Old. He was an old man.
Not that that was a bad thing, because it granted him a certain anonymity when it came to the searching eyes of the peacekeepers. Seventy-Four years of Districts all having the same two children taken, and the upstarts from Two had only grown harsher on the dark-skinned majority in Eleven. Another way he was safer from peacekeepers, his paler skin. He was from the scant merchant class, and they were descended from abroad, from One. Not that they had anything in common with the preening boys and girls who stepped up on that stage for the better part of half a century, but still.
And, of course, the weight in his pocket. A 'gift', they'd called it. Another way to mark him out as separate, and as independent. More than the golden hair, more than the nice clothes, the plastic badge kept on him at all times. So that the peacekeepers could identify him, and thus not have any suspicion of issues. It worked, on occasion, and the whiters would pick an easier target. A darker, younger man or woman.
A problem. But, he made up for it. Like he was making up for it now, at the ripe age of 58. Big bag on his bag, more than twice the average age in the part of the city he was coming into. A lot better off than the average person in the part of the city he was coming into, not that crime was as much a worry a it could be somewhere like Six or Four. Besides, it wasn't like he had any other valuables. The bags on his back, but they were cheap.
Stepping into the area of corrugated tin roofs and wooden plank walls, he let out a sigh. The smell, so stale and earthy. He'd been here many a time, once a week since the worst day of his life. 41 years, 3 months, 8 days ago. He still remembered that day, putting it out of his mind as his boot sunk an inch into the muddy 'street', stepping around a puddle.
Another sign, the older man bending down. He isn't what he used to be, and unlike some the years have chased him. his back aches, aches only getting worse as he feels a crack. Still, reaching into his bag he sets down a small parcel, hearing it crinkle. Food, enough to help along. Prevent children like those he sees in line, sobbing as they take out ten tesserae for their five person family, because while one may be enough in Five or Eight, in Eleven, with twelve hour days people need a lot of food. A pair of peacekeepers, routine patrol, eye him up before leaving in favour of easier targets.
Another parcel, and another, one at each door while he walks down the road. He knocks on each door, and as he gets a couple of houses down he sees a dark hand reach out and tug in the parcel. Eventually, as he reaches the end of the road, he knocks on the door, noticing two very excited faces and kneeling down with a smile.
"Uncle Criollo! We missed you!" Two voices would chorus, a tired looking face coming around the door, and Criollo steps in to give her a warm embrace. "Cocoa! Lovely to see you, sorry I wasn't here last few weeks, I've been a bit... busy. The Games went on a bit longer, and then, well."
Her finger, sin cool, presses against his lips. "Don't worry. The kids are fine, I'm fine. They're just happy to be with grandma, even if they're here every day." He nods, opening his bag to reveal sandwiches, which he passes out with a smile.
"Ham, white bread and butter. All real, all capitol approved. Tuck in, there's plenty more where that came from."
He sits on the oddly expensive sofa, smiling. Cocoa sits down next to him, letting him take a sip from his hip flask. "Well, dear. I am glad all's well. The kids look well, I remember the last time I was here the children weren't too well. Medicine worked well? That's good," smiling as she smiles, and gives him a quick pat on the head. "Yes, that would be correct. Capitol stuff works a lot better than what the doctor said we should use, thank you. Being a rich victor does have its perks, as does knowing one."
He gives a nod of his own, chuckling. "Of course. Well, it was the least I could do for you, since..."
Cocoa shakes her head, even as the pair of children rush off to get... something. "It's been 41 years. You've more than paid any debt you had to this family, regardless of how I know you'll never accept that. Pomegranate never had a chance, Ma had accepted that. When you came by that first time, she still thought it was more than you needed to do. That you've been here for the kids, for their kids. More than we deserve."
She holds up her hand as he moves to explain, eyes offering a smile. "And I know you'll say I'm too kind, but I'm not. Now, how're the other two?"
Sighing, he leans in. "Seeder's well. She's adjusted well, and in the decade since she's won she's become a proper lady. Chaff's... Chaff. Not going to pretend he's proper, but he's a good lad. And we've had a good run, the kids. Well, we're proud. They've not lost it yet." A weak smile is offered, before the older man leans back into the cushions with a sigh. "Still. You know what I think, I said it enough when we were kids. I'm not going to deny it."
The two children, giggling, run back in, and he lean down, smiling at them with kind lips. "Hey, kiddos! What've you got there? Pommy, darling, that's a lovely drawing, I'm glad the pencils are being put to good use. Cain," his address to the boy, barely more than a toddler, would be more formal as he offers a hand. "I think that's a very nice set of rocks you've found. Definitely better than any I've found."
