Merry Christmas to all who celebrate (and Happy Friday to those who don't!)!
As promised, here is your (entirely not Christmas themed) chapter.
The cave is cold when she wakes. It makes a contrast to the white hot fury she felt the night before.
The lightning and fire had stopped almost instantly after Peter's death (clearly the Gamemakers had felt her late night entertainment was satisfactory) and after that the temperature dropped unnaturally fast. They'd left all their supplies when they ran from the storm, and they'd had to take off most of their sodden clothes, so with nothing but their own bodies to protect them from the icy cold winds blowing in, and the weather too bad to bother guarding against intruders, they'd gone to sleep curled in each other's arms.
Forcing herself to untangle from his still sleeping form and making her aching, burnt body face the bleak morning feels like an appropriate way to atone for her sins. He doesn't stir, he's probably exhausted from all the running the night before, she is too, she can feel it in her bones.
He looks surprisingly peaceful when he sleeps, no signs of the disturbances and nightmares the rest of them have. The morning light shines on his body and she sees freckles on his face, normally when she's this close to him she's too busy kissing or wanting to slap him to notice. In sleep, he is more classically handsome, though without the smirk playing on his features she finds it harder to find him attractive.
God, what is wrong with me?
She looks further down to his exposed chest, she can see every one of his ribs clearly under his skin. Veronica has never lived in luxury, she's had the odd winter where they've had to ration their food, but she ventures she's never felt starvation like he has in 12. From this angle she can see all the imperfections on his body; there are fresh scratches and burns, ones that match her own from last night, but there are others too, some could have been from earlier this week, but others are clearly scars. She feels an odd compulsion to ask him about them, to understand his suffering, but he'll probably just lie, so she turns away.
Looking out of the cave she can see the pouring rain last night has given way to thick fog. Her clothes are still sodden but she forces herself to put them on and wanders outside, collecting what twigs and leaves she can. She sees some smudged footprints in the mud leading to the edge of the cliff and retreats quickly.
Her first kill. Her first real one at least.
And it hadn't been someone who deserved it, not really, Peter hadn't senselessly murdered anyone nor was he an anonymous face. She'd talked to him, laughed with him, comforted him before they were called in to be scored. How could he have known that day in the Training Centre, barely a week ago, that he was holding hands with his killer?
She thinks back, tries to convince herself that maybe what she did was an accident, maybe she pushed not really thinking he would fall. But the memory is branded on her brain, of seeing him there, just by the edge, knowing one push would be what it took and running forward to do it. She can see the look of shock and hurt on his features, so similar to his district partner's in her final moments.
If he'd just been loyal to Betty he would have been dead already, she tries to reason.
But then again, so would she.
All she knew was she was here and alone and would never be able to go back to the way things were before she was reaped. That the only light she'd had since then had been taken away so quickly, so brutally, with a look of betrayal on her face. Someone needed to pay for Betty's death, but she wasn't ready, she needed JD and Peter was easier to kill than all of the Capitol.
It had felt good, if only for a second, to have been able to do something.
And it's not like he'd have got out of the cave alive anyway, she has no doubt that JD would have made quick work of Peter, had she not got to him first.
Anyway, it's done now, the line has been crossed. You can say "I was a thief," "I used to smoke." But everyone stays dead.
You never stop being a murderer. Not until you die.
In a way, she's glad Betty is gone. Imagining the look upon the girl's face when she saw what Veronica has become is bad enough, she doesn't think she'd survive seeing the real thing.
When she has enough twigs she heads back inside to start a fire. The fog, she reasons, will provide enough cover for the flames. But once she's inside she realises that she has no matches and the wood is probably too wet to set alight anyway.
Instead she sits, back to the cold cave wall, hugging her knees, with nothing to distract her from her thoughts, except maybe her rumbling stomach.
xxx
A strange beeping a few minutes later brings her to her senses. She spends a few moments looking around for the source before she looks up and sees a large pot descending from the mist, landing at the cave's entrance.
Her first parachute. A gift paid for by those watching. She has fans.
She opens it eagerly, it's a thick meaty stew with lots of bread to go with it.
Maybe her new alliance and his modus operandi have their benefits after all.
She considers eating it without him, but that probably would result in a blade in the stomach, instead she shakes him awake.
"Look what we earnt."
"You earnt it, my mentor hates me, remember?" he says, but his eyes light up eagerly when he sees what it is.
They decide to finish it off, partly due to a lack of self-control, last night's dinner was lost to the flames and all that running for their lives yesterday has given them quite the appetite, but also because the stew is so nice and hot on this cold morning and they're loath to let it cool down.
