Chapter 57: Behind Closed Doors

TW: Things discussed in the previous chapter will be mentioned from here on out; I won't be tagging it each time.

Interviews were delayed.

Oberon glanced at the message on his cellular, but it was hard to care after witnessing what his daughter just dragged out of the One girl's mouth— what just aired on the live broadcast.

Everything. They didn't cut the feed.

It seemed banal to ponder why while Mariposa Fonesca fell apart onscreen, her tattered soul laid bare. He'd worried they might when the girl started talking about what were so obviously Academy matters, but whatever the reason — the added drama, the suspicion that cutting it may have garnered — it hardly mattered.

It was difficult to watch. It felt like an intrusion, more so than your typical Games usually were. Not that these were ever going to be your typical Games. But this…

Oberon reminded himself to breathe. In the corner of his vision, Dagmara had slouched forward in her chair, elbows digging into her knees. Her tensed hands obscured her expression. Try as he might, he couldn't wipe the face of that trainer from his mind, the arrogant grin as he proclaimed to all of Panem how Fonesca was his favorite.

Now they knew why.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Oberon willed down the nausea. He didn't want to imagine the horror that awaited the poor girl on the off chance that she made it out. It wasn't something he usually had the energy to spare sympathy for, but watching his daughter care so tenderly for the girl…

He didn't often take into account what Venatrix wanted.

The realization was more jarring the more he turned it over in his head. He'd never bothered, never stopped to think about what that might be. Never really had the luxury. For all the things he wanted to give her that he'd never had himself, he could never give her that. It stung like a poison in the air; Oberon pressed a subtle palm to his prickling eye.

Maybe that was why she'd chosen now, of all times, to pour her energy into someone who could only ever be a distraction to the ultimate goal. How bitter it would be if Fonesca made it out instead. Too late, the voice in his head sneered. Too late to make it better.

Damn his daughter and her loyalty; she'd never leave either of her allies to the wolves. Oberon knew that now— perhaps it was time for him to honor it.

If only she hadn't inherited Dagmara's dogshit timing.

Something tugged lightly at the hem of his jacket; Oberon glanced down to see Dagmara's fingers curled around the fabric. Her gaze remained downcast, though clearly she desired some form of support in the light of these new horrors. And where were you? Where were you when I needed that?

With a quiet exhale, Oberon let the useless thought fall into the void. Something buzzed in his pocket, and the hand dropped; not just his, by the sound of it. 'Makers, what now? He didn't bother holding back the muttered curses that floated from his mouth when he read the notification. In his peripheral, Dag lifted her head. He didn't need to see her warning look; Valorius would have his tongue for that if she'd heard.

She could take it, for all he cared. Now wouldn't that be fucking hilarious.

With brewing discomfort in the pit of his stomach, Oberon ripped himself away from the screen, lightly nudging Dagmara's arm to tell her to follow. They made their way back inside the training center, dodging the stagehands still scampering around the stage they'd erected just outside. At some point, his personal PK finally caught up, gruffly taking point to guide the couple to where they'd been demanded to meet once again with the nation's fickle leader. The officer paused at an inconspicuous door within the lower levels of the training center labeled Conference Room 12, and Oberon frowned at the murmur of low voices emanating from behind it.

Sure enough, when the door slid open, they weren't alone.

Heads turned towards the newcomers, belonging to just about every Victor he could think of. Wait no, scratch that— every Career Victor. About half the population of living Victors; maybe more. Definitely more.

This is worse than I thought.

The thought seemed to be plastered across every face he could see, from Proxima and her cronies, to the Fours, to the familiar face of his own mentor amidst their fellow Twos. He met Callithyia's gaze, but neither said a word.

It was the Ones who stood out the most, however, ashen-faced and utterly silent compared to the whispered questions racing among the others. Even Gervaise, for once, was tight-lipped. Next to him, Alecto's sculpted features bore nothing but fury, but it was Clarion Garnett's green-tinged moue that caught his eye. The quiet sort of pride that usually kept his shoulders straight had completely deflated, his eyes red-rimmed. No one dared comment on it.

