Chapter 20: Viscera Holstein

Icarus Trinket, Dean of the Capitol Academy, straightened his waistcoat and checked the golden pocketwatch – an anniversary gift from his wife – impatiently. He tried not to give away the annoyance on his face, keeping his expression in a practiced, placid mask, for he could feel the eyes of the President's personal secretary on him. He gentlemanly sat down to wait at the same moment she discreetly moved to the door to enter President Ravinstill's Oval Office.

Icarus felt his leg thump against the bench's mahogany wood, in thrall of a nervous tic. The anxiety came back all the worse when the secretary returned with a promptness he had not expected. He had considered himself lucky to have been accepted for this audience with Panem's leader at all.

"The President will see you now."

Icarus stood, flicking the lapel of his suit coat so that it hung across his shoulders without a single crease and nodded to her politely. She swept into the Oval Office at his side to announce him.

"Mr. President: Icarus Trinket, Dean of the Capitol Academy."

"Thank you, my dear."

Icarus couldn't help but study the man who had ushered Panem out of the ashes and two decades past near total collapse. His hair was grayer and thinning along his temples, so that he looked much changed from the times Icarus would see him on holoTV as a young man. They had been young men both – he as a student about to enter the Academy as a freshman, the President as Panem's brave hero.

Ravinstill's smile seemed friendly enough as he strode forward to shake Icarus's hand, but behind it, Mr. Trinket recognized the exuding of power. He exuded that same power behind his own eyes, when addressing students at assembly.

Yet still, Icarus knew: his kingdom was much smaller than that of Ravinstill's.

He hoped to change that.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr. President."

"Not at all, Icarus. Please," he gestured to the pair of couches across from his majestic desk and the men sank into them the way they might sink into a warm bath, directly facing each other. Ravinstill reached for a cup and saucer of tea, but when his eyebrow lifted in a silent offer, Icarus dismissed it with a grateful smile and wave of his hand. He didn't think he could hide his hands shaking as he tried to take a sip.

"How is Calpurnia?"

Icarus beamed fondly as he thought of his wife. "She is feeling very much like an empty nester these days, but tries to keep busy. She's joined Madame Lucia's crocheting club; they meet Wednesday nights."

"Indeed," Ravinstill grinned in amusement. "And your boy? Forgive me… Daedalus, was it?"

Icarus's smile now shifted into pride. "He adores life at the Academy. Neither of us can believe his first year is nearly over."

"Quite right. Does he struggle having his father as the Dean?"

Icarus contemplated this with a bemused frown. "Not particularly. He's a good boy, stellar student. He excelled on the hoverball team last fall – started in four games."

"Impressive," the President conceded with a dip of his head. He set his cup and saucer aside. "But I have a feeling you didn't request an audience with me to discuss your family life."

Icarus fought down a gulp but sallied forth with what he had come prepared to say. "Mr. President… you might recall the Academy's brief association with the Games… ten years ago, we provided the first mentors…"

Ravinstill's face dipped into a cool mask. "Ah, yes. Quite a misstep on my part. The Games were rather disorganized then. Lucky wanted to broadcast a decade observance of that year for this summer, but it seemed rather pointless – and with its Victor presumed dead…"

Icarus remembered watching those Games with his little boy on his knee; they had been a bit of a downer. "If it pleases you, Mr. President, my students are in desperate need of work experience before they go out to make their fortune in the city. Might there be some way for them to participate in the Games?"

Ravinstill lifted an eyebrow as cocked as a loaded gun. "Icarus, I am aware that none of what occurred in the 10th Games was your fault, but the fact of the matter is I will always remain displeased at how those Games resolved themselves. More to the point…" he lifted a finger before Icarus could interject. "I'm sure I don't know what use your students would be to the pageant. Having previous Victors mentor has proven to be much more streamlined and efficient. We have stylists to adorn the tributes for the parade. What need is there left to fill?"

