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Challenges 2 - The Phantom Librarian
Spewing out too many words since November 2003
fernwithy
fernwithy
Challenges 2
what is going through Johanna's head as she watches the warangal the starsquad while she's stuck in D13? for Anon



There's not much to do in the loony bin.

Okay, technically -- which seems to be the only language Thirteen speaks -- it's the Long Term Care Ward for Mentally Compromised Citizens, sometimes jauntily shortened to "Long Term Ward," but everyone knows what it is: It's where you get stashed when you don't fall in line.

Or if you had screaming hysterics in a simulated rainstorm, I guess.

In the military, they probably -- to my annoyance -- have a point. If I don't beat the water thing, I'll end up giving us up the first time there's a light fog in the Capitol. In the real world, there might even be a point to it. But where in this goddamned warren am I going to run into a spontaneous rainstorm in day to day life?

It's not, of course, that anyone is expending any energy trying to solve the problem. One of Peeta's shrinks came down and tried to work on me with behavioral therapy, but we'd barely gotten started when Coin's pet shrink, Webb, came in screaming about interfering with his patient.

I don't know what his game is. He seems to completely believe that he's doing what's best for me. At the same time, our entire therapeutic relationship has been him assuring me that I'm safe here in the paradise of District Thirteen, where everyone is equal, and of him finding more creative ways to ask exactly how I was abused in the Capitol. I asked him point blank once if he wanted to know if they raped me, and he denied it, but I could see an annoying little gleam in his eyes, like he hoped I was about to start talking about how many times and in what creative ways. I think he might be actively disappointed to know that I was just beaten, shocked, cut, starved, shackled to a wall for days, drugged, prodded with needles, forced to listen to them torturing Peeta and murdering the Avoxes, and threatened with death repeatedly. You know, little things. Nothing he can consult with his Little Shrinker about in the dark hour of the night.

At any rate, he seems to have decided that I'm unfixable, though he comes down once a day to try and make me cough up more details, on the theory that if I "face" everything, I may be able to get past it. I'm guessing he's not really too hopeful, since my "denial" -- not to mention my irritation at having a schedule tattooed into my arm every day, my food being rationed to the ounce, and my wardrobe consisting of five gray jumpsuits -- has landed me here in Long Term. I'm fairly sure that I'll be let out as soon as they believe that I love Big Sister, but I can't muster the energy to put on the act. At least Snow never expected me to pretend to like him.

I grimace. If my brain is inclined to be charitable to the man who sat in my cell eating an exquisitely prepared Cornish hen while his lackeys cut me, maybe I belong in the loony bin.

Or maybe everyone else does. My first year as a rebel, Blight decided that we should ally with the out district raiders. I got pulled along with him, even though Jack Anderson said it was a bad idea and turned out to be catastrophically right, which at least had some of us on edge about it and ready to fight if it came to it when things went south. (Our alleged "allies" attacking the relief train going to Twelve woke us up, but by then, it was too late to do much more than disown the alliance.)

No one vetted Plutarch's shiny new friends, though. I wrote off the old rumors about the Dark Days as Capitol propaganda myself. I have a feeling that if Haymitch hadn't spent so much of the last year trying to keep Katniss and Peeta from setting things off the wrong way, he'd have had his hackles raised by it -- his hackles are easily raised, and usually right -- but instead, he was running interference, trying to keep his victors safe and deal with their new head Peacekeeper, and I have a feeling that he didn't spend much time really thinking about the subject. Finnick was cautious, but he always wants to assume the best. I wanted them to be vicious and merciless. Dictatorial and petty didn't occur to me.

There's a slight change in the air as the door opens for the shift change. I smile when I hear Prim Everdeen greet the old nurse. I never would have thought, when I watched the 74th reaping, that the screaming little girl would, in a year and a half, turn tougher than some of the victors I've known. The door closes again, and Prim says, "You up, Johanna?"

I sit up, get out of bed, and stretch. "About time. It's really boring pretending to be unconscious."