After exchanging more silent greetings with their fellow Victors, both Oberon and Dagmara squeezed into place among the throng of Twos at the head of the crowd.

It seemed everyone had the sense to keep a safe distance from the raised platform that dominated the front of the room. Atop, a simple podium sat, almost menacing in front of the goliath of a dark screen spanning the wall behind. In the back of his mind, Oberon wondered if the space was usually reserved as a meeting place for Gamemakers of sorts; wide swaths of opaque glass hung along the other walls in place of windows— more screens, all blank. Judging by the nature of the room and the sign on the door, it felt like the floorplan should contain a long table surrounded by semi-comfortable chairs; someone must've removed it to make space for the gathering. The secondary — or primary, for all he knew — effect of this forced the Victors to stand awkwardly while they waited, clustered within their respective districts. Instinctively, Oberon shuffled himself in between Dagmara and the Ones, shielding her from the side-eyes that the petty blonde actress had the gall to keep giving her. Talk about a grudge.

He felt seconds away from snapping at Luxelle to fuck off when he found himself in earshot of Alecto's hissed whispers. "What the hell is going on? I need to get back to my tribute!" Of all people, Gaspar shut her down. Clarion clearly wasn't going to; he hardly even looked like he heard her.

Amidst the chatter, the faint click of heavy, heeled shoes reached Oberon's ears. He cocked his head towards the sound; not a minute later the door snapped open.

Immediately, the Victors fell silent.

They parted like a wave to let the source through, straightening up like good little soldiers at the now-deafening footsteps. A pair of black-suited bodyguards trailed behind the President as she strode to the front of the room and up onto the dais. Along with his own white-armored escort, Oberon noticed. So that's where it disappeared off to. Probably too much to hope they'll stay with her. The entourage settled in behind Valorius as she took her place at the podium, all stiff movements and sharp features.

A dangerous emotion emanated from the nation's leader. Once, her good eye might have flicked Oberon's way as if sharing some sort of cruel joke, but now he was just as beneath her as the rest of them.

Without fanfare, the screen behind her flickered on.

It took Oberon a minute to recognize the Justice Plaza of District One. He'd never seen it crawling with this many Peacekeepers, not even during Victory Tours or Reaping days. The image was stark against the pleasant, almost pastel aura of the district. Well-dressed citizens crowded the square, shiny white cobblestone peeking out from beneath their feet as sunlight glinted off the gilded edges of the official building.

Even more stark was the tall wooden post, and the man chained to it.

Golden light shone off Gaius Perrington's flaxen hair, the heavy-looking manacles, the sweat covering his face. The shirt had been stripped from his back, showing off new bruises from the effort it must've taken to restrain him; even now he tugged at his binds, attempting feebly to spit obscenities, until one officer slammed the butt of their rifle between his shoulder blades.

Mercifully, the broadcast didn't pick up his words. Something about the way his mouth moved…

The scene bore down on the silent gathering from every angle. One wall even displayed a frazzled-looking but excited Bethia Apheleot eagerly narrating from the square, as if she hadn't just been exchanging pleasantries with the very same man a few hours previously. Her voice overpowered the scene despite the flecks of spittle flying from Perrington's mouth. No— blood.

Despite that, none of the interviewer's words registered in Oberon's ears. He recognized the uniform of the officer onstage as that of the Head Peacekeeper, as well as the object in their hands.

At the first crack of the whip, half the room flinched.

A few blinks at the second.

By the third, they were under control, nevermind the broadcasted screams that came with it. The fourth was expected. As was the fifth. The sixth.

