A/N: Thanks to VictorFromDistrict7, Splashpaw, OnyxJinx (thank you for your review, it really helped me develop this chapter!), and Truenorth12 for reviewing, I really appreciate all the feedback. This is mainly an introductory chapter of an OC character, so I apologize if it's boring.
Chapter 2
Evangeline Moffat
And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.
-Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin
I feel the adrenaline pulsing in my veins, the blood roaring in my ears. I click the bullet into the chamber and raise the revolver so I can set it on my target thirty yards away. The range is far for a handgun. I'm not sure of my skills, but I needed them.
I fire once. The lights in the room lift. I stare at the wooden target. It's undamaged. Hebe shakes her head impatiently. "Moffat, you can do a hell of a lot better than that."
"You think so?"
"Well, you should. You leave tomorrow, right? Is this your first work in the field?"
"Yeah."
Hebe raises her gun and puts a bullet through the target with scarcely a moment of hesitation. "Where's this case at? I'm going to 4 in a few days."
"12."
She nods in acknowledgement. "I didn't go to the conference, half the people on our floor are out in District 4."
"There's a lot of shit going on there," I reason. I steady my hand. My finger hovers over the trigger, and when I pull it, my hand moves up. I miss the target by an inch.
"You've got to fight the recoil. Keep your shoulder relaxed," Hebe advises. "Is anyone else going with you or is this a solo?"
"Paylor's sending two operatives out of District 2," I say, smiling as I hit the target this time. "Gardner and Hawthorne."
"Is Gardner the one who thinks he's hot shit?"
"So I hear," I answer. "And Hawthorne worked with District 13 during the war on propaganda."
Hebe nods and shoots through the center of the target. "I think I worked with him in 13. He's a good shot. Good guy, too. Pity Gardner's going with you." She glances at her watch. "We should probably get going, I've got a load of papers to sort through before I leave."
We return our guns to the range clerk and jog back through the grounds to the offices. "What are you doing in District 4?" I ask Hebe as we run.
"I'm helping with the refugee situation. They've got over five thousand people from 13 out there, rounding everyone up. Train security is insane now." Hebe doesn't sound alarmed by the task, or even daunted. But she's been doing this for years, so why would she?
We take an elevator to our respective floors. I stay the rest of the day in my office reading Mallory's file. Even though I had paid close attention during the presentation, I read it. It makes me sick. The guy is a bastard and a womanizer. The more I know about him, the worse I feel about tracking him down. At the end of the workday I take the file with me and head to my apartment in town. It overlooks a busy urban street. A chicken struts across the street, cawing noisily. Three girls jump rope and chant, their faces dirt-streaked. A woman sits on the steps of a building across from my apartment, chewing on a cigar. In the apartment above mine, there was a lot of thumping and moaning. Someone in the tenement beside me shouted something inaudible. So much for the soundproof walls the landlord had glorified.
It would take three days and two nights to get to District 12 by train. Aboard will be, no doubt, people from every district. The cars will be clotted with refugees from 4, hats veiling fresh scars and distrust thick in the air. Old Capitolites, the vibrant green dye fading at last from their hair and their vermillion tattoos becoming less and less prominent. Perhaps one of the very few Victors left, trying to hide in their newly created world, the child of the rebellion. Certainly doctors and workers out of District 13. And people searching for work in the reconstruction of a destroyed district.
I eat. The world's not as black and white as it had been before the rebellion. Patches of white here and black splotches there, but between the two horizons an eternal gray field. The only things that have changed since Paylor took office is that there are no Games and more food. We'd gained only one obvious right in the shift of power-religion. But they call us free, so are we? People in the slums had quietly practiced Christianity before the rebellion. I had.
The slums are one of the only sectors of 6 that remain from the bombings that occurred seven years ago. I had been seventeen and married with a child. Our street had been virtually untouched, and I still had the same residence that I had then. But then I had shared it with David and Imala. David had been eighteen and at work.
I open one of the bottles of liquor I keep under the kitchen sink and take a swig. It burns like fire down my throat, but I relish it. My vision goes foggy around the corners, just a little, after my third bottle. I drop it on the floor, and it shatters. The lessee in the room below me begins to shout obscenities at me. Clumsily I sweep up the shards and stagger to bed.
