Bitter copper taste invades my tongue. I've been biting the inside of my lip and now it's bleeding. If there's one thing Scipio was always right about, it's the need to focus anger properly. I can't operate without maintaining a mastery over the passion that keeps me going. It is no longer fury which will push me to action, so much as a firm grasp of the situation.
Scipio will never initiate a plan. He's too terrified of rattling our chains to ever try wrenching the bonds from our wrists. Action is an obvious risk, since it will be met with certain retaliation, swift and brutal. Scipio has had years to prepare and he insists that the time is coming. Everything is ready. He's just waiting for orders which are never going to materialize!
I spent all of Saturday contemplating how to warn whoever the underground has within the Peacekeepers. There's no way to know who that would be though. Any mistaken attempt to contact anyone is sure to bring me down. Rebellion can't be put on hold for fear of friendly casualties. Scipio is ready to sacrifice men to hide his rebels, just not to use them! That is why I must act.
Saturday evening I modify the plan. Change is necessary in any event, granted the short supply of cut cord I have available. Everything hinges on the aged cable functioning close to its manufactured specifications.
Sunday, I made three laborious trips, bringing materials and tools into the Main Office and stashing them in the gaping crawlspace. I was terrified there would already be a warrant for my arrest on the first trip, but the guards let me through with only a cursory glimpse at my identification badge; contempt that shall kill.
Monday morning. I'm watching the replays. Everything that goes on in the arena is live-action meant to tantalize the fools in the Capitol. Rue is gone. Nothing will bring her back. Someone has to stand up and make sure that her fate isn't shared ever again. No measure can go too far in bringing an end to the Treaty of Treason and the tyranny of the government that created it.
Thresh is still alive, still being tracked by Cato. Verona appears to be doing much better than she had been. Whatever an insulin kit is, it was extremely helpful. She hasn't made a single offensive move since games began, opting to wait out the other tributes unto the end.
I shut off the television and look at the papers I've scribbled on, rereading the final draft of my plan. Even though I already have it memorized, checking over is wise. Afterward, I burn it in the stove.
Meyla already left for the Amaranth's this morning. She and I haven't talked; we've returned to our proximate estrangement. It pains me to see what this life has given her. I didn't choose it. These events chose us, chose me.
Outside the sky is clear and yellow with a fierce rising sun. People shuffle from their homes to the fields or to the jobs they maintain when they don't have field duty. Apprehension returns. It's a new day. My warrant may be placed, now. Might be placed at any time.
As I approach the plaza, heart pounding, the world bleeds away color, leaving a grayscale image. Blinking doesn't remove the affect. I see the Justice Building off to my left, cold and gray, looming over Three Corners like a raptor, preparing to swoop down and seize a rodent. A few people watch the screens, the Hunger Games butchery. My edgy eyes catch glimpses of color; the tint of green sleeves and blue rank insignia over slate gray Peacekeeper uniforms.
Obviously, my mind is playing tricks, so I give my head a gentle shake to try to clear away the effects of stress. I need to be absolutely certain in every movement. There's not enough cut cord for mistakes, and never forgiveness from the Peacekeepers.
Approaching the side door, the green sleeves stain everything in my vision, staining the whole world a sickly lime pallor. "Badge, sir?"
I show my identification, fingers quaking, sure that this time I am caught. Dizziness swims before my eyes and I half-convincingly fake a yawn for cover. If there's a warrant out for me, no act will suffice.
He scans my ID, and then looks at me. His eyebrows arch ever so slightly upward, nevertheless then he opens the door and waves me in. Once inside the Main Office, my panic recedes, heart rate declines. I wipe cold sweat from my forehead. The world begins to look normal again, stretching before me are the Main Office's pasty blue walls that could have used a new coat of the bland paint a decade ago.
No one looks at me, assuming that permit of entrance was enough scrutiny for a lowly District 11 resident. Even after all these years of working on government buildings, it's doubtful that many of the enlistees recognize me. Few of them stay in the same district more than three years running.
