Chapter Twenty-One
Unmoved
Author's Note: Thank you to the ever-awesome bluespades, as well as bbymojo, for their reviews! The former raised an excellent question about what the tributes' families are given if their bodies are alive on another planet. My answer? Sealed, empty coffins. Hope that clears up the matter for any others wandering :^)
Logan
Another day, another piece of breaking news to continue reeling from upon waking up.
Dan returned in his wheelchair a while after Ash did, with an entirely unreadable expression. But he took no time in waiting to tell us about Thorn's sudden recovery, and her inability to speak.
When he said that, I was automatically taken back to the first day of training, in those initial moments after the head trainer had finished addressing us:
"Sorry, you were kinda just…staring into space."
Thorn's voice was clear, but pulled back, with a note of apology at the end of each sentence. Your own voice apologising for your existence, now there's a strange idea.
In any case, to think she currently has no voice whatsoever is a very sad thought indeed. And if that isn't bad enough, she's occupying the same private room as Cato, of all people. She must be so lonely, and terrified, and just generally confused.
I would worry a little more about her, but just after breakfast Dr. Petri waltzes onto the ward and grabs our attention. He may have been gone only one day, but it seems to have done him a world of good: he's clean-shaven, with brushed hair and eyes that are much more awake. In other words, like someone with eight hours under his belt.
"Dr. Petri, it's good to see you back," I say.
"Thank you, Tom. It's nice to be back. Listen, I have an announcement that affects all of you here."
Any quiet chatter dies down immediately - we've been so used to living this quiet clinic life, day in day out, that a sign of major development like this will have us listening right away.
"Now, in the last few days the other doctors and myself have been gathering some basic information, based on people's responses here, regarding your Hunger Games."
Responses here? What responses? I don't remember ever being asked anything…
"As a result, starting today, we'll be involving tributes in what we call Rehabilitative Therapy Sessions: group discussions and activities which, we hope, will help to improve the relations between each of you, in order that you might soon go out into society and be able to live fulfilling, emotionally healthy lives."
It's like he's memorised this off a card or something. "Group discussions"? "Emotionally healthy lives"? I'm getting the strong impression that very little good can come of this.
"Well, unless there are any questions you guys have, we'll get down to it right away. Marvel."
"Yes," he says from the bed without expression.
"Would you do the honour of going first?"
Go first for what? But Marvel seems to know exactly what he's talking about, because he sighs complainingly, throws back the covers, and heaves himself out of bed. Having no IV to drag around anymore, he only has to grab his white clinic robe and put on his slippers before heading for the doors.
"Alright then," he says, hands in pockets. "Let's get this over with."
"…That's the spirit," says Petri, rolling his eyes at me. "Logan, Rue, Dyon, if you would."
"Wait, what?" I say, not liking at all where this is going.
"We're supposed to follow him?" asks Rue, a quaver of anxiety in her voice.
"Just to another room, somewhere you four can speak in private. It's only a floor below this one."
The three of us look around at one another, exchange frowns, but eventually, bewildered, obey Petri and get out of bed. I can feel the eyes of all the other tributes on me, no doubt as confused as I am.
Petri leads us in the direction Marvel is walking, several strides ahead. As we move out into the hallway, I keep looking at Rue, Dyon and Petri, searching for some explanation as to why we've been selected so specifically, and what for.
And then, halfway down the stairs towards Seventeenth Floor, I figure out what Rue, Dyon and I have in common: we were all killed by Marvel.
…Oh no. They're going to sit us down in some tiny room and expect us to "talk it out" with him, aren't they? That is so not what I wanted to do this morning.
"This is the one, right?" asks Marvel, stopping at the second door on our right. "Room 4B?"
"That's right," replies Petri. "Go on in. It's unlocked."
Room 4B, Ward 841, Room 14…the system here never ceases to baffle me.
We're reluctantly shown in - it's nothing special. In fact, it looks like it belongs more in an office building than a clinic; there's a desk, a wall-length window, a stack of wooden chairs in the corner, a rug, and a rather sad looking potted plant.
