Sabastian Octavianus (District 5 Escort)
I don't think I've ever been more disappointed in my entire life than I am right now. It's not that I expected District Five to be comparable to one of the poorer districts — like, say, Nine or Twelve — but I was expecting it to be a little more — rugged. This is the first time in my life that I've been allowed to leave the safe and familiar confines of the Capitol — and I was looking forward to exploring the wild, rugged, untamed beauty of the frontier. Or, at the very least, admiring it from a safe and comfortable distance.
So, you can imagine my surprise, my total, soul-crushing surprise when I stepped off the train and into a district that is nothing more than a poor man's carbon copy of the world I left behind. Clean, orderly, statue-lined streets — polite, well-dressed, happy people — throw in a herd of genetically mutated freaks, a couple of overpriced shops, and an upscale restaurant that serves food no one but the chef likes, and it would be just like home.
I have never been more disappointed in my entire life — my kingdom for a reactor meltdown. Or a dam break, I'm in no position to be picky.
"I can 'ardly believe it, 'Bastien. 'Ow did we get so lucky?'' asks my partner, Aurelia. A happy, almost playful smile on her face as she looks up at me, waiting patiently for an answer I have very little desire to give her.
"Excuse me," I ask, my tone flat and neutral despite a nagging desire to roll my eyes and laugh at the silliness — ok, stupidity, of the question. We didn't get lucky. She got lucky — and I got screwed.
"You need to open your ears, silly. I asked you 'ow we got zis lucky.
"When the instructors first told me zat I had been assigned to District Five, I was more zan a little worried," she rambles, the excitement in her voice making it next to impossible for me to understand what she's saying through her accent. "But zen we got here. And I realized zat it was so much like home zat I did not need to worry. As long as our tributes are not barbarians, zat is."
She and I have very different opinions on this. In all honesty, I would be thrilled if our tributes were barbarians. Though pretty much anything would be better than the Capitol-lite, cookie-cutter, bloodbath-fodder currently filtering into the square with their families and friends.
Again, I didn't have any sort of unreasonable expectations about the quality of our potential tributes — we're in District Five — not Six, Seven, or Ten, where higher expectations are usually warranted. But I was expecting something a bit more — rugged? This is supposed to be the frontier, not the Capitol outskirts.
"Is everything ok, 'Bastien? You 'ave gotten quiet."
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just thinking."
"You are a terrible liar, 'Bastien."
"I am not a terrible liar," I respond, mocking her ridiculous accent while smiling down at her like the condescending jerk I am. "You just happen to be very good at reading people.
"No, I am terrible at reading people — you are just incredibly easy to read." she retorts, a hurt look on her face.
"I'm sorry that was — unworthy of me."
"It is ok. I know zat I was not your first choice for a partner — you were not mine either. But I still 'ope that we can work together?"
"Of course, we can," I say, doing my best to sound as polite and professional as possible — hoping against hope that she'll accept my apology and let the matter drop for now.
"So, is zer anyting I can do to 'elp?" She asks, genuinely concerned about what's going on with me — despite my — less than acceptable behavior a moment ago.
I'm not getting out of this until I answer her. I'm just not sure how I'm supposed to do that.
"'Bastien?"
"Yes?"
"Is zer anyting I can do to 'elp?"
"Not unless you can get me assigned to a 'real' frontier district," I answer honestly, my frustration and disappointment threatening to boil over yet again.
"I do not zink I can do zat. But I can try to 'elp make being stuck with me in Five more fun." she responds with a giggle, a playful smile on her face.
"Good enough," I reply, returning her smile but holding off on the giggle for a special occasion. Like that reactor meltdown I'm still pulling for.
But I don't get it. And, after waiting five or so minutes for everyone to finish filtering into the square — another three or four for them to finish checking in — and another two, maybe two and a half for them to find their places and settle in for the 'festivities' — things start to go sideways again. At least by my standards.
You see, the mayor here in Five is a pompous windbag of the highest order, and he just will not shut up. I don't know how many different ways he can find to say how happy he is to be here — or how fortunate he and his district are to have Aurelia and me as their new Capitol team — but he was up around forty when I stopped counting like ten minutes ago.
"Does he not know zat we are on a schedule?" asks Aurelia, rolling her eyes as she leans in closer to make sure none of the microphones accidentally pick up our conversation. "Because ze way he is talking makes me wonder."
