Family is everything. Live it. Breathe it. When the world calls out, strained for death, it is the family who will lock arms and work together to survive the rage. Family protects. Family refuses to let a name die in disgrace. Family. Family. Family.
Words to live by inside the Azzaro family complex. Hidden behind tall guarded gates, five generations function as a family unit. Whenever there's a time to celebrate a victory or mourn a loss, the entire family is but a pavilion away. Everyone's Sunday evenings must be cleared for family dinner where two banquet lines of tables are set. The entire complex is filled with vibrant colors and shining objects. From Great Grandma Lucreta Azzaro at eighty-nine to little Fredi, age three, every Azzarro capable of sitting at the table must. Jovis sets the table per his father's request. Napkin, fork, plate, glass, knife, spoon. Always fancy and always right, Jovis takes pride in the task. At twelve years old, one can be sold on anything appearing useful.
Jovis is the youngest in his generation of siblings and cousins. Before his cousins and eventually brothers and sisters had children of their own, he was the precious one. As a kid, cousins twice his age would let him play like any other. They'd hold either of his arms and flip him through the air before stepping into Church to get his antsy jitters out of the way before having to behave for an hour. It was a happy life when it needed to be, and after the new generation made its way, Jovis understood that his role would change. It's part of growing up, part of maturing into adulthood. He clung to the one task his family asked of him, setting the dinner table, like a duty.
On the eighteenth day of July, everything shifts. Jovis, at age fifteen, took up a task with his brother, Alvert, to add another layer of off-white paint to the villa's exterior. It is a preference of Great Grandma that the boys do so once every other year. This particular week is cool for the summer months, the perfect time to be working outside. A woman, dressed in a pristinely kept white pantsuit, rattles on the metal ring handle front gate of the villa. Jovis yells at her to get lost. Uninvited guests are scarcely allowed into the Azzaro gates. She insists, waving envelopes in her hand, but Jovis insists back: get out. As a compromise, the lady slides the stack of envelopes underneath the gates and walks away. Stamped in red text atop all the manila folders: GOVERNMENT NOTICE. None with his name, none with Alvert's. Jovis walks inside, laying out the envelopes atop the sitting room table.
There's a meeting that night for Sunday dinner. Jovis's father is the one speaking. He tells the family that he, along with Jovis's eldest brother, cousin, aunt, and uncle, have been called up to serve in the Capitol's army. The drumsticks on his plate rattle Jovis's brain. Perhaps he should've tossed the envelopes instead of leaving them for all the family to see. There's nothing good inside those government-sealed mailers. None of it makes sense to him, though. From the nightly news, the Capitol forces were having great success against the rebelling districts. Why would they need more people to serve? The room is silent for a minute, outside of the settling of silverware, before Great Grandma asks the family to enjoy one last meal before they leave tomorrow afternoon.
When an Azzaro goes to war, they all go together. Perhaps not physically, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. The family huddles together for one last prayer. They surround suitcases and bags of luggage, bowed heads, and held hands. Protect one another. With a wave and a cheer, the five cross the villa's gate. Five Azzaros at war for the dozens upon dozens of Azzaros back home.
The first five.
Sunday dinner starts out the same. Jovis bets that his father and brother are going to District Nine due to their extensive knowledge of arms deals. Ana, his brother's wife, thinks he'll go to District Three. Apparently, the people there are very ugly but very desperate. His brother's dashing looks might do him wonders there.
It's a game. They'll be back soon. Months pass with gossip about what sort of tourism they're going to have under their belts and about the stories they'll have to tell upon return.
Early September is the first time two government representatives, dressed in black, shake the gate handles. There's a letter in one of their hands. Jovis's uncle was killed three days ago in the line of duty. An explosion in District Twelve. Condolences. His cousin dies later that month, drowned by some rebels that overpowered her unit in District Four. Condolences. In November, representatives tell them that his aunt has gone missing in the forests of District Seven, but there was a fire near where they believe she was. Her body was not recovered, but they don't believe she's alive. Condolences.
At this point, a few other Azzaros have joined in, Alvert included, vowing vengeance for the family. Jovis, still too young to enlist, offers support in other ways, packaging winter clothes to be sent out to units across Panem. With each jacket he folds into plastic, he leaves a note, thanking the soldier for the fight.
