Trotting down the hallway to the Game's control room, the girl froze in horror when a sentry stopped her at the entrance, and requested to search her bag. Hesitating now would get a bullet through her head, so she complied without question. All at once, the pistol in her pocket felt like a bomb ready to explode.
The guard ruffled through her satchel, and she held her breath when he picked up the flash drive containing the launch program. It was almost too much not to sigh in relief when he placed it back.
"Alright, ma'am," the guard said, waving her in, "good luck with the games."
With her heart in her throat, she perched herself on the control room's central podium, issuing last minute instructions to keep the gamemakers busy and their eyes away from her. With a flick of her fingers, she replaced the approved game software flash drive with one she made, and quickly scanned the room to make sure no one noticed.
Watching the central screen intently, her chest clenched with anticipation when 24 faces lit up the cells, indicating that all tributes were in the launch rooms. Her lips trembled as she imagined how frightened each one of them were, and how she felt like throwing up in fear just a year ago. Gripping the railing with shaking fingers, she gritted her teeth as the game's launch program ran automatically, raising them into the tubes. No going back now.
She could see their faces on the pedestals, 24 children whose lives were solely controlled by that little flash drive plugged in beside her. Her heart throbbed violently she made out their sleet white shaking faces, and wondered if it was all about to go wrong. The countdown started, each second ticking by amplifying the throbbing in her chest, until her heart was ready to explode when it reached 3.
2.
1.
With a loud gong, the timer hit zero.
All 24 pedestals caved open.
Dropping 24 tributes back into the launch rooms.
The control room plunged into darkness for a second, before the emergency lights flickered on.
In the distance - a rumble, followed by a muffled boom.
Every gamemaker in the room turned, and looked at her.
"Check the uplink!" she ordered, still keeping up pretenses.
Her shaking hands dipped into the satchel to retrieve a radio. Adrenaline buzzed through her veins, and she spoke as clearly as her trembling voice allowed her to.
"Fox-1, Ignatius."
It took five seconds of silence, each second ticking by like an hour, before she received a reply crackling through the static.
"Roger, Fox-1. All units, Ignatius, Ignatius, Ignatius."
At once, she wrapped an orange scarf around her neck, a split second before the door burst open, and two peacekeepers entered with guns drawn. Orange fabric dangled around their rifles.
"Attention, attention!" a peacekeeper yelled, "There has been an emergency, and we are evacuating this building, please leave the room at once and assemble in the holding area!"
The gamemakers hesitated for a second, before they filed out under their escort. Without a word, the peacekeepers left, leaving her in the control room. As the doors slammed shut, cold sweat dripped down her chin as she realised just how alone she was, with only the static on her radio for company.
"Egeria!" Snow's voice boomed in his study. Staring at the blank screen earlier broadcasting the Quarter Quell, he tried the telephone again, only to receive silence in reply.
Instead of Egeria, Finnick Odair burst into the room, flanked by peacekeepers. All three men wore orange armbands.
"President Snow," Finnick announced, wondering whether this would be the last time he'd use that honorific, "you are under arrest for crimes against Panem. Please come with us."
"I suggest you leave," Snow scowled, flicking his head at the peacekeepers. He strode over to the window, and looked outside. A chill ran up his spine as he saw Egeria and three other ministers in handcuffs, being led by peacekeepers into awaiting humvees. On the steps of his mansion, a scuffle broke out between one of his cabinet staff and the escorting peacekeepers, before he was swiftly punched in the face and truncheoned into submission.
Snow's scowl turned into a frown when he noticed the same orange armbands on every one of the peacekeepers.
Finnick's voice drew his attention again.
"Oh, I'm leaving alright," Finnick called out, "and you're coming with me."
"I've told you many times, Mr Odair, this isn't a game," Snow argued back, "and even if it is, I always win."
"Well, looks like it's game over for you then," Finnick sneered, unbuckling an extendable trident and deploying it to its full length, "of all the fucked up things you've made me do, I'd say beating up one old man wouldn't be the worst. Don't make me do it."
Squinting through the dawn mist, the commander crouched in his tank's cupola. He peered through his thermal binoculars at the garrison in the valley, as his brigade headquarters radioed again for updates.
