With thanks to deathless . smile, MidnightRaven323, ColMikeFuser and xQueen-Of-Applesx for your reviews of the last chapter.
THE CAPITOL
PRESENT DAY
Golden walls glistened in the morning light, iridescent and swirling, enigmatic as the coiling koi that swirled in the aquarium that made up one wall of his bedroom. Velarius' hair, gold-dyed as it was, picked up the glistening light as he shifted awake.
Blue eyes, bright enough to almost fade to pale as they hit the iris, surveyed his domain. The morning sunlight glittered off his palatial bedroom walls, gilded with gold leaf; the aquarium wall was resplendent with shimmering, scaled decoration.
And yet more shimmering decoration lay in his bed. He regarded the prone form of his most recent fling, wondering just how much surgery it had taken for her to reach modelling stardom. Her blonde hair was bright, but not quite as golden as his. He smirked and rose, stretching and padding to the bathroom.
Three mirrors lined the walls; the fourth was taken up with a huge, mosaic-tiled turquoise shower with solid gold taps. He regarded himself in the mirror.
Deep brown skin, freckled slightly on his cheeks. Silver tattoos of geometric patterning etched into his arms. Relatively tall, with a regal posture and a self-assured smile- and behind him, dark hair dyed golden, braided a thousand times over, the many tiny golden braids pulled back in a ponytail and puffed out in an erstatz halo behind his head. The mane to complete the lion.
He postured a moment more, then went to his shower, tapping a few buttons and then revelling in the scents of leather and spice that cascaded with the golden-tinted water.
Muffled in the shower came a ringing; he frowned, turning off the water. Yes, definitely a ringing; his doorbell was being rung.
Sighing, he made a motion to an Avox waiting in the corner of his bathroom.
"Door."
The Avox bowed slightly and left. He heard the door of his apartment click open a moment later.
Sighing irritably, he grabbed a golden towel and wrapped it around his waist before moving out of the bathoom himself, disregarding the stirring woman in his bed as he made his way to the living room.
Standing in his living room, dressed in a cobalt that made him stand out against the black and gold decor, Caesar Flickerman stood. A Capitol Guard stood slightly behind him at his side; another was quickly and methodically roaming the room, checking for any dangers before returning to his protectee's side.
"Velarius Eppoxe," Caesar said with his oil-slick voice. "It's a pleasure to see you. I trust you are well?" He raised a single sculpted eyebrow, regarding Velarius' bare chest and wet body.
Velarius hummed subtly to ensure his voice wouldn't crack from being used first thing in the morning, then returned the greeting himself in his low, gravelly tones.
"Caesar. I trust you are well yourself, although I am certain nobody could be in these troubled times. I hope you did not lose a loved one in the tragedy?"
"Many friends, many loves," Caesar said with a disinterested tone. They both knew neither of them cared about the dead arena operatives. Velarius had once worked with them, he knew many of them; but he didn't exactly mourn their loss, and neither did Caesar. This was the precursor to speech- the formalities they had to tread.
"So," Velarius said, accepting a coal-black shirt from an Avox and beginning to dress himself, "To what do I owe this great pleasure?"
He had always hated Caesar, ever since he had stolen the primetime hours upon becoming the new Master of Ceremonies.
"Can't old friends speak to each other?" Caesar said with a light tone and a twinkling eye.
Caesar hated him just as much, although he wasn't certain if it was simply because of the rumoured nature of Velarius' illegitimate birth, or because Velarius had once tried to quietly defame Caesar of the same.
"I'm certain that at this early hour you have more to discuss than a social call." Velarius slid on underwear and pants, now discarding the towel on the floor for the Avox to pick up and regarding the selection of waistcoats that another Avox held out for him.
"Regrettably, dear friend, I do," Caesar said, pacing the room slowly and observing the decoration with feigned interest. "I trust you heard of the departure of Head Gamemaker Crane?"
"The Capitol traitor, yes I did."
They both knew he was innocent, but innocence doesn't mean anything when you're dead.
"The President has named his successor." Caesar drew himself up subtly; a rare tell from the usually so carefully composed man. "He has named me."
Velarius controlled his urge to stride over and tear the smug smirk from Caesar's face.
"Well, congratulations to you, my friend," Velarius said with his low tones and a toothy smile. "Have you made plans for your inaugural Games, steeped as they are in uncertainty?"