"If I may, Mr. President, I might have a suggestion," Icarus pounced, and procuring a manila folder from his waistcoat, he slid it across the coffee table to the President. Ravinstill eyed it like it might be a bomb. "I have drafted a proposal. The tributes, when they arrive here, don't know our Capitol ways. That's something that cannot be taught even by a Victor – Victors are allowed to walk among us, but they are still district-born and bred. My students take courses in deportment and polite conversation, something that I believe the tributes desperately need in order to more effectively make their case to the Capitol. My students could be liaisons to the district representatives."

Ravinstill was trying to hide it, but Icarus could tell: his interest was piqued.

"Escorts. Your students would serve as escorts."

"That's…. an even finer way of putting it, yes, Mr. President," Icarus blinked.

"They would serve as a go-between amidst the Victors and sponsors, as well as the tributes and Capitol citizenry, the stylists," Ravinstill mused. He stroked his bare jawline contemplatively. "And most importantly, they would be nowhere in a position to cheat." He eyed Icarus pointedly.

Icarus gulped again. "Only the most scrupulous of my seniors would be screened and nominated as escorts, Mr. President."

"Your choice of words is wise, Icarus," Ravinstill stood, flicking the lapels of his suit and striding over to the mahogany desk. The President turned back to the Dean with a snap. "I will have final approval of which students are brought on as these… escorts, as well as district assignments."

Icarus could hardly believe his good fortune, and he all but leapt to his feet. "Thank you, Mr. President!"

"Let me be clear, Icarus: this is a trial period. But I suppose allowing your students what will amount to a summer internship will not be bad work experience. To ensure things go smoothly, I will ask that you be assigned to escort one of the districts."

"It… it would be an honor, sir."

"Very good. I have high hopes for this program, Icarus, very high hopes indeed. Do not think I don't share your desire to see the Academy redeem itself from the fiasco ten years ago." Taking out a small square of paper and pen, Ravinstill wrote down a number, checked it over once, and then nodded, satisfied. He handed the slip to Icarus. "This will be your escorting assignment. I'll contact you by courier on the other assignments once you have screened your students and provided me with a list of names."

"Absolutely, Mr. President."

A handful of months later, Icarus stood on the stage before the Justice Building in District 10. It stood to reason that he would receive probably one of the most difficult escorting assignments for its first year out, in what the President had referred to as a 'trial period.'

Ten only had a single Victor to its name, and the feat was still – a decade and a half on – judged to have been a complete accident. Mayor Young now concluded reading the Treaty of Treason and began listing the names of past District 10 Victors:

"The Victor of the 5th Hunger Games: Guernsey Hyde!"

The reaction to the man who still carried himself like a young child was mixed. Many cheered; more than a few tokenly clapped. But there was also significant laughter, with even a couple of boos mixed in.

"Good morning, OK, OK, sweets! Hi, Guernsey, how you doing today, sweets? I'm doing OK, OK, sweets!" Guernsey Hyde babbled, likely in response to whatever the Mayor had just whispered to him in greeting. Mayor Young turned back to the microphone with a smile.

"And now to add something new into the proceedings. For the first time, I will not be reading out the names Reaped. Icarus Trinket, Dean of the Capitol Academy has graciously agreed to serve as an escort for our tributes. Dean Trinket."

Icarus stepped forward, smiling nervously. "Hi." There was an awkward pause as he looked down into the sea of faces and he was staggered to behold what he found there. These people hated him. Hated what he represented. Still, he continued doggedly on. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Another, strained silence. "Now, to observe our twentieth anniversary by selecting one brave boy and girl. Ladies first, I should think." He crossed to the girls' Reaping bowl that someone wheeled closer to him and procured the first slip his fingers came in contact with.

"Viscera Holstein!"

