the glare // saturn & babe

They parade him around as if that's a prize. It's been every day he's been here, as soon as they're done with him in one place, they send him to another. His hands are cuffed behind his back when in private but he's free to move in public. They rely on their threats to keep him tame in front of the cameras; cuffs on a victor would be embarrassing. Their leverage is good enough anyway, Babe keeps his hands in his pockets or at his side.

But they forgot about his mouth, about how with age he's only grown less wise. The year Babe won, he was so quiet. He was young then, a soldier but never the leader he was meant to be. He left Nine a child and came back as nothing. He wasn't a boy but he wasn't a man either, he was a separate thing, a twisted thing.

Because there isn't truly a meaning for the type of being the games had molded him into. Only those who had come before Babe and would come after would truly ever understand that. Babe isn't a Districter anymore but he isn't a Capitolite either. He no longer even feels human and that isn't ego, it's just fact.

He's a victor and it isn't a crown but a curse.

They hold him outside the arena, waiting for the all-clear to load the victors in. Babe is bored, the cigarette in his pocket that a Capitolite slipped him burning a hole through it. He hates that it's there, hates that he accepted anything from a Capitolite, but his slight addiction to nicotine keeps him from throwing it out.

And that annoys the hell out of him.

His soldier escort doesn't have a light, of fucking course. So Babe just stands there in the morning sun and tries to pretend that he's not about to watch twenty-three kids kill each other just so he can welcome the sole survivor into their shitty club.

Another soldier approaches and Babe stills, assessing where his nearest available weapon is. Men and women like him have killed hundreds of the people in Nine but Babe's always been lucky.

Lucky and unafraid to murder a man in cold blood.

"Yeah, it's just Babe, pal," Babe says and the way he says the word pal is a little bit less than friendly.

Babe doesn't know what they'd have to talk about with an enemy soldier. What are they going to do? Compare kills? Talk about the good old Dark Days or something? Could be that this man just wants to kill Babe as a symbol, wouldn't be the first time this week. Good thing his escort's a pretty good shot.

But Babe doesn't think he can technically refuse.

"That depends, got a light?"

Might as well get something out of it.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

Capitolite follows up by telling Babe his name is stupid, which, admittedly, is kind of nice. It's a hell of a lot better than the endless ass-kissing Babe's gotten since he arrived. The soldiers treat him like he's a devil and the Capitolite fans treat him like a saint. Both ends are garbage, Babe's never wanted that for himself.

He decides in that instant of his name being ridiculed, that he likes this guy. Not enough to be polite though.

"Yeah? And what's yours, Soldier Number Four Oh Six?" Babe says as he hooks a thumb over his shoulder at his escort. "This guy's Three Fourty-Two. Pretty shit naming system you have here."

But Babe isn't mad. Feels kind of good that the Peacekeepers are so worried about him that they refuse to even tell him their real names. He doesn't waste time either trying to explain that Babe was some baseball player from before the Dark Days or that his name matched his brother's. It's too cutesy, man probably won't believe it anyway.

And anyway, that's his story. If there's one thing that he's learned this week, the less he says the better. Anything he has said aloud has jumped from person to person faster than lightning. Every person he meets now knows more about him than he thought possible. It's fucking awful.

The guy looks at Babe and Babe looks back, tugging the cigarette in his pocket out, his other hand in the air as if to say, 'I'm not gonna hurt you.' The Capitolites are a jumpy bunch around him but they have no idea that Babe wouldn't even if he could. There's been too many promises made to him about just what they'll do to his family if he misbehaves.

Babe wants to fight the good fight but he knows for a fact that he won't be able to do that anymore if he loses anyone else. He isn't as strong as they make him out to be.

"Someone trying to get on my good side I guess," Babe says as he holds the cigarette up and leans forward. The soldier won't touch him here in broad daylight but Babe is tense still anyway. The only time he ever gets this close to a Capitolite soldier is when he's trying to hurt one.

"So what do you want," he asks, the soothing feeling of smoke filling his lungs calming him enough to be civil, "Gotta go in soon."

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]