"But I got my fingers laced together and I made a little prison
And I'm locking up everyone that ever laid a finger on me"
- Lorde, Yellow Flicker Beat (From The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 1 OST)
"Do you think this is some sort of joke?" Dr Aurelius asked, as the girl sauntered in next to him. Rows of District 1 citizens stood behind them, while the partial construction of a hospital was chugging around them in full swing.
"Hardly," she explained, not bothering to look at his exasperated face, "and I expect you to take your new responsibility seriously."
Before the Doctor could retort, a soldier invited her to the podium - really only a stack of sandbags piled on top of one another in a construction site.
"I'd like to thank you all for coming to this first town session," she announced to the crowd, "I originally wished to get a chance to talk to District 1 about the construction of this hospital, but we all live in urgent times. Fortunately, all appears to be on schedule, and I'd also like to take this opportunity to introduce to Panem - the new Minister of Health and Social Services: Dr Aurelius Maximus."
The doctor turned and waved to the crowd, with scattered applause in reply.
"I've received several questions about the hospital," she continued, extending a hand to him, "therefore, please direct your questions to Dr Aurelius."
What, me? Now? He mouthed to her.
Hesitating, the doctor stood next to her, and began fielding various questions from the citizens. She looked amongst the District 1 folk, all with dead, weary eyes, who all appeared to be glaring daggers at her. A bead of sweat appeared on her forehead as she searched the crowd for any semblance of support for what she was trying to do.
Of course there's none, you destroyed their District.
Her breath quickened as she imagined their clenched jaws hiding glittering fangs. The girl shifted about on the podium as fear began to erupt beneath her skin. Next to her, Dr Aurelius casually talked about the purpose and capabilities of the planned hospital, while guilt sank into her chest yet again. Voices sprouted in her head.
There's a hundred of them here and two soldiers protecting you.
They'll tear you apart before you can make it ten yards.
Who's going to save you, this time?
Her fear flashed into a blistering panic, and this time, she ran. A few terse steps off the podium at first, before she sprinted across the construction site. Her escorts took off in pursuit, but quickly lost her in the maze of half-finished concrete pillars and wooden beams. Without even thinking, she vaulted over a wall and found herself outside the compound, beside the sprawling field hospital set up to deal with the District 1 casualties.
The mad dash left her winded, and she keeled over to catch her breath, right before a teenage girl sitting on the curb. A chill flashed through her face as she recognised who it was.
"Shit," she swore. The girl had blonde braids, arranged primly around her head, and her hands were preoccupied with stroking two rabbits who happened to wander in from the field. The girl looked up once, and ignored her, making a half-hearted attempt at tucking her blouse in.
"I didn't get your name," she said, "I only saw you once during the tour."
The blonde girl paused, pondering whether to reply her, before muttering, "Primrose."
"I'm-"
"I know your name," Prim answered, not looking up from the rabbits, "they say it on TV all the time."
"W-what're you doing in District 1?" she asked, hands still vibrating with adrenaline.
"There was a call for medical staff. My mother stayed in 12 to help the wounded, she sent me off here under the medical apprenticeship programme."
"What're you doing sitting outside here?"
"I'm on break," Prim said, pointing at the stethoscope and clipboard next to her, "and these little creatures looked like they needed attention."
A stethoscope and a clipboard. Hardly the tools for a girl Prim's age. But then again, what were you doing when you were her age, anyway? Changing the oil filters on high voltage generators, because no one else could fit in there?
The more she stared at Prim stroking the rabbits, the more the soul-crushing guilt began to close on her head again. Just needing a distraction, she reached into her pocket, producing a muffin someone had given her.
"Have you eaten?" she asked Prim, breaking the muffin in two and offering half to her, "it must get awfully busy in those hospitals."
Prim stared at the muffin half for a good ten seconds, before she reached out and took it, deliberately shaking some crumbs on the ground. Without another word, the girl sat next to Prim and ate with her.
