Animus
Prologue; Part Deux
The Times, They Are a-Changin'
...
[Three Years After the Bombing of 12]
(Gale)
"Docking in 5." Comes the grainy voice of the pilot over the intercom. We're flying low over the woods around 13, well I assume we are since I'm sure as hell not going to look out the window. If man were meant to fly, he would be given wings.
And then shot shortly thereafter, for being nuts.
Because who wants to spent their last seconds on earth plunging to their grisly death?
The bat shit insane, that's who.
"Looking a bit green there, Cpt." Corporal Gill Mathews observes with a bold grin despite his comment being quite distinctly under his breath. Unlucky for him that I have excellent hearing though.
"Yeah, well." I reply tersely, gripping my seat until my knuckles turn white and why the hell aren't we there yet?
"I'd pick temporarily green over permanently ugly and demoted any day of the week Private." I favour him with a tight grin as the smug look drops from his face to his ass so fast it probably ripped open his intestines on the way down. The rest of the squad snickers and some openly guffaw.
It's a good sign. The horrors of the last few weeks - the lost friends, the sight of hover planes exploding over us like fireworks, the screaming, the bombs, the death – not lingering over us like some unseen cloud, at least for a few minutes. It does not take long however for solemnity to return to the cabin and the smiles quickly fade from their faces; dark, despondent, brooding.
Reminds me of myself a few years back when this nightmare was just beginning. Spent so many years trying to be a man; like a fucking fool I jumped at the chance to give the Capitol a taste of what they'd be dishing out to me and mine my whole life.
My hand dips into my inner pocket at the thought, feeling over the cool metal of the flask kept there helps. Pulling it out I bring it to my lips; taking the edge off the twisting, sickly guilt in the pit of my gut.
I had commanded the assault on 4. It was my plan. They – the Jabberjay forces – had launched a bid to retake 11. It was poorly planned and desperate. The Capitol, who can spare the manpower for throwaway assaults to test and chip away at our defences, often allows its top brass to plan such attacks; arrogant assholes who think if they throw enough men at the problem they can overcome it. Like similar attempts before it, they were fleeing with their tails between their legs within days.
I had proposed the plan to take the bulk of our remaining forces, swing around with the element of surprise to bring 4 into the fold; it was already in open rebellion and the Capitol, after sustaining such massive casualties and with their closest infantry force of any size in retreat, was stretched too thin to have a force on the ground capable of preventing us from taking it. If we pushed hard and fast with the element of surprise their AF, our only major threat, would not be able to get there in time
It should have worked. Would have worked. If only they didn't somehow know we were coming.
If only they hadn't...Burned it.
Fire from the sky and acid in the water for all those poor souls who thought they could swim to safety. If our own Mockingjay fighters hadn't shown up to the battle, the Jabberplanes who wiped 4 from the map would have taken us all with it; decimating a good 8th of the total standing infantry the rebellion has. And I wonder, briefly and not for the first time if she was out there. Wouldn't surprise me. She's that fucking crazy. I'd even made inquiries after the fighting, pulled in all the favours too. Fruitlessly it turned out, since even with my rank and position I couldn't source information on specific air force personnel. Besides if she was out there she's more than likely dead now. I saw more planes go down that night than I care to recall.
If she died...
I grip the cool metal in my hand until it aches.
My plan. My fault.
Control will have my ass.
Catnip too.
Another thing to look forward to. A demotion would be the least I could expect. Although being an officer is more of a pain in the ass than anything (so much paperwork) so I definitely wouldn't be complaining.
Bristol, a seat over, catches my hand on the flask before it reaches my mouth. I know what he's thinking; barely a few years older than me we had been friends back in upper school and when I was assigned to his crew in the mines, the same crew my father had ran years before him, he decided it was fate, destiny or whatever hokey bullshit he believes in and we've been with each other since. I wouldn't have anyone else cover my back when shit goes down.
Excluding Catnip of course.
"Not your fault Hawthorne." He tells me gruffly. And he honestly believes it.
My scowl and misgiving snort is all I have to offer on the subject although I take his hint by re-stashing the liquor just as the hover carrier makes a sharp dip to the left and drops fast enough for me to feel it in my gut. I clamp my teeth down over the powered eggs and squirrel that threatens to make a reappearance as the cabin is plunged into darkness.
No good for a platoon moral so see their C.O splatter the windows with every meal he has invested in the past week.
They'd never let me live it down.