She takes her place behind the counter as I walk over. "I'll report that you're showing signs of improvement."

"Like what?"

She thinks about it. "Genuine gratitude for the care you're receiving?"

"Well, I'm grateful that you switched out that anti-psycho stuff for saline. I'd be even more grateful if you'd get me some morphling. My nerves…"

"Are physically fine, and drying Haymitch out was enough training for me on withdrawal treatment." She flips on the television at the nurses' station. "There's a new propo out. Want to see it?"

"Aren't you worried that it'll upset me beyond my capacity to endure?"

"If Snow didn't hit your endurance level, I doubt Finnick and Katniss will," she says dryly.

"I don't know. I lived with Katniss. She's pretty trying."

Prim grins. I like that she doesn't pussyfoot around things, and will even joke with me. It's a relief not to be treated like a hand grenade with the pin pulled.

She flips on the television and gives me the second set of earphones. She'd most likely lose her position for this, but I have a feeling that Coin thinks it's been sufficient to bribe her with medical training. There's no sign of anyone watching her.

"So, what are they doing? Walking through dark alleys and looking menacing again?" I ask.

She shakes her head. The video starts. They seem to be walking through a mid-income neighborhood not too far from the tracks. I dated a comedian once who lived here. Katniss is firing at a the pink glass façade of one of the houses. Finnick climbs the fire escape and pauses at the top, weapon raised beside an emergency exit door. By the looks of it, no one's been in the building for a while. There's some garbage on the platform where he's standing, but it looks pretty well rotted. There are broken windows partway down the building, and the curtains fluttering out of them are discolored and partly rotted.

"I guess they're keeping them off the front lines," Prim says.

"Katniss said they would. I'm surprised she hasn't bolted yet."

Prim looks up, her eyes wide, and for a second, she's the frightened girl from the reaping. Then she smiles nervously. "My sister, break the rules? Never."

"Oh, right. She just changes the rules."

Prim swallows hard, and goes back to watching the propo, where the Leeg sisters (a pair of twins I met extremely briefly during training) are aiming machine guns at a little art gallery I've visited. Someone has covered the name of it with a sign for Peacekeeper recruiting.

I guess this is where they'd have stuck me, anyway. Making little videos that any Capitolite with sense (which is a surprising proportion) will know are staged, and which district people are not, I hope, dumb enough to buy .

Well, maybe I hope they'll buy in (I didn't keep my mouth shut for weeks in the Capitol on the hope that we'd lose), but it's not exactly comforting to think that we're pinning our psy-ops strategy on people being really unobservant.

On the other hand, wandering around the Capitol and shooting at unoccupied buildings is more than I'm doing stuck here. All I wanted was to go shoot a few of the Peacekeepers at the prison. It didn't seem like too much to ask after taking their beatings.

Prim turns the volume down as Boggs runs from a bomb he's planted in a newspaper kiosk (where I can clearly see a two-week old headline) and mimes that everyone should duck. The propo cuts to an explosion, which fades to the text, "It's Fire Season." Not terribly inspiring.

"Guess the buildings was lookin' at 'em pert," Prim says, overdoing the weird District Twelve accent, which I only notice when the people I'm talking to are either exhausted or, in Haymitch's case, drunk.

I've always been disappointed that there's no distinct accent from Seven -- the townies have a lot of stink-related slang from the paper mill and out in the lumber camps, we have a kind of sing-songy rhythm, but no one on the outside recognizes them enough to parody -- so I just say, "Yeah, well, you can hardly let them get away with that."

"You never know where it would lead," Prim agrees.

There's no logical place for the joke to go, since empty buildings don't do anything that could even be a punchline. I press the button to replay. Katniss shoots out the glass again. Finnick climbs the fire escape. Boggs blows the art gallery.

It's not right. It's the Capitol. I figured it would be one big arena if anyone tried to invade.

"What is it?" Prim asks.

I shrug. "Probably victor psychosis."

"Which is?"

