XXXVIII: The Capitol - Training Center.
I'm breathing in and breaking down; I feel my time is running out.
The fire in my heart will burn me to the ground.
I did my part, I tried my best.
The things I'm fighting to protect, always shatter into pieces in the end.
I'm pumping blood, I'm running dry.
My heart's been beating overtime, to help this broken body live another night.
Battle cry, is the damage done?
Who was lost and who has won?
Who will be there when my life support is gone?
I'm broken and I'm barely breathing.
I'm falling 'cause my heart stopped beating.
If this is how it all goes tonight—
This is how you bring me back to life.
Ilaria Landucci, 18
Victor of the Final Hunger Games
It's not real.
Not real, not possible, not… not what was supposed to happen.
But who is she to say what was supposed to happen?
Her legs are shaking; Ilaria only realizes this when her heels, half-fallen off her feet, start clacking uneasily along the tiled floor. She has no idea how long she's been sitting here, how Emmi even got her to sit in the first place. The room is too small, too dark, claustrophobia washing over her just like the arena's smoke. Somewhere backstage, surely, but truth be told Ilaria has no idea where she was led.
Wherever it was, it's not far from the stage itself. She can still hear Edolie's voice, muffled and distant. Explanations continue to pour from her mouth like water, smooth and rehearsed, all while Ilaria wonders why exactly she was brought back here.
Shouldn't she be hearing those explanations? Shouldn't she… shouldn't she have more than what she got?
"Ilaria," Emmi tries, tearing her fixed gaze away from the glass of water someone had offered her, sitting smack dab on the table between them, untouched. Her lungs have constricted to an impossibly small size. With each inhale she feels as if she'll choke.
"I'm sorry," she manages, though there's no good reason for her to apologize. She wasn't the one that just sprung such a thrilling, yet conveniently awful surprise on someone so unsuspecting. They put her out there like a puppet and filmed her reaction alongside the entire world—the audience had no idea either, judging by their gasps and shrieks. An appropriate reaction, she thought, to seeing the once-dead walking again. All dressed up like nothing ever happened, like they were brought back in time for the interviews to be done all over again.
She just might be sick. Ilaria can't help but wonder if that would help.
"Breathe," a voice suggests, and Ilaria forces herself to look up. She hasn't been able to look at him, not since seeing him on the stage for the first time. It was like seeing a ghost, and perhaps that would have made more sense.
No more than ten feet away, Cal does not smile when he meets her eyes. It would be unbecoming of him, she thinks. His eyes are clear, though, his shoulders straight. He looks just like he did before… before he was dead and gone, before she could even comprehend it.
He's alive. They… they all are.
"Is it all of them?" she asks through her teeth, clenched so hard that her jaw is beginning to ache. It wasn't all of them on the stage—Ilaria knows this, even if she wasn't able to count in the frenzy of it all, her dazed stupor.
"All of you," Emmi confirms. "Some still haven't woken up yet and some… well, they thought it better to keep them behind the scenes."
She nods. Ilaria isn't sure why. It's not like she agrees with this, or even understands it. "Why?" she croaks. They owe her that at least, right? If they're not going to let her sit on that stage and hear it from Edolie, she deserves something.
"They had a point to prove," Emmi explains. "The Capitol, the government, Pandora… they made the decision to pick the people that would give them the best show. The show to end it all, you know?"
No. No, she doesn't. She should've known, or suspected something. Ilaria shouldn't have had to go into that blind—none of them should have. And if she knows that everything is going to be okay, relatively speaking, then why is the guilt still weighing so heavily on her shoulders? Why does Ilaria feel as if she's about to crumble and collapse?
"That shouldn't have been their call to make," she says quietly. "If they wanted things to end, they shouldn't keep making us play games."
"You know them," Cal says. "They want their genuine, heart-wrenching reactions."
God, she can barely stand to look at him. At the same time she wants to run over and hug him, which makes even less sense. He's even less of the hugging type than she is, Ilaria suspects, and it's not like they even knew each other for longer than a few days. Is it the relief, then, that's causing her to wish for such irrational actions to make sense?
