Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Bombs and Bullets, Chapter #23: Viva La Revolution. This, ladies and gentlemen, is our penultimate experience, what the last twenty-two chapters have been building towards, and from the Capitol perspective, I guess we better start this off right and proper, huh? Last chapter, #22, was the final round of tribute POVs before everything falls to shit, and we saw from Magdalena, Roanoke, Bloom, Jules, Ciphra, and Vanya's perspectives, all spicing up the story and the drama and all of that is going to be making an impact very shortly, so continue holding onto your seats; I see ya'll looking at the chapter title a bit too deeply. It'll all make sense shortly. For now, enjoy Chapter #23: Viva La Revolution, and I'm trying extremely hard to not make this 14k, I swear it, but I am aiming for higher than 8k, just FYI.
~ And so sayeth the Lord, there shall come disciples to lead you out to the Promised Land; follow them, he commands, for they shall free you from your impeding shackles of darkness.
Hector Merviere: Victor of the 77th Hunger Games P.O.V
His mouth feels like he's concurrently biting down on cotton and a crowbar at the same time, Hector groaning in pain as the next swat with the billy club connects with his side. The victor hits the wall with a groan, clutching his body in pain, a sensor of danger emanating off of him. "I get it," he growls to himself. "I'm in pain! I'm in danger! I GET IT!" He weakly holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the light that swings back and forth from his prison cell. The hours seemed to tick by, being with Hale in her prison cell as Lazarus stalks away for the Mansion, holding onto one of those fliers, and with it, everyone's death sentence. They lay in silence together, sharing each other's grief, kissing the aching parts and touching the parts that no longer hurt. It is not romantic, it is not sexual, but it is a moment of clarity for each other.
He's never married, Hector has never considered the idea of a girlfriend, or a boyfriend for that matter, but in those moments, over the last few weeks, when he looks at Hale, he sees that warm feeling in his chest that he immediately shuts down. She's his brother's wife, his dead brother, in case he needs a reminder, and that thought is snapped out of shock by the next baton hit connecting against his jaw. He sees stars for a moment, collapsing and falling back onto the wall, groaning out in pain again. Stepping into the light, out of the shadows, the hallway doused in a low amber light from the emergency lights blaring on, is Lazarus Pietro, his Peacekeeper helmet off, but where it is Hector has no idea. He has never seen the man look more murderous in his life, and he's known Lazarus for at least ten years at this point.
Hector tries imagining what it would like if he, this Head Peacekeeper, had been another a tribute in his games, if Lazarus had been the District 2 Male with his short cut black hair and dark blue eyes, and that chiseled jaw and that murderous stare... just what would happen? He recalls that it is the District 2 Male he kills in the final four, running through a minefield of barbed wire, the Career getting caught on one of the snags at the shoulder, they both bleeding profusely already in their fifteen minute chase, and Hector drives the blade he's holding into the tribute's neck. What does Lazarus's blood look like? Does he bleed the same stark crimson as everyone else? Is his blood golden, the ichor spilled by the Gods of heaven? The gods that Hector laments to Arizona about, the ones they can't reach.
"We're fallen angels who aren't evil enough to become demons, and who are too corrupted to rejoin heaven..." Hector thinks to himself, faintly smiling, his teeth glimmering copper back at the Head Peacekeeper. He remembers saying that to Arizona, right before his girl Victoria is killed in a vote-off with six tallies against her, and Calhoun asking him about the kids in his office. A few tears slide down his cheeks. Those were simpler times, much simpler times compared to now, what with prison cells and nightly beatings and a crime he never committed. Hector wonders, briefly, as all he is afforded is short bursts of thought, is how Arizona's 'wife' is doing, Hailey, the cover-up they used for Hale whenever the two would be apart per the records. He's never liked her, knowing she simply is in the relationship for the money, treating Elias and Arianne like charges instead of her children, but he supposes it could be rather difficult for a woman to know the people in front of her belong to a different woman, and that woman is the true person to have her 'husband' and his heart. He thinks he's staring at a fallen angel right now, truthfully.
Lazarus steps further into the room, keeping the cell door open. Hector finds it odd, that the cell door is left open as he has shut it every single time beforehand on these beatings. Hale is no longer in the cell right next to him, but a floor above them, and three to the right, as even though Hector is blindfolded, he can trace the number next to the cell door as he walks, Lazarus continuously pulling him along to the point where he'll rip his socket straight out if he isn't careful. The concept of Lazarus Pietro being careful might be the funniest thing Hector has ever thought of. The victor looks up weakly at the Head Peacekeeper, who is sneering at him, dark eyes colder than the chilliest blizzard in recent memory, and he raises the baton up, bringing it down.
Hector seizes it in his hand, a triumphant aha moment, and his entire body surges with strength. The time in prison has not been kind on his body, although it has only been two weeks, maybe thirteen days, standing up straight is a difficult task, his legs wobbling, but not now, not here. Lazarus chokes on a croak of surprise, Hector struggling to his feet. He hasn't been shackled to the floor yet, feet and arms unfettered and free to move, but each movement does bring old age and sawdust into his joints, creaking and grinding like the Panemian machine. Lazarus tries wrenching the baton free, but Hector is holding onto it like he held onto the blade back in the arena. His only kill, his true kill, had been that bastard smug Career with slicked back hair, and a smile that made all the girls come undone, but not Hector. It had been glorious, truly glorious, when he wrenches the blade free and the blood pours out of the tribute's neck, some sort of plea lost to the bubbling of the blood.
"Not anymore," Hector says, but it comes out as a weak whisper, fire coursing through his veins. "You don't get to hit me anymore."
"You don't control me, traitor!" Lazarus spits out, again tugging on the baton.
"Just like how you don't control me," and the victor from Ten tries wrenching the baton into his grasp, but it is as if he is tugging on a tank for all the good it does.
Lazarus slugs him across the face, black dots appearing in Hector's vision. He sways some, to the right, but he keeps his grip steady, smiling still, mouth still bleeding, ghastly vermillion staining his teeth. He is punched again, and Hector lets go of the baton, falling into the corner of his new cell, some blood pouring out of his mouth onto the tile. The energy and fight in him extinguishes immediately, and the moment his head collides with the floor he is back to the tortured self, and when he looks up at the Head Peacekeeper who is making his way over to him, the strength in him once before is nowhere to be found. Lazarus drops the baton, kicking it over to the other corner. He stalks over to Hector, grabbing him by the shirt and lifting him up to his feet.
"You think this is funny, don't you?" Lazarus hisses into his face. "You get some sort of kick off of being unbearable?"
"It is funny!" Hector jokes to himself, head dolling to the side and around in a circle. "You pretend that you're some ominous thing and you're just Bonnie's little bitch." It is on his mind, and he has to say it.
"I should slit your throat for saying that!" the Head Peacekeeper growls, pushing Hector into the wall. Another burst of stars blot over the victor's vision, he squeezing his eyes tight to keep himself from passing out.
"Anything better than being in this hellhole," and then, as an afterthought, "Lazarus, you mind being a good lad and letting me piss all over you?"
Lazarus's eyes widen, eruptions of magma bursting forth from his cerulean pits, his mouth transforming into a sneer. "Why I oughta!"
"Hey, asshole, check your six!" a voice that is certainly not either one of them shouts out. A feminine voice at that.