Nervous trembling racks my knees, I climb the final case of stairs into the crawlspace; its gaping hugeness reveals the scope of this massive complex. My plans changed so that I will focus my sabotage on only one wing of the building. For one reason, I don't have nearly enough cut cord to even approach full destruction of the entire Main Office. Not by a long shot. That would require several thousand feet worth and several days for set up, since the entire catalyst must be within this seldom-patrolled crawlspace. Orchestrating such a complex demolition is beyond my capacity. But a single wing? I do have the manpower and the technical capacity to pull down a single wing, so long as the blasting cord functions as intended.
Demolition begins at ground level, letting the full weight of each floor to collapse the entire building. This attack will begin with the roof, requiring the momentum of the falling girders to crush away the lower level supports. The likelihood of pulling this off is about equal with the odds of failure.
My gear has already gathered some dust overnight. Two hundred and some odd feet of cord, a few drills with extra batteries, several rolls of compression padding, thick tape, radio-activated blasting caps, a dozen, dozen and a half tensioners, and blueprints, marked up in my elusive shorthand.
Blueprints are helpful but they're not exact. Building plans are never exact, especially not a hundred years after the fact, because the ground has shifted, the foundation has settled, and the building has been hit with a bomb, ineffectual as it may have been. There are small differences. The plans will just give me an overall reference.
I walk through the crawlspace into the northwest wing and back, marking locations on rusty steel girders with a wax pencil, taking measurements. After two hours, I think I have everything worked out. Some adjustments on locations because of stress indications. In all though, the plan is extremely close to the blueprints.
Tensioners first. They're long rods that expand in length as you work a lever pneumatically pushing out a second pipe with a foot pad. Mason and I used these to put pressure on steel, to guarantee proper distance between girders as we worked additional bracing into place. Today, they will push the girders out of alignment, if the cut cord can blast through the steel; they will ensure each misaligned beam is fully compromised.
There are only eighteen tensioners and each of them is set very carefully to maximize damage. I could really use eighteen more. I don't have eighteen more. I could really use another ten thousand feet of cut cord, although I don't even have a thousand.
This has to work! My mind wills it to work. Bringing down the northwest wing will do tremendous damage to the Peacekeepers. That's the barracks for enlistees. It would be a few days at least before replacement Peacekeepers arrive and by that time, Scipio could control the entire district! The war would be at the train yard and in the skies, not in the midst of our populace.
I pull out the drills and grind holes in a hundred locations on the superstructure. Drilling through metal can take a while, draining the batteries swiftly. When all the juice is gone, my hands switch over to delicate work placing the cut cord.
My forehead sweats out concern that the volatile, aged cable will detonate in my grip when I slice it. Its plastic surface is still shiny and smooth, having been wrapped up waterproof on a spool since it was manufactured. All down the side of the yellow cord, fine printing reads, "DANGER! HANDLE WITH EXTREME CAUTION! KEEP AWAY FROM FIRE! AVOID ELECTRICAL DISCHARGE! KEEP AWAY FROM CAUSTIC SUBSTANCE! DO NOT CUT WITH TEETH! DO NOT PLACE BENEATH EQUIPMENT! DANGER!" The warning repeats over and over, along the length of the tubing.
Do not cut with teeth? I smirk each time I see the word teeth. Can anyone really be foolhardy enough to think trying that would be a good idea? Plus the plastic explosive inside the casing is a specially composed clay with the chemical explosive suspended in its pores. It couldn't possibly taste good, but then who would know? You'd probably kill yourself finding out.
I wrap coils of the cable around girders and support beams, all the way into the northwest wing. Each set of coils, taped into place, leaves a little extra length hanging off. Over the actual wing itself, there's less reason to think the cut cord will be capable of damaging the secondary upright supports. Instead, each coil is wrapped to separate the roofing structure from the beams, so the uprights will puncture the roof on detonation and the collapse will fall around each support.
Wrapping up the nerve-racking task, I decide to take a break and drink some water. I'm drenched with sweat, probably dehydrated. The crawlspace is excessively warm and this job is excessively dangerous. My heart rate thunders and I need to calm down. It's about to get a lot more hazardous.
Plastic explosive is actually not very dangerous, compared to other explosives. The charge that propels bullets in Peacekeeper guns is immensely more prone to accidental detonation. The shell casing protects it rather well and the Peacekeepers never think twice about carrying each little explosive round on their hips or backs.
