A/N: I'm not sure if there's a coherent story left at this point. Chapter gives exposition to the mentors' experience on the train and Remake Centre. There will be plenty of speech as I attempt to convey their feelings through their own words, adding as little as possible with narrative.
Summary: the mentors discuss how they will proceed with their rogue volunteer, who is not as tough as he looks. Encounter with guest star District 12 victor Poke. Problems with other districts' tributes.
Academy Motto: If you can meet with triumph and disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same.
"Delian," Agason asks, "you must tell me honestly, why you did what you did."
Delian has lost that adrenaline rush that kept him going on stage, especially once he boarded the train, which had air conditioning. He couldn't sit still on the chairs. The sheer comfort and luxury was creeping under his skin. To get more of a response out of him, Agason cornered him in a lavatory, and tried to give him a sense of comfort by re-introducing some dependable authority in Delian. It proved a difficult task, since it was Delian who utterly dwarfed him in the cramped space of the lavatory, and Agason's reprisals on stage had gone to futility.
"I honestly have no idea now. My objective was to get Critias, as for the volunteering part, ugh. I can only say, I wanted to participate in the Games, without really considering the more probably outcome. I just focused on the other outcome."
Agason considers this for a moment.
"Does Critias still hate my guts?"
"Yes, he does, but you needn't worry about that. He heeds his call of duty, and now his duty is to help bring you home. But for now, answer me: why did you volunteer?"
"It's a long story," said Delian, his blue eyes flashing from side to side rapidly.
"We have time," replied Agason.
Delian emitted a sigh, and his hands were holding onto the railing inside the lavatory like a vice, candidly telling Agason that he hasn't any experience in travel. He's a local.
"You know, when I was just a kid," he began patiently, "you, Clemmy, and Critias came back victors. I would have called you a hero, but my parents didn't want me to."
"Indeed? Why not? Not that I want to be called a hero, but why not?"
"I am from the quarries, victor. My parents were my only influence as a kid, and my friends' parents had similar opinions. They told me never to associate with people who lived on the west side of the Square, and on the Blue Mound."
"And how did you know I lived on the Blue Mound?"
"That's one of the questions I asked of my father, and he said you could recognize them by their black hair. It's kind of silly, I know, people dye their hair all the time," he hesitated, but continued, "and my parents aren't, like, important or knowledgeable people, so please don't blame them for their view of the matter."
"I knew this was going to happen," uttered Agason the victor, "and why do you think your parents hate us so much?"
"They never told me. They said it in such a way that it sounded very natural, like an obvious fact. They don't think you're one of them."
"But…"
"But at the same time," Delian added, "you were also responsible for the good times that we had after the thirteenth games and before the sixteenth. I guess it's a lot of conflict, for them. Most of District 2 is very close knit, and we knew our neighbours as our colleagues and friends."
"What about you, Delian? What do you think?"
"Victor, I respect you very much, and I am very grateful for the benefits that you brought to us."
"Fuck," Agason said, "Delian, I am 31 years old. I spent 27 of those years in District 2. Clemmy is 30, and she spent 28 of those years here; she was here before she could read or write her own name. Critias… he was born right here. Isn't that enough to make us one of you?"
"It's really not my place to comment, but it's not just where you live. It's your way of life. You own the mayorship and the civil service. You have the top peacekeeper positions. You're the managers in the quarries. It's like when the Capitol gives anything to District 2, you get the choicest bulk of it, and we just get the leftovers."
"Those are social problems that society will correct. But what's your grudge against Castor?"
"Well, I watch the Games. From the days when District 7 dominated till now, it's hard to picture a twig like Castor winning. I just thought he wasn't the best choice. You saw the victors in District 7, and they're big and strong. Like quarriers here, but you never seem to choose us."
"Castor can use a sword and whip up a furious tornado with it. Can you do the same?"
"Well, no."
"Castor can identify hundreds of species of flora and fauna and give their respective uses. Can you do that?"
"No."
"Well… you do have one redeeming quality."
"Really?"
"You fought tooth and nail to enter the Games even though it means you'll most likely die. Castor didn't want to volunteer. You do. You're the one with the will to win, and when you smacked Critias down, I saw it."