Hector is dropped unceremoniously onto the ground, clutching his stomach in pain, and Lazarus turns around, but only for a second. Something silver strikes the Head Peacekeeper in the face, and then a second go around hits him straight in the head, he flying to the other side of the room. The victor gapes at the sudden attack, and in the midst, with Lazarus's body thrown to the side, his heart elates at the sight of Kevia Janelle standing there, blonde hair, dressed in some odd sort of leather and polyester suit, a silver pipe in her hands, one of the tips flecked in cardinal dots. His fellow victor exhales heavily, taking a step forward. Appearing behind Kevia is a familiar glimpse of moonlit and oak hair, Hale Cornerstone leaning up against the doorway.
"Hale! Kevia!" he cries out in surprise, pushing himself off of the ground with his hands, an exertion that requires a lot more effort than he's used to.
She reaches him first, they throwing each other's arms around in a hug, Hector squeezing Hale close to him. Kevia admires from afar, gripping onto the bloodied pipe. The two depart, Hector hugging Kevia as well, an action he never thought he'd do in his life. "Hector, you're bleeding," she states, taking a look at him, eyes searching and filled with panic.
"You saved me..." Hector exhales breathlessly. "What are you doing here?"
"It's the Phoenix, Hector," Hale says, gripping his wrist. "Rennie is going to do something major tonight. He's gathering all the tributes in the tribute center, and I think he's going to break them out."
"Then we need to go! We can't just-"
"We're not going that way," Kevia interrupts him with a hand on the shoulder.
"What do you mean?" both of the other victors ask together in unison. Hector notices how eerily quiet the hallway is, the emergency lights on, swirling in their synchronous pattern, a crimson glow swamping over the walls. His entire body is on fire, nerve endings spazzing outwards together. He keeps looking over at Lazarus's unmoving body, and he can see a lump slightly protruding from the buzz cut on the back of his skull, a lump forming in Hector's throat.
Kevia wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, she sweating profusely. "I've received strict orders to take you and Hale back to base. Lance offered to go with me, but he and Valencia will be getting the tributes from the Center instead."
"No!" Hale argues, "We've got to go-"
"Hale, this isn't up for an argument," the District One victor interjects, bringing her eyebrows together. She then directs her attention to Hector. "Can you walk? We're gonna have to run, as I imagine me breaking out two prisoners is going to attract some unwanted attention."
"I can walk," Hector nods his head, but then he looks over at his tormentor for the last two weeks. He knew there had been a darkness residing in Lazarus, but certainly not in the way he's seen it fester and mutate over the last fourteen days, a winged beast with halcyon eyes beading out from an abyss covered in smoldering coals. "What about him?"
"I only knocked him out," Kevia says. "It won't keep him dormant for long, you know. He'll awake and then we'll have every single Peacekeeper in Panem down upon us," Hector takes a step menacingly towards him, she reaching out and touching his hand. "Hector, it isn't worth it. We aren't killers anymore, the Capitol can't force us to kill each other any longer. Save it for those who deserve it."
"He does deserve it," he hisses, gritting his teeth. "Wasn't he the one who physically pushed Arizona in front of the train?"
"He-" she starts, but Hale interrupts them again, frowning with a light gasp.
"Uh, guys, you might want to take a look at this..." her voice rises into a whimper.
All three of them turn their attention to where Hale is pointing, all the water in Hector's mouth drying up. On the television screen tapered to the wall, he having seen it briefly from the cell door but never seeing it on, has now come to life, the Panemian logo bouncing from corner to corner on the screen, the infamous golden insignia on the velvet curtain backdrop. That only means one thing. Presidential announcement. Hector notes the time in the corner of the screen, it being 1:45 A.M. Doom and death, and all the tributes asleep at this hour.
The logo disappears and instead pops on the face of President Bonnie Rodney, she sitting at her desk in her office, hands folded over each other, she dressed in a sky blue pinstripe suit of some kind, a rather hideous thing, but just seeing her in front of him as his entire body shudder. Kevia tenses to herself, growling slightly. Bonnie's gaze is stuck on something off in the distance, perhaps someone counting her down, and then she nods at the camera, lips freshly coated in a cherry coating of lipstick, nails filed, and her sneer and smirk to an ever perfect point of presentation.
"Good evening citizens of the Capitol," Bonnie starts, and Hector takes a step back towards the wall. "I am sorry for disturbing you so late, but there has been something that has come up to my attention. The traitor Rennie Davis, twin brother to the recently deceased Lewlyn Davis has been spotted in the Capitol, and with him, a group of victors and other officials who are supporting a dangerous cause," she leans forward to the camera, but Hector feels as if she's staring directly at him. "If you see any of the people I am about to list, please do not hesitate in contacting me, the Head Gamemaker Constantine Fallorne, or Head Peacekeeper Lazarus Pietro immediately," and Bonnie flaps the card that she had been holding beneath her hands upwards for her to read off of it. "Rennie Davis, our Master of Ceremonies Pollux Aetos, the victor of the 79th Hunger Games Lance Viel, the victor of the 92nd Hunger Games Criston Pellock, the victor of the 87th Hunger Games Hale Cornerstone, the victor of the 84th Hunger Games Kevia Janelle, the victor of the 77th Hunger Games Hector Merviere, and the victor of the 100th Hunger Games Valencia Shale," that has Hector's eyebrows raised. Pollux Aetos? Valencia Shale? Part of a resistance or a rebellion? "If you have heard your name be called, I expect you in my office no later than 2:15 A.M, where I will bring some terms to you to discuss. Should you fail to show, you'll be labeled an enemy of the state, and promptly executed on sight," Bonnie leans even further into the camera. "The Phoenix will be snuffed out tonight."
Her broadcast ends as quickly as it begun, and the president of Panem disappears on the screen. Hector is about to say something when Kevia swears to herself, and that is when he hears it. The clanging sound of boots and the metal clattering of guns hitting the wall.
"We've got company," Kevia hisses to both of them, and Hector's mouth dries up even more.
Running at them from both sides is a legion of Peacekeepers, ten to fifteen or so on both sides carrying an array of batons, staffs, and some automatic weapons. Kevia brandishes the leap pipe close to her, pulling absentmindedly at Hale to get close to her, Hector balling his hands up into fists. The Peacekeepers file in on either side, trapping them effectively together, the only way being back into the prison cell where Lazarus is slowly starting to stir. There is no way they're fighting out of this alive.
Someone bustles through the gathered Peacekeeper crowd, a familiar wave of stark gray hair, and the face of Head Gamemaker Constantine Fallorne emerges through the wave of Peacekeeper white. Her face is haggard and pulled taut, hair in a bun, she holding some sort of weapon, but Hector has no idea what it is. She looks over at the trio of victors, disappointment flashing across her face. "Stand down," she tells them. Kevia grits her teeth, tightening her grip on the pipe. A few of the Peacekeepers lift their batons, some cocking their rifles, and Constantine holds onto the hilt of her saber, the other hand curling into a fist. "STAND DOWN!" she roars.
Hale presses a hand onto Kevia's shoulder, the victor sighing to herself, dropping the pipe, a Peacekeeper automatically snatching it up. Out of the corner of Hector's eye, he sees Lazarus groan, clutching the back of his head, getting to his feet, before pushing the trio of victors up against the TV, the gaze in his eyes sulfurous. He thought he saw angry just ten minutes ago, he's seen nothing now.
"Fuck..." Hale whispers to the two of them.
She's right, Hector surmises.
Fuck, indeed.
