trinkett | Fifth Dispatch. Practice Makes Perfect, And Perfect is Me. Action.

[It's a hot afternoon, and Effie Trinket has sneaked into the Barracks -- first checking to make sure no one else is in there.

No one is.

It's far too hot and dusty and anyone in her right mind would choose the techy comforts of the Battle Dome over this place.

This is a good thing. Effie doesn't WANT to meet anyone today. For one thing, she feels very awkwardly dressed: running shorts and a bright yellow T-shirt (yellow is a Power Color); white athletic socks with that 1970s-era striping at the top; sneakers. No heels, no shoulder pads, no wig, no makeup.

She is here -- VERY GRUDGINGLY, MIND -- to train for warfare. Her last announcement to the village brought on plenty of warnings, and even a subtle death threat or two, and at least a few people giving well-meaning advice. She can hardly believe any of the doubters who'd said the Malnosso would sacrifice her in a battle, but better safe than sorry. One never knows when the higher-ups might make a clerical error or shifting error and accidentally send a valued subject into dire straits.

The second reason she doesn't particularly want to meet anyone is because she knows none of the Luceti peons like her very much. That's fine with Effie. Eventually the Malnosso will take her into the inner workings of the organization and place her right where she belongs. Until then? Well. She can and has been staying indoors a great deal, being a bored journal stalker.

Unfortunately, this lonesome round in the Barracks confirms that Ms. Trinket is not cut out for warfare at all. It turns into hesitant prods at practice dummies with wooden swords, a lot of staring out the windows, and a frustrating turn at a punching bag.

Fighting is horrible and she's horrible at it and consequently is in a horrible mood.]

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"We have holidays quite frequently." Bread and circuses, the Romans called it. "And we celebrate birthdays. And then of course there's Black Friday."

That's when you ate and ate and ate and then shopped until your feet swelled up and exploded. Figuratively, of course.

"...Black Friday?"

Now, there was a day what sounded dangerous.

"You eat. You eat and eat and eat. There's banquets and drinking and dancing everywhere! In the streets, in the restaurants. On roofs of buildings."

It was a very exciting holiday. Lights were strung up everywhere.

"And then you shop until the wee hours of the morning. All the shops stay open for days and days. Some people shop for a week."

"How can they afford it?"

Stupid question. Of course they could afford it -- he'd witnessed enough opulence second hand to believe it.

"We're rich." Even Effie made out pretty well in her government job. Not to mention television appearances and the odd product endorsement.

"...Must be convenient."

"It is." She could NOT resist a happy little flip of her hair. "But it's not nearly as convenient as everything being free. Like it is here. Even though there are too many things here that should be restricted and burned."

Like the aforementioned books.

Everything being free rather disturbed him. It wasn't that he had scruples -- after all, if it was necessary he'd steal what he couldn't buy. But he couldn't help but wonder how they were actually paying for all this luxury.

"Restricted and burned?"

"Restricted. Incinerated. Our Peacekeepers are excellent at rounding up anyone in possession of anything deemed intractable or subversive."

"...Sounds like the provosts, if you ask me."

She didn't. She didn't ask him.

"Provosts?" Better late than never.

"Military constables," he explained. "They enforce regulations, like. Make sure no one ain't stealing."

Or worse.

"Really? Someone of your caliber, stealing?"

Her tone indicated that she thought this entirely possible. But mostly that was for show. Richard Sharpe wasn't someone she considered a threat, probably because she cooked so much damn lamb for him.

"Certainly you've remained well above the law."

"It is, from time to time, a necessity."

Sharpe had never remained well above the law -- but now he was trying to decide whether she was sincere in her last statement. Did she truly believe...?

She was very busy trying to calculate how long Sharpe would remain alive in the Capitol.

He took her silence as criticism and -- to his surprise -- rushed to clarify the matter: "I give my men only three rules, ma'am. One is that they never steal, unless starving. And even then, they'd damn well better steal from the enemy."

She frowned, but asked: "And the other two rules?"

"...Fight like devils, and don't get drunk without my bloody permission. They obey, well enough. Most of'em. On account of they'd rather deal with me than be hanged by the provosts."

"Because you're such a soft touch." She hadn't meant for that to sound at all positive. But she had been around Richard Sharpe long enough to realize that he wasn't Peacekeeper material in the slightest. He was far too dangerously independent to be like them.

"Because," he growled, "it's better to be thumped in the gut than it is to have your back flayed open. Or your neck wrung at the end of a rope."

Not that he hadn't had men hanged. Plenty, really. On the roadside. He'd executed his own as well as the French -- somehow, the latter had gotten him into more trouble.

"That's what I meant," she returned sweetly. Whenever he growled like that she made sure to be as sweet as possible in reply.

Still -- her accusation of being a soft touch was getting under his skin. Or maybe it was all the sweetness. He continued: "Not that I won't, mind you. Hang a lad. If he's earned it."

This propelled her to even greater depths of sweetness. "Lucky lads, to be swinging at the end of YOUR noose."

"Many of them deserved much worse..."

"I love it when you talk so preciously to me!"

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