She has no idea what she wants to do.
"What now?" Ilaria asks.
"They'll return you to your normal life." Emmi shrugs. "The government has sworn to take care of all of you—you'll get the prize, so to speak, but they're not going to let anybody go without."
"Sending everyone home," Cal says under his breath. "Because that will go splendidly."
"They can't just send us home," Ilaria insists. "They want to sweep us under the rug. That's what they've always done. If they want this cycle broken then they need to do it properly."
She's never been the angry type. Staying quiet has served her well enough, gotten her this far. Surely the Capitol didn't expect this budding anger from their victor, of all people—chances are they don't want it, either. That's exactly why Ilaria refuses to be hidden away like she never mattered. They haven't fixed their wrongs just because… because they did this.
Ilaria can barely think it without feeling sick. They brought everyone back.
"It shouldn't be possible."
"Remember," Emmi says gently. "I'm on your side."
"I know," she says in a hurry, getting uneasily to her feet. The uneven heels nearly send her crashing to the floor. "I'll be back, just… I'll come back."
She kicks the heels off, underneath the table. The glass of water shakes. There are figures out in the hall but Ilaria doesn't dare look up, less she finds another eerily familiar face. The people she killed are somewhere out here, all of the ones who had to die to get her that victory crown—the crown they didn't even put on her head before they pulled the rug out from beneath her feet.
And Ilaria hates them, she realizes, hates this sick thing they've made up and how they're playing at God and how much it reminds her of—
"Oh, if it isn't my favorite ally! How I missed you!"
Velcra.
She freezes. Ilaria hasn't even made it quite to the end of the hall yet, leaving herself on full display for the rest of the tributes gathered at the end of the hall. She refuses to put Districts or names to them just yet, though Licia is too difficult not to recognize, her little hands balled into fists as she steps out of the crowd, ever-closer.
And there's Velcra, like she was never dead at all. For all Ilaria knows she wasn't. Those clips from the cut could have been fabricated, the blood and the screams all so fake. If her arms weren't lined with scars just like Ilaria's own she would truly believe it. Perhaps she is a ghost, then, and Ilaria is getting haunted. That would make more sense than anything else.
Even she's not so lucky, then.
"I wouldn't look so scared if I were you," Velcra says. "I mean, you're their victor, right? What ever will the audience think if you look so scared?"
As cruel as it is, Ilaria thinks that some of them would have been better left dead. Velcra, certainly. She's wrong, perhaps even evil, and none of them deserve that anymore. Ilaria can't help but stare further, though, letting Velcra's outline go blurry as she stares at the others waiting beyond her. The one that catches her attention is the Nine girl, the one they riddled with arrows. The one she's responsible for killing. For now she's tucked under her partner's arm, safe from harm, but the memories assault her regardless. She can't help but allow her mind to wander to the other three, to Varrik and the last two whom she put to the sword without a second thought. What of them?
If Velcra is evil, then what does that make her? Is she evil, or is she downright scared? Winning was supposed to be the opposite; she was supposed to return to Six, free from threats and any fear that she once harbored.
Now she can't even speak.
It turns out she doesn't need to. When Cal steps out into the hall she feels relief flood over her, relief like she hasn't felt in some time. Ilaria hasn't needed someone to protect her in a long time, either, but she knows that's not what he's trying to do.
He's there, alive. A reassuring presence. And his voice is strong and firm when he looks at Velcra, mouth drawn into a flat line. "Fuck off, Three. Read the room."
She killed him, Ilaria reminds herself. Velcra let Cal go just like that and yet he doesn't even spare the girl a glance as she brushes by him, a wicked smirk on her face as her hand drifts over his arm. He's only looking to Ilaria, mouthing one simple word as adrenaline fills her body once more: go.
And Ilaria does. She doesn't think about where she's going to end up. She doesn't think about her promise to come back.
