Chapter I: The Matador
The Tides of Faith
Rafe Aguilar, District Ten
Victor of the 25th Hunger Games
Year 25AL
Rafe didn't know how long he had been cradling Niobe when he heard the distant march of footsteps descending upon him. Through blurry eyes, he looked up, vaguely recognising the uniform of the Capitol men coming at him.
"You did this to her…" Rafe mumbled, feeling the rage shake in his body.
"Victor Rafe. Please come with us."
"What will you do with her?" Rafe asked quietly, dreading the answer. He held her body a little tighter, not wanting to let her go.
There was a small buzz. "We are having trouble collecting the tribute."
"No," Rafe clenched his jaw, "I'm asking you a question. What will you do with my friend?"
There was no response. The wind blew through, but it was no longer cold. The permeating ice was now creeping back, as if it never existed. The soot, thick in the air, clogged up his throat. Every part of him wanted to run away, but he knew that the moment he did, Niobe would be lost to him for good. He'd have to live with their memories together… including crushing her to death in his arms.
"We may have to sedate the tribute."
Rafe looked over his shoulder angrily, "Are you deaf or fucking stupid?"
The small group of men — garbed in decadent white — moved forward. Rafe just held Niobe closer.
"What are you doing? No, no! Get away from me!"
Hands flurried in front of him, grabbing under his armpit. Rafe felt Niobe's body being pried from his grip. Panic seized his mind as he screamed, rage and sadness fuelling his motions, as his elbow slammed out into someone's face. There was a wave of movement as Rafe was hauled from his knelt position.
"Stop! Stop!"
Two men quickly descended upon Niobe until Rafe couldn't see her any more.
"Stop! No, please! Please!" Rafe pleaded. He thrashed in their arms, refusing to be restrained, eyes blurred by tears. Something sharp stabbed him in the neck and, almost immediately, he felt his anger wane. "Stop… stop…!"
"The tribute is under sedation. Commencing extraction. The cleaning crew will collect the fallen shortly after."
Muted colours swirled in Rafe's eyes as his body began to slack in their hold. He continued to fight, though, struggling and squirming as his muscles relaxed and his mind softened. His eyes began to flicker shut as he felt himself being dragged away.
"Niobe…" Rafe mumbled, "Please…"
"You're safe now, Limos' Victor. Congratulations."
Rafe fell into the cushion of his mind, sinking deep until nothing existed.
…
Rafe had been in the hospital for days. Three, four, five? They blurred too much into one.
Every day, a nurse would visit him, topping up the IV drip that slowly purged the blessed solution from his body. It surprised him that he felt almost nothing — watching the black liquid being sucked from his veins slowly.
His anger had waned, too. They restrained him on the first two days, just to be safe. Rafe had, after all, swore to punch anyone that wouldn't give him the answers he wanted.
Where's Niobe?
"I'm not allowed to say."
Where's Sanjay?
"I'm not allowed to say."
When am I going home?
"You'll be discharged before you know it."
Rafe stared at the man before him. He didn't know who he was — dressed in a smart suit, a cross hanging from his neck, a man posted at the door like security — but his presence no longer irritated him. He was the only one giving Rafe any answers, after all. Even if he no doubt helped orchestrate the demise of twenty-two innocent teenagers (arguably Cosette, too.)
"Who are you?" Rafe asked on the fifth day, sitting up in his bed as he lamely spooned the suspicious-looking jello. "You've never told me who you are, and yet, you visit me every day…"
"It's unimportant. What is, however, is your wellbeing. I want to make sure that you return home in as best shape as possible."
Rafe gritted his teeth as anger flared in him, "I've been dead already, don't forget. I'm sure you'll patch me up fine."
The man smiled politely, "Just be sure to take your pills daily. There's really no room for error."
"Ah, yeah, the daily pills… can't forget those unless I want to rot."
"Nobody would want that. I'm sure you have a family that will be excited to see you, right? It'll be a little jarring to begin with, adjusting to the fact that—"
"—That I lost a lot of years of my life? Yeah, just a little."
The man cleared his throat, "Well, yes. But that's why you have full passage to the Capitol in order to see a therapist if you so wish."
"And what do you expect me to tell my family?" Rafe asked, partly truthful in his concern. Mama wasn't a suspicious woman — but Ten, as a whole, didn't take kindly to anything too strange.