The government is back at the gates in late December. Jovis wants to avoid them, but he's got school in fifteen minutes and he's already late. Great… three envelopes in hand. His mother rushes out, accustomed to the procedure at this point. Jovis wishes she hadn't. With the count of war-killed Azzaros up to five by December, he's begun to prefer not knowing at all, but he sinks at the names they call out. Both of his brothers and his father this time. Killed by hypothermia in the cold District Eight air. Needless to say, he doesn't go to school that day. Processing is difficult when you barely have time in between mourning. This one, though, the man who created him and the brothers he slept in the same room with… it's especially hard. Numbing, for lack of a better word.
They return the bodies in a week's time for identification and to prepare for end-of-life services. Jovis's mother does this on behalf of the entire family. She returns two worn and scratched-up heavy winter jackets in hand. He remembers them, immediately digging into the inner pockets.
Written in his own handwriting: Thank you for all you do! My family and I appreciate that you are protecting us. Stay well. -Jovis Azzaro, from the Capitol.
And on the other side, in his father's: Jovis, my baby boy. How I would give anything to see your face again. Our family's prayers keep my sanity. Soon. -Dad.
The Azzaro family's Sunday dinners are quieter as more and more of the family go to war, and more somber as more and more of the family come back no longer alive. Over three years, the two long banquet tables are downgraded to one, and even then, there's plenty of shoulder room for everyone. Jovis sets the table each time, clinging onto normalcy and tradition, pretending that things are fine when they're clearly not. Most of the age-eligible and physically capable members of the Azzaro family are on duty. Some, like his father, were on a waiting list to serve should the time come. Others, like his brother and many of his cousins, enlisted with rage and revenge in their souls. But once that litter was picked, letters mandating service came for what was left over.
Out of place now, a barely eighteen-year-old Jovis sits at the table, stuck between the adults with greyed-out hair who are closer to their end than the beginning and kids who can't yet understand why their moms, dads, aunts, and uncles are missing. Ill-stricken by loneliness and confusion, he spent most of his days brooding, letting the anger keel imaginary rebels over in his head.
There is no escaping these manila envelopes: GOVERNMENT NOTICE. For Jovis Azzarro this time. He's to report to a physician in the Capitol tomorrow. Time to die, only a few months after his eighteenth birthday at that! Why rebels couldn't settle for what they had to start with, Jovis doesn't know. And why the Capitol hold too much sympathy not to just bomb them out of existence, Jovis isn't sure. But they'll try to get him now too, the last living child of his mother and one of couple handfuls of grandchildren of his grandmother.
Jovis brings the letter to his mother, tears in his eyes.
"I don't want to die," he whispers into her chest. The prayer circles in the sitting room scarcely worked: only one of the Azzaro family has returned from his tour in District Two, missing a hand as consequence.
"And we won't let you."
His mother and grandmother are ridiculous for the plan they propose, but seeing as the other option is to become a teenage soldier, Jovis follows along. He shows up at the physician the next day, cast in not one but both of his arms. Broken arms and a black eye on top of it, from 'a fall while painting the outside of the Azzaro villa.' Two months, out of commission. And, of course, when those two months came to a close, Jovis twisted them just hard enough to reinjure the tears. The physician grew a bit suspect by the time it was his leg rather than his arm in a cast, questioning if these injuries were intentional to dodge service. As a compromise to buy his cooperation, Jovis's grandmother parted ways with a set of jewels worth more than this physician's entire practice. On his report, the physician officially recommended that Jovis be kept off the military call list, noting him as 'reckless' and an 'unreliable prospective soldier.'
Safe, they did not come for him again. They did not come for any of the Azzaros again. The war ended a few years later, totaling the Azzaro soldier survivors to six, maybe ten percent of all those called up.
For the first Sunday in six and a half years, all the Azzaros sat at the banquet table patiently as Jovis set it. No longer mourning a loss, but celebrating a victory.
That's not enough, though. Not for Jovis Azzaro.
jovis: a name for jupiter, god of the skies and of thunder.
The thunder slams like cymbals against his ears, calling for more to be done in the name of revenge. After all, family is everything.
