AN: Long chap, as promised! I've been waiting to write this chapter for a long time. I feel like I say that with a lot of Lex's parts, aha. For HGRPers, do you guys remember Edgar, the example character from the "I Just Realized I Know Nothing About" topic? He's making his debut in this chapter! Okay, enough AN. Time to add to that cliffhanger I left you with seven chapters ago. Happy Easter!

Lex Larsons

My cell is dark and bitterly cold, and I don't know what month it is; I lost track of the date some time ago. But it must be warmer outside. It must be brighter, better than here.

My leg never healed quite right. There's always a twinge when I stand, when I walk. Luckily, it's easy to ignore. The pain from the rest of my body is always worse, anyway. The Peacekeepers—their uniforms are grey here, but they're no different—don't seem to come in on a schedule anymore. These days, they prefer to leave me in fear. Sometimes they give me just enough time for my wounds to heal, to feel almost safe, before they come to take me away again.

Mack is dead. Windstopper is dead. Both, dead, dead, because I didn't keep an eye on him, didn't make a grab for his coat. Let them get away and die. The others are probably gone, too. The whole district could be in flames, and I wouldn't know it. But I do have a friend here—in the Capitol, it's safe to assume—a friend that's impossible to lose because they're keeping him alive, too. For whatever twisted reason, they're keeping us both alive.

His name is Edgar, and his cell and mine are separated by an impossibly thin, impossibly strong sheet of translucent glass. He's been here a lot longer than I have; his chirpy accent tells me that the Capitol has always been his home. I can see him pacing around sometimes, a big dark blur against the divider. I can't pace anymore. It hurts my leg.

Sometimes he calls out to me. "Lex? Are you still there?"

I used to joke, shoot back quips like "Yeah, who are you again?" or "Nope, I'm new." These days, I usually just tell him "Yes."

"They're coming today." His deep voice echoes from the other side of the divider.

"How can you tell?" I ask.

"You know I can always tell."

I sigh, sitting back against the wall and drawing my knees to my chest. Edgar knows these things. He keeps track of the days.

"Who's it going to be today? Can you tell that?"

"That's not hard," he says grimly. "It's your turn."

Right. I make myself smaller, hugging my knees. It's my turn.

In the beginning, when they would come for me, I'd resist, curling into a ball on the floor. I'd make them drag me, threaten me. I'd swing at them until they shocked me into paralysis. Today I stand when they unlock my door, and neither guard needs to lay a hand on me. I go with them because I know I have no choice.

I catch a glimpse of Edgar as I pass his cell. Sometimes I forget what he looks like. He's very tall, and watches me with startlingly blue eyes, bright against his dark skin. His hair and beard—once the same color as his eyes, I remember—have turned a sickly greenish-yellow.

"Walk." The Peacekeeper nudges me on.

Two left turns, one right. Third door on the left. This is the location of the room with the table, where I am asked questions, and punished when I cannot answer them. I have no choice but to enter when they bring me here. The sooner I comply, the sooner I can go back to my cell and tend to my wounds.

"Alexander Athayde." This is no longer my legal name. But that doesn't seem to matter to her; that is how she addresses me. I have stopped correcting her.

"Yes." She tells me to sit, and I do. I wonder if I'll be able to hold it together today. I managed for weeks, before they broke me for the first time, the day they switched their methods from electric shocks to the impending threat of amputation. I gave up the location of our base in Otto's basement, moments before I would have lost my arm at the shoulder. Hoping to whatever power's out there that the rebels had changed up their location. I still don't know what the Capitol did with the information I gave them.

"Your time here is over."

I blink. "What?"

"Don't speak unless I tell you to," the Peacekeeper orders, and continues to read off her notes. "You have contributed valuable information to us during your time here."

"It's over?" Otto and Ramie could be dead because of me. They all could be.
"Don't. Speak." I can't see her expression behind her visor, but I shut my mouth. I know what they can do to me.

After checking her notes, the Peacekeeper starts again. "Since you've provided us with useful intel, the law compels us to be lenient in your punishment."

"Punishment?" I can't help but speak now. I feel the color draining from my face. "Th-the cell, the electricity, the lacerations, my own treachery. You're saying I haven't been punished enough already?" Her companion jabs me in the side, sending a fifty thousand volts of electricity rippling through my body. A strangled scream escapes my lips before I go silent, shuddering.

