Animus
Chapter Nine
A Day in the Life.
...
(Madge)
I'm woken from an especially delicious, dreamless slumber by someone intent on plucking every singular hair from my arm. When I feel the familiar sensation of prickling pain around the crook of my elbow my hand shoots out reflexively to grab the source of my discomfort. A sharp high gasp ensues and some squirming and then finally, she bites me. Hard.
"Wha-." I gasp out, sitting up and very much awake. It's not fun. I examine at my arm, pink teeth indentations mar the skin. Excellent. Looking down, I find mirrored in the girls face the same reproachful expression on mine.
"How did you get in here?" I groan. She continues to stare with hateful petulance at me. I blink watery eyes against the bright rays of sunlight streaming in through the window, which for some odd reason is thrown open wide. Peculiar. The smell of meat being cooked wafts through it and makes my stomach flip with nausea. Cringing away from the window with all it's sunshine and promise of cooked food, I estimate that is it nearing midday and probably time to get up anyway.
...
(Katniss)
Madge tramps into the already entirely too cramped kitchen just as the food is being plated up. The smell makes my stomach squirm with anticipation. Although granted, due to my position as Mockingjay and with Peeta being a baker, we haven't had to suffer through a short winter for years, despite this there's still something about a large platter of food being served up on your table that is synonymous with a sense of satisfaction within me. Gazing at the edible mound it takes me a moment to realise that unconsciously I am doing a quick appraisal of the food; bacon, which back in 12 we almost never had. Eggs. I'd have had to scavenge for half a day alone in order to bring in enough to feed this many people. The meat is familiar though; dog. One that Gale and Rory were fortunate enough to bring one down a few hours ago. Bread for toast I would have had to trade for, not butter, we would have gone without. Soft goat's cheese would work as well. As the meat is being carved Rory proudly claims the dog for his own, but I could tell simply from the clean puncture wound in soft flesh of the neck when they brought it in that this is probably not the case.
To his credit, Gale lets his brother take the glory.
"Morning sunshine. Coffee is in the pot." Myff chirps with sugary cheer as she piles the bacon on the plates. Smudges of grease glisten on her aqua-marine sequin apron. Madge mutters her good mornings to the world at large and then scoots around the food like it carries the plague.
"Still not eating, then." Gale observes as she gets to the steaming coffee pot and pours herself a sizeable amount of what looks like black sludge.
"You have an unhealthy preoccupation with food, has anyone ever told you that?" Madge returns on autopilot, barely sparing him a glance as she holds the cup to her nose and breathes in the fumes.
"Better than an unhealthy disassociation with it." He shoots back, glowering at the mug she is sipping. "Since that generally leads to death. Or hadn't you heard?
Madge rolls her eyes and ignores him, along with everything until the cup is drained. And then she has another one. Peeta also downs the rest of his own cup of the brown bitter liquid. My mother also loves the stuff. Must be a Townie thing.
"Excuse her." Griffin says, wheeling himself closer to the table as a plate is passed his way. "Not all that great in the mornings." He promptly gets distracted as his own plate brimming with food is pushed and stops talking.
"It's nearly midday." Gale, who is of the opinion that every second spent sleeping after the sun has risen is a waste, puts in. Like Griffin though, food is put before him and everything else, even criticising Madge's eating habits is irrelevant. Peeta, Rory and my plates are dished next and we all dive in perhaps not with the same verve as Gale or Griffin, but we're all starving. Myff dishes out the last of the food, a plate for herself and the wild girl. Nothing for Madge, who doesn't mind at all. A few moments of cutlery clattering ensue before;
"Come lord Jesus, to be our guest. And let this food for us be blessed, and may there be a goodly share-"
Everyone looks to the little girl, with her hands clasped over her meal and eyes screwed tightly, reverently, shut. She visibly starts when Griffin begins to splutter and cough over his meal. Followed by a clatter as Myff drops an entire pan of eggs to turn at look at her, eyes wide. I am able to ignore the part of me that winces are the waste of good edible food. Gale physically twitches and both he and Peeta catch my eye not for the first time, looking as confused as I feel.
