A/N: This is written for Starvation forum's January prompt, five. Five stations in life, five deaths, and five somethings that helped them die.
See if you can guess who everyone is!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games... or Catching Fire... or Mockingjay.
For once, she thinks, silence really is a virtue.
Were she able to scream out the pain she feels, she's certain that her torture would only increase in intensity and duration, and she doesn't think she could stand any more of this.
She tries to remember something, anything, from the life she left behind. As she hunches in her cell, cold and miserable and alone, she tries to hold on to a little bit of the past. There's not really much point, since it's been years since she saw a face with any true comfort. There are those she sees every day, of course – saw, she corrects herself – and now there are her tormentors, but none of them do anything for her heart, which has long been a cold stone lodged firmly in her chest.
She knows what they're going to do to her, and why. She knows it all started that day in the unfamiliar woods, when the last reminder of home was stripped away in that too-clean hovercraft. And they had a chance! She knows there was a possibility that they could both have been saved, but the two people who could have given them that only sat by and watched as her brother was killed and she was made what she is.
She cringes into the wall as the door bangs open. Without a word, she's grabbed and roughly dragged away. The last thing she sees before she's blindfolded is her fellow prisoner, his head stripped of his once-red hair, staring after her in mute horror.
Where are they taking her? It's a very safe bet that it won't be good. She's heard the screams that echo off the walls, felt the bones that they haven't bothered to remove from her quarters, smelled the stench of death that she imagines will be rising from her own body shortly. If they take you from your cell, you probably won't come back.
Maybe this walk to her death wouldn't be so bad if she were with friends. If the person holding the gun that's digging into her back was forced to do so, and didn't give it an extra prod every few steps. If someone would hold her hand and tell her that it's going to be okay.
"I don't think so," she'd tell whoever said that. "I don't think anything will be okay again." And they'd find a way to comfort her – because all knowledge of how to comfort someone else or be comforted has left her. She'd rely on them to make things better.
But nobody's there to do that. Even if there were somebody, the conversation wouldn't happen. Because she's never going to talk again. She hasn't for years. She knows just what her friend Jaspaar would say to that:
"Silly, your tongue's going to grow back. Maybe it'll grow back twice, and then you'll be the double-tongued girl…" and on and on. She envies him his speech, though long-winded.
She knows what her grandmother would say:
"Hon, you're smart. Find a way to make the best of it. Talk with your hands." She's learned to do that, as does everyone who's like her.
She knows what her father would say:
"It's your own fault, you know. What were you thinking, running away like that? You should have known you'd get caught." He, too, would continue for many minutes. She'd take the rant in silence, just grateful to hear his voice. Any voice.
She knows what her mother would say:
"You have to take what comes to you. I promise you'll always have me to talk for you, though. I'll be your voice." No, she won't. She's most likely dead by now, and would she ever forgive her in the first place for the death of her son?
It's that boy – her brother – whose answer would truly be of some help. It's the shortest of them all, but she knows it's what he would say:
"Some things don't need to be said aloud."
It's true, she reflects as they secure her to the table and pour the water over her. Not everything needs to be spoken. Some things are felt more strongly than words can express. As she's hooked up to the machines, she knows that she'll be with him soon. Maybe she'll have a tongue there, wherever you go when you're gone. It would be a relief to be able to speak again. In any case, someone will smile at her.
With all the mental strength she possesses, she screams "I'M SORRY." Silently, of course, but she feels the relief as strongly as if the breath in her lungs has turned into solid sound.
And as the murderer's hands guide the wires together, the names of the five people she loves the most run through her mind.
Jaspaar, who she'll never see again.
Nana, who must miss her terribly.
Pa, whose advice she blatantly disregarded.
Ma, who couldn't help her, even though she tried.
And Aeternus, whom she killed, and whom she loves more than any of them.
She sprints through the woods, drawn by the crunch of bracken under someone's feet. It's either them or him, she knows. Either the romantics or the killer. To someone else, it would be obvious whom she prefers to meet. The romantics, of course.