A lone cheer rang through the crowd behind the screen, and Oberon didn't bother keeping track after that. Almost instantly, more followed, rolling into a roar that soon drowned out the man's cries of agony. The camera behind the President zoomed closer to his face, twisted in pain and half-formed words, though Venera's remained carved from ice. It wasn't long until the lashes began to leak rivulets of blood onto the stage; it spilled over the edge onto those once-pristine cobblestones, and yet the officer showed no sign of stopping.

Oberon watched without a shred of empathy. By all rights, Gaius Perrington deserved his punishment. If what Fonesca said was true — and he couldn't imagine it wasn't — he deserved every ounce of the Capitol's justice.

Yet that same hand had aired her horrors so viscerally to the entire nation.

It was easy to feel anger for what happened to her. Even easier to let that anger be sated by the display before them. But at the end of the day, Mariposa would still be dead, if Oberon and his family got their wish.

It was a smart move; Oberon had to give it to them despite the rage simmering beneath his skin. They don't care about her. They don't even care that her story's true, just the fact that it was told in front of everyone. Did Mariposa even realize the power of a one-sided story in the light of the Games?

That must be why they cut out Perrington's tongue.

Oberon recognized it now, the way the man tried to form sniveling pleas on his lips, the way nothing but screams and gurgles made it into the air. He'd sagged to his knees by now, hanging limply from the chains on his wrists. His head dipped low, back arching as he retched from the impact; amidst the blood and razed flesh, glistening bits of bone poked through along his spine, twisting with every flinch.

Anything he had to say didn't matter— the decision had been made.

Oberon's gaze turned back towards the president, her one-eyed stare as sharp and unforgiving as the whip flaying the trainer's back. Her fury was as real as her reaction was quick, but he knew her priorities.

She didn't give a shit about the One girl. How could she when she allowed the very same horrors to thrive under her rule? No, the president's priorities were much more political.

Why else would she want all of us Career Victors in one room?

With a snap of her fingers, the President muted the broadcast, though it still played out in high definition behind her. "I don't think I need to explain how bad this situation is, so I will put it like this:

"Your position is to act as role models for the other districts. The shining example for what loyalty to your homeland can earn you. And they may hate you for it, because they know they will never get what you have. But they will always. Want it." She jabbed her finger at them for emphasis. "Security for your children. More Victories than the outer districts combined. And yes, the privilege to train your tributes.

"But your Academies exist by the grace of the Capitol only!"

In the corner of his eye, Oberon saw his fellows flinch at her sudden shout. He felt the blood drain from his own face.

Venera wasn't finished. "They are not your right! They are a privilege, that I allow, and you have the gall to spit in my generosity so blatantly?!

"I can just as easily take them away!"

Her voice enveloped the room like the heat of a blaze, unforgiving and just as deadly. In the aftermath, the silence had never been louder. The drone of overhead lights, the shuffle of squeaky shoes. Visibly, Venera untwisted her features, forcing a thin layer of calm over her next words.

"I like this system," she said slowly. "It keeps my people content. It keeps yours loyal. It works. Do you like this system?"

Silence. Oberon wasn't sure if her question was rhetorical until she snapped, "Do you?"

Hasty mutters of agreement, "yes ma'am," floated from the audience.

"I assume you'd like to keep it?"

"Yes, ma'am." Oberon felt his lips move, though the sound itself disappeared into the masses. In the corner of his eye, Alecto's rage-filled expression remained still.

"Good," the president said, and still, it felt like a threat. "If even the best of the districts can stoop this fucking low, it is very clear to me that you've been left unattended for too long. So I want to remind you: these are not your Academies. They do not belong to District One, or District Two or Three or Four— they are mine. They belong to the Capitol. And I will be ordering thorough investigations of each one until they are deemed fit and restaffing with my people wherever necessary.

"Consider this an indefinite probation." Her glare lingered on District One. "And if we find any more Gaius Perringtons — either among your staff or your Victors — you will meet the same fate. Now, I hope—"

"Madame President." Heads turned towards the elegant yet careful voice of Angel Vahlsing, one of One's prominent elder Victors. "I'm sure this is just an isolated incident—"

"Interrupt me again, and I will flog you myself."

