Chapter 48: Brutus Barsetti

Brutus's massive, fine-specimen form lumbers into the Oval Office, noble chin stuck out, head held high, shoulders back. He is, after all, a soldier, now more than ever, and he must present himself at his best for the Commander-in-Chief. When the most legendary Victor from Two since Maximus himself enters the space, his eyes find President Coriolanus Snow quickly, a beam of sunlight from outside creating a slash across his cheek that mars the handsome, majestic face. Snow turns, eyes stoic and thoughtful, lips upturning slightly into not-quite-a-smile when he sees whom he is next receiving.

"Ah, Brutus! Do come in! Have a seat, my good man!"

The couch cushions looming just over the carpet that bears the presidential seal groan audibly when Brutus sinks into them. The truly intimidating and fearless Victor – one who came so tantalizing close to actually beating Maximus's kill record in the Forty-Eighth – surprisingly now looks a little ill-at-ease, lost, while curling into himself.

"Mr. President…." He rumbles. "You asked to see me?"

"I know you're busy," Snow is conciliatory as he crosses from the window, picking up a saucer of tea from the corner of his desk on the way. "And I hate to have to drag you away from Training…"

Brutus composes himself, ready to serve. A soldier's mask is his expression. "What do you need, sir?" An uncomfortably long pause which unnerves him because it isn't like Snow at all, to be so bereft of an answer. "Sir?!" Brutus tries not to let the panic creep into his voice.

"I want to give you a word of warning…"

"Sir, I don't know what's leaked out of the Training Center, but whatever it is, Everdeen started it!"

Snow nods absently, waving the comment away with a hand. "District 12 provoked the Gamemakers again…"

Brutus's mouth falls open. He always knew the Everdeen slut was wound a little too tight (her cunt is probably sewn shut from being so uptight), but the boy…. He's gotten to know Peeta, and although he's a damn fine actor – in an everyone-knows-it's-phony kind of way – he also has some of his mentor's good sense, without the drunken baggage. "You're kidding."

Snow just nods heavily, taking the seat across from him. "I need a favor…."

"Whatever you say, sir – District 12 will pay for his behavior…"

"Ssssh…." Snow brings him back from the edge, like a father steering his overly-enthused child. "Talk less…."

"I'll round up Cashmere and Gloss once we're on the inside; we'll show them who should wear the Crown!"

"Fine, that's fine…." Snow dismisses, mumbling. His mind seems to be somewhere else. And though Brutus would never say so, he looks old, so old…. The presidency has clearly aged him these past forty years and especially in the last twelve months. "But not yet. Not yet. Let the Twelves give us their show for a little bit. Then you'll be receiving the order. But that's actually not why I've asked you here…" Snow glances up sharply all of a sudden, and despite his having a very special mind that doesn't always know when to focus, Brutus stays stock-still and makes damn sure he listens.

"Cecelia Rheys, District 8. I want you to personally deliver the killing blow at the Bloodbath."

Of all the orders Brutus thought he would receive from his Commander-in-Chief, the orders he expected to follow, he hadn't anticipated this. All at once, a memory surfaces, of a beautiful woman vacillating between smiling bemusedly, frowning and sometimes cringing at him during a truly awkward date during the Games ten years ago. Even after the evening was barely salvaged, the best part of it was suddenly finding himself making love with the entrancing Cecelia Rheys… only to return to the city the following year to find her, the rest of District 8's delegation and half his co-workers angry at him for apparently knocking up a young mother. Brutus has only ever seen their baby boy, Aaron, in pictures – Cecelia had named the kid after his brother, whom he had mentioned on their one night together.

Brutus has left a special place in his heart for the enigmatic District 8 woman, and mother of his child. He clears his throat to mask all the emotions boiling up inside him, one of which feels disturbingly close to a sense of betrayal.

"Am I in a position to ask why, Mr. President?"

"No, you are not!" Snow clips coolly, but then just as quickly eases up. He stands again, his back turned to the Victor – one of his favorites. "Cecelia's presence in these Games and her status as a young mother, I fear, may arouse sympathy for the… tragedy in which our Star-Crossed Lovers from District 12 now find themselves. The tragedy of a happy future – one possibly with children…" he places emphasis on that last word. "…. lost." He sets down his saucer deliberately on a side table, so hard that it rattles. "Cecelia Rheys must therefore not be allowed to tarry long in this life, for if left unchecked, she could prove herself an ally to Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark in the arena. Mothers always have an instinct for wanting to protect young children, even those who are not their own." He glances back over his shoulder to recapture Brutus in his gaze. "I know you and the whore have a history," he murmurs in faux-sympathy, "but Brutus… this is for the good of the nation. First, Cecelia Rheys must die… then you can pursue whatever vendetta you have against Everdeen and Mellark. Panem will be sure to remember you well…. for your sacrifice." He returns to facing Brutus fully, rigid and erect. "Are my orders clear?"

"They… they are, Mr. President."

"Very good…." Snow all but croons, even as Brutus nods his thick skull heavily, staring at the floor. "That's all, soldier. You may show yourself out."

Less than 24 hours later, on a rocky spoke leading to the beach, Brutus sees how Cecelia notices Woof fall to him; she lets out a shriek and rushes to try and save him, but her one-time lover cuts her off.

It is an eternal credit to herself and to her district that she stands tall and proud, showing no fear. Though he can discern that her eyes are sad. "Do what you have to do…." she mumbles, goading.

Brutus does. But he leaves her with something to take with her. Even though he knows she's a happily married woman, he nonetheless pulls her close and kisses her deeply on the mouth, stealing one last kiss for himself as much as for her.

Broadcast on live television as they are, Cecelia doesn't have a choice but to melt up into the kiss, her lips as soft and pliant as he remembers them, in order to sell it, passionately kissing him back.

At least Brutus's lips on hers dull the pain of the trident prongs he plunges violently into her once-swollen belly.

"I love you, Cece," he whispers for only her to hear, as her lips grow cold against his.