But she's seen what the girl can do. She's seen the arrows fly and knows that they'll inevitably find their target. Of course, the archer's lover is injured, but that just means she'll fight more fiercely.
So she runs and doesn't particularly care who's going to emerge from the trees. But no one does, making her task – to survive – that much simpler. It only takes a second to realize that she's still unseen, grab a few berries and a chunk of cheese, and slip away again.
Crouched on the ground, chewing the cheese, she examines the fruit. A purple-blue color reminiscent of blueberries. She's disappointed that she wasn't able to steal more, however. Only five berries. Just five to live on until the next morsel crosses her path. Of course, five may make the difference between life and death.
She pops one in her mouth, the taut skin bursting between her teeth, staining them blood red. The first course of her feast, and how delicious! She stifles a laugh at how she's been reduced to this, rejoicing over the smallest bit of food.
The pangs in her stomach don't lessen, so she swallows the other four without hesitation. She's left the initial pile of food behind, but still – she should keep moving. She doesn't get much farther, though, before she falls to the ground, convulsing in agonizing spasms.
What was it? Her mind screams. What's happening?
She doesn't know. She can't fathom what's caused this; she's watched others survive worse hunger than what she's suffered. That can't be it. She can't have eaten anything dangerous; in fact, she's barely eaten at all.
What's happening?
She tries to make sense of the roaring in her ears, the fog creeping through her mind, the haze dimming her vision, but she can't. She can only stretch her mouth wide in a soundless cry as she contorts once, twice, and then is still. Somewhere high overhead, a cannon fires.
"WHAT DO YOU KNOW?" the man demands, his harsh, authoritative voice echoing off the walls. Hours – no, days ago, or maybe weeks, even months – a long time ago, they were a clean, perfect white, but now they're splattered with the blood of another, broken man who stands against one of the walls, held in place by shackles on his ankles and wrists.
The broken man doesn't respond. He winces slightly as the yelling man's fist connects with his head, but makes no noise. With a wordless shout of fury, the yelling man kicks his charge in the stomach, causing him to hunch as much as his chains allow. He glares up at his torturer, brown eyes flecked with gold, the minimal makeup he once wore long gone.
"WHERE WILL THEY ATTACK?" the man yells as his first question obviously fails. Another jab, this time with a sharp blade on both arms. Breathing heavily, the broken man is still silent. He'll endure this and more to protect that which is dear to him, the very thing that they are trying to find out.
The yelling man considers him for a moment as if deciding what to do next. His expression is pained yet not in the way one might expect – he's just aggravated that it's his job to force answers from this bleeding mess. To put it simply, he's bored.
With a deep breath, the next question is hurled: "WHEN WILL IT BEGIN?" This, the broken man has no idea of, but he won't give the yelling one the satisfaction of hearing him. He's vaguely aware of the blood running down his face as he's raked with razor-sharpness across his brow. It flows into his eyes, his mouth, staining his vision red and coating his tongue with a metallic taste.
He still hasn't made a sound, but he spits the blood onto the floor, blinks it out of his eyes. Now the yelling man, enraged by his resistance, strikes his knees with some sort of club. Excruciating pain as the bones break, and then a slow, creeping numbness begins to take over. The feeling is in no way gone, but there's hope, the broken man thinks, that it might diminish.
Another demand rings in his ears: "WHO WILL THEY TARGET?" This question is as unanswerable as its predecessor. The broken man simply looks at his oppressor, either unwilling or unable to reply. The look in his eyes suggests the former, as well as his bearing. He's recovered slightly from the kick and, though he can't stand, he seems to grow taller. He's wearing rags, the ghost of his crisp suit from the last sane day he experienced, yet he meets the yelling man's gaze with defiance in his own.
With nothing to report, the torturer will be tortured himself, or worse. He knows this and refuses to give up. He takes another look at his charge, assessing the damage, wondering if there is any point in saving him. He comes to a conclusion and digs in his pocket. He fishes out a key and proceeds to unlock the broken man, grabbing him by the collar and holding him inches away from his face without any struggle whatsoever. Breathing minty breath – a clean thing that has no place in this room, miles below the earth – he hisses the last, fifth question.