"Castor didn't want to volunteer?"
"He… he was basically forced to volunteer, so he's not technically a volunteer. Critias just thinks he has the best odds of winning, that's all."
The sound of the bogies battering track junctions became rhythmic and soothing.
"Are they all on their way?" required the aging President, lounging in a chair carved out of a solid block of marble. It looked as though it had padding, but the cushions were merely other types of stones, and somehow the President finds comfort in such a hard surface.
"Yes, Excellency," the head game maker replied dutifully.
"About that bit with Critias getting," he chortled, "getting beaten to a pulp, I'm afraid we're just going to have to reserve the fun for ourselves. Where did the feed cut off?"
"Sir, per your instructions, we cut the feed off after Delian declared his candidature, and resumed after Delian walked with escort Cleopatra into the Justice Building."
"Yes indeed," the President smiled, "ah well. I don't think we can let Panem see that, no no no, too dangerous politically! The restive rebels in the ruins might think District 2 was starting something."
"Sir," an advisor stepped forth from the line of servants, back flat against the wall, "I think something needs to be done about Delian. He is too rebellious for the good of the government."
"What do you propose?"
"The upcoming Games are an excellent opportunity for us to dispose of potential ringleaders, Sir."
"Ophthalmologist!" summoned the President, "Immediately make Mr. Snow a new pair of spectacles. He's seeing things that are not there, yet again."
The young man rushed forwards, standing apologetically in front of the aging President. He opened his mouth as though wishing to speak, but the President silenced him with a gesture of the hand. The President barely reclined into his stoney chair.
"Mr. Snow," the President broke the silence, "how do you feel like serving as mayor in District 2 for a few months or a year?"
Snow was alarmed. Was this a promotion or a demotion? The President's principal secretaries and the mayors were technically equal in status, but as the most senior principal secretary, Snow felt threatened. Did the President approve of his plans by sending him to District 2 to implement them? Or was he tired of his presence here?
"I am ready to accept any position you may give me, Sir."
"Answer my question!" ordered the President imperiously.
Beads of sweat was falling from the young man's forehead, facing his most severe challenge in the President's court yet.
"Yes," he stammered, just choosing "I think it is a good position."
"Huh, I never actually offered you the position, but it appears you like District 2 more than you like being around me, I see. Attendants! Take rebel Snow away!"
"No, sir, I have no conspiracies against you or the government! I beg you…" he blurted in panic, his hands flailing in the air, "give me another chance to prove my innocence!"
"Very well then, how else would you answer my question?"
"I very much appreciate your offer to send me to District 2," Snow replied with renewed etiquette, "but I prefer my present position!"
"That means you think I am just out of my mind for offering you District 2? Take rebel Snow away!"
"I beseech and implore you, sir," Snow spouted, refusing to exit the chamber as attendants have politely suggested, "my loyalty is true. I have not betrayed you or have any reason to betray you… please, sir, your confidence in me is not misplaced! Don't send me to the prison…"
The President slowly arose with much assistance of his cane.
"I was about to say take you away to somewhere you can correct your vision, Mr. Snow. You do me wrong. Now, I want to hear no more of your appeals for mercy, Mr. Snow, because you obviously have no idea what you're talking about. The subject of their little escapade here is Critias, and Critias is neither a mayor nor an escort, not even a peacekeeper. As such, I see no reason why it is an act of rebellion. If Critias is offended so much, he can deal with the tribute himself. As for the peacekeepers' inaction, I believe appropriate disciplinary actions have been considered by the District 2 government. Are we understood?"
As District 2 had three mentors this year, the two male mentors were forced to share one room, and the relationship between them was not any more relaxed than that between Critias and Delian. Clemmy had the privilege of claiming the female tribute, according to the rule with tribute-mentor pairings.
"There's a rumour around the Capitol," Agason started, speaking to the nearest wall of the carriage, without so much as opening his eyes, "about the recall. You know, passage of time caused it."
Critias attempted to conceal his alertness to the situation, but failed by a long shot, causing a rustle in his sheets.
