Author's Note: This chapter is rated M. The story will be moved shortly to the M category, just want to make sure everyone has the chance to make note of it.
CH 3: Mockingjay
Patrick Doyle had been arrested in the Capitol and charged with treason: attempted interference with the victors of the Hunger Games. Given the choice of execution or living out the rest of his days as an Avox in the Capitol, he had chosen life, such as it would be – voiceless and enslaved.
That's what new Head Peacekeeper John Martell told his fellow officers in District 8 when he returned. By the time Doyle and Martell had taken the hovercraft to the Capitol to try and stop Hoyt before it was too late, everyone in the district knew that Head Peacekeeper Paddy Doyle was Maura Isles' father. Any one of the other Peacekeepers could have intervened when Doyle made his way to the vehicle yard. Any one of them could have reported to the Capitol that John Martell knew exactly why they were going and that it wasn't on any official orders. Doyle wouldn't have had an out then, Martell likely would have been executed or incarcerated alongside him, and the informant would have reaped the rewards of his service to President Hoyt. Yet, none of them had. Just like none of them reported to the central office in the Capitol when a civilian occasionally showed his face in the dark of night in District 8 looking for all the world like former Head Peacekeeper Patrick Doyle.
Word had spread like wildfire through the population, just as John Martell had hoped it would. Patrick Doyle was no beloved figure to the people, but Jane and Maura certainly were. They couldn't keep him sequestered in a basement forever and the secrecy might not last, the Capitol always seemed to have a way of finding things out, but, if reports from the other districts continued to herald the coming storm, secrecy might not be needed for long.
Cautiously, as days turned into weeks and then months ticked by, Patrick Doyle had emerged from the basement apartment Martell had set him up in. Mostly at night. Mostly to frequent the fights at Cavanaugh's or another of the liquor houses. Sideways glances tracked his every move, conversations turned to hushed whispers as he sat. It was his fifth time to Cavanaugh's before someone other than booze-peddling old Pete approached.
"Buy you a drink?" Scraggly Martina J. asked as she noisily pulled up a bar stool next to him. Her skin was leathery from age and lack of care, her hair brittle and chaotic. She'd been a dye specialist once and people around the district liked to joke it was the chemicals in the industrial tubs that turned her a little batty. Those that disagreed said she was just an average run of the mill drunk. "Martina, they call me," she extended her hand as if they were meeting for the first time. As if Doyle himself hadn't busted her on public intoxication more than once.
Doyle drained the last of the swill that passed for old Pete's current batch of beer. Piss yellow and tasting about like it looked. His eyes cut towards her and then back at his mug as he set it on the scrap wood that served as a bar top. He couldn't hide forever. Either the people of the district would forgive the man they knew as Patrick Doyle before the Quarter Quell and let him live in anonymity, or one day Peacekeepers from the Capitol would walk through Cavanaugh's doors and drag him out towards a death he had so narrowly avoided. He extended his hand, "James. James Cogan." It was his father's first name and his mother's maiden name; he had decided on it on the train back from the Capitol.
Martina tapped two bent and knotty fingers on the bar to get old Pete's attention, "Three shots of white, two for me, and one for my new friend, James."
Doyle smirked and watched old Pete pour three shots of his white liquor from an unmarked green bottle. He picked up the shot and then looked at the woman on his left, "Now, why would you buy an old man like me a drink?"It was a test. He had to see how she would respond.
She shrugged, "You look like a man who could use a drink. To the last," she said as they clinked shots and threw them back.
To the last. It was then that he knew. The citizens of District 8 couldn't report a fugitive that didn't exist. Patrick Doyle had been arrested in the Capitol for treason and sentenced to live out his days as an Avox. It might be a lot to expect for them to forgive him…to like him. As he watched Martina hobble away and the whispers and sideways glances ripple through the warehouse basement it occurred to him that at least on some level, they respected him. And respect was enough to let James Cogan live in District 8 while Patrick Doyle suffered his punishment back in the Capitol.