Bristol shoots me a shit eating grin.
"Would you like a bucket?"
"Fuck off." I return trying not to smile despite myself.
...
(Some weeks previous)
(Madge)
I'm huddled against the bathroom tiles; filthy with my own vomit and blood when the lights flicker on. I squeal and clamp my palms to my eyes because it hurts. Every cell in my body trembles. My nose runs violently, and my leg involuntarily twitches. But at least, at least, the hallucinations have stopped.
That was the worst part. Take it from me, there's nothing fun about thinking millipedes are crawling up the veins in your arms while your dead father looks on in disappointment with your mothers screams of morphling madness ringing in your ears.
Or reliving memories of fire, bombs and stubborn idiots for that matter.
The thought turns my memory to 4. I'd been boosting so hard that night, had been interfacing, so many - too many connections. I made Ace in one night and then some. A record, especially for a Freelancer like me; we don't tend to get involved in full scale blitzreigs. I barely even remember all the planes I took down. The multitudes I killed with the most underhanded of tactics.
A monster in lace and ribbons that voice laughs; my shattered subconscious, my shadow. I mentally shudder away from the nightmare grin it sports in my minds eye wearing a face that is mine but not quite - proud at the thought of all the destruction, the suffering and fear.
Distracting me from my own particular brand of madness is the drawling creak of the door as it opens. Someone approaches and wraps a blanket around my shoulders. The physical world seeps into my awareness and sound of her laughter out– for now. To add to the merriment I realise I'm pretty much naked too. Loose shreds of cloth hang off various parts of my body. Vaguely I remember tearing at my clothes, I was overheated I think in my effort for fighting it.
I recall burning, burning, burning up and a darkness which smells of musk and fire.
At least, I rub my eyes again trying to get everything to stop blurring around me, I think I do. Everything is sort of fuzzy at the moment.
I put up little resistance as Sphinx silently picks me up bridal style, his big hands holding me like I'm nothing more than a rag doll. Blearily and through glassy eyes I comprehend the mushy pinkish thing in front of me to be a face. The face of Griffon, my Squad Commander.
"Emmie?" A female from out of my view pats my hair soothingly and croons my name again or rather not my name. I move my palms from pressing against my eyes to my ears. To block out the noise or my disjointed thoughts I can't tell anymore.
"They say you're better." Griffon's gruff voice radiates off the particles in my skin causing me to squirm and lose my focus, cruel laughter seeping into my mind again. "Come on, Love, we're going to get you home."
I have no home. I shake my head trying to dislodge sounds no one else can hear. I struggle weakly in Sphinx iron grip. Why can't they just leave me? Kill me. Kill us. Just make her stop laughing.
"Flight Lieutenant Undersee." The same voice, though different, deeper and harder, barks at me and my head snaps up, silencing the noise.
Undersee. Lieutenant Undersee. I take a shuddering breath as everything, the fine details, come back sharp and painful; where I am, what I am, why I'm here.
I killed him.
Dallas.
He betrayed us. She refutes in the back of my consciousness, resolute and unburdened with guilt. I shake my head. He traded information about the attack. He used us to do that. He tried to kill-
My mind blanks and I physically retch although anything of substance I threw up hours ago; a thought so odious and so painful it is not even hard to prevent her from continuing.
You are weakness.
Hundreds died. You should not have ended him so quickly. Thousands maybe. We could have made him suffer. I don't know. I deserved the satisfaction. It was a lot of money and an official immunity. Others will not be as fortunate. I still have the pardon with the official seal stashed in secret. I was going to burn the vile thing, but as much as even I am at loath to admit it; that would have been stupid. Something authentic with the official seal and signature is invaluable if you need to get anywhere with the Capitol forces; you never know when something like that will some in handy.
I tried to end it afterwards. Thought it would be the best option for all involved, I would take her with me at least. That thought, at least, is satisfying.
You would not kill us.
Morphling as sweet and as painless as mother.
We are the only thing that loves you.
But obviously she had other ideas.
...
(Katniss)
Nervousness clenches my stomach, and I can't seem to sit still. We're waiting in the hanger with the thick stench of jet fuel and the tang of metal rising up around us, reminding me that it has been days since I've been out in fresh air.
When Gale is settled in maybe we could get clearance to go out for a couple of hours I think to myself, take his mind off the bad news. And 4. I get brief updates from Plutarch since it happened. Gale... It's not his fault of course, but he'll be blaming himself. He always does.