"You start to think everything's a trap. Don't tell me Katniss didn't spend the year between the Games waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"She did."

I shrug. "So, it's too quiet. I don't like it."

"You want me to tell someone?"

"No. Haymitch will have mentioned it."

"They're not listening to Haymitch."

"That's never smart."

Prim looks at the fading explosion. "Do you think I should find a way to mention it?"

I think about it. "No. They'll figure out it came from me, and you'll be in trouble. Besides, Finnick and Katniss are there. They'll see it faster than the command structure."

"Okay," Prim says.

She switches to the live network feed, and we spend the next two hours watching an earnest young woman tell us how to make our cramped quarters feel spacious, then Prim gets me tucked away with my IV tubes in before Webb arrives for my daily interrogation.


How did the winner of the 25th Hunger Games become the host of the 32nd Hunger Games without anyone noticing? How did the people of his district not notice, or Games junkies, or Snow? for Tom



Coriolanus Snow arranged for my disappearance eight months before he became president.

I think he had an idea that it would be a real disappearance, like the ones that have happened to several other people who've witnessed some of his shenanigans in the Gamemakers' headquarters. Candria's gotten none-too-veiled threats about sharing information she might or might not have come by in her capacity as executive producer of the whole lousy thing.

"Charlie, the things I could tell you…" she started a few days before Snow came to my door, then shook her head and said, "It's better if you don't know."

But I did know. I'd already spent three and a half years as her unofficial gopher, which Snow has always said is beneath the station of Quell victor ("You're not even on camera! It's practically manual labor!"), but the alternative was going back to District Five. It will be a cold day in hell before I go back there.

So I fetched coffee and helped with the set and learned about the cameras and the sound equipment. I helped her go through the tribute files every year to see what we could draw out in interviews. I talked to the three victors after me before they went out and watched their videos. I even had a brief affair with Sandi Matta from Four, and until the Decree came out we'd talked about moving in together in the Capitol. She liked it here, despite the Games.

Then, shortly after Brilliant Grey from One became the victor of the Twenty-Eighth Hunger Games, President Clemm decided that District citizens were getting cocky, and getting too comfortable enjoying the benefits of Capitol trips. Then came the fire in the Games compound.

I've wondered on and off if Snow or Clemm actually set the thing so they'd have an excuse to expel non-citizens from the Capitol, but I don't think I need to go that far. They pushed and pushed, and eventually, someone pushed back. I am pretty sure they were waiting for this opportunity, because it took about twenty-four hours for Clemm to disband the remains of the District Council (already stripped of all of its meaningful powers after the war), arrest a gang of six transient workers who proudly claimed responsibility, and issue the Decree of Departure, which required all non-citizens to prove that they were necessary to the functioning of the Capitol to have permission to stay. Most couldn't do so to Clemm's satisfaction.

I didn't bother with the paperwork.

When the Peacekeepers came to collect me and try to force me onto a train back to Five, I fought back, grabbed one of their guns, and used it to pistol-whip two of them unconscious before Coriolanus showed up, furious. I remember that, quite absurdly, he told me, "You can't do that."

I pointed the gun at him.

Give the devil his due -- the man didn't flinch. He actually laughed. I told him I'd rather be in jail in the Capitol than back in the district that voted me into the arena to die. He told me that there was no way a victor would end up in prison.

That was a flat lie. It may not be a prison that other people would recognize, but I know what it is well enough. Snow doesn’t even pretend that it isn't true.

If I wouldn't leave and I couldn't stay, the only obvious solution was that I'd cease to exist. To this end, he took my apartment, put me in Candria's care, and forbade me to leave the house. Candria didn't like it one bit, but he had hooks in a lot of members of her family. She liked me all right, but I was just one of the tributes in the end. Sometimes, she would open a curtain in my quarters in a furtive kind of way and let me look out. Often, she'd bring me a paper or let me watch television.

