Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter for Bombs and Bullets, Chapter #19: A Mirage of Closeness, another update stop for the Capitol storyline, which is drawing ever so tighter, and I assure you, more will be on the rise. We're nearing the apex when the Games will take place and where our tributes will be fighting for their lives, and maybe even our Capitol cast on a different front. Last chapter, #18, was the revealing of the training scores and a whole lot of drama, which of course needs to be my subtext. Hope you enjoy Chapter #19: A Mirage of Closeness.
And before, I switch over, I just wanted to say thank you to all my readers, submitters, reviewers, and anyone who does so silently; Sheep Led to Slaughter, the prequel to this, won Best Story of 2019 and also received the award for Best Subplot, as the Capitol storyline had been, even though it is a whole other beast of its own than just a 'subplot', but I digress. Pollux even took it away with Best Interviewer, and Lewlyn had won Best Head Gamemaker! I hope Bombs and Bullets gets nominated in the 2020 awards, but who knows! I am so happy to be an SYOT writer; please enjoy the chapter!
~ And so sayeth the Lord, my waters will heal you, or they will hurt you, depending on which fountain you take a drink from.
Hale Cornerstone: Victor of the 87th Hunger Games P.O.V
Wounds. A bounty of wounds, all lining the arms and neck, the smokiness of his calves, the darkness that lines his cheeks, and mixing in that darkness, the crimson that is created from those wounds. Hale runs her hands over them as he winces, she biting down on her tongue, batting the tears away while her fingers are unsure of where to land in the dimness of her cell. The fetters are off of her ankles, and she's able to roam about however she pleases in the ten by ten foot space of her room, but nothing else. She runs a few fingers through Hector Merviere's unkempt hair, his face dark and caked with blood, Lazarus's latest beating having taken its toll, happening only a few moments ago before he had been thrown in Hale's cell, she cut free, and Lazarus slamming the jail cell closed in front of her very eyes, she unable to move or speak out of shock given that her brother in law has collapsed onto her floor. There's something scrunched up in the Head Peacekeeper's hand that Hale gets a minor glimpse of, but nothing more before the cell is slammed shut, it seeming like a paper flier.
She brings her attention back to Hector, a fellow victor, and someone she's known for fourteen years now, and to see him the way he is right now... it clogs her throat, all she being able to make is slight gasps. Hector falls back weakly against the cell wall, groaning lightly, he unable to lift his hands up to his head to wipe away some of the blood trickling down out of a head wound. Hale scoots herself closer to him, looking over at her fellow victor in shock, unsure what to do. There is nothing she can do, as her calls and cries are always unheard, no one ever comes running to them to help them after Lazarus does his nightly beatings. Hale flinches every time she hears his baton scrap against the bars on the doors, which hang near the bottom to hint that he is close. However, ever since his visit the first day during training, when she sees something take hold of him and then seemingly let go, he has yet to return, but she is not exactly praying on his return either.
"It... it was..." Hector tries saying, coughing, and Hale recoils with a gasp as a spot of blood appears on his hands, before falling back weakly once more, and it is as if the punches given sucked all of the life energy out of him. "I've never seen him so angry. He wouldn't stop shouting at me..." the victor shudders, wanting to curl up inwards on himself, but he doesn't.
"I heard the noise," Hale shakes her head, frowning, "But I couldn't make out a word he was saying..."
Hector sits up, but at a slow pace, groaning, holding a hand over his stomach. "Something about him wanting to know if I was contact with a group called The Phoenixes," he closes his eyes shut, exhaling heavily. "I had no idea what he was talking about, but saying I didn't know who or what it was only made him angrier..." Hale can physically feel him vibrating next to her, trembling under the duress, and there's an absolute look of terror on his face. He holds his head in his hands, still dripping out copper which has started to run into the grout between the tiles. "How do you people survive this, Hale? We've been in Bonnie's clutches for a week and a half and we're dying!"
She rubs a hand alongside his back, whispering soothing sweet nothings into his back, but she listens to his words, frowning. The Phoenix? Where has she heard that before? Who told her that? Someone had to tell her that directly, as there is no overhearing anything through the door, and besides Hector's screams and Lazarus's yelling fits while abusing said cellmate, there isn't anything else being passed between the rooms. Hale mutters the word to herself once, but then sinks back up against the wall alongside Hector. He inhales deeply, shaking slightly, she wrapping an arm around him. "We'll get through this, Hector."
"Will we?" he asks, his voice breaking like water on a rock.
