Chapter Text
"Welcome, my dear Mr. Highbottom.”
Casca often tried to understand what kind of beast Volumnia Gaul's eyes reminded him of, but couldn't decide. A snake, hiding in the bushes to strike and bite? A hawk, soaring in the sky in search of prey, ready to dive and tear it apart with its talons? A bat, hiding in the darkness to swoop down when you don't see it?
A monster, a creature ready to devour everything within reach, unnatural, an insult to the nature, honed only to kill, kill for pleasure, kill out of curiosity, kill simply because that's how it was created, created by some insane creator, not by nature, because nature's predators killed solely for their own benefit: to eat, mate, or simply survive. Not just to kill.
Casca shifted his gaze to Crassus, sitting in the chair and savoring a drink from a delicate glass. Crassus was clear. Crassus's eyes were the eyes of a wolf, ready to tear apart an opponent for food, a mate, or the survival of his pack—Crassus was ready to kill for money, his woman, and his family.
Crassus had no more money, no woman, and the might of his lineage was reduced to a mere shadow. The District Thirteen no longer existed, and the wealth of House Snow was no more. Now Crassus was just a hired employee of the Ministry of War, a significant employee, but nothing more.
Do you hear that? It's the sound of snow falling.
Casca was satisfied. Pleased to see that Crassus was clad in ill-fitting uniform, clearly unable to afford a better tailor now. Pleased to hear discussions about how low the house of Snow had fallen, about how their family had to move from a luxurious penthouse with a rooftop rose garden to a modest apartment by their standards, outside of the Corso. Satisfied to know that retribution had caught up with Crassus Snow.
Casca looked around. It was his first time in Dr. Gaul's apartment, and to his surprise, it was... entirely ordinary. Honestly, he was sure she lived in some insane bunker filled with terrariums with mutts, similar to her laboratory in the Citadel, but it was just a regular, standard, sterile apartment.
Nevertheless, Casca complimented the interior, only to receive an uninterested eyerolls from both of them.
"I'm not interested in your opinion on my carpets and curtains, Mr. Highbottom. Today, I called you here to discuss an important matter..."
"Wait, my dear Volumnia," Crassus raised his hand, stopping her, and Gaul shot him a disgusted look. As a student, Crassus never allowed himself such camaraderie with a professor, but now Crassus was no longer a student. He was a damn war hero, a darling of the Capitol, penniless perhaps, but with the ability to whisper in the ear of President Ravenstil.
"Perhaps our dear Casca is tired, having devoted the whole day to the education of young minds. I'm sure he needs a little refreshment after such torture," he approached the table where the drink was, poured a generous portion of whiskey into a low glass, and handed it to Casca without adding ice. "Children are disgusting creatures."
"Including yours?" Casca bared his teeth more in a snarl than a smile, took the glass, genuinely wanting to splash its contents in Crassus's face – but if there was one thing Crassus was right about, it was that he needed a drink right now.
"Coriolanus is insufferable," Crassus replied firmly, still standing at the table with the drink. "Sometimes I want to crack open his head and see what's going on in there, where he gets all these ideas that he sprouts. Capricious, frivolous, prone to absurd fantasies..."
In other words, just a child. A regular six-year-old boy. Or was it nine? Casca couldn't remember how old the boy was when he saw him for the first and last time; he couldn't even walk yet back then. When was that?
"I'll send him to peacekeeping as private as soon as he turns eighteen," Crassus continued grumbling. "To Twelve, no less. They'll straighten him out quickly, make the man out of him. His thoughts will be in order, like soldiers on parade, not like..."
He waved his hand vaguely in the air, and for some reason, Casca thought he wanted to say "not like of you two," referring to him and Volumnia Gaul. And Casca wanted to hit him, just for the mere thought of putting him in the same category as Gaul. He dares to do that? Crassus?
Gaul laughed,
"An intelligent child is a joy for the educator and a punishment for the parent. There's nothing more beautiful than a curious young mind. And that's exactly why I called you here, my dear Casca, to once again appreciate the fruits of your curious young mind."
She approached him, extending a folder, and Casca chilled, recognizing it.
Their student project.
The Hunger Games.
The room seemed to sway beneath him, and in desperation, he looked at Crassus, who was smiling at him, pouring himself a new drink.
"Today, I did something I've never done in my life, Casca. I confessed my sins," he smirked, glancing at Volumnia Gaul. "Today, I confessed to our dear Volumnia that you practically wrote the project alone, and all I did was pour you drinks until you passed out. Oh, and I added my name to the project."
" Plagiarize," sang Dr. Gaul. " Let no one else's work evade your eyes."
" Remember why the good Lord made your eyes,," Crassus joined in with a playful student song from their days in University, "So don't shade your eyes,But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize...."
Casca wanted to scream in horror, anger, and hatred, but all he could do was down the contents of the glass, and Crassus immediately took the glass from his hands, refilled it, and handed it back to Casca. Just like that evening, that fateful evening when Casca uttered words he should never have spoken.
