Foolhardy & Forlorn [the D9s]

Colgate O'Leary, District Nine Mentor

In no uncertain terms, Colgate had been told off. 

Well, it happened a lot. There was only so much moping and drifting through life one could do before someone screamed at them to get their act together. And Col desperately needed to get his act together.

He'd spent the last few Reapings buzzed or sleepy or both, relying on his ability to ignore most of life by easing in and out of consciousness to varying degrees.

Mom wasn't having it, though. Not this year. Maybe it was the loss of Hannah so many years back, but it killed her to see the kids from District Nine die every Games. She wasn't just getting desperate. She was fucking pissed.

Not a single kid had come back a victor since he won. Did that say something about him as a mentor, or about their District generally? Were the kids here just fucking hopeless?

It was easier to think it was someone else's fault. Bad luck, maybe. There were some promising ones in the past, sure. And there was only so much he could feasibly do to help them in the first place.

Colgate thought about this as he descended the steps of their home and made his way to the square. Mom was clinging to his arm, maybe to keep herself steady, or maybe to keep him steady. Her grip was like a vise around his elbow, a pressing reminder of their stern chat this morning. 

He would have to do better. Be better.

It wasn't fair, was it? For the lives of other people to be sort-of-halfway his responsibility, when all he could do was chat up sponsors, give the kids some advice, and send parachutes. It wasn't like he could fling himself onto the battlefield and throw an axe at anyone who got too near.

As this year's kids filed into their sections and the proceedings began, Colgate thought... maybe the result didn't matter so much as the image. Maybe he just had to look the part.

Silence fell upon the crowd as the escort scooted forward and plucked the first name out of the glass bowl.

Naura Tern. Then -- oh, wait. No, a volunteer. 

"I volunteer," the girl said. "My name is Fridae Drummond. I volunteer as Tribute."

What a bad fucking choice.

(But then, Colgate wasn't one to talk.)

Drummond rang a bell, but it had been a long time since he heard the name. He'd have to go through his records on the train. Or maybe he would take a nap first.

Then the second name was called. This one -- Benedict Nolan -- was not followed by a volunteer. Poor guy. Unlucky. He looked shocked, not too confident as he climbed onto the stage. Healthy enough, though.

So those were his tributes: an overconfident volunteer and a guy who looked lost.

The proceedings ended and the crowd dispersed. Colgate went back to say goodbye to his family, then made his way to the train. There was a while yet before the tributes arrived; they were in the Justice Building saying their goodbyes. 

In the end, Colgate took a nap instead of reviewing his records. Really, it didn't matter who anyone was related to; it just mattered what they were capable of. At least, that's what he told himself before he conked out. The blankets enveloped him in the blissful ignorance of sleep.

He was woken a bit later by the movement of the train and the unmistakable sound of the car screeching over the tracks. The time for greeting the Tributes had (maybe) begun, at least if they were out in the open and not hiding in their rooms. To some extent, he halfway hoped they were hiding so he might postpone dealing with them.

Colgate ventured into the hallway, the movement of the train testing his balance. His search for the tributes was not extensive. He sort of lost the willingness to do anything around the thirty-second mark. After glancing into one or two rooms, he settled in a comfy chair and closed his eyes, nestling into the warmth of his sweater.

If they wanted help, he reasoned, they would go looking for it.