A statuesque, striking girl emerged from the eighteen-year-olds' section. Her eyes and her hair were dark and drew you in, the way that District 1 Careers tended to be experts at, though Viscera's beauty was more natural than tributes from the Luxury District. All that marred her loveliness was the resentful scowl that now remained glued to her face. She glared at Icarus with pure loathing as she took the stage. She glared at her mentor, Guernsey Hyde, who was now wandering forward and babbling her name, "Viscera Holstein! Viscera Holstein!" like a jabberjay. His smile was excited. Icarus tamped down a wince, hopeful that someone might gently redirect and get Guernsey to stand still, but no one did. He supposed the Victor was just allowed to roam free on the stage until everyone was escorted into the Justice Building and bound for the train.

"Excellent! And now for the boys!" He wasted little time selecting from the bowl to his left. "Mane Cooper!"

A scrawny little kid half a dozen rows back from the front burst into tears but was shuffled out of line by his friends and met by Peacekeepers. He had to be half-hauled up onto the stage, weak-chinned and sniffling. Mane couldn't have been any older than 13. Icarus smiled regretfully. It was always a shame to see the little ones go in.

"Your tributes from District 10!" Icarus called out triumphantly. Absolutely no one applauded.

That evening, on the train speeding to the Capitol, Icarus debonairly sipped from his soup bowl, occasionally stealing glances to the downright gentle Victor seated to his left. Guernsey Hyde was playing with a ratty old green lump, stuffing poking out of the little toy and with one of its eyes missing. Holding it to his cheek, the Victor of the 5th Hunger Games made content, squeaking sounds.

Icarus bowed his head into his soup bowl. He had received very specific orders for his escort assignment. The President had made clear that mentoring was not to be his forte, but how would the children be ready in time if their only mentor still played with stuffed animals? How did Guernsey possibly instruct his tributes? Evidently, not very well, as every District 10 tribute after him had come back dead. Ravinstill had assured Icarus not to worry; the Victors had worked out an arrangement amongst themselves. "When you get to the Capitol, find Dell Fonio as soon as possible." Victor of the 3rd Games, District 9, if memory served Icarus correctly.

Across the table, Viscera was eyeing Guernsey with a mix of confusion and barely concealed disgust before turning back to dig into her ribs. Icarus cringed at the carnivorous bites she sank into the meat, and when she paused, her hands dripping with barbecue sauce as she cast about looking for something to wipe with, he intervened.

"No, no! Viscera…" He smiled at her kindly. "The proper way to eat ribs is to divest of the sauce…. Like this." So saying, he dipped his fingers into the bowls of water placed at their left before wiping them along his cloth napkin.

Viscera eyed him with an 'Are you for real?' expression before mimicking him with a discontented huff. She muttered something under her breath, which Icarus could have sworn sounded like, "Fucking Capitol pig…" He decided to politely let it be.

Even after Guernsey made it very clear that this was exactly what Viscera had mumbled by yelling out, "Fucking Capitol pig!" with a huge grin on his face.

Viscera started a little, ogling Guernsey with disbelief before transitioning into a glower. Icarus fought off the urge to smirk. She should have known better. It was said that Guernsey Hyde had better hearing than a goddamn bat mutt.

Icarus was relieved when Viscera and Mane were dropped off with their stylists. Now came what he might consider to be a slightly easier part: babysitting Guernsey.

The special needs man only a few years younger than him was actually quite easygoing, transitioning seamlessly as Icarus directed him up into the bleachers along the Avenue of Tributes.

"Guernsey!" A pretty woman with flowing auburn hair called out as she pushed her way through the crowd to them. "Hi, baby!"

"Acaica, sweets! I'm the prettiest baby in the whole wide world, sweets!" Guernsey chirped, hugging the Victor of the 2nd Games like a little boy embracing his mother. Icarus couldn't help but chuckle. Where did the boy get all this stuff?

"Miss Ivy," he dipped his head in greeting.

"It's Mrs. Ivy-Fonio now," Acacia beamed brightly at him. Her eyes narrowed curiously as she peered at him. "Hey, I know you! Aren't you the Dean for the Academy?"

"During the school year, yes. And many happy returns on your marriage. I was hoping to speak to your husband, actually, about some arrangement?"