"I would never expect you to lie to your family, Rafe."
Rafe scoffed, spooning jello into his mouth and swallowing the bitter apple taste, grimacing as he did so. "Sure. Not exactly a hard one to explain."
The man rose, holding onto his cross as he mumbled a prayer, Rafe's eyes narrowed as he turned for the door. "I hope to see you under better circumstances, Rafe."
Rafe knew he didn't hope the same.
…
The journey to the deepest part of San Adamo — nestled next to the Green Mountains and curving along the Panem Sea — was a long one. Three hours by a rickety bus that stopped at the small settlements in between. People didn't know Rafe, thankfully. District Ten was big but San Adamo was not. It was there that he wouldn't be able to escape.
It was there that his past was waiting for him.
Ten years. It was a tough pill to swallow. Ten years of his Mama, alone in their home, mourning the son that never returned.
Except now he did — a morbid, broken version of her son, unaged.
The bus eventually slowed until San Adamo came into view. A scarce, dilapidated rural town that vaguely resembled the arena that built Rafe up to only tear him down.
"Thank you," Rafe nodded as he climbed off the bus, inhaling the sweet air of Southern Panem that he missed so damn much, and always took for granted.
He watched as kids played with a battered ball on the dirt path. He walked, head high, as he passed through the town and headed to the outskirts of it. Some people stared a little longer. Most tipped their hats, nodded their heads, politely smiled as Ten did to their own.
Each step weighed a little heavier than the last. Up the hill, around the local farms, to the far end where his house sat alone, situated against a farm that had long since stopped producing anything.
What if she isn't here? That scared Rafe the most. To miss his Mama so much and to realise that she might not even be alive.
He hesitated just moments of the door. It hadn't changed — a faded, irish green that they had painted when he was only eight.
What if she doesn't recognise me? Rafe took a deep breath.
What if she doesn't want to know me? Rafe raised his fist and knocked.
What if this is it…? What if Mama is dead? The door rattled as it was unbolted. It opened slowly…
"Mama?"
Big, brown eyes, cradled by crow's feet, stared back at him. They didn't flicker. They didn't scan him over more than once. His voice was enough to bring tears to her eyes as they widened in disbelief.
"Rafe?"
Happiness filled Rafe's chest until it built in his throat. He trembled as tears sprang at his eyes, "Mama!"
There was no hesitation. She threw her arms around her son, drawing him in, breathing in his scent as they both cried, every second of the hug growing tighter and tighter as if they were afraid none of it was real.
Year 26AL
Rafe had waited a whole year.
A whole year — full of nerves and fear and struggles — until his courage grew and waned, over and over, pushing it back to the next day and the next… and the next. He had never expected it to be so hard in adjusting.
The first year in Asturbury was tough. It was so different to San Adamo in every retrospect — urbanised, built-up, a large home with multiple bedrooms that existed purely for Rafe and his Mama.
His fellow Victors, Ingrid and Denver, had tried to help him as much as they could. But between Ingrid's coddling and Denver's anxiety, Rafe felt too suffocated to spend too long with them.
Plus, he had made a promise.
To visit Niobe's family and pass on her final words.
It had taken a lot of effort on his behalf, too. To fight for her ashes so he could put her to rest. To even learn where she lived, having never discussed where she was from.
Rafe had put it off for so long — how can I face her family knowing that I killed her? — to the point his Mama had to force him out of the house and to the bus stop, forcing the ticket to Hidalgo in his hand.
I don't think I can do this, Rafe tormented himself as he stared out of the window.
His fight or flight instinct kicked in, even as the leaves changed on the trees from green to auburn, guiding him further into the farming village that Niobe called home.
As the bus rolled to a stop, Rafe clambered to the front. "Excuse me? Do you know the Nervanthis'?"
The driver shrugged, "I think they own a chicken farm."
Rafe thumbed the strap of the satchel over his shoulder, "And how many chicken farms are there?"
"At least a dozen or so."
Rafe sighed, "Okay, okay… thank you."
He descended the bus, scouting the nearby area. He asked everyone he knew until finally, a wizened shopkeeper pointed him in the right direction. Within a five minute walk, Rafe saw the farm that Niobe grew up on. Picket fencing penned the free-roaming hens as a young man tended to them.
Rafe gulped, "Excuse me?"
The man looked up, "Oh, hi. Sorry, but the shop isn't open today… no eggs as of recent. Having trouble getting my hens to cooperate."