"On every table everywhere. " Madge murmurs under Griffins choking. Thumping himself heartily on the chest, his stomach growls once and then stills. Leaning forward, his good eye gleams as he gazes at the girl with such intensity that I don't blame her for shrinking back against Madge.
"Amen." He says, finally, making a fluid crossing gesture over his chest, before then turning back to his lieutenant and adding sternly, "You, explain."
"You now know about as much as I do." She replies, shrugging. "I nearly had a heart attack myself when she said something like it to me."
"Care to enlighten us to what you're all actually talking about?" Peeta inquires mildly, setting down his fork and knife over a finished plate.
Both Griffin and Myff turn to us with surprised expressions. "For God so loved the world, he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him, shall not perish but have ever lasting life? "
At our continuing blank expressions she shakes her head and goes back to fixing up more eggs. "Fucking surreal." She throws over her shoulder. "What did they teach you districts anyway?"
"They had a hard enough time getting the majority of the us literate," Madge answers a little defensively. But then, I guess she has a reason to have some lingering district pride. Her father was Mayor. "Serious philosophical, political or religious debate were beyond the intellectual means of most." She gestures to Gale, a smudge of grease on his chin, bacon gangling from his mouth. "Exhibit A."
An ironic comment, considering the amount of time Gale spent dissecting the motives and actions of the Capitol during his life in Twelve. Without bothering to look up from his plate Gale flips up his fork, speared with his next bacon piece to imitate a obscene finger gesture. He then eats the bacon, glowering.
Peeta and Rory snigger behind their hands, but upon catching Madge's acid gaze fall silent.
"You still haven't explained what's so special about those words." I point out before everyone gets totally distracted. Griffin smirks a little at me, and uses his good hand to fish inside his jacket before pulling out a small, almost inconspicuous book. Leather bound with a dark murky stain on the cover. He tosses to me.
"Here, Mockingjay." I pick up the book and flip through the flimsy delicate pages, columns and columns of text blur before my eyes. "I've nearly been killed over that thing more times then I care to remember."
"A book." Gale states, unimpressed. Plucking the thing from my fingers and looking at the cover sceptically. "What does it do? Explode? Tap-dance across the table?"
"Sometimes when you speak," Madge sniffs with her nose almost comically in the air. "I'm just embarrassed to have to tell people I know you."
"Likewise." He replies dropping the book unceremoniously back to the table. I snatch it from the table and flip open to a random page. "But you didn't answer the question Princess."
"It's The Book." Myff explains before Madge can snap back her retort. She pauses to set down a platter of seconds. Gale jumps on it and so a potential fight is defused. Clever, I'll have to remember it.
"It's... you have no idea how dangerous...Hmm, how to explain.." She taps her chin with a long cracked aqua-marine nail for a moment and then re-continues. "Back home, the Capitol I mean, to even speak passages from it is High Treason. Which of course, meant that anyone with vague ideas of rebellion has read it. To own a copy means death, absolutely. The President had the very few books open to public consumption confiscated and burnt decades ago." She shrugs. "Any existing copies do so in secret."
Peeta whistles low. "Why does Snow hate it so much?"
"The book was declared dangerous, not just this one either, others." She explains, scepticism clear in her tone. "A danger to public order. A lot of people were killed in the purges."
"Heh." Griffin grunts, producing what appears to be an old leather pouch filled with a curious type of green tobacco. "I remember those." One handed, he sprinkles it onto a thin sheet of paper and rolls a perfectly round thick cylinder that he promptly jams in his mouth and lights.
"At the table? Really Griffin." Madge sniffs, waving the smoke away from her face, her nose wrinkled with dissatisfaction.
"One of the perks of undertaking the monumental task of keeping you miscreants in line, Lieutenant, " Her commander replies with satisfaction, putting particular stress on the word while exhaling lazy clouds of smoke through his nose. "Is that I get to utilise this little thing called dictatorial privilege."
