Chapter 3: Jordano
When Enrique rescued Jordano from the Arena, he felt good about himself. He was one of the lucky few to bring his Tribute home first year in (Dolores didn't count. She was a lost cause). The experience validated his roles as both Victor and Panemite. The double win catapulted District Four's reputation. From neutral party during most of the Dark Days to leading district of The Hunger Games. Much to the chagrin of One and Two. All were enamored with Enrique, Jordano, and District Four itself.
Until Jordano actually became a Victor.
Jordano hated the Games. Most of the Four's Victors did, but they had the good sense to pretend. When he did show up to Reapings, a scene was sure to follow. Arrive immediately after the Tributes were called. Throw debaucherous words at the Escort. One year he went on stage in full Capitol lingerie, complete with stockings, wig, and heels. Peacekeepers almost killed him for that one. He didn't feign interest in sponsors, cut interviews short if he didn't make it a living hell for the reporter, barely spoke to any Victors outside his district, and indulged in the excess of Capitol life while his more obedient colleagues managed the dead.
Jordano hated the Tributes. Law required Loyalists who survived the Games to teach at their respective training facilities. Jordano found every which way around it. Every day he was forced to teach at the CWC was every day he was kicked out. Once more Victors started coming in, he simply stopped going. His mentoring skills were a joke. When Jordano was your mentor, it was understood you were not coming back. First year in, the man shows up supremely drunk to the Games! He had a way with words too. Jordano made sure to give his Tributes a parting gift: "You will die in the Arena."
Nothing more, nothing less. Most shot back with a smugness that would eventually lead to their deaths. A few cried. One crafty girl attacked him with a bouillon spoon, the scar on his shoulder proof for those who never believed him. But he was never wrong. They always died. So he kept with his "advice".
Most of all, Jordano hated rules. It's how he won his Games without even knowing. Enrique had seen the pair from One and knew they'd be trouble. Because he was such good friends with one of the Gamemasters, coincidence would have it that Jordan be given the weaker competitors to start with and the other Loyalists each other. Surprise, surprise that the final round was child's play. The nine seconds it took to decapitate Barr Faraday of District Three was immortalized in every media source imaginable. The gruesome scene was everywhere, including Jordano's every waking thought. To show his gratitude, the newly crowned Victor cursed out a group of Gamemasters at his Victor's Ball mid-fawning and stumbled back over to the open bar. Enrique was left picking up the pieces trying to save face (and lives) over something Jordano did. It was a role he would never grow out of.
Jordano was a tornado of a man, sucking people in, spitting them back out. Relationships of any kind weren't his thing. Romantic ones were a pipedream. Capitol surgery and natural good looks, neither sex could resist. Patron or partner, district or Capitol, he blew through them all. He never married. No kids either. 'Why bother?', he thought. 'They'd just get in the way.' So he kept on with his philandering, and was the man good at it. What other Victor had the gall to actually seek out customers?
To some, Jordano Salvaje was an exotic butterfly trapped in a proverbial cage. To most, Jordano Salvaje was a rebel. And the Capitol loved every bit of him.
At least the plebeians did.
The man was a patron of decadence and disorder, the commoners his faithful followers. His vices validated theirs. He made it okay to drink too much, cheat on your spouse, support the Games. The self-righteous benefited too. 'Hey, I'm not as bad as Jordano' was the running gag in the big city for years to come. Best of all, Jordano added life again. Joy. Through the toils and troubles of resurrecting the city and funding the Arena, Jordano gave them a reason to laugh and just enjoy living. His rowdy antics sparked giggles and gossip from those around him. He was the prototype for 'The Bad Victor'. Long before that feisty sapling from Seven, or that drunkard from Twelve, or The Catch of the Century from his own district, there was Jordano Salvaje.
The ruling class, however, did not find Mr. Salvaje so inspiring.
Maximus and Enrique were compliant. Predictable. Boring. Model Victors. Then you had some wild boar compromising the already fragile system. It was the first problem Little Mandy had to face in his presidency, and did it make him fussy. He felt bamboozled. Jordan was so put together when he selected him for the Games. Then he goes off the deep end for no good reason! Initials plans were to exterminate the pest and cry freak accident. "Unknown allergy reaction; Victor falls dead", "Jealous robber kills in cold blood". But he saw how much his people loved him. His death would cause an uproar and resources were already spread thin. So he was kept alive. Amandus Snow was but a servant to his people. But he still needed to be punished. Most of his family were killed off in the war, so that was out. No stable friends or lovers to target outside Enrique. So that just left the next best thing: his Tributes.
Some years he wondered if he tried would they come back alive. A determined kid with a good heart would come around. One with a fighting chance. But then he looked at the others. For all their mentoring and schmoozing and sleepless nights and lost meals and mental breakdowns and binge drinking and suicide attempts, they were rewarded wooden boxes too. So he didn't bother. Unbeknownst to him, it didn't matter if he sold himself halfway around Tartarus. As long as President A.R. Snow was in power, Mr. Salvaje's children would not make it out of the Arena alive.
People quickly caught on. Tutelage under Jordano was a deathwish. Townspeople were wary of him. Associate with him and your child could be reaped. His colleagues, if you could call them that, tolerated him just enough for Games season to end. Capitolites knew better than to sponsor any of his kids, but he was always welcomed to their parties!