Hale looks over at him, stunned for a second. He looks so much like Arizona, whenever she stares at him, and obviously, yes, she knows, given the fact that they're brothers - were, her mind once more corrects, you're always forgetting that he's dead - and that Hector is older than her now late husband, it still strikes her hard. The way Hector's nose upturns, or how the dark shadows of the room, along with the fading blood against the side of his face, and those dark eyes, eyes that Hale can lose herself in forever, except she can't, since he's not- it's hopeless, and Hale looks away in shame, squeezing her eyes shut. Being trapped in a slate prison, a ten by ten for however long she'll be in here, all she has is her thoughts. These thoughts take turns of their own beating her upside the head, but she is confused as to why that is happening for she is the one thinking them up as this happens.
Hector and Arizona were different in more ways than one, Hale's learned, this thought passing by her again as she looks at him. Hector is more reserved, less likely to speak out of turn, less likely to cause a fight or get in trouble, hiding his sorrows in a barrel of brandy, scowling at other victors who are much less unsavory on the outside than he is, but that glare of his always seems to settle on Arizona, no matter who else the company. Hale fidgets with the end of her skirt, it being caked in dirt and dust and blood, but it might be hers or Hector's at this point, she isn't so sure. She's wanted to ask Lazarus, who she can't see fully with his face hidden behind that mask, like the coward he is, about why the two of them are being as beaten up as they are. Hale has been down here long enough, getting told so many times how villainous and awful that she is that she's starting to believe it herself. Maybe she did kill Calhoun. Maybe she's the reason her husband is gone... maybe-
You stupid girl! The voice in her head is screaming this at her, she jumping out of her skin, terrified, jolting in place some, Hector looking over at her, but his energy has been sapped away into the butt end of Lazarus's baton that cracks over his skull. She rubs at her face, but there isn't a sink to splash her face with water in the room, so her hands have to suffice. Hale looks at Hector again, frowning. Arizona had been a boisterous man, one where the rules had no limits - they got married against the physical law of the land, after all, what were they expecting? A dormouse? - in his head, and that he had been willing to go to the ends of the Earth for his family, to the point where his ends of the Earth came to a stop as a train going a hundred miles an hour barreled into him, turning him into paste.
"I think we will," Hale responds, her voice crack not going unnoticed, and when he looks over at her, there are tears in his eyes. She's never seen Hector cry, not once. She remembers watching his Games back over when she had just recently become a victor, the way he pushes the fighting kid from Four off of the cliff in his finale to become a victor, but when the kid survived the fall, Hector drives the blunt end of a spear into his back, right between the shoulder blades. Hale has to turn away from the screen when that happens; her district partner had died like that, in that exact manner, some sort of blunt object severing his spinal cord in a few places, he left like a vegetable on the ground before having an arrow to the skull knock him dead, and she watches from the bushes, paralyzed in her own fear.
Paralyzed in her own fear. She should've fought back when Bonnie tells the Peacekeepers to throw her husband in front of the train; she should've fought back against Kevia in the Mentor Center and have slit her throat then and there... her paralysis has left her like this, trapped in a Capitol prison for a guard with some sort of beating fetish and power complex getting off on hitting poor, defenseless souls who cannot protect themselves from the menace above; it's all her fault. Hale clenches her teeth together in a sneer.
"Winning the Games was easier than this," Hector sighs, slumping even further onto the floor.
Hale looks over at him, that frown still placated on her mouth. A twinge of remembrance flows through her, an actual warm feeling that is not Lazarus's body heat exuding on top of her from his excitement in the beatings, or the hot, muggy air of the Tribute Parade, but one of nostalgia, happiness. That's it. Happiness. The frown turns into a smile, she scooting closer to Hector. "Arizona said the same thing about us having kids," she says fondly.
Hector locks eyes with her, there being the small quip of a smile, a very faint one, and she's not sure the last time she's seen him smile. "I can totally picture him saying that. Elias and Arianne are a handful..."
"I miss them..." Hale whispers, staring off into the distance. She can see Arianne's smile perfectly, having her father's darker skin, a laugh that can cure any sort of sickened animal, and tall legs, she on the track to look like some sort of track star. Then there's Elias, with ripe blonde hair, despite she nor Arizona having blonde hair, and a joyous energy that knows no bounds. "I miss them so much," she scoffs lightly, but again, it isn't one full of viciousness or sadness, a happier one. "The first time Arizona realized he was a father was when Elias had found a dandelion in the field right behind that lake, and Arianne was teaching me something she learned in school. Elias blew the dandelion in Ari's face, and then Arianne couldn't fully do the yoga stand she was trying to teach me and he caught her in his arms," she smiles to herself, holding her arms tight to her chest. "Elias and Arianne were both laughing, smiling, and they called him the best father in the world."
