Fic: Chemistry for Hungry People (The Hunger Games)
A gift for lorataprose
Title: Chemistry for Hungry People
Characters: Brutus, Lyme, Enobaria, Beetee (Gen)
Rating: PG
Warnings: a little cursing
Summary: The Quarter Quell broke his faith in the Capitol and the Rebellion has given him little reason to pledge his loyalty, but nearly a year after the cease-fire Brutus finds he still has something to believe in.
A/N: This wee ficlet is a remix of my post-Mockingjay AU headcanon with lorataprose's District Two 'verse. No actions, thoughts, or other elements of this story are binding on lorataprose's 'verse. Your mileage may vary. Please keep your hands in the vehicle until we come to a complete stop.
Fantastical beta services provided by brate7 and JJJunky.
Brutus does his best to muffle the sound of his boots sinking into the thick snow that covers ground at the edge of the Victor's Village. The effort means his trip around the perimeter is slower than his normal walking speed, but as he’s checking the integrity of the fence and associated security measures, it’s just about right. Three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than his nearest competition, the trainers gave Brutus his field exam during winter to see if he could keep up the technique under extreme conditions. After two sweltering arenas and a rebellion that was more about brute force than stealth or cunning, there’s no reason for Brutus to practice. And yet, the instinct that kept him alive through all of that screams in his head.
It’s not just that the newly elected senate has tabled the issue of whether to continue to pay Victors’ pensions “for deliberation at a less crucial juncture.” And it’s not just that the District Two council has given the Victors charge of the Athletic and Personal Growth Center, but no funds or supplies. As Lyme has repeatedly pointed out, Panem’s new government is facing no end of dire problems: without Twelve’s coal, some of the outlying districts are facing the winter without a reliable heat source; the bombings in Three and Eight have crippled Panem’s manufacturing capability; fires (accident, sabotage, or bombing-take your pick) destroyed more than a quarter of the grain processing plants in Nine; and though the refugee situation has made it difficult to get an accurate count, all told, it looks like the Rebellion and the Capitol managed to kill off over a third of the population. They’re going to be fortunate to make it through this winter without adding thousands more to the tally.
And yet. Despite all the work there is to do to get Two’s quarries fully operating and start repairing the damaged buildings across the country, to create a functioning police force, to restore freight transportation between Two and the other districts, someone found time to creep around the far side of the Village and paint “killers” in stark white letters on the exterior of the fence. With so much blood on everyone’s hands, Brutus isn’t sure where anyone gets off pointing a finger at the Victors. Because they joined the rebels? Because they didn’t join soon enough? Probably was one of the younger rebels or soldiers from Thirteen, striking out at a symbol of Two-
(We’ll never be able to trust them again)
--or a refugee with an ax to grind. He won’t permit his mind to dwell on the possibility that it might have been someone from the District he’s dedicated his life to. Brutus always thought people who spoke about feeling their heart break were whiners who needed a good smack. There are a lot fewer things Brutus is certain of these days.
So Brutus may be having issues, he may be less certain of what the next, right move is, but he’s not so far gone he doesn’t hear Enobaria moving out from the bushes she’s been hiding herself in, and not so old that he hasn’t hit the ground before her first volley flies into the space occupied by his head half a second before.
And then it’s on.
Fifteen minutes later, all the snow in a twenty-foot radius has been disturbed, pressed into service or hopelessly muddied, and Enobaria is up a tree, out of Brutus’s range but also out of ammunition. “Swords instead of snowballs and I’d’ve had you,” she claims, shimmying down the trunk.
“Big talk from someone who snapped at least two twigs at her concealment point. Why not just hang out a shingle?” He waves a hand at the fence as it continues into the distance. “How’s it look?”
As her boots smack the ground Enobaria’s typically intense demeanor reasserts itself. “Looks right. No damage from the storm, to the wood or the wires; cameras still camouflaged. You’ll have to ask the cuckoos whether they’re working properly.”
Brutus loathes Enobaria’s nickname for the Three Victors. He should have put a stop to it back in the Capitol, when she first started referring to his checking on them as “feeding the baby birds.” For a pair clever enough to steal all the evidence necessary to demonstrate Coin’s unsuitability for the presidency out from under her nose, they’re remarkably deficient in basic survival skills. In the twenty-seven years he’s known Beetee, the man’s never raised his voice to anyone. Ordinarily Brutus appreciates those who shun bluster and rely on quiet competence, but in the chaos of a coup, when supplies are low and lines of authority are ambiguous, it’s time to stop waiting for someone to notice that you don’t have access to the military canteen or that your shattered Victor needs some kind of medical attention. Fortunately, people have always appreciated Brutus’s powers of persuasion.