"Hmph." Madge relents, crossing her arms. "Its just not hygenic is it?"
At this point in their discussion a passage from the book catches my eye. 'The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men.' Which for the benefit of Gale and Peeta I read aloud. Yes. I can see why Snow would not like to have this book open for public consumption.
All the more reason for it to be out there, in my opinion.
"Exactly," Madge says, beaming at me, and then quotes the next line, verbatim. "Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness-"
The girl, although originally the topic of this conversation, is all but forgotten until she speaks up in her high reedy voice. "-For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeanceupon thee."
It's an interesting juxtaposition, to have such ominous words come from the innocent tongue of a child.
"Wonderful breakfast conversation." Peeta mutters under his breath, eyeing the book in my hands with distrust.
"Yes, that's very impressive." Madge tells the girl, smoothing a lock of filthy tangled hair back from her face as she eats. Griffin and Myff exchange a look, but otherwise say nothing. "But it's probably best not to say those words out in public too much. Alright?" The whole scene reminds me of how my mother used to scold me as a child, about the things I would blurt out in the square.
"Right. Well, if it's so illegal, how do you know it then?" Gale asks Madge, with what appears to be genuine albeit slightly hostile curiosity. Admittedly, I'm rather curious myself.
"I can and do read you know." She replies acidly,
"Illegal books?" He pushes.
"If the mood arises." Madge says in a tone that suggests the subject is better left alone, her face closed behind an expressionless mask.
"Right." Gale says, sceptically.
"I propose a general house rule that you don't address me in any way shape or form before 12 A.M on all days that end it 'y'." Madge suggests, dodging this line of questioning and retreating behind her steaming cup of mud.
"Yeah, because talking to you is high on the list of things I enjoy doing." Gale bites out, audibly swallowing a mouthful of food. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and then goes back for yet more seconds. I would too, if I didn't think my stomach would actually explode.
"Then why do you continue to persist?" Madge inquires mildly, draining her cup completely.
"Obstinacy, mostly." Peeta interjects, unsuccessfully hiding his grin. I don't know what exactly he finds so hilarious about Gale and Madge being at each others throats every time their forced to be in the same room as each other for more then three minutes, but it never fails to amuse him.
…
(Madge)
The argument degenerates at this point into Hawthorne's empty threats that Peeta never takes seriously. The two have reached a strange sort of peace over the last few years, but then I guess they had too. Or Katniss made them, which is probably is plausible. After breakfast, Myff delegates out the chore of cleaning the dishes. Her rule of thumb is thus; Those who eat, clean. I don't eat breakfast, therefore I don't clean.
Personally I think it's a great system, of course, the boys always bitch and moan for an age before setting dish to water. Myff is delighting in it this morning though, since she's got a small platoon of people she can bully. Leaving them to it, I crook my finger at the girl who, sensing that probably she doesn't want to be involved in the clean up either, follows me without a word.
"The first thing we're going to have to take care of is that hair." I tell her as I run the water for the tub; a rusty thing with a ring of permanent filth around the rim. The water pipes are exposed along one wall, they are rusted, rattle constantly and drip stale water so much that we've given up cleaning the place of the slick green moss that has started to grow around them. The rebel forces are not exactly known for their five star accommodation.
Leaving the girl to undress herself, I retrieve Myff's and my combined collection of assorted hair products, bath bombs and soap. Upon my return I find the girl, unbelievably skinny and filthy already waiting patiently in the water. She amuses herself by sniffing and testing all of our soaps and scented exfoliants as I wash her hair not once, twice but four times before it is in any condition to be brushed. At one point I'm forced to fetch Hawk's lice killing solution, the smell is repugnant but it definitely does the job. A less dedicated soul would have given up after the second wash and simply hacked the mess from her head.
