Chapter Text
Seneca Crane watched with barely concealed horror as Katniss Everdeen revealed the nightlock berries she’d been carrying in her pocket, and shared them with Peeta Mallark.
The Girl on Fire… the Star-Crossed Lovers… He’d fallen for it, as much as any of the idiots watching compulsively on their screens. “Get a message to Templesmith. We’re revoking the revocation. Two winners. NOW.” As the message was sent, he didn’t wait to see the response. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and strode back through the corridor that led to his private suite, the one in which he virtually lived during the Games.
He wouldn’t be right back. One way or another, he wouldn’t be back at all. He didn’t fool himself that his last-minute ‘save’ would save him at all. Snow had warned him, had warned him more than once. The President had a zero tolerance policy for mistakes. You either didn’t make any, or he disposed of you.
If he was lucky it would be a quick, easy death. Otherwise, there would be torture. Worse still would be if Snow had one of his special units transform him into someone – no, something – else. An Avox or something far more terrible. Everything depended on what would suit the man’s agenda.
He had precious few minutes. When Snow was displeased, he acted immediately. Seneca picked up the custom blade that helped him maintain his iconic beard, and then put it aside. He rummaged in the drawers till he found a more conventional razor. After shaving quickly, he ran water through his hair to remove all the styling product, then ran his fingers through it to destroy the careful construction.
The face that looked back at him was younger, and not easily recognizable, he thought. He was about to leave when he realized that his outfit was also considered rather iconic – austere in the gaudy word of the Capitol, but he realized now that in its expensive defiance of fashion it also made its distinctive statement. He shed the jacket, vest and shirt, picking out a blue shirt from the wardrobe. It would minimize the impact of his eyes, but right now that seemed a good idea.
He knew the building inside out, including a small corridor that led to an unguarded entrance. He had abandoned his identification, including the small card used by Capitolites to make purchases. Too easily traced, so he would have to do without. As he emerged into the streets of the Capitol, he saw very few people. That would change abruptly, as the joint Victors would have been declared, a hovercraft dispatched to retrieve them from the Arena.
Hovercrafts. He thought he saw one now. It was probably the one sent to extract the Twelves, but he couldn’t be too careful. He saw people coming out into the streets, the public gathering places, chattering excitedly: “I knew that girl would win… somehow,” someone said, a woman in a gold and green swirled outfit, her hair dyed to match. Yes, Seneca thought… somehow, she did, and her gallant boyfriend, too. Somehow.
He was in one of the Market Squares, where vendors provided knick knacks and specialty food items in an open air setting. He realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had been a slapdash affair, hurried and barely tasted. He approached a vendor who had savory bits of meat on sticks for sale. Reaching into his pocket for one of the less-traceable coins he had there, he was suddenly elbowed carelessly by another Capitolite.
“Watch where you’re going,” he said. He was wearing purple with silver accents, and had the bearing of a man of some importance. Seneca pushed down his own irritation. “Sorry,” he murmured. The man started to say something, and then looked at him again. “You look familiar… have we met?”
“I’m sure we haven’t,” Seneca said, eyes suddenly cast down.
“Hm,” the man said, then repeated, “Just watch where you’re going, boy,” as he moved on.
Relieved, Seneca bought the stick of meat, and a bottle of water to wash it down. As a precaution, he bought the simplest of the fashionable sun visors on sale by another vendor, and put them on. He knew he didn’t have enough money on him to afford a train, and anyway, train travel was severely restricted. But he had to get out of the Capitol. He was not nearly as recognizable out in the Districts, but even there, he knew he couldn’t stay any one place too long. He knew that every step he took would lead him farther and farther from the life he knew, but that life was over.
All my life, he thought. I followed the Games, studied to be a Gamemaker, rose through the ranks, and now… who am I if I’m not Seneca Crane, the guiding genius of three years of Panem’s most popular Games, the prodigy who’d become the youngest man to hold his position?