There is a time after the Dark Days when there is no action. No war, no bombings, no deaths, and, perhaps most importantly to Jovis, no justice. Most living rebel leaders responsible for an entire country's self-destruction have been imprisoned in the Capitol. Still, lulls in the news leave families who lost everything unsettled. Ghosts of not one but two generations of households haunt the Capitol streets. Jovis chalks up the procedural delays to ensure the cases against rebels are thorough. Not that the government needs to be thorough– war puts terms of accountability in the victor's court. The prosecutor his family speaks to weekly mentions that the delays are to put out loose rebel flames before they grow big again.
The trials come soon enough. Memories with just enough time to settle and pick up dust are revived. Jovis pays his way into the courtrooms through his savings account. He sits atop the balcony for any case with even whispers of the Azzaro family name. His cousin who died in Four, his uncle in Twelve, and his aunt in Seven. He paid for two seats for the trial of a bomber in District Two, a spot for his cousin to sit after he testifies that the person set the explosive that took his hand.
In the protective warmth of his eldest brother's winter coat, Jovis watches the final Azzaro murder trial: the front row of the balcony seating. A group of District Eight rebels on trial for the deaths of a Capitol squad, including Jevid Azzaro Sr., Jevid Azzaro Jr., and Alvert Azzaro among others. These deaths hit differently than his cousins, aunts, and uncles. His father and two brothers. His idles, the closest people to his blood. It's personal.
The apartment is quiet with them gone. Jovis and his mother are all that remain, outside of the occasional family member staying around to keep them company. Once, he overheard his mother and grandfather talking about how they worried Jovis was obsessing over the cases to the point of concern. Corkboards filled with red strings connecting faces to names and crimes. If the Capitol wanted a speed run through the case docket and didn't mind skipping a few steps, perhaps they should have consulted him.
Facts and details from the case aren't new to Jovis. He's seen the pictures, seen his father's notes. A group in District Eight invaded a Capitol safehouse and ran them out of the District, kicking and shooting at them as if they were deer escaping the hunt. They aimed low, for the legs. Once shot down, the Capitol soldiers became buried in the snow. Frigid temperatures gave them no way out but frostbite and death by hypothermia.
Jovis watches each of the defendants plead their case. Some deny involvement while others try to poke holes in the argument. There are two in the middle who make a mockery of the whole thing, vowing a second rebellion in which they'll get every last Capitolite. None of them are believed, and all of them are convicted. The leader and her second in command will face execution, while the rest will spend varying time in prison: followers for decades and fringe conspirators for less.
He slides further into his seat. Is this justice enough? The god Jovis prays to says that eventual forgiveness should be in the cards, even if it's gradual. Perhaps god never went through an agony drawn out like this. He'll understand why forgiveness does not feel like an option to Jovis. Forgiveness requires change, and from the attitudes of the convicts, it appears he has changed more than them. His body, once slim, has broadened to cope with the anger. His hair is shaved on either side and spiked up in the center, a more dramatic style than the flat curls of his teenage years.
They forced him to change. They forced him to become an only child of a widowed mother. No one will force him to forgive and find peace with these judgments.
The execution of the group leaders takes place in a month's time. Through one-way glass, Jovis watches the two of them in their chairs. His legs are crossed, patiently waiting. Nobody else in his family decided to come. There are only a half-dozen people in the room with him outside of Peacekeepers. Each must be equally as obsessed as him about seeing them die with their own eyes.
Sure enough, he does watch them die. Justice to the fullest extent. Death for death.
When he arrives home, Jovis draws a line through a three-point list.
1. Witness executions. 2. Visit the prisoners. 3. Ruin the future generations.
With the time that passes after the war, joy slowly builds back up around the Capitol. The Hunger Games satisfy most, no matter how unconventional they are. Jovis doesn't pay attention to the first few Games. To him, they're bandages strapped up to hide one problem by creating a bigger spectacle. Some of the teenagers reaped into the Games are rebels just like their parents which can make it at least somewhat redeemable.
So, while most of his family sits along the living room sofas watching death through a flaking screen, Jovis continues to work. He's well into his twenties now, more of a man than a boy, his responsibilities have evolved. For his family, Jovis renovates complex rooms, modernizing them and keeping their standards of high quality. On top of the justice the Azzaros received by seeing those who killed their family going to prison or worse, they also received financial compensation through both the government for loss of life and the districts for emotional damage. Once multicolored and decorative hallways now have porcelain china behind glass cabinets and portraits framed in gold. Jovis's space, in particular, grew, as he started to use both his brothers' old bedrooms as personal space: one a home office and one a lounge.