While resting, I go over the plan again and again. Destroy the barracks. It's unlikely that Scipio's contacts are in the barracks. Enlistees aren't around long enough to trust, generally. Even if they're trustworthy, they don't have enough clout to make a difference. Whoever is holding Covas and the Capitol at bay is an officer, or maybe officers.
Their quarters are on the north east wing, which may suffer some damage, if the barracks wing completely collapses. Should be minimal though. In any case, I have to do everything possible to utterly demolish the barracks and whether or not someone on Scipio's side is harmed, this cannot be deferred.
It takes half an hour to cool down and my heart doesn't comply with the rest of my body's relaxation. My senses are jumpy, not just from the explosive cut cord. My breath comes heavy as soon as I resume working. I may soon have justice, revenge, for my son's murder! I have no idea whether Jura Penrose will be inside the barracks, but my plan is to blast the cords this evening, when most of the enlistees will be settling down in their bunks for the night.
Next come the padding rolls. I start with the most vital sections since there's less padding than there was leftover cut cord. Each roll is a massive bat of specifically woven fiber which captures the pressure generated by the cord and reflects it inward at the instant of explosion. Ultimately, the padding shreds, but not before it magnifies the power of the detonation, knifing right through the steel. I make sure to wrap around each little bit of cut cord that hangs off, so it remains in the open air. That's where the blasting caps go.
I was right. The padding runs out with four more locations to go. After mulling it over, I pick a substitute that is woefully inadequate. Tearing my bags up takes a few minutes and leaves me without a way to carry out my supplies. I'm sure this action will end my common need for the drills and batteries. You never know, they may come in handy during the rebellion, once we can get the power back on.
Strips of torn canvas are held in place around the cut cord with the remaining rolls of tape. The last cut cord location is only wrapped in tape, the remainder of the roll. It won't be enough, I think, even though it has to be! It has to be sufficient, because this is all I can do. There's nothing more.
My hands shake as I attach the blasting caps and activate them to a single radio frequency. I move backward from the center of the northwest wing toward the hub, finally wrapping up this long day's work with a blasting cap on the girder, right beside its attachment location to the gigantic metal ring. My quaking is so bad that I drop the cap, imagination scheming demise, watching it fall in slow motion!
It plunks against the dusty wooden floor without firing. Far too nervous about this! The cap wasn't activated. It would detonate only if I hit it with a hammer, and besides, a blasting cap is only a weak primer. The real danger lies in the old cut cord, which may not retain much power at all.
Once the final cap is in place, activated, I look back into the crawlspace and run through a checklist in my mind. Tensioners, holes, cord, padding, caps... Is there anything else I can do? My imagination churns, trying to find some additional measure to make sure this 'accident' goes according to plan.
Maybe a way to start a fire upon detonation, something I can do to an electrical socket that would start a blaze? However, there's no way to know what will happen to the structure on detonation. The electricity might short out immediately, besides the chances of getting caught rigging anything on lower levels makes it too dangerous.
I should leave while I can and wait for evening. What time is it, anyway? My feet clomp down the stairs and thump on the tile floors retracing my steps. Just another day at work checking for structure problems. I reinforce my face and body to mask the extreme paranoia and excitement that seizes me. No one takes any notice of old Kippen Silvernale. For once, I appreciate the disregard, thankful for the callousness treating me a commoner. A secret grim reaper.
Offices drift by in my saunter. Every ounce of will is expended to keep my pace slow and methodical, at false ease. In my coat pocket the signaling transmitter swings with each step, tapping my belt, begging to be activated. Control yourself, Kip; patience is key. Detonating now, at the height of the day, will only bring down the roof upon a few, too few. The remaining Peacekeepers would react vengefully against the population, their hatred using abuse as a release valve.
Scipio has to intervene before they can reinforce the broken ranks. He has to! The people have suffered long enough; all of our lives and all of our parents' too-short lives. The time is now! This evening begins the end of injustice in District 11 and by example the rest of the districts should follow.
I pass out of the door, into the evening sky. The sun is almost gone from the horizon, orange streams flaring across the cloudy sky. Soon they will be showing replays of the days events and then the Peacekeepers will turn into the barracks for the night. My tension doesn't subside.