"Who will lead them?"
There's absolutely no answer now, nothing to give to the officials. With a sharp huff, the yelling man jams a hidden, unknown knife into the broken man's ribs. Released, the man crumples to the floor, still without a sound. He's staring up at his torturer with triumph in his eyes, even as he feels his heart pounding out its final beats. He coughs, splattering blood into the air.
With a voice so cracked and hoarse that it's barely audible, the broken man finally answers. But you wouldn't know from listening that he's in pain, because there's no trace of that in the sound escaping his lips. His thoughts run sluggishly, keeping pace with his slowing heartbeat. He only manages five more words, five words that he knows will not hurt anyone but himself, and he is already too hurt for it to matter.
"Girl-"
Thud.
"Who-"
Thud.
"Was-"
Thud.
"On-"
Thud.
"Fire."
Thud.
Then silence.
He hears, rather than sees, the door open. He knows what's coming. The nagging fear hasn't left him entirely devoid of his wits, however: he's not going to go nicely. The guards grip his arms and haul him to his feet after unlocking him, and he can smell the fragrant roses all the way to the edge of his mental precipice.
A hard-faced, gray-haired woman comes and places a white blossom in his lapel. She murmurs words in his ear, about the Games, and about little Rosey. He's so glad that she won't be in the crowd, but even the relief can't tamper his horror at what will inevitably happen to his granddaughter.
With a cold smile, the woman leaves, and he's left to wait.
On the television screen on the wall, he can see that dark hair and imposing bearing that he's had to put up with for the past year and a half. In her, he sees something of himself. The same slight jitters at the crowd, the strength of mind that's so present in her stance, even ravaged as she is. He also realizes that she's following the same steps he so carefully executed in all the times he ascended to that balcony.
Step one: appear.
She's done that, and it has the desired effect. Screaming people chant her name, and he grits his teeth at the memory of times when it was for him that they cried. But no more, and she's got the grit to manage them, he'll give her that.
Step two: pose.
It sounded funny when he was newly appointed and told what to do, and it still does. He remembers laughing at the thought of striking an odd position in front of a crowd. But it turned out to be so much simpler. Just a raised hand, a smile, or a slightly lifted chin. The girl's pose is only her profile, emphasizing the stubborn set of her chin. Well done, he thinks, seeing the crowd's attentiveness.
Step three: wait.
Now it's his turn to appear, dragged out to the warmth that feels all the more wholesome since he knows it is his last time to experience the sensation. His hands are secured to a post and the shrieks of millions ring in his ears. He can see the girl eyeing him, doing what she is required to do. Waiting.
Step four: begin.
Every person of high standing, everyone who has had to make a speech or demonstration of some sort, knows that the beginning is the most important part. Maybe the girl knows and maybe not – perhaps she is just following orders – but she's doing an excellent job of beginning by simply waiting a little longer, building up some anticipation. The hesitation makes the scene all the more climactic. He can see her confusion very clearly in those gray eyes as she draws the string back and the crowd waits with baited breath.
Step five: drive it home.
He wouldn't be surprised if a light bulb didn't appear over the girl's head. That's how obvious her discovery is to him. He can see the instant she realizes that he's been telling the truth all along. He thought she might see sense; he's been expecting it. What he hasn't been expecting is for her to aim behind him and pierce the heart of the woman there, the woman who whispered in his ear not five minutes ago.
Chaos reigns, and in this melee, he is the maddest one of all. He laughs, still tethered, as the stampede begins. He can feel the end coming and knows he's going to leave anyways, but he can't stop the mirth from escaping his mouth. He hasn't taken the antidote, so any resistance will be futile.
Still he laughs, spraying red on the ground before him, because as the girl is escorted away – as much of a prisoner as him, now – she's still followed the steps perfectly. She appeared. She posed. She waited. She began. And then she drove her point home, though he won't be around to see the outcome.
He's proud of her, in a way. Yes, they've been bitter adversaries for the better part of two years. Yes, he's indirectly responsible for the death of much she holds dear. But despite the hardships she's suffered, she's done exactly the right thing. She's done what needed to be done and nothing stopped her. She came close, but always persevered.