"I had to confess to our dear Volumnia that it was your genius behind this project because it needs serious refinement. This..." Crassus pointed to the folder that Gaul tossed onto the coffee table in front of Casca. "It's a speculative idea, a philosophical exercise, abstract musing on a given topic, unrelated to reality. We need to weave it into the fabric of Panem. It's a punishment for an imaginary enemy. You have to turn it into a punishment for the Districts."
"We intend to conduct the First Hunger Games this summer. I've already chosen the day for the Reaping – the fourth of July. Reaping." Gaul smiled madly. "What a delightful term. Your imagination is exquisite, dear Casca." She dreamily rolled her eyes. "Reaping, where 'tributes' will be chosen by lottery, one girl and one boy from each city – no, from each district, of course; we're talking about Panem, not some abstract victorious state."
"Bring them to the Capitol, throw them into the arena, and make them kill each other until only one remains," Crassus interjected. "And we, the victors, will watch from the front rows, and all the Districts will watch with us. Punishment for the defeated – time and again, they will watch as their children kill each other."
Crassus's face darkened. The wolf's eyes filled with blood, his teeth sharpened, the animal was ready to pounce forward to tear the throat of anyone who dared to threaten his pack.
"If only you had seen all that I've seen, Casca. Sometimes it seemed to me that I wouldn't die from a bullet or an exploding shell – it seemed that one day I would drown in the blood, in the blood of my fallen comrades. There's nothing scarier than hearing a soldier burn alive, the same soldier you reprimanded this morning for not responding to your call quickly enough. Seeing young guys turning into stumps without hands, without legs, without eyes, without a voice, just stumps left to live and suffer forever, remaining in the prison of their bodies for decades. How youths, full of hope, turn into chunks of meat, like on a butcher's counter.
Crassus's black hatred for the Districts filled the entire room, and Volumnia Gaul listened to him with delight.
"And the civilians... Our citizens, living under bombs for so many years, children going to sleep, fearing never to wake up again, buried under broken bricks, burning alive with no chance of escape, screaming from under the rubble until the air runs out of their lungs. And hunger. My son went hungry, Casca. My mother and son, both starving, surviving on scraps, rats, bits of wallpaper. Do you know what my son had to witness? He saw a man, respected, known, decent man, cutting off the leg of his dead maid, and you know perfectly well why, and my son, he understood why it was done. This is what the Districts did to us, Casca. This is what they deserve to be punished for, the most terrible punishment that the human mind can devise.
"The Hunger Games," Volumnia Gaul said enchantingly.
"Yes," Crassus nodded. "What you came up with, Casca, is a masterpiece of genius. Only in a truly brilliant mind could such a luxurious idea be born. Alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, perfect, flawless, ultimate retribution. An ideal project. Worthy of the highest praise. The magnum opus of a titan of thought. A work worthy not of a student, but of a professor, a philosopher who has reached the heights, surpassing even the geniuses of the past. A work deserving the highest grade. Elevating a student from merely good to the ranks of the very best."
"And you were the best, my dear students. You've earned these grades, and even more. Just look at this! Before our eyes, we will witness the civilization stripping away from humanity. Innocent children, untainted by sin in our eyes, will transform into predators, prehistoric savages, driven solely by instincts. Humanity undressed."
Casca watched her in horror as she stood, looking at him but not seeing him – she gazed somewhere beyond him, through him, as if she could already see children killing each other. And she relished the spectacle, savored it, drank it like nectar, devoured it like the most tasteful delicacy. She saw children killing each other, and by doing so, she killed herself, out of pleasure, curiosity, out of a simple desire to kill.
Casca himself didn't understand how it happened. Suddenly, Crassus took one quick step away from the drink table where he had been standing all this time, made one quick, almost imperceptible step, one quick movement – and Volumnia Gaul suddenly collapsed to the floor like a bag of bones. Casca stared in amazement at her head, at her neck twisted in an unnatural position. She lay on the floor, but her head was turned in a way that could only be on a monster, something unnatural, insult against nature.
Or a dead person.
Volumnia Gaul was dead.
And her killer stepped away from her and calmly poured himself another glass of posca.
"You can't even imagine how long I've wanted to do this," Crassus said in a casual tone. "Pass me your glass; you need another drink, I presume."
"What..." Casca didn't even understand how he got to his feet. "What have you done?"
“Just friendly patted her on the shoulder. Adjusted her collar. Swatted away a fly. What do you think I did, my dear brilliant mind and titan of thought?" Crassus rolled his eyes. "Pick up your jaw before you dislocate it; you look disgustingly dumb for such a genius."
"You killed her!"
"Bravo!" Crassus placed the whiskey glass on the coffee table in front of Casca and applauded briefly. "Give Professor Highbottom some time, and he'll figure it all out."
"Why did you do this?" Casca looked at Volumnia Gaul's body again, and he almost vomited. Crassus took a step toward him, but stopped.
"Not on the carpet," he warned. "I hope to get this lovely apartment along with the position of the head of the Military Department, and I liked this carpet, as you said, it's quite elegant."
"You did this to get her position?" Casca couldn't tear his eyes away from Gaul, from her unnaturally twisted head.