"Lewis! What do you see?"
"Garrison is having their Dawn Reville, in the parade square."
Commander Lewis turned his attention to the cliffs, and made out the infantry perched in rows like hawks, ready to rappel down to seize District 12's mineshafts. He checked his watch again. Any time now.
The crackle of static sent a shudder through his being.
"All units, Ignatius, Ignatius, Ignatius."
At once, Lewis announced over his company's frequency.
"Battery commander, open fire on the Bastion of District 12!"
Drizzling rain began to fall in sheets. He noted the time, as a hundred shells fell upon the garrison in less than a minute. The ground quaked beneath him as a dozen tanks charged into the valley from three directions to encircle the peacekeepers, and the dawn sky split open with thunder as hovercrafts roared overhead.
Finnick's frazzled voice cut in over the radio.
"Team 2 is pulling from the mansion, Priority-1 target in custody, Three Priority-2 targets, 17 Priority-3."
At this point, a puddle of sweat had formed on the ground where she stood, since the air-conditioning had failed together with the training centre's power. She gripped the radio with trepidation at the phrase Priority-1, knowing that Snow was now within their control.
Her shaking hands fidgeted with the radio, paying attention to every transmission and feeling so out-of-touch with the events unfolding across the Capitol. The fragmented information filtering through did little to piece a coherent picture for her, and she resisted interfering with their actions, as far as she could.
Stuck in the stuffy near-darkness, the girl flinched when the door opened. Lyme stood at the entrance, bringing with her imposing presence, a rush of cold air.
"Lyme?" she asked, "w-why are you in the Capitol?"
"I'm a victor, remember?" Lyme answered, "I'm supposed to be here during the games anyway. Lucius has 2 under control."
"H-how are things going on outside?"
"Still simmering," Lyme said, shouldering her rifle and extending a hand towards her, "but it's safe enough for you to come out now."
Not knowing what Lyme meant, she hesitated to sigh in relief as the woman led her outside and into a peacekeeper's humvee. The Capitol had completely transformed in the three short hours she was holed up in the training centre. Barbed wire checkpoints blocked every intersection. Deserted pavements still had pockets of Capitolites being ushered back into their homes, fear and confusion written on their made-up faces. Echoing through the streets, loudspeakers blared its warnings on repeat.
"CURFEW IN EFFECT, PLEASE REMAIN INDOORS
CURFEW IN EFFECT, PLEASE REMAIN INDOORS"
Her eyes widened when they passed the broadcast and communications buildings, with a hole blown into them and spewing black smoke from where she had planned for the generators to get bombed. This was all really happening. The driver slowed as they approached Government Avenue, the majestic boulevard which housed various Capitol ministries. Lyme pointed out each building they drove past.
"We've taken the Treasury, Interior Ministry, and Agriculture Department. Industry headquarters are still being evacuated. Defense and Security Agencies will take awhile to clear out completely."
She nodded slowly, trying to digest every word. Before each ministry's entrance, orange-scarfed Peacekeepers were standing watch over groups of Capitolite Civil Servants forcibly removed from their offices, fenced in by barbed-wire and armoured vehicles. She caught a glimpse of a Capitolite woman pleading with an irate peacekeeper, and felt a brief flash of sympathy and regret, before clenching her fists in resolve.
"They don't know," she seethed, "this is just another day in the Districts."
Lyme nodded, before her voice perked up as they reached the National Archives.
"Looks like the party's getting started," Lyme pointed at the bonfire outside the gates, where un-uniformed armed men were burning two enormous framed sheets of parchments. She wound down her windows, and gasped as she recognised the Treaty of Treason and Panem's Constitution in flames. A film crew was recording the burning as its contents were reduced to ashes, and peacekeepers kept watch over the deliberate affair.
"I just hope we don't go overboard," she said, thinking aloud, "and destroy the things that made Panem what it is today."
"I've ordered them to follow your instructions strictly," Lyme replied, "anyway, we're here."
She looked out the window, and took in the sight of an imposing walled building.