The knotted ball in Rafe's chest was almost suffocating. He swallowed dryly, shaking his head, "Oh… um, sorry about your chickens? But I'm actually looking for… uh… I'm looking for someone, I think. Sorry, I don't know… how to go about this."
The man just stared at Rafe in mild amusement, "Is it anything I can help with?"
"I… need to speak to the Nervanthis'."
The man smiled, "Well, that's me. I'm Aedan."
"Ah," Rafe took a deep breath, realising exactly who Aedan was. Niobe had mentioned it once — a younger brother by a year. "Are your parents around?"
Aedan's smile waned as he shook his head, "Just me. Dad died a decade ago, Mom only recently. I did have a sister, but… the Hunger Games took her."
Rafe trembled as he unclasped his satchel. Aedan's eyes followed him as he pulled out the small, silver urn, tightly held in his shaking hands. Aedan's puzzled expression quickly changed to that of sad understanding.
"I've brought her home…" Rafe choked on his sob, thankful that he finally fulfilled her wish.
Year 27AL
Rafe thumbed the jello pot open, eyes weary and mind numb from the constant bickering between himself and his tribute, Mateo.
He was so hot-headed and rash and childish — damn, was I really this bad? — compared to Ingrid's mild-mannered, sensitive Adora.
"I think Adora has an alliance planned out," Ingrid spoke from the couch behind Rafe, "I've been speaking to the other mentors and I can't seem to find anyone that shows any interest in Mateo. He's uh… for a lack of a better word, abrupt."
"I think that's a good word for him," Rafe tasted the cherry blossom gelatin, "Damn, they got better flavours… but yeah, abrupt for Mateo? Genius word. I would've gone with a dick but I like yours better."
Ingrid sighed, "You shouldn't be so harsh on him. He's adjusting to this, just like you did."
"I know," Rafe turned back around, "I wish people were more honest with me back then."
"Really?"
"Okay, no, but the point stands. Mateo is going to be alone and he'll have nobody to blame but himself."
Ingrid sighed, "I don't think you understand that you need to be more supportive, Rafe. He will only prosper through the help you give him."
"Well, no? Because I don't remember Denver helping me much before I went in," Rafe challenged.
"Would you have preferred him to?"
Rafe angrily spooned the jello into his mouth, "'Suppose."
The elevator doors soon opened. Adora walked out shyly, immediately moving to Ingrid for comfort from their final training day. Mateo stomped out after. He stared at Rafe for a split second, eyes full of fury.
"Stuffing your face again?"
Rafe swallowed hurriedly, "Maybe somebody should stuff yours sometime?"
"Rafe…"
"You think you're better than me because you've won?" Mateo snarled, "I don't need your help or advice. You won from dumb luck, Ingrid said."
Rafe raised an eyebrow at Ingrid who shook her head in disagreement. Ah, so he's baiting him. He scoffed. "If you don't want my help, that's absolutely fine. I'm not obliged to help you, you know. I'm just here to eat jello and go home when you die."
The words were much colder than Rafe tended. The moment they left his lips, he regretted it. Mateo's eyes filled with fury, welled with tears, before he stalked away. Ingrid sighed disappointingly as she excused Adora to her room.
"—I'll go apologise," Rafe quickly said it before Ingrid berated him, "I didn't even mean to be that shitty to him."
"He needs help, Rafe. Not an enemy before he even fights for his life."
Rafe tried desperately to fix what he had broken. Unfortunately, Mateo refused to listen and, only four days later, he was dead, melted alive in the hot springs. Shy, mild-mannered Adora only made it two placements higher.
Those words would always haunt Rafe.
Year 28AL
"I'm not going."
Ingrid stared up at him from the doorstep, arms crossed over her chest. "You're going to make Denver go?"
"Denver hasn't done it for the past two years," Rafe answered back.
The back of his head burned as Rafe looked over his shoulder. Mama stared at him from the kitchen, lips pursed and eyes full of concern. Ingrid saw, too, and Rafe edged the door to block their joint vision against him.
"Sorry… I am. But I just… I can't," Rafe mumbled, trying to stop his voice from breaking, "Not… not after last year. I need a break, Ingrid. Just one damn year to not do it."
Ingrid was always so kind and understanding. Even as Rafe continued to fight against her politely, seeing too much of his Mama in her to fully unleash the truthful, unhinged rage that festered inside of him, poisonous.