"And you weren't considered the best mother?" Hector asks, aghast, and it would be a kind moment without the droplets of blood still trickling down his face, although it seemed the bleeding had stopped. Hale knew that wiping away the mess wouldn't do anything, her sleeves already coated in filth, and he riddling in filthiness is not exactly how she wants her brother-in-law to be living. "That's awful!"
Hale laughs, but it is a quick, short one, as if it is forbidden to express any sort of joy. "Arizona looked at both of them and told them how much he loved being their father," the warmth erupts into a volcanic eruption. "And then we kissed, which of course grossed them out."
Hector smiles too, but he doesn't say anything right away. There's a pause between the two of them, they synchronized in their breathing, matching likewise with one another, and Hale reaches out to grab his hand. He may not be her husband, but he is the closest of kin she has, and they're in this together, stuck in the long haul between the torture and the brutality of the Capitol that if she were to let go him, she'd be lost. Hector wipes at his forehead, smearing the blood coming out of the wound just above his right ear. "Where do you think Elias and Arianne are now? I know that they were on the train platform and, well..." his voice hangs in the air, for what occupies the air after that is the sound of impact, and all the screaming, and in the midst of it all, Bonnie laughing to herself, laughing as she rips a family apart.
She thinks back to Kevia's visit, just two days ago, and all of the information that is brought to her, where she believes the District One victor is visiting out of spite and not for a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. "Kevia came by two days ago, and she wanted to let me know that Elias and Arianne were in the mansion with Bonnie, apparently being tutored and being told lies about where Ari and I were," Hale pauses, as tears begin to prickle at the corners of her eyes, she sitting up even further. "Kevia then told me that someone named the Phoe..." she stops talking, her words trailing off into oblivion, and Hale sits forward off of the wall as if she had been stabbed in between the shoulder blades, looking over at Hector with wide eyes.
He looks back at her in alarm, raising an eyebrow. "What, Hale?"
"What was it that Lazarus had been shouting at you about?"
Hector sits up likewise, the energy flowing between them, underneath the creaking of the rusty swinging light, the golden beam passing over their faces every few seconds, highlighting the sparkle in her eyes. "He wanted to know my involvement with something or someone called The Phoenix..."
Hale grins to herself, heart hammering in her chest. "Kevia told me that Rennie was going by that name, Lewlyn's Avox brother, in a campaign to get Bonnie out of office and to clear our names..." she scoots over to Hector, taking his hands in hers, and they're both sharing the body heat, the energy of the room, electricity crackling between them, sparks igniting.
His eyes widen likewise, and a look of hope spreads across his face, a vast comparison to the sulking, the dourness, the sourness that ebbs in and out like a cycle of blood to the heart. "If Lazarus is wondering about our involvement with a group we don't know about, but they think we do-"
"Then that means they actually exist," she finishes for him, a grin spreading across her face. "That means there's a chance. A chance for freedom."
Lazarus Pietro: Head Peacekeeper P.O.V
Ever since he had been a little boy - well, actually around eleven or twelve, so perhaps not so little - his eyes are flooded with the image of royalty, of happiness, jewels and wealth beyond count and imagination pouring into his hands, and he outpouring that same love into the nobility ruling before he and the rest of the onlookers. That meant kissing the feet of those who walked by with higher power, desiring for what they had, for what they could achieve with the measly talents handed to them by some sort of deity above, and Lazarus's eyes have never taken themselves off of the prize. In his middle teenage years, when Calhoun ascended to the presidency after an election that is extremely one-sided in his favor, due to the gorgeous looks and affable personality, and having a beautiful wife to bolster the ratings no doubt, Lazarus's heart is snagged immediately.
He is not so sure if he had been in love with Calhoun or the idea of Calhoun, that the Rodney presidency had been the standard image of opulence and manners and exquisite taste, the desirable symbol for nobility and royalty that Lazarus spots at eleven years old when Coriolanus Snow addresses an onlooking crowd, decorated in velvet and jewels, as the District 12 victors Katniss and Peeta were having their victory tour stop in the Capitol. From that moment forward, locking eyes with Calhoun, Lazarus back in his house, the newly elected president on the balcony overlooking the avenue where the Tribute Parade takes place, it is decided that he'll do whatever it takes to get there, to get that man and his lips and to be him, to be with him, perhaps to the point of obsession, but Lazarus knows he doesn't have an obsession with the Rodney family. Obsessions are unhealthy, and he is in perfectly good condition.