"Due to the nature of the punishment, I'm now permitting you to speak." The first Peacekeeper finishes reading, snapping her notes shut in front of her. "Think carefully about what you want to say."

I stare at her, clutching my side. A million different insults rush into my brain at once. But, just like on that stage in the square, I come up empty. There's nothing that I want to say.

After a long moment, I press three fingers to my lips and hold my hand out to her visor. It's the same gesture Mack made before he died; my turn now. Something heavy strikes the side of my skull, and my arm falls limp as the room with the table falls into darkness.

I wake up to the always startling notion that I'm not dead yet.

I don't know where I am, but I can hardly expect to be back in Eight after all of this. Everything appears fuzzy around the edges, and I hear nothing but a soft beeping noise behind my aching head. I'm in a bed with scratchy blankets. I appear to be in some kind of hospital.

My head pounding and my throat dry, I turn myself over with some effort. Beside me, on an identical bed, is Edgar, his head and beard shaved completely. He appears to be sleeping.

"421 is awake," says a voice. "Langston. Get him out of here."

Strong arms grip me by the shoulders, pulling me out of bed. My vision swims with spots; I can't walk, stumbling, leaning heavily on the man beside me. He's much bigger than me, nearly lifting me off my feet as he guides me roughly to the door.

I can't walk. I try to say, but I'm too woozy to talk. There's something in my mouth, it muffles my voice when I try to speak. Cotton. My mouth is stuffed with cotton. I start to gag on it. Get it out.

"He's choking!" calls the man, letting me slump to the ground, my hands flying to my mouth, picking out the pieces as I cough. It's hard to swallow. It hurts.

"Put that back in there, buddy," mutters the man, picking cotton pieces off the floor and attempting to shove them back in my mouth. "Don't want the stitches to dissolve just yet."

Stitches? I try to say with my mouth full. I can't taste the cotton, but the bulky pieces push against the back of my throat; I feel like I'm going to throw up.

"Stop trying to talk, damn it," says the man, hoisting me up again, this time by the waist. "You can't talk without a tongue."

I stop in my tracks, the fuzzy corners of my vision advancing. I can't taste the cotton in my mouth. I can't taste it.

"Just move!" You can't talk without a tongue.

My knees buckle beneath me, and I come crashing to the floor again.

Once I am able to stand, I'm brought to a kind of dormitory, a long room full of beds and people, the walls lined with chalkboards. Unlike any other dorm I've known, it is utterly silent. They're all new avoxes, like me. Training to become the silent servants of the Capitol.

I'll never see District Eight again.

I fall very ill during my first week as an avox, an infection attacking the healing incision in my mouth. Probably shouldn't have put those cotton balls back in after they'd fallen on the floor. I spend most of my days in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness. There are no quiet conversations to overhear, but many of the expressions I see over me convey one remarkably clear thought.

He's probably not going to make it.

They're wrong. Another avox takes pity on me, takes me under her wing for those first few days. Helps me eat, props me up for inspection, covers for my absence from our training sessions. Through it all, I'm too far gone to even thank her. I feel like I'm watching it all from behind the translucent divider in my cell. But, day by day, I come closer and closer to breaking through to the other side.

My eyelids flutter open one morning to a scrap of paper held in front of my eyes.

Alexander? Slowly, I nod my head, and the paper comes down. I recognize the girl who's been taking care of me. Weakly, I motion for her pen.

Lex. I scrawl out. It takes effort.

She studies my note, my writing, and nods, scribbling down an introduction of her own.

My name is Ara. I'm from Four. Her handwriting is large and loopy, each word like a coil of ribbons. It's hard to read it properly.

You took care of me. I write, looking at her. Thank you. Her hair is very short, like mine after they cut it. None of the other girls here have hair like this, nor eyes as blue as hers. I haven't seen Edgar since the hospital.

Ara is writing on the wall now with chalk, furiously, as if she's afraid someone will walk in. You're still weak. Sorry to do this to you. But I don't want them to take you away. You have to come with me today.

I nod again as this registers. She's right. I can't stay in bed forever, not like this. I'll have to face myself sooner or later. Sick as I was, I have to learn the ropes, or next time the Capitol may not be so "lenient" with my punishment.

Ara erases the chalk from the wall as I push myself into sitting position, my head pounding like a kettledrum. I have no choice. I have no choice. I have no choice. The girl from Four helps me stand, I try not to puke, and together we make our way down the deserted hall.