The official story was that I'd gotten on the train cheerfully as ordered (Snow found a good lookalike), but disappeared mysteriously before reaching the Rotation in Six. There was massive mourning. My old roommate at the Community Home in Five was interviewed, and the prick managed to make it sound like we were friends -- like he hadn't been running around with a fake coffin when I was reaped, talking about Capitol toadies getting what came to them.

I watched the Twenty-Ninth Games (Hennessey Doolin from Four) and the Thirtieth (Hector Whiting from Nine) imprisoned in my suite of fine rooms. Between them, Clemm "chose" to step down, and Snow became president. He immediately took initiative to put his foot down even harder on the districts, constantly producing propaganda and empty headed entertainment made to belittle them. I couldn't see how that was going to help anything.

When Candria would come down to talk to me (she genuinely wanted to keep me company to keep me from going crazy), I started making suggestions on how to improve the show part of it. I never meant to become entwined with the Games. I was just interested in the showmanship, and bored out of my skull. She used some of my suggestions.

The rooms were bugged.

It was most likely Snow who decided that it would be amusing to make me take Candria's place. I doubt it occurred to him that I could use it for anything.

For the year after the thirtieth Games, I got a series of cosmetic surgeries -- a lift around my eyes, reshaping my cheekbones, injecting something into my chin to make it more square. There was even a pigmentation change, which turned my eyes from green to brown, and lightened my skin several shades and gave it a kind of greenish undertone instead of its natural ruddy tone. He left my black hair alone. I was the one who decided to start changing its color every year.

There was one clear point: I was not Charlie Flynn.

We agreed on that one. He didn't want the idea getting out that he'd let a victor, of all people, get away with staying in the Capitol. I just didn't want Five thinking it could claim me.

I did want to keep my initials, out of respect to my parents. Snow didn't like it. He's the one who came up with Caesar ("And don't forget what happened to the first one when he got too big for his britches"). I made up "Flickerman" on the spot while I was watching Candria's monitors in the dark.

The year of the Thirty-First Games, Candria announced that she was planning on retiring (which was actually true, though she got to enjoy about two months of it before Snow decided she knew too much and arranged an accident), and I was introduced as a local boy who'd been auditioning like a wild thing to take her place. That no one else had ever heard of this audition wasn't surprising. The workings of show business are mysterious, and the vast majority of the population knows nothing about casting calls until the casting is accomplished. The ones who might know don't want to admit that they such a major event. No one questioned it. I looked very different by then.

My first year as host was the Thirty-Second Games (Titania Vacka, from Two). Sandi Matta gave me a close look, and I swear Mags Donovan may have actually recognized me, but if she did, she's never said anything. She's always been tight-lipped. Duronda Carson from Twelve narrowed her eyes at me and pursed her lips, but didn't make any guesses. If they talked to each other about it, I never found out.

No one else even blinked, even among the people I sat with and helped. Tesla Corvin, my old mentor from Five, passed me without a second glance.

The only person who always knew -- who never doubted me -- was Amelia Michaels. She'd been on my prep team when I was a tribute, and we'd spent most of my bath flirting. If you've never flirted in a bathtub with a girl in a curly yarn wig, I highly recommend it. All it took was one smile, and she saw through my plastic surgeries. She was an escort by then. The first time we were alone, she raised an arch eyebrow and said, "Flickerman? What kind of name is that, Charlie?"

As the years passed, even Mags started to look like she doubted whatever it was she'd suspected. Caesar Flickerman was the face of the Games. To Snow's annoyance, I also became the victors' and mentors' trusted connection to the apparatus. I'm sure he questioned his decision to not just kill me many times, but the chance to do it was long past. As a victor, I might have been forgotten about, like Edith Alleman, the first victor. As Caesar Flickerman, I was the Capitol's best friend. He knew it, and it began to rankle him. All I had to do was tell the truth, and tell the people how he'd treated me, and his house of cards in the Capitol would come down.