The next hour is spend brushing. This surprisingly, she endures with a lot more patience that I would, since I break more than one brush in the snarled mess. However, perseverance is key, and finally after much blood, sweat and tears I am able to pull a brush completely through her hair without having it snag. The end result is rather pleasing to say the least. The girl, who refuses to tell, mime or speak her name, and who I have christened for sake of convience, Salm is beautiful. Once tidy, her hair is long, longer than I would have suspected and hangs just shorter then her elbows, thick, it is a river of cascading ringlet curls.
Her skin is an almond colour, which compliments her truly golden hair. Her features, under all that dirt, blood and hair are seemly, almost doll like in their near perfection, but for a slight case of buck tooth which she'll probably grow out of. There's not much we can do about the itchy red scabs on her legs however and it'll take her a few weeks to gain the weight necessary to make her look healthy, not to mention the whole puberty ordeal she'll be forced to endure for the next three or four years. But, assuming she makes it through all of that in one piece, she's going to be another little Prim.
Or, in other words, beautiful. Give it three years and I'm going to look like an old crone next to the two of them.
Something to look forward too.
"Well, now." I say, trying not to look too pleased with myself. "Well now, well now." Salm sits cross legged on the floor in front of me, uninterested in the beautification process, and instead finds more wonder in examining a book of assorted influential Capitol poets from the last decade that I picked up for a steal at Madam Vendeur's a few months ago. It's illustrated, as are most books from the Capitol are. Personally I think it's a waste, but I guess the more literary inclined Capitol citizens simply can't fathom reading a book without something to distract them from the dull business of actually reading the words.
"Would you like to see yourself?" I ask, as she stares intently at the tropical paradise too perfect to ever have existed inked onto the page. With great reluctance the girl lifts her eyes from the page to the mirror, floor length in a tarnished gaudy bronze frame. She regards her angelic appearance with pure indifference. She turns to me with large hopeful 'are we done now?' eyes.
I sigh. What's the point of possessing beauty if you don't revel in it?
"Yes, alright." I say, putting my hands up in mock frustration. "We're finished. Go on, go find some food or something, you seem to like that."
Her smile couldn't be wider.
…
(Gale)
I do a double take as the girl skips her way into the kitchen. Hell. I can see this train crash approaching a mile away, it's going to be like Prim all over again. Love sick greasebags all over the place, smarmy assholes who need to learn to keep hands and eyes to themselves. The girl in question beams at me when she passes, and I know I'm screwed. Boys are idiots most of the time, but you can have a decent, if slightly bizarre conversation with a little girl from the age of five upwards. The smarter ones have you have wrapped around their pinkies within minutes. Posy and Prim, for instance, has been doing it to me for years.
I judge that she's closer to Vicks age than Posy's since she is approaching that colt-stage stage where they're all arms, legs and no-grace. While I'm thinking of it, I make a mental note to keep this girl away from the unfortunately not-quite-pre-pubescent anymore idiot, at least for the next year or two or so. She clutches a book in her hands which she amuses herself with until Undersee, dressed, clean yet still a little ragged and bruised, appears beside her. And hells teeth, they could almost be sisters. Imagine it; another little Undersee skipping about the place. I don't think my blood pressure could take it.
Or my liver.
I hastily drop my gaze back to my half-clean half-assembled rifle when Undersee begins scanning the hanger for anyone to talk to but me. Eventually she finds the note that Wheels scribbled for her, explaining how everyone filed out of here about half-an-hour ago. Katniss and Peeta apparently have some fancy-too-doo scheduled in town that they need to attend, one to which my presence thankfully is not a requirement. As to the others, hell if I know, but the blue haired one made a point of informing me they'd be back soon. I, for my part in the exchange, took the time to check out her ass as she sashayed out the door.
I glance up at the scraping sound of the chair being pulled back and the thud as the girl hurls herself enthusiastically into the seat next to me at the grimy table. She shoves the pages of a book under my nose, the scene reveals small patch of words surrounded by a paradise of lush woodland and exotic animals. Most of which I've never seen and are probably extinct. She jabs at the page, and then at my chest. The curious tilt to her head signifies, I think, that she is asking me if I like it.