Another hour of pleasantries, before the man stands, leaving his backpack on the counter as he stands. "Well, thank you all. I'll see you next week, and you can tell me about your weeks then, ok? Cocoa, don't catch anything, kids you stay well. And make sure to stay in school."
Both kids wave as he walks away, whistling happily to himself, walking back through the town. Back to the villa perched on a cliff overlooking the main bulk of the city, the few buildings above three stories sticking out like sore thumbs. To the villa secluded from the city by the twin runways and hulking hangars of the largest airbase west of the Mississippi, garrisoned by 2,000 peacekeepers and a military presence that would be unconscionable in urban One or indeed any of the Central districts.
Peacekeepers which keep him and the others divided from the centre of the district, ostensibly protecting the wire-ensconced Victors village from people like those who burnt out two of the houses just a few years ago. Nominal 'security' for the most privileged in the district, the Justice Building, higher end houses, all that. Security from the majority population, living down the hill, who might if not for heavy military presence revolt.
He walks through the pair of gates which keep the two areas separate, one on the outside and one on the inside, an airlock to ensure people have to prove their identities. To ensure people are who they say they are, to keep those who wanted money safe from those who had it.
As he passes through the gate, though, the atmosphere is notably more peaceful. Wider streets, pavements, a lower Peacekeeper presence. The streets are cleaner, and the oppressive atmosphere isn't as present here. Even the occasional tourist, getting a view of a more sanitized Eleven than the Eleven he'd been through earlier.
Criollo walks through the streets, waving to the occasional child or shopkeeper with friendly smile plastered onto his face. He steps into the grocer, buys a pair of oranges, and heads on his way, biting into one as the juice runs down his lips. To hell with it, he's old, he's allowed to have a bit of mess. Besides, it tastes great, and nobody will complain. As he walks through the crowded streets, he wanders over to a Peacekeeper yelling at a little boy, badge flashing once he waves it over at the Peacekeeper. "Don't worry about him, officer, he won't be causing trouble again. Trust me, I'll make sure of it myself."
Once round the corner, boy walking next to him, Criollo gives the child a shake of the head before sending him on his way, bare feet padding against the cobbles. "Go on, now, lad. Don't cause any more upset, I won't always be around. Run along now."
He receives a toothy smile, the lad speeding off to wherever he was going, probably this time of the day for his nap. Those who could afford to always slept when they could, on their day off. Not for the fields, most out there worked seven days a week, with Tesserae making up for the gap in wages. But for the several hundred townies, it was a needed break. Still, even today, all the doors were open, someone was in 24/7. The whir of fans was audible wherever one went, cheaper than the Air Conditioning used elsewhere.
No stopping anywhere else, everything he'd needed this week was in the rather large cupboards he'd slashed two children open to get. Was it worth it, absolutely not, but it was better than the nothing he'd earnt in the two years after winning. The two years spent stacking shelves and smiling at Capitol ladies as they demanded nothing but the freshest fruit, until that rather pretty boy who'd become President had come and explained to him that there'd been a change. That he'd get a reward.
Criollo hadn't been back to the shop since.
He spent most of his time, instead, in the Victors Village. 21 years alone, before managing to drag a young woman from a house even poorer than the one Cocoa had come from home. Another 14 years, and their combined efforts got a boy who should never have made it out, out. The three of them lived life as a relaxed community, and the occasional visit from another passing through, whether Capitolite or Victor, was enough to keep them entertained.
He throws a wave to Chaff as he enters the village, the latter raising his middle finger. "Taylor, I'm busy! Don't distract me!" He was indeed busy, kneeling on the roof but casting one eye down as Criollo wanders over. The older man could smell the sweat of a days exertion from here, looking up at his compatriot on the roof with at least a little concern.
"The Capitol pays someone to do that, you don't need to clean out your own gutters. You're slower, as well." Chaff offers a shake of his head and a mocking wink. "No. I'm not going to make other people do what I can myself." Chaff's was yelled, Criollo stepping closer and steadying the ladder. "And you've only got one arm! How's it going to do anything if you fall off the ladder."
This would be resolutely ignored, older man unwilling to push the boat any further due to the static argument it would clearly devolve to. Instead he walked down the road, slight spring in his step even as Seeder rushed up to him. "Criollo, you've got to try my peach tart. Eden gave me a new recipe, and she wasn't lying with her promises! Come in, come in!"
Seeder. 35, now, and still his pride and joy. Ushering him inside, with a smile and a laugh and a promise that yes, the peach tart was good. He sat down, of course he did, opposite her, explaining. "Yes, of course I saw Cocoa, you know it'd be a scandal if I didn't." She laughs, a clear, pure laugh. The peach tart is indeed good, but is for the most part ignored, as they talk. About her father, who she saw just last week and who's doing perfectly fine, much to her dismay.
