Foolhardy & Forlorn [the D9s]

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

Colgate O'Leary, District Nine Mentor

In no uncertain terms, Colgate had been told off. 

Well, it happened a lot. There was only so much moping and drifting through life one could do before someone screamed at them to get their act together. And Col desperately needed to get his act together.

He'd spent the last few Reapings buzzed or sleepy or both, relying on his ability to ignore most of life by easing in and out of consciousness to varying degrees.

Mom wasn't having it, though. Not this year. Maybe it was the loss of Hannah so many years back, but it killed her to see the kids from District Nine die every Games. She wasn't just getting desperate. She was fucking pissed.

Not a single kid had come back a victor since he won. Did that say something about him as a mentor, or about their District generally? Were the kids here just fucking hopeless?

It was easier to think it was someone else's fault. Bad luck, maybe. There were some promising ones in the past, sure. And there was only so much he could feasibly do to help them in the first place.

Colgate thought about this as he descended the steps of their home and made his way to the square. Mom was clinging to his arm, maybe to keep herself steady, or maybe to keep him steady. Her grip was like a vise around his elbow, a pressing reminder of their stern chat this morning. 

He would have to do better. Be better.

It wasn't fair, was it? For the lives of other people to be sort-of-halfway his responsibility, when all he could do was chat up sponsors, give the kids some advice, and send parachutes. It wasn't like he could fling himself onto the battlefield and throw an axe at anyone who got too near.

As this year's kids filed into their sections and the proceedings began, Colgate thought... maybe the result didn't matter so much as the image. Maybe he just had to look the part.

Silence fell upon the crowd as the escort scooted forward and plucked the first name out of the glass bowl.

Naura Tern. Then -- oh, wait. No, a volunteer. 

"I volunteer," the girl said. "My name is Fridae Drummond. I volunteer as Tribute."

What a bad fucking choice.

(But then, Colgate wasn't one to talk.)

Drummond rang a bell, but it had been a long time since he heard the name. He'd have to go through his records on the train. Or maybe he would take a nap first.

Then the second name was called. This one -- Benedict Nolan -- was not followed by a volunteer. Poor guy. Unlucky. He looked shocked, not too confident as he climbed onto the stage. Healthy enough, though.

So those were his tributes: an overconfident volunteer and a guy who looked lost.

The proceedings ended and the crowd dispersed. Colgate went back to say goodbye to his family, then made his way to the train. There was a while yet before the tributes arrived; they were in the Justice Building saying their goodbyes. 

In the end, Colgate took a nap instead of reviewing his records. Really, it didn't matter who anyone was related to; it just mattered what they were capable of. At least, that's what he told himself before he conked out. The blankets enveloped him in the blissful ignorance of sleep.

He was woken a bit later by the movement of the train and the unmistakable sound of the car screeching over the tracks. The time for greeting the Tributes had (maybe) begun, at least if they were out in the open and not hiding in their rooms. To some extent, he halfway hoped they were hiding so he might postpone dealing with them.

Colgate ventured into the hallway, the movement of the train testing his balance. His search for the tributes was not extensive. He sort of lost the willingness to do anything around the thirty-second mark. After glancing into one or two rooms, he settled in a comfy chair and closed his eyes, nestling into the warmth of his sweater.

If they wanted help, he reasoned, they would go looking for it.

[sbeeg]

Benedict Nolan

No applause
Awkward pause
Hand extended waiting for a shake

It took longer than he would have liked to stop crying. The train was already speeding towards the Capitol and he was still blubbering about things he could not change. He needed to work.

Benedict oved through out the the train, loosening his tie and flexing his fingers. What he wanted was a cigarette but they didn't seem to be on the Capitol buffet. Instead, he found the coffee.

He had downed two cups before turning his attention to their mentor. He hadn't seen Colgate O'Leary since the Reaping ceremony and he had a million questions on his mind. He tucked his picture of Alicia deep into his pocket and swallowed back his sorrow. He'd think about her later. He'd grieve for himself when there was time.

Benedict marched through the cars as the caffeine hit his system. By the time he found O'Leary he was practically buzzing. Colgate was asleep in a chair not even bothering to welcome them or attempt to pity them.

"O'Leary!" Benedict snapped as he kicked the man in the shin. "Are you going to introduce yourself old man?"

Lyrics from Let's Get This Over With by They Might Be Giants

[rook]

fridae drummond

mars, the god of war, pretending so serene
he's keeping his hands clean
while i make war on this war machine

A torrent of relief floods through my veins as hands move over my arms, gripping my shoulders firmly and leading me away from the onlooking crowd. My legs follow their pull, and the sunlight is shut behind the large varnished doors of the Justice Building, drowning me in darkness.

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to my new surroundings: Velvet red walls with embroidered silver vines that crawl upwards towards a gold leaf cornice, long mahogany tables large enough to host a feast of twelve left completely empty spare for a single bowl of potpourri, and all around me council staff whisper to one another, trading initial judgements on me as a tribute, averting their gaze as I glance in their directions. In addition to the day to day staff, Peacekeepers stand alert outside every important door and beneath every archway, their radios sporadically crackling words that reverberate off the old wooden architecture.

I feel safe for the first time in weeks, and the irony of that does not allude me. Most people's blood would be turning cold at this point, but I've long accepted that my time is coming to an end, pencilled down in the calendar of a mob boss' secretary. I feel safe because I've managed to bargain myself more time before I meet my untimely end, and fucking hell I'm going to try and enjoy these two weeks as best I can. I deserve that much.

Right?

I do wonder if Ken is disappointed in me. I hope that one day she can understand why, and know that really I never had a chance of living the life she said I was worth. Sometimes the dice just don't roll for you. At least this way I have a bit of control over the way I go out - and hey, I'm following in the footsteps of my ancestors, right? My great uncle was in the Hunger Games some quarter century ago. I guess being a footnote in the history of Panem is better than a skeleton chained to a rock at the bottom of the ocean.

I'm not doing a very good job of convincing myself.

After a brief interlude in an empty gallery I am ushered out the rear and towards the train station. I have no family left alive to say goodbye to, and for that I suppose I'm thankful. One less thing. I board the train and don't look back. There's nothing left for me there now. Nothing worth coming back for. The metallic doors shut and hiss as they seal in the air. From hereon, every breath I take is only allowed by them.

As I walk in the boy, Benedict I think his name is, is standing over the slumped slumbering body of Colgate O'Leary. The old man is Nine's only Victor in a generation, and his eyes look tired from seeing countless faces come and die every year. I lean against the wall behind Benedict and fold my arms, watching silently as the soon-to-be-tribute questions his new mentor.

a careful chosen word, designed to hurt
but will it stir some new philosophy?
retreat or be defeated, baby

lyrics: mars the god of war by the beths