"Alrighty then," says Petri. "You guys grab some chairs, set yourselves up, and I'll be back in about fifteen minutes. Okay? Okay. Marvel, over to you."
He closes the door without waiting for a response, presumably because he's expecting us to ask him what on earth we're supposed to do in here.
The three of us look at Marvel, who says nothing. All he does is slide a chair off the top of the stack and set it behind the desk. For lack of anything else to do, we copy him, placing our chairs in a semi circle around the desk.
For two very long minutes there follows an awkward silence. I look around the room and out of the window in continuous cycles; Rue sits on her hands and swings her short legs forwards and backwards; Dyon just sits with his hands in his lap, coughing once.
"So…" ventures Dyon. "Why are we here, again?"
Marvel rolls his eyes as if this is a chore he's been putting off for as long as possible.
"Okay look, the setup is that I've been "advised" to give a formal apology to you three because, well, I'm the one who killed you. So here it is."
He takes a breath and says, in an even drier voice than usual:
"You, Four, what was your name, Dyon? Yeah, I'm sorry for stabbing you in the bloodbath. Rue…"
She looks up from the floor with trepidation, evidently not wanting to draw attention to herself. I'm surprised to see Marvel's expression soften ever so slightly, and his tone subtly shift to something…approaching sincerity.
"I'm sorry you got caught in the net. And that my spear hit you. No hard feelings?"
She gives the tiniest shake of her head. I am suddenly furious that he would even think to ask her that. Then he turns to me, and the voice goes fully flat again.
"Logan. Sorry about the, y'know, drowning."
A pause. I stare at him.
"That's it?" I ask, seething. "That's all you've got to say? Oh wow, I mean…you Career types are all the same, I should have known. Well you know what? If you want an easy apology, you can forget it. What you did, not just to me, but to Rue and Dyon, was cold-blooded murder, and that's not something you can just shrug off."
Marvel gives an empty chuckle, and sits forward, his arms on the desk.
"Alright, fine, be like that all you want," he retorts. "But you know as well as the rest of us that, if it was the other way round, if it was my life on the line, you would have done exactly the same thing."
"You're wrong."
"No, I am not wrong!" He slams his hand on the table, making Rue and Dyon jump in their chairs. Marvel glares at me from across the desk.
"You don't know anything about being a Career. Not a thing. You think it's easy trying to live up to the expectations of your predecessors? You think it's easy to be second-in-command to people like Cato, who order you to kill someone on the spot so that you don't get done in yourself? Life's rulebook gets thrown out the window when you become one of us, and don't you forget it. It never gets easier."
He doesn't appear to have anything else to say, because he leans back into his chair and takes his arms off the desk. I keep my arms crossed, determined not to show even a flicker of change in my expression.
"Well," says Marvel, getting up from the chair. "The doc'll be back soon enough. What's say we wrap this up with a good old-fashioned handshake?"
Despite the unwilling looks Rue and Dyon throw to me, Marvel goes and offers his hand anyway. Dyon takes it reluctantly, resulting in a rather limp movement.
Rue seems at least a little more open to the idea of peacemaking and diplomacy, even if only as an abstract concept; Marvel's hand practically engulfs her own, but she keeps a steady grip and nods clearly to him.
My turn. I unfold my arms so that they hang by my sides, but when Marvel neutrally extends his hand, I don't move. I don't move because all I see when I look at his hand is water. Water and the fading sunset above it, and rocks, both jagged and smooth. My own breath in bubbled gasps. Those hands. They're what killed me.
"Oh come on," he says. "Or we'll be here until next year's tributes arrive."
My eyes move to his. I can actually feel the lack of warmth in mine.
Mechanically, heavily, my hand moves outwards, and Marvel gets it in a strong grip. We haven't been in such close proximity since he strangled me.
"I have nothing to say to you."
"Good," replies Marvel emotionlessly. Petri knocks on the door, and Rue goes to open it. "Neither do I."