Immediately, the older Victor fell quiet. Wise move. Oberon had never known Venera Valorius as the type to bluff. The President continued on about the investigation process, but Oberon found his attention straying to District One.

Given that this occurred under the old matriarch's watch, Vahlsing ought to look a little more than just peeved, in his opinion. He wasn't the only one, by the looks of it. For once, Luxelle Harkness's glare was trained on someone who wasn't his wife, vicious enough to scorch her former mentor alive, if the older woman bothered to take notice. Though the details of how One ran their academy remained a mystery to him, Oberon assumed it was at least somewhat similar to Two and how Honora had taken point on the Victors' end until it somehow fell on his and Dagmara's shoulders. Or how Hera Latier had founded and led Three's Institute before eventually passing the mantle down to Proxima. While Clarion and his Victors had almost exclusively taken over One's mentoring duties — much like himself — as far as Oberon knew, Vahlsing still oversaw their Academy, as she had since before even Callithyia won. Though for how much longer, he didn't have much hope.

As far as scandals went, One had always seemed rife with some minor misdemeanor or another. Take Gervaise— even before his petty thievery had become somewhat of a charming quirk among the Capitolites, he'd been pilfering his weight in valuables from One's district elite in order to fund his Academy tuition; the little rat could thank his mentor for exposing his crimes to the nation.

Two doesn't take that kind of shit.

Sure it doesn't, a voice that sounded like Callithyia's argued. That was enough to force him to swallow the internal pride. Oberon could still smell the faint fires of his Academy days' desperation— his classmates were lucky he hadn't needed to kill them to get what he wanted, and like hell he was the only one. Sure, you were far more likely to get stabbed outright — literally, Oberon reminisced almost fondly — than backstabbed or blackmailed, but that didn't mean it didn't happen.

Nevertheless, how Clarion made it out of One's Academy with his honor intact, he'll never know. The irony of the most genuine Victor of the whole lot hailing from a place like One wasn't lost on him; no wonder the poor man looked about ready to wither away on the spot in light of the current situation. If Oberon had to bet, he hadn't heard a word the president said.

Next to him, Alecto's head tilted towards her mentor. Her lips moved in a scathing mutter, and Oberon saw the exact moment when the movement caught Venera's eye.

She paused, heavy and deliberate. "What was that?"

The young Victor swallowed. Color drained from her face the longer the silence went on. Gaspar's hand had closed tightly around her wrist in warning, his knuckles stark white against her dark sleeve.

"Miss Harris—"

Alecto squared her shoulders. "I said—" bravely, stupidly— "if you actually cared about getting rid of rapists…"

Clarion's eyes snapped wide open. "Alecto, don't—"

"Investigate your own fucking people."

The silence that followed was worse than anything Venera could have said.

A nauseating dread seized the room. Oberon didn't think anyone dared to breathe, himself included. An ugly sort of cowardice kept his eyes trained forwards despite the way Alecto visibly trembled in the corner of his vision.

But she didn't attempt to take back her words, even when the clack-clack-clack of the president's heeled boots came to a halt right in front of her. Venera raised a hand, lightly straightening the younger woman's chin. She said nothing, the president. Still, Oberon looked ahead; away.

The backhanded slap sent Alecto careening into her fellow Victors.

A gasp, a scuffle— someone quickly straightened her; Gaspar maybe, or the president herself, because the next words Oberon heard came in her low, deadly voice:

"You don't sympathize with Mr. Perrington, do you?"

"No," came the gritted-teeth response.

"You don't think I should let him live?"

"No."

"Then know. Your. Place."

A combination of anger and resignation swam in Oberon's stomach, but he knew better than to speak up. Something grabbed his hand; he recognized the ring on Dagmara's finger without looking. He returned the grip as the president's voice rang out again.

