The Making of a King (And The Undoing of Kinkade)
Oct 12, 2015 16:18:43 GMT -5
Post by admin kay on Oct 12, 2015 16:18:43 GMT -5
Glamour Kinkade
your compliments look good on me
He’d spent the morning considering what the number one meant. Usually it would be up to Dom Copperview to deal with the numbers. She was the one who designed the weight of the traps, who carefully considered the Fibonacci sequence of the arena’s flora, who tallied the relative strength of each alliance in order to update the official betting charts. Numbers weren’t important to him. Except now, one was.
One day.
One chance.
One death.
Seventy-one.
He might have been able to rise above the worst Bloodbath showing ever, had it not been that specific one who died. Draco Wellings, who name always came in a pair, would now forever be wedded to his own. Or perhaps it was the inverse. Perhaps now his would always be: Glamour Kinkade, who lost the Draco Wellings in the Bloodbath.
He’d expected to meet with someone above his pay grade after the Bloodbath, regardless. He just didn’t expect that person to be the President. He’d taken a few more minutes – borrowed time – to change out of his Gamemaker uniform and into something more formal. He buttoned his lace shirt all the way to his collar bones, slipped into his black suit jacket. He followed the masked Peacekeepers through the underground network beneath the Capitol, rather than taking his car to the President’s home.
It was only when they ascended that he realized they weren’t at Snow’s mansion, but rather in one of the office buildings not far from the Training Center. The Peacekeeper Station, perhaps? He found it difficult to orient himself based on flashes from slit windows. When he stepped out of the elevator onto an empty floor, his heart dropped into his stomach.
President Snow wasn’t there, and neither was Dom. It was just him. Just one person.
The Peacekeepers left him and he wasn’t stupid enough to ask why. He spent the next hour wandering around the blanket space, testing the support columns (solid) and the walls (hollow). For a long time he stood at one of the thin windows and considered the hustle of the city below.
The elevator pinged. His heart stopped.
He let out a long exhale when Peacekeeper Tucker stepped out in his rumpled uniform.
“I thought you were going to be – someone else,” Glamour managed, his throat throttled.
Peacekeeper Tucker adjusted his sleeves as he joined Glamour at the window. “I guess we thought the same thing about you, Kinkade.”
“If this is about the Bloodbath, you know I don’t have any control over the tributes. I have some ideas for how to improve the death count for the future. But Dom never listens to me –”
When Peacekeeper Tucker lifted his hand to stop him, it came up so fast, Glamour wondered if he was about to be knocked out. He leaned back, swallowing words.
The Peacekeeper sniffed. “Surely you know how carefully we were watching Wellings. But no, this isn’t about the Bloodbath, or the Lack-of-Bloodbath, as I’ve taken to calling it. This is about something else.”
Glamour could not hold his gaze. Sweat had begun to bead along the edge of his hairline. Peacekeeper Tucker patted his rumpled pockets and eventually produced a variety of objects. Glamour recognized them as they were presented: Sheriff Fortissimo’s badge, gold-plated Bentley hand cuffs, antivenom, four poison-tipped darts, and two miniature jars of tar.
“Those aren’t mine.”
“Of course they aren’t. None of this,” Peacekeeper Tucker gestured wildly with the jars of tar at the outside, “belongs to you. None of it. Do you understand? Not the Sixty-Second arena, not the Sixty-Seventh, not the Seventy-First. They are not your property, your puppets, your anything. That you even thought you could so grossly overstep your bounds boggles my mind.”
Peacekeeper Tucker stabbed the window with his elbow. Glamour screamed. He hit it again and the glass shattered, blowing inward with a gust of warm air.
“Please, I didn’t mean to overstep. I just wanted to help –”
“Help!” Peacekeeper Tucker laughed. He lifted the antivenom and then chucked it into the sky. “You wanted to help. And who did you want to help? These items were en route to the District Four tributes. Now why could that be?” The darts followed. “It couldn’t possibly be that despite every warning and even the barest sense of decency, you are still fucking a victor?”
He dropped one of the jars. For a few seconds, it was silent. Then, it exploded on the sidewalk below.
The screaming made Glamour’s knees begin to shake. He took a step back, but Peacekeeper Tucker was fast, too fast for his age. He shifted the remaining items to his left hand, using his right to hook Glamour around the neck. He pulled him to the window.
“And these trinkets? Such sentimentality, Glamour.” He passed the badge and the hand cuffs under Glamour’s nose before discarding them.
He’d begun to cry. “Don’t kill me. You don’t want to kill me. I can fix this. I can make these Games the best! The very best!”
He stopped blubbering when Peacekeeper Tucker put the remaining jar of tar to his cheek. It was surprisingly cold, soothing.
“I want you to know that I could kill you. I have the authority and the ability.”
Glamour nodded, scraping his own flesh against the lid of the tar.
“But I think that’s too good for you, and President Snow agrees.”
Peackeeper Tucker released him, and Glamour collapsed to his knees. He put his head in his hands, holding back tears and rage and relief in equal measure.
“You are stripped of your title of Gamemaker for your incompetent attempt to rig the victor. You will never set foot in the Training Center again. And you will cease all disgusting and indecent activities. Do you understand?”
Glamour nodded, his voice stolen by the wind. Peacekeeper Tucker bent, depositing the jar of tar and a white rose just beneath Glamour’s nose.
“Make better decisions, Glamour Kinkade.”
Long after Peacekeeper Tucker had left, Glamour gathered up the flower and the jar. He clutched them to his chest as he listened to the howl of sirens from the street below.
One mistake.
One chance.
One life.