I walk to the plaza and look at a screen. Katniss and Peeta are talking. She looks pale as can be, having lost plenty of blood from her head wound. She's sitting up now. Whatever medicine she gave Peeta really worked a miracle. He's taken a definitive step back from the brink of death.
That's good, I muse. If two can survive the Games this year, well, two making it home is better than one. Katniss' mockingjay pin is unavoidable in the streets now.
Peeta's speaking, holding Katniss' hand. "Don't try something like that again."
"Or what?" Her voice is weak.
"Or... or... Just give me a minute."
Katniss smiles teasingly. "What's the problem?"
Peeta frowns. "The problem is we're both still alive... Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing."
"I did do the right thing."
"No! Just don't, Katniss!" Peeta bursts out. "Don't die for me! You won't be doing me any favors, alright?" He loves her. Everyone knows it. And not the childish sort of crush that every kid goes through around their age. He set himself up to die for her and the Capitol watches with adoration and glee, faux compassion, as though they can do nothing about this tragedy of circumstance.
Peeta's assurance that Katniss' death would end him hits home with a hollow resonance. I can relate. It's strange how mature these children are.
Katniss' response falters when she loses herself in the words. "Maybe you aren't the only one who... who worries about... what it would be like if..."
Peeta watches her for a second and lets his affection creep back into his tone. "If what, Katniss?"
"That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of." The drunken mentor from District 12 is becoming something of a celebrity with all the romantic attention paid to these two. His interview has been replayed almost in full several times in the past two days, during the slower segments in the arena, interspersed with interviews of relatives of the pair: Katniss' sister, mother, and cousin Gale, and Peeta's parents and two brothers.
"Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself." Peeta leans over and kisses Katniss gently, his fingertips brushing her thin cheeks. Katniss visibly shivers at the loving contact; her hands reach out to touch his collar.
Peeta lingers over her face for a moment and then says, "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on. Lie down. It's bedtime anyway." The two bundle together inside the sleeping bag to stave off the chills of night induced upon the arena by the Gamemakers.
There's a coffee shop on the edge of the plaza in Three Corners that serves an almost decent cup. Coffee isn't nearly as expensive as most drinks, although it can be if you add cream and sugar. Anything that can go in coffee gets expensive, but the brew is reasonable.
Although lukewarm, taste-wise, it's fine. I sit down on a bench and drink the brew, watching the distant screens and the people gathering around them. I suspect the replays have started because there are some shots of people being interviewed about their friend or family member who is a tribute clinging to life. Then there are slow-motion reruns of Katniss and Peeta kissing.
Cheering crosses the paved plaza. What does it matter that these two kids are coming to love each other? They probably both will die, the condition they're in. Everyone should feel sad that they didn't have a relationship in District 12, where it would have blossomed naturally, unhindered by the policies of the Capitol. It's such a shame, really.
The sun has entirely descended below the horizon, not even a glow smears the sky. When there is nothing except candlelight, millions of stars glitter every evening, even the fuzzy haze of the Milky Way galaxy. Much of it is blotted out tonight as people take full advantage of the electricity, lighting up Three Corners. Every light is shouts its life to the world.
All the replays have finished, nothing else happening. The screen shows a dark field of heavy rain, or maybe that's film-static. It was raining when Katniss and Peeta kissed, their own little cove dry from Katniss' earlier efforts.
I decide to wait half an hour, soothing myself with the cooled coffee. Peacekeepers would be in recreational rooms and break rooms and common rooms, shuffling back to call it a night. Mondays are the start of Panem's six day work week. No one is very active on a Monday night.
People leave the plaza, soon it's almost empty. With electricity at home, residents can stay awake to spend time with their families if they desire. Most likely though, the hard day of work will have exhausted them and will pull them to bed whether they want to go or not.
I'm quite tired too, adrenalin-soaked legs wobbly and aching from the trembling and walking and crouching. My mind goes over the checklist once more, though there isn't anything in the world that would get me back into that Main Office. You couldn't drag me there with every Peacekeeper in District 11!
A dozen scenarios skip through my consciousness. What if the RF trigger doesn't work? What if the cut cord detonates but isn't strong enough to damage anything? What if a random Peacekeeper is patrolling and discovers the charges? What if I'm arrested for my vocal crimes and never manage to complete my actual rebellion? What if-?