"Mm, it's an orange muffin," Prim commented, watching the rabbits nibble on the crumbs, "Peeta's father makes these for us sometimes."
Who's Peeta? Another person you'd gotten killed? The slightest recollection of Peeta running towards her, before disintegrating into a cloud of blood and guts, forced her eyes shut for a brief second. When she opened her eyes, Prim was still there, half-eaten muffin lying in her limp hand, eyes blank like she was staring at nothing. The sight lit a torrent of torment in her soul.
"I'm...I'm so sorry, Primrose," she whispered, rifling a hand through her hair. She shut her eyes again, trying in vain to fight off that ache spreading through her chest.
"Will you ever be able to forgive me?" she asked, afraid of opening her eyes, of looking at Prim, of doing anything. Inhaling sharply, she opened her eyes to find the muffin in her hand broken and scattered upon the ground for the rabbits to eat - and in its place, was Prim's hand.
"I remember the good times, every time this happens to me," Prim whispered, wiping a thumb across the girl's cheeks, "I tell myself that Katniss isn't gone, she's there, she's in my memories, she's in my mother's memories. I shut my eyes and imagine being in a place where I haven't lost her at all."
"Oh my god, Primrose, you must've been through so much-"
Grasping at her hand, Prim continued, "they showed your speech on TV. The way you stood before that crowd while they threw stuff at you. The bit where you talked about the District kids who went to the games and never returned. That was very brave of you. Like what Katniss did for me."
"I was only-"
"I have my memories. Of Katniss. Of our father. I am glad Panem has you," Prim interrupted, wiping her eyes, "to represent our future. To represent us."
The girl watched as Prim rose to her feet, dusting the crumbs off her skirt for the rabbits, and tucking her blouse in again.
"I'd better get back to work," Prim said, helping the girl up. All of a sudden, Prim turned, and hugged her. The urgency of her embrace took the girl by surprise, but she clung onto Prim, savouring that feeling of being released from a debt she'd long given up on repaying.
"Thank you," Prim whispered, her fists bunching into the fabric of her shirt, "I really needed this."
Silently, she pressed her face into Prim's crown of blonde hair, knowing very well that for once, running away actually worked.
"You're here," her father called out, watching her slouching figure huddled behind the training center roof parapet. The moon-lit night sky cast a narrow, shadowy wedge on concrete, and she shifted herself further into the corner.
"I can see you from here," he said, raising his voice above the rain, "have you ever hidden from me successfully?"
She opted to remain silent. He opened an umbrella, and strode over to haul her trembling figure out of the shadows.
"C'mon, hun," he said, wiping the rain from her face, "what's the matter with you?"
Despite bearing the weight of governing a nation, of being the Interim President of Panem. There was something about the touch of her father's warm, rough hands that made her feel like a child again.
"I'm...I'm still not used to hearing your voice," she whispered, signing the words to him out of habit, "I thought it was someone else."
He looked into her eyes, clouded with doubt and worry and lifelessness that plagued her even before she entered the games.
"Look, I had to get through three lines of your security to talk to you - why on earth are you huddled here, in the rain?"
She slipped closer to him, before sinking herself in his arms while he sheltered her from the rain.
"Hiding. I didn't feel safe in the office, at home, anywhere," she complained, inhaling the scent of rain on his breath, "but having you here is a good start."
"Your mother and I have never thought, or hoped, in a million years, this burden would fall upon you. But it has. We couldn't be prouder of everything you've accomplished."
"It's not over yet-"
"You really only have three days remaining," he reminded.
"And from what I've heard, three different groups of people want to kill me. I don't know if I can last another three days."
"No one ever changed anything by being friends with everyone," he commented, pointing at the expanse of glittering Capitol skylights before them, "I don't think this nation was built on the shoulders of well-mannered people."
"What would you have me do?"
He paused, looking deep into her amber eyes and smoothening that reddish crop of hair that glowed in the city lights. For all the speeches and plans and violent actions she'd undertaken in view of Panem, his daughter had a tendency to shed her cunning veneer before him - leaving behind a vulnerable, shivering girl, forced by circumstances to grow up too soon.
