A/N: It was hard for me to write this, really hard. And not just because this chapters brimming with description and it was hard to place everyone's feelings, but I hate myself for what I've done to the character at the end. But I think Kara just needs a sharp jolt at the moment. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this rather scary chapter of Final Strike (the first chapter of the Gnawing Hunger Series in 2012) and that you don't get freaked out too much and notice the eerie underlying message.
I barely wait for the train to pull into the Capitol station before leaping off and slamming onto the platform, whilst Zen stands anxiously by the threshold of the train, waiting for the silver bullet to screech to a halt. Leaving Heather and Renny to Zen, I charge on forwards and storm through what I suppose is meant to be some sort of reception committee, shoving a rather podgy looking Capitol photographer aside in angst.
The single photo he snaps depicts a wild and crazed seventeen year-old girl, her golden blonde hair streaking behind her as her blazing blue eyes point forward in determination, an angered grimace stuck on her face. Her rippling blue dress fluttering behind her, the foam on it licking the sea it creates, embracing the wild call of the barren tide. At a first glance the dress looks out of place, streaming behind this upfront warrior, a picture of beauty, But the deeper you look into the photo the more you see the raging torrents and wild storms battling across the deep blue dress rippling after her as she charges forth into battle.
I barely looked on as the rest of the tributes were selected, the usual lot really, I didn't even blink at the gasp made by the commentators as Heather's raw and stretched wound was shown to the awed audience. All I could do was shut down my mind to the darkness and imagine my vengeful hands wrapping themselves around President Snow's tender neck and squeezing gently and then harder and harder as the subtle choking overlaps into a frantic scrabble for his life as he and everything he has done can simply be squished by a further pressing of my hands. I didn't say anything at all, just simply sat there, silent, until the train pulled up near the Capitol. Then I stood, forced the door open with a fired shove and leapt out at the platform. Because this time President Snow's gone too far, this time President Snow is going to pay.
"Kara! Kara, stop!" Zen pulls in front of me, panting, and he pushes his arms onto my shoulders, trying to stop me in my tracks as I stride meaningfully across a street in the Capitol, all of my radars pointing right where I'm going – President Snow's mansion. He's probably left Renny and Heather behind with Ophelia, since I can't see them here as he takes a tight grip on my shoulders in an attempt to stop me. Of course that doesn't work, and I just continue striding determinedly towards President Snow's mansion, a look of bitter revenge fixated on my face. "I don't know what's going through your head right now, but it's not anyone else's fault and it's certainly not yours," Zen pleads, his attempt at reasoning me as he desperately walks backward, his hands still gripped determinedly on my shoulders, not one that works.
"That's where you're wrong Zen," I snap, then push him aside forcefully with my right arm, shoving him into a nearby Capitol building. As he staggers backwards in a worried daze I build up my pace until it reaches a frenzied yet constant run as I press forwards towards the mansion. This is it, this is the final straw. First he got Juniper reaped last year, probably as a pre-warning, and then he brought Lumina into this using Renny. And now with Barley and Rye… he's torn that family apart. Dral's family. All to get to me. All to break me down so I'd become some sick sort of prostitute. Well I'm afraid to break this to you, Snowy, but this nut is a lot harder to crack than you originally thought. And the next person who dies because of your demented actions isn't going to be me or anyone I care about.
Instead of tears, instead of a breakdown of frenzied sobbing, instead all I can feel is a bitter determination to throttle his neck until his body collapses, wheezing and on the brink of death. But I wouldn't kill him then, then I'd rip up his work on his nation of Panem, his family, his co-workers, anyone he cared about ever, his puny and insignificant life torn into tiny shreds right before his eyes. In revenge. And then, and only then, I'd kill him. Slowly. Then he'd deserve what he got. Then he'll deserve what he gets.
The burning pain in my legs is unmistakable, but I ignore it. It's the kind of pain I felt all too well in the arena, and I know I've been running too fast for too long. It's been what, ten minutes, at full sprint? I know it's only natural to feel tired, but I still am cursing myself internally as I slightly lower my run into a quick jog in reluctance, it's not like President Snow's going anywhere, is it? My teeth grit in determination, but at the same time I find myself automatically biting my lip, an automatic anxious reflex of mine. I look down at myself, and while I know I'm running I can still tell I'm shaking. In fear? I shouldn't be afraid of this man, he should be afraid of me. He's going to pay oh so much for this, and if anyone should be trembling it should be him, as his life's about to come to a sudden and abrupt end. And so I forge my way on through the winding and blissfully unaware streets of the Capitol, never one ripping my eyes away from the prize – President Snow's life. Over.
"Don't."
The word calls out of the shadows beside me, the soft and spluttering voice chilling me to my bone. It's as if I recognise it faintly, but it's changed. It's morphed from whatever I have stored in my brain. But a whole lot of things have changed. Steadying myself for what I suddenly feel is a terrible fate, I suck my breath in and manage to cool my shaking nerves by relaxing my muscles from their tense state before angrily flicking my head to the side, a sneer of distaste and disgust fixed on my face as if someone has just insulted me. And as my face turns to face the person that called me and my eyes adjust to the shadows, the look immediately drops from my face. I rush towards the shivering figure left behind in the shadows, unable to quite gather around her, wishing, hoping, praying, that it isn't who I think it is. But I know deep down that it is.
My shaking arms clasp around her, not able to believe what I'm seeing. I know her, I know it's her. But it can't be, how could this have happened? How can she have turned up like this? Where there was a shine in her eyes there is now nothing but a dull, flittering gaze as if focused on nothing but a wild dream hidden behind her battered and drooping eyelids. Where there were juicy and irresistible lips there now only remains a cracked shell, bloodied clumps of ripped skin with jagged edges containing the appearance of being continually chewed which has been shamefully hidden inside the mouth. Where there were rosy red cheeks and a cheeky smile there only stands paper white skin and a bare, hollow expression, the colour and life drained from her very soul. And where there was that feathery layered shock white hair, perfectly maintained and styled, an essence of her extravagant lifestyle, only a tangled clump of mousey grey brown dangles shamefully from her head. I look up to her shivering and frightened body, the croak of a word having just left her mouth in fright, and I feel a lone tear well in my eye, even though we were never one to get on.
"Don't," she repeats again more forcefully, her voice cracked and broken as a racking cough splutters out of her mouth afterwards, yellowed teeth struck wonkily in her mouth like rotting food, dangling in there as if by a bare thread, horrifically different from her gleaming white teeth that would shine like the moonlight, brightening up a lonely traveller's way in the darkest of hours. And I can tell from her fragile and broken position, her bent and withered body, that what I've been thinking about can't be. Yes, all the anger I've been storing, all the hatred I've been holding, all the murder I've been brewing. Her word, for whatever it's worth, is going to stop me right in my tracks. Because she knows exactly what it's like to stand up against President Snow by the looks of it, and from her ghostly transition I can tell that it's not in her footsteps I want to follow.
"What have they done to you?" I whisper, swallowing her name back into my throat. And slowly, forcefully, I drag it out into the light, and I can tell by her reaction I'm completely right.