It's only when she's using the last of the bread to mop up around the edge of the pot that she notices some colour behind a rock at the back of the cave.
"Ah-ha," she says, as she goes over and pulls out what must have been Peter's bag.
They look through it eagerly, but come up mildly disappointed; there's a half-filled water bottle, some half-eaten beef jerky, some berries that JD says he doesn't want to risk (so she makes sure they are immediately tossed), a small and rather blunt dagger and a torch. However, beside the bag is some dry firewood and a box of matches and in the cold cave, with the fog and slippery rocks making it too dangerous to head down the mountain, nothing seems more welcome.
With the dry wood they make quick work of a fire and then strip so they can dry out their clothes.
Sitting on the sandy ground, with a full stomach and a fire to heat them up, it is surprisingly homely.
"Last night I was pretty sure I never wanted to see fire again" she says, "that was fucking terrifying. I can't believe they did that to us."
He stares pensively at the flames, "The lightning was ingenious really, the way the thunder came first gave us enough warning to have a sporting chance, but it was unnatural enough to mess with us psychologically."
She looks at him for a long time, trying to decipher the genuine excitement and admiration in his expression as she rubs a particularly painful burn, "I wouldn't call us nearly dying ingenious."
He waves her comment away, "I would have rather not been in the middle of it, but objectively it was smart, and anyway we survived."
"I have some nasty burns."
"We made good TV."
She sighs, it's silly to put these kinds of things to him. She watched the way he didn't get bothered at all by Betty, Rodney and Dennis' suicide (when even the Careers were flustered), how he let Martha die as she screamed for him and his cold amusement as he pressed a knife to her stomach. He doesn't care who lives or dies, he just wants to watch the world burn and know that it's his doing. In another universe, he's a Gamemaker, springing psychological traps so ruthless they'd make this arena look like a picnic.
Yet here she is, imagining the fact he saved her life when she was still useful is anything other than a tactical move.
She changes the topic rapidly, "So, are you ever going to tell me why you volunteered?"
"I did, the day we met and again in my interview."
"They were different answers! And both were stupid."
He shrugs and grabs the dagger. She nearly starts, but he just picks up a nearby stone and moves it against the blade. For a while the only sound is the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic scratching of metal against rock.
"I wonder how Peter's family are coping today." She says when she can bear the silence no longer.
He makes a face, clearly thinking she's being ridiculous, "He'd have died anyway. It was fast. I'm sure they were glad it was you and not the Careers or the flames."
"I hardly think they'll be singing my praises any time soon."
And in a flash it's back in her mind, the anger, the terror on his face, his scream as he tumbled into the darkness ringing in her ears.
She needs it to stop.
She reaches out instinctively, sticks her hand in the flame, holding it there for as long as possible until it hurts like hell and the palm of her hand is a satisfying shade of bright red.
He doesn't react. He doesn't desperately try to grab her hand to get her to stop as Betty would have. He doesn't even give her a "what the fuck are you doing, you weirdo?" like she's sure the Heathers would have.
On the contrary, his smirk has a look of what appears to be triumph. He tosses over the water bottle, "Put it against you, you need to cool down the burn or you won't be able to hold anything and you'll be of no use." And continues sharpening.
She looks at the insensitive bastard with all the hate she can muster and lets it sting for a few more minutes before giving in.
xxx
They stay that way for a while, him with the dagger, her nursing her hand. She is so busy contemplating who she is, what she's found she's capable of and whether what she's just done has made her look so wimpy that she's ruined her chances of ever getting a sponsor gift again, that it takes her a moment to notice that the sound of scraping metal has stopped.
She looks up. He's staring at her, brow furrowed, as if on the edge of something.
In an instant, he drops the blade and stone on the floor. Kisses her, hard, like he hasn't just enjoyed watching her burn herself and doesn't expect her to even try to push him away, and she doesn't, so maybe he's right.
He's as cold and heartless and murderous as the rest of her world, but his body is warm and his lips are soft against hers.
His fingertips, trailing down her arms leave goosebumps in their wake, but whether they're from arousal or fear she does not know.
She lets him dominate her. She has no desire to control, not now, just a desire to forget, just a desire to know that someone still wants her after what she did.
It's stupid, it's ridiculous, it's disgusting because she hates him. She should hate him with everything in her being.
But it's ok because she hates herself just as much.
When they are done he doesn't let her move apart from him. Instead, he grips both her wrists, pulls her towards them so their naked bodies are side by side, noses practically touching.