"Before you were born, when Snow ascended to the Presidency, it was rumoured that he murdered all his enemies within a month. I think you can do better."
She chuckled, "Do better? You mean it's only going to take me a week?"
"You can do better," he emphasized.
"It only took me like, 24 hours to murder Snow and Coin," she said, looking away from him, "I don't even know how you can look me in the eye and call me your daughter."
"We never raised you to be perfect," he replied, pinching her cheeks, "only to do what's right."
The girl grinned, before turning away from him, "And what, you're expecting me to do the right thing now?"
"Always."
"I don't want to," she scowled, folding her arms against the rain, "but that'd probably result in my dead body being dismembered on the Capitol streets."
A chill ran through the man's face. The gritty war of survival he'd fought for thirty years in District 5, followed by the year of sudden idle luxury his daughter's status had brought him - had dulled his brain to politics. He waited for her to continue.
"But if I do, it'll mean I'm no better than Snow, or Coin, or any of the people in power who treat humans like pawns."
"There's a simple way to figure this out - are you doing this to further your own agenda, or that of our new nation?"
"That's the only agenda I've really ever had," she said, "besides protecting you, and mother, and Gase-"
"Have you ever thought about protecting yourself?"
She bit down on her lip as his words sank into her. Looking over the parapet at the glittering Capitol skyline, the girl pondered her old moniker.
The Fox.
Foxes have their cunning. Foxes have their wit.
Her lips pursed into a straight line.
Foxes have fangs too, and they bite hard and fast.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, before dialing a number on her phone.
"Commander Boggs?" she announced into the phone, "Alert all Garrisons and place the Guards Company on standby. Initiate Operation Prism."
The man stared at his daughter, with his mouth ajar, as though a wild animal now stood before him. In the darkness, he detected a faint gleam in her eyes: a cunning glimmer that represented just how far ahead she was with her schemes. Not recognising this side of his daughter, he took a step back, as the slightest inkling of fear crept through him.
"Wait, t-that's it? W-what did you just do?" he asked.
Smirking, she waited a few seconds, before a distant crackle of radio sets erupted as her escorts motioned for her to shelter from the rain.
"We'd better get inside," she whispered, linking arms with her father, as thunder rumbled in the distance.
"I still don't get why we're doing this," the Corporal asked, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. The drizzling rain killed visibility to a few hundred yards, but still, his Sergeant peered down the suburban Capitol road with binoculars.
"Shh, there's two of them entering the house, black raincoats, can you see them?"
"Of course I can see them," the Corporal bemoaned, shifting about in the seat, "they've entered the same house at the same time everyday since that girl took over. Boggs must be mad if he-"
"Boggs is an old man," the sergeant cut him off, "did you not hear the saying, beware of old men in a career where men die young-"
The Corporal shrugged. Accustomed to an uneventful garrison life of guarding an idly-content Capitol population, the sudden daily patrols and night operations had taken its toll on them both. He stretched his arms, and yawned.
"Don't yawn," the Sergeant chided, "yawning is contag-"
Their radio set buzzed with static.
"Phoenix, Phoenix, Phoenix, activate Alert-1, activate Alert-1."
The two Peacekeepers bolted upright, and increased the volume on their radio.
"Oh boy, here we go," they chimed in unison, fumbling with their helmets. He started the humvee's engine, and waited in the night rain with headlights switched off. The next command blasted through the cabin like a siren.
"Initiate Operation Prism!"
A flurry of acknowledgements from teams around the Capitol crackled one after another on the radio, before the Sergeant picked it up.
"Gold team, Gold team, moving to secure package 3."
At once, the Corporal slammed the gas and looked over to the other street to ensure their teammates were covering the rear exit. The humvee mounted the curb and bulldozed through the lawn. In seconds, they were outside in the pouring rain, guns drawn, charging towards the door like rampaging bulls.
"Ever booted down a door?" the Sergeant sneered.
