DAY 8

The Mentor Alliance

In and Among Enemies

Atlas grimaced around the shot of… something… she'd just put in her mouth.

She swallowed.

"Well?" The escort that Atlas had never bothered to remember the name of—he was a recent addition, having only been promoted three years ago and was at least twice her age—asked.

"Disgusting."

He laughed, apparently (despite knowing her for far longer than she'd known him) shocked at her audacity. "That, I assure you, is the best oyster available!"

"It tasted like shit."

Rosemary, who was across the room chatting up a bunch of other faceless citizens, glared at her.

Atlas hated that she always seemed to know when she was 'acting up.'

She tried to smile at the man. "I guess it would've been sad if I'd made it to fifty without having had oysters, though."

Citizens were big on that, big on the idea of it being 'sad' that some people didn't get to experience the luxury they did.

Sad.

A few feet ahead of her, between her and her wife, Atlas caught sight of Gloss stood chatting up what's-his-face.

Actually, Atlas knew his name.

It was Pri-something.

Prius?

Previous?

Priapus.

Priapus Caesar, the head of Transportation.

Atlas had been to many a party at his mansion, which was unusually lavish even by Capitol standards. He was also dressed by the former District 6 Designer, so there was that.

(Apparently it was a big deal.)

Atlas knew Caesar though.

She knew why Gloss (God, did she hate Gloss) was chatting him up.

Functionally, the man was a figurehead.

Transportation—that is, the transportation his department controlled, which was primarily inter-District (water Transport was a different department)—had been made more or less autonomous forty-ish years ago following a ~50 year concerted push in that direction. Calls for reform—more efficiency, more speed, more whatever—had since been routinely dismissed on the grounds that doing anything would interrupt that autonomy.

Caesar had never known anything different.

He'd only ascended fifteen years ago.

Still, the man—Priapus—was known for making as many meaningless decisions as possible, and Atlas even knew the reason why.

(Rosemary, rightfully, thought Atlas actively tried to avoid knowing anything of the politics of the Capitol, but it was almost impossible to not know something about the story of the Caesars.

When you were in the Capitol, at least.)

Priapus's father, Zeus, had been a laughingstock for his entire life. He'd made a fool of himself at every party he attended, made the most inane decisions one could imagine, and was so prone to injury that people took bets on when he'd land on a medical table next and for what reason.

Mars, actually, had funded the expansion to the Nut through those bets.

Best of all, in Atlas's mind (in the mind of every Victor), Zeus had done it all on purpose.

The Caesars, by Capitol standards, had been… well, they had been just about the lowliest of citizens possible. If every family was ranked first to last, some District 1 residents might be listed ahead of them. The problem was that they'd never done anything. Everyone's family had someone who had done something in the Capitol, something to hang their self-worth on, but not the Caesars.

So, Priapus's father had apparently decided, he had to do something.

Atlas, being a volunteer, could respect that.

Further, being someone who had chosen the less popular route, the route people turned their noses from (because apparently allies were necessary) she respected that he didn't go the 'appropriate' route.

He went slapstick.

One of his earliest—and to Atlas's knowledge, most remembered—gambits had taken place on the street his son's mansion now sat on. He'd painted himself yellow, stuck a bunch of feathers all over his body, and clucked like a chicken all the way from one end of the road to the other.

Purportedly this was because of a bet.

No one had ever come forward as the better.

Somehow, and in the citizens' view miraculously, Zeus' gambit paid off. Atlas knew better: slapstick humor was rare on the TV and movies District 1 produced, and no one in the Capitol ever really did anything like that. It was new, it was interesting, it was fresh, it was something.

That always won points in the world built on entertainment.

By the time he died, Zeus Caesar had made such an impact for his family that there wasn't a single soul in the Capitol that didn't know his name.

With a reputation like that, and a name like his, the son hadn't had much choice.

Atlas couldn't remember much of him before he was appointed to transportation, but since then he'd taken up his father's mantle with fervor.

Specifically, he'd gone onto a morning talk show— Flickerman & Flickerman & Flickerman in the AM—and talked about he'd only just learned where his office was, and it was soooooo ugly, and he'd had a dream about a completely bouncy floor so he was going to make it have that instead of the basic wooden one it had now.

Atlas would be shocked if this transformation in personality had been completely willing, but there you go.

And now Gloss was chatting him up.

All the Alliance members were talking to someone, actually, chugging pills to keep them awake for days on end and talking and talking and talking and—

Well.

At least Atlas was considered 'unpersonable.' Unless she was talking to someone who was known to like her bluntness, therefore, she wasn't supposed to talk to anyone at all.

District 2's escort—what's his name—was the exception, because the guy was old enough that he was willing to do anything to get ahead, including ignore the particularly sharp edges of her personality.

Gloss, on the other hand, was allowed to talk to anyone she liked.

And the leader of the Transportation department?

Well that would be a very useful person to talk to indeed.