thecapitol | (no subject)

WHO | Katurian and Elias
WHAT | Denial, fear, faces.
WHEN | pre-Arena 5
WHERE | Central commons in the Training Center.
WARNINGS | None for the moment.

Once upon a time, there was a storyteller who was falsely imprisoned once, then twice, then ordered to fight to the death.

This storyteller (Katurian) was not exactly equipped for fighting to the death, although he had fought, once or twice, and that fighting did lead to death. Those cooling bodies underneath his hands, those rigid fingers. Slowing gasps. Acidic soil. These were things he was unlikely to forget, and oh god, oh lord, oh fucking hell, these were things he never wanted to live through again, and so he decided that he wasn't going to live through them again. He bathed himself in denial, in the futile thought that someone was going to grab his arm and take him away from this place and back to his old life. Sorry, sir, they would say with sheepish smiles and straight backs. There's been a mistake. You're free to go now.

This denial is what kept Katurian out of the training room and in the lounge. He craved to write like nothing else but he didn't dare incriminate himself with the gruesome words that would flow from his fingers. Was he here because they thought he was a murderer? Was he here because they knew?

He sat motionless in a leather chair, his hands gripping the arms, his eyes wide and watching with a thousand suspicions.

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"Katurian," he said. A sickness welled up in his stomach. "They tell me that I'm a tribute for District 12. I d-don't think I'm supposed to be here, but I--"

He tried to force out a laugh, but it came out more like a cough.

"It's unlikely they confused me with you, isn't it?"

Elias shook his head.

"If anything, they were thrilled to have someone who looks like me."

He thought again of Alex. Of the fact a perfect stranger was here, would be celebrated, because he had a victors face. His face.

"12 is...a good place to be right now."

In some ways.

There were so many things he wanted to ask. What was so good about District 12 if the people there still needed to fight and die? Why would his kidnappers care if he shared this man's face? Katurian's mind was plugged with cotton and confusion and fear.

"I d-don't understand."

It seemed like the only thing he could say.

Elias looked at him, helpless.

He could feed him facts. He could and he would. But that didn't make any of this easy to understand.

"I can tell you anything...that helps."

"You're the mentor for District 10," he started, his voice still frail, yet gaining strength. "You're set to the train the people who are supposed to kill me."

Katurian looked helpless, too. He interlaced his fingers.

"Is that why I'm here? To punish you?"

All Elias could do was shrug, feeling more and more helpless as this conversation went on. It was a feeling he had started to be able to shrug off, and here it was, back again.

"I...I don't know. They have been bringing in so many, but..."

But would the Capitol ever give up a chance to add in an extra dose, to grind any one they could down a little more.

"Maybe you can convince them that they don't need me."

The words came out all at once, his voice pitched with fear and desperation. He rocked forward.

"You can tell them that I'm not supposed to be here, that they-- that they made a mistake in bringing me here because I am-- because I am not you and I've never met you and I don't have a fucking thing to do with this society. I've got my own home and my own issues and I--" His voice cracked. "I really can't afford this."

He swallowed. The Capitol would be more likely to harass this man if he spoke up, not less. But the despair coming off him, it twisted something up in Elias.

"I'm...I'm sorry."

He really was. Because this was, deep down, tied to him. Like his brother. And again, out of his control.