"Among other things." Crassus approached Gaul's body and lifted her easily. In two steps, he dragged her to the coffee table, and Casca's stomach turned when her neck bones cracked as Crassus hit her head against the edge of the table, and Casca finally threw up.
When Casca lifted his head, Crassus stood in front of him, offering a glass of water. Casca reluctantly took it to wash away the bitter taste in his throat. He looked at Professor Gaul lying on the floor near the table, and her head seemed to be held together by only muscles and skin, almost beheaded.
"We'll say she fell and hit her head on the table. You and I will say we were discussing a treaty on sanctions against the Districts, that Gaul was overwhelmed, completely absorbed by the ideas that consumed her – I'll say, as a simple military man, I didn't understand what she meant, and you'll come up with something insane, something to make the investigators gape in astonishment, crazy ideas worthy of the brilliant mind of Gaul. Start thinking about it right now, and let me know a couple of things so I can confirm she said them. She got so carried away in her inventive frenzy that, not seeing anything, she ran around the room, stumbled, fell, and hit her head on the table. Think, damn it! I'll rummage in her office for a while; maybe there are some records left. Hell, first thing tomorrow, I'll order everything to be taken out of her offices in the Citadel, the university, and the academy. Why does that old witch have so many desks? We need to remove everything related to the Hunger Games from there."
"Hunger Games?" Casca followed Crassus, not wanting to be alone with Gaul's lifeless body.
"This witch was going to present the project to the president tomorrow. Now we'll have to postpone everything. The investigation, organizing the funeral – and then we'll tell the president, both of us, that Dr. Gaul's ideas were delightful, amazing, brilliant – but technically infeasible and prohibitively expensive. That we'll need to come up with another punishment for the Districts that doesn't involve 'humanity undressed.'
Crassus began to sift through the papers on the desk, and Casca turned to the cabinets, going through all the records stored there.
"Are you against the Hunger Games?" He still couldn't believe what had happened. "But you said..."
"That's an amazing project? I still think so. A brilliant project – like a speculative idea, a philosophical exercise, a project worthy of the highest grades, elevating us from the ranks of just good students to the best of the best. A project for which you and I received grades, a diploma, and graduation among the first. For the sake of that grade, I was pumping you with alcohol up to the watermark back then, but that doesn't mean I'm going to applaud the civilization's descent into an uncovered state from the front rows. I’ve seen it already."
Crassus paused and sat heavily in the chair behind Dr. Gaul's desk.
"We all thirst for revenge, Casca, and I'm no exception. I want to unleash blood and fire on the Districts. I want to see them burn, hear them scream as they burn alive, just like my brothers in arms did. I want them to starve, like my son did. I want their best of the best to cut off the legs of their dead. I want to turn these damned places into deserts, like the one left in the wake of my Thirteenth. I want their blood, like nothing else. But we can't afford it. Panem can't afford it. We devised the Hunger Games as an idea, a way to perpetually punish those who stand against us, but that's the main flaw of this project. It's geared for eternity. And we can't remain in a state of war forever. What Panem needs now is healing. Full recovery. Only then can we bring prosperity back to our families. We will punish them, of course. There will be the Reaping. July Fourth, as dear Volumnia came up with. One tribute of each gender from each district every year. A tribute from the District to the Capitol – their children sent to the Capitol as a pledge of their peaceful coexistence. They will stay in the Capitol for ten years as hostages, and if any funny business, we will execute them all, live on air, forcing all the residents of the Districts to watch as we execute their children for the transgressions of their adults. And then the Reaping will be gathered again, all those who have ever participated in the Reaping will draw lots again, and we will take their children again to raise them in the Capitol. We will mold them into loyal citizens of Panem, loyal to the Capitol and its ideals, ready to return to the Districts, sowing our ideas and promoting our values. And that will be your job. You will educate them; you will raise citizens who will return to the Districts to spread our ideas and advance our values. We'll come up with a special position for you. Father of the Nation, how does that sound? Although no, it sounds tasteless. We'll think of something. Now, get to work. We have about half an hour left, or we'll have to explain why we're so delayed with the report of the accident. We'll say you felt nauseous, got sick, and I helped you come to your senses. You think about the insane ideas she might have been spouting that got her so ecstatic. Come on, stir your brilliant brain. Since you came up with such madness as a kids massacre, the rest should be a piece of cake for you. Sorry, my imagination won't stretch to that level – it never would have, so I drugged you back then. How else would I have gotten a better grade? Plagiarize," he muttered again, " Let no one else's work evade your eyes... Funny, this time she'll be stealing your ideas, aren’t you impressed, huh?"
Casca gazed thoughtfully at Crassus, who had resumed rummaging through the papers. "As we execute their children for the transgressions of their adults." Casca thought about the rebels who occasionally attempted to restore the status quo. He thought about the children who might be executed for the transgressions of their parents in case of any Rebels attack.
But perhaps it could be prevented. Maybe he would agree to take on that position, "father of the nation" or something less tasteless, and with this influence, be able to stop the massacre.
Or perhaps he would have to kill someone, as Crassus did, eliminate the one who wanted to implement this idea.
Or it might not work, and he would have to watch his students die, and then...
Maybe morphling would help then?