I sleep fitfully that night, my dreams disturbed by fire and the sound of screams in front of me, the train derailing by a force of God. Or perhaps not a force by God, but a force of Lucifer… I see the hovercraft rise just above us… I am holding Imala so tightly…
I wake at six and go to take a shower but end up retching while I do so. The chicken across the rode crows in sync with my alarm. I look in the mirror. My eyes are tired and baggy but not bloodshot. I pack the few things I would be bringing-a few pairs of clothes. We would get weapons from an arms dealer in 12. I wear my best clothes. I'd been to the train station plenty of times. The people always dressed in finery, jewels on their throats and gold on their fingers and cashmere around their shoulders, as if to make an impression. My clothes are thick and woolen. It'll be cold in District 12, and for the months that we're there. David's mother had bought them for me. She had been a wealthy woman, one of the scarce doctors here. Now she is a nurse in a District 13 hospital.
I hold my breath and slip down the stairs to the frigid outside. Snow flurries drift around, beautiful and cold. Flakes cling to my eyelashes but I wipe them away. The street is now empty, bare of jump roping girls and smoking women and pernicious men. Even the chicken is gone. I suspect it to have been butchered between the time that I woke up and that I set off for the station.
When I get to the train station I check my watch. Eight-twelve. The train should be arriving shortly. A locomotive from 9 comes through shortly, hauling grain. Waiting with me outside the station is a stout man bundled up in filthy, torn dress clothes and a well-preserved fedora. Once the clothes had been expensive, no doubt, but now they are little more than rags. The hat seems new, or maybe it's prized, because it's in good condition. I recognize him from the office. He's going to District 4. He tips his hat to me. There are several others waiting inside in the warmth, but none that I recognize.
Three minutes later the Capitol train arrives. Hawthorne and Gardner are on there somewhere. It's a passenger train, one of the best Panem has to offer. It will travel from the Capitol to District 13, in numerical order. The doors open and people rush out. Maybe they will get on connecting trains. Maybe this is their destination. But Hawthorne and Gardner are still on. I step behind the elderly couple in front of me and wait patiently in line. A steward looks at their tickets for a heartbeat. "Second class," he says. "Follow that fellow in the blue uniform, he'll show you to your cabin." When I step up to show him my own ticket, he takes one look at it and says, "Elise Houghton, first class. Next car, just step through the railing and open the gate. The first class dining car is right behind it."
"I'm meeting someone here," I reply, recalling the aliases written on the paperwork. "Trenton Hunt, first class. Would you know where I could find him?"
"Ma'am, he could be in his cabin, but I'm afraid that the directory is not open for passengers to see. If it makes it any easier for you, most passengers spend their time in the dining and sitting calls." From his accent, I can tell that he's from District 3, in the south. "I would suggest that you look there. Your cabin is number six-fifteen, on the left."
"Thank you, sir." I follow his directions and slip through the car to the door. Outside on the platform between the cars is fresh air. I open the creaky gate and step over to the other car. I find my cabin and open it, sticking my ragged suitcase on the floral bed. I open it and sift through the papers before finding my ID. I'm Elise Houghton today.
I'd been on nicer trains before. Last year I had rode on what had been a tribute train to 8. The luxury had been impossibly beautiful and unnatural. It didn't seem to be a bit right to keep operating a tribute train. A bit disrespectful, really.
Elise J. Houghton. Trenton B. Hunt. Grant M. Wallace.
I follow the steward's instructions to the dining car. We're still stationary.
The worst train ride I'd ever experienced was during the rebellion. The rebels in 6 had stormed the train station and Justice Building, and Peacekeepers were killing anyone they could on the streets. The city had never been more crowded, however. Tear gas was released in the square. People were being shot and clubbed just a block away. Bombs dropped a half hour later where the riots started in the factory sector. I took Imala with me to the station and we boarded one hectic with refugees. The ride had been particularly horrible. It ended with bombs and a crash.
I open the door to the dining car just as we begin to move. It's as lavish as the Capitol, the glass walls letting in the glorious light. Opulent mahogany tables fill the car. I watch for a brief moment as the landscape rushed past, the heavens colliding with the earth as we leave the gray of the station and into the world. The light is a blinding white for a millisecond before my eyes adjust.
I take a chair at a four-seating table. A waitress in a costly black uniform takes my order for breakfast. If Gardner and Hawthorne are to show up at all, it will be here by noon.