Ingrid nodded, "I know, Rafe. Believe me… I do. I've been doing this every year since I won. Over two decades of losing kids. I'll persuade Denver to come this year instead, but you can't hide from this. I really, really wish that you could, but it won't go away forever."
Rafe made himself believe that one year would be enough. I just need a break. A small break to remember that I'm not an awful person who isn't sending teenagers to their doom intentionally.
"Thank you," Rafe smiled sadly, "I promise. Next year."
He edged the door shut as Ingrid left. The house was silent as his Mama coughed, and Rafe turned and walked into the kitchen, trying to hide his weary eyes from her. He expected to be berated. Or, at the very least, reprimanded for his tone against his senior.
Instead, his Mama silently dished up her soup into a bowl, sliding it across the counter at him.
"It'll help you," Mama smiled comfortingly.
Rafe stared down at the spring-veg soup, "Will it?"
"It's a start. The next step would be… to finally go to therapy."
Rafe remembered the offer. Refused it every year, too, believing that his exhaustion was simply down to the daily pills he took to stop his skin melting from his bones.
It was hard to admit help — even more so when it reminded him that he was broken, after all.
Year 29AL
Rafe had been in the Capitol when it happened.
He stepped out into the lobby of the rehabilitation centre, drained from his most recent meeting with the therapist.
Channel your anger in positive ways.
Learn to embrace your mistakes and move on from them.
You have to let her go at some point, Rafe.
Rafe always found it odd that everything came back to Niobe. The anger and resentment he held against himself that he projected onto others. His inability to move on from what he did. Taunting him, tormenting him… he thought taking her home to spread her ashes up on the hills would help him put her to rest.
But it didn't. The wound was too festered to simply heal on its own.
The TV on the wall drew his attention as it flickered, shifting to a news channel. Rafe barely paid attention to the TV at his home — years of poverty made it such a foreign concept, even with riches at his feet.
"Today marks a monumental day as President Damarion Revery reveals his first declaration since taking over the throne from his late Mother!"
Rafe stopped, curious. "Can someone turn it up?"
The crowd in front of Revery Mansion was immense. On the marble white steps, Damarion Revery stood alongside his new wife, proudly holding hands after their scandalous marriage the year prior.
"—In the last year since I took the position of my Mother, I realised that we need stronger structure in Panem. Many citizens renounce Limos and her blessing. Struck by their decision to abandon faith, the lower districts are swamped in crime. Gang warfare. Emerging cults. The list is endless. Well, today… it stops!"
Rafe frowned. What the fuck does he mean by crime?
He might now live in Asturbury, but even then, San Adamo, easily the poorest settlement in Ten, barely had a crook in sight.
"—With the help of my advisor, Cyril Vermilion, we have crafted a new policing force, Whitecoats, that will be deployed in the coming days to clean up my Mother's mess!"
Rafe crossed his arms as he listened in.
"They will have Limos — and my own — blessing to enact the law to the highest standards. Gone are the days that everyone struggles for the few!"
Rafe didn't wait around to see what would happen next. Frustrated, he headed home, not realising that the coming years would change Panem forever.
Year 30AL
It had only been a few months since the Whitecoats had made their infamous appearance in the 'slums' of Panem. Taking home in the Justice Building where Peacekeepers once housed themselves, they slowly spread out across the settlements, iron fists at the ready to stamp out any criminal activity.
It didn't take long before tales spread about their ruthless conversions.
It didn't take long for Rafe to witness it, either.
The air was thick on his lungs as Rafe marched back down from the hills, feeling his heart hammer in his chest. He casually checked at his watch — a handy tool from his therapist to encourage him to exert his anger in positive, constructive ways. You should do some running, they had said.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead as he descended into Asturbury's town. His ears perked at the rambunctious noise of kids in the streets. Only when he got closer, however, did he realise that the jeers and screams weren't full of joy.
His pace quickened until he soon found himself jogging, frowning, descending upon a crowd that seemed to grow anxious the closer he got.
"Stop!"
"He said he was sorry—! Stop! He's only a boy!"
Rafe pushed his way into the circle. On the floor, a kid writhed in agony on the dirt road. Rafe watched as the lash of a whip came cracking down on his back once more, immediately turning the anger in his body up too high to control.
"Hey!"
