outside of the Victors' Village, sure; but he trusted Roxy to do the right thing if she wanted the pie. After all, he was the same at her age.
And all the sweet he received was well, well worth the bitter.
And those are our first half of the mentors! I'm starting chapter questions early, since I like the idea of combining overall sponsor points between stories (so if you also read Ad Mortem, this is a chance to up those points for the Good Stuff once the arena hits *winks*). Here we go!
CQ #1: Which mentor from this chapter was your favourite? Why?
With all that said and done, there's still a few places that haven't received any submissions at all. I'm hoping to close all submissions by the time the next mentor chapter is out (mid-October, so you'll have a few weeks!) but if you want to send in any to an open spot, feel free! Only the career spots have been closed, so I hope anyone interested in an outer District spot will take part!