Disclaimer; Drug references, swearing, bad proof reading abound.
Animus
Interlude;
Because the Beast is just my Fear
..
[The one year anniversary of the Bombing of Twelve]
(Madge)
"Madge? Madge? You in there sweetheart? Come on, look at me kid."
Like floating down a never ending river of acid and never drowning, everything simply flows past, dissolves and becomes nothing. You can cry and scream into the air, they can't hear you here.
"She's not responding. What the hell did she take?"
Sometimes I think I was born wrong. An empty shell, all flesh on the outside, nothing on the inside.
"Take your pick, hon. Took a little bit of everything. Been proper fucked up for days."
Just ash, twisted with bitter hauntings. Memories. I live for the past. Fire even, the heat. I don't feel it anymore. Sometimes - sometimes like this I can pretend it didn't happen at all.
"Right. I'll just wait and see if she dies sometime during the night then. Pass me that bottle."
And then nothingness.
…
[Some hours later]
(Madge)
The water feels like tingling needle pricks in my pores. Spluttering into an up right position is quite a job for my unenthusiastic muscles. My brain tingles and seems to sag down through my intestines into the floorboards. My eyes find the open window, stars shine bleakly through overcast night clouds.
"It's night?" The statement curls itself into a question as it leaves my numb lips. I can already feel my body coming down, the creeping nausea, heaving migraines. It's not going to be fun.
"Well observed Sweetheart," A familiar voice, like gravel being trampled on, makes itself known from the corner of the room. Haymitch Abernathy looks, for all intents and purposes exactly the same as ever. Dozing in my chair, eating what appears to be my food and drinking what appears to be my wine. Nearly a year's separation has done nothing for the deep misery lines ingrained in his face, the bags under his eyes or his personal grooming. I could have last seen him yesterday. A bucket, empty of water is next to him.
Thanks Haymitch.
Rubbing my itching, watery nose, I close my eyes and pinch myself. Hard. Perhaps this is a highly realistic hallucination.
"No," Possibly hallucinatory Haymitch informs me, almost gleefully. Wrapping his mouth around the bottle and taking a long pull. He smacks his lips obnoxiously, wine stains dot his collar. "I'm real as can be Sweetheart." The smell confirms it, the air tastes like stale alcohol and misery.
"You'll forgive me then," I begin tiredly, just as my brain begins to cycle through the implications of Haymitch seeking me out. "If I don't leap for joy just yet."
"I'm crushed." He drawls. I roll my eyes and finger comb the snarled bits of hair and glitter from my scalp; Myff's parties are never without their fair share of glitter. Palming my eyes, I have to ask; "What is the time?"
"Five past two."
"Day?"
"Wednesday, morning." My eyes widen. "Lose a few days did you Sweetheart?" He eyes the roll of fabric, old needles and vials laying on the table next to me. "Can't Imagine why."
To make matters worse, Myffs pipe, empty sachets filled with just a speckle of green herbs and cubes of Euphoria, half an ounce worth actually, of A-grade morphling and trackerjacker venom blend are stacked next to it. It's a contraband buffet. The rest of the room is a mass of my walk-on wardrobe and other worldly possessions. My bed; a tangle of sweat soaked sheets. The room is thick with the festering smell of human habitation. I fight down the urge to hide the needle marks on my elbow, but I don't want to give him the satisfaction.
"Come to judge have you?" I snap to cover this impulse and because a lecture about this from Haymitch, bottle-surgically attached-to-his-hand-since-birth-Abernathy is not what I'm willing to tolerate right now.
"Surprised is all." He grunts back after another quick swig. He shrugs. "Each to their own."
My eyebrows raise. "And that's all the sagely wisdom of the great Haymitch Abernathy is it? I expected a bit more hypocrisy to be frank." Anger prickles in me, annoyance, that he's not scolding me. But then, admittedly, that prickling feeling at the back of my spine could be because of the after effects of the Euphoria.
