Scipio Hardin's Story

”Oh no. No no no no no, not again.”

Those had been Keeth’s words, upon seeing the gleaming train that would bring them from the Capitol proper to their dwelling for the next nine months. Dwelling was the word that he’d decided on for the place, for it would never be his home. He’d probably never see his real home, the small boxy apartment that he had kept so free of clutter, dust, and grime, again, but that didn’t mean he was simply going to forget it.

The Peacekeepers in attendance to escort them onto the train had been warned of Keeth’s liability as a flight risk. When the dark-haired boy, wide eyed and in the beginning throes of hyperventilation, tried to bolt, a stocky man all in white caught him by one of his spindly arms and kept him from running off. Keeth struggled for a moment before realizing that he had no hope of winning free, but he had to be all but half-carried or dragged to his cabin, and then locked in until the train was underway. He gladly accepted the sedative that someone, he wasn’t sure who, offered him. Even with it coursing through his system, he was still pacing across his room like a nervous crane as the shuttle came to life. He’d drawn all of the shades; the landscape blurring backwards past them would be too much.

Not long after they were moving, he heard the lock on his door click open. Even though he had no intentions whatsoever of going to dinner, he did have preparations to make. He was wearing the same get-up his stylists had picked out for him that morning, and his hair was a mess from the many, many times he’d run his hands through it (sometimes tugging quite hard) in the course of his mad pacing. He didn’t need to primp or change or any of that, though: what he needed were pillows. And blankets. As many as he could come by. He didn’t remember if the meal was mandatory or not, but if it was, they’d have to find him and drag him there as well. It was less a matter of open defiance and more a matter of survival. He’d accepted that he was going to die in the arena, sort of, but he’d do everything in his power to avoid death by train.

He’d grown up in Six. His father and both brothers had worked in the factories that made the rail lines and often worked on laying them down as well. He remembered well the many graphic descriptions his father had laid out for him, of trains derailing, and the reason for the calamity was always something innocuous. ”Oh, there was a defect in the rail, no bigger than your thumb. Doesn’t take much when the thing’s going hundreds of miles an hour, Keeth. Doesn’t take much at all.” How could the other tributes not know what danger they were all in? The train was more dangerous than any muttation or trap they’d encounter during the games, but they were… what, doing their hair? It boggled the mind. Keeth’s mind, anyway. How could they even keep the rich fare that the Capitol served down while they were smoothly speeding toward fiery death?

He stripped his bed of all the bedclothes and pillows and bundled them up. The first place they’d look for him, if dinner was compulsory, was his room, and that meant he needed to find a better hiding place. There were bathrooms that weren’t attached to any cabins, and those would do just fine. Using a bit of tenuous reverse psychology, Keeth decided that any pursuers would almost certainly assume he’d get as far away from the dining car as possible, and so in a fit of what might pass for cunning, he decided to stow himself in the lavatory second-closest to that very place. If the Gamemakers had scored them on cowardly ingenuity, Keeth would have swept the competition.

He bumbled out of his cabin, barely able to see above the bundle of goose-down pillows and heavy comforters he’d taken with him, and nearly ran into Magna as she exited her nearby cabin. Peering at her from the side of his padding-to-be, he opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it. He’d tried to talk to her the other night, after she’d gotten back from wherever the Peacekeepers had dragged her after her outburst on the show, and she’d barely said a word to him. He’d been hoping to speak with her, about that, about the boy from eleven, about… well, everything, but then she’d just stalked into her room.

”You do realize that no one’s allowed to kill you before we get into the arena, right?” That was what she said to him as he peeked at her in the train corridor. Anxiety had knotted his stomach, he needed to get to bathtub ground as soon as possible, before a squirrel got caught in the engine or something, and so he just squeaked ”Yes, I realize that” and then scurried off with his soft, fluffy spoils.

After depositing the bundle in the bathtub of the lavatory (why a public use bathroom would need a great huge claw-footed bathtub that would have comfortably fit three tributes was beyond him, but he’d stopped questioning the ostentatiousness of the Capitol shortly after he’d witnessed a man puking up his dinner for the sole purpose of being able to stuff himself all over again), he trekked back out into the corridor, raiding a nearby linen closet for more pillows. He only dared take another armload, and hoped it would be proof against the inevitable doom that waited for the lot of them at the end of the line.