I married Amelia just before the Thirty-Ninth Games. We didn't make waves by making it one of the increasingly rare life contracts, but neither of us hesitated on the five year renewal, or the ten year one last year. I wanted to give our daughter a Capitol name, but Millie wanted to use my mother's name, Ampere. I couldn't argue. Snow was furious that I'd tip my hand that way, but we had each other in a pretty good vise grip by then.

This year, it's gotten dicey. With the Second Quarter Quell coming up, people are suddenly trying to solve the mystery of Charlie Flynn. I even host a television show on the question, mostly by popular demand. It's overshadowed by the absurd decision to kill twice as many kids this year (Snow is furious at the youth movement against the Games), but it's still going on. A District Six engineer swears that the train never crashed, and that the boy thought to be me walked straight off the train before it started.

The engineer also has an accident.

In District Five, I'm remembered as a friendly and outgoing boy, beloved by everyone. Tesla wishes she knew what happened to me, as I'd always been special to her.

I put on the flashing suit that distracts the audience so well from anything my face happens to be doing, and head out to host the Capitol special on the reapings. There's been a shake-up in escorts. I can't get rid of Ausonius Glass, but I dearly hope that the victors in Four will find a way to handle him. I sent poor Pelagia Pepper out to Four before Blight Hedge could drive her to drink out in Seven (though she's in no frame of mind to thank me for it right now). Twelve, which hasn't had its own victor since Duronda opted out a few years ago, will fare better with Gia than with Glass. At least I hope so.

The reapings go on forever, staggered across twelve districts, with four children dragged in from each of them. I ask Millie to write down their names so I can study them later. I memorize their faces as well as I can. There are small children, and big tough ones. Frightened, crying children and obnoxious braggarts. The troupe from Four slaps each other's hands like they've been picked for a championship team. The contingent from District Six, which was the epicenter of the youth rebellion, looks dead already. District Nine watches its mentors with shaded eyes.

There's a rich girl from Twelve (I've learned over the years that there's a visual divide between rich and poor there; Duronda always complained about it), and a pigtailed little girl, and a big boy with a kind of terrified expression on his face. The last called is a sharp-eyed boy with unruly black curls. I think I could count his ribs through his outdated shirt, but he's one of the handful of tributes who seems to actually understand what's happening to him.

Albinus Drake volunteered to take District Twelve this year. After Brutus last year -- a muscle-bound boy whose idea of strategy is to kill first and ask questions later -- I doubt he'll think much of his prospects.

I go home that night, while the trains snake toward the Capitol, and I don't sleep. I hold Millie in the dark, and when Peri cries from a nightmare about monsters under her bed, I go in and take care of it.

I see myself in the mirror, holding my daughter. She hasn't had any plastic surgeries. She's got bright green eyes and dark, ruddy skin. She's Charlie's little girl.

I decide to keep her behind the scenes. I don't want anyone giving her a second glance.


How about some of the early victors discussing their memories of the Dark Days? Set at any time that some of them are alive I guess for maraudercat



"Me and Daggy did some damage, back in the day," Killas Satran says, nodding at Stonecutter D'Agostino. They're the same age and both from District Two, but they won two years apart -- the fourth and sixth Games -- with Divine Carew, from District One, between them. "Nothing like you did," he adds, nodding at me, "but still, I think it was pretty serious damage."

He laughs about this, like the war was his idea of a childish lark. It probably was. Hell, the pair of them couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen when it ended. Daggy was sixteen when he was reaped and Killas was eighteen, so it must have been twelve. District Two had already gone back to the Capitol by the time they were eleven (District Thirteen managed to alienate them by mowing down the Peacekeepers' training facility with a lot of their children still inside), so any "serious damage" was done by ten-year-olds, at most. I was only barely sixteen during the first reaping, and my mother was fit to be tied that I'd been anywhere near the action.

"What did you do?" Mags Donovan asks me.

"Nothing for public consumption," I say, pointing at the bugged ceiling. Rogan Lally, who mentored her through last year's Games, shrugs elaborately.