"Next year, District One will not be permitted to send in volunteers. This will continue until I deem it necessary, to remind you of your privilege. There will be no further discussion. You are all dismissed."

Nobody moved a muscle or uttered a word until the stiff sound of her shoes exited the room.

Then, all at once, they burst into commotion. The sound assaulted Oberon's ears; he squeezed his eyes shut, opening them to find the snap of the whip still dancing across high-definition pixels. By now, the accused seemed to have lost consciousness. Unperturbed, the officer continued in earnest. Every now and then, they paused to flick the blood from their weapon before the barrage began again, their once-white armor covered in speckles of scarlet.

At a squeeze from Dagmara's hand, Oberon finally looked away.

Next to them, Alecto had broken down into angry tears. "—fucking bullshit! I hate them, I hate them, I fucking— The fact that they get to play the hero in public while turning a blind fucking eye—!"

She broke off in a gasp. Gervaise attempted to console her and keep her from digging herself into a deeper hole at the same time. "Alecto, you need to—"

"Fuck off!" She ripped herself from his grip, and Gervaise raised his hands in surrender. "You know where I get to be tonight, Gaspar? I'm fucking sick of it!" This time, she let her fellow Victor wrap her in a semi-awkward hug as more tears spilled from her eyes; Gaspar's searched the faces around him in a silent plea for help, briefly meeting Oberon's before flicking desperately to Clarion's still-stunned features.

This time, Alecto's voice was a whimper. "They're gonna kill someone for what I said, aren't they?"

Gaspar only hugged her tighter.

If she'd been anything less than a Victor, they'd cut out her tongue for the crime of telling the truth, of saying what everyone was thinking. Instead, someone else will suffer for it.

Around them, Victors were beginning to disperse in various states of frustration, more than enough withering glances sent District One's way. By now, the elder Ones had made themselves scarce, leaving the youngest three to bear the brunt of their peers' collective ire. Some loyalty, Oberon thought with a flash of anger. He'd known that Clarion's attempts to reform One's Academy into something decent had left him alienated from his elders, but it was another thing altogether to see it in action.

He exchanged a look with Dagmara and Callithyia. In a wordless agreement, they shepherded the three Ones into the hall towards the elevators, then the stairwell once they saw the crowd of Victors. Morwenna soon joined them, bringing up the rear.

It was a short climb to the District Two floor. Alecto's tears had mostly dried into a bitter resignation by the time they stepped into the suite, knuckles pressing firmly into her eyes. Neither of the younger Victors questioned the location. Oberon held the door open for them as they filed in; a quick glance behind told him he'd somehow managed to abandon his Peacekeeper. Tragic.

Callithyia had already put on a kettle in the kitchenette by the time he rejoined the group. She returned to the common area with an ice pack, passing it to Alecto for the growing red welt on her cheek; the President must've been wearing a ring. So much for Victory, huh? The girl had quite literally clawed her way to the top, only to be met with a slap in the face at the end of the tunnel; Oberon pitied her as much as he emphasized with her.

And this is what you want for Trixie?

It's better than the alternative.

(But was it?)

The day's events seemed to have exhausted everyone of conversation save for a few mumbled "thank-you's." Even then, it took Oberon a minute to realize that Clarion had disappeared; at his questioning glance, Dagmara nodded towards the closest bathroom.

The door had been left slightly ajar in the One Victor's rush; Oberon gave it a light knock. "You alright in there, Garnett?" Too late, Oberon realized he'd interrupted the sound of running water and muffled sniveling. "Shit, sorry. No—ah, no judgment, okay?"

He couldn't blame Clarion for his guarded expression. The other man didn't bother wiping the salt from his eyes, turning back to his hunched position over the sink as Oberon shut the door. Not too long ago, he'd been in Clarion's shoes, except Dagmara had been there to offer her tight embrace.