The Whitecoat immediately paused, "This is government business."
"Well, it's my fucking business now—" Rafe stormed into the middle until his body stood protectively over the cowering, crying boy, "—Who do you think you are? He's a kid."
The Whitecoat — his flowing, obnoxious cape dipped in the dirt from a puddle — stared back. His face was pulled in, whiskers prominent on his chin.
"Well?" Rafe rared again, "Do you get off on beating kids? Is that your thing?"
The Whitecoat remained cool, "We have reason to believe that this kid is the suspect of a string of bakery robberies."
Rafe wasn't super intelligent, but he wasn't stupid, either. "Suspect? Oh, so nothing concrete? You just decided to whip him on a fucking hunch?"
"He fit the description from the bakery owner."
"Most of the kids here do!" Rafe extended his arms. In the back of his mind, he could hear his Mama's words, loud and clear. You don't need to resort to violence to prove a point. He inhaled sharply. "All I am saying is that you should maybe do some actual investigating instead of beating on defenceless kids."
"You're Victor Rafe, aren't you?"
Rafe clenched his jaw, "I am… not that it matters here."
The Whitecoat said nothing, locking the whip back into its holster. He straightened his uniform, fastening the clip of his cape back on tighter than before. "You would be wise to remember that, in the future, Whitecoats are the governing body. We are the policing force that allows this district to prosper."
"You've been here all of five minutes—!"
"Remember that, Victor Rafe."
The Whitecoat turned to walk away. Rafe held his breath, trying to quell the fire that threatened to burn him down. He took two large steps forward, tapping the Whitecoat on the shoulder, watching him spin around. A red mist — so awfully, eerily familiar — clouded his vision.
"—And remember this!"
His fist connected with the man's jaw, sending him tumbling to the ground. The crowd murmured as the redness faded, Rafe's actions suddenly weighing down on his shoulders. Instead of regret, though, he clenched his fists, turning back to the boy on the floor and helping him up.
He didn't stick around long to find out what would happen. Hoisting the boy up over one of his shoulders, Rafe made a beeline for his home, prepared for his punishment but never regretting the actions he took.
Year 31AL
The Whitecoats had made things much, much worse.
Rafe hurried to the door, knocking on it urgently. It opened a crack as he barged his way into Ingrid's home, head hidden beneath a hood. Ingrid dismayed at the sight of Rafe — bloodied and bruised, cradling purple knuckles.
"Rafe… you can't keep doing this."
Rafe stormed to the kitchen, filling the sink up with cold water and plunging his hands in. He seethed through clenched teeth as Ingrid reared up behind him.
"I mean it, Rafe. This has to stop. You have a responsibility to—"
"—To District Ten, I know. That's why I'm doing this."
"Vigilante work? Do you honestly believe that beating up Whitecoats will help your cause?"
Rafe felt hot tears prick at his eyes as he swallowed the lump in his throat. He couldn't help but feel Niobe would be disappointed in him — the same fear from his Mama, too, if she found out. But there was no other way. How could he help without using the one thing that he knew so well, that saved him on multiple occasions?
"It makes me feel… better," Rafe answered quietly.
"Does it?" Ingrid pushed quietly, "Because I don't think it does. I think it makes you feel worse."
"You stand on a pedestal above me a lot, you know that?" Rafe grumbled, "I'm trying my best for my home, Ingrid, whilst you and Denver cower and kneel before the people that are destroying everyone around you."
In the last year, many small shops had gone out of business. Whitecoats reigned with a heavy hand. To pay for their protection, taxes had soared. People couldn't afford to feed their families because their money went to a policing force that was designed to oppress them.
"Mr Hernandez? Gone. His business shut today and do you know what he said to me?" Rafe spun around, anger in his eyes. "Do you?"
Ingrid bowed her head in shame, "No, I don't—"
"—That the only problem he had was from the Whitecoats demanding to know what kind of kids frequent his store. Kids, Ingrid. They harassed him non-stop and loomed around his shop until people stopped going because they were scared of the Whitecoats going after them."
"It isn't fair—"
"—You're damn right it isn't! So, I'm fighting for change," Rafe exhaled shakily, emotions balancing on a wire in his chest. He didn't even realise he was crying until Ingrid reached for his cheek, wiping away a tear.
"I know… but you're destroying yourself," Ingrid pleaded quietly, "You'll get to a point you can't turn back from, and then… and then where will you go from there? Further down?"