"You do realize that Delian is sleeping on the carriage floor, do you? In his own room, indeed, but what we say to each other could easily be spied on. The poor kid doesn't know there's such a thing as a bed."
Critias was talking about his mentee as though he's a mortal enemy.
"Trust me," Agason replied, "if the vibrations of the carriage don't drive him awake, then nothing will."
Critias spun around in his bed like a treadle, his eyes gleaming in the dark, looking at Agason's beblanketed back.
"Well, hasn't the rumour been around every single year?"
"I know that, but this year there have been developments," Agason explained, not turning to replicate Critias' sharp glare, "you know, how it's always been 'will not be permitted', but this year, it's 'cannot be permitted'."
"I don't need or want that option," Critias said in a very low voice, to the point of becoming unclear, "District 2 is the only place I'll ever need."
"Where you live is your business, Critias," Agason rejoined rather harshly, "but think about its implications. This suggests a more apologetic attitude towards us," Agason ventured.
"…towards me," he corrected himself, "and my family, and all these families. I mean, not that it matters in the short term, but what does this suggest about the attitude of the Capitol towards District 2?"
"Are you going to stop positing rhetorical questions and start answering them?"
That finally set the icy Agason on fire, but the strength of the fire was only enough to turn him to face Critias.
"Critias," Agason attempted an explanation, "I'm only saying that we may be on the verge of a major transition in the Capitol."
"What appraise that?"
"Whom would you credit for your victory? How does that compare to the factors of, say, Aquarius?"
"I credit myself."
"Yes, of course, don't misunderstand me, but whom aside from yourself?"
"You're not on the list."
"Aside from me."
Critias was, for the third time today, visibly enraged. The conditions were too tepid for his sweat and the rose in his cheeks to be natural.
"Aquarius lost because he lost his calm, and the same goes for Rena, by and large. They shouldn't have dropped down from the tree."
"Who gave you the headlight sword, Critias?"
"I would have won without it anyway."
"You're the one who knows your game best, Critias, but we're serving Cynthia and Delian this trip, not your bloated ego."
"It was a privilege for them to serve a twelve tribute," he replied with such conviction and finality, Agason thought it senseless to mount another reply, until something struck him.
"Don't you get it? They're ready to accept a District 2 without us."
A woman in a glittering velvet dress was tearing her picture-perfect hair out, whole wads of it, in an audience chamber. Her heels had bent out of shape in the stampede, and her handbag was long lost to the chaos. Tears streamed from her eyes. Her mascara was a lost cause. At the centre of the hall sat her own, only son, on a chair with a tall back. She was screaming at the top of her voice at a middle-aged man in a pearl white frock coat.
"This is all your fault," she yelled, her fists clentched as tightly as she knew how, "all, all your fault. 'More fresh air', 'better views', 'more square footage', my foot! It's cowardise, Icarus, your ignoble, ignonimous cowardise."
"Agason, my son," the father, frightened out of his mind, said, with trembling lips, making his words hard to understand, "I have… I have failed you. Your mother is completely right… I am a coward," he affirmed, with a sniffle. The dark-haired mother grabbed the meanest cushion she could find in the room and smacked the hapless man across his head with it, and she hated it wasn't made out of stone.
"That accursed place, those demented people," Agason chastised, "and now this. What am I to do?"
A silence fell like a pall.
"Have not I saved enough people to deserve some peace for my family," bellowed the Surgeon-general, apparently at no-one in particular, his syllables joined together by his rapidly deteriorating emotional state.
"Agason," the female parent added, "I can't tell you how sorry I am. We promised you that we would return home soon, once it was all over; then your father," she paused to glare at him, who was looking nowhere but the ground, "your brilliant father insisted on staying in District 2 because it had better air, and now you're going home…"
She started sobbing uncontrollably.
"Going home… to be your friends' and neighbours' pawn…" she finally uttered the worst possible assessment of the situation, then collapsing into a miserable pile of tears.
Agason's father felt no need or ability to defend himself against these charges.
"There… there must be something we can do, hmm," the eighteen-year-old muttered, "I mean, people get donations in the Games, donate… donate me… something."
"Anything you like Agason, absolutely anything. In fact," he said, with a seemingly unwarranted twist on his face, "tell me something I can give you now, Agason, anything you like."