It's a nice talk, but eventually the sun begins to set, and it's been a long day. Criollo heads home, a slice of peach tart slipped into his pocket wrapped in foil. For later.
Only when he got home, opened his fridge and took a look did he realize that he had no milk. A pretty vital thing, and even the Capitol deliveries took a couple of days. Miscalculation, maybe, misplacement. What Criollo did decide, in the end, was to go shopping. After all, it was still early evening, lovely time for a stroll even at his 'advanced' age.
Just into town. The road was just as he'd walked up, albeit with a few less barefoot youths. Presumably home for supper, if there was supper. Of course there was, up here, it wasn't the lower city. A single peacekeeper nodded at him, facemask hiding any expression, and Criollo returns the nod. Best not to antagonize the lawmakers, after all, that was what they were. They made laws, didn't answer to anyone from Eleven and anyone outside of Eleven wouldn't care what was done as long as quotas were met.
It didn't take long to get to the still open general store, walk in and find the coldest (still barely cool) milk on offer. It took less time to scan his card, have the machine confirm that he was indeed a Victor, take the milk in a bag out.
On his walk home, it took even less time to get stopped by a young man, maybe eighteen. Dark skinned, an oddity but not rare enough to evoke concern in the Uptown. He smiled at Criollo, the Victor smiled back, it was the polite thing to do.
Criollo felt a hand on his shoulder, behind him, before beginning to turn. Not fast enough, breath driven out of his lungs in a hiccup that seemed to last a lifetime. His back was warmer, and slicker, and the explosive force from the strike must have knocked his nose out of joint because he could smell rust. It wasn't a nice smell.
Suddenly, breathing in after the impact, he felt slick between his lips, a frothy kind of slick. A red foam bubbled up, taking him a second to understand this was his own blood. The lad in front of him let out a panicked yell, concerned as he steps in. "
Peacekeepers, guided by the yell, walked sedately around the corner, as if this was an every day occurrence. Once they noticed it wasn't poor on poor violence, however, their pace sped up noticeably, one in the front continuing to run, raising his handgun and firing twice, catching one mugger in the back. The knife chimes as it clatters to the floor, other lad tearing around the corner like a man possessed. The peacekeeper with the gun slowed, his comrade sliding to a one kneed stop beside Criollo even as hands reached out, rolling him over and trying to put pressure on the wound, blood staining white gloves
"Blackie bastard. Clay, after him, I'll get Meds in before I join you. Sir, you're going to be alright, can you tell me your name?" His efforts were in vain, the stabbing had done some damage. Enough that pressure on the wound didn't help in the slightest, despite his best efforts. Enough that the man continued to slip away, quietly, while paramedics from the Capitol hospital in Eleven. District citizens would pay, but it was still cheaper than costs if you were in the lower city. By the time paramedics arrived, there was nothing they could do. Mr. Taylor was already dead, they said. Nothing they could do, and without next of kin the only people informed immediately were Seeder and Chaff. Neither of whom took it well.
After the incident, the Capitol came down hard on Eleven. Upped peacekeeper patrols, orders to deal with any troublemakers in a way that would keep the district docile, proposals for harsher measures vetoed by a President still interested in some maintenance of peace. Proposals enacted only after another incident, some years later.
A more insidious change was bias. After all, it was the lower classes in Eleven, who'd had all but twelve of the ninety-eight tributes sent to the Games, who'd caused this. And thy'd only shown anger and resentment towards the Capitol, except for the occasional.
Eleven never had another dark skinned Victor, even those that had a chance. Eleven never had another victor. Bad luck, maybe, to those outside the halls of power. Enough to ensure that Eleven wouldn't receive the benefits other districts would when their children came home not in a box but from the train.
The Capitol, after his death, tore apart the house. Calling it 'renovations' as the building was remodelled into a museum, ripping up floorboards and changing the lightbulbs for new more efficient diodes, changing a once warm living room into a sterile . The documents they found, notes from discussions Taylor had had with various subversive elements, were stored away in Snow's personal vault. Eleven became that much more patrolled, after all if a Victor could be assaulted nobody was anywhere close to safe.
His death did, however, have one silver lining. He wasn't on the stage when the calls came from Cordelia, the District's assigned escort, twelve years later.
"Pomegranate Madera! And, for the boys," a bare hand reaching down, plucking a slip. "Cain Madera!"
Author's Note: Having only been stabbed once (Myself, in the hand, with a syringe) writing it without the stabbing being stabbed in the hand with a syringe was a difficult thing, and I relied heavily on Christopher Lee's description. As an aside, if you would like to leave a review, please do! It only takes a couple of minutes, and it brightens up any writers day!