For now, all she can think of is getting out of here.
Blair Carnell, 30
District Two Mentor
"Well, that was fun," he huffs, wiping at some of the bloody streaks down his arms. "Let's do it again sometime, hm?"
One of the nurses, he's sure, glares daggers at him. Thankfully she's too busy dealing with Milo's now prone, unconscious form as they lift him onto a gurney and then back into his bed. This time, restraints secured over his arms and chest and attached firmly to each side of the bed, no wiggle room to be seen. From his perspective they should have done that from the beginning, but as per usual listening to him is not other people's priority.
At least he's used to it by now. Blair has spent many years being ignored and just sort of… you know, doing things anyway. That's how he's always gotten things done. He was supposed to be off-stage too, watching the grand affair, but he knew better. Yes, that's right, Blair Carnell knew something, and leaving a bunch of unconscious kids with a handful of unhinged ones, along with a few very unhelpful nurses, was always going to be a recipe for disaster.
Really, he got down here just in the knick of time. Any longer and they might have shot them—disastrous Milo may be, but he doesn't deserve to die. He's not the only one who had a wild, nearly uncontrollable reaction. Some of them laughed. Some of them cried. Some of them, he's sure, will have similar reactions that are yet to wake up.
Milo was second for crying out-loud. Probably didn't expect to be, but he was. That would be enough to fuck anyone up, let alone someone who was already struggling with so much. He couldn't see his face, but Blair could feel it in every tense, coiled muscle of his body as he tried and failed to get away. He's scared. He didn't know what else to do.
For now, a state of unconsciousness is much better for him. The nurses can patch him back up and the next time he awakens someone can be by his side to explain things as eloquently as they can. Not him, then. Probably Seren.
Speaking of, he's delighted to see her face when the door next bangs open, heels dangling from one hand. "What the hell happened?" she asks, eyes darting about the hall. Blair gestures to Milo's current state of disaster just in time for one of the nurses to give him a look and slide the curtain shut. So much for that.
Seren picks her way over the trail of blood still fresh on the floor and pulls the curtain aside just enough to poke her head inside. "He woke up," Blair explains. "Unsupervised, I may add. Whichever nurse was supposed to be watching him took a fuckin' smoke break, for all I know. You can imagine how he reacted."
She pulls back from the curtain with a muffled curse, scrubbing a hand over her forehead. It smears through some of the makeup they've plastered all over her face, but it doesn't appear that she cares very much. "So I can," she agrees, eyeing the blood on the floor with distaste. Deeper down there's a lingering sadness, something she hasn't seemed to be able to shake since this all started going down in the first place.
But, really, what's one more lunatic Two, in the grand scheme of things? Considering so many of them were murdered it's about time they were due for a few more.
An imposter and a madman. They were made for it.
"He'll be fine," Blair tells her. "Compared to the rest of them, those probably won't even scar."
"We're on watch duty," Seren says. "Until he—"
"Until he wakes up again, I know. Got it, boss."
She doesn't look the least bit relieved at his easy agreeance, though she's so used to him fighting back even on the most nonsensical issues. That's just who he is, and Seren knows it well. That's exactly what she's been dealing with since the day she met him, just a stupid teenager on a practical suicide mission. Not that he's any less stupid now, really, but he doesn't think Seren would appreciate knowing that he hasn't exactly learned all of his lessons over ten years later.
Especially not now.
"So, how'd the interview go?" he asks, knowing that's pushing his luck regardless. Judging by her answering sigh, it went about as well as he expected it to. It's probably a good thing they kept a few of them down here during it—Varrik, for one, who made far too many jokes about how he was going to act out there to be trusted, and Donatella, who has retreated to Casi's beside once again as she has been the past while
For all of their sakes he truly hopes Rex is asleep, less the little gremlin have snuck off in the chaos. That's one thing Blair absolutely does not want to have to deal with tonight.
"Go to sleep, if you want," Blair offers. "I can handle things down here. I'm used to not sleeping, now."