He awoke with a pounding in his head that felt like his veins were trying to pump pellets of cement rather than blood. His joints ached from age with the accompaniment of dehydration. As he smacked his lips, he wondered if he'd spent half the night with his mouth open and stuffed with cotton it felt so dry.
Doyle rolled over with a groan; he'd imbibed over the years, a few times to excess. He never purchased the beer himself; it wouldn't look right being the Head Peacekeeper and all. But, it was common knowledge that the Peacekeepers sometimes bought booze and turned a blind eye to other indiscretions. It was a matter of degree: like Korsak not traipsing his pack of rescue dogs around the district in the full light of day, or the citizens taking care not to arouse suspicion as to their evening social activities with inordinate displays of public drunkenness. That was the way of the poorer districts. The Peacekeepers let things slide. Sometimes, ignoring a few of the laws kept the people in line more than draconian enforcement of every minute subsection of the penal code.
Several minutes lingering on the disorienting precipice of a half-sleep passed before Doyle realized that what he thought was an audible pounding in his head, was in reality, a steady knocking at his door. Shirtless, he stood, checked to make sure he at least had on pants and staggered towards the sound. In a way it had been thrilling to get drunk, to throw away the conservatism from his days as Head Peacekeeper. Willful disregard of the law and pursuit of something totally for his own pleasure, at least at the time, reminded him of those stolen moments with Hope. And the more he had thought of her last night, the more willing he had been to accept just one more drink.
After Martina had bought him the shot of white liquor, a few other patrons had approached and plunked down their meager stash of coins to buy him a beer. It seemed a grand idea at the time. Too many years had passed and his memory had conveniently pushed aside recollections of the after effects of too much alcohol. Each drink presented with the toast, "To the last," the last words Haymitch had spoken to Jane in the arena, the same words he'd said in training to try and signal the alliance Korsak had facilitated had now become a verbal sign of solidarity with Jane and Maura.
Maura regarded his disheveled state when he opened the door, "You're hungover," she stated plainly as she walked in. Jane followed with a knowing half-sided smile. She'd found herself on the ragged tail end of a bender at Cavanaugh's more than once, though she usually had a few marks from the boxing ring to go along with the drunk.
"I am," he admitted.
"We can come back later," Jane suggested.
"You should have called," Maura scolded. "I could have brought you an analgesic for the headache and some ginger tea for the nausea."
"It's not that bad," Doyle motioned for them to sit on the sofa in his dimly lit apartment. It was that bad, but it seemed somehow better if she didn't know that. "I think it was the shot of white liquor that did the worst." He saw Jane wince in obvious commiseration. "What I have to show you is very important. You leave for the Victory Tour in two weeks. If I'm right about this, it is critical knowledge for you to possess before embarking on the Tour."
He retrieved a robe from his bedroom and belted it before pulling over a small, wheeled cart laden with a television and video equipment. Without a word he pressed play as familiar footage rolled across the screen.
"District 13," Jane stated at the sight of the skeletal and torched remains of buildings. Doyle fast-forwarded to another broadcast, the same ruins, this time a Capitol reporter standing in front of them. He fast-forwarded again, more of District 13, the same reporter in different dress again with the remnants of the holocaust as her backdrop. It was more than familiar to Jane and Maura. It was one of the Capitol's trump cards: the bombed out decrepit façade of what had been the seat of Panem's nuclear research. They trotted it out on nationwide broadcasts about once a year. More frequently in the past according to the older generations, when rebellious sentiments still burned brightly following the Dark Days. The message was clear: If we can do this to District 13, the same or worse will come to you. On and on Doyle flipped through the various iterations of the same theme, the visual of destruction and the yearly reports from the bones of the fallen by the conqueror.