I make a note to book that hunting session. Assuming of course, that he hasn't killed me.
Peeta lays a hand on my bouncing knee. "Calm down," He murmurs, his lips close to my ear, making my hair stand on end. He keeps his voice purposely low since Hazelle, Mother and the kids are only a few seats down from us. "It's going to be fine. We're going to find him in the few days. Plutarch and Haymitch are looking everywhere. "
My fried nerves calm somewhat at his touch, and he is right. I'm doing nothing constructive by worrying everyone. Between the two of them, Plutarch and Haymitch have access to more information on the ground than anyone in the rebellion, in fact with the wealth of information at their fingertips they should have already found him by now.
"I know." I reply, and the unconvinced look my fiancee shoots me is not appreciated. "No really. I do. I just-" I hesitate and my voice becomes unsteady, "-I should have kept a closer eye on him. Gale would have- did do the same for me."
Peeta wraps his hand, steady, warm and callous with burn marks around my twitchy fingers which were in the process of tapping some undefinable beat out on my knee. He gives them a reassuring squeeze. "It's not your fault Katniss and beating yourself up about it isn't going to get him back here any sooner. "
I sigh. "I know."
Above us is the hum of an incoming hover-craft.
Despite Peeta's assurances, I grit my teeth and prepare for the worst.
…
(Gale)
Darkness closes in on the cabin as we descend into 13Below, the heart of the rebel forces. I'm nearly twitching in anticipation to see my family and so for a brief moment the guilt and self-loathing, the fact that I have not slept a proper night's sleep in days, have bruises on my bruises and a nice neat little bullet hole in my arm which pains me something terrible are pushed out of my mind
It feels like years since I last held Posy or kissed Ma, ruffled Vicks hair and ribbed Rory about Prim and how tall he's getting these days.
And Catnip - I picture the last time I saw her. Just before the fighting began in 11. In the dark I recall the sharp smirk she sent me as we took out a squad of hummingbirds; the automated mechanically powered flying machineguns that the Capitol often sends out scouting into hostile territory. Nasty bastards. They can take out a whole platoon if they catch you unawares. Lucky thing about them is they're loud as hell, so unless you're in a squad of deaf men being caught unawares is pretty unlikely.
Basically they're little more than target practice. We were perched up in a couple of trees picking them off; her bow against my rifle. Like old times. Almost, fun. My reminiscing works its way to her panicked expression when a bullet clipped me in the shoulder - stupid, distracted by a bullet which had thudded into a tree mere inches from her. I've had worse of course – a lot worse, but you'd swear I was on my deathbed the way she went on about it. Hovered around, holding my hand, glaring the Medic intern who was messily stitching it up. A situation that I may or may not have milked for more than it was worth.
I'm not the type of guy to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Involuntarily I am then reminded of way she looked when her gimpy fiancée showed up to cart her back to the rabbit hole all safe and sound. The way she ran into his arms, kissed him, the smoopy dopey-ass look on his face. The darkness as we descend into the lower levels masks my fingers from Bristol as they slide back into my pocket around the cool metal. Taking advantage of the low light, I take a quick swig, relishing the burn.
There's a deep internal grinding sound as the plane docks, and then flickering as the fluorescent artificial light of 13below filters into the cabin. I ignore the look I get from Bristol whose gaze just catches my hand slipping out of my jacket. I don't drink on duty and what I do on my own time has sweet fuck all to do with him.
My head snaps up with relief when I hear the hydrologic hiss as the doors to this metal death trap unlock.
"Finally," I snarl disregarding any pretense I may have been trying to uphold regarding my love for being locked up in these things. My fingers scrabbling for the buckles on my restraints, once released I barrel over to the door and hit the unlock button repeatedly, with a bit more force than strictly necessary.
"Get me the hell out of here."
Bristol chuckles and then, turning to the rest of the guys claps his hands in a crisp manner, doing me a solid and taking over the dismissal so I can get out of here and see my family as soon as possible.
"Well, you heard our fearless leader gents, pack it up and fall out. I'm sure you've all got some little sweet thing you'd rather be off with, debrief will be at 06:00 tomorrow, do not be late and the Brass requires me to remind you to at least try not to get yourself into any shit with the AF…"
Reflected in the window of the door I see a couple of the guys shoot each other knowing grins and even I, who is supposed to be setting the example, snort at the last comment as I push the cockpits door up since putting those cock-juggling flyboy AF pussies in their place while off duty is practically an infrantryman's obligation.