People avoided him, which fed into his bitterness, which just made people avoid him more. Only Enrique could break the cycle. Most of the time. The whispers and silly (but not totally inaccurate) superstitions didn't bother him. The Capitol favored District Four's first Victor too much for it to dissuade him. Enrique motivated the self-destructive man to make something of his life. Put down the bottle and be a damn Victor for once. He'd abide by his mentor's words for a while. Two, three weeks tops. Then some event, some call would blow it away. Mentee also helped mentor. Jordano supported Enrique too. An open ear and bottle of rum was always available when the more put together of the two eventually broke down. Being the perfect Victor/mentor/celebrity/citizen/role model/husband/father/friend would weigh on anyone. That's why he didn't try.
Over time, their relationship changed. Enrique was Jordano's alarm clock when he "accidentally" overslept on Capitol visits. Jordano would sober up if he mentored with Enrique, monitoring the Tributes while the charismatic beau used his charm to woo in Sponsors any means necessary. The two became close. It took for Enrique's oldest to babble out 'Tío JoJo!' to make it official: they were brothers, through and through.
None of the others knew how Enrique could stomach Jordan, but it was simple: they understood each other. Enrique actually bothered to see through the chaos and recklessness. He knew him signing up to train was a matter of life and death, not honor and patriotism. He knew how angry and alone he felt being a war orphan. That he longed for a family of his own but was too afraid of the hold the Capitol would have over him, like the Capitol had on him. Behind the drinks and the escapades and the lies and the belligerence sat a terrified eighteen-year-old boy who broke down in his mentor's arms at the thought of killing any more people on the train ride to the Third Annual Hunger Games. That same mentor would reassure him with falsities neither men believed from then until the day he died.
And Enrique did eventually die. To the amazement and disappointment of all, Jordano outlived him. He wasn't bothered by the snide comments and rude remarks. He felt the same way. Jordano never wanted to outlive his mentor either. What for? Times had changed. His fans were either dead or "too mature" to associate with him. The reputation he had gained couldn't hold water against the new sights, sounds, and tastes of the districts. He was a washed up has-been, the Capitol's fickle attention enraptured by the more youthful Victors now. No one cared about a slimy spendthrift who barely loved himself let alone someone else. It's why he had zero Victors under his belt. Why he didn't sacrifice himself for the otherworldly Odair. He wasn't like the infallible Margarita Corazón, rescuing Panem's darling murderess Analisa Cresta from the big bad Games. Oh, how amazing and perfect was she! Jordano should've took the hint and just get it over with already. He was ready to hole up inside his monstrosity of a mansion and sulk the days away. Until he got an idea.
Reaching the dusty telephone, he called up the few people he could remember for a nice chat. None were the movers and shakers of Panem, but they would have to do.
"What do you need now Salvaje?"
"Who is this?"
"I'm sorry sir. She has been dead since the Sixty-Eighth Games."
"Jordano. You still owe me for that time you lost your Victor's Card and I paid your entire casino bill. The entire bill."
"Make it a date and we'll call it even. My husband's on his deathbed. He'll never know."
Empty compliments and incinerated confidence later, the deed was done. A smug smile crossed the elderly man's face. No longer would he make a fool out of himself. He'd show them all not to underestimate the power the third Victor of Panem had. They wouldn't know what hit'em.
He watched the Games unfold. Saw the Victor-Tributes unite as one during the interviews. Saw the Victor-Tributes kill each other the next day. Mags die. His neighbors pack their things and leave. The Peacekeepers raid the Victors' Village the first time only to find an elderly man sprawled out in his underwear. The starcrossed fools from Twelve play kissyface. The starcrossed fools break out of the Arena with Odair.
Well that was unexpected.
The chaos began soon after. It seemed instant really. No one bothered to rescue him in their escape. He understood; they didn't care to inform him of the rebellion, they wouldn't care to save him. While others either ran for their lives or fought with their lives, Jordano got up, closed the blinds, locked the doors, poured a glass of rum (stirred twice, no ice), and waited. It's not that he wanted to die, because he didn't. Certainly not like this. He simply had no other choice. In five days, Jordano Salvaje would be ninety years old. He hadn't used a sword in decades and a gun since the war, well, the first one. If the Peacekeepers' feet didn't outrun him, their bullets would. The others had abandoned him. All he had was a good drink and scathing words, like always.
Most astounding to Jordano was what concerned him at the moment. He could accept his impending death. Not like it, but accept it. Ninety was an accomplishment. Most in the districts didn't live past sixty. What he couldn't accept was not knowing a rebellion was in place. Why had no one told him? There were always little whispers here and there, but he never took any of them seriously. Then he realized his mistake: he never took anything seriously. If he'd of just went to the CWC more. If he'd of just spoken to the others more. If he'd of just been a better Victor more. If he'd of just done more, maybe, just maybe he wouldn't be where he was now.
When they burst through the mahogany door they so meticulously crafted all those years before and shot through the old man lounging on the rank, worn couch, all in all Jordano was satisfied. Yes, he died a painful, barbaric death. Yes, he was a little upset over not finishing his drink. But he finally did something good. Jordano pooled enough money to allow a connection of a connection to persuade some guy named Plutarch Heavensbee in including the trident that Finnick used in the Third Quarter Quell. Just as he had done for the boy an exact decade before during the Sixty-Fifth Games. It wasn't much. He certainly could've done more. But he had a small hand in the second rebellion (or "The Mockingjay War" as it would later be called), and dammit, that was enough for him.
In his final moments, Jordano Salvaje did not think of all the years he was nothing. He thought of the few times he was something. Just as everyone assumed it was Mags responsible for giving Finnick that trident during his first Games, no one would ever know of his contribution to the rebellion, and that was okay to him. Jordano was never one who needed recognition. Maybe old Rique was on to something with that whole "help your fellow man" shit. But it was too late for him. His time had come.
Out with the old. In with the new.