His lips move, but barely a sound comes out, and she knows this was the reason for his indecision earlier, for his kiss and fuck right now. He wanted the cameras off them.
And sure enough, his words are the furthest from pillow talk.
"My mother was a fighter. She had a plan. She was going to blow up the Capitol, she was going to start the revolution."
She tenses. She can feel her pulse beating fast in her clasped wrists. He has brazenly uttered treason before, but not like this. If the mics pick up one word she knows there will be a sudden fatal cave-in right now. Still, she doesn't push away, the answers to the questions she had from the moment she saw him are too pressing.
"And she got captured trying to do it?" she breathes.
"She never had a chance," he says bluntly, "my dad found out. He went to the Peacekeepers the next day. They came in with machine guns, beat me just because I was there, knocked her unconscious and dragged her away."
"They put up a stage in the Central Square, told the whole district they had to watch, I'd never seen anything that big that wasn't for the Games, tied her to a stake on top of a bonfire and burnt her alive. They dragged me up on the stage too, so I was front and centre and they all could see me watching as she screamed and then crumbled into nothingness. My hair reeked of burning flesh for a week. I was ten." His voice is emotionless as he recalls this, leaving her unable to tell whether it's his way of blocking out his pain, or if he just doesn't care.
"Did anyone… protest?" she asks, carefully.
"They all watched and did nothing. Our mayor lit the fire, he seemed to enjoy it."
"Oh," she says lamely, taking it all in.
It seems rather outlandish, but it would explain a lot. If his mom was a revolutionary, it would explain the knowledge of the Capitol; of what is there, of what they do, when all she's heard is propaganda and unreliable rumours. It would explain his hatred of the system, in a way that is stronger than just the suffering that they all experience, and would mean his desire for revolution was more than just a love of chaos.
However, it occurs to her that his last ally is dead because he lied to her. She's sure he could weave Martha pretty lies about district loyalty just as easily as he could make up sympathetic reasons for his plans of revolution. There's a reason he has told her this, and it might be just that he wants her to believe his story.
She also knows that, if this is true, had his father not told on his mother and she had been caught anyway – both he and his father would also be ashes in the wind, unable to tell this tale at all.
"You still haven't answered my question," she mutters, "why did this make you volunteer?"
He pauses for so long that she thinks he's ignoring her, "A year later one of her co-conspirator's children got reaped, and being a kid from 12, she died in the bloodbath."
"They rigged it? They can do that?" she asks, hating how naive she sounds, even to her own ears.
"Of course they can, it's not even hard. If they don't just rig it in the Capitol, all the ballots are delivered to the districts several weeks before the reaping. All you need is to know where the ballots are kept and swap them out. It's not like anyone checks all the names afterwards, and if they did it would be too late. I've been waiting my turn for years, next year would have been my last, I guess I ran out of patience."
"But you'd have had the most chance of winning at 18 or – you know – maybe they'd decided not to pick you at all?"
The barest movement of his shoulder indicates a shrug, "It saved me spending another reaping not knowing if they were planning to torture me this year."
He's not telling her everything, she can feel it, "Still seems a bit extreme."
He grins, "I thought I'd beat them at their own favourite game, I find the extreme always makes an impression."
She kisses him, not sure if it's the act they're putting on for the cameras, a way to shut him up or something else. There is still a burn on her hand to remind her who he is, but there are burns all over both their bodies to remind them that they have a common enemy.
xxx
By early afternoon the fog has cleared enough that they have a good view of the woodland below them.
"We should probably make our way down," she says, "it would be good to get some food for tomorrow."
"We need to go back to the Cornucopia."
"What? No! You are aware that the food and resources there are guarded by a pack of vicious Careers, right?"
"Yes. But we need to go."
"Why?"
"Trust me." He says.
She gives him a look, "No." but when he ignores her and gets up to leave she follows him anyway.
Fine, tell me your life story, but don't tell me why I'm risking my life. And of course it doesn't matter if I say no.
If nothing else, they do need more supplies and weapons than what was in Peter's meagre backpack. Fighting the Careers seems to be the wrong way to go about it though.
There are enough puddles in the rocks for them to fill Peter's water bottle on the way down from the mountain. She's impressed by how high up they are, but she supposes when you're running for your life you push yourself harder than usual. Still, she is pleased when they return to the protection of the forest.
