so afraid of dying // Colgate, Day Two Reaction

The announcement of the Quell twist felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He learned of it late last night when he was watching the anthem and hazily sipping at a glass of dark liquor, lounging in the empty quarters in District Nine’s floor of the training center.

Of course, it wasn’t empty for long. Someone came by and deposited a letter informing him of the news, and it caused him to throw his drink across the room, shattering the glass against a far wall. An avox had to come clean up the mess, and he nodded in apology, his cheeks burning from a distant memory.

How could they do this to him? To his tributes?

Everyone on this earth would die one day, he thought. And it would be the most terrifying thing they ever faced.

And to face it twice, at the hands of the Capitol? A fucking tragedy.

Colgate went to sleep that night with worry twisting his gut.

He awakes the next morning with a hangover and a steady unease, and it takes him a moment to come to terms with both, reorienting himself to his own reality. The hangover is from the liquor, consumed in excess. The unease is from the announcement, he remembers, and his anger returns fresh with the new day.

As he pulls his life together to face the other victors that morning, he can only think of Kestrel and Pisces, about how they’ll suffer. If he’s being truthful with himself, he has little faith in his tributes. They seem strong and wholesome enough. Then again, he’d thought the same thing for many tributes before them, and none of them had yet returned from the Capitol’s clutches.

He shakes his head as he descends in the elevator to meet the others, trying to focus his thoughts on something else. That’s all he has: denial.

A few of the other victors have gathered in the communal dining area to watch the beginning of the day. Colgate briefly wonders if the others are still asleep, or watching events unfold privately. Maybe they’re ignoring the whole day entirely.

If he’s being really honest with himself, he knows that he’s here because he doesn’t expect his tributes to last long. Kestrel was in quite a state the day before, barely making it out of the Bloodbath, and there’s no telling what will happen with a new dawn. Either of his tributes could be cut down by a blade or a muttation’s claws. Briefly, he wonders if their deaths will sting less, now that he knows that they have a second chance.

He highly doubts it.

With an awkward smile, he settles into a seat next to a few of the others. There’s Mace, who has a pile of muffins on his plate. Should he get some food as well? Colgate ponders about it for a moment, and stands up to grab a small plate and -- more importantly -- a mimosa in a tall glass. They could be normal people enjoying brunch, if not for the impending sense of doom.

Once again, he sits down. The table is full now with many of the usual faces: Aranica, Ridley, Opal, Katelyn, Teddy, Jacinta, Annie. He gives them all a small, formal smile, and nobody seems to take his silence personally. There’s an air of stress and grief and memory at this table, which is a lot to stomach at breakfast.

A large screen sits in the center of the room, and many faces are turned that way. He hadn’t noticed before, but now his heart lurches in his chest.

There’s a fight going on, and his tributes are in the middle of it.

He can’t bear to look. He takes his glass and downs the mimosa in a few gulps, wincing as the cold liquid slides over his too-sensitive teeth.

Fuck it.

These are the moments that are always difficult to watch, kind of like a fascinating disaster. He wants to look, to take in what’s happening, but he’s also horrified at the thought of what’s bound to happen. Kestrel and Pisces are in separate alliances, tearing into each other. They’re both taking hits. Is District Nine so keen on destroying itself? It seems so; many of the other district partners are allied, fighting together side-by-side.

His tributes, in comparison, are pathetic.

Colgate hangs his head as the fight continues. He doesn’t watch any more, instead picking idly at his breakfast.

Another victor nudges him with an elbow.

That's how he knows it's over.

He looks up at the screen behind watery eyes, and Kestrel Volant is dying swiftly, bleeding out from Pisces’s own blade.

That useless fuck.

Without warning, Colgate flings his champagne flute across the room. It shatters against the floor as he pushes back from his seat. The others eye him with concern, but he isn’t in the mood for saving face and pretending like everything’s swell right now.

He leaves his breakfast untouched on the table and returns to the elevator, ready to hide in the comfort of his own solitude, underneath the cover of sleep.