"Aw, come on," Daggy says. "It's not like they don't already know. It's in your record." He sits up and grins at Mags. "This one was actually in the Capitol when the Green Tower fell."

"Which I had nothing to do with, other than happening to be there. My friend's dad was working with some Capitol people, trying to broker a truce to figure things out."

"Figure what out?" Mags asks, eyes wide. She couldn't have been more than seven when the war ended. She just turned fifteen in March.

"What do you remember about things at home?" Rogan asks her.

"Lots of fighting. Dad hid me on a boat for a while."

"Yeah, well, that's about what it was. Only the fighting was with District Thirteen. Pains in the nether regions, if you ask me."

I laugh. "That's a way to put it."

"I thought they were the leaders."

"So did they," Killas says. "My sister used to get in so much trouble in the army. Always trying to get around the rules. They sure hated that."

"Well, it was the army," I point out. "Following rules there is kind of important, since it could be about not dying."

Killas shrugs. "Whatever. She was just breaking rules about uniforms. And dating a guy she outranked."

"Who she ended up marrying," Daggy points out.

The guys go off on their war reminiscences, and I tune them out. I go back to the recipe book I've been trying to put together as a wedding present for Misty and Effrim. I can spend money now -- at least on some things -- and I will, but I figure I owe them better than just a shopping trip. I've been making up recipes based on the things we did together, the people we met, and the places we traveled. It's in my own handwriting, and I tested all the dishes myself. It almost makes up for the work Effrim put into the story he wrote about our trip, which he bound and sewed up himself, using thread he earned by working for his uncle, the tailor (he did use paper I bought him). He makes me out as a hero a few times. I get a kick out of reading it.

"What really happened at the Green Tower?"

I look up. Mags has gotten a quiet, serious look on her face. She's a pretty little thing, and she's too young to look the way she sometimes does.

"Thirteen bombed it," I tell her.

"I know. I read that. But… why? Why would they bomb a school?"

I reach over and turn on a water tap. The Capitol knows damned well why the building was bombed, but actually saying it could get me in trouble. "The school was on the lower floors. The upper floors were the Capitol's strategic command, and the missile defense system. The students were their human shield."

Mags's eyes widen. "They just put children between them and a bomb?"

"They figured the rebellion would try to avoid civilian casualties, especially children."

"Shouldn't we have?" Mags looks horrified. "I mean… that's the whole reason they have the Games. Because we're child-killers. I thought maybe… you know…"

"That we didn't do it?"

"I hoped not."

"We did it, honey," I tell her. "Or Thirteen did, anyway. There were people on both sides trying to end the war by then, but they weren't the ones with their hands on the buttons."

"Who?"

I'm careful with what I say now. The Capitol knows I was here. They even know Effrim and Misty were here, and Effrim's dad, Dale. But they don't know who Dale was meeting with, who the Capitol rebels were who wanted to oust Clemm and put an end to the bloodshed. Clemm would love to find out. I'm pretty sure that's why he had that maniac kid, Snow, set up a media machine that practically begs for stories every year. He's probably hoping the whole story will get out so he can throw them in arenas, too. I decide not to trust it to some running water confusing the bugs.

I bite my lip. "I don't know who, exactly. They were behind closed doors."

This is true. Of course, I was behind closed doors with them. I don't actually know their names, but I've seen them half a dozen times in my trips to the Capitol, quietly placed in high ranking positions, where I hope they're continuing to undermine Clemm in subtle ways. Effrim and Misty and I gave reports on the conditions in Twelve (Effrim was still weepy from the latest news, and he kept choking on his tears while he spoke), and after that, the Capitol people talked about what was going on here. There were plans and backup plans.