Clarion, as far as he knew, had no one.

"Look, I'm sorry, about all of this," Oberon said, clearing his throat of the awkwardness. "Your tribute, and-and the rest of your district's Victors too. They should be taking better care of their own."

"Don't bother," Clarion clipped. "They care too much for themselves."

Oberon had always counted himself lucky to be born in a Career district. But it was more than that; the sense of pride that came with Two's nature embedded itself into everything. Their academy. Their traditions. A responsibility for the ones that made it out. He'd gotten even luckier with Callithyia, and Dagmara too, in her own way. Less so with the ones that still needed his help, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.

Clarion, he knew, could understand that. Why else would he be cracking at the seams?

"Still, I'm sorry," Oberon said genuinely.

The other man just shook his head, seemingly ignorant to the new wave of quiet tears slipping down his cheeks. Neither said a word, for long enough that Oberon had almost decided to step out again.

"It's my fault." Clarion's words were barely audible. "Not theirs."

"I don't think—"

"You don't know—" He cut himself off, biting his knuckles. "It is my fault," he continued, resignation once again muting his words. "You don't—didn't—know him. Gaius, he was—he was my student. Year or so after Gaspar managed to pull himself out of that damn crater. He was good— really good— but you know how it happens when there's someone better." Clarion shook his head. "It was hard on him, and I—I don't think I realized just how bitter he was.

"I encouraged him to come back to the Academy as a trainer." He spat the words like they were bile. "I thought it would help… God, how could I have been so stupid? I— excuse me."

Abruptly, Clarion straightened. Too late, Oberon noticed the green-tinged color of the other man's face before the latter made an about-face towards the toilet. He winced at the sound of Clarion emptying the contents of his stomach. Unable to merely watch, Oberon snagged a hand towel; he reached over to pat the still-retching Clarion on the back, but the One Victor flinched away, giving him a confused look. "Ah, sorry. Here."

Clarion accepted the towel, returning to the sink looking worse than hungover. He shoved his face under the faucet, rinsing his mouth until Oberon wordlessly offered him a glass, and he chugged like he'd never had enough water in his life.

"Clarion," Oberon said. "You know this isn't—"

"Don't you dare say it's not my fault," Clarion spat suddenly. "I just… How could I not see this? How could I not know?"

Oberon pressed his lips together, unable to help the simmering anger at the now-deceased — or close enough, anyways — trainer. Was there anything this bastard didn't take advantage of? In the very least, he'd gotten what he deserved, in the end. "He didn't want you to," Oberon said bluntly. "It's not an accident that he hid this from you. He went out of his way."

Clarion squeezed his eyes shut. "The rumors… they were only ever about her. The kind of shit her district partner said, that you don't take at face value because it's meant to be tasteless…" He shook his head. "I can't even imagine what she's going through right now. Fucking hell…"

"It will be worse if she wins."

The One Victor's head dipped low with the weight of the truth. They all knew Alecto had been right. Clarion stared at the empty glass for a moment, fingers tightening until his knuckles shone white.

Without warning he pegged it at the mirror.

Shards of glass flew like knives; Oberon ducked, just missing the crystal shower. "Fucking 'Makers, Garnett!"

The other Victor hardly seemed to feel the splinters sticking out from his forehead, his chiseled cheeks. "Vahlsing is wrong," he spat. "This wasn't an isolated incident. It's just the only one we caught."

true vengeance 151 . weebly . com

A/N: As promised, you don't need to wait a whole month for this one ! Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing, you tell me... Anyways, fuck Gaius Perrington lives. There's no au where he doesn't die for this ..! It's my story and I get to control what happens here, now it's a plot point ! Anyways, it's not like it's entirely satisfying because the Capitol are such raging goddamn hypocrites, so. That's... fun.

We'll get interviews next chapter, dw about that (: And then... back to the Games... We are getting. Close. Very close. To what? Well.

(:

- Nell