"You know, I don't think he does," I reply, trying and failing to stifle a small chuckle. "But if he doesn't hurry up, the Capitol is going to have to fly in an emergency replacement for me. Because he is literally boring me to death."
"You are terrible," she says, biting her lip in an adorable but vain attempt to stop herself from giggling at my terrible joke.
"That I am," I reply, "But at least I'm not boring."
"Zat has yet to be determined," she says sarcastically, shooting me a playful wink when I turn my head to glare at her, a look of feigned indignation plastered on my face.
I have a response to that statement — but I'm not going to use it. Not that I have the chance. Because, within seconds of her retort, the mayor finally reaches the end of his speech and begins the much shorter but still painfully long process of turning things over to me for the Reaping proper.
"And now, it is my extreme pleasure to introduce the two people charged with leading District Five into this new Golden Age. Our mentor, the witty and deceptively feisty Aurelia Veridas ..."
"Remember, 'Bastien — I like winners. Polite, well-mannered, winners." whispers Aurelia, squeezing my arm for emphasis as she slips around me and gracefully glides across the stage — waving shyly to the crowd here and there before reaching and taking her seat next to the rest of the big-wigs on stage.
"Oh, for the love of — how am I supposed to do that?" I whisper to myself. "I can do polite and well-mannered, or I can do winners. But not both. Not in a district like Five. I may not even be able to do winners if I'm being honest, but miracles can happen."
"And her partner, the talented and articulate young man who we all hope will serve as our district's guide to the Capitol for the next decade or more, Sabastian Octavianus!"
So, this would be the perfect time for that miracle I mentioned a moment ago — and again, I'm not picky on the type. A dam break or a reactor meltdown would still be my preference — but I'm more than willing to go with anything at this point — including a random bolt of lightning setting the podium on fire.
So, of course, none of that happens. And, after a few seconds of silent pleading on my part, I slowly make my way out onto the stage and into the welcoming, if indifferent, embrace of the crowd — a small but hopefully warm smile on my otherwise disappointed and tired face as I take my place behind the podium and prepare myself for the fun I'm about to unleash. Why couldn't I have gotten stuck in a real frontier district?
"Good afternoon, District Five. My name is Sabastian Octavianus, but I insist that you call me 'Bastien. That's what my partner Aurelia calls me, and it will be much easier for all of us if I only have to remember one name for myself," I joke, waiting patiently for the small smattering of polite applause to die down so I can continue.
"Now, we all know why we're here today, so I think it would be in everyone's best interest for us to skip over the pointless regurgitation and cut right to the good part. The selection of the two brave young men who will have the once-in-a-lifetime privilege of representing District Five in the Fourth Quarter Quell."
There it is. I finally found the difference between District Five and the Capitol. You see, in the Capitol, that statement would have elicited thunderous applause — but here in District Five, all it got was a small and pathetic smattering. It's so bad that it makes the one I got for telling a lame joke a few seconds ago look positively raucous by comparison.
Not that it matters. My opinion of these fake Capitolites and their wannabe Capitol is already as low as it can possibly be. It also does nothing to lower my already anemic expectations about the quality of the tributes I'm about to reap. It's more of a personal observation than anything else, and it's one that I can wait until the train ride back to the actual Capitol to think on.
Right now, I have a Capitol-lite egg-head to reap, and that's what I'm going to do.
This is also the part I have been looking forward to the most. Not because I'm excited about reaping my tributes or anything — I'm honestly terrified about that — but because I get to admire the stunning craftsmanship of the unique reaping ball they made for the Quell up close.
And what a sight it is. A miniature nuclear cooling tower — complete with gently flashing indicator lights — stuffed to the brim with neon-green slips of paper. Whoever designed it deserves all the credit in the world for their creativity and attention to detail. It really is too bad they wasted it on a crap district like Five.
But I can mourn the wasted greatness of the ball later. Right now, I have a job to do. So, after taking a few more seconds to admire the breathtaking level of detail on the ball, I thrust my right arm elbow deep into the mass of neon-green slips.
Now, I have no intention of drawing this out for dramatic effect like some of my peers. I go straight for the bottom of the ball, snatch up the first slip my fingers touch, and quickly make my way back to the podium so I can read it.
"The name of our first Quell tribute is … Hector Brennan!"
Silence. Total, soul-crushing silence follows my announcement. It's like that for nearly a minute — at one point, it's so quiet that I can hear my heart pounding in my ears — until, at long last, the faint but unmistakable sounds of sobbing begin to rise out of the middle of the gaggle of boys filling the front third of the square.
