Interlude

They come into his laboratory. It is the fifth time, and like all the times before—it is different again.

First he was given pathetic scientists; those that toed the line, showed up his authority—the only breed the Capitol would provide in the nascence of his experiment. Next there were naive Peacekeepers: his guardsmen, inexperienced, inept—told to protect him. Third was a harem of escorts, that served him fruits and a spectacle as he viewed the One Reapings.

Fourth: a cavalcade. Peacekeepers that had murdered at least a man at his command; governors that bowed their heads once they heard that Levine Saros was in town. Escorts—shapes and curves like porcelain marble that his fingers crawled across; that he unwrapped to find cowflesh—that made all his dreams proliferate.

And now there are troops. There are men. They stand and gaze. They are armoured; he knows that they have M6 Carbines slung behind their backs. Oh, he knows.

He knows what they are here for.

He turns towards the soldiers present, first. Scoffs. "What have I told you all? I am not to be held liable for what my tribute does in the Arena."

There is one of them which steps out amid the crowd—the leader? He is a man with a perpetual sort of disdain in his expression, one which must've caught upon his face and resided like lice. Tiny-eyed, pale-faced, obnoxious; he wears a repulsive face. He is the definition of a criminal, in terms of eugenics.

"You are," is the two words that leave his lips. It is irritatingly high-pitched, like the squeak of a breathless rat.

Levine turns away from him, then; that pathetic man did not deserve his gaze. "You cannot. Have you heard of mentors being executed because their tributes have died in the Arena? Capitol Scientists, even. That is ludicrous—"

"It is ludicrous."

"—thank you. It is ridiculous. And that is why we are not having this conversation anymore." He throws his files on the laboratory table ahead of him; keeping his back to the pathetic people behind him. "Now leave."

"That is not the reason why we are here."

What else could it be? It is another snort through his noise; near-bellicose. "What is it, then?"

And then a voice: cold, insipid, thorough—enters his skin.

"Hello, Levine Saros."

Levine does not need to look to know. He's heard the same voice upon mandatory viewings; upon the Master of Ceremonies' stages; upon victory tours.

His mouth goes rigid. "Snow."

He can imagine Snow's smile; too large, unnatural. Red baubles is what it is reminiscent of.

(Was that characteristic of a criminal or a leader?)

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Levine. I've heard and seen much of your work around the Capitol."

He smothers his sardonicism down. No; certainly not now. Not with the President.

"Of course you have."

Snow tilts is head. It's like a snake's; no, not a snake's, snakes are far kinder than that. It is a basilisk's: hissing, rent back, torturous.

"Saros," he says, and it is as if those words are coal upon his tongue. "You made her take your last name, too, haven't you, Doctor Levine?"

He extricates his words from his grimace. One which he twists into a grin, for he cannot be fearful. He cannot be resentful. He cannot be anything.

"I have," he says, plainly, for it is fact; Snow cannot say anything contrary to that.

(Besides. Snow appreciates audacity. Truth. And not dishonesty. What could Levine say: I have, and what to that?)

(He would. Oh, he would. In another world, where the roles are reversed: where he is Snow and Snow is Levine. But it is not, and he can only stew.)

"Branding," Snow says. "Understandable. But you are associated. Do you understand what that means?"

Oh, Levine knows well enough. He knows it when others watch him: upon the streets of One, before the riots had begun. He was revered, respected. The Capitol's Scientist, they had said, in whispers, and he had relished in that name; even if he were born in One. He held the Capitol's prestige; he was them.

But now he is nothing more than a rat, a dirty one, a mutt, a thing, a creature that is nothing. They stare at him upon the streets; disgust shoved like dirt in their faces. Stupid laughs entwine their lips. Some ignore him. Some jeer. Some glower. But what is so clear is this—

He is their pariah for the price of their defiance.

It constricts him. It leaves an ugly scowl marring his face. He is not guilty of how his tribute had acted. He is not his experiment.