CAPITOL PRISON
"I have to pick things up with the military," Lyme said, pointing at the prison gates, "Finnick will take over from here."
She dug her fingers into the seats.
"D-did you find out what's happening in the Districts?" she asked.
Lyme shook her head, "It's still too early, communications are down, Beetee is working on restoring it but the lines are completely fucked for the next couple of hours."
The knot in her chest tightened, but she thanked Lyme anyway. Inside the sprawling prison compound, she didn't recognise Finnick in black tactical gear at first, having been so used to seeing the bronzed victor half-naked on television all the time. Gone was his sultry voice and flirtatious demeanour, but there was something about his steely gaze which put her at ease.
"Too bad he went with us without a fight," Finnick said, "I would've loved to punch the bastard in his face."
Everywhere she went, peacekeepers stood at attention as she passed, some even rendering her a military salute. She told herself it must've been Finnick's residual charisma. After passing through lengths of sparse concrete corridors and remote gates, she found herself in the heart of the prison, where Finnick said was reserved for the most inconvenient political prisoners. Anyone the Capitol couldn't let out in the streets, but who were still too problematic to kill.
She swallowed hard, and wondered how many Victors ended up in this dark, damp hellhole. The buzzing in her veins amplified as they ventured further into the centre, until at last they reached a solitary cell.
"He's in there," Finnick whispered, as a peacekeeper unlocked the iron door.
Snow's snakelike eyes looked back at her as she entered. He was unscathed from his arrest, and still dressed in a crisp white suit. But something about his posture, slumped on a prison bench, stripped him of all royalty she had grown accustomed to seeing him with.
The door clanged shut behind her, and Snow immediately spoke.
"I don't know what you're planning on doing, or what you hope to achieve. But I can assure you that all of this is beyond your understanding, little girl."
The girl shook her head, wondering why they even bothered to bring her here. She remembered the last time she was trapped in a locked room at the plant, and how she nearly clawed off her own face trying to escape.
"Tell me, how do you intend to control the districts when they inevitably turn on you?" Snow asked.
"Power, control, fear," she answered, "I have no such intentions, only the intention to correct what should've never happened in the first place."
Snow let out a coarse laugh, echoing off the concrete walls.
"Far too noble, and none the wiser," Snow said, "your woeful immaturity would blind you to the truth that 23 lives are a small price to pay for the alternative of a Panem in constant turmoil."
A blithering wave of executions assaulted her memories in an instant, and she shut her eyes in an attempt to force them out.
"I'm pretty fucking sure," she seethed, "that more than 23 people die needlessly every year under your rule."
"Whatever the number, it's probably already exceeded by the war that you've unleashed on the country."
"That is the price we choose to pay!" she countered, voice straining under the stress, "rather than having the Capitol impose this price on us."
Unwilling to hear anything else from Snow, she turned, and signalled to be let out. A crushing wave of remorse hit her as soon as she left, and she realised that she really was no better than President Snow, willing to trade human lives as a means to an end. Was this what power was all about? Her teachers back home always told her that something had to be burnt to generate power. Whether it was coal smouldering in a furnace, nuclear fuel humming away in a reactor, solar panels baking under the scorching sun.
Or human beings to impose your authority.
If that was the case, there was one more life she was willing to burn, though it crushed her on the inside.
"He's far too dangerous to be kept alive, we don't know what he's capable of," she whispered to Finnick, "I'm normally not the type to call for acts of vengeance, and for a fair trial to be held, but…"
Finnick nodded slowly at her voice trailing off, before he answered, "I'll still need a definite order from you."
"Yes, sure," she said, her voice unwavering, "get rid of him."
"Good."
She trotted off quickly down the corridor alone, as Finnick entered Snow's cell with peacekeepers. Despite being used to the sound of random gunshots over the years, the two blasts echoing down the corridor still crushed her to her knees. With no one there to pick her up, she curled up on the concrete, with Snow's words and the gunshots still reverberating in her head.
The thought of home gave her the courage to rise to her feet. This wasn't over yet, not by a long shot.
A/N: District 12 invasion account similar to a Soviet war correspondent's account of the Battle of Berlin, Lewis, John E. (1998)