What Velarius meant, if one such as Caesar was to listen, was that even if Caesar didn't take the bait and feed him information he could drop in his show, he dearly hoped Caesar's first Game would end as catastrophically as the last.
Caesar smiled his oil-slick smile.
"I have a few, my dear Velarius. But that's not why I'm here."
"Then why are you here, Caesar?" Velarius let a little of his frustration slip as he drew on a shimmering golden waistcoat with smoked pearl buttons. It was far too early in the morning to play these games with Caesar Flickerman.
"I'm naming my successor."
Velarius blinked. It was a rare tell for him, too, but he wasn't typically taken unawares.
"You're naming me?" His purring tones became a surprised growl.
Caesar's mask dropped, just a little, just enough for Velarius to see a serious man beneath the smile. "Behind only me, you're the prime talk show host in Panem. Your show gets not inconsiderable ratings. The Capitol watches you. We haven't always seen eye to eye, but this is about entertainment and not friendship."
"Well, I'm flattered." Velarius had regained his composure by now, but he was still markedly shocked on the inside. Caesar's mask had dropped almost completely now, and even beneath the powder and dye and wigs he seemed entirely unlike his typical persona.
"I'm not fucking around, Eppoxe. I don't need a puppet right now, not with the Capitol this tense. I need someone who can actually put two sentences together without slurring them, and that's you."
Velarius dropped a little of his own easygoing persona in turn, straightening and tilting his head upwards in a regal stance. "I can be relied upon."
"See that you are." A threat, a real threat from Caesar Flickerman, reninded Velarius of just how much administrative and Presidential power Caesar now held; they were no longer equals in the game of shadows they excelled at.
Finally, after a long moment of tense silence, Caesar cleared his throat slightly and stepped back, drawing up the entertainer's persona with a slight flourish of his hand.
"Velarius Eppoxe, I name you the Master of Ceremonies. Herein you relinquish all titles beside; you work for the President and the President alone." Caesar quirked a dark smile. "Unless I feel like telling you to do something, of course. Will you accept?"
Velarius put on his obsidian suit jacket, lined with gold.
He smiled.
"I serve at the pleasure of the President."
"So you think you've figured it out?"
Quint winced at the strange feeling of standing and not, leaning a little more heavily on his slim metal cane.
"It's- complicated."
The prosthetic Salvia Kim had given him was far more advanced than the temporary one he had been given. The woven carbon-fibre that encased his leg gave way to an inclined metal 'blade' at the end. The whole thing was rigged up with relays that connected his nerve endings with the machine, so if he flexed his leg as he typically would, concentrating on the motion he was trying to make, the prosthetic moved accordingly. But the technology required his concerted attention to work, and trying to both look where he was going and control the prosthetic was nigh-impossible.
"I'd give you more time if I could," Salvia sighed, "But your interview's in an hour and we have to get you to makeup. Are you gonna be okay?"
The words were so far outside Quint's normal perception that they bordered on ridiculous. "Yes," he murmured, too tired and confused to answer any other way than automatically.
"Then good luck," Salvia said, stepping back and, after a moment's consideration, performing an odd motion in which she bent over, just slightly, casting her eyes to the ground, before she swept from the room.
It took Quint a moment to place the odd motion; he realised he had seen the other Avox do it, and Capitolians in certain moments of formality. It was a bow; it represented respect, a deferrence to the other.
Quint could barely grasp the concept of a Capitolian bowing to a District citizen, even if that citizen was a Victor. He shifted uncomfortably, moving his weight back and forth from his prosthetic to his cane.
Slowly, painfully, he left the room in the maze of the Training Centre as well and began to make his way across the corridor to the stylists' prep room.
"Barkwater!"
The sudden whisper made Quint jump, and the jump made Quint wince in pain. Slowly, concentrating hard on the movement of his prosthetic, he turned to regard his addresser.
An old man stood in the doorway to a room. He was short, greying and balding, with a hand on a far less extravagant cane; but he stood tall despite it, and his brown eyes glittered with barely restrained intelligence.
Quint knew the man. Rufus Warnke, a Victor from long, long ago; he might even have been alive in the Dark Days. He had been a constant in the Games since then; District Nine rarely won, but Rufus returned each year with a darker expression and sharper eyes, indomitable despite the death around him.