My terror reemerges when I realize I have no way of talking with her now, of saying anything. We have no tongues. We can't speak a word to each other. As my panic arises again, as I struggle to swallow, Ara finds other ways to communicate.

She stops me, touches my leg. You're limping.

I stop walking. Shake my head. It's okay.

She points to the door. That room.

I look back at her as I lay my hand on the doorknob. You coming?

She nods, encourages me. Right behind you.

I open the door to a classroom full of people. A faceless Peacekeeper stands before the group, reading from a thick book, his voice muffled by his visor. He glances up as we enter the room, but not one of the students turns in our direction. I look to Ara, who nods.

It's part of the lesson. I realize. Ara points to a seat. I take it. The Peacekeeper continues to talk to us, saying something about how to properly address our employers. I've never done well in classrooms, but this is already the most uncomfortable lesson of my life.

Ignoring Ara's warning glance, I scribble on the desk with her pen.

I don't want to do this.

Ara quietly takes the pen. He's teaching us important things.

HOW TO BE SLAVES. Ara snatches the pen away from me again and buries it in the pocket of her tunic. She spits on her sleeve and tries to rub our writing off of the desk. Her look says, very clearly: Don't say that.

"Miss Lansing." My new friend freezes at the sound of the only working voice in the room. "Come up here."

Ara's mouth falls open, the blood draining from her face. To my alarm, she starts to stand. Before she can take a step, though, I grab her arm, shaking my head. She's taken aback, tries to wrench it free. I hang on tight, using her to help me stand. I move past her in the row. For the first time, I start to feel some eyes on me as our "classmates" take notice.

The Peacekeeper looks almost amused when he sees me standing there.

"You're not Lansing. Who are you?" he asks, more to himself than to me. He reads through his roster.

"Hm. Alexander Athayde, is it?" His eyes narrow. "Well, come here, Mister Athayde."

At the sound of the name that is not mine, that hasn't ever been mine, I limp down the aisle toward him, a rage inside of me that was dulled by sickness, by pain, for so long that I barely recognize it as it emerges. I walk past him, and he makes no move to restrain me as I lunge for the chalk, observing me with an expression invisible from behind his visor.

I begin to write frantically, furiously. He has no gun, but he does have a stunner at his belt. I step back.

My name is Larsons, not Athayde.

"Are you suggesting my roster is incorrect, Mister Athayde?"

I'm suggesting that you're trying to call me by the wrong name on purpose to get under my skin.

"Why would we do that?" I pause, frozen. "What reason could we possibly have?"

I raise the chalk to write again, but the Peacekeeper whips out his stunner and shoves it into my side, shocking me badly. I yell, my legs giving out, and curl up on the floor, moaning.

The Peacekeeper's voice sounds far, far away. "This is an example of something you must never do. Do not correct your employers. Not about the job, not about the time of day, not even about your own name. Don't argue. You belong to them. They can call you whatever they want." After issuing this golden piece of advice, a swift kick to my skull sends me reeling back into darkness, falling forever.

The lessons get easier as the days go on. Don't make eye contact with your employer, don't write notes to your employer unless it's an emergency, don't cry in front of your employer, don't listen in on private conversations, don't gossip, don't answer the phone. We're all learning very simple material, though I suppose we're moving faster than the other class, new avoxes who never learned to read or write. How terrifying it must be for them; my only comfort in the past few weeks has been writing notes and messages to Ara.

After a certain point, some of us are deemed acceptable for transfer. I am a fast learner, and try to exhibit the traits of a prepared servant as quickly as I learn what they are, because that's the fastest way out. I know I'm in when my superiors learn that I know how to cook. Soon enough, I am in a car with two Peacekeepers, Ara, and an older man named Sam. We are the third group of transfers this week.

The Floures home is a city apartment, but by Eight standards, it may as well be a mansion. On our tour, I count five bedrooms and six bathrooms, and one gorgeous view of the Capitol through a long, glass window. It occurs to me that I might spend the rest of my days in this home, and suddenly, breaking through the window and falling to the street below seems much more appealing than staying where I am.

Ara touches my arm. I step back from the window, appalled at the ugliness of my thoughts, of the city before me. My brother probably had a view just like this from the top of the Remake Center. He probably felt just as trapped there, too.

We stand in a line in our new, spring-green uniforms, observed by the Floures patriarch. As he speaks to us, a very old basset hound waddles up to me and sits on my feet. I look at it, because I'm not allowed to look up.

"You're Ara, then," the man says in his Capitol accent, standing in front of my friend. "Unless you're Sam."

Ara shakes her head, eyes down. "Right. Good."

He steps in front of Sam. "Alexander."

Sam shakes his head, and the man falters. "Sam, then. Which means…" His shiny purple shoes stop in front of me, narrowly missing the tail of his dog. "You must be Alexander."

Every sensible cell in my body screams JUST NOD YOUR HEAD. But I guess I'm just not sensible enough. I look up, meeting his eyes, and almost grimace. They're all green; he has no pupils. I hope he can still see me shaking my head.

Clearly unaccustomed to his avoxes making eye contact with him, Floures's smile vanishes.

"But, you must be," he says, confused. "On the paper, it says…"

I shake my head again. Against my—and Ara's—better judgment, I take out my emergency pad and pen. I cannot let this happen again.

Call me Lex. I write, holding it out to him. Feeling a sudden pang of regret, I lower my eyes again. His shoes do not reassure me that I won't be struck after this.

"Hm." he says, and after a pause. "Very well. Lex it is."

You could have gotten into serious trouble, writes Ara that night.

I took a leap of faith. I respond. I had to.

She shakes her head. Why is it so important to you? He pronounced my name AIR-a, when it's AR-a and I didn't say anything. Alexander, Lex. What does it matter what he calls you?

No one calls me Alexander. I write. No one's ever called me that, not since I was a kid.

So it's just personal preference? Ara frowns. Not a great reason to take a risk like that, honestly. We're servants now. We're not supposed to have any personal preference.

I shake my head and take the pen. Alexander Athayde was my father's name. It was mine, too, back then. But I changed it. And he's dead. So now it's nobody's name, and I'm certainly not going to answer to it while I'm here.

You make it sound like you're not planning on sticking around.

I almost smile. So what if I'm not?

Ara doesn't return my grin. If you are, don't tell me, she writes. I don't want to know.

The Floures family has two daughters. One of them, the older girl, Ashya, is never around. If I had to guess, I'd say she was around my age, and what girls my age do for fun in the Capitol is a mystery to me. The other, Quintica, is younger, about ten or eleven years old, sporting bright pink hair and an attitude problem. Unlike her sister, the little brat is usually home, and almost always with her young Capitol friends.

One of these friends, I recognize as something of a celebrity; the little daughter of former Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane. I've seen her on TV, although the faded teal hair and the understated clothing choices certainly distance this girl from the colorfully dressed young Capitolite onscreen.

The two girls often have the apartment to themselves, if you don't count Sam and I. Ara serves as the personal assistant of Mrs. Floures, and is often out running errands for her. If I wasn't stuck on kitchen duty, I'd jump at the chance to escape that way. But Ara, either very responsible or very scared, always comes back.

Today I'm pissed because the little kids are screwing up my clean area, mixing sodas and juices together on the counter and in the sink, pretending the kitchen is an upscale bar or something stupid. Ara has informed me that I am not allowed to look angry with them. It's by far been my most difficult trial yet, and I've been tortured.

"Do you think he's a Capitolite?" asks the Crane girl as the conversation shifts to Quintica's family's new avoxes.

"He's got weird eyes, so maybe." I'm staring downwards as I was taught, but I can feel them looking at me. "But I've never seen him before."

"What do you think he did?" says Crane quietly.

"I dunno, Claudia." Quintica shrugs. "Maybe he killed someone!"

"Quint! He can hear you!" whispers Claudia. "And besides, I don't think they'd let him work in your house if he was a murderer." Seeing red, I try to distance myself from the conversation by turning on the sink and starting to wash out their glasses.

You are a murderer. I tell myself. You killed Otto and Ramie.

"You know where a lot of people are dying, Claude?" asks Quintica. "Eight. My dad says the rebels are trying to kill everyone."

"Oh, no."

Crash! A glass has slipped from my hand, shattering on the floor. Quintica shrieks.

"It's okay, Quint!" Claudia tries to calm her friend. "Just a glass. He'll clean it up." I kneel down to pick up the larger pieces, almost relieved for the chance to scowl without anyone seeing me.

You are a murderer. You are a murderer. You are a murderer.

Next Chapter: The chaos finally reaches One.