"Never, they usually open when you knock politely," the Corporal joked.
He paused to consider, before smashing the door open with his foot. The sudden glare of bright living room lights grated on their eyes, before five figures swam into focus.
"Down! Down! Down!" they yelled.
Frozen like a deer in the headlights, the three men and two women stared at their guns, before shuddering in compliance as the Peacekeepers yanked them upon the carpeted floor. The Corporal raised an eyebrow at their silence as he zip-tied their hands together.
Strange, he thought, Capitolites usually kick up a fuss if you so much as ticket them for littering.
The sudden barking of the rear team's dog-unit sent them whirling around.
"Hear that? There's someone else here," the Sergeant commented, before turning to the men on the floor, "who else is here?"
Without an answer, the Corporal drew his gun, and set off towards the rear. He made it barely three steps before a muzzle flashed in the dark, and a spray of pellets blasted him to the ground.
"Fuck!" he yelled, firing blindly at the source. A body slumped forward, before a shotgun clattered on the floor.
"Shit, Constantine, are you-"
"No, no, bastard hit my Kevlar," the Corporal groaned, wincing at the pain spreading through his ribs. He staggered to his feet, and checked the room. The dogs fell silent. A makeshift operations room confronted him when he switched on the lights: computers, maps of the Capitol, stacks of cash, assault rifles propped against crates of ammunition. Worse still, a detailed itinerary of the girl's appointments was taped to the wall, and beneath a table: sticks of dynamite in a metal pot. A neat pile of Peacekeeper uniforms and helmets completed the picture.
"There is a lot of shit here," the Corporal called out.
The Sergeant looked down at the arrested Capitolites, one of whom was whispering something to him.
"We have money," the man whispered, "you can buy out the rest of your Peacekeeping contract, your friend's too."
The Corporal popped his head out of the room, holding a stack of cash, "holy shit, look how much dough these folk are packing!"
"Shut up!" the Sergeant scowled, "Put that shit back-"
"Just let us go," the man whispered, locking eyes with the Sergeant, "and we'll make sure nothing happens to you."
"Silence!" the Sergeant shouted, jamming the man's chin against the carpet. He strode over to the room, where the Corporal was still sorting through the trove of items.
"They tried to bribe you, didn't they?" the Corporal muttered, not looking up. The Sergeant reached down, and slowly switched off his radio set, before shutting the door. His eyes roved across the exhibition of madness that laid before them; each item a puzzle piece that painted the horrifying deed these Capitolites were about to do. He turned from the haunting evidence before him, and gawked at an enormous Capitol Flag draped across the wall. The commanders had ordered the Peacekeepers to lower every flag of the Capitol from the Base, only to replace them with flags of Panem. It'd only been a few days, but he'd already forgotten what it looked like.
"These aren't your usual Morphling-pushing punks," he observed.
"Well, what do you want to do?" the Corporal asked, folding his arms, "It's your call, I'm here to take orders from you."
A photograph of the girl was on the wall: prim in a dark suit, red locks draped upon her shoulders while she shook hands with a District Mayor. He'd spent enough time in the grittiest of District Garrisons to know what she was trying to do. The weary voices and hollow, hungry stares, were enough to haunt him for years and strive to be reassigned to the Capitol. And now - out of the depths of their despair came this District girl who was one of them, who somehow managed to single-handedly destroy the old establishment with nothing but cunning and wit.
Once again, the Sergeant felt like a pawn in a game, an extension of muscle for those unwilling to fight their battles. This time though, it felt different. It felt right. It felt like he believed in what she did, and wasn't just playing along for the sake of his career.
The Sergeant reached for the radio, and switched it back on.
"Gold 1 to Phoenix, location secure. Five suspects in custody. Request ordnance disposal and the evidence van-"
"Alright then," the Corporal muttered back, "my only question is, why?"
"Because," the Sergeant answered, stuffing a wad of cash into his pocket, and handing a bundle to the Corporal, "this isn't our war to lose."