"I pulled all of the clips we had on file here in District 8…well, Martell did. And I spliced them together to run on consecutively on this tape," Doyle wound the film back to the beginning. "We're so used to seeing this, year after year, that we don't even notice…"
Maura's eyebrows knitted together as she watched the clips again, straining, trying to see what it was Doyle wanted them to see. "It's the same ruins…the same vantage point…"
Jane began to scrutinize the clips more closely, "So? They film the same spot over and over. That was District 13's Justice Building, they must figure it'd be symbolic to always do the broadcasts from there…"
Suddenly, it began to click. "No," Maura cut her off, "It's not just the same vantage point. Look. The season never changes, the weather, the lighting…the building ruins…the ruins are untouched, unchanged. There should be wear from the elements, loss of further structural integrity, flora resurgence."
Jane still didn't see the big deal, "The Capitol nuked them Maura. It's a wasteland; there won't be any plants. Maybe they always go and film it at the same time each year."
"Look more closely," Doyle prodded.
Simultaneously, Jane and Maura leaned forward. Doyle played the next clip in slow motion, and then the next, and then the next…until. "Oh my," Maura gasped, shifting to her knees on the floor in front of the television, her finger pointing to the upper corner of the screen. "It's the same footage, the exact same footage, time after time. Look, a Mockingjay flies across the view here…" Doyle fast-forwarded, "…and the same here…" on to the next clip, "…and again. Every time."
Jane brought her fist to her mouth and bit down on one of her knuckles, overcome with the implications.
"The footage is fake, or a single shot from the first rebellion recycled to hide the fact that…"
Jane cut Doyle off, "There are still people in District 13."
"More importantly," Doyle continued, "If there are people in District 13 and the Capitol has left them alone all these years…then there are weapons in District 13."
This changes everything. Everything. Jane paced in circles around their apartment as she mulled over the revelation Paddy Doyle had apprised them of. It could work. An uprising. It could really work. She paused and noticed Maura sitting cross-legged on the floor staring into the flickering flame of a candle. "We just got some of the biggest news of our lives and you're…"
"Meditating." Maura finished the sentence for her. "Your information processing and coping mechanism, i.e., your pacing, is exacerbating my stress levels."
Jane cocked her head and put her hands on her hips, "Well, I could go back to my old coping mechanism and blow off some steam at Cavanaugh's and leave you to your silence."
Hazel eyes flashed open and reflected the small light from the candle, "Absolutely not! You promised you would never…"
With a wave of her hand, Jane silenced her and moved the candle to sit down in front of Maura. "Give me your hands," she extended her palms and smiled as Maura laid her hands atop them. "I'll never cause you pain like that again. Every promise I make you, I make with the complete intention of keeping it forever."
With a knowing smile, Maura looked down at their hands, "I know."
"This," Jane took a deep breath, "this discovery…it's absolutely epic in significance. Maura, you were right, we weren't living. Not before the Games and not after. And a couple of weeks ago when we decided we wouldn't play the game Hoyt thinks we're going to play…"
"You thought it was futile," Maura nodded, knowing, because she had felt the same way. Yet, there was a freedom in defiance, even that which would be futile and without ultimate reward. Because it was the only time they truly had control. "You thought…we would probably be killed after the Tour."
Jane reached out and took Maura's face in her hands, her thumbs circling back and forth over her cheeks. She had to keep them moving or else she knew the throbbing from the scars in the center of her palms would send waves of tremors through her hands. "Before today, we had peasants. Peasants with pitchforks and hammers against the might of the Capitol's bullets and bombs. But, I was so tired of seeing you sad. I was tired of looking over our shoulders. Tired of finally having everything I've ever wanted and constantly fearing some sadistic bastard could snap his fingers hundreds of miles away and take it from me. Take you from me, our future, everything that could be, all of the happiness we could have if he was just dead and everything he built was what was in ruins. I was ready to die just for the smallest chance it might work, just to let him know that no matter how terrified of him I may be, there are parts of me and my life he can't have."