All of them fell to dust when the Tower crashed down a block away. We all rushed out and helped pull people from the rubble (this is one of the places Effrim makes me out to be a hero; I may as well be wearing a white cape and flying around while a triumphant trumpet theme plays in the background). There are a few we should have left there, not the least of which was the bloody, crazy boy who runs the Games now. Bloody Snow. Misty rigged up a machine to lift the debris that was trapping him in a bubble, and he came out, wrapped his hand around her throat, and started to squeeze, smiling calmly at her around the whole time. He said, "You should have left me." You can't accuse him of lying or being unclear in his intentions. Dale grabbed him away. Misty said we should let it go. He was in shock.

That may have been true, but as it turned out, he was also a psychopath, and had a talent for finding and corralling other psychopaths.

Not that anyone in the Capitol knows it. They think he's a charming little sports fan who just wants the legacy of the war to be a little less unpleasant than the straight-up mass murders that some other people were calling for.

"I really wish we hadn't done that," Mags says.

"It wasn't a great strategic move," I agree. "But Thirteen wasn't exactly a brain trust, not to speak ill of the dead."

"Kind of like Two, then?" she asks, grinning in the general direction of Killas and Daggy.

"They kind of made Two look like the national university."

She raises her eyebrows. "Not to speak ill of the dead?"

I put a sarcastic hand over my heart. I am sorry about the bombing. I'm sure there were perfectly decent people, and whole lot of them, that got caught in it, same as there were in the Green Tower. But that doesn't change the fact that Thirteen led the rebellion with all the intelligence of a five year old playing with a box of plastic soldiers. Pappy Angus used to rail about it.

Mags listens to the guys for a few minutes, then turns back to me. "What did you really do?" she asks.

"I don't know what they're talking about."

"Sure you do."

"Me?" I smile and make a halo over my head with my fingers. "All I did was take a really long walk with my friends…"

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11 comments or Leave a comment
Comments
From: (Anonymous) Date: June 1st, 2015 07:34 am (UTC) (Link)

A Second Glance

Well written -- thank you for that.

-- Tom
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: June 1st, 2015 11:26 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: A Second Glance

You're welcome. It's good to get back in and figure that particular question out.
From: (Anonymous) Date: June 1st, 2015 12:18 pm (UTC) (Link)

Long term

I just got off a veery long work shift and am semi coherent but wanted to say thank you for Jo and Prim,
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: June 1st, 2015 11:26 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Long term

You're welcome. I like Jo, and I can just imagine how she'd have taken to the "star squad"!
From: (Anonymous) Date: June 1st, 2015 05:47 pm (UTC) (Link)
With every glimpse of young!Snow, the guy is getting creepier and creepier *shudder*
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: June 1st, 2015 11:27 pm (UTC) (Link)
He seriously is creepy.
snorkackcatcher From: snorkackcatcher Date: June 1st, 2015 11:17 pm (UTC) (Link)
Now is that a big spoiler or a big teaser for The Big Empty? :)
fernwithy From: fernwithy Date: June 1st, 2015 11:27 pm (UTC) (Link)
Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. :P It would definitely make the trailer, let's say.
snorkackcatcher From: snorkackcatcher Date: June 1st, 2015 11:45 pm (UTC) (Link)
It definitely hadn't occurred to me that Snow might have a specific reason for wanting Duronda in the arena (and assigning Glass to D12).
sonetka From: sonetka Date: June 2nd, 2015 06:07 pm (UTC) (Link)
I love them all, but especially the Caesar one. I figured it had to have been a more complex process than "I want to disappear, do me a solid and give me citizenship, OK?" but it's great seeing how it played out. Of course Snow would pick his new first name -- a good way of putting your stamp on someone forever.

I wonder how he and his wife explained Ampere's name to other people? Maybe giving District-y names was fashionable then, kind of like how people with zero Sioux or Cherokee heritage will sometimes give their kids names related to those cultures because they think it's cool.
From: (Anonymous) Date: October 17th, 2016 02:44 am (UTC) (Link)

Nine

Hey, love your HG fics as always. Detailed, politically believable and straight to the point.

I'm very curious—what's the problem with Nine?

"District Nine watches its mentors with shaded eyes."

Why do they hate each-other so?
11 comments or Leave a comment