A/N: I've mixed up some canon in regards to some elements of Panem, particularly in regards to the Capitol-District 13 relationship. Figured I could throw in some twists, so be prepared for some new information that goes against some canon. Additionally, the first part of this chapter has some limited pertinent short-term info, but a lot of it is designed for long-term exposition. Just FYI if it seems out of the blue, like "Wtf, dude? You were just writing about Sam going to District 4 and now you're talking military stuff?" It does indeed have purpose!
Also, I just wanted to make secret police, so yeah. I did.
The Capitol – The Citadel, Panem Military Command
At one point a massive airport and transit hub for the world that came before, the expansive airfield, hovercraft port, and command center known as the Citadel oversaw Panem's military might from a centralized location just ten kilometers outside the Capitol. Its white-rimmed Teflon roof mirrored the snow-capped mountains behind it with dozens of unique peaks over each building. A great acrylic glass foyer opened the grand entrance of the massive complex to prying eyes – yet still concealed the great operations of the heart of the Capitol's military machine, primarily hidden underground in a network of old baggage lines, cargo garages, and subway tunnels repurposed into computer server hubs and meeting halls. Three hundred combat-equipped hovercraft called the Citadel home, along with nearly twice that number in support vehicles, ground craft, and dedicated fixed-wing and rotor aircraft. It was not the Capitol's only military installation, but it was the biggest – far surpassing District 2's formidable mountain stronghold.
Trajan Arterius, supreme commander of the Panem military and experienced veteran of controlling a widespread populace, had never liked the aesthetic direction taken at the Citadel. The massive foyer made him feel extremely undersized at only five-foot-nine, as if he was a mere mortal staring up at a monument to Gods. Strange symbols from the civilization before had been refurbished and kept around as well, adding to the odd feel of the place. A great blue stallion, sculpted out of various rocks and metals, greeted employees and Peacekeepers who worked at the installation every day. Within the foyer and above-ground buildings, strange murals – some depicting horrible apocalypses and genocides – and odd remembrances to things that Trajan found no meaning in memorialized a people long since passed away.
It was inefficient and – in Trajan's eyes – a waste of space. Why celebrate a civilization that had died?
Still, he didn't have to deal with it on a daily basis. Trajan's concern lay under the cold alpine earth, deep in the heart of the Citadel's nexus. The white-armored Peacekeepers had no business there; only his gray-uniformed officer corps and black-armored Centurions – Trajan's elite soldiers, loyal more to his word than the state itself – could move freely about the deepest depths of the fortress.
"Commander," a thick-built, middle-aged man with short silver hair on one of the descending elevators to the lower levels greeted Trajan as he boarded. "I received a reply from Nero. He wants a status update on 13's condition immediately."
Trajan hissed. Nero – President Octavian's chief of staff – was no friend to the strict military types. He outwardly preferred the occupier-style Peacekeepers and their secret police branch, the Inquisitors. Trajan personally deemed those units sadistic and undisciplined – despite having to deal with Peacekeepers on a daily basis – yet he had no say in the matter.
"Let's get down to the Hive and put together what we have," Trajan exhaled sharply, rubbing a worn hand along the black delta tattoos etched on his muscular neck. "What kind of news do we have from there so far, Marius?"
Marius Nerva was Trajan's highest-ranking Legate – a purely military officer who had served in nearly every district in Panem and knew the ins and outs of soldiering. He shared his leader's distaste for Nero and the policing forces, and despite a more empathetic outlook towards the districts, he held a similar taste for discipline and following orders. His experience and veterancy had turned him into Trajan's de facto adviser and unofficial spokesman; when the Commandant was unavailable, Marius's words were orders.
"Intel has nothing," Marius replied sharply to his shorter superior. "And by nothing, I mean no communications in or out of the region. Everything east of 12 is a dead zone. Our infertility plague of fifty years ago…we believe it mutated."
Trajan nodded slowly. District 13 – thought by nearly all to have been eliminated back in the Dark Days via the Capitol's arsenal – had only gone underground, signing a non-aggression pact with the Capitol. Being armed with nuclear-tipped missiles, 13 held significant clout over brokering the uneasy peace. The Capitol had been forced to take alternative measures over the years: fifty years after the Dark Days, Trajan's predecessor had surreptitiously deployed a prolonged-dormancy, flea-borne sterility virus into District 13's local area. It had been phenomenally effective according to Capitol Intelligence data packets picked up via microscopic drone insertions – reducing viable births in the Capitol's long-lost enemy by 90%. If it had mutated, however, they faced all sorts of new variables.
"Do we have any data on the prognosis?" Trajan asked, already beginning to put the pieces together.
"It's a comm blackout. I presume the worst," Marius answered coolly.
"We won't jump to conclusions without hard data. Let's put the pieces together."
The Hive was the deepest subterranean layer of the Citadel – a massive coordination center stretching out for a square mile under white fluorescent lighting and cream-colored plastic ceiling tiles. A thousand data analysts, security developers, and weapons specialists worked side-by-side with the top tier of Trajan's officer corps. Down this deep, everyone knew how high the stakes were.