He turned the lights off. Darkness would make it easier to imagine that he wasn’t on a train, that he was in his own bed at home, squeezing his eyes shut in the wake of the nightmare that the past few days had been. His life had never been exceptionally great, but he would have gone back to his brothers making him wear their mother’s frilly apron while he cooked for them in a heartbeat if it meant someone else had been Reaped instead of him.

He arranged the blankets and pillows as best he could, then climbed over the high edge of the tub with some difficulty. He actually wound up falling into his little nest, but fortunately, it was… well, a nest of pillows and blankets, and he suffered no harm. Burrowing down into them and wrapping himself up in a tight cocoon, he closed his eyes and prayed that he might be able to sleep through the whole voyage, or with luck, the next nine months. Or maybe he’d just die in his sleep. That would have been a boon, at this point. He knew he’d get no sleep, though. However he tried to distract himself, he’d always drift back to the fact that he was on a train, and a lance of terror would skewer him anew.






Scipio was starting to believe he had a telepathic ally somewhere very high up in the Capitol.

Things were going well. Very well. Too well. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of suspicion, but then, when one spent the bulk of his existence living a very elaborate lie, paranoia was practically an old friend. One of the few true friends he had. It made him sharp to consider every angle, every possibility. Perhaps some savvy oppressor had seen through his act, and was merely giving him enough rope to hang himself with? Scipio had very little interest in rope tricks. He’d leave that to Niles and Diomache. Even if someone did suspect him, it wasn’t as if they could pull him from the games. Not after he’d scored an eleven (tied for highest, which was mildly irritating and only reinforced the need to both sway the girl from Four to his side and then figure out a way to deal with her) and nailed his interview. Not after gladiatorial couture had already begun sweeping the Capitol.

He’d be sharing his room with the very girl he’d alluded to at the end of his interview. He’d been keeping track of the time, adding little pauses or jokes here and there to run out the clock in order to create suspense on that front. It was perfect. He wouldn’t even have to try to get her alone in order to woo her. He did need to get her would-be paramour alone though, for a gentlemanly discussion, but that could wait.

He couldn’t help but grin remembering his interview. How perfectly his double-talk had carried off. He’d restore the honor of his family, alright, but not as the empty-headed cravens of the Capitol thought he meant to. He’d even managed to work in a reference to the Thirteenth District that had been obliterated at the end of the Dark Days, in such a way that most wouldn’t even think it was defiance. Retrospectively, though, the truth of that three minutes would be undeniable. Proof positive that he’d been on this course all along, when he eventually needed to show the world who he really was.

His grin persisted as he remembered his session before the Gamemakers. The looks on their faces had been priceless as he rampaged through the training area with a mace in each hand, obliterating anything that came in his path. He imagined that a targeting dummy was Caesar Flickerman as he took its head clean off and then doubled it over with a blow to the midsection. He imposed the face of President Argent over a punching bag as he knocked it off its chain and then smashed it flat with a flurry of hateful blows. By the time they’d regained their senses enough to dismiss him, gawking, he’d damn near wrecked everything. Poor Stiletto had probably been quite cross, waiting for them to set things right before she could enter.

He was in front of the mirror, making a few last minute adjustments. He’d opted for a much more casual attire for the evening- a pair of nice but unremarkable pants of some sturdy brown cloth, along with a simple white t-shirt that showcased his upper body very well. He used a comb and some clear goo to sweep his hair to one side of his head, and then used his fingers to poke and prod the pale blond coif into perfection. He wanted to seem approachable. Normal. Just another teenager. None would fall for it, of course, at least not at the onset. His mission tonight was to convince as many as possible that even though they’d all be at each other’s throats in nine months, there was no reason they couldn’t be friends in the meantime. He’d seize any opportunities for drama that might present themselves, of course, but he didn’t plan to push. Not yet.

Satisfied that he was camera-ready, he made his way out into the hall. He had some time left before the meal would start in earnest, so he decided to do a bit of wandering… making his way slowly through the train in hopes of finding open doors with tributes within who he might talk with. His brow knit as he spotted The Boy Who Cried hurrying past him, hugging a mass of blankets, but he just shook his head and continued onward toward the back of the train at a lazy pace.

Yossarian Caulfield, Niles Bayou, and Scipio Hardin
(Collaboration between AugustArria, Attie, and throne)

The fuck was that shouting?