Lazarus makes his way over to the presidential mansion, which is only just under a quarter mile away from the underground prison cells, the baton he used to beat Hector Merviere with still attached to his belt, dripping blood onto the concrete as he walks, he looking down at the splatters with disgust. Traitorous blood, even when locked away a mile beneath the surface, still finds a way to taint the land ever so, as if the scoundrels possess magical abilities. He'll keep the baton on him when he storms into Bonnie's office so she is not diseased with the vileness of a district citizen.
But aren't you from District Two?
He ignores that thought, just like he ignores the burning in his stomach that used to tell him the way he viewed President Calhoun as an inhumane concept, a disgusting ideal not to be held up on a pedestal, but that had been the way he's raised, the way District Two operates in certain parts, and he sees plenty of it when pushing forward into the Peacekeeper Academy, doing so well on his marks and his physicality exams - granted, he had been pushing for a goal of getting to see Calhoun firsthand, to hold the man's hand, to gently press him down onto a mattress - that he is sent straight to the Capitol Peacekeeper Academy at sixteen, exempted from being drawn in a reaping bowl with three years left to be had, and it is the most joyous moment of his life. There's been other people in his life, women with names he's long forgotten, that have tried before, but he had his mind solely focused on the commander in chief, and at him only, no one else being suitable for the job. The suitability is all that matters, it motivating every action he makes.
The Head Peacekeeper enters through the mansion side entrance, paging one of the secretaries on Bonnie's whereabouts, and instead of being directed to the left like normal, which would be the direction of her office, he is sent to the right. He's never been on this side of the mansion, this being the full living quarters, like the nursery, the movie theater, the kitchen, and the Rodney bedroom. Lazarus's heart beats in his chest like a hammer striking an anvil as he steps over the threshold, led by an Avox who, as always, wordlessly leads him on. He's seen the oak floors several times in other rooms of the house, but since only Bonnie, and now the late Calhoun, usually walks this side of the mansion, the floors are left untouched, in ripe condition, gleaming in the fresh sun. Lazarus tries not to think of the darkness clenched in his hands, something that the bitch from Two sees when he throws Hector into her cell, only because he had been tired of having both of them on separate occasions constantly prattling him to see one another.
The Avox leads Lazarus past the bedroom and off into a hallway, a crook kept out of the way, and when he fully rounds the corner, he opens his mouth to speak, expecting a closet of some kind, but instead it dies in his throat with a frog croak. "Madam President, I-" and he chokes on his saliva while the Avox seems to flee for their life.
Bonnie looks over at him from her position in the tub, she submerged underneath the water, a liquidous gold color - a pang runs through Lazarus, as that had been the color of the water when he found the old Head Gamemaker, Lewlyn Davis, dead, throat slit open like wrapping paper for a Christmas gift - that floated up to and covered her breasts, arms milling through the foam that has begun to pile up in the center. The bathroom is divine, and Lazarus is melting in all of the beauty he's surrounded in, from the granite countertops holding platinum sinks, and the way the tub seems to shine like stained glass, amaranthine light spilling onto the tile floor, lighting up Lazarus's normally dark boots with a more suave, violet shadow. Bonnie lifts her eyebrows up, and then slowly lowers them, more than likely not expecting to be interrupted in a moment of privacy, despite the door being wide open.
"Hello, Mr. Pietro," she greets him, as if this is nothing out of the ordinary at all, but Lazarus frowns. She's called him by his formal title, and not his first name. He's unsure why there is a discrepancy, as sometimes he's greeted as Lazarus, normally on a phone call, but then there are times when a brusqueness is applied to their meetings, an iciness that is totally undeserved, as all Lazarus has done is serve her and Calhoun faithfully against anyone who'd wish to destroy such a beautiful family. "Can I help you with something?"
"Something of urgency has come to my attention and-"
"It surely can't wait?" Bonnie interrupts him, as if she hadn't just asked him a question, he biting down on his tongue in the manner of pausing. "As you can see, I'm indisposed."