"Big screen," Trajan shouted as he entered the Media Room – an imaging and holographic display center designed to visually depict new information as it arrived. "Let's see the trends."
A central, circular holoimager brought up a three-dimensional image of the geographical area of District 13, rendered in hanging blue pixels that sat idly suspended in the air. The marshy swampland and rivers around the district's fortified perimeter ebbed and flowed as usual, but the real-time feed showed something more interesting: no human activity whatsoever.
"Deep-cover drones don't have much in terms of lifesigns," Marius explained. "A few weak ones, but it looks like something drastic happened in 13."
"You think it's the virus?" Trajan raised his eyes to meet his subordinate's stare. "Changed to something more deadly?"
"I spoke with the biotechs," Marius nodded. "There's nothing else around. No other contagions in sufficient quantity, no radiation leaks, no chemical spill…I can have them run every simulation possible, but we're going to have to send some drones it to get a confirmation. Do you want to send this to Nero?"
Trajan stroked his chin stubble, looking at the still hologram before responding. The situation was interesting…if District 13 had been rendered a non-factor, it tilted power heavily in the Capitol's direction. No other district could truly put up resistance of any meaningful ability; Octavian would essentially have free reign to unleash whatever autocratic whims he wished. The Vox were a concern, but the right application of stealth and counter-insurgency could likely knock them out.
But Trajan didn't want that – not when the young, impulsive ruler had shown his hand by imprisoning the still-incarcerated Phaeston Rex.
"No. Stall him," Trajan ordered Marius. "Tell him a false status quo. I want certifiable evidence before we play a hand."
Ever loyal to his leader over the state, Marius nodded and smiled. "It will be done."
District 4
Sam had only seen this side of Panem during her Victory Tour nearly a year ago. Here the grassy plains and deciduous trees of District 10 dissolved into an alien landscape: the smell of salt and seaweed pervaded, mixed with sights of rocky outcroppings, barren trees topped with leaves only on the ends of spindly branches, and small white gulls that constantly circled on warm risers, looking for scraps of food. Sam could appreciate the change, however; District 4 was a large district, and the sight of the great blue sea spreading towards the horizon instilled her with a feeling of catharsis.
The train she rode in was a far cry from the Hunger Games trains she had ridden on the previous two years. This still had nice accommodations and cruised along at three hundred kilometers per hour, but the ornate veneer and sheer luxury was gone. Only three cars were used for passengers and crew; this train consisted primarily of cargo. Hoppers carried lumber from District 7 and cooled tank cars ferried milk from District 10; refrigeration cars would tote the final cargo from District 4 as the entire train made its way to the Capitol after dropping Sam off and gathering its material.
She was happy to be away from it. The crew had mostly ignored her, never bothering to even speak up. She had been attended to by a single servant whose usual duties involved handling any basic crew concerns. It was patently clear she was an added burden.
District 4's train station lit up with more lights and warmth in the dawn air than did the dilapidated wood station of District 10. Modern ceramic paneling and plastic tiles greeted Sam as she stepped off onto the platform – along with two gold-uniformed men with stone faces and clasped hands.
"Samantha Parker," the taller of the two spoke up as soon as she had taken a step. "Please, come with us."
The smell of the ocean had barely played across Sam's nose as the shock hit her. Who were these men – had they been the ones to bring her here?
"I'm sorry…I don't…" Sam stumbled.
"Capitol Inquisition," the shorter of the two followed up on his compatriot. "It will be in your interest to obey all orders and commands."
"Alright, alright," Sam held up her hands in peace. She had no desire to pick a fight with anyone – certainly not whatever an "Inquisition" was. "Where are we going?"
"No questions. Follow us."
A large black car idled outside the station, flanked by two Peacekeeper armored vehicles. The Inquisitors hurried Sam along, each placing a heavy hand on her quaking shoulders and shoving her forward. She looked around nervously as one of the men yanked open a large door.
"In," he commanded, looking down at Sam as if sizing up a bug before stomping on it. He waved a large pistol in the direction of the car, clearly conveying his intent. Sam had little choice but to follow orders.
She sucked in a deep breath and climbed into the car's rear seat, letting the man close the door harshly behind her. The black-tinted windows of the vehicle shaded the outdoors in a dark curtain as the large car started up, making Sam feel as if she had been deposited in a mobile prison. Things got worse: she turned her head and recoiled at the sight of the thin man who sat in the seat next to her.
"Bienvenue, Samantha," President Octavian's small black eyes appraised her with an amused expression, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a cruel grin. "Not your first visit to District 4, oui. Let's take a ride, you and I."
The car sped quickly along the rock-strewn streets of District 4, cutting through residential areas and a commercial district that all outstripped anything in District 10. Sam didn't have time for sight-seeing, however; Octavian's surprise appearance had shocked her into submission.
"Where…where are you taking me?" she spoke up after staying quiet for a few minutes. "Did you bring me out here?"