Valencia Shale: Victor of the 100th Hunger Games P.O.V
The clock ticking in the corner is starting less and less to resemble that of a clock but more of a heartbeat, Valencia unable to take her eyes off of it. Her winning the Hunger Games culminates to dying at eighteen years old at the hands of a woman she thought she could trust, and she cannot find herself thinking of a more ironic ending. Loyal to the end, she supposes. The Interviews had been indeed glorious, but it seems that the bombshells that affected her own band of tributes strikes the 101st crew as well, for she can feel their anguish and their anger in her chest. The victor stands in front of her bathroom mirror, in her all glass house, a pillar of moonlight spilling down from above into the center of the room. She walks over and takes her sword off the peg, that infamous dastard weapon.
It's out in the open now. Her TV coming on without preamble startles her to death, she having been asleep, but that changes the moment she sees Bonnie's face, blinding white light shrouding out the darkness of her house. The victor changes into a uniform resembling that of what she wore in the training center a year ago, a black and gold long sleeve jacket as if she were about to go rock climbing, she tying her dark hair into a ponytail, taking the sword off of the peg. Valencia wishes she had asked for a hilt with the sword. Bonnie is going to know its her coming to kill her if she has just the weapon and no hilt or scabbard to hide the blade in. It is her plan, after hearing her name come spilling out of the president's mouth. Perhaps the woman still thinks there's hope, perhaps there's a glimmer of reasoning, a fraction of doubt that she can still be saved, so she doesn't expect when Valencia stabs her in the gut with the prized weapon.
She is about to head out the door when there's a clamoring knock coming from the side entrance to the house. Valencia whirls around in its direction, eyes widening. No one is supposed to know of the side entrance. The victor inches closer and closer to the other side of her house, tightening her grip on the sword. Lance has it installed so he can slip in and out unseen if need be, there not being a door handle or anything on the surface for it, it being a panel one pushes in instead, and as far as she's aware, no one is supposed to know about it. So who would that be...?
Valencia reaches the door, tugging on the winch that is supposed to open it, and the moment she sees the cobblestone streets of the outside, she lunges forward with a yell, holding the sword outwards.
"Hey, hey, it's just me!" a male's voice cries out in terror, the tip of her sword going just underneath their jaw, slightly nicking them. Valencia gasps in surprise at the sight of Criston Pellock, the victor from Six, he dressed entirely in black, almost invisible in the night if it hadn't been for his pale skin, his arms up in surrender, he swallowing heavily, the blade moving with the swallow, she seeing a tiny dot of red appear on his skin.
She lowers the blade from his throat, exhaling heavily. "Criston, Jesus, what are you doing here?"
"I-" he tries to explain himself.
It's far too dangerous for this, and she thinks he's way too smart to be playing like a stupid idiot. "Get in here, before you get us both killed!" She grabs him by the front of his shirt, tugging him inside, he yelping in excitement. Valencia wrenches him a bit too hard, he stumbling into the room while she presses on the button that operates the winch, the side panel closing back into place. Ensuring that it is shut, she then turns around to face him, he smiling sheepishly at her.
"Good to see you too," Criston says, dusting off his knees.
"Criston, seriously. What the hell?" Valencia asks him, taking a step closer towards him. Does he have any idea how idiotic he is looking to her right now? She thought he's supposed to be the brains of the operation, but instead he's coming up to her and ruining everything. He reminds her of Maisey, just slightly, the concept of not being able to follow orders. There's a slight stinging in her chest, Valencia realizing that she's really missing that golden haired brat right about now. She's missing all of them right now, all of her allies, even the murderous ones.
He surveys the house, smiling slightly, before walking over to the center of the room, looking at the TV set. "I take it you heard Bonnie's little speech."
"Who hasn't?" What kind of statement is that? What's he doing here?
"This is big, Valencia. This is serious."
"I know. You don't have to tell me that." What does he think she is? A little maiden who'll faint at the sight of blood? He has a lot of nerve thinking he can just show up unannounced after the worst announcement in history is given to her. Valencia goes and sets her sword down on a table, picking up an apple from the basket that hangs off of another peg pressed into the side of the wooden piece of furniture. She tosses one to Criston to. "We're all in hot water," she says.
"Rennie said that Lazarus found one of our flyers out in the Economic District." Criston runs a hand through his hair, pocketing the apple. She shakes her head at the notion, the fruit is going to waste. "And then knowing how good of a little bitch lapdog Lazarus is, he went running."
"Funny, you told me the same thing once," Valencia points out, eyes flashing dangerously. He's unarmed, as far as she can tell, and she has her sword. The victor will not hesitate in doing what needs to be done, to protect herself from the dangers presented in front of her.
He shuffles his hands awkwardly inside his pockets. "That was a long time ago, Valencia."
"It was a month ago, Criston," her voice is razor sharp, tone as cold as ice. She recalls the encounter like it happened only five minutes ago, she at one of Bonnie's charity galas, something for orphaned Capitol children whose fathers and mothers were Peacekeepers dying in the line of duty. A simple water veil, since no Peacekeeper in the Capitol is ever killed on Capitol business. Valencia is keeping to herself as best as she can until Criston saunters to her, drunk out of his mind and smelling like it too, even though he isn't legal to drink yet. It's the hand on her shoulder that does it, the way his eyes leer at her. 'You thought I was Bonnie's little slut, Bonnie's little apprentice in the making," Valencia is surprised she hadn't sucker punched the asshole right then and there, but she locks her jaw at the memory. "She had me believing it too, actually."
How much time has she wasted because she followed Bonnie's orders? Who has she not saved? What lies has she started to fully believe?
"She had everyone believing a lot of things."
"Not everyone," Valencia points out.
"No, not everyone," Criston agrees, shuffling his feet. He gestures to the blade with the jut of his head. "Are you actually thinking of taking the sword with you?" There's a hint of incredulousness shifting among the syllables of his voice.
"Maybe. I worked my ass of trying to get it and I never even used it," Valencia shakes her head, trying to blot out the memories, but no matter how hard she tries, she still hears Galiant's voice break the moment he lands on one of the gate spikes, it protruding out through his chest, stained in vermillion. Or Peri's dying scream, the very same sponsor gift axe cutting her in two down to mid-chest, the moment that writes Valencia Shale as a victor in Panemian history until the end of time. "She let me have it to spite me," she bites down on her tongue. "It worked."
"If she gave it to you as a means of humiliation, why didn't you get rid of it?"
"Criston, you seriously think the president or Constantine or anyone in her corner wouldn't notice her star protégé not hanging onto her famous sword?" Valencia looks at him as if he has six heads. "I'd get called into the office and she'd pinch me by the shoulders and pinch my cheeks and tell me how she can't be disappointed in me or else..." she shudders, holding her arms tight. "I didn't ask to be taken under her wing." She never asked for any of this, to see Persephone burnt alive before her very eyes, or to see Carrion's face shine in the sky, or for her to tell Bonnie at her crowning that the title 'Madam President' fits her, as that means she's started it all, she's the one who knocked over the first domino that caused the others to collapse after it too.
He doesn't seem to agree, Criston raising an eyebrow, shuffling his hands to his jacket pocket. "You agreed to it, though." His tone is solid, unwavering, unflinching. "When she asked you."
"That was after she murdered the Head Gamemaker, killed her husband, and forced me to watch Arizona get thrown in front of a train!" Valencia shouts at him, getting in his face. She doesn't get it. He doesn't seem to be drunk now, no bloodshot eyes, just his grimness and typical asshole façade. She understands that Criston won the Games young, being thirteen and killing a lot of people is not something anyone at any age can acclimate too easily, but goodness if he is not jaded. She remembers getting along with Maisey more than with this District Six asshat. "Would you have thought it was wise to then tell her off the next day? I have a family, Criston!"