"Nice." I tell her, simply. "Not as good as the real thing though."
She nods her agreement and quietly busies herself with her book, humming a tune I am not familiar with. Throughout this interaction I can practically feel Undersee's eyes burning a hole straight through me. She's leaning against the frame, arms crossed, brow wrinkled in a pensive expression. I fight down the urge to lift my head and tell her to quit it, but this will start a fight, which is probably what she wants. It's irritating though, and eventually I become pissed as my fingers begin to fumble clumsily over the respective gun-parts under her gaze, eventually I give it up all together and dump the rear sight I had been polishing on the table.
"Can I help you with something?" I ask as civilly as I can when vexation seems to be pricking in my veins.
"You're ambidextrous." Madge states, after a moments pause, her head tilted to the side; always the left, never the right. "I never noticed before."
"Why would you?" I grunt, picking up the scope now, to begin polishing the lenses. Hoping she'll drop whatever bizarre attempt at conversation this is. All things considering, I can't help but get a little antsy when Undersee starts talking to me like a actual human being.
She shrugs, one shouldered. "It's an unusual... talent, is all." Through the now very clean, and therefore very reflective glass of the scope lense, I watch her pick her way through the kitchen to the cupboards behind me, she pours herself a glass of juice and then one for the little girl. And no Madge, I'm not thirsty, but thanks anyway. "Mother was." She continues, her back to me at the counter. "Ambidextrous, I mean. That was why she was an exceptional pianist, when she was younger." She turns and makes a odd face, thinking that I can't see her. "Or so I was told."
"Fascinating." I drawl, scrubbing at a particularly tough speck of dirt on the barrel. "Does this conversation have a point?"
Inwardly, I'm a little surprised that Madge would volunteer any information on the subject of her parents. Particularly the Mother. Usually that's a big no-go area. The only time I've heard her even touch on the subject was after she tried and failed to off herself in my bloody bedroom. Admittedly, that was back when she was a stark raving loon, a stage I am very fucking thankful she grew out of.
"Just making conversation Mr. Social." She snips, getting her panties all twisted and bunched.
I roll my eyes. "That bored are you?"
"More or less." She replies, taking a seat and reaching forward to pull the pile of clean gun parts towards her. The room is filled with the rattling of metal as, for reasons known only to her crazy self, she begins to assemble my rifle for me.
Instinctively my hand reaches out towards it protectively. Wouldn't put it past the lunatic to mess to with my beautiful darling. "Be careful with those." I warn. And now it's her turn to roll her eyes.
"Relax," She replies, fitting the parts together with, hard to admit, flawless precision and speed. "You were the one who taught me how to do this. If you do recall."
"Be hard to forget." I shudder, thinking of all the bullshit I had to go through with her then.
A few moments of quiet pass as I clean and polish the last of the parts and lay them out for her. I watch her fingers, under the pretence of making sure she's fitting everything together correctly, which she is. Madge has a natural aptitude of things like this, steadiest pair of hands I've ever seen. She doesn't fumble once, and I get so caught up in watching her movements that I barely register she is attempting to talk to me again.
"Huh?"
She snorts. "I said, how's the homicidal girlfriend these days?"
"I don't have girlfriends." I tell her, which is true, even back home - you don't really have the time for anything more than hasty groping and messy kisses when you've got to feed a family of five, though I do know who she's referring too.
"Well, 'the last woman you had sex with that wasn't a debauched one night stand' doesn't have quite the same ring too it." By her tone, you can tell she's not a fan of my 'lifestyle'. Her, Ma and Katniss should get together weekly and bitch about it, form protest rallies outside my front door, they could even get jackets.
"Johanna has a name, and she's fine." Last I heard. Which was a few weeks ago. She'll find me when she wants to see me. As she usually does. "I'll be sure to pass on your regards."