The sun had gone down by the time he picked himself off the floor. It was one thought that drove him into the elevator, one thought that made Glamour Kinkade leave the Station. Peacekeeper Tucker had been wrong. He wasn’t fucking the District Four Victor. That would have been easy to leave behind. He only had one heart, and he suddenly knew with absolute clarity how he wanted to spend its beats.
One day.
One chance.
One death.
Seventy-one.
He might have been able to rise above the worst Bloodbath showing ever, had it not been that specific one who died. Draco Wellings, who name always came in a pair, would now forever be wedded to his own. Or perhaps it was the inverse. Perhaps now his would always be: Glamour Kinkade, who lost the Draco Wellings in the Bloodbath.
He’d expected to meet with someone above his pay grade after the Bloodbath, regardless. He just didn’t expect that person to be the President. He’d taken a few more minutes – borrowed time – to change out of his Gamemaker uniform and into something more formal. He buttoned his lace shirt all the way to his collar bones, slipped into his black suit jacket. He followed the masked Peacekeepers through the underground network beneath the Capitol, rather than taking his car to the President’s home.
It was only when they ascended that he realized they weren’t at Snow’s mansion, but rather in one of the office buildings not far from the Training Center. The Peacekeeper Station, perhaps? He found it difficult to orient himself based on flashes from slit windows. When he stepped out of the elevator onto an empty floor, his heart dropped into his stomach.
President Snow wasn’t there, and neither was Dom. It was just him. Just one person.
The Peacekeepers left him and he wasn’t stupid enough to ask why. He spent the next hour wandering around the blanket space, testing the support columns (solid) and the walls (hollow). For a long time he stood at one of the thin windows and considered the hustle of the city below.
The elevator pinged. His heart stopped.
He let out a long exhale when Peacekeeper Tucker stepped out in his rumpled uniform.
“I thought you were going to be – someone else,” Glamour managed, his throat throttled.
Peacekeeper Tucker adjusted his sleeves as he joined Glamour at the window. “I guess we thought the same thing about you, Kinkade.”
“If this is about the Bloodbath, you know I don’t have any control over the tributes. I have some ideas for how to improve the death count for the future. But Dom never listens to me –”
When Peacekeeper Tucker lifted his hand to stop him, it came up so fast, Glamour wondered if he was about to be knocked out. He leaned back, swallowing words.
The Peacekeeper sniffed. “Surely you know how carefully we were watching Wellings. But no, this isn’t about the Bloodbath, or the Lack-of-Bloodbath, as I’ve taken to calling it. This is about something else.”
Glamour could not hold his gaze. Sweat had begun to bead along the edge of his hairline. Peacekeeper Tucker patted his rumpled pockets and eventually produced a variety of objects. Glamour recognized them as they were presented: Sheriff Fortissimo’s badge, gold-plated Bentley hand cuffs, antivenom, four poison-tipped darts, and two miniature jars of tar.
“Those aren’t mine.”
“Of course they aren’t. None of this,” Peacekeeper Tucker gestured wildly with the jars of tar at the outside, “belongs to you. None of it. Do you understand? Not the Sixty-Second arena, not the Sixty-Seventh, not the Seventy-First. They are not your property, your puppets, your anything. That you even thought you could so grossly overstep your bounds boggles my mind.”
Peacekeeper Tucker stabbed the window with his elbow. Glamour screamed. He hit it again and the glass shattered, blowing inward with a gust of warm air.
“Please, I didn’t mean to overstep. I just wanted to help –”
“Help!” Peacekeeper Tucker laughed. He lifted the antivenom and then chucked it into the sky. “You wanted to help. And who did you want to help? These items were en route to the District Four tributes. Now why could that be?” The darts followed. “It couldn’t possibly be that despite every warning and even the barest sense of decency, you are still fucking a victor?”
He dropped one of the jars. For a few seconds, it was silent. Then, it exploded on the sidewalk below.
The screaming made Glamour’s knees begin to shake. He took a step back, but Peacekeeper Tucker was fast, too fast for his age. He shifted the remaining items to his left hand, using his right to hook Glamour around the neck. He pulled him to the window.
“And these trinkets? Such sentimentality, Glamour.” He passed the badge and the hand cuffs under Glamour’s nose before discarding them.
He’d begun to cry. “Don’t kill me. You don’t want to kill me. I can fix this. I can make these Games the best! The very best!”
He stopped blubbering when Peacekeeper Tucker put the remaining jar of tar to his cheek. It was surprisingly cold, soothing.
“I want you to know that I could kill you. I have the authority and the ability.”
Glamour nodded, scraping his own flesh against the lid of the tar.
“But I think that’s too good for you, and President Snow agrees.”
Peackeeper Tucker released him, and Glamour collapsed to his knees. He put his head in his hands, holding back tears and rage and relief in equal measure.
“You are stripped of your title of Gamemaker for your incompetent attempt to rig the victor. You will never set foot in the Training Center again. And you will cease all disgusting and indecent activities. Do you understand?”
Glamour nodded, his voice stolen by the wind. Peacekeeper Tucker bent, depositing the jar of tar and a white rose just beneath Glamour’s nose.
“Make better decisions, Glamour Kinkade.”
Long after Peacekeeper Tucker had left, Glamour gathered up the flower and the jar. He clutched them to his chest as he listened to the howl of sirens from the street below.
One mistake.
One chance.
One life.
The sun had gone down by the time he picked himself off the floor. It was one thought that drove him into the elevator, one thought that made Glamour Kinkade leave the Station. Peacekeeper Tucker had been wrong. He wasn’t fucking the District Four Victor. That would have been easy to leave behind. He only had one heart, and he suddenly knew with absolute clarity how he wanted to spend its beats.