Those questions would have to wait. He had to keep moving, and towards someplace, something, that would help him move forward. But where?
He saw Peacekeepers in the crowd and, without changing his stride, went into a nearby shop, not knowing what purpose it served. Once inside, he could see that it was a confectionary, truffles, jellies, and other delicacies arranged in tempting displays all around the room. The middle aged woman at the counter looked slightly familiar to him but he didn’t have time to place her. He moved to leave the store.
Suddenly two Peacekeepers came in. One of them pointed right at him and they both moved in his direction. Seneca did the first thing that came to his mind, upending a table stacked high with dipped fruit, right in their path. He fled for the back of the shop, looking anxiously for a rear exit and wondering where the hell he’d go from there. The curtains separating the back from the actual store fluttered open and he froze. It was a teenage girl, and she actually smiled at him. “Mother said to take you out this way. She has the situation under control…”
“You could be putting yourselves in danger.” Could? It was guaranteed.
“We know who you are. It’s all right.” She guided him out and down an alley.
“Why - ?”
“Whenever you bought something, you always gave some to the children. You can’t be as evil as they say…”
Yes, he thought. I can. I am.
At the end of the alley she gave him a silver foil bag. “Some food…”
“Thank you.”
She smiled again, this time mischievously. “May the odds be ever in your favor, Seneca Crane…”
He nodded and took off, navigating a labyrinth of alleyways behind the various stores and businesses that threaded through the Capitol’s public areas. But the last few years of luxurious living and moderate debauchery had taken their toll. He was winded by the time the sun set.
Where can I go where I’m not considered a traitor or a vicious killer? And how can I get there? His mind was swimming and he pressed himself to control it. He considered prayer, but he had never been a religious man and indeed, religion was discouraged by the Government, seen as a potential source of rebellion. He put aside thoughts of prayer and looked for a more practical plan. Then, somehow, the two strands of thought merged.
The Jedi Temple.
He’d never been there himself, but then again, not many had. The old religion had precious few adherents, and was dismissed by Capitol society as a hodge podge of fake mystics. They didn’t involve themselves in politics and had never commented on the Games at all. Best of all, the Temple was in the far Southeastern corner of the Capitol, at the intersection of the Second and Seventh Districts. And below the Second District… the wild lands. Unsettled, an easy way for a man to lose himself. He’d rather try his luck there than anywhere in Panem.
With a renewed purpose, he set out in that direction. It took him three days, moving steadily, not seeking rides or help. He was ragged and exhausted and malnourished when he reached his destination. It loomed in front of him, the semi-ruined stone structure that looked as if it belonged somewhere else, or at some other time. He made his way inside.
The interior was as austere as the exterior had been. He stood on a stone floor, beautifully inlaid, but without ornamentation or polish. Stone walls, thick, built to last, surrounded him. There was a rudimentary altar, and some benches, but they weren’t arranged in rows, and not all faced the altar. A cabinet crammed full of books. He started towards it but the journey caught up with him and he winced, sitting down on one of the benches. He noticed that his feet were swollen, and there was a dark bruise on his left ankle. He didn’t remember how he got it.
He tried to empty his mind of fear, of guilt, of any sort of expectation. He had a chance to live, and that would be enough. But he found that emptying to be easier said than done. His brain, once so disciplined, swirled with nearly random activity.
At first he didn’t notice the two men who had entered the room, but after a few minutes he became aware of them. He looked up, turning slightly, and gave them a quiet appraisal with his eyes. Uncomfortably aware that he was in a temple, he took off his sun visor. Their gaze was as steady as his own, perhaps steadier. One was his age, or even a little younger, with natural red hair and a short but full beard. The other was taller, more muscular, a presence – words, even movement, seemed unnecessary, but Seneca sensed that when he did move or speak, it would be accurate and confident.
They continued to gaze steadily at him, no sign of fear in their eyes. Finally, he said, “I’m in need of sanctuary…”