"Doesn't mean it's good for you…"
"Never said it was," he retorts, ignoring her grumblings. It's not like he willingly chose to have twins, even if one of them was practically an angel. To think there was a third on the way, too—Blair would be certifiably insane long before he hit forty. Then again, considering he expected that of himself before his nineteenth birthday, that's quite the accomplishment.
"Go to bed," he repeats. "Or go find something else to do other than stare at me or the stupid curtain."
Seren socks him hard in the arm before she turns to go—some former mentor she is, but there's something grateful in her face. Relief, perhaps. He's dealt with a lot of things in his life, but he still can't hold a candle to her. Frankly, he wouldn't want to. Blair finds himself staring at the curtain anyway as Seren departs, though it does nothing more than occasionally shift and ripple as a nurse moves back and forth, no doubt working on Milo's arms.
There's not much to watch, really, but he feels obligated to stay. Not like there's anything better to do unless he wants to watch the world meltdown around him.
Blair backs up two curtains down the hallway and cracks it open, noting Donatella's flat stare as she takes him in. Casimira is the same as they've always left her, still and lifeless, the only sign that she's still alive the mountainous line that ebbs and flows with the rhythm of her heart on the monitor at the left side of the bed.
"Don't tell me he's already awake again," she says flatly.
Right. She's probably not ready to deal with it yet either. Blair shakes his head, drawing the curtain closed. All that's left are Eight and One, across from each other three more curtains down the hall. They're being looked after, he trusts. Blair has his priorities, after all—finally, after so long of looking for some proper ones.
"What the hell?" someone else asks from the opposite end of the hall, and Blair is just able to resist sighing just like Seren did as he turns around, finding Hale's only-slightly widened eyes. Still, getting that much of a reaction out of him is something considering he's looked dead behind the eyes since the second he woke up. Blair is beginning to wonder if they brought him back right, or just some zombified form of him.
He thinks back to earlier, how vehemently Hale fought to keep himself from going out on the stage. Judging by the buttoned shirt, jacket missing, polished shoes narrowly missing the blood on the floor, he lost.
Most of them did from what Blair is aware of.
He throws his arms out, well aware that it refers to really nothing at all. "Our favorite resident terror woke up. Well, my favorite anyway, but he is mine, so…"
Hale blinks, and then his eyes find the same curtain that Blair has been lingering on for so long. Just like Donatella, Blair doesn't think Hale is really prepared to deal with this. Are any of them, though? There's no rule-book for what to tell a kid when they're forced to confront their murderer—that's sort of the point of them getting murdered.
"Don't worry," Blair tries, clapping a hand over his shoulder. "It's not like he has a hatchet."
The hatchet, no, but he has the hands that held it, and Hale has the scars that he received from it. Those things can't go away like a weapon can.
Those are the types of things they're going to have to live with—the memories and the pain and all of it left on their bodies, marks they'll see every-time they venture into the space of a mirror. Blair already knows how hard it can be to deal with and he chose it. He chose his ending.
So what, is he supposed to hope they chose the right ones for these kids?
That's all he can do, really.
Shoah Jensen, 30
Games-Assigned Counselor
This office they've given her is not nearly big enough.
Oh, it's fully kitted out alright. The best technology any girl from Four could ask for, a desk so heavy and ancient she feels out of place taking a seat at it. The chairs are plush and comfortable, though she thinks the couch is a tad much. More than a tad stereotypical, surely.
It's all meant to look so comforting, positioned well in the building so that warm light seeps through the pale curtains all day long. Plants trail along the windowsill, the dimming switch along the wall set at a halfway point so that it's not too bright, not too dark. The perfect level, supposedly, though it's making her eyes a bit tired.
Truth be told no room was ever going to be big enough for this project. You would need an entire arena to contain it, and even then that may not have been enough.