"Some would say you're endangering them now, with this," he points out, shrugging his shoulders.
She frowns to herself, moving back to the table, placing one hand on the table, fingers itching to wrap themselves around the hilt. His eyes follow where her fingers go, she not taking her gaze off of him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It isn't supposed to mean anything, Valencia, I just-" Criston babbles incoherently, a look of panic rising in his eyes. He has wonderfully beautiful eyes, she notes. Persephone did too. Milor's eyes were liquidous sapphires. Peri's eyes, glimmering with terror, Valencia will never be able to blink that look out of her head.
"I'm the one with the sword here, you know," she says, tilting her head to the side, finally seizing the hilt of the weapon, the sword having been three and a half feet long as an impressive blade to skewer someone with. Valencia hates the idea of killing innocents, now, but back then, in the arena? It's a game to her, a sport, and everyone else is a target simply meant to be eliminated, but that is before Persephone kisses her and before Milor's heart touches her soul, and before Marcus saves her life, and before Peri tries to burn everything down. "It wouldn't be that hard, actually. It'd feel like a return to normalcy maybe," Valencia threatens, holding the sword in her hand, stepping back up to Criston, they evenly matched height wise. "One last kill."
"You're bluffing," he says, but the fear in his eyes is evident enough.
"You can try me all you'd like," the female victor taunts, and her eyes flash once more. "Betrayal isn't an old concept for me just yet." The booming echo of the drums in her skull, Maisey's last breath, Hero's dying screams as he holds the Career from Four in his arms, the lasers, and Carrion's rage consuming Marcus whole. She'll never forget that moment in the Hall of Mystery; she'll never forget it.
"I didn't come here to betray you," Criston promises, holding his hands outward to keep her at bay. "I'm here to escort you. Someone knew you'd try and go kill Bonnie all by yourself without any help."
"Oh, really? I don't need an escort."
"Valencia, you broke down into tears at my feet two days ago, begging for me to indoctrinate you with us," he tilts his head to the side some, with a frown, but she's unsure how to placate his voice. Is it concern or mockery? "You looked absolutely terrified."
"Because I was, Criston," she admits. The slap lingers on her face, but it is the president's threat that absolves any sort of fantasy. It is a knock to her pride to admit, but Valencia has nothing to hide anymore. She believes she's fallen complacent into the good graces of the Madam, and that she can say what she needs to say and do what she needs to do to stay alive, but it is all shattered with one single setting down of the phone, and a glove to the cheek. "I've been watched like a hawk for the last year. If I breathe, Bonnie's aware of it." Somehow, even the absurdity of it makes it sound even more realistic. "I can't go home and see my family; I can't even call them." Valencia has no keepsakes with her from home, from One, to see her parents. She's forbidden to speak to them, as Bonnie does not want her spilling secrets... but she wouldn't, she's a good little Capitol follower.
"We've all been watched like hawks," Criston lifts his head.
"It's different," she chews on the inside of her cheek, before putting the blade sharp end first on the floor, balancing her elbows on the hilt. "Are you the one who decided I needed an escort? Because it was the 'gentlemanly' thing to do?"
"Orders from Lance."
Bullshit. "Lance knows I can take care of myself."
"Lance is the one who told me you'd go and try to be the hero without help. He knows you."
"I got the highest score, and I won," Valencia says. When she tells Constantine this, it is the resurgence of negative memories, the possibility of puke appearing on her shoes, but here, here it is a different story, it is her proving a point, her not needing to be treated like some child, for she certainly isn't one, not in the league of chess and corpses where all the adults are failing at it, including the won standing right in front of her. "I'd be able to beat you in a fight right here, so don't even think about telling me I can't take care of myself."
"You'll have to excuse me for being blunt, but I still don't fully know why you're on our side, Valencia," Criston crosses his arms over his chest. It is a stab wound to the heart, she gasping weakly, stumbling back some, nearly tripping over herself. "You're a Career from District 1, you've just won a Quarter Quell, and are living in the Capitol," he shakes his head, sighing. "I'm no psychologist, but that sounds like a good life to me, and you're going to stick your neck out with the rest of us?"
"Just because I've been more privileged than others doesn't mean I can't stick with the rebels?" she asks, her voice betrayed, impossibly soft.
"I only meant-"
How dare he! Valencia already spent a year of her life debating over if she had led the Careers in an arena incorrectly, from having people question her decisions to betraying the whole of the group to making side romances without thinking about how it'd affect the group dynamic, to nearly dying five times - Blake at the Cornucopia, Marcus's betrayal in the Hall of Mystery, the trash can mutt without Annabellina's sacrifice, the hallway to the outside world, and Peri's burning boomerang - and winning, only to be swept up in the talons of a blonde harpy who changes her hair color, threatens her loved ones, and twists the knife so expertly she should've been a Career candidate herself.
"Look, I understand your little shtick is to be a pessimistic asshole, but it's not cool now. How dare you question me!" Valencia shouts again, but she stands right back up in his face. "You're right, I grew up in One. Being a victor was all I wanted, but I also had a heart. I didn't enjoy killing people, I didn't want to have to murder them if they weren't trying to murder me." Maybe he'll believe her, maybe he won't, but she's not going to let another minute pass with him having these tainted preconceptions floating between them, especially if they'll be working together. "I didn't mean to kill Galiant, when I was going for the sword, but it happened." His scream echoes in her head, briefly. "Blake nearly killed me, and had Marcus not intervened, Peri Florence would be standing here instead, and you'd certainly have her on your cause too." She'll be haunted forever by the swinging chain, the light in the girl from Seven's eyes, and that final sickening swipe, silver and flesh and blood together in a medley of tragedy. "I have gotten to see things I don't like, and I certainly don't condone the Games any longer. That's my reasoning."
Valencia catches her breath, having started to lose track of herself for a moment there. Criston doesn't say anything, he leaning up against the couch that faces the TV set, arms folded over each other, before narrowing his eyes at her. She rocks on her heels for a moment, frowning, waiting for him to say something, anything! Then, after what feels like a thousand years in which the pillar of moonlight has shifted some so now he's entirely in the shadow, as is she, separated by a column of naturalism, until he says...
"You passed."
"I- what?" Valencia frowns, furrowing her eyebrows together. Passed? Did she just spill her heart out and he not even care?
"You passed. I was testing you," Criston says, still sheathed in the shadows. "Rennie wasn't fully convinced you were on our side. Of course, he'll more than gladly accept any help we get, but he didn't believe you."
"Rennie didn't- he didn't believe me?" her voice is impossibly soft, hurt lacing her features. Does everyone else share this viewpoint?
"You have to see where he's coming from," he tries the opposite end, holding a hand out to her.
She shakes her head back and forth, a lump forming in her throat. "No, Criston, I don't. Lance and Kevia are a part of this, and Kevia has never struck me as someone who'd believe in this! Hale is too! But I'm questioned? Seriously?" That's not fair!
"Valencia, I didn't get to make the rules for this. I'm just a bystander." He starts to shuffle for something inside his coat pocket, but she's not paying him any mind, turning away from Criston, shaking her head, rage starting to burn in her veins. Doubt, doubt, doubt, doubt!