He shakes his head back and forth, a lump building in his throat. "No, Bonnie," he sees that the usage of her first name does not go unnoticed, the way she lifts her arms out of the bubbles and setting them on the sides of the tub, muscles taut and tense, her eyes a sharp jade, mouth kept at slight. "It can't wait," and he unclenches his fist that had been holding onto the crumpled piece of paper he had been holding. He is doing surveillance of the Economic Capitol district, where the lowest of the lowly Capitol citizens live, still surrounded in grandeur, often times the location of homes for Peacekeepers not from the Capitol, when he is alerted to a traitor, another Peacekeeper comrade from District Two that he knows, just a few doors down from his physical location. When he arrives, the thing in his hand floats out, into his grasp, and he has to shoot the Peacekeeper straight between the eyes with his gun to make sure it is serious.
Bonnie's gaze locks to his hand, she swallowing heavily. "What... what is that?"
Lazarus hands it over to her, and then takes a few steps back from the bathtub just in case she decides to unleash some of her rage, and he's seen a few instances of it in the last couple of weeks, it not being a pleasant experience. "It had been in the hands of a fellow Peacekeeper, and there are apparently others as well." The president looks over it, surveying the rather tiny piece of paper, but it doesn't take long before she gasps, and it falls out of her hands, into the tub, soaking up the water. She looks back at him, mouth agape, eyes wide and in fright, he nodding his head. "I know. Apparently there are five other variations out there, among Capitol citizens, and maybe even in the districts."
He has never seen her look so unnerved as she does now. What is floating face down in the pool is an ad, as it is what falls into Lazarus's hand via the wind, of the Master of Ceremonies face, Pollux Aetos dead set and center on a fiery background, the portrait set around a golden circle emblazoned with the words The Phoenix Rises. Join the rebellion; take down Bonnie Rodney! He has no idea how many are there, but once Lazarus reads it, he storms into the fellow Peacekeeper's house, he already forced down to his knees, handcuffed behind his back, helmet removed, punched across the face with a bruise settling there nicely, and he grabs the guy by the lapel of his undershirt, forcing him back to his feet.
"What is this? Where did you get this?" Lazarus roars in the man's face.
He is winced at, for the outburst, but the guy doesn't answer him. Lazarus drops the converted traitor back onto his knees, pulls out his gun, and without hesitation, shoots him straight in the head, the ricochet of the bullet echoing in his heart, and he watches until the last of the vermillion has spilled out of the wound. It is automatic, then, when he goes marching towards the underground prison, for surely this is some conjurer trick, that scoundrel Hector Merviere must've done something, had an ally in the shadows that he couldn't see... there's no way! There's no way!
"How many do you think there are?" Bonnie asks, after a moment. "How do you think the person you found this on got it?"
"He didn't say, Madam President. And to how many there are, who knows."
She locks her jaw, and then without preamble, Bonnie gets out of the tub, water sloshing out onto the floor and on Lazarus's boots. His eyes widen, looking away as quick as he can when she rights herself in the water, catching just a slight glimpse of her naked body, a feeling of revulsion rising in his throat, but it would be entirely uncouth and unprofessional for him to have bile appear all over the tiled floor. There are so many words he can use to describe how inappropriate Bonnie's actions had just been, but he prefers to be alive for the time being. The president steps fully out of the tub, completely naked, still covered in suds, reaching for the towel hanging just a few inches off the rack, wrapping it around back up to cover herself again. Lazarus breaths a sigh of relief, for that means the torture is over.
"Join the rebellion..." Bonnie exhales, her voice barely rising above a whisper, she looking off into the distance with a thousand yard stare. She shakes her head, biting on her lip. "I had wanted to believe it not true..."
"You know what this means, don't you?"
She looks at him, frowning. "I don't know..." the president shakes her head. "I don't know," and then she pauses, eyebrows lifting up once more as a look of realization passes her face, but this time a darkness highlights itself in her eyes, once that does not go unnoticed for Lazarus. "It means one of three things, Lazarus," Of course, now they're back to the first name basis; of course they are! "Someone could be trying to make it seem like there's a rebellion when there actually isn't one, Rennie is actually leading a rebellion and framing Pollux in it, or Pollux has actually joined a rebellion against me," she sinks up against the counter while she watches the tub drain. "I don't know which sounds worse..."
Lazarus shifts uneasily in his spot, biting on his lip. He hasn't heard her actually say his name, the Avox shall not be named, in quite some time, but perhaps drastic times call for drastic measures; he's not too sure. "There's more, Bonnie."