Again he shrugs, "I'm not your father sweetheart." Why this statement hurts I have no idea, it should be a source of relief that someone like Abernathy, of all people, isn't my father. "You're old enough to do what you want." The last word is leered somewhat. Creep.
"Why are you here then?" I ask, suspicion, paranoia rise up in me. Concern as well. It must be urgent. The only reason he would be is for... Katniss. "When I left, you said no one could find me." My tone is more then slightly accusatory.
"As far as the Mockingjay is concerned you're still MIA sweetheart, if that's what you're worried about." He shrugs, and then a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. " And incase it has escaped your notice, I'm not noone."
Oh yes, special secret agent Abernathy, advisor to the leaders of the rebellion. I'm in awe. "Well, you'll excuse me if I don't bow." I deadpan while motioning to the door, "Bad back you see." The beginnings of a three-hour vomit-fest curl in my stomach.
His mouth twists into something like a smile. "We got Him back for Her." I don't need to ask who He and Her are. Once a mentor, always a mentor it seems. The Hunger games own you or life.
"So I heard." I reply as expressionlessly as I can. Inwardly though, my heart plummets at the thought of the horrors Peeta Mellark would have suffered whilst in the tyrannical fist of Snow.
"As you would," He combats my indifference with his own, flicking non-existent lint from his reasonably filthy shirt. "Being a pilot now and all." The mockery in his tone is evident and unappreciated.
"That's right," I reply, raising my head from my hands. "I'm a pilot." Or near enough anyway, I add in the privacy of my own mind. "And, believe it or not, I have my own problems."
"Yeah," He agrees sardonically, but I can see the anger building up around it. "Your problem is that they've fucked him up good. She's not doing much better mind you, or the cousin." He adds as an afterthought. As though I'd care.
"The old triangle reunited. Just like old times." Sarcasm more or less drips from my mouth. "What Fun."
"Your being a brat, Sweetheart." He informs me around the head of the wine bottle.
Says the man with the temperament of a thirteen year old girl, I keep this comment to myself however, since starting an argument with Abernathy is not something high on my to-do list when I'm on a come down. "No Haymitch. I'm out. Done." I say with ringing finality as I gesture once again for him to leave. "The mess is yours, you clean it up."
Haymitch regards me for several long moments, I force myself to not squirm under this scrutiny, there is a moment of pregnant uncertainty, the precursor to an argument, one which I am not prepared to participate in if I can help it. He backslides however and makes towards the door, dignified an exit as he can, his parting shot to me is thus;
"You can no more walk away from this than I can Princess-" I flinch at the nickname, which I'll admit may have less to with the biting venom Haymitch injects into the word than that it reminds me of someone else. "-You started this, I did what you wanted. Remember the pin, sweetheart. Paying off the debt, I'll keep your friend alive because I couldn't save her." I lower my eyes when he looks to me for conformation of this truth. "This mess started with you." He steps into the hall, "You clean it up." The effect of this grand speech is somewhat lost on a wave of second hand wine fumes, ones of the distinctly carcinogenic variety.
He pauses at the threshold of my door, watching my internal conflict. Peeta Mellark. The little boy who I used to filch pencils from my fathers study for, who in return would draw me the little sparrows that nested in the sparse apple tree in his backyard. I used to tell people he was my brother. Indecision flickers within me. I bite my lip. "What do you need me to do?"
"Is that a yes?"
"It's just a question Haymitch."
He polishes off the rest of the wine before he speaks. "There was a machine, it was designed to warp his memories of 12, the games - not without it's fair share of excruciating amounts of pain mind you – doesn't even believe his family is dead. He tried to kill her Madge, got the cousin a fair good one too. Scalpel to the arm."
I say nothing. Deep, deep down I can't picture Peeta Mellark, ever smiling blue eyed Peeta harming even a hair on Katniss's head. Licking dry, chapped lips I force indifference in my tone. "And you think - I'm what? Going to somehow improve the situation with my sunny disposition and cheer?"