"Well, I'll tell Rennie he can take his regards and shove them up his a-" Valencia yells, pointing a finger in the air, and then she turns around, the rage quelling in her throat, fizzling out at the sight of Criston holding something out for her, it wrapped up in some sort of paper mache covering, like the gold on her outfit. "What's that?"
"It's a package for you."
"No shit," Valencia rolls her eyes. "What is it?"
"Take it," Criston insists.
"I'm not taking it until you tell me what it is."
"It's something Rennie wanted you to have instead of carrying the sword with you. So, you aren't taking it with you to the Mansion," the victor from Six explains.
"What is it?"
Criston sighs to himself, looking down at the floor for a moment, his hand being the only part protruding out into the moonlight. When he looks back at her, she can see his jade eyes flashing in the darkness, a serpent's final look before it swallows a rat whole. "It's a gun, Valencia."
"A gun? I- I don't-" Her entire world shakes for a spin, Valencia gasping and bringing her hand back.
"Valencia, take it," Criston's voice is pleading with her, and he steps further into the light.
Valencia seizes the package, it feeling heavy in her hands, before unwrapping the golden paper mache slowly. She inhales sharply when the barrel of the gun glints off of the moonlight pillar, she pulling the wrapper away, it falling to the floor without a sound. She holds the gun in her hands, the grip of the pistol wrapped firmly in leather, the stark black peering back at her, the rest of the pistol a clinking quarter on the sidewalk. Her hands tremble, as she tosses it from side to the other. It's a Glock, Valencia able to see that without much studying of the weapon; she's seen the array of weapons in the Peacekeeper Barracks, the one time she's stepped over that dire threshold. An unspoken darkness emanates from the weapon, she almost dropping it.
"It feels evil, holding it," she says.
"And the weapons in the Games didn't?" Criston asks.
"I wasn't thinking about that back then. I was just focused on survival."
"What's different now?"
"I'm focused on Panem's survival, not just my own," Valencia locks eyes with him, and she takes the holster Criston holds out to her.
"Are you ready?" he asks her, stepping into the moonlight.
"No. Are you?" she admits, and she slides the gun into its holster, clipping it to her pocket, pulling her shirt over the weapon. Her heart is beating in her chest faster than ever before, and all she can replay in her head is Arizona and Hale's screams from the last moment when normalcy is Panem is shattered, but all she can see is Bonnie's smirking face, and the bullet hole Valencia imagines she'll place there on her own volition.
"Nope, and I won't ever be," Criston smiles cheerfully at her. "C'mon, we're expected."
His cheeriness does not take her mind off of the fact that the moment she steps out of her house, she might not ever be coming back.
Bonnie Rodney: President of Panem P.O.V
Deception. Lies. Betrayal. Deceit. The rage she is feeling in her bones is indescribable, Bonnie has no idea how to describe what is coursing through her, except that it has all gone to shit, it is all wrong and she cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel any longer. She switches out of the sky blue pinstripe suit thing she's wearing, something Constantine tells her to switch into, but frankly, she feels like she looks like the Head Gamemaker and all she needs is a cane and one of those wicker hats to complete the look. Bonnie tries to keep the emotion in her throat down when reading the names, but she's certain that a few strained gasps escape, but at this point she doesn't know if she can believe herself or not on how she's acting. Nothing makes sense anymore.
She misses Calhoun. "But you killed him..." she thinks to herself, biting on the inside of her cheek, before frowning, before saying aloud, "He killed himself. He did it to himself." However, it is the truth. He'd know what to do, he'd know how to appease the crowd wishing for his head, in which those people certainly existed but somehow they never got any further than the communication phases, but he never spoke about it over hushed dinners forking between a few measly green beans. Somehow she steps into the league, without doing anything wrong mind you, and she's being crucified for it, some sort of ragtag group of people who believe they can twist the knife just so and she'll give up. Calhoun would know what to do, but he'd give in, he'd fall to their demands and be sniveling. He'd be weak.
Bonnie Rodney is not weak. Her mother tells her so, hands digging into her shoulder blades, fingers curved into talons, the smell of rose water hinting in her mother's decaying platinum blonde hair, turning into ashy and pale like a sliver of the moon. "You're strong," she is told. "You're stronger than he is. The books will remember you, not him."
"What if I am remembered for the wrong reasons?" Bonnie recalls asking her mother that question, and she'll never forget how her mother never responds. She is left hanging, without a notion on how the future will turn out. What did her mother mean by never responding? What did any of that mean? She has no idea, and her head is starting to hurt. The president is in her office, the camera rolled away, the filming crew going back home with her assurances that everything is all right, but this is a lie she spits right through her venom-stained teeth, and she knows she's spreading falsehoods. Everything is not all right, and it hasn't been right ever since her little girl came into this world.
The baby is put to bed in the far side of the mansion, away from all the screaming and shouting. No matter who shows up, Bonnie has given strict orders for the nurses to never open the door regardless of who it is unless they specifically ask for a password, and Bonnie has decided to name the password 'mutt'.
"They think they can do me in like this?" she rambles to herself, shaking her head. "What do they take me for? A fool?" The president looks at her reflection in the windows of her office. She's caught herself staring out the window a lot these past couple of days, stuck in her high tower like a Rapunzel who is affecting every outside event in the shadows. The Games will continue like normal, she'll crown a victor, and these inferior insurgents will feel electricity barbecue their skin alive while she drinks from her martinis, the victor crown hanging on the other palm, and the victor will watch with objectified horror. That would be their fate if they are to stray from the path. Valencia Shale has strayed from the path, but not for much longer. "I'll show them! I'll show them all!"
Bonnie is unsure who she is more upset with at this point, when she looks at all the faces splayed out in front of her. Saying Valencia's name to the camera is one of the hardest things she's ever done, as pulling the trigger that fires the shot that ends her husband's life is one of the easiest actions one can do, to end their marriage. Rennie she knew had the taste for rebellion, as she saw it in his eyes whenever he's around his sister, but perhaps she had misread him, for the surprise in her throat at knowing the woman who cut his tongue out, his sister, is somehow his lover and they share a bed together.
"We shared a bed together..." Bonnie thinks to herself ruefully. The innocence, the splash of vibrant cardinal hair over her shoulder and against the pillow, and his soft sighs... Bonnie believes she has something special until she tries kissing him that day in the Gamemaker Center, surrounded by the cold machinery and their lab coats, that he turns from her. She vows then and there that it is her personal missive to ruin him, even if he's a freed man or not. Him being the leader of some revolution is just the icing on the cake.
Pollux is a mystery to her, but she also has him figured out easily on the same token. She thinks he's a coward, switching sides from wherever the grass is green to pasture. He hates Lewlyn with a passion, yet finds himself an ally with her on ending the Games, and then he crawls back to Bonnie when the going gets tough and his neck is on the line, but now he's jumping ship once more. She'd like to put a toothpick into his eye.
"Bonnie!" Speaking of the devil.
She turns around at the sound of her name, and she takes quick inhale at the fact that it is not just Pollux who enters. Behind him she sees Rennie, but his hair is no longer bright red, the brightest blond she's ever seen, brighter than her own. Valencia, Criston, and Lance following right after the two of them. Five versus one. No matter. Lazarus and Constantine will be back shortly, and it'll feel like a proper chess game soon.
"You came? I didn't think you had it in you," Bonnie smirks to herself, moving out of her office and into the living room. "I didn't think any of you had it in you."