"I'd rather not have my name brought up while you two are copulating." Madge snipes, the light dusting of freckles on her nose bunching in disgust. "But thanks all the same."
I can't help but bark out a laugh at her wording. "Copulate?" I question through a grin. "Why can't you just call it 'fucking' like anyone else?" Her cheeks even flush pink at the word. Hilarious.
"Because I have class." She sniffs. "Which is more then I can say for some."
"Frigid." I counter, half under my breath.
"Disease incubator." She returns, glaring. His expression is all pink tinged indignation. She looks exactly buttercup when you ruffle his fur the wrong way. I tell her so too. Predictably, this gets her even more incensed.
"Yes, well you look like a beard with an idiot hanging off it." She snaps. "So I wouldn't be quick to comment if I were you."
"Alright. Alright." I say, holding up my hands. "Retract the claws Buttercup. We won't mention the f-u-c-k-i-n-g word if it upsets you." A part of me realises that I'm probably enjoying this way too much, but it's easily ignored. It's not everyday I get Undersee on the retreat.
"Congratulations." Her tone scorches, and if her lips get any thinner they'll disappear. "You can spell."
The conversation lapse into silence then, broken only by the muted sound of metal clinking against metal. "There." She says coldly, through by comparison her cheeks still bare the slightest pink tinge. She shoves the re-assembled gun over to me with a tight frown, none to gently mind. "No need to check it."
"I know." I check it anyway. Madge rolls her eyes. It's flawless of course, everything fits together as it should, polished and shiny but for a few scratches and dents here and there.
"What about your significant other?" I ask before another cold silence ensues. Madge doesn't answer. She still pissed about the 'frigged' jibe, I can tell. "I'd have thought he'd be still trailing you around. Where is he anyway?"
"Why so interested?" She shoots back, "You hated Dallas."
Yeah well, he's a prick.
I don't tell her this though and instead shrug. "You were surgically attached at the hip. His lack of presence here interestingly hasn't been brought up, so now I'm wondering why-" There is a slight, barely perceptual change in her expression, she shifts in her chair, closer towards the girl. Ignoring me. A smile crawls onto my face, I hold up a hand. "Don't tell me, you finally gave him the boot?" Her silence I take as a conformation. I whistle. "Cold princess, even for you. The poor shmuck was crazy about you. Remember when he proposed? That was fun."
I think back to the memory with an inward smile. She turned him down in front of everyone. It wasn't pretty.
Madge, diverting her attention for a moment to the girl, turns the pages of the book forward a few to a picture of ethereal underwater kingdom complete with ornate palace, its intricate coral spires shooting towards the surface. She is riveted. Madge is silent for a long moment.
"Did he cry when you finally chucked him?" I prompt, again to break her silence. I don't know why I'm hitting this point so hard, I don't even care. Not really. Again she says nothing, her lips are pressed into a line so thin they'll liable to disappear completely. "He begged right?" I duck my head trying to meet her eyes to elicit an answer. I get none. "No? Well. Frankly Princess, I'm surprised you had the balls to do it yourself. I sort of got the impression you two were in it for the long haul." Somewhere outside I hear the droning of a hover vehicle approaching. Finally.
"Come on Salm." Madge says to the girl, Salm, before pushing her chair away from the table, it makes a harsh scarping noise against the cheep floorboards. "They're back." Madge throws me not so much as a backwards glance as they exit.
Huh.
…
Interlude
Your Funeral, My Trial.
Full Transcript of electronic Interview A-25060 (Undersee, M.) (file 214782)
Marked Confidential
(Dated aprox 8 months previous)
Alleged identity of parties in custody; Undersee, Margaret Maysilee. Flight Officer, S9.
Interviewing Officer; Salmavitch, Azura. Wing Commander, W1.
[Loud movement sounds. Voices inaudible over noise.]
Interviewer; For the record, let it show that it is 4:15am, 17th November of the 79th year PDD. My name is Wing Commander Azura Salmavitch, attached to the first wing, this interview will be conducted with Flight Officer Maragret Undersee. For the purposes of the tape and for voice indentifiction state your full name.