"Indeed I did," Octavian adjusted a black tie and flicked the tips of his well-oiled hair. "Only for a short time. You can spend the rest how you wish. You see, Samantha, the last time we spoke I asked you about your knowledge of the Vox Plebeius. You claimed ignorance…but I believe you lied. After all, not only did it begin in your district – seemingly everywhere now, oui – but there is someone…close…to you that rumor says is involved in their ranks."
He laughed just a tone flat, quickly turning his stare right back into Sam's widening blue eyes. "How sweet young love is. Does dear Clayton tell you about his terrorist connections?"
Sam sucked in a breath sharply. What on earth was he talking about?
"I don't…I…" she stammered. Speaking to Octavian was always an anxiety-provoking prospect, and his personal touch now did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. "Please don't hurt him. I don't know what he does, but he's…he's…"
"Oh Samantha, so quick to defend others at your own expense! A regular paragon," Octavian chuckled, placing the tips of his fingers together. "Monsieur Rex said you were intelligent…at least, he did before I threw him in prison. Perhaps he was wrong. I don't need to hurt the object of your heart directly to achieve my aims. I could…but I choose not to. You see, cause and effect does not work that way. If I merely killed him off, then perhaps the effect of such an action would be detrimental – perhaps I would incite you to commit violence, although I believe you to be far too diminutive to take such initiative. No, Samantha, I will provide a cause which brings about the effect I need. I will show you an example today."
He leaned back in his seat, a smug smile playing across his face. "The Vox have spread here to District 4. I assume your friend knows that. You do not, but now you do. Today I will show you just how destructive they can be to every innocent in this world…and why I would choose my loyalties with more caution if I were you."
Sam closed her eyes and slowed her breathing down, struggling to hang on to control. She knew nothing about Clay in regards to anything Octavian said – was the President trying to get something from her? Was he telling the truth…could that even be conceivable? She knew enough about the snake-like man beside her to understand the games he played, but with these circumstances, she couldn't count anything out.
"You didn't answer my first question," Sam said quietly, eyes down and averted.
"Quite right," Octavian replied. "I am glad you noticed that. The Vox planted a bomb on the cargo train tracks this morning, Samantha. I assume they meant to disrupt cargo shipping…but it does not matter. You see, they provide a cause – but only causality will show what the effect will be. My Inquisitors learned of this action and made an act of their own. The Vox are going to kill a lot of innocent people today. Several children; a pregnant mother; fathers. Blood for blood, I believe. C'est la vie. Should they simply have abided by the Capitol's decrees – and my goodwill – none of this would have unfortunately happened. You are all so much like children in the districts."
"Perhaps you will learn a little something about your allegiances yourself, Samantha," he mused.
The car unloaded Octavian, Sam, and a gaggle of Inquisitors alongside a concealed area near a wide expanse of docks. Great wooden piers tethered a number of ships to the shore, bobbing and rising in the foamy morning tide. A number of overall-clad workers and fishermen filed with heads down from the streets to the docks, none of them catching sight of the presidential group hidden just well enough to stay out of the light but catch a wide view of the area.
"That," Octavian pointed out a rather large fishing ship to Sam. "Is the largest vessel in District 4's civilian flotilla. Forty-five people work on it; two are children, one of them just seven. Three women work on it; one of them is five months with child. Many of the others have families. Can you imagine the faces of their sons and daughters when they do not come home tonight?"
"No!" Sam protested, surprising herself with a bout of courage. "You can't do this…you have to warn them, tell them that they're in trouble! You can't just kill them!"
"I can, and I will," Octavian smiled. "This is the effect, Samantha. You see what the hands of childish terrorists force me to do…they will kill their own this morning. I wish I could protect these people, but sacrifices must be made."
The vessel in question had just cast loose its moorings, slowly motoring out into the bay with a churning white wake as Octavian finished. The President looked on smugly, his face in sharp contrast to Sam's horrified expression and churning stomach.
Bang! A white light split from the sides of the wooden ship, blasting out pieces of wood in all directions across the bay. Just as people on the docks took note, the explosion caught the vessel's fuel line. Boom! Boom! Orange flames and red blasts roared out of the doomed ship, sending fireballs snarling into the morning sky and black smoke billowing upwards. Flaming bodies writhed about on the vessel's burning deck; others careened off into the sea, bleeding and charred beyond recognition. To Sam's horror, a small figure came running up from below the deck, on fire and falling to the deck. The figure swatted at a head full of flames for a moment before going still.
Fire billowed out from the sinking craft as the remaining crew still alive hurled themselves overboard, desperate to cling to their lives. Oil from the vessel had begun to leak across the sea, however; those who did make it off the ship quickly found no safe haven on the surface of the bay. A small motorboat already went flying off towards the wreck, but very few survivors made progress away from the disaster scene. A few burnt bodies floated amongst the flaming sea's surface; the rest faced a watery grave, entombed in the bowels of the vessel and forever damned to the ocean's bottom.
"Oops," Octavian laughed cruelly next to Sam, folding his hands behind the small of his back. "I hoped you learned something today, Samantha. Enjoy the rest of your stay in District 4…not too well, though. These are certainly dangerous times to be you."