As she follows him, weaving her way through the trees, she looks at him slightly differently. It feels odd knowing there's more to him than just a psychopath who volunteered for the Games for the fun of it, that there's some sort of meaning to this, even if she doesn't quite understand it. But it also reminds her of the plan she was so sure he had when she first met him. This mysterious mission to the Cornucopia is part of it, she thinks. She's part of it too, but what part of it, and exactly how horrible it will be she has yet to figure out.
She remembers something he said to her in the Training Centre, "The mayor? The one you were talking about earlier? Was he Martha's father?" she says.
"Yes," he says, not pausing in his stride.
It's a little later that she asks her next question, "Did you like your mom, JD?"
This one makes him hesitate, "Yes," he says, "yes, I did."
xxx
As the sun starts to set, they find a bracken covered area to stay the night, helping themselves to the food they foraged on the walk for dinner. There's no water nearby, but they have enough to last the night and JD seems very keen to set off as early as possible tomorrow.
They still have no blankets or sleeping bags, so she does her best to remember what she was taught at the Training Centre about putting together a shelter, resting branches against a tree trunk and weaving bracken and twigs between them. He laughs when he sees it, but joins her inside nonetheless.
"It is warmer here than outside," she insists, ignoring the fact it's probably his body heat.
The Panem Anthem plays but the only face that appears in the sky is Peter's.
"No deaths today," she comments, "the Careers are letting us down."
He raises his arms in mock frustration, "They had one job!"
She sniggers despite herself but sobers up when she thinks of Peter, the first few days the Careers had indeed been ruthless, but now they're not the only one with blood on their hands.
Now, maybe, just maybe, the Careers aren't seen as the only tributes who have a chance of winning.
"Do you think they're showing much of what we're doing?"
"Certainly, we're the most interesting story on screen. Back in the Capitol we're probably stars by now."
She's felt so apart from the rest of the world these past few days, it's bizarre to imagine everyone there feeling like they're right beside her, "You think?"
"The Careers are always the same. They put on a fake united front for the first week or so and then descend into petty squabbling and murder. Do you really think anyone is going to be invested in them?"
She's seen as many Games as him, and he's not wrong, "You think the Capitol wants us to win?"
He snorts, "Not me. I'm hardly the Gamemaker's ideal victor. It's bad enough I'm from the poorest district, exterminating the assholes from places they actually want to funnel money into, and that's not even getting into the issues with my mom. You though, I'm sure they think you'd wear it a lot better, an underdog but not a threatening one, poor but not too poor, good at talking but not incendiary and of course you're very pretty. They'd fucking love you to win."
"I'm not sure I'm so clean anymore either, not after last night with my outburst to Peter about following Betty and such stuff."
"But you didn't follow them did you? You did what you were told and took out another attempted conspirator while you were at it. All they will have done is muted your words and upped the sound of thunder for the public, no harm done. You're still in their good books."
That's almost worse, she thinks.
"Well, in that case, we'd better not let Panem down."
He replies with a grim smile.
xxx
She takes first watch; her thoughts have been bad enough today, she doesn't feel like facing her nightmares just yet. She holds the torch, ready to spring into action at any unusual sounds, but both Careers and muttations seem to be sleeping as the night is silent except for the sound of the wind rushing through the trees. It's not surprising, if she thinks about it, she imagines the Gamemakers would much prefer the inevitably bloody confrontation tomorrow rather than them being killed off quietly during the night.
She leans back against the tree trunk and gazes through the gap she's left as a doorway at the stars, trying to work out if they are artificial (there are so many more here than she can see through the smog at home), and wonders if there is any chance she can survive the dangers tomorrow will bring.
And whether she deserves to.
The Capitol Presents: the Surviving Tributes, Day 6
District 1
Heather McNamara
Ram Sweeny
District 2
Heather Chandler
David Remington
District 3
Betty Finn
Peter Dawson
District 4
Heather Duke
Kurt Kelly
District 5
Shannon Lucas
Rodney Bulb
District 6
Cathy Stone
Al Springer
District 7
Tracy Hophead
Bobby Young
District 8
Veronica Sawyer
Brad Richards
District 9
Courtney Chadwick
Keith Harrington
District 10
Shelly Little
Dennis Grundy
District 11
Phyllis McCarthy
Dwight Archer
District 12
Martha Dunstock
Jason Dean
Deaths today: 0
Survivors: 9
No deaths for Christmas!
A bit of a quieter chapter than we've had in a while, but I hope it's answered a few of the JD questions you guys might have had (and maybe prompted several more!) and I promise next week's chapter is hella action filled (and is also the longest chapter in the fic) – which I guess is a good way of starting the New Year?
…I also want to very subtly point out that comments are fantastic Christmas presents.