The look of hesitancy in her eyes is replaced with fear, and the temperature of the bathroom drops another five or so degrees, he feeling the prickliness underneath the uniform. "More, Lazarus? What do you mean, more?"
"More fliers... more ads..." He wishes it wasn't true, Lazarus wishes it with every fiber of his being, to having the Rodney administration be kept from harm, but he is only one man, he is only one guy and he is not about to jeopardize his future all because of one person, some upstart without a tongue crying for freedom on the battlements, for his voice will never be heard. Bonnie turns away from Lazarus, walking over to the towel rack, there being one for her feet that she grabs at. "I've been told, and I'm not sure if this is just mere speculation or truth that some of the faces on them are of several victors..." she doesn't say anything, she simply nodding at him so he could continue. Lazarus's mouth is as dry as a desert when he swallows. "Reports say there is also Criston Pellock of District 6, Lance Viel of District 1, Hector Merviere of District 10, Hale Cornerstone of District 2, Kevia Janelle of District 1," he notices that Bonnie freezes in her motions of drying off of her feet. Lazarus swallows again, for it is the next name that'll have her rip the towel rack off of the wall and chuck it at him. "And lastly Valencia Shale, also of District 1..."
Bonnie turns around to look at him, and he is taken aback at the fact that there are tears, tears in her eyes. He's never even seen her cry. "No..." she whispers, fingers digging into the cloth of towel. "No, that's- that's impossible," and she shakes her head back and forth. "Valencia would never, she- she's too much like me, I'm a-" and Bonnie rests her head on the bathroom counter, pounding it with a fist. "There's no fucking way!"
He takes another step back out of the zone of rage, as Bonnie pounds the sink with her fists a few more times, lifting her head, cheeks burning red. "We need to respond immediately, Madam President, whether it is a ruse or not," he crosses his arms over the other, righting his posture. "I suggest rounding those on the fliers up and torturing them until we get an answer."
"No!" she shouts, rather unexpectedly, Lazarus bristling some in his place, and the president wrenches her gaze over at him. "I won't get the answers I need if I simply kill them all..." she taps her fingers on the counter up near the sink. "I need to draw them all out in the open, simply, plainly, and then I'll strike, and I'll need collateral..." at this point, Bonnie is practically speaking to herself, but he can hear her over the din of the bathroom fan.
"It's the Interviews tonight. Should we interrupt them and not-"
He does not get much farther into the question before Bonnie shoots him a withering glare. "Lazarus, I cannot just delay the Hunger Games because of some Capitol upstarts and entitled brats..." she rubs her exposed arm, rubbing it so hard he's afraid she'll take the skin off in one quick swipe. "We'll do it after the Interviews, around one in the morning, okay? I want you and Constantine by my side, and if anything funny happens, we'll flip the switch."
A chill runs through Lazarus's body, but he only nods in recognition of what she said. Orders are orders after all, and he is a good soldier in the eyes of the Capitol, following all the orders given to him. "Yes, Madam President, I agree," and then in his head, "Of course you agree, you coward!"
Bonnie tightens the towel around her waist more, turning to face the bathtub, and she stands still, on the bathmat for a moment, one finger pressed up against her chin, as if she is pondering something. "You know, Lazarus, I was the one who found Lewlyn Davis dead," and he nods at the statement, as she's the one who sends him the panicked phone call, she out of breath and terrified, covered in the woman's blood. "I'm the one who found her dead, in her own bathtub, throat slit wide open..." and Bonnie gestures to her own bathroom appliance. "She thought she was safe in her own home before those victors murdered her in cold blood..." Bonnie's hands curl into fists. "If Arizona and Hale murdered Lewlyn purely out of their marriage being discovered, what do you think I'll do to the people who wish to tear down this nation and those who built in?"
He shrugs his shoulders, as he knows what answer he'll get, but he simply wants to hear it. He wants to hear it all. "What will you do, Madam President?"
She lifts her head up some, eyes shimmering with lust and power. "Anything and everything, Mr. Pietro, anything and everything."
Although Lazarus knows that he is not attracted to Bonnie in the way she probably thinks he is, he would be calling himself a liar if he did not believe or feel the very strength ebb off of her, the way it does as she says this, his heart beating loudly in his chest once more, and the idea of the Phoenix, that stupid bird, being snuffed out for good.
It is the greatest feeling in the world.