Rafe cracked his knuckles, even if the pain burned harshly through his bones. "I'll keep going until they are finally held accountable."
The next night, Rafe took another beating, protecting a group of wayward youth caught out late after curfew.
The night after that, he defended an elderly man who was roughed up by a cocky Whitecoat from having one too many drinks at the local tavern.
A week later, Ingrid tended to the bloody lashes across his back — Rafe felt good knowing that the young man could go back to his family, unharmed despite the prejudice about his skin colour.
He stopped fighting with his fists, instead using his body to protect those that didn't deserve to be punished.
Somehow, Rafe believed he still did.
Year 32AL
Rafe held the ice pack to his chin as he flopped on the leather couch, wishing to be anywhere but the Capitol.
It had been some years since Rafe had mentored. Since Mateo, in fact. If he had it his way, he'd never, ever return, proving incapable of mentoring someone when he barely held himself together. But Denver was at breaking point once more — and Ingrid politely, but firmly, told him he had to step up this time.
It didn't change the fact that he preferred to stay hidden in their apartment.
"Are you sure you don't want to come?"
Rafe peered through a closed eye at Ingrid, "Almost positive."
Ingrid nodded, lips pursed, "I think Ulysses would appreciate it, though?"
Ulysses won't survive. Rafe hated thinking it, but the honest truth was all he could muster through his pain. "Just give him some good luck from me, okay?"
Ingrid sighed, defeated, as she entered the elevator and disappeared. Rafe rested with his eyes shut, long enough to hear Ingrid come back hours later, a silent sniffle as she walked back into the apartment.
"They're dead."
Rafe swallowed the lump, "Okay."
Ingrid paused by him, as if she wanted to berate him once more for showing little to no interest. But she saw how broken he was. The bruises and scars weren't healing as fast any more, Rafe's metabolism and body simply slowing down as they struggled to hold him together.
"You should go rest," Ingrid said instead.
"I'm fine here."
Ingrid sighed as she walked past him, "You always make it an argument, Rafe."
Only moments later, the elevator opened again. Confused dawned on Rafe as he opened his eyes, exhaustion clouding his vision as Kaija from Eleven crept in.
Rafe eyed her up, "I think you're on the wrong floor."
Kaija laughed shyly, "Is Ingrid around?"
"In her room."
"Okay… good. I wanted to talk to you actually," Kaija inched herself into the room cautiously, wary of eavesdroppers. "Have you spoken to either Orville or Fallon recently?"
"No," Rafe frowned, "Should I have?"
Kaija frowned, too, "Oh… I was under the impression that someone had."
"Most people avoid me," Rafe exhaled sharply, "I tend to be hard to discuss things with."
"Oh, I know. I know all too well."
"So, did you just come in here to remind me that I'm an angry man, or did you want to tell me what they should've?" Rafe's curiosity was piqued. He lowered the ice pack from his bruised chin, unable to curb the swelling from almost a week ago.
"Whitecoats…" Kaija smiled grimly, "Enjoying them like we are?"
Rafe tapped his sore chin, "You could say that."
"They have Eleven under lock and key," Kaija continued, "Constant patrols. Guard dogs. They even have a curfew now, too, and anyone outside of curfew receives ten lashes. I found out from Fallon that Nine are under the same pressure, as is Four. There's only one thing we all share in common—"
"—Food production? Yeah," Rafe nodded knowingly, "I had a suspicion it was due to that."
"I don't think it's about reform…"
"It never was," Rafe shook his head, "I thought it was because Ten is predominantly un-white, as is Eleven, but I quickly realised that the small businesses were being pushed aside to make room for more factory production."
Kaija showed Rafe the underside of her wrist, revealing an ugly white scar, at least a year old, "I got this because I gave some kids some fruit to share. My fruit, mind you. But I received a lash because it 'wasn't assigned'. I don't see the kids around any more…"
Rafe shook his head in disgust, "It makes me sick, you know."
"Can I be honest with you?"
Rafe nodded.
"The reason that Fallon or Orville was going to talk to you was because your reputation is proceeding you," Kaija smiled, "Word travels fast about the Victor from Ten who routinely takes the beatings so the kids won't have to. It had to be you, of course."
Rafe sometimes wondered if he was a glutton for punishment, or a vigilante for the underdogs. Perhaps he was both.