Acacia smiled knowingly, taking Guernsey by the hand. "Dell's away chatting up sponsors at the moment, but he'll know what to do! Don't worry: he'll find you, after the parade!"

Viscera's natural beauty made a splash at the parade, and Icarus felt hopeful about Ten's chances as they stepped off the elevator at Floor Ten of the Citadel Hotel, though many entourages seemed to be referring to it more and more as 'the Training Center.' Escort, Victor and tributes stood there for a moment, taking in their surroundings and eyeing each other.

Viscera was the one to finally break the tableau, marching up to where Guernsey was fiddling with the green plush lump and making little humming noises. "All right, 'Tard, that's it. What are we supposed to do?"

As Icarus watched, he could see the gears turning in Guernsey's head, and for a moment, something passed through his eyes. A flicker of intelligence, even of sheer genius, perhaps, though one sealed off from the world. "Supposed to do, OK, OK!"

Viscera's teeth clenched. "Yes. Do. What do we need to do to win? You did it, Panem knows how! How do we win? How are you even here?!" Her voice had rapidly risen to a frustrated shout.

Guernsey's happy face had gone overcast slightly, dimming as he sensed someone else's displeasure. "Visconti no more sad! Visconti and Guernsey be happy!"

Viscera growled. "My name is Viscera, you stupid…. RETARD!"

"Viscera!" Icarus tried to bark. "That is not a word becoming of a tribute!"

"Shove it up your ass, you pig!" Viscera stomped over to him. "Mane and I are doomed, don't you understand that?! Do either of you care?! Do you care that our only sorry excuse for a Victor is slow in the head? No, you just want to see us fight, don't you, you stuck-up, pompous…."

The elevator doors dinged open, followed by the sound of taps against the linoleum as a man hobbled onto the tenth floor with the support of crutches. Lifting his head, Dell Fonio blinked at the furious argument before him that Viscera had paused, mid-shout.

"Evening, folks. What's all this, then?"

It was like someone had flipped a switch. Guernsey toddled over to Dell and embraced him. "Dell, Dell, sweets!"

Dell grinned sentimentally. "Hey, buddy." He glanced down at the green lump Guernsey held between them, tssking. "What happened to Kermey?"

"Oh, so that's what it is?" Viscera scoffed.

Tilting his head to take her in, Dell's face creased into a curious frown. "And you must be Viscera Holstein! You made quite an impression at the parade – my girl Hebna was quite jealous."

"So why are you here, then?" Viscera frowned hard. "You're 9, aren't you? Aren't you supposed to be one floor down?"

Dell smirked. "I make it a business to hop between floors. This is one of them. I also am known to spend quite a bit of time on Floor 7, catching up with my wife." Dark eyes shifting to take in his crutches, Viscera lifted a surprised, judgmental eyebrow that Dell clearly noticed but decided to let slide.

"And you hang out here on Floor 10…. Because….?" Viscera prompted.

"I'm your mentor," Dell grins kindly.

"That makes no sense!" Mane piped up, one of the few moments he had since the Reaping. "We have a mentor… sort of." He side-eyed Guernsey in an almost leery way.

Viscera, however, was laughing derisively, as she pieced it all together. "So that's it, then? The Retard doesn't actually do anything, and we get a cripple as a substitute! This is just… peachy!" She lifted her arms hopelessly, a tight line serving as her smile.

"Peachy! Peachy! Ok, sweets!" Guernsey echoed before diving back into his constant babbling.

"Uggghh! Gods, will you SHUT UP, you retard?!" Viscera screamed.

WHAM! A gray blur slashed through space, and Viscera yelped, the skin on her cheek stinging and then burning. Fire next shot up the bones in her thighs as something whacked there too, sweeping her feet out from under her. Quick as lightning, Dell Fonio was suddenly standing over her, hefting one of his canes over his head, his handsome face contorted with rage. For the first time since that stupid, pompous ass Icarus had called her name, Viscera Holstein was afraid. All too clearly, she could now see the boy who had won when she had been nothing but an infant, just a year old, held in her mother's arms while they watched with dead eyes in the Square.