Yossarian turned his head to see. It was some ways further down the train, towards the dining hall. Figuring he'd stared out the back of the train long enough, and that he wouldn't mind some of that delicious Capitol food anyway, he headed in that direction, squinting to better see the source of the commotion. It was some dude... yelling something about a shirt... killer toothbrushes... and it was Niles! And he needed a shirt. This was brilliant. Such an opportunity. And here Yossarian was starting to think this train ride's only attraction would be the speeding lights and sounds and images of the world going by at ludicrous speed.

He vaguely remembered mentioning something about Niles Bayou in his interview, something along the lines of "could that man's chest look any better?" And as he approached the District Four tribute, he concluded that... no, it could not. Swaggering up to him and leaning on the opposite wall, Yossarian hooked his thumbs into his jean pockets, and stared rather blatantly at the boy's chest, even as he spoke.

"You know, you'll probably do better with the sponsors, and the girls, and the guys, and hell, even the Peacekeepers, or shit, even the Gamemakers, or fuck, even President Argent... if you just go without a shirt. But, uh... I might be willing to part with one of mine, if you'd be willing to do a favor for me."

To be honest, the boy from District Four was still a bit lost in his own world after the brief encounter with Diomache; however, she'd passed him a long while ago and left him shouting a bit more. It was well enough time to get over it, at least for now. It was a voice he'd not expected that woke him back up to reality -- despite the fact that he'd watched Yossarian on his way up the corridor. Niles tilted his head a bit at him, arched a brow as he clearly seemed to be talking to his chest, rather than Niles himself. Okay. That's.. normal, I guess. Just not from a dude. Whatever.

"I would hate to start off with my best show for the ladies and leave them with nothing else to the imagination. I mean, all the muscles you can clearly see - they're going to catch on sooner or later that the muscle continues down south... I'd better save them from losing an appetite for food. At least for the first night or so." He winked at the guy -- What the hell was his name again? -- and with the playful banter, he almost felt... normal. It was almost as if he were back home and his friends would giving him shit about his flawless appearance, and all the girls - no, they were women now. All the women he'd seduced and all their scorned stories.. It was true that Niles' never gone the full mile with any of them, but... The stories just sounded better when it came out that he had. "So, what's your flavor-- favor?"

Yossarian wondered if any cameras were on him at the moment. Well, of course there were, there were cameras on everyone, weren't there? Little flying bug-cameras or something. Even though he was doing this entirely for his own pleasure, perhaps the sponsors would get a kick out of it. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth as Niles talked about muscles and appetites and flavors... it was almost too much. Almost. If Niles went along with this... well, sponsors or no, this would be a fun way to kick off the nine months.

"Wrestle me for it. My shirt, I mean." He unzipped his hoodie and let it fall to the ground. His shirt underneath was clean, white, and probably big enough for Niles. Maybe a little small, but there was certainly no harm in that. Niles was a bit more built in the upper body than Yossarian was. "It'll be fun. Maybe it'll make that pretty girl of yours jealous. Maybe the sponsors'll love it. Maybe why the fuck not?"

Niles nodded with a sly grin on his face, listening to the suggestion with a playful spirit. Just like home.. He gave the guy a look from top to bottom, sizing up the fight before it would began. He looked sturdy enough, or maybe just confident, or maybe just crazy. It was coming back to him, now. His first impression of this guy was, Holy shit, he's nucking futs. Yossarian Something. Part of this didn't seem like a good idea, but at the same time, he needed a shirt. Do I need it that badly, though? What the hell.

"Right on, man. Alright, and what if you win?" He wanted to trust the other tributes. He really wanted to just befriend them and make nothing of it, but there was a nagging since ringing in his ears, What if he's got a weapon? What if it's a trick? What if you die before the games even start? - Or what if he blackmails you with this? Shaking it out as he slipped off his own wrinkly button up, Niles let it slide to the floor with as much care as he'd applied to it that got him in to this mess in the first place. Rolling his shoulders to loosen up, he remained standing upright for the conversation rather than hunching down defensively. The game wasn't on yet, after all.

"If I win? Uh... well, this is kinda it's own reward for me, you know?' He pushed away from the wall slightly, standing straight. Just the agreement Niles had made to go along was reward enough for Yossarian... the knowledge that in a few small seconds he have his hands all over the chest that he had spoken so fondly of. "Right then," he said, stretching a little. "We'll have to make this quick. Peacekeepers will be along to break it up in a bit."