Irritation twitches the corner of his mouth. "They – the headfucks of thirteen – think, perhaps there could be hope if they had someone connected with his past, his childhood, something before the games..." He trails off and eyes me speculatively while I put together exactly what it is he wants me to do. "... There's no one else left, Princess. Just you."
Again with the nickname. I stop from telling him to quit calling me that. It would just give him incentive.
"So I'm to go back to being trapped underground to play this is your life with Peeta Mellark while Katniss and her lapdog look on. Has she even made her choice?" I inquires sharply. "Or am I to help put him back together only so she can shred him to pieces? I suppose I'll have to get him to play happy families for the camera too, right? What a good pro-pro that would make, don't you think Haymitch? Peeta Mallark walking forlornly over the graves of his friends, of his family while the whole nation watches. Really pull at the heartstrings won't it?" Throughout my miniature freak out session my voice has risen several octaves. Impassively Haymitch looks on at the spectacle of my stark raving lunacy.
"How likely?" I ask, exhaling after a long moment through my nose. "If I come with out right now, how likely will it be that it fixes him?"
"They say about thirteen percent." He answers casually. Figures. "Best case scenario."
"So, hopeless then."
"More or less," He salutes me sardonically with the bottle. "You're the closest thing to a miracle we have Princess."
Our eyes meet and hold.
"Nice seeing you Haymitch." I say tiredly when I shut the door in his face.
….
[One Month later]
(Katniss)
They say he can't see me, but I'd swear that those blue eyes bore into mine even through the one sided perspex pane. "No change today?" I ask Haymitch who is quietly pretending to doze in a chair specifically put in this room for that purpose. Being quite important to the rebellion now (not least of which, as the only person who can 'deal' with the Mockingjay, as Plutarch diplomatically put it), Haymitch has quite a bit of authority within district 13. Behind us a Petit, pale nurse injects a sedative into Peeta's arm, he fights her but the restraints keep him immobalized, in the silence I watch as his eyes drop closed.
"None," Haymitch replies without cracking an eye open. The bottle next to his chair is three-quarters empty and it's barely midday (although down in the depths of thirteen, who knows for sure?). When catching the barely perceptible sag in my expression he adds, "But who knows Sweetheart, maybe he is improving. He hasn't tried to kill anyone today."
"It's still only morning." Gale puts in darkly and with little helpfulness, eyeing the finger marks on my neck just as I catch the slight swelling of his eye.
"Thanks for that." I reply, pressing my forehead into the perspex, not taking my eyes of the form strapped to the bed. My breath condenses on the pane. Adjusting the focus of my sight I watch Gale's reflection shift as he fiddles with the bandage on his arm. "Sorry Catnip," He sighs and runs his good hand through his limp hair, the dark shadow under his eyes darkens. "It's just -it's been weeks. Everyday; no change. I think you have to accept that maybe- No look, Katniss. Maybe he's not going to-." Upon seeing my expression morph, Gale falls silent. I can see the act of stopping himself from saying more is doing little to improve his frustration. This topic of conversation has been the source of many arguments between us over the last month.
"I know." I murmur quietly after long moments, sliding my finger down the wet stickiness of my breath on the pane. Other droplets condense around the chasm my finger has made and slide down with it. Shifting movement from behind and I feel heat on my skin, Gale moves to my side and looks in. "I'm sorry." He murmurs, placing his hand on the small of my back. I move away from his touch, disguising this as a motion to step closer to Haymitch, who face is twisted in amusement. Because of course, who else would take comfort in my misery. "So, what are we going to do?" I ask sourly.
"Yeah Katniss, what are we going to do?" Gale asks, frustrated, placing heavy emphasis on the word 'we'.
"Give it about half an hour." Haymitch replies lazily, checking his watch and then going back to sleep. By Gale's expression it is apparent that he is not talking about Peeta's treatment. I am saved from answering though, by the ding and hydraulic hiss of the elevator at the end of the hallway. Without opening his eyes, Haymitch smirks. I don't really know what about however, since the only people who disembark are military personal and a gaggle of nurses. Petit bodies dressed in white, most are quite young, probably all in Prim's class. Gale spares them a glance as they go past, a line of blushing cheeks and giggles ensue. He smirks to himself for a moment, which slides off his face and is replaced briefly by an expression I don't know. A cross between shock and something else- Confusion? Dismay perhap. - something I don't know. I have to twist to follow his gaze, over my shoulder. At the elevator door my gaze first lands on Prim, looking especially pretty in her white, trim, nurse's uniform, which she washes, drys and irons with painstaking care after every shift. She walks with a blonde woman, a pilot I think from what I can see of her. The grey mockingjay colours of the rebellions fledgling airforce, a motley military jacket shortened at the waist, dark leather boots, large capitol style reflective sunglasses that obscure almost the entirety of the her face. Wavy hair that is tied back with a …
"Katniss," Prim says with warmth when she gets to us, hugging me as she smiles to Gale and Haymitch. It is a testament to the overall power of my little sister that neither, no matter how foul a mood they are in, hesitate to smile back. "Little bird." Haymitch grins at her, a nickname that has somehow stuck within the inhabitants of thirteen. Prim beams and lets Gale pull her into a hug. Haymitch's eyes shift to the figure behind her. "You're early." He grunts, but with satisfaction. "Expected you sometime this afternoon. Tomorrow maybe."
"I know." Says Madge as she removes the sunglasses from her face, shaking her fringe into neatness. For a moment her eyes slide to the room beyond the glass, where Peeta lays, sedated and secured to his bed. She probably takes in the red raw rings around his legs and wrists, the stubble of hair on his head, the line of numbers tattooed on his bare forehead. Removable by means unknown to the specialists here in Thirteen. The drip of Morphling threaded into his arm. Her mouth sets firmly, as though this is just what she expected, before she turns her attention to me, in all the splendour of mockingjay glory. I'm sure I'm substantially lacking in her eyes. Skinnier, with hallowed cheeks, lank unkempt hair. A necklace of faded bruises adorn my collar bone. Tired.
Paradoxically, Madge is almost unrecognisable from the translucent walking corpse she had been in the month following Twelve. There are the obvious differences, the fact, for instance that she has let her hair grow out over the last year, or that the clothes she wears now fit and suit her. There are no bandages on her person at all. But other things also, marked yet subtler differences between this Madge and the Madge from one year ago. Her skin is not chalk white and dry, but has a healthy glow. Her cheeks have a tinge of pink in them and there is no dark shadow under her eyes, no haunted ambience about her person. She fiddles subconsciously with the bottom strands of her hair, twisting them and on her finger I note amongst others, a golden mockingjay ring, a reproduction of my- of our pin. Such items are common now, exported from secret underground collectors in the Capitol.
"Hello," Madge hedges with awkward formality, tucking her glasses into the buttons on her cotton blouse. Dog-tags jingle below her collar. A badge on her pocket catches the harsh florescent light of the underground. Wings with the name Ct Officer Undersee engraved on them.
"Madge was just telling me about the situation in four," Prim begins, trying to spark a conversation before the tension gets too high. "She says the hospital they have there is really very excellent, isn't that right?"
Chewing her lip Madge nods, "Yes. The Doctors there – well, if given the choice most of us would go to four." Us? Who exactly is us? Clearly she is in the military now. Of course, I wonder exactly how – since to enlist you must be of age, and Madge is barely yet eighteen. My glance slides to Haymitch who studiously ignores me. He has something to do with this of course, I'd bet my bow on it.
"So that's where you've been then?" I ask, trying to hold back the convulsing emotions that have hit me – anger of course, relief that she's alive, curiosity as to where she has been this past year. "In four."
Dismissive in her mannerisms, she half shrugs. "Partly. I'm stationed in eleven, officially. But we get posted everywhere."
"Except in places where you could be found, right?" I return, releasing some of my anger. You don't just disappear, in the middle of a war and then not come back for a year. Months ago I had resigned myself to the fact that Madge was probably dead. Gale had been almost certain of it.
"It wasn't like that Katniss." Madge says tiredly. As though she has rehearsed this conversation in her mind for quite a while. Again another half-shrug. "I honestly didn't think you would mind that much."
"Madge you vanished from the face of the earth for a year," I enunciate carefully, stressing the words with hand gestures. "I thought you were dead. Of course I cared." We stare at each other as she takes this in, chewing her lip I think to stop herself from crying and then, and I'm not sure who moved first, we're hugging.
"I'm sorry." I hear her say, the words muffled but close and invasive in my ears. "I should have told you."
I imitate her half-shrug as we pull apart, and ignore Haymitch who mutters something like 'How touching' under his breath. Madge laughs, it sounds only slightly damp. Teary eyes sharpen though, when her gaze lands on the person behind me.
"What," Inquires Gale with sarcasm, "No reunion hug for me Princess?"
"Perhaps if you showered regularly," Madge replies, looking at him like he is some particularly disgusting insect. "Not trying to be funny, Hawthorne but you look beyond awful."
"Captain Hawthorne actually." He squints at the badge on her chest. "Cadet officer Undersee is it?" He leers at her somewhat. "Customarily you salute a superior officer, Princess."
Her salute is of the one fingered variety. Haymitch snorts, even Prim bites her lip to keep down the giggles. I sigh and rub my nose. No point in intervening.
"Cute." Is Gale's dismissive comment, not moved in the least. "But what I'd like to know is why the hell you choose to come back now, you know, after pulling your little disappearing act so well?"
"Oh." Madge makes a vague hand gesture."Just passing through. I heard you got stabbed. I was just wondering to whom I would send the flowers." Her smile is nasty.
"Well, that would be that lucky individual in there." Gale jerks his thumb to Peeta's room. "He's missed you Princess."
Madge shoots him a dirty look as she peers into the room with disinfectant white tiles and walls. To the figure in the bed, the rapid pulse of his chest as he breathes quickly, fighting the anesthesia he is under. She steps up and traps a finger sharply on the perspex. "I didn't think-" She begins, but starts again. "-Well, I mean. I know, of course I know how horrible it would have been. But I didn't think this – it's, it's beyond." She turns to me with a grimace. "They say I might be able to help him. You know, being the only other one of us left."
Us; the merchants. Gale and I share a glance. In a way the socio-economical distinctions of District 12 still linger. Deep down, Madge is still the mayors daughter. Peeta; the boy with the bread. And despite the uniform and the mockingjay pin, Gale and I, Haymitch too even, are still from the Seam. Prim, on the other hand, hovers over the boundary, something higher even than Town or Seam.
"So you will then," Haymitch asks unusually insistent, "You'll stay."
At the corners Madge's mouth twitches, a self-deprecating smile. "Yes." She says to the glass, her breath like mine before it fogging up the pane. "I guess I will."
…
A/n; So part 2 of my crazzzzzzeh double update spree. There'll probably be more about Madge's time in thirteen with Peeta and Katniss and the gang. I'm not quite sure if people will get this chapter really. But essentially it's a flashback from the main time line like all the other interludes. Madge has gotten to district 13 after the bombing of twelve, left after some hectic stuff happens and then come back again after a year to help Peeta. Peeta has only been recaptured for a month or so. I guess, sorry if explaining it sounds lame, but I'd just thought I'd get everyone on the same page. :S
Anyways, huge-ass apologies for being MIA for so long, but yeah, school comes first. Plus I'm officially moved out of my parents house for the first time, which is good. Not loving so much student life, being broke all the time sucks. The law school part is interesting though; the not eating part, not so much.
Anyways, my updates might be less frequent now but they will be forthcoming. So story is not dead and don't forget to read and review! Also Madge; you naughty addict you. Crap proofing is crap, I'll fix it later though I swear.
Peace.