(Madison Saros. He had planned every variable—she was supposed to fight, to live, to survive. She was his perfect killing machine. He had perfected her. But she was defective. He could not have planned that. It was some defect in her brain, yes, that was it, not any fault of his—)

"I want you to remember this, Doctor Levine," Snow murmurs, and his chill-cold voice pinpricks Levine's throat. "You are our representative. You wear the face of the Capitol with you."

A tilt of a head. "But you have created a tribute that defies," and then Levine's blood is ice. "You directly undermine our authority. Do you understand what this means?"

"It is not my problem that the experiment was defective," Levine sneers, letting his lips curl upon the words. "My experiment was successful. In all aspects but one. And you expect to punish me for it? Have you heard of what a hypothesis is? This was mine," he snarls, and wrings his hands, turns his head back. "And that is all to it."

A drop.

"Maybe that is so, to you. But it is not so— to the rest of the Capitol. That little 'defect' had littered riots across Panem. It had created rebellion. Do you expect there not to be a price for your hypothesises, Doctor Levine?"

"My hypothesis—" his jaw constricts, locks, hard. "—my hypothesis is practice. Have you tried an experiment without trial and error, hmm?"

"When your 'error' erupts chaos through Panem, you are liable."

His teeth clench. It is ugly, the insides of his mouth; it is putrid. Acrid, artificial, stains his lips.

"Do not think that you are special, Doctor Levine. Just because you are accorded favourable status. We've had escorts; scientists; Gamemakers, even, executed."

And Snow's red, criminal lips lift. "And you, Levine, are not a Victor. You are an experiment. Our experiment. Do you understand?"

He is rigid. He is cold. He is—

"Madison Saros. Your model Career gone haywire," Snow murmurs, and his hand snakes up Levine's arm. Coldness shanks him.

"Did you imagine that there would be no consequences, Levine?"

(And in that moment— he is Madison Saros. Ugly, neglected; dressed in cloths and rags upon the street-grime. Forgotten; a pariah; nothing to her name but a future corpse that would remain. And it is he that had given her a name; he that had given her a purpose; he that took her out of nothing and made her something. I am your saviour, he had said, something twisting up his lips, but your debt is yet to be paid for my kindness. There are connotations, you understand?)

"Of course there are consequences."

And Levine does not know whether those words exit his lips or if those words are Snow's—all he knows is Madison Saros, in his head. He made her; he was her engraver; he saved her—

(And she had returned the favour.)

He laughs, then. It is an explosion out of his lips; it is a laugh, and then it is another, and it does not stop gargling out of his throat. For oh, of course:

She is his beginning. She is his end.

And when the bullets engulf Levine, he is laughing still. Blood lets out of his lips, in their frenzied chuckle, and he is laughing, laughing, he is laughing wild.

He is laughing red.

…

…

…

Snow looks down at the corpse underneath him. His face wrinkles in tautness.

"Dispose of him," he mutters, and the soldiers by his side scurry to retrieve the body. Levine Saros, and disgust festers in his chest. The world was better without him.

He looks away from the laboratory. It was a pathetic sort of place; spartan, sterile, so devoid of life. Yet it had spawned a catastrophe for him to grapple.

He waits for them to wrap the body in white tarp; waits for them to drag the corpse and any evidence of Saros's death to disappear. Till he is watching a burning laboratory, and the only one left is the Head Peacekeeper, Rothford, next to him.

"Any more commands, sir?"

Snow lets his emotions pass, first. Flashes of flame; of cold verglas; of putrid waste and pungent stenches. He waits. Waits until he is impartial and his feelings he can continain.

"Continue the search for Madison Saros's body. And be quiet about it."

Rothford nods—solemn. Eyes level; unquestioning.

Snow leaves the burning laboratory behind. There is no more chaos for him to clean up there.

A/N: Interlude time! I did promise this update, and here it is! What do you think it means? Let me know in a review!

Next Update: Night Before/Launch. 2nd September.

Thank you so much for reading! A huge shoutout to Slytherindauntless for your reviews; ugh it honestly made my day and more - I appreciated them so much! And my regular reviewers, of course (Joseph, totally not looking at you) - I appreciate you all so much. And my readers too - always.