Without any further ado, and without any warning whatsoever, the boy from District Eight launched himelf into Niles, putting all of his weight into a tackle, burying his shoulder in Niles' gut, and wrapping his arms firmly around his midsection. The pair of them rammed backwards into Niles' half-closed door, causing it to blow open and slam against the wall with a loud crack. They tumbled to the ground in his room, grappling for position. Yossarian pressed his advantage, sliding his legs deftly around Niles' waist and locking his feet together behind him. This was not Yossarian's first time wrestling, and it wouldn't be his last. He reached one arm up in an attempt to get Niles in a headlock, the other arm... well, it was wandering a bit. First to the pectoral muscle. Over and around his back, down... until the boy's resistance reminded him he was wrestling, not... something else.

His weight was thrown off balance when Niles pushed back, hard. He was stronger than Yossarian, and had no doubt been in quite a few friendly scuffles himself. Yossarian toppled over to the side, still maintaining the headlock, but his other hand was now focused on defending and preventing Niles from escaping his grasp. He was vaguely aware of a hand on his head, but paid it no mind, instead using Niles' momentum against him and continuing their roll, to the point where they crashed into a stand of bathroom supplies, sending killer toothbrushes and their bottles of paste crashing down. It occurred to Yossarian that he was actually laughing, even as Niles broke from the headlock and gained the upper hand.

---

Wandering had proven an extremely unproductive use of Scipio's time. The Career Tribute hadn't found much of anything towards the back of the train, but a sort of perverse desire to know thy enemy had led him to explore a bit more than he otherwise might have. He'd been in a room that seemed entirely devoted toward soaking feet in mineral baths when he'd heard footsteps padding by in the corridor, back toward the front. Shaking his head in bemused disgust, he put thoughts of drowning a certain President in three inches of foot water aside and gave chase. Quiet chase, when he stepped into the hall and noticed who it exactly it was. Caulfield, Yossarian, Male Tribute from District Eight, Strengths Unknown flashed through his mind, along with a far less clinical assessment: the mad one.

The faint hum of the train in motion and the soft carpeting of the hallway made stealth a little easier than it would have otherwise been. He kept a good distance back, only losing sight of his prey when the other boy passed between train cars, and then, only for a count of seven. He heard the same dim shouting- dim in the sense that it was quieter, carrying further down the hall, and in the sense that the shouter was proving that he was not entirely bright. Technologically advanced as it may have been, it was still only a toothbrush. Perhaps this year, the male tribute from Four would be left out of the alliance. Bayou, Niles. Apparently an attractive moron. He paused just before the doorway that led into the car the pair now occupied, and watched. One blond eyebrow hiked up as they agreed to... wrestle for a shirt? He had a dozen shirts in his room, and unless the stylists for Four were inept as one of their tributes seemingly was, Niles no doubt had replacements as well. Maybe he can't read, he mused as the show began.

Scipio glanced to his right, as if someone might conveniently appear for him to wager with. Wager what? If you win, I won't kill you until at least the third day. If you win, I'll save you for last. If you win, I'll sing a little song while you gasp your last breaths. They had no currency save for time, and when the arena came, it would be precious indeed. His brow creased faintly at the first impact after the toussle, and then they were inside the room, out of sight. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he strolled along down to stand outside the doorway and watch, making note of Yossarian's... technique. His eyes flicked back down the corridor, watching for the inevitable white-garbed interlopers.

---

There was a lot of fun to be had in this. Of course, Niles was oblivious to the feels of Yossarian, and oblivious that another boy joined them in same area, just as he had been oblivious that while Yossarian had been feeling on him, he'd managed to really lock his head. It was beyond impressive - even if it was a bit disgusting in Niles' perspective of how he'd accomplished it. However, now his head was back in the game - and a little lighter after a lack of circulation. Whatever he'd attempted to do with a handfull of Yossarian's hair, it was lost to him as they began rolling like a boulder that was too big for the doorway, catching their elbows, knees, and toes. The sense of pain was all lost to the adrenaline rush, though, and when they smacked in to the stand and it's contents flew like missiles from a until then neutral country, Niles overheard laughter escape from Yossarian. It took breath to do so, and with that crack in the wall, Niles rolled the opposite direction from which they came, his head free, and Yossarian's weight lifted from him and against the neighboring wall just a foot away. The space between them didn't last. Niles let out one of his own laughs - something he'd have shared with a buddy or two back home when skirmishes broke out on the docks and led to drenched shirts in the river - before hurdling himself in the same manner Yossarian had initiated the whole ordeal, attempting to carry the force of his weight through his shoulder's impact to Yossarian's stomach.

