marcus greenstone (![]() ![]() @ 2014-02-22 08:52:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! 56th games, - capitol, victor: 42nd marcus greenstone, victor: 52nd diana lyme |
WHO: Lyme and Marcus
WHAT: Mentoring blues :(
WHEN: Day 9, during this
WHERE: D2 Quarters
STATUS: Completed log
It was mid-afternoon when Marcus finally stumbled out of bed, nursing the ever-present hangover that followed him during the Games. However, the persistent beeping from the tablet on the bedside table wouldn't stop -- Zipporah and Brock were probably up to something, hopefully not kissing, and curiosity overcame the pounding headache. With a sigh, he swallowed a handful of pills, morosely examining the wreckage in his penthouse's living room before turning on the television. Two was certainly the focus of the main feed, but it wasn't Brock posturing or Brutus's statue, but Zipporah, and the screen flickered to life just in time for him to watch REAPER SPELT, TRIBUTE, DISTRICT 9 (so read the closed captioning) slit her throat with the sickle. The replays with commentary began, and Marcus watched, lips thinning, forehead exhibiting the tiniest of wrinkles. --- The elevator to the second floor of the training center was empty, and he was glad, both out of pride and vanity. It had been a while since the first Career dead had been a Two, and while he'd had the nagging sense for weeks that Zipporah didn't have it -- whatever it meant, when evaluating tributes -- it wasn't a situation where he wanted to be right. The telltale noise of smashing arrested him outside the door, and Marcus paused for a moment before entering the living room. He raised an eyebrow at the room's sole occupant, stepping carefully over the pile of shattered glass. "But now they no longer make a complete set," he pointed out. (Then instinctively, he ducked.) The complete set, that had so quickly turned into half of a pair, was reduced to nothing but shards of glass within a few moments of Marcus speaking. Lyme’s reflexes were excellent, and she picked up the glass ornament without hesitation. Her aim, however, was less than perfect when angered and it flew a few inches past where Marcus’s head had just been. “Come to laugh at me, Marcus?” Lyme demanded, her question bitter and shouted. “Come to tell me that you told me so?” The girl, now twenty-one and usually so proud, stepped closer to him. She may have been shorter, younger, but these were things that never made a difference when she was looking for a fight. For days she’d barely slept, too wrapped up in frustration and anger at how helpless she was as a mentor, and now she’d watched her tribute die. She’d watched the girl murdered, and Lyme wanted to shout and rage until someone took responsibility. “There’s more where that came from,” she glared up at him. "And I'm sure that's true, but I came to have a drink," Marcus said mildly. Welcome to mentoring had been Scoria's comment to him all those years back, when she had walked into this room to find him amongst similar destruction. It was on the tip of his tongue now, but Diana's expression stopped him; instead, he sighed and pushed past her -- still stepping around glass shards -- to get to the bar on the side of the room. "What is it that you want, Diana?" Marcus asked, hunting for ice tongs. "I could say I told you so, I could laugh, and you could throw more painful objects at me. Will that make you feel better?" It was noteworthy that he didn't even attempt to make her a drink, and just focused on his own. He added, propping his elbows on the bar, "I can tell you that there's only so much within your control. Or I can tell you that this is a thankless fucking job, or that you would have had to pick one anyway, and Brock's odds were better. You have a menu of options. Pick." He raised the Bloody Mary at her, and downed most of it in a gulp. Her glare was cold, and she watched him in stony silence as he got himself a drink. Of course he got himself a drink, Lyme was bitter about that too although she knew it was irrational. She stared at him, jaw stuck out at a defiant angle, and folded her arms across her chest. Did she even know what she wanted to say to him? Lyme didn’t know what she wanted to be angry about the most. And then, finally, she answered his question. “No,” she said, a little quieter than she had been just moments before. Her glare didn’t waver, but her voice had softened a touch. "No?" Marcus echoed. He abandoned the remains of the drink and sat down on one of the couches, folding his arms and watching her expectantly. "This is mentoring," he said, and the mocking tone had all but disappeared. "I brought home two tributes, and I didn't bring home twenty others, and that's considered an exceptional success. You can ask yourself every time if there's something you could have done until the guilt eats you, or…" He trailed off, unwilling to add or you can be drunk at three in the afternoon. "She wasn't going to make it out," he added quietly. "You knew that too, Diana." It was a testament to how close they were that Lyme fell silent as he spoke, listening intently to his words as his tone changed. It was that hint of honesty, the lack of mocking, and Lyme’s frown softened. Crestfallen, she sank into a chair opposite him. Drawing her knees up and hugging them, bare feet flat on the seat of the chair, Lyme watched him. She was unwilling to admit that something in his words made sense, and still unwilling to admit defeat. What had been Zipporah’s odds anyway? Better or worse than her own had been just four years before? The girl ducked her head and stared at the floor in sullen silence. “Who do you blame if you’re trying to not blame yourself?” Diana’s question was hesitant, faltering before she finally said it, not daring to make eye contact with Marcus even then. "But you do blame yourself," Marcus said, closing his eyes and slouching back against the couch's rich upholstery. "You can try to blame the trainers, or the tributes -- and they deserve the blame in most cases, but it doesn't work completely. Do you think any of us didn't blame ourselves we were doing this? But right now, you and Brutus have another tribute to focus on, and he deserves your full attention. You can analyze what went wrong later." His eyes flickered back open. "You will blame yourself, and nothing any of us can say will change that. Though, my advice is that you should blame yourself for liking her, Diana. I tried to tell you that makes it harder... You just can't win the Hunger Games for anyone else." Lyme felt a pang of guilt as she thought about their other tribute. She’d thrown things and shouted at Zipporah’s death, forgetting about Brock in her rage. She was still seething, but starting to feel ashamed and guilty. She nodded slowly, still hugging her knees as she stared across at Marcus. Even now, even through her tantrums and anger he was still her mentor. Perhaps there was some secret to distancing herself, or some way that she could pretend that the tributes weren’t humans. They were only a few years younger than herself. “I should find Brutus,” Lyme spoke quietly, thoughts switching to her fellow mentor. Had he felt these confusing feelings of anger and upset ever? Was she going about everything the wrong way? She gulped back a shaky breath, remembering the images she’d seen on the screen just minutes before. “I should find Brutus, watch Brock, keep working at it,” she muttered, repeating her mantra of the past few days. She’d repeat those words every time she felt like sleeping or indulging herself in any other way; Brutus, Brock, Zipporah. There was one less to think about now. Clenching one fist and then relaxing it, Lyme looked to Marcus again. It was stupid, childish even, to seek some kind of reassurance from him even now. She bowed her head once again. "And you should try to get some sleep," Marcus replied, rising from the couch and stretching out the kinks in his back. "You're no use to Brutus or Brock if you pass out from exhaustion." He crossed his arms, observing her for a moment as she looked down, his mouth opening and then closing as he thought about what to say. There was no real purpose in talking about the catastrophic failure his first year mentoring had been, or how the subsequent years had worn at him, physically and emotionally, sealing and solidifying bitterness towards their rocky home. There was also no real purpose in telling Diana that she was handling the job extremely well. The sentiment was genuine, but he knew saying it here and now would sound too much like pity -- District 2 detested pity. Besides, she would need it later, when it was time to face the families, either at home or on the victory tour, and next year and the year after... He shook his head and uncrossed his arms. "I'm going to find everyone else," Marcus finally said. But as he passed Diana on his way out of the room, he stopped, and for a brief moment, his hand rested gently on her shoulder. |