"He knows," Maura whispered, crawling forward and straddling Jane's lap. "He knows he'll never have your submission, never your obedience, never your love. He keeps trying to break you, but deep down, he knows that he can't."
"He could," Jane shook her head. "If he hurt you, he could. I would break."
Maura tightened her embrace around Jane, winding one hand through her hair as she kissed her temple. "No you wouldn't. No you won't. You will never give him that satisfaction. No matter what happens, you promise me, you promise me you will never give him that satisfaction. Because if you do, he wins. And I'll be damned if that son of a bitch is going to win."
Slackjawed, Jane pulled back out of the embrace to look Maura in the eye. She had spoken with a passion and resolute determination that took Jane completely by surprise. The woman in her arms made her want to promise her everything, whether she truly believed she could keep it or not. As she said the words she hoped that her face didn't give away how completely unsure she was of her own ability to hold it together if something should ever happen to Maura. But, she said it anyway.
Jane pulled Maura into a kiss, knowing that the strength and domination of her lips and tongue against the other woman's would portray greater conviction than her words possibly could. Kissing Maura was tantamount to taking a substance, but unlike any substance she could imagine. The rush always centered in her chest and rippled through her body like a current. She'd felt it, that light-headed euphoric high the first time she had kissed a shy girl with sandy brown hair on the playground before their first Reaping, and she felt it every time since.
Maura pushed her back to the floor and greedily took the control Jane happily ceded. There had been a few boys when she was a teenager, a few men after her first Games when she tried to convince herself that not every man was Charles Hoyt. She never could give any of them power over her, and after the Games, no one was allowed inside. Until Maura. Maura owned her, every part of her, physical and otherwise. And she let her; because Maura had always treated her person with more reverence than the demons she'd brought back from the Games had allowed her to muster on her own behalf for too long.
Stripped of her clothes, Jane closed her eyes. Along her back the industrial carpet of the apartment floor was coarse, but on top of her, Maura's skin slid like silk down the length of her body. Lips and tongue left searing imprints that prickled with the cool air as her kisses traveled to a new spot. Jane felt her nipples tighten and ache for continued attention as Maura's ministrations slowly moved lower. She kept her eyes closed, feeling her lover all over her, her kisses, her playful bites, the tickle of her hair as it dragged across her chest and stomach, the sensation of Maura's nipples ghosting across her own.
Jane could hear her own ragged breaths echoing in her ears and the little moans Maura made that indicated she took as much pleasure from touching as she did from being touched. The anticipation of Maura touching her where she wanted it most, and the payoff of that sensory shock was so much greater when she kept her eyes closed.
When Maura's tongue finally made contact where she desired it, Jane's body jerked and her hands instinctively grappled for a hold in the honey-streaked locks splayed across her lower abdomen.
"Promise," Maura whispered before sating herself on Jane's arousal, her tongue swirling through satin and teasing her lover with maddening flicks.
"I…promise," Jane managed shakily as she writhed, her back arching and her hips rolling as Maura's mouth closed around her and sucked her to release.
Her skin twitched and her body jerked as if each touch of Maura's hands and mouth burned her. She waited patiently for Maura to crawl back up her body. Jane opened her eyes just as Maura's mouth descended on her own, the taste of orgasm fresh and slick on her lips. She could feel Maura's resolve to keep her pinned to the floor waning, her touch grew softer, the way she kneaded Jane's breasts almost pleading as she plaintively hummed and kissed her under the ear. Jane rolled them over and smiled as Maura's legs spread and wrapped around her.
"I'd give you the world," Jane moaned as she rocked their bodies together.
"I don't want the world," Maura gasped as Jane reached between them and found her wet and aching for touch.
"What do you want?" Jane slowly pushed two fingers inside, pumping in and out slowly as she watched the hazel eyes looking back at her flutter.
Maura bucked to meet Jane's thrusts and take her more fully, "Just you. Our family. Freedom." She cried out as she came, legs tightening around Jane and anchoring her inside until she rode every last wave of the pleasurable release to Jane's curling fingers.