"It won't change. Nothing will. Not whilst those in power continue to rule."
Kaija leaned in a little closer, her voice but a whisper, "One day, they just might not…"
Year 33AL
There was one small perk of being a Victor that Rafe had decided, from last year, to abuse to the highest power — district travelling.
The train only allowed those permitted to travel upon it. Tributes for the Hunger Games. Diplomats for the Capitol. Those rich enough to buy their way into an extravagant tour of the lesser side of Panem. But also, Victors, within reason.
'I'm just going for business.'
'What's the business?'
None of your business. 'To improve district relations.'
Rafe almost knew the lie would catch up to him, and a part of him wanted it to. He wanted the Capitol to know that their Victors mingled, allying up, building alliances under their very noses.
He also knew the Capitol was arrogant enough to not bother monitoring travel for the Victors, believing that fear would keep everyone bound, even despite the surge in suspicious activities.
Not the Matador.
Visiting Eleven was always strange. Rafe believed that if San Adamo was the poorest settlement in Ten, it was still more richer than any of Eleven. The neglected, unloved district was held together by barbed fences around glorious orchards. Homes slanted amongst yellowed grass, battered by years of mistreatment. Poverty rife in the mud roads that Rafe would travel through to reach Horndeen, Eleven's capital.
He walked with purpose, enjoying the fact that nobody knew who he was, even if his legendary status floated upon whispers.
The Victor's Village came into view. Eerily crafted homes that matched Rafe's down to a tee. The third house on the right was Kaija whose home constantly smelled like spearmint and cinnamon.
Kaija sat at her table, Dora at her side as Rafe entered.
"Rafe," Dora greeted him sweetly, her voice raw and broken by illness, "How have you been these last couple of months?
Anxiety hung heavy in the air. It was so thick that Rafe could taste it as he took a seat opposite her.
"Oh… it's been peachy. No Fallon?"
Kaija hung her head sadly, "She's not doing well. Not after…"
"…After Orville was killed," Dora finished for her.
Rafe shook his head angrily, "Did they honestly believe they could cover it up?"
"Apparently, the Whitecoat responsible has been dismissed," Dora answered him.
"It was murder."
"They're painting it as an accidental overexertion of force," Kaija chimed in grimly, "A slap in the face to his family. Fallon and Aralia, too."
It really pissed Rafe off. He had only heard word about what had happened — how Orville tried to defend a girl blamed for a weevil infestation on her section of the fields. Forty lashes was her punishment, one that Orville defended in silence, staring down the Whitecoat without uttering a word.
He rarely spoke. Rafe couldn't even picture his voice, believing himself to never having heard it.
He would never get the chance.
"It makes me sick to my stomach…" Rafe shook his head angrily. It had only been a simmering memory, relit once more.
Kaija reached out to touch Rafe comfortingly on the hand, "I know. It does us, too."
Dora sipped her drink, "I think it's time that we become more active in our pursuit for freedom."
The idea intrigued Rafe as he turned to her, "How do you propose we do that?"
"I lived through one war already and it was horrendous. Awful fighting and bloodshed for little to no reason. It will happen again — a leopard never changes its spot, and Panem is plagued in spots."
Rafe blinked, "You've lost me."
"Dora is suggesting that it is time to prepare for war," Kaija smiled solemnly, "It's only a matter of time before it happens, and we need the upper hand when it does."
Year 34AL
In the span of two years, Rafe had matured enough to realise that he couldn't be reckless any longer.
He finally lowered his fists long enough to know that, to win the eventual game that was being played under his nose, he had to think before he acted. It was hard — Rafe just wanted to punch every Whitecoat he laid eyes on — but in the long run, he realised that it would do him better to be tactical than expressive.
It didn't stop him fighting against the injustice, however.
Just less bruises and more stern words. Less punches and more mediation.
Plus, the punching bag that he had crafted from old mattresses and sisal rope was enough to release any underlying tension.
…
Tossing and turning in bed, Rafe couldn't sleep. He writhed in the sheets, staring at the ceiling, until he finally relented long enough to climb out and get dressed, heading outside for some fresh, midnight air.
Asturbury was surprisingly quiet at night. The gentle coo of nearby owls and the distant mutterings of farm animals was relaxing, in a way. It helped unease the knots between Rafe's shoulders as he walked, hands in his pockets, from Victor's Village all the way through town and down the winding country paths.