Yossarian yelped in a pleased sort of surprise when Niles charged at him with full force, not daunted in the slightest by how their confrontation had began. They flew backwards together again, this time Yossarian on the receiving end. His back rammed into the side of a dresser, tipping it over, cracking a window slightly. Yossarian shifted his weight, tipping the pair of them over onto the next nearest object... the bed. They thrashed around for a few seconds, the sheets getting tossed about and tangled as they struggled. Eventually Yossarian found himself on top. It perhaps made sense that his wrestling skill was multiplied seemingly threefold when he was in a bed. It was a comfortable environment after all. In any case, Yossarian had straddled Niles once more.

And there they were; heavy, rapid footfalls indicated that the bout would soon be over. Perhaps it was his internal resentment toward the Peacekeepers as a whole, or simply some natural flair for showmanship, but either way, Scipio wasn't letting them be the ones to spoil the boyish fun. Three long strides had him clearing the doorway, and he came up on Yossarian from behind, hooking his arms underneath the other tribute's armpits and then hauling him bodily off of Niles and the bed. "Now now, boys. You should save this sort of thing for the arena." The smirk he was wearing could be heard, if not seen, as he sought to restrain the feisty tribute from Eight.

Yossarian had just been about to go for another headlock when he was taken from behind by a pair of powerful arms, hooking under his armpits and yanking him forcefully away from Niles. He resisted for a moment, before recognizing that whoever it was had a serious strength advantage, and that there was no escape from this one. Damn fucking Peacekeepers, he thought as his feet were set on the ground. He turned to glare at the white clad man, only to find that--

"The fuck?!" he shouted, upon seeing the boy from District Two, Scipio, to be the one that had broken up the fight, and his fun. "You some kind of fucking Peacekeeper now, Two?" Scipio released him; well, it was more a half-shove. "I'm as much a Peacekeeper as you are a wrestler, apparently," he replied dryly, and not without amusement. At this point, the two actual Peacekeepers entered the room, looking annoyed. "Ah, fuck it," Yossarian said, before he swiftly removed his shirt and tossed it to Niles, still on the bed. "Thanks for the ride, you can have it. There's no problem here. Just trying to enjoy ourselves is all. Guess that's too much for a Capitol fuck like you to let go," he said, directing the last bit at Scipio. He then made his way from the room and slipped back into his hoodie, zipping it up about halfway. One of the Peacekeepers trailed him as he headed off towards the dining car without another word.

Scipio didn't bother pointing out that his intervention had probably saved Yossarian from being roughly dragged to the dining car. Then again, maybe a messed-up individual like him would have enjoyed that sort of thing. While Niles dressed, he let his gaze travel lazily to the remaining Peacekeeper. "Duty discharged. You really don't have anything better to do at the moment?" How's that, Panem? Scipio Hardin, breaking up fights and talking down to Peacekeepers. He glanced to Niles. "We might as well head down now, mm?"

Finishing the last button, Niles smoothed his hands over the tighter shirt, numbing over the parts of him he was sure would be sore in the morrow. Running a quick hand through his hair, he offered a laughing smile at Scipio, having ignored the outburst from Yossarian. If it wasn't directed to him, he didn't have to worry about the crazy coming after him. "Yeah. Sounds about right." There was really no reason to point out what was really going on. Yossarian had already done that, and everyone who didn't catch on was more of an air-head than Niles at this point. He let out a sigh, keeping his smile hanging from his lips as he offered a hand-waving gesture to the door to see them out and shut it behind them. Sure, the Peacekeeper could have done it, but damn it, if Niles had already given up his life, his family, and his realy home.. He was going to kindly see him the fuck out of his last bit of space. Until they got to the Capitol House, that is. They couldn't get there fast enough, in his opinion.

Scipio moved to saunter along at his side, shaking his head. What would the actual dinner have in store?