"I love you," Jane whispered as she relaxed into Maura's embrace with a deep breath that filled her head with the phantom taste of her subtle homemade perfume, salt-tinged skin, and sex. "I always have."
Maura smiled, letting her forehead rest against Jane's as her lover's breaths tickled across her excited skin. "I love you too. I always will."
There was only one way fomenting the uprising could work. If Jane and Maura openly incited rebellion on the Victory Tour they would be arrested and likely killed. The Tour stops were highly regimented, Jane and Korsak knew this from past experience. They would have little contact with anyone in the districts beyond the official mayoral welcome contingent. They would have to send envoys. It was a shot in the dark, but one they had to take.
It had taken two days. Doyle and Martell carefully selected citizens whose absences wouldn't be too noticeable and paired them with sympathetic Peacekeepers. The envoys sent to the districts would bear the video evidence pointing to the existence of District 13 and a letter. The envoy sent to District 13 would bear only a letter and a silent prayer that something waited for them across the vast and deserted landscape.
They only had two weeks before the Tour; some of the districts were too far to be reached on foot or for the little distance the few motorcycles and one tank of fuel that had been garnered could carry them in that time and some of course, like the Career districts, would be downright inhospitable. Six, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen, Jane had stated finally. They're all we have the chance to make it to.
Maura wrote the letters, five letters for five enslaved districts and one a plea to the big brother they thought was dead.
Jane pulled one of the letters from its envelope, the one marked 12 and looked out at the small group of people assembled in Cavanaugh's basement. "Most of you will carry a letter like this, to one of our fellow districts, and a video of the looped footage from District 13 that we've shown you. They read as follows:
Dear people of District 12,
You now have in your possession what we believe to be evidence that District 13 was not destroyed in the first rebellion, but in fact has existed in secrecy, free and independent of the Capitol. A letter just like this one has also been sent to other districts. What you choose to do with this information is for you to decide. Here is what we hope you will choose: look into your children's eyes and ask yourself how many more must be sacrificed for "peace" and "stability"? Two more? Four, six, one hundred? Our silence and our tacit consent allows the Hunger Games to continue and tyranny to further entrench itself in the Capitol. How many more children shall we watch kill one another so that we can continue to live in the deluded fantasy that the Games are the better alternative? We say: not one hundred, not six, not four, not two, not even one. No more. We are nothing more than slaves, pawns in a cruel and inhuman game. Yet, united, and with the help of District 13 we can cast off the shackles of our oppression. We were born to be free, yet we live in chains. No more. Freedom is not given, it must be taken, and win or lose, we are freed by the act of defiance in the name of justice."
Jane lowered the letter and looked out at the rapt faces in front of her. Some she had known since childhood. Some were unfamiliar to her but whose trustworthiness was backed by Korsak, Doyle, and Martell. "So," she looked at Maura and reached for her hand, "with your Peacekeeper escorts you will leave at midnight tonight. Your escort will deliver you past the fence and through the security perimeter. You know the risk you take by agreeing to do this. I hope, one day, we'll see each other again and enjoy the rewards of the danger we're all courting."
She spread the letter out on the table and reached for a pen to sign it, "Set the fire," she murmured.
"And watch it burn," Maura added.
"Stop!" A voice rang out from the back of the small group as Joey Grant made his way to the front. "Don't sign it with your names. If one of us is caught along the way or if the district decides to turn us over, they'll know for sure you were involved. If your names aren't on it, there's no direct link. You might be safe."
"He's right," Doyle stepped forward. "Anyone that makes it to their destination can relay who the letter is really from once they know the district's mayor and people are allies. Otherwise, it's better left unsaid."
"What should I sign then?" Jane looked down at the blank signature line.
It dawned on him then: a symbol of rebellion and the ability to overcome the Capitol's trickery. Korsak grinned deviously as he joined Jane and Maura at the table, "Sign it, The Mockingjay."