"Now you listen here, you classless bitch!" Dell hissed, and he swiped his one crutch so that the blunt end pointed at an uncharacteristically quiet Guernsey, who was actually trying to dance around the crutch and reach to help Viscera up, his big eyes tinged with compassion and concern. "HE is a Victor! I am a Victor! Guernsey would never say a harsh word against you, so at least have the fucking courtesy to refrain from doing the same. And you are never, ever to say that word again in my presence, do you hear me?! If you do… I'm gonna lay you out. You'll be able to do nothing more than lie on your pedestal and the Careers can have you as an easy appetizer!" The only Victor from 9's harsh gaze swept over Mane, who was simpering and nodding frantically.

Still down on the floor, Viscera tried to manage a glower, but was quickly cowed when Dell fixed his fierce eyes on her again. He didn't help her off of the floor, leaving her to struggle to her feet, rubbing at the angry red mark on her cheek from where the end of his crutch had struck her.

"I am to be your mentor," Dell decreed loudly. "And I will continue to do so until another District 10 tribute comes back alive. You should consider yourselves so lucky that you have a Victor – poor District 6 has to take one out on loan because they still don't have anybody! Now:" His voice grew more measured. "When I give you an order, you listen, as if your life depended on it, because it does. If Guernsey gives you advice, you listen and obey him. Obey him as you will me."

"Wh…. What advice could he possibly give?" Viscera hated hearing the tremor in her voice.

The light of the moon was bathing Guernsey in an ethereal glow, and when his mysterious eyes – eyes which hid so much – turned to look at her, Viscera was chilled by the haunting tone she found there.

"Run. Run away."

The morning of the Games came before anyone knew it. Viscera accompanied Mane, Dell, Guernsey and the tributes from 9 up to the roof of the Training Center and the waiting hovercraft, her Training Score of 11 – the first ever given – in hand. She had outscored every one of the Careers.

"Don't make the Run unless you see a weapon or supplies less than a hundred yards from your plate," Dell instructed her seriously. "Bear in mind that the arena's terrain can be unpredictable. My arena had no ground. If you can't safely reach a weapon, run in the opposite direction and find water. The Careers will want to take you out first, so don't overstay your welcome. Keep as much distance between you and them until you get close to the end."

Viscera nodded.

Dell hugged all four of his tributes in turn. Viscera watched as he ruffled Mane's hair. "Good luck, lad." When he embraced her, he leveled her with a very meaningful look.

Before she could react, Guernsey stepped forward and hugged her too.

"Guernsey sorry. All friends," he mumbled, with a clarity that astonished her.

Sorry? Viscera felt something that could only be guilt churning in her gut. What did he do?

She was still pondering the question and unable to come up with an answer when she and the tributes were launched into the canyon thirty minutes later.

Spying a sickle and a pair of shears leaning against a backpack not twenty feet away, Viscera decided to chance it. When the gong sounded, she sprang like a stallion from her plate, snatched the lot of it up and was gone in two minutes, pelting into the ravine while the cries of battle echoed back to her.

Under the hot sun Viscera wandered for the next four days, in that time hearing only two cannons to add to the eight that had gone off by first nightfall. The remaining fourteen tributes, including the Careers of 1 and 2 (but not, Viscera realized with a pang, Mane or either of Dell's kids from 9) scattered throughout the canyons, hiding in any crevices they could find or attempting to scale the walls.

A week in, the boy from 5 slipped while climbing one cliff face and fell sixty feet to his death. The Careers found the girl from 7 the following morning, gleefully prolonging her torture out and finally leaving her broken body for the buzzards as they continued to hunt down the cannon fodder one by one.

The Careers this year were strong and ruthless, but unfortunately, about as dumb, if not more so, than some people took Guernsey to be. The quartet had zero clue how to ration their food, and perished the thought of sharing their bounty even with each other. Not to mention the disturbing lack of water compounding delirium and the girl from 1 finally collapsed on the eleventh day.