He tried lifting his head up to see his child's face, but as soon as his visual focus ventured to Agason's soft, gentle nave, he couldn't bear continue to look at his eyes.
"You… you said, my dear Agason," the doctor scrambled, "you'd always like a peacekeeper's helmet! Ah yes… yes… we have a few here!" he exclaimed, seeing a few peacekeepers in the room.
He bolted towards one and plucked a helmet off, despite the peacekeeper's virulent protest, then pushed it on Agason's head; Agason tried to decline this inopportune gift, but soon it was fully seated.
"Stop, father," Agason said from inside the helmet, "they would never let me bring this in. I mean when I get in… write Aunt Augusta… she could help."
"Aunt Augusta… Augusta… she hates you, Agason. Aunt Augusta thinks you're too noisy and wet your linens too much… she might not," Icarus confessed.
"She may hate me but she still remembers me, and you never let someone you remember die… oh my…" Agason stopped, as though he remembered something dreadful, "die? District 7!"
"District 7? No. Not District 7. I… I forbid it." also piped his father Icarus, who fell backwards with a loud thud as his cranium crackled on the marble floor.
"They're not humans, papa, they're… they're monster, axe-wielding monsters, who cut people in half and quarters and eighths and sixteenths… I'm not doing this, I need to go home and sleep, this… this is too insane," the tribute babbled, as what remained of his strength and dignity also deserted him.
For the rest of the train ride, Critias found no cause to speak with his tribute, while the tribute saw little reason to converse with his mentor. The envelope couldn't contain the barrier in the room, as the saccharine politeness amongst the victors and between the tributes continually reminded. Cynthia refused to associate herself with the partner, but Delian did not see fit to force himself on Cynthia, which he would have done fairly regularly if someone as delicate as Cynthia frequented the quarries.
"Maple!" Agason beckoned, in salutation to an approaching District 7 mentor, cocking his head to one side.
They were at the Remake Centre, where Delian and Cynthia are being worked on. Cynthia was the designated volunteer, so none of this is coming as a surprise for her; Delian was reacting very tensely, however. It was clear to the mentors by now Delian could put up an incredible fight and show, after he demonstrated that on stage, but he wasn't always up for a fight. That wasn't good news, as a fight could be required at any time in the arena.
It's no secret that Delian was unfamiliar with the stylists, who, on the one hand, were captivated by his physique, and on the other hand, exasperated with his fear of females touching him.
The District 7 mentor, a giant of a man, heeded his name only slowly. Despite all being veterans of the Games, there was still a lingering competition amongst the districts for who has the most victories: for victors, it's the only thing left to compete, and wholly in a direction desired by the Capitol. District 7 has produced 6 victors within the space of 18 years, for a record of 1/3, the envy of Panem. The game makers have, however, sought to curb the runaway success with District 7 lately, either confounding them with a conspicuous lack of axes or other similar timber-related weapons or providing them but made them nearly unusable as hacking tools, as a device of humour. Agason distinctly remembered one time when a District 7 tribute bringing down his massive axe on a distraught girl from his own District, but the head flew off. The axe's head. By the time Maple had won, District 7 tributes were colloquially called executioners, and there's no lack of District 2 tributes dying at their hands, beaten to a lifeless lump of flesh, then having their heads severed in one clean stroke. It was public relations gold. Posters of those scenes are everywhere.
After all, nobody would use pickaxes, saws, mallets, and chisels as weapons, right?
"Aga! Long time, long time. You're mentor again?"
"No, I'm just a tag-along. Well, who's your boy this year?"
"Ha! Knock your knickers off, Aga. Meet Drake," he gleefully introduced; the person being introduced gradually eclipsed Agason at a stately pace, but it only made him more menacing, especially in a nearly nude state.
Tactfully, with two hands extended in front of his chest, he backed off slowly, until he glided by the cubicle in which Delian was screaming molestation. Soon, Drake pressed pass the same door, a little perplexed why the victor was backing away.
"Thanks, Maple," Agason yelled with forced casualness, "let's see the girl instead!"