In any case, Brutus is Odin’s only Victor yet living. The way he sees it, if anyone had a right to decide who was going to live in his mentor’s house, it’s him. And Enobaria had agreed with almost all of the remaining twenty-nine: no Victor should be living in a group of less than five, or without younger, capable fighters in the mix. It was an easy call to ask lone Victors to move, especially those in the urban areas where the lack of natural resources is making life harder than in the more rural districts. And the Seven and Ten Victors seem to find Twelve to be pretty much like home. He wishes they’d gone with his plan to keep all of the Victors in Two and Four-a short train ride from each other, relatively simple mid-point for assembly-but at least they’re all in districts on the edge of Panem, able to melt into the woods or sail into the horizon if it becomes necessary.
Sure, they’re a little off. There are only seven Victors who’ve lived through two arenas-volunteer or no, Enobaria ought to respect that-and Beetee was twitchy before he saw his first Victor’s throat slit and took a few volts to the chest. Like her mentor, the chemical engineer Beetee pulled out of the shit-storm that was the 69th Games has always been quiet. Spending a good portion of the war in a cell next to Quarter Quell victor-mentors from Four, Seven and Eight hasn’t made her any more effusive. She may not talk about what happened there, but the fact that she’s the only one left alive fills in what Brutus needs to know. (Anyroad, Baria shouldn’t be calling out other Victors’ mental health.)
Despite their eccentricities, the Threes are handy and willing to pull their weight. Power used to flicker during storms, but now somehow it remains steady. The grinding noise coming from the pump station was fixed by the time Brutus escorted a technician to the area. And early one morning, Brutus entered the pavilion to find the bugs that used to inhabit the walls lined up neatly on a card table, electronic guts removed and polished.
It’s like living with industrious ghosts.
He’s pretty sure it’s going to come round right, in the end. Last week, he found the pair perched in the rafters of the gymnasium, heads stuck inside the HVAC. Brutus was on the verge of making his presence known by insisting they get down right the fuck now-if anything needs climbing into Petra or Claudius or just about anyone else is better capable of handling it-when he heard giggling explode from the vent. The pair emerged, Eibhlin waving some kind of part in her hand and passing a remark about the National Museum of Industry, and Brutus is pretty sure the technological honor of District Two had just been impugned. But Beetee was laughing and brushing the cobwebs out of his Victor’s hair, and Brutus understands that seeing things operate less well than they could bothers them the way seeing people put in less effort than they’re capable of grates on him.
They’re all coming off a Games (bigger arena, too many players, crap weapons) and still well within the normal recovery period. No one’s so crazy they can’t come back from it.
“Yeah, I’ll drop in on them on my way back.”
“Don’t forget to chew the worms fully before you regurgitate them.”
Brutus retorts by shoving her into a snowbank. If Enobaria wanted to spend her days exchanging catty put-downs, she should’ve moved in with Haymitch.
Brutus makes it back to the main road in time to see Lyme climbing the drive, Claudius’s head locked between her elbow and shoulder. He can tell it’s all in good fun as the boy’s batting her arm but not making any real attempt to break the hold.
“Did the delivery make it in?” The Center’s been without fresh food for more than two months. The former trainees were raised on protein powder and are used to harsh conditions, but there’s only so long anyone should subsist on supplements and vitamin shots. Among thirteen Victors, coming up with the money was the easy part; finding a reliable supplier has been the challenge.
“No,” she almost sighs. A shadow passes over her face as she finally lets her boy go. “Some kind of problem with the hovercraft.”
Brutus cocks his you’ve-got-to-be-shitting-me eyebrow.
“Yeah, more like a problem with the law, but that’s one of the risks you take on the blackmarket.” Lyme is fussing with her Victor’s ridiculous hair. Brutus is fairly certain she’s not aware she’s doing it. Her features resolve to confidence (his favorite and fortunately, her most frequent look). “There’s no one in Panem so stupid as to try to rip us off. There are much simpler ways of suiciding out.”
Two years ago he wouldn’t have questioned it. But then, two years ago, this wouldn’t have been happening. “Lots of stupid going around.”
Now Lyme really does sigh. He’s known her too long to think her naïve, but he still has no idea where she’s finding the optimism to believe the new world will be better than the last. She’s frustrated that nothing she’s said has convinced him, but it’s possible he just doesn’t have the reserves of belief left to stretch.
“Finished the property walk? Any damage?” She’s asking about the storm, but also about the incident, which the older Victors have agreed to keep from Claudius and Petra. The two of them became adults the moment they stepped forward to volunteer, but there’s no good reason to mess with the heads of Victors who haven’t been out of the arena all that long. Coming back is hard enough with the whole of the District behind you. Introducing that kind of doubt…
“Nothing to be concerned about. Couple of trees down outside the fence, but none closer than thirty feet. Equipment seems to be in order; no disturbances at least.”