His breath comes in gasps now, and he can't help but cling to his last shred of life as the darkness creeps in on him. A few chuckles sound and then he's still, leaning as far over as his chains allow. He's gone, turned white as a sheet, and not one breath of air stirs in him, but he still wears a smile on his too-puffy lips.
They're coming.
They're coming, and there's nothing he can do about it. The only thing he can do is run more slowly, shoot more rapidly, and hope beyond hope that something will come of it.
The others are calling to him. They urge him to come – don't be a fool, they say. Hurry. There's still time.
No, there isn't, he thinks, even as the first set of claws slices open his leg. For a moment he stumbles, but then a pair of arms are holding him up. He stares blindly at the younger man's face, bleeding in the dark.
"The ladders," his savior gasps out.
He shakes his head vigorously. "No! You go, I'll hold them off!"
It's a decision that takes a split second, but in that iota of time, he is throwing away everything that ever mattered to him. His wife, their unborn child, the better future that might have awaited the world. The world will get its freedom, but he will not be there to see it.
With one pained look, the younger man turns away and climbs the ladder with a speed that can only come from adrenaline pumping through both of their veins.
Then the mutts reach him, and he fires his gun as though he's got nothing to lose. Anything to keep the reptilian monsters from reaching the remainder of the squad above. He's doing an astounding job – they are falling, vanishing before they can touch him. But astounding is no longer good enough. In this situation he must be perfect, a quality which he never truly possessed. The only near-perfect bit of him was his looks, and those have been damaged by too many months underground, and too many deaths.
Even so, he's holding his own, and the man has almost reached the top of the ladder. There is enough time after all, he thinks, to climb up, himself. With his muscles burning from the intense fear that he denies feeling, he whips around and heads for the only way out. He gets one hand on a rung, and the other, somehow managing to hang on to his gun. Then his feet – yes! With renewed strength, he begin to climb.
Less than halfway up, he knows that he was never meant to survive. The five monsters ripping at his body are too strong. His last two bullets are gone, and though there are only three beasts to kill him now, there are still too many.
He cries out as, with a sickening sound and a burst of unimaginable pain, his foot is ripped away. He's dangling there, his stump of a leg bleeding onto the tunnel floor so far below him. He can't muster the strength to swing his good foot up, to try to keep going. What good will it do? With any luck, the rest of his squad will be able to finish what they've started.
So he clings to the rung with both hands, pleading with death to take him. And then he sees what meant the most to him – He sees his first boat, its mast tall and strong. He sees the parachute that brought his trident in the first arena. He sees Mags laughing, her face alight. He sees a pink sky, the sky from the night before the second Reaping. He sees the gift Beetee gave him, shining like new. He sees Annie, dearest Annie, lovely in her wedding dress. And finally, he sees the sea crashing over rocks, and he can almost feel its wetness, as though it is giving him a final kiss.
He feels the teeth closing around his neck, and there is an instant of time which allows for only one emotion: hope.
Hope that Panem will be able to recover from what it has inflicted upon itself.
Hope that his beloved District 4 remains as wonderful as it has always been.
Hope that Annie and their child will be safe, and that this will not be in vain.
Hope that this war will remain in the minds of its survivors, whether they be rebel or Capitol. Because, just like the Games, it benefits no one to live in a world where these things happen.
He also hopes that he's given a proper burial, set upon the sea in a white boat like his father. But he knows that this last hope will almost certainly be denied.
As his life is snuffed out like a candle in the deepest water, he hopes for it anyways.
Bad luck is all it takes to die. Just one bad decision, and then your life is over. Maybe you'll be mourned, or maybe not. Maybe you're a slave who had the misfortune to serve a murderer. Maybe you're a survivor who thought the dangerous was safe. Maybe you're an artist who sold to the wrong person. Maybe you're a leader who picked the wrong side. Maybe you're a protector, only trying to do your job: protect. It doesn't matter in the end. Death and dying are the same, and they can still anyone's heart.