I silence the questions by reaching into my pocket and flipping the switch cover open. It's only been twenty minutes, but that ought to be enough time, I hope. The button depresses under my thumb.
Nothing happens as I hold the button in. Maybe the batteries need to be chan- A rumble creeps through the air. Although I can only see the south side of the Main Office, a pressure wave audibly shudders past. The explosives have gone off, a faint screech of rending steel zips by, mild thunder of falling roof echoes dimly through the plaza. It's quieter than I expected and my subconscious insists that's because it's not as complete a collapse as I was hoping for.
There has been a collapse. It wasn't just my imagination, the way my eyes see grayscale. Emplaced sirens come to life around Three Corners, blaring an ear-splitting tone that warbles slowly up and down in pitch. Alerted, remaining Peacekeepers in the plaza take off on foot for the Main Office, and more come scrambling out of nearby buildings.
I stand and finish off the rest of my coffee, dropping the cup back onto the bench. Then I see him. Jura Penrose. His unmistakable face, stricken with intensity, emerges from the Justice Building, rifle at the ready. His eyes scan the plaza quickly and then he joins his comrades in their mad rush toward their headquarters.
I want to scream. I want to throw the cup at him. But my hands clench into fists at my sides until my fingernails on my left hand cut and squeeze blood from my palm. Jura Penrose wasn't in the barracks. My feet whirl me about curtly. I force myself to stomp down an alley. Jura Penrose escaped justice, again. Again!
All of a sudden, my anger is quenched some by another realization. The rebellion is under way now. I have begun the undoing of the Capitol's hold over our people. Soon, perhaps in a matter of mere hours, there will be all out skirmishes between underground fighters and the Peacekeepers. We will have the guerilla advantage and they will fall by the hundreds!
Scipio has to move fast. I trust that his confidantes in the Main Office will inform him of whatever damage I managed to inflict on the barracks. Then he will swing into action, his cards already being laid on the table. "Soon is now, Scipio," my lips mutter wryly.
I can't go home. I can't go to the safe house. And I certainly can't go back to any of the places registered in my name, where my tools and equipment are stored. I can't go anywhere. While wandering, my thoughts hope that these actions won't draw a backlash against my family, against my wife whom I still love. Against the Amaranths who have lost so much already.
If Scipio acts quickly enough, the Peacekeepers will be entrenched in rebel warfare and the culprit of this chaos can likely slip into the shadows, forgotten in the melee of battle. Once the rebellion has taken over, it's likely that my actions will be commended.
I don't want a commendation, though. I want Jura Penrose and Volente Covas brought to face their crimes. "My son is murdered and I'm investigated? A new world is coming, gentlemen." I mumble, looking for a place to hide for the evening. "And your sort are endangered."
Far too dangerous to stay inside Three Corners, I decide. I'll have to spend the night in the outskirts. There's too much risk to lay down in an alley. The Peacekeepers may have patrols looking for anyone out of place. Vagrancy isn't permitted at all in District 11.
Away from the main roads, I leave town and head for the nearest patch of woods that separates the vast swaths of tilled land. Should I sleep in a tree like Rue did? That's ruled out as soon as I struggle to climb one. It's been twenty some years since I have climbed a tree and the talent is long since gone from my limbs. I very much doubt I would be able to sleep on branches anyway.
"How do those kids stand it?" my lips wonder aloud, marveling at the ability of some tributes to tolerate outdoor living. My body is annoyed instantly with itches and chills once I curl up among some bushes. I sense insects crawling all over me. Yet, there are none. It's terribly annoying and just as intolerable as my imaginative scenarios over what will happen now in District 11.
Maybe the coffee wore off. My skin finally quits tingling with crawling critters that don't exist and I rest my exhausted mind. Recap the long days, weeks, and months previous as I wrestled mentally with what to do. Oddly, I am a peace. Even with Penrose and Covas both still very much alive, there's at least a fulminating sense of completion. Tomorrow, the battling will be fierce and I can no doubt join the fight. I should be rested.
With that I enter a dream world, where Rue's eyes and Mason's smile join me and a thousand mockingjay-pinned fighters, in a march upon the remnants of the Main Office. I know it's just a dream. I didn't do that much damage to the building. It's a good dream, though. Penrose and Covas don't survive.