He stood in the doorway, eyes flashing with something urgent.
"-Warnke," Quint responded uncertainly in turn.
Rufus' eyes glinted as they flicked to a security camera only a metre away from them. "Act like you're happy to see me, then hug me."
Quint, confused, smiled in a strained manner and tentatively embraced the older man.
Rufus' lips tickled Quint's ear as he whispered urgently. "We need to talk about what happened in the arena. Tonight, upstairs, District Nine apartments. You and your friends have started something big and Caesar's about to change the game."
Rufus pulled back, awkwardly but determinedly clapping Quint on the shoulder. Quint did not respond; his blood had run cold.
"I'll see you around," Rufus said awkwardly. He disappeared back into his room, slamming the door shut.
Quint stared at the closed door a second.
All he could do now to alleviate his ice-cold blood was try to slowly walk to the prep room.
Words, Rufus' words, flowed through Quint's head as he sat watching the television screen backstage. The screen showed the last preparations being made to a set; a comfortable armchair for Caesar and a plush throne for him, the Victor, the false Victor in a false Games. Quint pulled at his suit irritably. The stylists had said his rumpled brown hair and his grey eyes would perfectly suit a cobalt blue; but having seen Caesar pacing in and out of shot of the camera's view, Quint wasn't so sure the shade hadn't been picked out to match Caesar instead. The Master of Ceremonies seemed stressed, if only slightly; his eyes were hard and cold, his lips pursed to a line as he paced and stared at a sheaf of papers, occasionally mouthing lines from it with exaggerated flourish.
Quint hated being on the camera. He had been nothing less than sullen during the interview process, despite Caesar's best efforts to enthuse him during the event, and spending four hours reacting to his own actions and his friends' agony held even less joy for him. Especially in this suit. Quint pulled at the shirt cuffs again, shimmering as they were in a metallic blue. He was used to work clothes and casual wear; to be decked out in a Capitoliate's garb looked as odd to him as it did to them.
A klaxon blared and Caesar stopped pacing. He discarded the papers as the set team stopped moving, walked calmly back to a marker in tape on the ground, then schooled his face and waited.
The curtains in front opened and Quint watched Caesar's smile extend into a perfect toothed grin.
"Hello, dear Capitol!" He crooned. "It's a pleasure to be with you again." His face then fell dramatically, almost ridiculously, into a perfect picture of agony. "But in such circumstances. The tragedy at the arena cost us many lives; many people that we loved, that loved us. We will miss them, forever and always. The 327 dead at the arena, tributes included, shall never be forgotten."
Even from his place backstage, Quint could hear moans and sobs from the audience; real ones, honest ones, brought from the depths of their soul.
"But." Caesar's smile returned, wan but perfect still. "I can now reveal to you, Capitol citizens- someone has survived. Against all odds, a tribute survived; a single one. And they're here now, the Victor, to revel in life in the Capitol- Quint Barkwater!"
Quint had never expected to hear cheers to his name, and never cheers like this. At first there was a confused silence as the audience took in what Caesar was saying; and then there was rapture, and applause, and a kind of desperation to the cheers that Quint had never heard before. At first he didn't understand it but then he did- the Capitol, mourning for the first time, had been faced with a link to their dead, a survivor from the ashes, to console them.
He just wished it didn't have to be him.
An aide pushed him and he went to the stage awkwardly, stepping slowly and painfully into the light. Caesar went to meet him as he struggled across the stage, magnanimously and subtly pretending to help him to his seat. Quint collapsed on his ample throne and Caesar retired to his armchair, and the desperate applause finally died down.
"So, Quint," Caesar said in soft tones, "How are you feeling?"
Feeling. Caesar just had to start with a hard question, didn't he?
"Tired," Quint answered, an automatic response with little emotion behind it. Caesar laughed a little, politely.
"Of course you are, Quint; you've been through such an ordeal, you must be exhausted! I understand the unfortunate dome collapse after the weapons malfunction crushed your leg?"
An excuse he'd have to go along with, bitter as it tasted in his mouth. Quint nodded slowly, glancing down at the flat metal that replaced his foot. The cameras and Capitolians followed, and a sigh of sympathy rose on the air that Caesar caught expertly.
"But it looks like you've been patched up!" Caesar said with a warm smile.