Unfortunately, that sobbing does not produce my tribute. And, after another minute of increasingly vocal and awkward sobbing — and nothing else — I'm forced to do the one thing I was hoping I wouldn't have to do.
"Commander," I say, turning my attention to the only snow-white specter in the square without a helmet, "it sounds like the excitement of the moment has overcome poor Hector. Would you be so kind as to have one of your men escort him to the stage?"
"Of course," he replies, his voice hard but neutral, his face a mask of indifference as he nods to the pair of peacekeepers at the foot of the stage, assigning them to their task without a word. And they are very efficient at this. It takes them maybe ten seconds to locate and retrieve Hector from the mass of young men — though, after seeing him with my own eyes — I wish they hadn't been able to find him.
Hector is, in no uncertain terms, a walking disaster. He's a pale, gangly, freckle-covered, red-haired mess of a tribute. He has no muscle of any kind, and the only way he's hitting triple digits on a scale is if he fills his pockets with rocks, and even that might not be enough. Couple all of that with his big, tear-filled brown eyes and the fact that he had to be dragged, sobbing to the stage, and you have a kid who might need a miracle to survive the tribute parade, let alone the bloodbath.
The only reason some of the lesser sponsors in the Capitol might give him a second glance is because he has a couple of ear piercings. There's a small but decently wealthy niche among the sponsors that like to support less traditional tributes and certifiable long-shots, and Hector definitely fits the bill there. But even they have their limits, and he probably destroyed any chance of them sponsoring him when he broke down like a baby after being reaped.
Why did I have to be right about the quality of my tributes …?
"Thank you, Commander," I say, doing my best to appear upbeat and happy despite the fact that my first ever tribute is an absolute trainwreck, "and thank you for joining us, Hector. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"I ... I ... thank you," he replies, doing everything he can not to look at anyone as he struggles not to cry while picking absentmindedly at a small scab on one of his knuckles.
"You're welcome," I say, hoping that a few kind words will help put him at ease so we can salvage SOMETHING of value from this whole mess. "I apologize for having to send the guards in," I lie, "but I was just so eager to meet you that I didn't think I would be able to wait for you to show up on your own."
"I ... I understand."
Come on, kid. You have to give me SOMETHING to work with here.
"I'm sure you do," I lie, hoping against hope that no one watching will be able to tell. "You seem to be a rather intelligent young man," another lie, and not nearly as convincing as the last two.
Unfortunately, or maybe at this point, fortunately, he doesn't respond to that. Instead, he spends a couple of seconds darting his eyes between me, the crowd, and the cameras, before breaking down again and sobbing — his body shaking uncontrollably as a slow, steady stream of tears flows freely down his pale, freckle-covered cheeks.
I can't take this anymore. This kid is clearly not up for this, and I'm not going to waste any more of my time trying to coax him through a passable interview. Not when he either can't or won't say more than two words in a row. Hector is bloodbath fodder, and I am oh-for-one on picking tributes. Which, despite being exactly where I expected to be coming into the day, is still more than a little disappointing.
"I um … we're done here," I say, motioning for somebody, really anybody, to come up here and lead Hector away before he does something truly embarrassing. Which, of course, no one does. Forcing me to take a now openly blubbering Hector by the hand and lead him over to his assigned spot on the stage before making a beeline over to the ball so I can pick him a district partner.
At this point, I just want this nightmare to be over. So, instead of rummaging through the ball like I did the first time, I grab the first slip of neon-green paper I touch and quickly make my way back to the podium so I can read the name. With any luck, the kid I just picked will be better than Hector, which is such a low bar I will legitimately quit in the middle of the reaping if they're not. It's just not possible for me to get that unlucky twice in a row, even in a district as god awful as Five.
"And the name of our second tribute is … Shirley Gutters!"
This time, my announcement is not followed by a long, uncomfortable silence. Instead, it's followed by a short but devastating burst of curse words so unnecessary and vile that I refuse to repeat them, even if it is just to myself in memory. This is followed by all hell breaking loose. As someone — I assume Shirley — shoves another young man out of his way — causing a domino effect that leaves half a dozen or so young men on the ground and several more stumbling back into others further away from the center. And, right in the middle, is a young man swinging wildly at anyone and everyone unfortunate enough to be in his way.