Despite the Azzaro's desire to keep the complex a private family, Jovis brings… friends... to his apartment constantly. They'll spend the night but never the day. Love in the household is better kept as a secret. Although everyone knows it not to be a followed rule, it's in their religious tradition that sex is not permitted before marriage. Grandma does her best to find an appropriate wife for him, but he tells her that they're never right. In order to remain a prominent family in their world's circles, marriages are often arranged. Jovis loves to strategize, and loves power, but the family operates within a hierarchy based on age. He's a long way from knowing what any of that power actually feels like. No need to marry some random person if it won't benefit him first and foremost.
Jovis explores his quest for power in other ways. Through work. That three-part plan is still posted right at eye level at his desk. Yet to be crossed out: 2. Visit the Prisoners. He's done it a few times, visiting with the ones who would accept him. The warden of the prison warned him that the rebels have been playing tricks on visitors to try to make themselves appear repentant. Jovis sits down with them for the twenty-minute visit, asking them to talk about the people that they hurt, the lives they took, and the futures they ruined. It hurts him first and amuses him second. He wonders if they know that they're talking to the nephew of the woman they ran off into the forest to die or the son and brother of the men they let freeze to death. Jovis humors them, saying that he'll put in a good word to the guards so they might get let out of the cold iron bars sooner. The humor kicks in when he walks away, telling the prison guards that there's no way in hell he'd do such a thing.
"You know, Jovis," funny how the warden remembers his name after only meeting twice, "We have positions open to work at the prison. You're young, but that's all the more time to work your way up the ladder. If you're any good, you might get a job underneath me in a few years."
What a strange dichotomy. Capitol citizens are all about punishing and imprisoning the rebels, but so few are up to the task of enforcing their sentences. Privately, Jovis thinks citizens of the Capitol are lazier and less competent than the district ones. No wonder it took seven years to defeat them in a war.
Getting a job seems worthwhile enough. The money made for the renovations to the complex was nice, but a steady job with the chance to spend time away from his family? Even better. Besides, it's a job that Jovis has familiarity with, given the Guard's Handbook he'd received a few years back after insisting to get the best sense of what the prisoners were experiencing inside.
Reporting for work for the first time was a rush, perhaps even bigger than watching the executions of two rebel leaders. The guard uniforms are a sleek black, easy to pick out amongst the colorfulness of Capitolite fashion. The revere he receives as he passes by citizens and into the prison gates satisfies, but it's the look on the prisoners' faces when they see him on duty that enlivens him. Someone that the prisoners thought they had in their corner becoming the type of person they fear the most. Nothing gets better than that.
Jovis is quick to enforce the rules. Attention to detail is a strong suit of his; anything that's out of place is reported whether it be as serious as a weapon or as harmless as an unapproved chocolate bar. His emotional and psychological presence radiates immediately, and with time, Jovis's physical presence in enforcing the rules becomes known. Within a year he's proficient with a whip and a gun, although he's never had to use the second on an inmate. But that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if he does, it matters if he can. That is the type of power that no arranged marriage can bring him.
With soldiers being traded out for Peacekeepers in the districts, many Capitol soldiers return back home. Some come to prison in order to find work again. Shortage fixed. Jovis is in his third year working at the prison when the warden offers him the job they'd been speaking about since the beginning. One suited toward his prime skill sets.
Jovis excitedly shares his promotion with his mother, flashing the shiny gold badge with more pride and adoration than any trinket or jewel in the complex.
Leave the heavy lifting to everyone else. Jovis takes a liking to the new job for that reason. The job of a warden is more social than physical, although two years as a prison guard equipped him with a set of skills in case the inmates started a riot and came for his head. Second only to the chief warden of the prison, Jovis has his own work office, the only place in the entire prison complex with any sense of color.
When it comes to decisions about prison staff and the inmates, he offers his observations. Which of the inmates is most likely to cause problems? Which guard is most likely to have accepted a bribe to smuggle in a gun? Jovis also takes charge of official prisoner complaints regarding ethics. As time passes in the prison, some of the rebel inmates with less serious infractions get released. Jovis has dinner in his office with them, their first meal in years that hasn't been the slop served in the cafeteria. Buttered up, he inquires to them about the hierarchy behind iron bars. Detail your experience for me, how can we make the prison safer for you? He's fishing for information, handbook in hand, finding any infraction that might lead to an extended sentence. Unfortunately, too many inmates compromise safety by breaking the rules. Even the most harmless or unintentional violations can disrupt the flow.