The trio sojourned at a pitstop in the Remake Centre, ordering a few drinks that the waitresses, who obviously were volunteers who wanted to get autographs, served with the utmost retardation.
Critias brightened up just enough so his fellow mentors noticed.
"Ha, I have placed Delian under strict injunction not to resist," he said gleefully, almost as though he vindicated himself somehow, "and now I can sit back in ease and listen to his screaming, while the artists do their worst on him."
"You're not like this usually, Critias," Clemmy questioned, her mouth crammed to one side.
"Oh no?" he replied whimsically.
"You know, he's a blast to talk to, that Delian. He's nice enough if you'd only…"
"Nice," he screamed, completely forsaking his reputation for calm and collectedness, slamming the table so hard that Agason's coffee cup jumped and landed on his lap, scalding him at an inconvenient place.
Critias glared at his two predecessors so hard, that both were searching fervently for new conversation partners.
A piercing scream reverberated across the awkward silence that Critias created, sending a familiar figure into the patio across diagonally from the Remake Centre's ground level.
"Agason! Your tribute is screaming uncontrollably in his stall; would you just shut him up? He's fucking scary, and that noise!" He chimed in with a wide grin on his face. There was something at the edge of his lips that cast doubt on the authenticity of the grin, but nobody likes to doubt Poke.
It was Poke, the District 12 victor. Both Clemmy and Agason welcomed his intrusion, if not for terminating the awkward glare from Critias, but for the fact that he was one of the most pleasant victors around, as long as he isn't annoyed. If Poke was getting annoyed, you know something's terribly wrong; and if Poke was getting annoyed, something is going to be even more terribly wrong.
"Sorry," Agason replied with his arms folded and eyes shut, politely declining Poke's charge, "not my tribute."
"Seriously, either he's gonna kill someone with the way he's screaming, or someone is going to butcher him with their bare hands!"
Silence.
"Clemmy," he tried a different approach to be heard, taking a few strides to circle the trio, using a more soothing but still disturbed voice, "as each second passes, it is becoming more and more likely that I'll be that person butchering your boy."
"Uhm…" Clemmy uhmed, raising only one eyebrow, while turning her face towards her husband.
"You see, because he's screaming like a bitch getting fucked in the five cardinal directions and through his nine orifices, while having a major surgery in his cunt without anaesthetics," he continued, lowering his voice to a venomous hiss that vexed every nerve in Clemmy's body, especially with his blonde locks and raspy breath irritating her skin, "my tributes can't settle down, who are thinking something terrible is going to happen to them! So, if you want your little boy to survive as far as the arena, you better go shut his trap, if you would be so kind?" he demanded.
"Huh," countered Critias, suddenly surging to his full height from his reclined position.
"Well Critias? You think you're the owner of this place just because you walked into the arena with a 12? Guess what? It doesn't matter. You're going to shut him up for now, or I'll shut him up," he paused, then added for good measure, "for good."
Critias first forced an incredulous expression onto his visage, as though he had written I dare you on it. He even attempted to stare Poke down, but Poke wasn't having it; Critias had a brutal but cursory 10 seconds trying to force Poke's azure eyes to flicker, and he gladly failed failed. Poke was two inches taller, that being a sufficient excuse to lay his pride down. Then Critias' knees caved and bowed at Poke's feet, sending a ripple of bewilderment through the room, which was swarming with victors, who are technically equals.
"Today," he declared clearly as Poke was rapidly rotating his eyeballs to scan for unwanted attention, which was coming in from all directions, "I bow at your feet, great Poke. I beg you, rid Panem of this abomination, this disgrace that stains the surface of this beautiful nation. I'll even lick your shoes," he said honestly, bending his upper body down for a full prostration, but seeing a pair of sandals, "or sandals, whatever they are, if you would grant me this little wish, Poke!"
"Sometimes you really awe me, Critias, you really do, and other times you just disgust me shitless. I'm starting to feel for your boy, screaming his lungs out for want of love, even at this point where he likely has only a couple of weeks left," he muttered as he tried to depart from the scene, but Critias shifted and blocked him again, with his face smattered against the ground in humble supplication.
Poke simply walked over Critias, stepping over his back.
Click.