Fortunately, the peacekeepers are on top of things. And within a few seconds, they have order more or less restored and are dragging a tall, angry, dirty, tanned-skinned young man with broad, strong shoulders — dull-blue eyes — and a head full of shaggy, unkempt dirty-blonde hair kicking and screaming up the aisle.
"Let me go, assholes!" he screams, sinking his ugly, broken, yellow teeth into the exposed arm of one of his captors, drawing a pained yelp from her lips as she drops him to the ground, clutching her now bruised and bleeding arm.
"You little shit," she squeals, drawing her baton and rearing back to strike with lethal intent.
"OFFICER," I bellow, digging down deep and yelling so loud it hurts in order to make sure she can hear me over the noise and chaos surrounding her. "That young man is a Hunger Games tribute," I remind her, my tone forceful and commanding.
I can see the fear in her eyes as she starts to calm down and realizes just how close she came to making a life-altering mistake. She drops her baton to the ground — kicking it in the direction of the stage and her commander who is standing at the foot of the stairs — before bending down and hauling Shirley back to his feet.
"That's what I thought, bitch," he snaps, a smug, victorious grin on his face.
"You know what, we're done here," I say, turning towards my Capitol producer and giving him the signal to cut the broadcast, depriving Shirley of a national audience for his vulgar stupidity and hopefully preventing this incident from getting any worse.
"'Ow do you want to play zis, 'Bastien," asks Aurelia, her voice low and laced with fear as she sneaks up behind me.
"I don't know," I say, doing my best to stay calm as a still cursing Shirley is dragged kicking and screaming by us and into the Hall of Justice, "what do you think we should do?"
She pauses a second to think about her answer — carefully weighing our options before leaning in closer and whispering so softly I have to strain to hear her, "We need to leave. Let the peacekeepers deal with zis mess."
"I agree," I say, turning back towards the commander and my producer, the former of whom is standing next to Hector with one arm around his shoulder and the other resting on the butt of his baton. "Commander, would you please escort Hector and Shirley to the train? We will be forgoing the traditional goodbyes."
"A wise decision, sir," he says, his voice calm and even despite the situation. "Sergeant, take three men and make sure the troublemaker gets on the train. I'll escort this one personally."
Hector Brennan-15 (District 5 Male)
"Hold on a second," I beg, wriggling out of the Commander's grasp and chasing down Sabastian, catching up to him and Aurelia as they enter the Hall of Justice. "Why am I being punished? I didn't do anything wrong," I say, my voice shaking. "Shouldn't I get the chance to say goodbye?"
"Yes, you should," says Sabastian, his voice flat and angry, "but that's not an option anymore. You can thank Mr. Gutters for that," he says, shrugging his shoulders before walking away, Aurelia a few steps behind and struggling to catch up.
This is so unfair that I can't help but cry. There are so many people I want to say goodbye to, so many things I need to say before I — ok, that's a load and I know it. There's no one I need to say goodbye to — though I wouldn't mind getting to see my dads and my little sister one more time before I leave.
But it doesn't look like that's going to happen — which might actually work out in my favor now that I think about it. It does give me one more thing to be upset about, one more solid reason to cry about how unfair all of this is. I might actually have to thank Shirley for this — once he's dead, of course.
"The train is this way, Hector," says the Commander, his mean, grey-eyes focused on me as he taps out instructions for his men on a datapad. "We had better get you on it before something … unfortunate happens."
"What do you mean," I whine, doing my best to sound as pathetic as I can, "I'm with the commander of the District Five peacekeepers. Nothing unfortunate is going to happen to me as long as I'm with you." I whisper, sobbing softly as I stare down timidly at the marble floor of the Hall.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he sneers. "What took you so long?"
I'm not sure who he's talking to. I don't think it's me, but it was directed towards me. Is there someone —
"Sorry, sir. I had to wait until Bravo team emptied the square before I could sneak away. Thank you for holding him for me."
"I know that voice," I whisper, my stomach dropping through the floor and my heart jumping into my throat as I slowly turn my head to the side and lock eyes with one of the maybe three people in the whole world that I didn't want to see. "Peacekeeper Jackson, what a lovely surprise. Have you come to wish me well?"
He doesn't answer me — he just stands there, staring angrily as he waits for the Commander to give him permission to do whatever it is he came here to do. Probably punch me in the mouth or something.