"Rules are good for all of us," Jovis extends an inmate's stay by three weeks.
"I don't want to do this, but you've left me no choice," he reprimands an inmate, leaving him to one week in solitary confinement.
At the end of a long day, Jovis shakes the chief warden's hand. A group of rebels from Three just extended their stay for conspiracy to escape. Jovis noticed on the security cameras that they were shaking the chain link fences in the yard. Tsk tsk. Were they actually conspiring? Probably not, but Jovis knows the rules are extensive and skeptical of all rebel inmates.
It's easy for Jovis and the chief to stretch the rules. After all, they wrote them.
As for life at home, he still lives at home with his family. To be honest, Jovis doesn't know if he'll ever leave. There's a sense of guilt as he's grown that leaving would be abandoning a family that's already lost so much. He already spends enough time at work, operating during the day and on-call for prison incidents at night. Sunday is the only day he ensures to have off on his schedule. Time for Church and time for Sunday dinner, in which Jovis still insists he sets the table. An apology for his absence from the complex and for his lack of involvement in the family business.
At twenty-eight, his window for marriage wanes. Everyone asks him: Who? When? Where? Jovis still brings his hook-ups in through the back exit of the complex. He looks up to the ceiling in bed, wondering if he asks one of his female partners to be his wife if his family will approve. Detached from the family business, an arrangement of convenience for the family means less to him than ever. Pleasure. Personal image. Those mean much more. Long gone are the days where "family means everything." Once the family stopped praying for those lost in the war, that's when he realized. They all moved on from vengeance; he did not. The pursuit of power is the only way to accomplish that, and in recent years, it has felt as though Jovis is the only one still trying.
Despite his efforts to do so, Jovis can't keep the rebels in prison forever. They can only break so many rules before the inmates learn to just keep their heads down. The Capitol is ruthless, but sentences served as sentences served. He keeps a list of prisoners relevant to his family in a filing cabinet. Most of the ones without life sentences are either released or on the verge of it. His excitement to show up for work every day fades with that knowledge, familiar faces of those he wants to punish are gone from their cells. Purpose is a dying light. Jovis tried demanding dinners every night with the inmates who'd never leave the prison, but the same faces of the past seven years tickle his fancy. Passion at home dies as well, especially with his partners. Watching those he hates suffer would energize him and excite him. Old things no longer satisfy him.
Jovis pulls at his hair, frustrated and anxious at the changes that he has no control over. He digs through his desk, searching for the memories that might rejuvenate the joy. Old inmate transcripts, a newsletter detailing his rapid rise in the prison. And last, a frail old piece of paper with three lines: his agenda for a satisfactory revenge. A smirk forms across his lips as he strikes the second line.
1. Witness executions. 2. Visit the prisoners. 3. Ruin the future generations.
Perhaps "visiting" the prisoners was taken to an extreme. How could he have known as a twenty-year-old boy that his life would shift like this? Jovis taps the back of his pen on the third line, wondering what exactly he could do to fully realize his final vision.
His calendar tips him off. Summer. Yes, that time of year. The Hunger Games. The plan rolls out like a welcome mat, rebirthing him with ideas.
Jovis calls in a favor with the chief warden. He's well-connected with high-ranking officials of the Capitol. He inquires about getting a foot in the door for the Games scene. The warden asks him if this is a permanent change, but Jovis shakes his head. "I want to pick up another hobby."
The warden sets Jovis up with a week of vacation time and a job working within the Games' security. With two years as a prison guard under his belt, managing some of the most dangerous rebel inmates, making sure people like Wolfgang are safe from some kids is a walk in the park. His first job is in the 7th. When the tributes are released into the arena, Jovis makes his way to the top of the colosseum, standing beside the Games heads as a security detail in the event the tributes rebel or fight back.
And just as he did as a prison guard, Jovis reports everything to the officials, especially regarding guards not being strict enough with the bratty tributes. He listens intently to every rule, written and spoken, and ensures everyone working in the Games follows them.