"What's this all about, Bonnie? How dare you-" Pollux starts, but she is not going to let him play this game. He's arrived with all the other convicted, so she'll simply stamp him as guilty by association. He's dressed in one of his finer suits, a dark midnight and pale ruby outfit, but his hair is not done, and his gaze is furious. Bonnie looks over the three victors briefly, but Valencia is not holding eye contact with her. They're dressed like they're about to enter the arena for a second time. That idea briefly crosses her mind, but is an impossibility, as well as a repeat. They'd all be dead by the 125th Games regardless.
"Oh do shut up, Pollux. I know you really aren't the best liar," Bonnie decides to cut to the chase, crossing her arms over each other, before going to the back wall against the couch. She is not looking at them as she speaks, instead directing her attention to the bookshelf from where Calhoun's body had rested. It is a lie, that she buries her husband out on some hill overlooking a blooming meadow with a sunrise to greet his tombstone. His body, in the trash bag she finds big enough for it, has been dumped into the river, to be dried out with the rocks and the shale. "I know about your group called the Phoenix. I know what you plan to do and what you wish to do, but I'm here to tell you it won't work."
"You couldn't have just said that to us over the announcement? You just had to make it some big thing?" Criston asks, raising an eyebrow. The look on his face is one of neutrality, but she sees the way Rennie's eyebrows placate together. He knows that she knows.
"Criston, I'll cut out your tongue if you continue on-" she starts, pointing a manicured finger at him.
"Bonnie, listen to us," it is Lance Viel's turn to go for the jugular, but Bonnie isn't paying him any attention. She notices that Rennie dressed in some sort of golden uniform, as if he is wearing a cape. Does he have any idea how ridiculous he looks? He's staring directly at her, but as far as she can tell, the look in his eyes is just that of a burning hatred, a hatred she's seen so many times it means nothing to her. His hands are inside his pockets, but that is just him trying to act natural. Pah. As if.
"Am I speaking to you, Lance? No?" Bonnie diverts her attention to Valencia, the girl having her right hand by her right side, the left tucked underneath her chin, she finding the tapestry on the curtains to be most interesting. Lance's eyes flash a sharp sterling silver, but she still will not look at him. He's been nothing but a blip on her radar, another shining star from a decade ago that has fallen off of the gravy train, skinning his face in the meantime. "Then shut up."
Rennie, from his stance in the corner, signs out something, and although Bonnie truthfully has no idea what he's saying completely, she figures it is something menacing, something evil. Something scandalous, filled with viper venom. "You're not going to win, Bonnie."
"As I was saying Mr. Pellock, I-" she ignores him.
"Bonnie, listen to us!" Pollux cuts in, taking a step forward, perhaps a moment of bravery, or foolishness, as she sees it. "This is going to be pointless. You know what's going to happen the moment we leave this room."
That is genuinely the funniest thing she has heard all week, Bonnie tilting her head back and laughing, blonde hair touching her back lightly. "Who said anything about any of you leaving?" Did all of these people inhabiting the living room of her mansion take drugs as a collective group before marching in?
"The same can be said for you too." Rennie did indeed have his tablet with him, he pulling it out and typing away on the keys like a madman. Pollux and Lance shut up, standing there, fuming, nostrils flaring, while Rennie rights himself from the wall, holding the tablet out as if he were offering a holy scripture to her. A time long ago, reminiscent of auburn hair and a lab coat and fresh kisses that smell of spring water and lilac. No longer, though. Bonnie's subservient in that time, and she'll take her leadership and freedom for wherever it comes.
She is unable to hide the coo of her disappointment that builds in her throat, no matter how hard she tries to wash it away. "I once thought you were some innocent sweet soul, Rennie, I did," she shakes her head, frowning slightly. "And that you were the biggest idiot for not letting me kiss you after we had slept together all that time ago." Valencia, Lance, and Criston all look at Rennie with wide eyes, Bonnie smirking to herself. The silent fighter didn't tell everyone the truth? "But I was wrong. You're just like the entire lot of them. Stupid, worthless, and not deserving of living."
"Madam President-" the Master of Ceremonies tries intervening once again.
"You don't get to call me that anymore! You lost that right the moment you decided to buy into lies!" Bonnie turns to him, spit flying from her mouth. How dare he! Calling her by her royal title is reserved for those who are loyal to the throne, those who are loyal to the country. Calhoun had no problem with people calling him by his first name, but she finds it to be extremely disrespectful; he has a title for a reason and her husband is throwing the towel in without a fight. How is anyone supposed to be respected or loved if they allow their boundaries to constantly be squashed and redesigned by those without the knowledge on how to do so?
"The poll numbers-"
"Don't try to bullshit me with that, Pollux. You turned on me long before that." The question is, however, when?
"And why do you think that is?" Rennie types out, and he is incapable of hiding the smirk that now crosses his face. He has never been good with hiding his emotions, truly, and without the ability to speak, Bonnie can see the terror that hides behind his generally cool complexion, the way he shakes and trembles and doubts... Bonnie wonders why she used to think it would be hard taking the Capitol for herself, they all were simple minded idiots who needed an automated security system to tell them where their front door is. "Why do you think everyone you thought you could trust is turning your back on you?"
She shrugs her shoulders. Everyone knows, at least, those standing in her living room, but it is so much fun to stir the pot. "I don't know. Please, do tell me."
Rennie drops the tablet for this again, but Pollux translates for him, keeping his gaze directly at the president, but if she wants anyone to think it affects her, they're sorely wrong. "You killed Calhoun. Not Hale and Arizona. You killed my sister, not Hale and Arizona." However, he decides to use the technological device that she gave him all those years ago for the punchline. "You wanted to be president, but you could only do so by killing everyone else first."
"I can call you a liar, you know."
"We're not here to say if it's the truth or not; we know it's the truth!" Lance interrupts once more.
"Lance, you really are hard of hearing. Was I talking to you?" How did someone this irritable ever win the Games, how?
He curls his hands into fists, eyes widening, and Bonnie is afraid for a moment that he is about to lunge across the Victorian carpet and strangle her to death. "I-"
The victor is cut short however as at that opportune moment, a collected group of people walk through the double doors to the living room, Bonnie's eyebrows lifting up in happiness at the familiar faces that appear. Constantine leads the group, followed by Lazarus who is holding a rag to the back of his head, his nose having looked like it leaked blood, the way a river of dried crimson stains his pale flesh. Behind them are three faces that are surprises to her, as the haggard looks of victors Hale Cornerstone and Hector Merviere, sidelined by Kevia Janelle - Kevia... you dumb bitch you - who has a sheepish smile on her face. Behind the three victors is a collection of six Peacekeepers, the first three with their pistols out, trained expertly on the small of their backs.
Bonnie nods at the two Capitol officials for permission to speak.
"Madam President," Constantine starts, nodding back at her, a gentle smile on her face. "We found these three trying to sneak out of the Capitol. It looks like someone else has turned on you."
"Bonnie," Kevia greets her, shuffling from side to side, a nasty cut slicing down her cheek. Bonnie looks at her former friend with a mix of awe and horror, as goodness, she looks dreadful without makeup. She is sure she doesn't have to ask why her favorite victor that does not have a name like Valencia's is standing next to accused criminals. She, however, cannot hide the look of displeasure that ripples across her own features, nor the bitter acidic taste that rises in the back of her throat. By all of Panem's might, if she were to puke now...
"Kevia," the president regards her, before she looks at Rennie slyly. The other three victors shuffle nervously on the other side of the room. "You thought you were so clever, didn't you, Rennie? To get every victor and official near me on your side and then start some sort of coup?" she lowers one of her hands, bringing them together instead, folding them in front of her stomach. "Do you take me for an idiot?"