To think she hasn't even seen all of the kids yet. Most of the ones she has seen have been coerced, only a few coming willingly to talk. So much of it is trivial—what was going on back home before they left, the good things. They'll talk about the plants on the windowsill, or how comfortable the chairs are. They'll talk about anything but the trauma still hanging over them all.
She knew what she was doing when she signed up for the job. Shoah should have known how difficult it was going to be. Her father tried to warn her off this career path once she finally had access to a prestigious Capitol university, but nothing in Shoah was ever going to listen. She likes helping people. She likes having an impact.
So far she doesn't even think that most of these kids have bothered remembering her name. They're still stuck in that arena, stuck in the bed they woke up in, so many people hovering over them and chanting: you're alive, you're alive!
Alive was all well and good, but none of them had asked for this. Alive was not synonymous with good; in fact, it often wasn't. There was darkness that came with being alive, troubling times and dark thoughts and memories that often never went away despite how hard you tried to beat them back. Shoah was going to try, of course—she would fight tooth and nail to help these kids feel better, even if it meant staying in this too-small set-up for days on end. She was already losing sleep, her head thumping with a permanent migraine that came from staring at screens and notes all day long.
She couldn't tell anyone. To all of those kids, she was their confidante. She couldn't break their trust; Shoah wouldn't be the one to ruin them any further. Enough people had tried.
When there's a knock at her door not long after midnight Shoah doesn't even hear it the first few times, so she thinks judging by how insistent she gets. Eventually it cracks open before she can even extend an invitation, and her exhaustion is so prevalent that she almost snaps. What if she had been in here with one of the kids? What if she hadn't wanted anyone to come in?
Those irate words die on her lips when she catches sight of Evander's face, a little tray clutched between his hands. "Brought you some food," he explains. "Figured you didn't eat much today. Or any day, really."
And nobody has looked at her the way he's looking at her now, no one's cared or asked or wondered how she's faring throughout all of this. That's the job Shoah signed up for, of course—these kids aren't meant to ask how her day's going. They aren't meant to ask her anything. Up until now she's forgotten what it felt like to have someone care. Evander has always had an eye for detail, but the sight of him with a plate of food is nearly her undoing.
Shoah blinks, both to dispel some of the tiredness from her eyes but the burn of tears, too. "You're the best."
"Sometimes," Evander agrees. He sets the plate down in front of her and reclines back into one seats across from her, hands folded neatly over his stomach. She reaches a hand back to shuffle some of the windowsill's pots to the side, making room.
"Come over here," she requests. "It feels too much like I'm about to have a session with you while you're sitting over there."
He smiles wryly as he leans back against the dark leather, knowingly. "It's going that bad, huh?"
"It's not… bad."
"Can't be good."
"I got tasked with making sure that twenty-four highly traumatized children are ready to reintegrate back into a society they didn't think they'd be returning to. A society that, by the way, didn't know they were alive until tonight."
"Well it sounds worse when you phrase it like that," he grumbles, eyes flicking across the notes she has spread haphazardly across the desk. Shoah shoves them away, evening them out into something that only vaguely resembles a uniform pile. They're still her notes, no matter how much she appreciates Evander's efforts or not. If they're going to task her with such duties she's going to take them on—only her.
"Do you think any of them will be ready soon?" Evander continues, and as quick as each of their faces run through her mind, Shoah has no idea what to say. Some of them only want to go back to their families and nothing more—she's heard as much. Very few of them are ready, even if they don't know it yet. She knows that the government wants to be rid of them as soon as possible, but that doesn't mean she's happy about it. The exact opposite, in fact.
It's something she so desperately wants to fight back against, but Shoah doesn't think she'd get anywhere now. All she can do is listen and shut her mouth. And now, all she does is shrug, knowing damn well that Evander won't fall for it. It's all she can do.
"Whose on the list for tomorrow?" he asks, watching her cut neatly into the first piece of chicken. She flips through her many stray papers with her free hand until she finds the correct one, merely placing it before them. There are so many names on that list—so many names, and so little time in the Capitol's eyes to make it right.