Viscera at least knew how to conserve the rolls of bread and three cans of beans she had found in her pack, along with a bullwhip. She made the food last and got a precious water bottle from a sponsor on the thirteenth afternoon when she killed a komodo dragon with the bullwhip. She drank the little beast's blood to keep herself hydrated, and when the water came floating down in its parachute, she took a tiny sip or two to wash out the blood's aftertaste.

At the two week marker, the Gamemakers sent in a rockslide that took out three more tributes, including the boy from 8. Thus, the Final Eight was set.

Two days later, the Gamemakers called a Feast back at the Cornucopia. The three surviving Careers, weak and delirious, got back to the horn first to find plenty of food awaiting them. The trio quickly got into a fight from which only the boy from 2 emerged alive.

Only six left: boy from 2, girl from 3, girl from 4, boy from 7, girl from 8 and Viscera.

Day Eighteen: Viscera had maybe a sixteenth of her water left at the bottom of the bottle. She was still killing animals and mutts alike with her plethora of weapons and drinking their blood, so she was holding up against the effects of dehydration and heat exhaustion better than the others. That evening, the Gamemakers sent coyotes after the tributes, intending to drive them together. Viscera and the boy from 7 managed to each kill two mutts, the latter with his trusty axe, but the girls from 3 and 8 were gobbled up. The boy from 2, dizzy and sick, was starting to hallucinate. Seeing a mirage of what he thought was an oasis, he ran towards it.

He ran directly into the coyotes' den, which the dogs had been driving him to. His death screams echoed through the canyon for miles.

The mutts only succeeded in driving the girl from 4 and the boy from 7 together by night's end. On the morning of the nineteenth day, Viscera watched from the shadows of the canyon walls as the other two tributes met on a rocky plain under the sweltering summer sun.

It was a furious fight, trident on axe, and when the girl from 4 emerged at the top of the bout, she was injured and winded.

Viscera seized her chance, silently darting out and attacking the girl from behind with her sickle and bullwhip. Within only a handful of moves, the girl from 4 was a bloodied lump, beaten down, and when Viscera drew the sickle's blade across her throat, she grinned viciously.

A few nights later, at the Victory Ceremony, Viscera stepped offstage to cheers and applause following her final interview with Lucky Flickerman and President Ravinstill placing the Victors' Crown on her head. Dell and Guernsey were standing by in the wings while Icarus Trinket had his moment in the spotlight as this year's winning escort - the first of many winning escorts to come. Dell smiled at Viscera proudly.

"You did well, girl."

"Thanks," Viscera smiled weakly. Her gaze faltered. "I'm sorry about Hebna and Sorghum."

Dell's grin was sad and yet somehow optimistic. "District 9 will get another Victor eventually. It's important that you're here."

Viscera nodded. "And thanks. For the water. Between that and drinking animal's blood, I would have collapsed long before the last battle."

Dell's eyes were positively twinkling. "Oh, don't thank me. Thank Guernsey. He's the one who badgered in my ear until I pooled enough for it."

Viscera's dark eyes swiveled to Guernsey in amazement, who was grinning happily, head bashfully bowed. "You?!"

"Get Viscera water, Ok, Ok, sweets!" Guernsey chirped.

Viscera smiled radiantly. "You did. And you got my name right!" Still beaming, she cupped his cheek, bent and brushed her lips across the corner of his mouth, leaving a lipstick print with her kiss. When she drew back, tears of shame were in her eyes. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you." At her side, she could feel Dell's nod of approval.

"I'm glad you've seen the error of your ways. Because when you get back to Ten, I have a job for you, in the off-season."

Viscera had a feeling she knew what her assignment as a Victor in exile would be, but still she made the point of asking, "What's that?"

Dell jerked his head in Guernsey's direction. "Take care of him. And help him with the mentoring."

Turning back to smile brightly at her fellow Victor from 10, Viscera took the cherubic Guernsey's hand and squeezed it. "I promise."