"Well, given the fact that you didn't know about it until Lazarus started beating me up and-" Hector pipes up, an amused look in his eyes.
"Mr. Pietro!" Her voice is thunderous, an order that can be heard all across the Capitol. The Head Peacekeeper turns around and slugs the victor in the face, another splatter of scarlet covering the tile as Hector reels back into the lines of soldiers. He's prodded with the gun again, returning back to his normal position.
He gives Lazarus a glare that is so pitiful, Bonnie almost laughs. "You know, just telling me to shut up might work too."
"Any report on the tributes, Head Gamemaker?" she then asks her third in command.
"Last heat scan showed them all accounted for in their beds," Constantine declares proudly. It is the wrinkle in their plans, when the three of them go to the drawing board. Rennie is going to utilize the tributes, surely, but Bonnie has no idea how that's possible. It is a heavy decision, a weighted decision, to draw every Peacekeeper back from the training center and towards the Mansion and City Circle, but it is for the best, as she knows her announcement would not go unanswered, and as she expects, they all flock to her like hummingbirds to nectar, dressed in their sweet little rebellion outfits, carrying sneers and glares, but of course, none of it will work.
She is not going to surrender so easily.
"And when was this?"
"Ten minutes ago."
"Good," Bonnie claps her hands together, turning to face the assembled victors and other citizens that she will now refer to as degenerates. She goes to stand near the doorway to her office, careful not to step too far out of protective reach. "I brought you all here for a reason, if you'll listen."
"No. We're not going to listen," Hale pipes up from her spot, but Bonnie does not call for Lazarus to beat her across the face. A cry of defiance isn't necessarily an insult. She needs to let them all believe that hope is still there, kindled and diminishing, but there all the same, and the more punches thrown, the more blood spilled, the worse the fire gets, consuming all in its burning wake. "That's what the Phoenix is for, so we don't have to listen to your lies anymore, Bonnie."
"Does your insipid attitude ever get boring to you? Aren't you tired of being a little bitch who complains and pisses and moans all the time?" she asks the victor. Oh how she enjoys hearing Hale cry, her sobs rebounding alongside the granite walls of her prison cell. An idiot, definitely, conspiring for murder right underneath her nose.
"I could say the same thing to you, too."
Bonnie makes a step back into the center of the living room, eyes flashing a stormy sea blue, she lifting her head up in triumph. "I have your children, Hale, and don't think for a second I won't think about cutting their throats so I could get a good night sleep." She has a child of her own, but when she looks at Hale and Arizona's children, Elias and Arianne, goodness aren't they gorgeous? With the few right touches and influences they could become Capitol citizens, to toss their parents' filthy name in the dirt. Truthfully, she wants more children, and she had known about them for far too long to let them wither and decay and go to waste in the hands of some Hunger Games victors. "Gods, they're so annoying! 'Where's mommy? I miss Dad'! I just want to shake them by the head."
"You lay a hand on those kids-" Hale threatens, about to charge forward, but Kevia grips her tightly around the soldiers.
"And you'll what?" Bonnie smirks, but she's silenced the other woman into submission. It feels good to make someone else suffer what she suffered underneath Calhoun for so long. It had been like feeding a rabbit carrots, slowly nibbling away what offers are given. He makes her the head designer of the mutts, a morsel or taste of power, but no children, no possible idea that it'd be the last offer she'd ever receive until she takes it for herself. "No, please finish that statement."
"This is a waste of time. You're wasting everyone's time, and Panem's!" Kevia shouts out, not expecting that in the slightest.
"Exactly my point!" the president smiles elatedly, thrusting a finger in the air. "I brought you all here for a reason, as I've said, because I want to talk."
"To talk?" Pollux frowns, bringing his eyebrows together.
"A merge in the middle."
"Of what sorts?" Rennie has eyebrows piqued in curiosity, the other gathered victors sharing this interest as well. Aha, the tangled rope tightens.
"Call it a truce, a truce between enemies that could be allies," Bonnie continues, although she nearly throws up saying that.
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," Pollux shakes his head in dissent, frowning.
"No. Hear her out."
"Rennie!"
"I want to hear what she has to say." The ex-Avox holds up a hand, and then he brings his attention back to her, as it should be.
"You being a grown up? I would have never guessed this!" Bonnie claps her hands together excitedly.
"What do you want to say, Bonnie? Spit it out," Valencia breaks her silence, turning her hands into fists by her sides. An odd pause passes over all the collected bodies in the room for a moment, as Bonnie has never heard the Quarter Quell victor sound so disgruntled, or vile in fact.
Bonnie chews on the inside of her cheek. She's rehearsed this a thousand times in her head, always faulting on one particular part here or there, but if any of them are truly sensible people, those that would see the ridiculousness of her ascending to the Panemian throne has evolved into, they'll accept her terms.
"This little insurrection you wish to perform? Scrap it, the entire notion of it, as if it never existed and bury it beneath your heel," she starts off, but it already has a few of the victors, Criston and Kevia respectively, scoffing. "Rennie will be executed for treason and warmongering, but on his hands and the blood that has already been spilled for my presidency, no one else shall be killed." Rennie locks eyes with her, but Bonnie is incapable of reading the emotion that courses back between them. "Pollux remains as Master of Ceremonies until I decide he has outlived his usefulness, and I'll find a suitable replacement for him," she knows that it would be torture, kept at arms length under the threat of losing his own tongue. That'd be a sense of justice, irony, perhaps... the Interviewer losing the ability to speak... "You victors who have been led to his side through warmongering and deceit shall be forgiven, but placed under house arrest for every year that you live except when it is time to come mentor for the Games, in which you'll always have a Peacekeeper escort," she raises an eyebrow, lifting a finger. "But I'll spare one."
Valencia frowns, one hand still by her back pocket. "Who would that be?"
Bonnie turns to her protégé like lightning, causing the victor to jump. "You, my darling, Valencia, you," a lone tear slides down her cheek. Out of this mess, out of all of this madness, this is what has hurt the worst, losing the person she believes to be malleable, the one that should be the easiest to twist around her finger. "I know there's a heart in you, sweetheart. I know you don't believe in his lies or what any of them have told you. They've corrupted you, you've been tainted," Bonnie's voice cracks. "I've been good to you, I have been more than good to you. You do not turn your back on the hand that feeds you, Valencia, you know that's the right thing to do." Valencia's face is unreadable, cold, a snuffed out flame. "I forgive you, for anything you've ever done. You're the daughter I've always wanted."
"You have a daughter, Bonnie," is all she gets in return, and Bonnie's heart shatters like a piece of fine China.
"And what if we refuse this offer?" Criston asks, folding his arms.
"Refusal wouldn't be the smart choice here, Mr. Pellock. You can see that, clearly," she wags a finger. Refusal? How stupid would they be? "Lazarus, if you would?"
"Failure to meet or the refusal of Madam Rodney's wishes shall bring ultimate war to Panem and the total destruction of everyone you love and know. Resistance will not be tolerated, it is futile," the Head Peacekeeper recites, the good little dog he is. Bonnie knows she needs to reward him sometime soon.
"No." Rennie's response is immediate, and he does not need to use his tablet for this. She knows what it means.
"Excuse me?" Bonnie reels back as if she has been slapped.
"You heard me. No. We will not agree to those rules," the Avox reiterates, and Valencia's smile grows.
"This isn't a transaction," the president shakes her head, frowning. No. No, this is all wrong. This is not going to plan!