Rennie Davis: The Phoenix P.O.V
There are simply certain things in the world that are out of his control, a realization that Rennie Davis has had a hard time coming to terms with. He is currently staring at one in the face, as Pollux Aetos slams a piece of paper down onto the table separating them, a look of worry on his face. "We lost another two supporters today, Rennie," and the Interviewer pushes the piece of paper closer to him, he taking it up off of the wooden surface. The face of two murdered Peacekeepers look back at him, but he simply places the paper aside, keeping his expression as poker faced as possible. Pollux gasps lightly in surprise at the reaction, his look of shock turning into anger as he frowns viciously. "Rennie! Nothing? You feel nothing? They just died supporting you and we're hiding underground and-"
He puts a hand up, silencing the Master of Ceremonies, and then signs with his other hand. "Of course I care, Pollux. I am upset that they're dead, but I cannot let it get to me," and Pollux's lips soften up some into a more lax expression. The two of them are down underground, in the same vein as the underground prison, on the entire opposite side of the city, directly underneath the economic district, a place Rennie now knows quite well. He has been down here for the last week, in a supply room eating dry, stale peanuts amid a sea of foam and plastic, drinking expired bottles of water that have long since lost their cold touch, and he's sure he has contracted cholera from the sleeping bag he's in, but it is this section of the underground that he has turned into his domain, into his realm.
Pollux has not been his only visitor, the other victors he has managed to sway onto his side, some much easier than others, also dropping by for a visit. The spot had originally been a Peacekeeper station during the Dark Days, kept out of sight in case a nuclear strike from District Thirteen had left everything up on the surface reduced to nothing but radioactive rubble, and although a good bit of the machinery is outdated, it still works, but he has yet to dare keep it on for more than a few moments at a time, for it'll surely warn the above ground Peacekeepers stations of its existence, for everyone has written it off as being a useless sector of junk. He's been down in the shadows, waiting out the storm, while Bonnie and her band of blizzard goons heralded by that idiot Lazarus Pietro storm the city gates, wrenching people from their homes, interrogating them on the Avox's disappearance, but of course no one knows where he is; he's been an enigma this entire time, an enigma his whole life.
"How many people need to die before we act, Rennie?" Pollux asks.
Rennie blanches at the question, frowning to himself. He's not sure if he has an answer to that. It hadn't been his initial intention on anyone except his oppressors, or rather Panem's oppressors being those harmed. However, as he had heard from someone else before him, losses were inevitable. It is Pollux's idea after all to create the pamphlets and give them to the ones browbeaten by the Capitol bullies, yet he looks at the aftermath of his decisions dead in the face, and the lump in his throat returns. There are another seven types of pamphlets currently circulating the Capitol space, and it had been only a matter of time before someone would find them, but it looks like Head Peacekeeper Lazarus has gotten to it instead, and Rennie knows for sure where the man, who wants to be such a little obedient dog went running straight to, to receive that pat on the head and the sweet little kiss... it makes him want to throw up.
"Rennie?" Pollux presses the question again, leaning forward some over the circular table, it being a three-layered piece of machinery showing the three levels of the Capitol, the aboveground, the Peacekeeper network, and the sewers, and there is no way he is going to walking beneath the sewers. He absentmindedly traces a finger down one of the pathways that leads out to the ocean, a mile long tunnel covered in moss and other sorts of overgrown plants, a spacious, verdant green jungle that reaches the peak of civilization to the sea, and if anything is go extremely south, that is his escape route. Also in the abandoned station where Rennie has decided to set up camp is a fully armored barracks, forgotten to the wind, but fully armed and loaded... he has much more at his disposal than he thinks.
He signs back his answer to Pollux's question. "You have to ask yourself how much sacrifice is too little too late..."
The Interviewer takes a step back, gasping to himself, a hand going to his throat. "Rennie..." Pollux says breathlessly, a look of horror replacing the inquisitiveness in his eyes. Rennie doesn't know what the big deal is, especially since Pollux has been interviewing, and has to interview tonight, sets of tributes being shipped off to die, for a hundred and one years this has happened, yet all the man can think about is what the collateral will be elsewhere... that is not his concern, nor his focus. His focus is on the vampire sitting in the window, eyes wide, mouth gaping open, fangs prepped to slice an unsuspecting victim in the throat, and he has his harpoon ready, prepared to fire. Rennie wants to watch the Capitol burn, to see the platinum painted city crash into a billion pieces, left behind as ruins and ashes for the districts to dance in. He had once been in love with the city, with the crowds wishing to hear the famous Davis violinist play for sold out crowds and auditoriums.