Watching them fight and die revives the joy. Every drop of blood is a long-lasting punishment for what their predecessors did. He wonders if any of the tributes from Eight know the people that Jovis watched get executed. How many have loved ones that he punished with an extended sentence? Cross me, and I'll ensure you, your kids, and your grandkids all suffer.
Jovis watches with a cruel grin. Watching from the sofa at home doesn't do the Games any justice. This? This is savagery. It's a rush.
For years, Jovis kept himself away from the Hunger Games, but if you asked him, he'd never be able to tell you why. Not giving those stadium events a shot until he neared thirty might have been the biggest mistake he's made. In retrospect, he should have been engaged much sooner, perhaps since their inception. He watches over them now, hands behind his back, each of his thumbs on a baton and gun holster. It clicks.
Jovis writes an opinion piece in the newspaper in the months following his first experience as a member of the Games' security team:
The Hunger Games: Why They Are Good, and Why They Must Stay an opinion piece by Jovis Azzaro, DEP WA.
Before this most recent year's Hunger Games, I was not an avid watcher. It was difficult to pinpoint why this was the case, but breathing the colosseum air for the first time, I realized I missed so many pieces by not remaining engaged.
By the time this is published, I will be thirty years old. My name is Jovis Azzaro. I'm from a large family, or once large, anyway. The war against rebelling districts changed that. To do the math for you, I was just a boy when whispers of revolution hit the streets of the Capitol. A teenager when my father, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles– everyone seemed to go to fight in the war. Burying loved ones is an exhausting and traumatizing act on its own, but doing so up to four times in one month? It takes a toll on us as children.
"In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and a female between the ages of twelve and eighteen." The tributes fighting in the arena are the same age as I was when going through all of this. Many Capitol citizens share similar experiences of loss.
Remember: the Rebellion brought the greatest sense of insecurity in our lifetimes. As a guard and deputy warden in the Capitol prison that harbors some of the most dangerous living rebel leaders, the threat to our safety remains if we are not careful. The Hunger Games give us leverage to keep them at bay.
My family has constantly asked me why I'm so reluctant to marry and start to rebuild our family. I could never provide them with an adequate answer. Now, I can. I'll provide you with the same answer I gave to them.
As a boy, I was not safe. None of us were. Those of us growing up in the Dark Days and Rebellion have suffered through the deaths of those we deeply loved. I was so scared that if I had children or a wife, I would lose them. Or even worse, they would lose me. With the Hunger Games creating order in this land, our children have never been safer than they are now. We have never been safer than we are now. I thank these children for their honorable sacrifice, it's a shame that their previous generation has put them in this position. As gruesome as it may sound, the death of the few will ensure for us the prosperity of the many.
Knowing, truthfully, what the Hunger Games mean has enlightened me to this reality. I look forward to the coming months when I can watch them and work to ensure their success. For those of you with reservations, know this: I am a gentleman of the rules. I've lived them for the past ten years of my life. If you are looking for order, look no further than the Hunger Games.
It takes these justifications for Jovis to return to his family's ideals in the way that they intended: family is everything. The marriage he finds himself in is a medium between his mother's desires and his own. No longer would she bring him to a dinner date like she did when he was younger. And no longer would he decline to marry at all. The decision is one of convenience but not arranged or forced. His eventual bride is younger, twenty-three to thirty years of age. Within the next year, they have a child. A boy. Jevid, after his father and brother. The child became his world, his everything. A reminder to himself that his children will grow up happy and healthy, something that the districts' children will never be so sure of so long as the Hunger Games continue.
In the Seventh, Jovis was curious about what joy he might find. For the eighth, he knows the joy and can experience it outright, watching over the tributes as they navigate the hedges and fight to the death. As a guard, he follows every procedure regarding tributes, government officials, and the crowds to a tee. Given his position in the prison, the people who should trust him do, and the ones who shouldn't don't have a choice.
By the Ninth, the Capitol wants to continue its tradition of finding a face for the Games. And what better face than his own?
His role is simple, the kind he knows quite well. Make sure that the rules and procedures of the Hunger Games, set forth by President Imperiosa and Wolfgang, are followed, and the punishments for not doing so are enforced. That goes for both the tributes and Capitol citizens in the colosseum stands watching over them.
For the Ninth Hunger Games, Jovis Azzaro is The Warden.