But she has to try. That's what she agreed, and that's what these kids deserve. They have enough stacked against them.
She will be something good for them.
She has to.
Kelsea Faraday, 25
District Ten Mentor
Kelsea's decided she doesn't like being down here, not one bit.
Then again does anyone, really? A hospital ward—a makeshift one, at that, located far beneath the ground of the Training Center, is not the most comforting place. That's precisely why she's here. To comfort. To be here when people need her.
It helps some that she's had so many days to walk Lisse through the motions. It's one less worry for her, especially with Hosea feeling obligated to watch out for her. They may not have been the most lucky in the Games, but Kelsea knows that she got lucky with them as people. They're functioning as well as they can, leaving her more than enough time to deal with the remainder.
With only three of them left out cold in the ward things have grown uncomfortably quiet. There's nowhere good for Kelsea to sit, really, so she parks herself at the end of the hall where she can see all three curtains, watching the come and go of the people passing through Milo's little room with half-interest. She's relieved in a way that so many have left this place, even if it means facing danger above. Kelsea is able to focus on the remaining more clearly.
Casimira has been kept company by either her partner or Donatella since the moment both of them could walk—Kelsea is fairly certain one of them, at least, is still in there now. She's sent Vance and Dimara off for the evening, leaving her to prepare for the possibly inevitable moment that either Micah or Ambrose wakes in the night. It's been an adventure of a day, but she'll gladly stay up until dawn if it means neither of them have to wake up alone. Not like Milo did.
She was there when Lisse woke up, Hosea too. She was there to sit by their side and explain, as gently as she could manage, what was going on.
Kelsea likes to think they were better off for it now.
Before long she goes back to her subtle, quiet pacing. Sitting down here has never really worked, try as she may, and as long as she doesn't get in the way of any of the nurses they don't seem to mind her too much.
Sooner rather than later, though, one comes peeling down the hall, her normally quiet feet squeaking obnoxiously along the tile. A moment later Kelsea hears a steady beeping, a tell-tale sign that she's heard so many times. A heartbeat quickening. A sign of life.
The nurse figures it out quicker than she does; they always seem to, somehow. Kelsea watches her pull apart the curtains to her right, hurrying inside, and she's right on her heels. There's no way she's letting any nurse lock her away from one of these kids, not after everything she's been through. She's used to dealing with them at this point.
But, like always, as soon as Kelsea steps into the partitioned little area, something in her hesitates. He looks small lying there in the bed, nearly motionless, but Micah has always looked that way. Maybe it's because his eyes are open now, blinking hazily, rapidly filling with confusion as he takes in his surroundings. When his eyes find Kelsea his efforts stutter to a halt. In a matter of seconds that confusion bleeds away to fear.
"Try to stay calm," the nurse suggests, which might be one of the silliest things Kelsea has ever heard in her life. She's heard a lot of silly things, too. "We're going to explain everything—"
And he gasps, choked, hands fighting to bring himself into a sitting position. They fail quickly enough. He's still weak from the drugs, the surgery, their efforts to stifle out the infection that had ravaged his entire body. When he collapses onto his back once again his body seizes, chest rising and falling faster than she can make sense of.
When the curtain slides open again Kelsea hardly hears it, nor the near-silent footsteps. Once again, though, Micah's eyes widen. This time everything is slower, the tremble to his hands almost imperceptible as he braces an elbow underneath his body, trying to rise once again. His lips form around the exact name she was expecting.
He doesn't get to say it, though, nor does Kelsea get the chance to turn around and see the girl before Oksana maneuvers around Kelsea's arm, somehow quick and almost practiced. Her fingers fumble around the guardrails at the side of the bed until she releases the latch; they haven't even finished crashing down before she's clambering over them, across them, knees digging into his bedside.
Micah is still struggling for breath, gasping as Oksana fits her hands around his shoulders and squeezes him to her, uncaring for any of the tubes or wires that are stuck between them. He reaches back for her, of course, but not before a sob finally escapes his throat. There's no hope of stopping them, then, his face tucked into Oksana's shoulder as he sobs over and over again, body convulsing with each one.