MU; You know who I am commander.
Interviewer; Undersee.
MU; Princess Consuela Banana Hammock... [A pause] … The third.
Interviewer; Let it show, for the purpose of the tape, that Flight Officer Undersee is deliberately and willfully obstructing the course of the interview. Now. Your real name, Undersee, if you please.
MU; [Inaudible mumbling].
Interviewer; Speak up Undersee, clearly.
MU; [Exhalation of deep breath.] Flight Officer Undersee, Margaret Maysilee. Born the Sixteenth of the Second, in the 58th year PDD, District 12. Birth Registration number 1019367. Parents; Undersee, Atticus, deceased , born 23rd of the fifth the year 25th PDD, District 2. Donner, Marygold, deceased, born 7th of ninth in the 34th year PDD, District 12. Date of death the- "
Interviewer; That will do Undersee, you have provided sufficient evidence as to your identity. Now I have been asked, as such, to convey that your commanding office has been discharged from the Critical wing at the medical centre and is expected to lead a fully functional life despite his injuries.
MU; He's not... [pause]... He's not dead? But I saw... [Brief hesitation]... I saw the Baron go down right in the middle of the battle, it was a direct hit...
Interviewer; Certainty it would have been fatal, if you hadn't intervened. In fact, certainly the biggest miracle is that you just happened to catch the incoming fleet on your entirely routine boarder patrol, so fortunate. But we both know that isn't exactly the truth. Is it Margaret?
MU; I... yes, play it, I know you have it, they backlog airchat for a reason commander. [Pause]. And don't call me Margaret.
Interviewer: Let the record show that this is a recording taken from the Flight Officers communication logs taking place approximately an hour before the attack on Four.
[Whirring of the tape. Beeping.]
"Why!? Dal, why did you do it? How could you do it?"
"For us Baby-Doll. A small fucking fortune I got from it too. We can go anywhere you want now, be anyone you want. We're free Madge! Don't you see? So relax. This is what we've been talking about, this is was the big score we've been waiting for for so-"
"NO! Not. Like. This. People will die and for what? So we can "live the good life". You've murdered thou-"
"Everything I do, I do for us Maggie. We're set now, you don't need to worry about your gifted little mind about any more scams or boost runs, Just-"
"Please Dal, cut the sentimental crap, it's me you're talking to. You didn't do this for the money and you sure as hell didn't do it for me. I know you Dallas, I know you better than you know yourself. So don't you put this on me, don't you DARE put this on me. I DIDN'T-"
"Oh but you did Baby. [Audible Chuckling] Where else did you think I got the information from? The march on Four was hushidy-hush. That backward district goatfuck that you need not concern yourself about anymore, made damn sure of that. Pity though [More chuckling] that no squads are going have enough notice to get there in time, re-inforcements might've really helped him surv-
[A high tone, signalling the locking on of missile targeting systems]
"You son-of-a-bitch."
"Come now, Sweetness don't be angry. We can go back to base and have a good chat about what we're going to do with the huge pile of gold that I got sittin' there, that'll make you feel better and I know you ain't got it in you to pull that trigg-"
[White noise.]
MU: It's my fault.
Interviewer: On the record? Not at all, not at all. If not for your decisive and quick thinking our Jay's would have never made it in time. You single handedly removed a traitor and personally took down numerous Jabberjays in the fray, if not for you, District Four would have been-"
MU: Obliterated. Because, in case it has escaped your notice Commander, It was. And that's on me. All of it. So If you'd just give me my discharge papers or the date of my execution I'll be ever so grateful-"
Interviewer: Execution? Don't be foolish girl. You're to be given the Purplejay, you're a war hero-."
MU: [Violent retching].
Interviewer: [Sigh] We'll need a clean up in room 4. Interview Concluded.
….
A/n; Revised. So much, lordie lord.
- Is.
…