"Yes," Quint said slowly; he glanced at the cameras, and Snow's promise of retribution hit home. "Thanks to the generosity of the Capitol," he continued hastily. The words sounded stilted even to his ears, but the audience lapped it up obligingly and Caesar went along with the words with a nod.
"It's the least we could do for our esteemed Victor, Quint," Caesar said, injecting a little more frantic energy into his tone now that the deaths of hundreds had been disposed of as a topic entirely. "But I'm afraid that even we can't help with everything." His tone turned, if it was even possible, even sadder than before. "I'm sorry, Quint."
Quint frowned. "About what?" Surely they couldn't be asking him to mourn for Seneca Crane? And they, certainly, couldn't be mourning for his allies?
"Your grandfather's death."
Quint's mouth went dry. "What?"
"It must have been a shock," Caesar prompted kindly. It was all Quint could do to respond.
"I- yes," he gasped, eyes wide. "He's-?"
"It's always a shame when relatives pass away," Caesar continued. "But he would have been proud, I'm sure, to see you win."
Quint opened his mouth to speak, and instead sobbed. He clapped both hands over his mouth in horror, but it was too late to stop himself; his breathing had become rapid and shaky, his eyes welling with horrified tears. Here? Two days awake, and here was where they told him? His grandfather, the man that had raised him, was dead, probably from starvation without Quint to help him, and they left Snow's propaganda lapdog to tell him that his Capitol-hating grandfather would have been proud to see him in the clutches of the enemy? How could they? How could they?!
To his anger and horror another sob wrenched from his throat, and he looked with sheer fury at the cameras. He never, ever showed weakness, especially not in front of people, and to do this to him now had destroyed a little more of his own agency. And they knew that.
"There, there," Caesar consoled, and it was like fire on his skin to feel the Capitolian's hand soothing his shoulder. A handkerchief pressed into his hand and Quint abandoned what little sense of propriety he had tried to maintain to bury his face in it, trying to get himself under control again.
They would pay for this. For doing this to him, to his grandfather's memory; they would pay for this.
He coughed to relieve the pressure in his throat, wiped his face and looked up again, as eerily calm as he had hoped to force himself to be, staring Caesar down and daring him to try anything.
Caesar nodded and the highlight reel began.
Every highlight show was edited with a different thematic in mind. Career victories played like war films, triumphant and heraldic in their storming a campaign of victory. Outlier victories played with a rags-to-riches image across their edit, the have-nots becoming the Victors of their Games. Quint's highlight show was edited for the revo alliance.
It was strange to see himself reaped, and stranger to see his allies reaped. Elizabeth's cold rage, Cesal's desperate volunteering, Theon's calculated fight to the front; each was so different, but in the end they had all fought together against the Capitol; except Quint knew that wasn't how the story would end in this narrative, despite it being the most important part.
While the other six tributes were given their moments of triumph throughout the narrative, it was Quint's that held the most sway in the edit. He watched himself run, and fight the mutts; he had to close his eyes as he once more heard the screams of Cesal Nesbin, felt the blood on his hands from stabbing him deep in the abdomen.
And then, the crackling of flame.
Quint watched as the President's mansion, set alight by Theon and Elizabeth, was once more burned to cinders. The words he and Glace had yelled to their saviours were edited out, but besides that much of the mansion fire had been kept in; the mutts, the scaling of the walls, and Elizabeth tying Quint to herself and abseiling from the wall as the last camera went dark.
From there, Quint remembered little of the highlight show other than he was too tired of everything to do something so exhausting as comment. Caesar was forced to wrap up the show awkwardly, and Quint stood as the cameras went dark and the curtains closed.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Caesar said. His smile was an oil slick, iridescent and toxic.
"You're not," Quint said. It was all he needed to say. He did not bother to check Caesar's expression as he left; whether he was in trouble or not.
He did not care anymore.
When he entered the elevator to the Training Center, for once and miraculously without guards, Quint pressed the button labelled '9'.
And the first of the new gang has arrived! Thanks again to deathless . smile for your submission of Velarius Eppoxe, that fancy dangerous tv show host baby with the shiny hair. It's not the last we're gonna see of him, that much is for sure.
Next chapter I reveal my Ivaylo analogue character and what this sequel's really gonna be about, although if you wikipedia Ivaylo that's pretty much as informative as I am.
As ever, thank you for reading this far.