There's no explanation. No time for one, really. At least he has her; not everyone was so lucky to have someone they cared about by their side.
"It's okay," Oksana murmurs, though her own eyes are wet with tears. "I'm here."
They're so close to being done with all of this awful explanation, so close to being almost to move forward. That's all Kelsea has ever wanted.
When the nurse lets out a muffled curse under her breath Kelsea snaps back to attention, searching for something that could be wrong. Just as quick she's gone, leaving everything behind like nothing in here matters.
The beeping starts again. Fast.
So much faster than Micah's ever was.
Oksana lifts her head, wet eyes glimmering. Their arms are locked tight around one another, but she recognizes panic still when she sees it. "Ambrose—"
Kelsea's already moving. "Stay here," she instructs. It's a tough decision no matter what; Kelsea is choosing to make it for her. There's no way it's Casimira, not yet. She's still healing from everything they had to do in order to put her back together. Ambrose, though, was stitched back up as efficiently as they could manage and as quickly, too. The curtain that hides him is rippling, now, from a quick entrance in.
He's already up. Trying to be, anyway. Unlike Milo he's refused to rip the tubes out, leaving him tethered to one too many machines to properly escape. The nurse is already on him as well, trying to steady him or settle him—Kelsea can't even tell in the cramped space. All Kelsea knows is that she's not getting anywhere fast with whatever she's doing.
Ambrose has no reason to trust her. He has no idea about anything, now, and just awoke in an unfamiliar environment after knowing full well that he died.
Kelsea's no intruder, definitely not an abrasive person, but right now this nurse gives her no choice. She gives the lady's arm a harsh tug until she pulls the two of them apart and finally Ambrose sees her, recognition flaring to life in his eyes as he does so. At least he knows her, regardless of if she's familiar or not. That's better than nothing.
"You're safe," she tells him. "You're in the Capitol. Do you hear me?"
He nods, an odd jerk of his head, and winces when it shifts the heavy layers of bandages around his throat. "Take it easy."
Ambrose's knuckles are white where he grips at the bed-frame, one eye on Kelsea and the other watching the nurse, wary. Kelsea pushes herself between them, trying to ignore the uneasy look in the nurse's eyes. Is she afraid? At this point does it matter who killed who, how many kills they once had under their belt?
Apparently to some people it does.
Ambrose's voice is just as weak and raspy as it was in the arena, grating to the ears, but Kelsea refuses to let its oddity have any effect on her. "Dead," he whispers. "I should be…"
"But you're not anymore," she replies, sure to keep her voice soft. "Anything you need to know, anything you want to ask, I'm here. Okay?"
This time she gets nothing. Ambrose's eyes are on the floor, lost, and while the nurse wants to intervene the paralysis that seems to have overtaken her is mighty convenient. Before Kelsea can reach him he lowers himself to the floor, shaking all the while, uncaring for when his knees collide harshly with the freezing tile. This is one of the kids that the nurse believes is a monster, an unforgivable murderer.
In reality he's just broken. They've all been that way at least once in their lives.
Kelsea reaches forward with slow hands, gently finding his shoulders and squeezing. She doesn't think he would take as kindly to a hug as Micah did. "You're going to be okay," she tells him, because she'll believe it even if he refuses to. The Capitol may have stolen his livelihood, his voice, but that doesn't mean this is the end of him.
When Ambrose's fingers lock around her forearms, his nails bite into her skin with a worrying intensity. His hands are shaking so badly it's a wonder he can even hold on.
She's an anchor. Kelsea's always known that.
"You're going to be okay," she repeats, letting him hold on. "I promise."
It's happening! It's real!
Next chapter we return to our kids, for real this time, and everyone finally gets to witness the beyond painful process of me returning once again to juggling twenty-four POVs. Until then we'll see if public opinion favors optimism or pessimism on the future.
Until next time.