Lyme translates that, and relaxes her posture. It’s been three months, but it stings as sharp as yesterday.
“Enobaria’s just going to check the materials at the observation point on the mountain.” The bug-out bags are in hardcases; even if the oldest tree on the mountain scored a direct hit, they should be fine. Still, like the knife in her boot or the sword under her bed, Enobaria enjoys knowing they’re there. Brutus doesn’t mind the knowledge either, but it’s nothing more than prudent planning; he doesn’t need it.
“D, would you-” Before Lyme can form her request, Claudius is off like the counter’s just hit zero.
“Back in a couple hours!” Claudius has been through a lot; if assisting Enobaria in making sure the bags are still in good order makes him feel more secure, Brutus isn’t going to knock it.
As he turns to head up the main road toward the center of the Village, Lyme’s arm slips under the hem of Brutus’s coat to settle snugly around his back, her body close enough to his side he imagines he can feel the radiating heat. Warmth seeps into his frame.
From the outside, Odin’s house has hardly changed since Brutus first stepped inside nearly three decades ago. The only difference he sees today is the carefully lettered sign taped beside the screen door-
IN BASEMENT
DO NOT ENTER
WITHOUT
|
|
\/
--and the folded, plasticy-looking jumpsuit and goggles beneath it.
Yeah, he can ask about the damned cameras later.
Before turning back to the road, Brutus notices a shallow cardboard box on the bench next to the suit and goggles, a pad and pencil lying on the other side. The box contains a single phone. The top sheet of the pad is headed in block letters “SMALL ELECTRONICS” with the subheading “Please describe the problem as specifically as possible.” Underneath, Brutus recognizes Nero’s spidery script: “Busted.”
Yup, ain’t nothin’ about this arrangement that isn’t gonna work.
Brutus knocks the snow and mud from his boots before stepping into the back entrance to his house. Immediately his skin prickles; he knows someone has been here. He hasn’t locked the door in years; the civilians have no way of getting this close and a lock wouldn’t stop a Victor. But even the Victors he’s known for decades wouldn’t have entered uninvited. He freezes for a moment, allowing his senses to pull in all available information and his brain to catch up with his instincts. His eyes see the same scattered arrangement of paperwork he left on the dining room table this morning, his ears hear the brush of a bare branch against the eaves, his nose smells... vanilla?
Eyes swiveling toward the kitchen, he spots a basket on the counter containing a cloth-wrapped bundle. His brain tries to match the scent of vanilla with some kind of threat, and comes up empty. Still he checks the kitchen doorway and the floor before entering and flipping back the cloth to reveal... muffins, still warm. He’s been hit by Panem’s most gracious cat burglar, or-
The note tucked under the basket removes all doubt: “All cameras functioning normally. Feed available on IntraNetwork channel two.” Spotting the bleed-through of a felt-tip, Brutus flips the paper to reveal another note, in a more elegant hand: “baking = chemistry for hungry people.”
This they’re going to have to talk about, soon. If they surprise Enobaria, there’s a genuine possibility she’ll hurt them before she even realizes she’s done it. Even the best case scenario is going to impede their integration. It hits Brutus that he knows almost nothing about their District culture; it’s possible they don’t understand the difference between an open door and an unlocked one. Brutus gives a shudder at the thought of trying to find a way to correct the manners of a Victor more than fifteen years his senior without sounding disrespectful.
Still, this is also a sign of progress, the gesture being almost two-thirds social content unrelated to electronics, mechanics, or other scientific endeavors. Brutus studies the muffins for a moment before taking one up (no sense in letting it get cold). He knows they must have used powdered egg, but they’ve come up with some way to disguise the taste. Not so good as the stuff he’s nicked off of Lyme’s counter, but points for degree of difficulty.
Unbidden, Brutus’s mind is flooded with the memory of the starfish-shaped sugar cookies Mags would bake and decorate for that first night in Mentor Central, when the mentors would push caffeine and sugar to stay alert through the crucial hours that would shape the days to come. Somewhere in his Network account there’s message with a photo of Odair’s spawn attached, tucked between the arms of his parents. That baby is probably crawling now (or paddling).
He remembers the phone equipment in the Justice Building included some kind of video panel. He’s not clear on why that panel was never used, but he’s pretty sure if there’s anyone in District Two who can figure out how to jury-rig a video communication system, they’re down the road, in a basement, doing... something that requires protective gear. Pulling another muffin from the basket, Brutus resolves to check again in a few hours, to see if the sign has been removed.
Because, really, there are limits.