"You've got ninety seconds, Jackson. Say what you need to say and then get back to your post. I'll be over there," he says, pointing in the general direction of the main desk, "blissfully unaware."
He waits for a few seconds, giving his boss time to get far enough away that he really can't hear anything we say unless we yell it — which I'm more than a little tempted to do — before leaning in close and whispering happily in my ear.
"You know, I'm not even upset about this.
"I was at first. I had been looking forward to punishing you myself, but this is sooooo much better. You get what you deserve, I get to keep my hands clean, and the district gets rid of a problem. It's the perfect solution."
"I'm glad I could help," I say, a sarcastic smile on my face. "Though I do have to ask, who are you going to blame your sons … indiscretions on when I'm gone?"
"You're assuming he won't straighten himself out and turn his life around once he's no longer under your poisonous influence."
I can't help but laugh at that. I know I shouldn't — all it can do is piss him off more than he already is — but I just can't help myself. "Humph! You really don't know your son as well as you think you do."
"Maybe I don't," he says, putting his helmet back on his head as the Commander walks up. "But there is one thing about him that I know for sure. He has a future. You, on the other hand, don't. Good luck in the arena, Hector."
Shirley Gutters-16 (District 5 Male)
"What do you mean I don't get to say goodbye?!" I scream, kicking the nearest peacekeeper in the shin, sending him to his knees with a satisfying groan. "I'm a Hunger Games tribute. You have to let me say goodbye!"
"Kid, you're lucky you can still talk," snaps the peacekeeper in charge, taking her helmet off and kneeling down to help the injured guard back to his feet while the other two keep me pinned in a corner, their helmet-covered eyes locked on mine.
"No, you're lucky I can still talk," I snap, a smug grin on my face. "Not even you dipshits are stupid enough to hurt a tribute."
She doesn't respond to that. None of them do. She finishes helping the guard I kicked to his feet before putting her helmet back on — the one I kicked takes a second to collect himself before nodding to his boss — and the other two just keep standing there, glaring at me from behind their stupid helmets.
"Alright then, let's get this troublemaker on the train," she says, nodding to the two keeping me trapped in my corner and drawing her baton. "Move," she says, her voice low and angry, just the way I want it.
"And what if I don't? Are you going to make me? Or are you going to keep hiding behind your pathetic toadies?" I just learned that word, and I'm so excited that I finally got to use it — and I think it works here — not that I can tell, their faces being covered by masks and whatnot.
Again, none of them respond. So, after a few seconds of trading silent glares with faceless opponents, I shrug my shoulders and fall in line. The peacekeeper I kicked, limping in front — the two starers, on either side — and the lead peacekeeper behind me, jabbing me in the back with the tip of her baton every few steps as we make our way towards the train.
"If you jab that fucking thing in my back one more time, I'm going to break it over your head."
"I'd kill to see that," says the guard to my left, I assume with a stupid grin on his hidden face. "I think he could take you, Sarge. He's just big enough and dumb enough to be a threat."
"If I want your opinion, I'll give it to you," she says, jabbing me hard between the shoulders with every word. "Besides, big and dumb is a terrible combination. I'd have his slow, stupid ass on the ground in a second if he tried."
I would love to put that claim to the test, and it would be so easy to do it. All I have to do is turn around and rip that stupid baton out of her hand and cave in the side of her head with it. It would only take a second, and no one would be able to stop me. I would be halfway to the Capitol by the time she woke up, and I'd be in the arena before her head stopped ringing.
It would be so easy —
"We're here," the leader says, jabbing her baton into the middle of my back one last time as the peacekeepers assigned to the train file out of the car and fan out in front of us. "At the request of the District Five Escort and under orders from the District Five Commander, I hereby turn this troublemaker over to you.
"Have fun in the arena, Shirley."
A/N: First off, I'd like to give a huge thank you to FloatingFerrets and Iron-Doughnut for sending in Hector and Shirley. They're two incredibly unique and fun characters to write and I look forward to writing more of them in the coming weeks.
Well, we did it, we made it to District Five! This one was a bit of a challenge for me from the start, because I'm terrible at writing French accents and I stubbornly decided to give the Mentor one. The pov's for Hector and Shirley were also a bit more challenging because of the unique nature of the post Reaping period, but I think it all worked out well in the end.
That being said, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter. If you did, please drop a review and let me know what you thought of it as well as Hector and Shirley. And I'll be looking for all of your happy and smiling faces next week at the District Six Reaping!