Unofficially of course.
Behind me I can hear Bristol still giving the guys the dress down. "-We all know how Mrs H gets when her baby boy comes home." He croons. "And we all know how much we admire that motherly love-"
Most of the boys are familiar with Ma, she knows most of them by name and will often bring them down a nice pot of steaming stew or savoury mince when they're on the nightshift or coming back to base after a routine patrol around the woods of 13. They love her. Some of the older ones a little bit more than they should. The way you hear Bristol talk about her stew...
"Keep your filthy thoughts of my Ma to yourself." I holler behind me, bounding down the steps and planting feet firmly on the ground for the first time in hours. I only just resist the temptation to plant a kiss on the greasy tarmac of the hanger.
Even the claustrophobic lower levels of 13below trumps flying.
My relief is doubled when I hear a familiar voice shriek my name and then Posy barrels into me. I even see a few genuine smiles on the faces of my guys as they head off to their various families, ladies or at least to hit up a few of the drinking holes on Lv2 as I pick her up and twirl her, laughing.
Shit, she's getting heavy these days. Seven, nearly eight. The age Rory was when dad died.
"You came back okay." She laughs, wrapping her arms around my neck and planting one right on my cheek. I grin at her, my chest growing warm. "I knew you would."
"I promised didn't I?" I reply, nudging her cheek with my nose. "You always do." She giggles and then flinches away with a wrinkled nose and a disapproving frown. "Your face is all bushy.I don't like it."
"That's because someone hasn't shaved in a while." Ma adds, and I bend down to kiss her, noting the dark circles under her eyes like she hasn't been sleeping. They are relieved but narrowed in a way she can't help when something is pissing her off but she's trying to let it go. I know that look. I glance questioningly at her, wondering what the hell it is I did this time but she says nothing.
Vick stands next to her, trying not to look excited. He's starting that all arms and legs stage that Rory had almost grown out of the last time I saw him.
"Hey little man." I say and ruffle his hair. Only he's not so little any more. He comes up to my shoulders and already is slightly taller than Ma.
"Aw, shit Gale." He whines batting my hand away, patting his hair down and sneaking a glance at Primrose who is smiling and making her way over with her mother. Prim gets more beautiful every time I see her and I'm putting serious thought into investing in a club and just setting up outside her door to ward off all the grease bags who will soon be getting certain ideas in their heads and subsequently my foot up their asses. Next to her Mrs E looks about as happy as Mrs E can get. I grin and then muss Vick's hair up again to which he grumbles some relatively creative cuss words under his breath. I cuff him lightly upside the head for it; he flinches away but grins, punching me in the shoulder.
No namby-pamby huggey bull for us Hawthorne men. No, we show our affection with physical abuse.
After getting my respective hugs and kisses from Mrs E and Prim, I look around for the two people missing. My gaze easily finds Catnip. Mellark stands a few paces behind her, leaning on his cane - a constant reminder of what he gave up for her. She's dressed in the green motley pants of a soldiers field uniform tucked into sturdy boots with a plain but far too big for her button up that definitely wasn't made for women. Something of Mellarks I'm sure. Practical clothes. After her experiences in the Capitol, Mellark is pretty much the only person who can convince her to dress up. Not the Brass in Plutarch or her new prep team. Not even me.
Guiltily, I can't help but wonder what she would look like wearing one of my shirts.
I shake the thought at the scowl on her face, pissed at me too probably. Just the way I like her. I'd refused clearance for her to come to 4 during the aftermath of the battle. She blames herself for everything they do. Every bomb. Every death. Every televised torture. She didn't need to see it. Not like that.
I grin and extracting myself from Posy and Ma make my way over to her. But my pre-rehearsed heavily censored brief of the current situation dies on my lips when I see the expression she's wearing isn't anger, but apprehension. Her eyebrows drawn down with the crease between her eyes. She walks over slowly, cautiously, like I'm prey she's trying hard not to startle.
Something is wrong. My grin slips off my face because there's still someone else missing.
"Hey Gale." She says fidgeting, trying at first to hide whatever is making her anxious. The facade doesn't last long though. Katniss and I have always been straight with each other.
"Catnip." I answer tersely, every muscle in my body taught bracing myself for the news, which whatever it is, will not be good.
"It's Rory." She tells me, looking everywhere but into my face, and I feel Ma's hand on my shoulder and something in my gut drops.
"He's... gone missing."
….
(Same day)
(Madge)
"Are you sure, sure you want to do this Emmie?" Myff asks me for the third time, putting both perfectly manicured hands on my thin arms. "If you're not ready, just say. The Commander said bedrest is-"
"I know what Griffon said," I snarl shrugging her hands off me irritably. She steps back and eyes me wearily, ready in case I have an episode and lash out. What quells me is the fear which flickers in her violet eyes for a brief instant. My anger quickly melts, replaced by guilt. I feel like a bitch.
"Sorry, I just-" I shake my head to clear it.
"Withdrawls." She finishes for me understandingly and I shrug, hopefully not letting on about the fierce pounding beginning in my skull or the exhausting permeating my body. I put my hand to my temple and focus on my breathing. Inhale. Exhale.
"They're a bitch honey, I know, especially from Boost." Myff says looking at me rubbing my head with pity. "Which is why I don't think-"
"Come on Myffie," I wheedle, overriding her and dropping my hand. "I can't lay around here like an invalid any longer or I'll go stir crazy, and besides when was the last time us girls hit the town in the light of day and sober? I can barely remember. Pretty please. With sprinkles and a cherry on top. " I fix her with my secret weapon; the pouty Bambi eyes. Never fails
"Aw shit, and there you go with the eyes and the face." She gripes, using her hand to block me from her sight, her corkscrew fuchsia curls bobbing as she shakes her head in exasperation. "Damn El-Tee, you're lucky I'm a sucker for blondes."
I laugh and pull my flight jacket on over frail shoulders. "Don't I know it." Fishing out the keys I feel the familiar shot of adrenaline at the thought of getting behind the wheel again, only to have them snatched – quite rudely may I add – out of my hand.
"One condition." Myff interjects smugly, twirling the ring around her finger. "I drive."
Now that is just cruel.
I pout and try the Bambi eyes again – she plants her palm in my face and firmly pushes me away.
"Ugh. Fine. Fine. Okay." I concede, pushing her hand away as we cross the hanger to the buggie, which is the only land vehicle our squad has been given by HQ, our collection of illegal Speeders aside. "You know, as your superior officer, I could just order you to give them back to me."
"But you being as weak as a spring chicken, I could just beat you, drag your lifeless-yet finely shaped-ass back to bed and forget this whole thing." She replies coolly, swinging herself over and through the roof of the hover car with the gace of gazelle. I choose use the door like a normal person.
Needless to say I don't press the issue.
…
(Gale)
"What do you mean, missing?" I growl, just as my stomach clenches. Missing? How the hell did the kid manage to get out of 13 is what I'd like to know. Most secure place in Panem my ass.
Wordlessly Katniss digs into her pocket and produces a small scrap of paper.
Ma,
I'm going to join the fighting. I can't sit here. I need to do something.
Please don't be angry.
Love, Rory.
PS; Tell Gale not to pitch a shit fit.
A wordsmith he is not. I re-read the letter several times, and then crumple the piece of paper in my fist as I'm flooded with a surge of anger, worry and dread all in one hit. Just like that time the little rat took out tessarae behind my back.
When I get my hands on the kid, I'm going to fucking murder him
And then a terrifying thought occurs to me when I realise, truely realise that someone else might beat me too it.
...
(Madge)
Turning into the central business precinct (for lack of a better term) of the 'strict I feel better than I have in weeks. Being out in the open air and sun for what feels like the first time in years is exhilarating. There's people everywhere, twice as many as I remember before the 'strict was flooded with a mass of refugees from either 4 or 10 and I even spy a select few immigrants well connected, wealthy and daring enough to have made it all the way from the Capitol; the flashy clothes and small crowd of sycophantic attendants hovering around them make them stand out in the otherwise shabby but bustling crowds like sore thumbs.
Our base camp, District 3a is set up in the skeletal remains of what must have been a city for our ancestors, positioned almost exactly on the border between districts 11, 4 and 9.
In fact go a couple of clicks to the north, climb to a high enough vector and you can see the lights of the Capitol on a clear night. Although a straight journey there is widely considered suicide it is technically achievable. Presuming you can make it through the gauntlet of pesky MPADs and SAMs situated throughout 3 protecting the sizable amount of the Jabberjay infantry forces stationed there from air assault and across the borders of 2, the seething hive of Jabberyjay air forces.
A journey which, for the record, I have made, more than once.
Needless to say, with the main front having shifted to 7 and 9 following the destruction of 4, our fair little quasi-district has become a key strategic point for all rebel forces but particularly the grunts- I mean infantry and us, the AF. Which since outside gossipy old women, soldiers are the cattiest bunch of people you'll ever meet and fight over pretty much anything, probably isn't such a good thing.
It should also merit mentioning that 3a is a cesspool of depravity and corruption. Brothels on most corners, rampant gambling, backstreet drug deals, taverns, clubs, rapes, theft, murder, old grannies left to cross the street all on their own; it's not so much a sister to the drainpipe of abject desperation and odious human depravity that now is 11 but a very close paternal cousin. The rebels at this point barely have the capacity to free the districts much less police them. Crime is rampant and one can make a pretty little profit in these times of desperation if they have the talent for it.
Which I mostly certainly do.
We turn the buggy down what passes vaguely for one of the main streets. Hover cars, bikes and an assortment of other military gear are parked at odd intervals down the road. The muddy sidewalks are mostly filled with grunts or AF personnel off duty and in the mood for a bit of R and R whether it be with alcohol, relatively fair priced company or other none too savoy recreational activities.
Not together of course; the grunts aren't exactly known for their love of the AF or really anything but boozing, chasing skirts and setting things on fire. But then, that's sort of what you'd reasonably expect when you gather a bunch of thugs who have a hard enough time successfully completing the task of walking and talking simultaneously – and then put guns in their hands.
Just as we pass the stream of patrons to the Emporium; a glorified, writhing neon toilet and one of the settlements thriving 'clubs'. I feel Myff nudge me and point to the line outside the recruitment office in the square opposite. No one who has been into real combat and has an ounce of compassion for his fellow man likes passing the recruitment office.
"Guess the grunts are getting a good batch of C.F this week." She observes, laughing in this awful humourless way and shaking her purple head.
C.F: Slang for Cannon Fodder. The term used by most of us for the refugee grunt recruits these days. Since the majority of citizens from most of the districts can barely read let alone pass the pretty technical entry exam required to even be considered for the AF they mostly get shuttled into the newbie grunt squads who, I've heard, barely get two weeks of basic before they're shipped out to the front these days - because what's the point of wasting resources on people who are, for all intents and purposes, already dead. More disturbing still is despite the fact that technically the age restriction for enlistment is 18, unofficial policy is to let them in as long as they reach the height requirement.
Something twists in my stomach as I am struck by wondering how many did we lose at 4? How many kids died at scared, alone, under-trained, chocking on their own blood or screams as they were burnt alive. How much blood do I have on my hands? It's probably a mercy that I'll never truly know.
Suddenly, coming out here doesn't seem like such a good idea.
"I swear they get younger everyday." Myff continues callously watching the line as we're slowed to a stop in the traffic.
I follow her gaze and don't reply. Watching the batch of kids, most of which probably having run off from bad places or destroyed homes and dead families naively searching for something better with no idea of what they are really getting into. And then my eyes land startled on one kid unmistakably familiar with that tall wiry build, honey-olive skin and dark unkempt hair.
Of all the god-damn days and all the god-damn districts...
He's dangerously close to the front and signing that dotted line is pretty much like signing your own death certificate these days, regardless of who your 'family' is.
My foot reaches over to slam down on the breaks with a sudden decisiveness that shocks even me and with Myff shrieking obscenities in my ear and the pulse of horns from all the other traffic behind us, I stagger from the car and nearly get run over about four times before I've crossed the road.
I get to him just in time.
But I'm ashamed to admit that briefly I considered not stopping at all
….
A/N: 5/06/2015 – Another clean up, just making Madge's character more in line with what I how want it to be now and adding some more realistic army slang and banter.
I'll be going back and adding details and changing various things in other chapters to bring them in line with where I want this story to be heading, these changes won't be too huge and more along the lines of adding more depth to some scenes and the world as well as more exposition for later things, so a reread is not necessarily required. Don't worry if you're a little bit confused or have questions about some stuff (especially with what's going on with Madge) that's intentional and it'll all become clearer I promise!
Also this story doesn't use any official map of Panem released by Lionsgate or anyone else, I've used the map made by the awesome aimarrowshigh and badguys for a couple of years and I'm going to stick to it because it's awesome!
If you are a new reviewer, thanks for reading! and if you're returning for a refresher or to look at what's changed, also thanks for reading and sticking with me.
Hope you enjoy.
Is