Sure enough, after maybe twenty minutes, a man in a slate gray suit comes in from another car. His suit is the color of ash, or stone, a transfixing color. He wears a navy tie. He looks rich. Anyone would think he is a Mayor, or a government official, or a particularly successful businessman. His sharp eyes flicker around before they meet mine momentarily. He shifts his gaze to a point behind me.
"May I share your table?" he asks politely, standing in front of me. He's very handsome, with short black hair and dark eyes. One of them, most likely. I can't remember what Hawthorne looked like in the District 13 propaganda. They never give us pictures of the other agents. If someone else gets them, the entire agency could be exposed.
"Yes," I say, and the waitress comes back past with a plate of hotcakes and a steaming cup of coffee. She takes his order and leaves.
"What's your name?" he asks, leaning forward, hand propping up his chin. He gives me a smile that could be flirtatious, but his eyes are cold with intelligence. This is one of them. I'm certain.
"Elise," I say. "Elise Houghton."
"Is that so? I knew an Elise once. She was a refugee I met in District 8."
"And you are?" I ask.
"Trenton Hunt."
I don't dare raise my eyebrow. Anyone here could be an infiltrator, an interloper. "Nice to meet you."
"Grant's reading a book a car over, in the sitting areas. It's quiet there." Definition: We can actually talk there.
"That sounds nice. Was your trip hectic or did you make it in time?" Definition: Was there any trouble with security?
He smiles. "Everything went perfectly. I assume the same for you?"
I give a slight nod and finish the hotcakes. They're better than anything I can afford in 6. Even if food is distributed better now, hardly anyone can pay for luxuries. There are still people in my apartment building, especially in the bigger families, where people go without food.
Trenton/whoever gets his food about a half hour later. He eats very quickly and stands. When I look out the window, I see that we are at last moving. "Shall we go meet Grant?" His voice is almost too formal. He's disguising his accent for anyone listening.
"Yes, I would enjoy that."
He pays for our breakfast and I stand. "Shall we go now?"
"Yes," I say.
We cross cars, balancing precariously for a moment on the edge of the rail, nothing but a cable connecting us to the next car. Trenton's shoes are black leather, opulent night shining against the mire of District 6. I fix my eyes on them as he jumps across, the railroad disappearing underneath us. He makes the distance easily. His shoes gleam. He is rich. No one can afford a suit and shoes like that in my sector of 6. Resentment fills me, and it takes me by surprise.
"It's not a far jump," he tells me, his eyes puzzled. "You know that, right?"
"Of course."
I'm weightless in the air for a heartbeat before my feet land next to Trenton. He opens the door. There are couches, the Capitol made kind, lining the walls and an unoccupied bar. A man sits at one of the couches, his face hidden by a book. Trenton makes his way for him.
"She's here." His voice has lost all of its formality. There's a definite District 2 accent in the two words he uttered.
The man reading reaches behind his seat and pulls out a miniscule silver device. He puts a finger to his lips to motion our silence before crushing it in his fist. "We've been bugged here. By Paylor or Mallory's men, I'm not sure. Maybe both." He looks at me. "Moffat, right?"
I nod.
"Ezra Gardner," Trenton/Ezra says. "And Gale Hawthorne." Gale, the man reading, extends an arm to shake my hand. "We prefer first names, I suppose because Gale and I are friends, but that might not be the safest thing at the moment."
I don't really have friends in District 6, unless you count Hebe, but I know relatively little about her apart from the fact that she sleeps around a lot. I sit down. There's not exactly a lot to discuss. The door slides open again and the bartender appears. I watch him warily. I doubt he planted the bug, but it's hard to say. Gardner orders a drink.
"Are you looking forward to District 12?" Hawthorne asks me, his accent changed. He could be from District 1 now, and I would never know any difference.
"I suppose," I say quietly.
"I grew up there," he says. "But I was a refugee in District 13 for a while."
That wasn't too suspicious. Nobody would think much of it, because anyone still alive from District 12 would have had to have been a refugee. I catch a glimpse of the book he's reading. The Life and Death of Coriolanus Snow. No wonder he's so engrossed in it. If it says anything, anything at all about Paylor or the Agency, the writer could be executed. If there's anything about Mallory, it could help us track him down.
The keyword there being might.
A/N: Am I distinguishing my character POVs enough?