Pollux moves closer to Rennie, standing up straight. Lazarus moves closer to her, his hands tensing. "You said we'd meet you in the middle. We have terms of our own."
"You do?" Constantine squeaks out in surprise.
Rennie pulls out his tablet, but he must've already typed out his answer before Bonnie finishes her speech. "Surrender the presidency, and let a democracy be instilled instead, the people voting on who to lead. You will not be killed, but you will be arrested. Admit to all the crimes you've committed, and you and your daughter will live."
"She can't help but laugh. The lunacy of this, the pure lunacy! "There is something else that I've forgotten about," she points out, walking back to the corner of her office. "I figured you would refuse, so I've thrown a little loophole for myself." The glass ceiling she wishes to break, the glass ceiling that'll rain shards of halcyon and porcelain from above, to flip the switch, to throw the switch, as Constantine advises her, the moment the flyer passes her desk. It is where the tracker goes, why it goes in early.
"Bonnie, what are you talking about?" Valencia frowns, but Pollux gasps as the victor asks her question.
"One-fourth," Bonnie says cryptically.
"One-fourth? What does that mean?" Kevia voices the same confusion.
"The innocents. One fourth of them must die," the president continues, before turning her head to the victor from Six. "Mr. Pellock, what's one fourth of twenty-four?"
"Six," he answers, that being a truly easy mathematical question.
"No! Bonnie, you wouldn't!" Pollux screams at her, and she has never seen the Master of Ceremonies angrier in her entire time of knowing him. Forget being scared of Lance Viel; he's the one who is going to rip her to pieces, limb by limb. He'll have to reach her first.
"What are you talking about?" Valencia bridges the question again.
"I threw the switch in the Gamemaker Center before you came here, a timer that'll kill one-fourth of the innocents if you were to refuse," Bonnie says, in a sing-song voice, smiling to herself. "It'd make you heel!"
"You murderous bitch!" Pollux roars, and this time his face turns nine shades of pulsating crimson.
"What are you all talking about?" Valencia repeats.
"You've gone too far." Rennie signs, he shuffling his hands into his jacket. "Your madness ends here!"
"I told you, accept my terms or die. Which will you choose?" Bonnie leans forward, but everybody starts moving at once, everyone talking at once.
"Rennie?" Pollux tugs on the Avox's shoulder, but it is not doing much. "Rennie, what are you doing?"
"Valencia, take Hector and Hale and-" Lance starts telling his charge from One, Bonnie looking over at the Head Peacekeeper.
"Mr. Pietro, please, if you will, execute the charges you have in your custody-"
She never gets to finish the statement, as Rennie pulls his hands out of his pockets, something glowing in his hands. Criston's package, the night of the tribute parade.
"RENNIE, NO!" Pollux screams, stepping forward in unison with Criston.
Bonnie falls back in terror, Lazarus grabbing her by the waist. Constantine is screaming orders, something about mutts in tunnels and killing everyone, everyone must die, but she cannot hear it over the sound of her own heart beating inside her head. Something metallic flies out of Rennie's hands, sticking to the low ceiling of the mansion, it beeping red in one corner of the device. Pollux reaches Rennie, tugging at him, wrenching him back. Lazarus turns Bonnie away from the center of the room, a few of the Peacekeepers still standing, stuck in shock to do anything, as Valencia and Lance reach Kevia, Hector, and Hale, pulling them along. Criston's mouth is open in a silent scream, but Bonnie cannot stop thinking.
Where's her child? Where's her child? Where's her husband?
Rennie holds some sort of cylindrical device in his hands, a stark obsidian, before Pollux wrenches him back with a scream, the Avox pressing down on the trigger.
The bomb attached to the roof explodes in an upheaval of sulfur and rock. Rennie lets out another bloodcurdling mix of a scream and a roar, before another explosion goes off in Bonnie's office. There's a sudden groan as the bombs and bullets in the air detonate, filling the sky with smoke, and then the roof of the Mansion caves in.
The Phoenix Rebellion has come.
The 101st Hunger Games have come undone.
Tribute List (Boy - Girl)
District 1: Cyril Barther [Submitted by thorne98] / Satin Spinel [Submitted by Mistycharming]
District 2: Aris Lindel [Submitted by grimbutnotalways] / Maren Johnson [Submitted by Crashed Ice24]
District 3: Tach Andon [Submitted by Audmirable] / Ciphra Longsdale [Submitted by Flammifera]
District 4: Jules Harper [Submitted by DMonkey1607] / Anahita Cascade [Submitted by Reader Castellan]
District 5: Seth Cables [Submitted by Nemris] / Sophiana Delarosa [Submitted by Santiago Poncini20]
District 6: Ponty Carr [Submitted by Queenofinsanity] / Amaris O'Hara [Submitted by LiveFreeOrDie]
District 7: Roanoke Arkus [Submitted by Guesttwelve] / Sage Dagoba [Submitted by AlexFalTon]
District 8: Cambric Vogel [Submitted by dyloccupy] / Magdalena Bertha [Submitted by Tiger outsider]
District 9: Jason Lacey [Submitted by ilvidis] / Audhild Olthono [Submitted by 66asmvr]
District 10: Rodric Oxford [Submitted by Alecxias] / Vivian Whiplash [Submitted by SetFiresJust2WatchThemBurn]
District 11: Vanya Vasiliev [Submitted by TheMayflyProject] / Zola Taonga [Submitted by Apple1230]
District 12: Mirek Bosco [Submitted by curiousclove] / Bloom Estrada [Submitted by LordShiro]
...
Capitol Cast of Characters
President of Panem: Bonnie Rodney
Leader of the Phoenix Revolution: Rennie Davis
Master of Ceremonies: Pollux Aetos
Victor of the 100th Hunger Games: Valencia Shale
Victor of the 79th Hunger Games: Lance Viel
Victor of the 92nd Hunger Games: Criston Pellock
Victor of the 87th Hunger Games: Hale Cornerstone
Victor of the 77th Hunger Games: Hector Merviere
Victor of the 84th Hunger Games: Kevia Janelle
Head Gamemaker: Constantine Fallorne
Head Peacekeeper: Lazarus Pietro
That was Chapter #23: Viva La Revolution! I, ladies and gentlemen, have had this idea in the back of my head ever since I wrote Calhoun and Lewlyn's conversation back in Slaughter about ending the Hunger Games... what would happen if the tributes weren't in an arena, but thrown into a warzone? When I said that the Capitol and Tribute storylines would become one, I wasn't lying, I wasn't joking, it's the truth. Bombs and Bullets, my fellow readers, is an SYOT with no arena, they're thrown out into the world and they'll have to survive. Wonder why, submitters, I asked if they could survive a war-zone? Here's your answer. Rennie has done the unthinkable. He has started the revolution. The Phoenixes have taken flight, and it'll be messy.
Just because it is not an arena story does not mean everyone's safe, and as the addition of the Capitol cast has been included, they're on the chopping block too. I wanted to spoil this so badly, you have no idea, you have no idea how hard this was to keep it a secret. To all of those who have reached this point, I hope this has caught you off guard, but I hope you stick around despite this being non-conventional. I promise you, tributes will be seen, and we're returning to them too for Chapter #24, but I shall not spoil the title, as I didn't spoil this one beforehand. I also have changed the summary on my profile to reflect this start, so I hope you all caught on. Please review ladies and gentlemen, it'll mean the world! I love you all so much! Have a great day! Bye!
~ Paradigm