This is not the same city any longer, the city that did not mourn him when his sister rips him out of bed at night, pincers in hand, the blade that sliced his tongue away from the rest of his body. This is not the same city that tried fighting for his freedom, as no one showed up to protest in his occupation, it had been a TV reel for maybe a night or two, but then the world had moved on to lilac curtains and fabrics smelling of iodine and pearls... unless the problem had been staring at them directly in the face, they were not going to move, and he was going to make them move whether they wanted to or not.
He rubs his forehead, starting to sweat, as the pipes are not fully airconditioned, and he's sure he's lost about five or six percent of his body weight just from sweating it all away, to the point where he can count his ribs. "You want Bonnie gone, right? You want the Hunger Games to be abolished forever, correct?"
Pollux nods feverishly. "Of course I do. I had shown you the polling data," the polling data from Bonnie's questionare makes him laugh out loud, that the Capitol populace and Careers from One, Two, and Four did not feel the same wamrth and love the vampire says she's exuding, givign off the heat of a volcano to the sun, where her efforts are for naught, as Rennie scampers in the shadows, collecting allies from every corner of the city, the outreach splurging into the districts, and he has his eyes set directly on the tributes as well... they can all prove to be useful in some capacity, but he has yet to think about what that capacity could entail, and let alone how he could even get to them, what with the twenty-four being trapped inside of an arena tomorrow morning.
"Then that means we need to put our everything into seeing the chance happen," he signs back, Pollux sighing to himself reservedly. "That means there is no sacrifice that is too great."
The Interviewer lifts up the picture of the two dead Peacekeepers, pointing at them fiercely. "Tell that to them, Rennie! Bonnie knows about us, and that means she knows about all of the victors too! You think that's going to stop her? She knows about us," he slams the picture back onto the table, sneering. "We need to act now! We need to act before she snuffs out like rats and kills us all!"
The ex-Avox listens partially to what Pollux is rambling on about, turning to look behind him at what is resting on the center command console. He signs with his free hand, grabbing the package, of which there are now several, all bundled up the same way. "I am ready to act, I just need the right time."
Pollux is not paying attention, he looking down at his feet, pinching his brow, eyes closed. "I have to go get ready for Interviews and hope that Bonnie doesn't execute me for treason," and when he opens them, Rennie has brought the wrapped item back to the forefront, laying it on the table. "What's that?" he asks timidly, pointing at it, and Rennie sees that the man is shaking, causing him to scoff. How can he expect this Capitol flower to actually be willing to fight in a real war?
Rennie smiles to himself, a surge of overwhelming pride rising in his stomach, as this is the greatest gift mankind has ever been given, and it has been given by another human. He presses both of Criston Pellock's packages side by side, the packages the victor from District 6 had given Lance Viel, screaming at him to not open them. He unwraps the first one, and Pollux's eyes widen again, but this time he does not utter a sound. Rennie locks eyes with him, a fiery glow replacing his general demure look. The world is his oyster, and he is ready to shuck it until there's nothing left, nothing left for anyone to ever corrupt again, and that may mean he needs to protect the world from his own corruption. He still has yet to answer his companion's question, the look of worry on Pollux's face increasing ever so slightly.
"Rennie," he asks, voice set with a hint of solid stone, "What is that?"
"This, my friend, is change. This, my friend," his grin grows ever the larger, "Is Death."
Alrighty everyone, that was Chapter #19: A Mirage of Closeness, the next leg of our Capitol journey, where, yes, indeed ladies and gents, things have hightailed it to eleven. Everything is rushing towards the center all at once, and I hope you are able to keep track of it all as I am throwing everything I have into this and the tribute storyline. Hale and Hector have gotten their reunification moment, Bonnie has been made aware of the cards set on the table now, and Rennie has devised a solution... bringing Death into the world, Death to the Capitol... and at this moment, my blood chills.
Next chapter, #20, Spotlight Hour, is going to focus on the Interviews with eight POV's in total - yes, that means not everyone is getting an Interview - but it doesn't mean the chapter will be by any means short, as Slaughter's interviews was 12k, this will be at least 12k or more with how I have things divvied up. I am so excited for the next spot of this story, as we are almost there. Please review, it means a lot to me and I appreciate all the support and feedback I get on the daily. Another huge thank you to anyone who nominated / voted for Sheep Led to Slaughter in the SYOT Awards, it means so much to me, and I hope Bombs and Bullets can do that too! I am aiming to have the Interviews done no later than by January 22nd, so keep your eyes peeled. Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm