95th Hunger Games: Bloodbath Viewing Party

Colonel Harlow Basra

"No one gets in who should not be here. No one leaves without clearance. Remember: you do not report to any of the guests, no matter whose name they might invoke. No one is above the law,” Harlow glowered at the unflinching line of men in white. He’d selected them personally, a group of unsmiling, irritable, and thoroughly unsympathetic soldiers with sterling records. The type of man that knew any mistake here would mean worse than loss of rank or reassignment – this was life or death.

“And we are the law.”

Colonel Harlow Basra had hardly slept in anticipation of his deployment.

He’d practically seen security detail for the quell as a reward. Among the VIP of the capitol and toothless victors, Harlow Basra would sniff out anyone so much as thinking of trying something to make a mockery of this twist. He hadn’t quite been keen on placing high value targets so readily accessible to the various ne’er do wells, but then, central intelligence was so rarely asked of risk assessments these days.

Part of him pined for the days of (traitorous) President Snow. Back when citizens walked the streets after nightfall, even in the capitol, they knew well enough to look over their shoulder. No one felt safe from the reach of his power or brutality. Harlow had made a name for himself as the butcher because the capitol had valued abject cruelty as a tool to create fear. Blood and guts could paint a thick picture of what consequences meant to anyone; and to his benefit, he’d adored violence.

But now a council sat on their palms squabbling and the districts chafed at near a hundred years of games. He could not comment on the state of politics nor the people who had taken on one man’s role, but in his opinion, a palpable change had come to Panem in the last few years. Districters spoke out of turn and at the top of their voices. Mayors questioned the peacekeeping forces as though they weren’t just puppets of the capitol, voted in like winners of a beauty pageant wearing sashes that gave them a title worth as much as they looked.

Worse still, the higher he had climbed through central intelligence, the further he’d gone from the field. He missed the days when he hunted wanderers and districters in the wilds. Those echoing screams were memories now, a part of fading youth exchanged for authority and a seat at the table.

Helping with oversight of the boots on the ground throughout the capitol during the hunger games had sate his hunger for something Harlow could sink his teeth into.

It’d meant weeks pouring over maps of streets, of tasking direct reports with their zones, of demanding more overtime pay for the sake of a show of force, especially near the training center – sleepless nights that had him feeling he was in the thick of it once more.

He’d been practically buzzing at the sight of capitolites as they’d entered the penthouse to view the quell twist. These first few days would determine any imminent threats – threats he’d repeated to anyone that could hear (district sympathizers among training center staff, government officials desperate to throw a wrench into things, victors themselves hoping to show an ounce of rebellion) – which meant high alert.

And need for unity through strength.

… did you drug me? You FUCKERS! Get us fucking back there now!

Harlow tensed and reached for the baton at his side. He sized up the threat emerging from the crowd.

Flynn Garner. District Six Victor. Emotional. Naïve. Undisciplined. Unfocused. Homosexual.

How much would it have taken to club him to the ground, put a boot to his throat, and then broken his skull like an egg across the carpet of the penthouse? Or maybe cut off his fucking tongue for the absolute notions he had speaking so out of turn? Did no one else think he deserved to be put down like the dog he was?

“I beg your pardon, Garner?” Harlow stepped forward with his baton at the ready. His name badge reflected under the lights. “I’d suggest you lower your voice. Maybe get a drink to calm our nerves and enjoy the show. That is unless you – or anyone else – would prefer to have a little chat in the hall?”