It's time like this that I miss her.
He had been thinking more and more about Niobe recently.
Her voice — so firm and clear in his mind — helped to cool him down when he was raring for a fight.
Thanks to her, Rafe had stopped fighting everyone that breathed wrongly in his direction.
If she was here— Rafe stopped the thoughts. He inhaled the cool, crisp air, filling his throat until it stung. —If she was here, she'd know what to do.
Kaija and Dora had slowly wormed their way through the Victors ranks. One and Two were impenetrable. Six wanted to be neutral. Dardania had placed Eight into neutral territory, too, fearing the worst around Monet's suspicious death. Nine was sadly struggling — Fallon relapsing and Aralia struggling to be more forceful — whilst Gethin from Twelve was just trying to help his people as much as he could.
Melinda. Seamus. Astrid. Virgo. Kaija.
Would it be enough? Rafe could only hope as his late night adventure took him alongside the largest field in Asturbury. He paused at the fence, gazing out across the dark sea of grass, trying to spot the cows that grazed daily.
Nothing.
Rafe had taken many midnight walks. He always spotted a lone cattle.
Tonight, however, there was none.
Suspicious, Rafe scaled the small fence, landing in the grass that went up to his knees. He walked with purpose, staring out into the moonlit field.
He couldn't even hear them. He always heard them.
A couple of feet into the pasture, his foot hit something solid. A thigh. A young calf, brutally slaughtered, laid dead. Rafe couldn't see how or why, but the incessant buzzing of flies proved that it had been a few hours at least.
His eyes pulled up and widened. Lumps of black and white peered through the grass. Rafe counted them in his head as his mind fuzzed. One, two, three… ten, eleven, twelve…
The entire herd had been slaughtered. An act of rebellion from within? Or, an attack from outside to send a message?
…
Two weeks later, another farm was struck. Every animal was butchered and mutilated cruelly beyond anything salvageable. The meat was wasted. Years of rearing down the drain.
District Ten didn't meet their quota that month. In response to their inability to meet their required amount, Whitecoat forces doubled, with punishments extended. Tax rose shortly after, crippling many families into near-death poverty.
…
Two months later, Rafe opened a letter from Kaija.
Dora had succumbed to her illness, and Fallon had committed suicide.
Year 35AL
They're all dying.
Rafe shoved the clothes hurriedly into a small, beaten rucksack.
Monet. Orville. Wyatt.
He packed the bare essentials that he needed. A planned escape, as it was.
Kaija is heading to the Capitol for that event.
The moon outside was bright and bulbous — it casted an eerie shadow across Rafe's room as he zipped the rucksack up, pulling the hood over his head. He hadn't meant to do what he did, but the damage was all but done. There was no going back. There was no way to fix it.
A war was brewing. The flames of rebellion all but fanned by Rafe.
Kaija said she'd make contact when she arrived home.
I won't be home.
Rafe scribbled on the paper, feeling the lump in his throat.
Mama,
I love you. I'll be back when I can.
Stay safe.
Love, Rafe.
Rafe fled in the dead of night, fearing the worst would happen if he stayed around for too long. He knew what was happening. He saw the signs coming a mile away — Dora's death all but confirmed what was slowly happening to everyone who chose to fight the foundation that built them and then crushed them.
With the rucksack over his shoulder and breathing in the freezing cold air, Rafe couldn't help but remember the painful memories of ten years ago.
I'll never forgive them, Niobe. Not for what they did to you.
He never received Kaija's final letter.
He never knew what happened next.
w w w. praiselimos. weebly. c o m
Well, hi!
For those of you who don't know me, I am the clown that is Corey! For those of you who do know me, you really should know better.
TOF is a lovely companion piece in my LimosVerse. It chronicles Panem as it begins to shift and change over the course of a decade, in the eyes of six individuals intentionally — or unintentionally — involved in sending the nation into a civil war once more. If you are completely new to this Verse, this is really all you need to know in order to submit fully to the SYOTs that follows this. Or, alternatively, read my previous work! Or, alternatively again, check out my blog!
The link to the forms are on my bio. Yes, forms. The submission period is open for the entire length of this story! So, six weeks! Plenty of time! Feel free to ask questions in the discord channel or DM me there/here. I'm not scary, I promise — though I will be sure to hurt you in other ways :)
Without further ado, submissions are open!
-Corey.